“The elders talk about what it was like before. When the surface was safe, when the sky was blue, when the oceans weren't acid, when the things that lived there weren't plucked from our nightmares… 

“Everything changed when the GRB struck the Earth.

“They say it could have been worse, that it was only a glancing blow and the moon blocked some of it, but the damage was done. The radiation contaminated everything, so we hid underground, sealed away. Then the monsters came out of the Dead Zone, started hunting us. 

“My name is Tolen Zar. I'm a Ranger of the Londinium sub-city. And this is my story…”

I turn away from the screen, disgusted, and give a soft snort. The disdain conveyed in that sound is almost a living thing. Several people near me turn to chastise me, but I can almost feel their eyes widen as they lay gaze upon one who dares to disagree with the propaganda they lap up to comfort their fear.

I know what they see: middling dark skin, with distinct undertones of red; dark hair falling down to hips, gathered back in a tail; close fitting, dark tinted goggles covering eyes, filtering out the harsh light that is the only source of illumination for the sub-city. They turn their pale faces away, their short hair floating like a fine blond cloud wreathing their heads, uncovered eyes wide with nervousness. They are not certain who or what I am, but different is frightening, and they dare not disagree with me.

Turning away from the huge display, I thread my way through the crowd. They are here for the Survivors’ Day festivities. The central square is elbow to elbow in "survivors", though not a one of them was actually alive yet when the destruction was wrought. They feel comfortable in such large numbers; surely the monsters being spoken of on the screen will not be able to get to the center of such a crowd. I cannot share their sentiments.

The video drones on behind me as I wend my way through the throng. I estimate that better than 400 survivors are clustered here, with smaller gatherings in the smaller squares scattered around the sub-city. Most pay me no mind. Some few watch me pass, edging away from my strangeness, pulling their children close as though I would snatch them from an unwary parent. I ignore them all, tuning out the uneasy rustling as I finally escape the press of the crowd. 

I can almost feel the relief of them as I leave, like a collective sigh. Let them remain and delude themselves, I think, though I immediately understand I should feel some small remorse. Not everyone is mentally equipped for the reality of what the rest of us face. At least, that is what my partner would say to me. I just want to be away from the press of humanity equally as much as they wish for me to be away.

Locating my scooter is a trivial matter. Few can afford one, and no one would dare to bring attention to themselves by stealing one. Everyone is too afraid of banishment as a punishment. I pull the key from my pocket and wave it near the receiver, feeling the motor hum to near silent life as I slide onto the seat. Like everything in the sub-city, its motor is electric; internal combustion engines were outlawed quickly once it was realized that the fumes built up to toxic levels in a matter of days. It had only cost the lives of everyone in the Rocky Mountain Commune sub-city to understand the danger.

Silently, I motor for home. Not that anyone is paying attention; they are too busy deluding themselves that the Tolen Zar speaking to them from the screen has their best intentions in mind. But I know the truth. That is not even the man everyone thinks is their hero. It is just an actor. And they did not even get his ethnicity right when they cast him. Just one more thing about these inane broadcasts that irritates me.

Home is not far, and the travel ways are deserted, so it takes but a few minutes. My home is in one of the oldest parts of the sub-city, pressed into the side of the northern cavern wall. I park the scooter next to the three carved stone steps that lead to my door, flicking the key across the receptor again to shut off the motor. The lights are marginally dimmer here, away from the square, and I sigh in relief as I tread up to let myself in. The door is unlocked, which is no surprise, and I sing a pair of notes as I enter. Shoes and scooter key are left on the small table in the entry as the reply to my noise returns: three tones whistled in a downward scale.

All is normal.

I pad into the small kitchen at the end of the hall, passing the sitting room on my right and the bedroom with its accompanying bathroom on my left. The home is modest, carved into the living rock itself, but it is mine. I have earned it, through my work. It is sparsely furnished, but it is more than most have. The general populace lives in the communal boarding spaces, anywhere from five to fifteen families sharing a building. Like the gathering, they find comfort in numbers and in familiarity. But this simple, private arrangement suits me best.

