“How long has it been?” Mitchel grumbled, blinking through his tiredness.

Annie rocked on her heels and took a glance at her eyepiece.

“Two hours,” she reported.

“That’s disappointing,” he huffed. “I hate supply day.”

Mitchel peered past the line of humans to see how close they were to the platform. There were at least thirty more slouched children in front of them that divided the open plaza in two. A shared sentiment of boredom, annoyance, and a tinge of fear caused the crowd to appear jittery as they stepped forward.

At the very end of the line there was a small group of Rwequeks who distributed assigned rations on a set up metal platform. Behind them, more Rwequeks assembled crates. Guards on the left managed all the supplementary supplies: nutrient powder, dried protein cubes, vitamin capsules, and other dehydrated necessities. On the right, Rwequeks sifted through fresh produce. Dairy, bread, fruit, vegetables, and meat were secured in coolers, while personal hygiene products, medicines, clothes, fire starters, and an assortment of random items were tightly packed in boxes. Mitchel could not imagine the Rwequeks making sticks of deodorant and growing fields of wheat just to keep the humans alive, although the thought humored him, and he instead decided that the aliens had been communicating with the free world and maintaining trade.

Mitchel had heard through a string of gossip that somewhere, the Rwequeks rule ended where a barrier of blue began. Beyond it, he supposed there could be a free world. Having not seen it, Mitchel did not indulge himself in the rumors for his own sanity.

Rwequeks understood the necessity of some of the items, but others were completely useless and foreign to them, so instead of equally distributing the lot, they auctioned them off for extra units of Oblinium. A much smaller line stood in front of that platform. A tall human with dark skin was at the front, receiving a stockpile of the supplies. Mitchel imagined he could be a member of the same haggle shop Ayo was a part of, getting supplies for the week. Offhandedly, he wondered if Ayo had recovered in the last few days since the inciting incident. He would ask Gabriella when they got home.

“Have you heard any update about Winston?” Annie asked stiffly as they shuffled forward another step.

Mitchel sighed. It had been like this for two days. He looked at her, the telltale signs of grief and stress lining her features. Purplish bags sunk under her forest green eyes. Mitchel knew that she had gotten them from sleepless nights staring up at the ceiling and thinking about Winston. Mitchel only knew this because he had gone and done the same thing. Her hair was no more a mess than usual as it cascaded down to her chest and sweatshirt. She had the sleeves rolled up to her forearms, where freckles hidden under smudges of dirt danced up from her knuckles to her elbow. Baggy pants were cinched tight by a belt at her waist and the extra material hung loose away from her skin. Though she kept a neutral face most of the time, Mitchel was keen enough to catch the flickers of worry that would make her dark eyebrows jump and push at the lines on her forehead.

“Nothing has changed since their first message,” he assured her, but took out his eye piece anyways to prove his point.

In Rwequekian it read:

D.1[6]256.117 will remain in the Human Medical Facility for 10 days. Condition will be updated after this time period.

Annie’s eyes flittered over the text, although she could not understand much beyond recognizing Winston’s ID number and the number 10. Mitchel clicked a button that quickly translated the sentence, although he was not sure he agreed with the specifics of word choice.

“I’m going to have to teach you Rwequekian—” Mitchel tutted, “—Or all this back and forth translating will drive me insane.”

Annie leaned out of his personal space and sighed. She eyed him warily.

“About that. Have you decided what you’re going to do? About the ‘job offer’?” she asked, using her fingers as air quotes.

That had been a difficult situation to describe to her. Mitchel almost winced at the memory, instead settling on a sheepish grin. Reflecting back on everything that had happened, all his interactions with the guards and Wrose felt as if they were from a bizarre dream.

“I’m… not sure,” Mitchel said with a small step. “I think I’ve gotten on all the Rwequeks’ bad sides. I’d just be walking into a lion’s den.”

Annie nodded in agreement, but on both of their faces was an odd hesitancy. He knew they were both thinking it.

The pay though…

Mitchel, as he had given his ID number to just about every Rwequek in near range, had received a second message the day after giving Winston away to the Facility. Wrose himself had sent a small description of the job: an interpreter needed for the 3rd Generation of the Alforah, 1st of his line, Director of Faction 117, Administrator of District D, Member of Counsel to the Taej. The official titles made Mitchel’s head spin at just what he was getting himself into. He could not tell if the Rwequeks were overly zealous or the Faction Director truly wore his titles like medals and could make any guard tremble at his superiority.

Mitchel did not know if he had it in him to face such a person.

But then, in blatant print at the end of the message, there was something that gave him a little incentive.

If agreed, the interpreter will be compensated 10 units of Oblinium per day of work.

It was almost too perfect. Mitchel imagined that their quota would be adjusted for Winston’s absence for the short time that he was gone, and Mitchel would be making four units extra. Debts could finally be paid. For once, their family could live in surplus. The thought made Mitchel stupidly giddy.

Still, Cherzil’s warning rang in his head every time he allowed his excitement to overwhelm him.

Working for the Alforah house is no easy task.

Mitchel frowned. The other guards had not cast the Alforahs in a positive light either. Despite how much Mitchel despised the guards, he would not ignore their sentiments towards his potential superior.

“Mitch, we’re almost here,” Annie said.

Mitchel blinked out of his haze of thoughts and looked forward. She was right, as there were only a handful of people until the platform.

From this distance, Mitchel could see which items were going where and the screens Rwequeks used to maintain inventory. Each crate was customized, as it reflected the amount of quota of Oblinium that the family had deposited. Mitchel glanced up from the supplies to the Rwequeks distributing them.

There were three Rwequeks working on the platform, five behind them creating the crates, and then two others working the smaller line of non-necessities. Because there were easily a hundred humans in line, enough to take down a few guards if they banded together, there were a few loitering Rwequeks hovering around to keep order. Even amongst the guard, the setting was eerily quiet. Humans who had been waiting in line for hours still did not dare to speak over a certain volume.

Cherzil was nowhere to be seen, as well as Yuen, but Mitchel quickly recognized Pax and his chin-length hair that stood out against the closely shaven guards. While many Rwequek guards had white beards, all kept differently, Pax’s face was clean and unblemished. It made him look even younger than the rest as he handed out items in the non-necessities line. Mitchel did not stare at him long. He did not want to be recognized if he could.

Fate had decided to spare Mitchel no irony.

“Well,” came a gravelly voice, “If it isn’t the human who can speak Rwequekian.”

Mitchel startled and snapped his head towards the sound, which originated from the platform he and Annie had finally arrived at. The voice cracked through the silence of the ration line so severely that Mitchel could feel the tension behind him. At his side, Annie’s body grew taut and she curled her hands into fists.

Mizar stood from his crouch over the crates he had been making and gave a cruel grin at Mitchel, causing the scar over his cheek stretch at the movement.

Anger surged forwards in Mitchel’s mind and caused him to scowl back.

“I’m flattered you remember me,” Mitchel said tightly and raised his chin high, “But we must get our rations now.”

Mizar chuckled dryly and a smug grin settled across his face.

“Of course,” he said, sickly sweet.

Beside Mitchel, Annie let out a quiet scoff.

“Who’s he?” she asked curtly, keeping her voice low.

“The guard who stretched my hoodie,” Mitchel bit back.

Annie frowned at him, incredulous, but quickly understood the implication and set her jaw.

“I see. During recon,” she murmured strictly.

Mizar placed a hand on one of the guard’s shoulders who was distributing the rations and said rather pleasantly. “Don’t worry about 256’s rations. I’ve got it right here.”

He bent down, securing a box into his grasp, and after sauntering across the platform, shoved it forward into Mitchel’s arms. The click of his footsteps still echoed off the metal platform and caused the slight murmuring of the crowd behind them to grow completely silent.

As soon as the crate entered his arms, Mitchel retreated a step. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from the cruel blue ones who looked at him expectantly.

“That’s not enough,” Annie whispered, nodding at the crate.

Finally, Mitchel looked down at the opened metal box and eyed its contents warily. Nutrition packets lined the bottom next to essential dried proteins, but there were not nearly enough for the week. Unsupervised, the kids could easily blow through half of this in a day or two.

Winston was out of work for three days. Then he went to the Facility for two.

Three days lost. So, an 18-unit deduction to our rations.

But there’s an extra 12 missing here.

Wind pressed up against Mitchel’s neck, cooling the sheen of sweat that had settled on his skin, and reminded him how long he had waited in this line under the full sun. Blisters that had been acquired from working overtime ached against the cool metal ration crate and demanded his attention. On his shoulder, although he could no longer recall the pain of the four-year-old scar, Mitchel could suddenly feel the weight of his identification as it seared into his skin like a tight grip.

Mizar hadn’t only remembered my face.

He remembered my ID as well.

Mitchel’s stomach twisted with an ugly feeling and caused his mouth to pinch in distaste.

Mizar’s cruel smile was trained on him as Mitchel lifted his head.

The best solution, it seemed, was to completely ignore tormenter, and he instead turned his attention towards the other Rwequek guard in charge of the screen full of quotas. He was a fairly plain guard, sporting a buzz cut of white hair and the midnight blue uniform, although he had a worn face as if he had experienced lifetimes of strenuous work. Maybe it was because of this, or the fact he looked older than Mizar, that the guard seemed to possess more authority over the situation.

“This isn’t the right amount,” Mitchel argued to the guard, trying to keep his voice level.

If Mitchel’s fluency had surprised the guard, he made no indication of it on his face.

“I can see your household’s quota right here,” the guard said strictly. He gestured to the screen in front of him as evidence, although Mitchel could scarcely translate any sensible information from the far distance. “You’re 30 units below. Move along.”

Thoughts battered against Mitchel’s skull.

Mizar decreased our rations, that’s for sure.

He has more than just a motive…

But why are exactly 12 units missing?

Why not 10? Or 20?

It’s a precise number.

As if they haven’t registered Winston at the Facility.

“We should only be 18 units under,” Mitchel argued, undeterred. “There should be a message from the Human Medical Facility— it should excuse two days of work from one of our household members.”

Mizar took a step forward, his steps vibrating against the metal of the platform, and rested a hand comfortably on his holstered weapon at his hip.

“Could you check that for me?” Mizar drawled to the other guard. “We wouldn’t want to distribute the wrong amount.”

Never once did he take his eyes off of Mitchel. The light-heartedness of his words could not hide its wickedness. It was the kind of playfulness seen in a child who had successfully ensnared a scampering beetle. The giddiness of catching a living creature and watch them squirm.

The Rwequek sitting across from the screen looked utterly annoyed but checked his device a second time.

“There’s nothing here to indicate an excuse from the Facility.”

Mitchel’s gut sank.

What does that mean?

Did Mizar somehow tamper with the system?

“This isn’t right—” Mitchel tried to argue.

From in front of him, Mizar stepped forward, placed a heavy hand on Mitchel’s head, and forced it down. Mitchel struggled to get away, but Mizar’s gloved fingers had latched onto his unruly hair and kept him locked in place. Mitchel’s skin stood on end as Mizar leaned close to his ear for privacy. Vaguely, Mitchel could hear Annie shouting in concern, but all noise faded away for this moment of strangled silence.

“You humiliated me and my squadron in front of the 37th Mercos,” Mizar told him, both his tone and inflections brutal and unforgiving. “I want you to remember this moment, remember your place, and remember who you lowered your head to.” 

Mizar shoved Mitchel’s head down once more before letting go and straightening. As Mitchel raised his head, fear and anger swirling in his features, Mizar stood tall on the podium.

“You’ll see more of me in your future, I will make sure of it,” he drawled.

“Do not touch him!” Annie fumed and grabbed Mitchel’s bicep in support. Mitchel finally breathed, the touch grounding him.

“Mizar, get back to your station,” the Rwequek at the screen muttered, and then flashed his eyes to Mitchel, “And move along human. You are holding up the line.”

Mitchel jolted as a baton was pushed into the small of his back and he turned to find a different Rwequek urging him forwards.

Seeing this, Annie let go of Mitchel and stepped forward towards the platform with her face tight in anger.

“What have you done?” she spat at Mizar, who was still ogling at Mitchel with pleased malice.

Her words were sharp and guttural, reverberating off the platform and demanding the Rwequek’s attention despite the language barrier. The pair of kids behind Mitchel took a step back in surprise.

On the platform, Mizar trumped her height by at least two feet. She was built a bit stocky, but the effects of hunger and hard work accented her cheekbones and forearms that gave her a sturdy, worn look like an oak tree. Her wild brown hair sprawled in every direction compared to Mizar’s wave of white that was styled neatly. He was all angles, his beard and scar shaping his face, his shoulder straight and composed, but his cockiness bleeding through in the looseness of his hands.