Meshani is at work in the kitchen, preparing a meal by the light of a single candle. He hums softly to himself as he chops vegetables. I watch shadows flicker across his dark skin, inky blackness flowing like silk across the ebony hue of his bare arms. The sight of him is intoxicating. I feel a genuine smile of warmth tug at my mouth, an unusual occurrence. But Meshani brings out the best in me.

The knife pauses as he reaches for another carrot, and I use the opportunity to close distance and snake my arms around his waist, laying my cheek against the back of his head. He keeps his wiry hair close cropped, and I feel it rough against my skin. His humming pauses as he sighs, and he sets aside the knife gently. “Tarriq,” he breathes, infinite patience in his deep voice. I love the way he speaks my name; the fluttering trill he inserts into the middle turns it from a pair of flat syllables into something round and beautiful. 

Then he turns in my arms. My forehead presses against his. I feel his gentle hands grasp the goggles on my face to lift them away, and I tilt my head back to accommodate. My eyes are tightly shut as the candlelight pushes around the seal of the eyewear, trying to sear my sensitive eyes even through the lids. I know the discomfort will only be temporary, but it would still be mildly painful and I wish to avoid any such thing for the moment. 

Meshani takes the goggles fully off my head, and places a gentle kiss upon each of my firmly closed eyelids. I feel tension rush out of my shoulders at his affection. “I missed you.” My words are softly whispered, as though noise will destroy the darkness. 

“And I, you,” he returns as his arms wrap about me finally. 

We are a study in opposites, Meshani and I. Though we are of a height, that is the limit of the similarities. Where I am whipcord lean, with sharp planes to my face that would cut like a knife, Meshani is built wide and solid, with a kind face. His arm is as big around as my leg and his shoulders are twice the width of mine. He is methodical, while I am prone to impetuousness. I am quick to anger and violence, while Meshani has patience to share. My cynicism is countered by his mild outlook.

Often have I wondered what he sees in me, what I bring to our relationship. When I have spoken of it, Meshani has simply smiled cryptically and changed the subject. He does not allow me to dwell upon my shortcomings.

I feel his muscles shift, and anticipate his kiss even before the feather light brush of his lips confirms it. It is a soft thing; patient, like him. I, however, am not.

At first, I can contain it. He sets the intensity at first, and it is soft. I let him tease, probing, and he takes his time to let the intensity build. But I am ruled by passion, and patience is difficult. My control slips.

And suddenly, all my nerves ignite in screaming need. I want to take him. Rational thought tries to flee. I suck in a sharp breath through my nose, and Meshani knows what it means as I suddenly press roughly against him. He remains gentle through it, riding the wave as I try to take, and his body reminds me that he is the one constant in my life. I read the patience in every fiber of his being, and it reminds me: I would sooner kill myself than hurt him. His mouth remains soft even as I try to crush it in my intensity. But it would be easier to try and move a mountain than force my need upon him.

He draws us to a soft close, my skin afire but my will once more in charge. I am shaking, quivering in his embrace as I bow my head in an attempt to quiet the pounding of my pulse. My fingers are clenched in the back of his shirt, near to tearing the fabric. He gently brushes a soft kiss upon my forehead, yet it still feels like an electric spark arcing upon my brow. I realize I am panting, sucking in deep draughts of breath. He affects me deeply, in ways that leave me desiring more. 

Meshani brushes the backs of his fingers down my jaw, and I lean into it like a beast seeking affection from its master. "You need to shave again," he whispers, his voice utterly without reproach. 

I cannot speak yet, and he chuckles gently as I offer a small but frantic nod. Shaving is required by law; the respirator masks issued to all citizens for dire emergencies must form a tight seal, and any facial hair will impede that.

"Go. Bathe. When you have washed, I will barber you." 

I do not want to let go. But he is right. Meshani is patient as I control myself enough to disentangle my fingers and draw away. My skin craves his touch the moment I am no longer in contact, and I find I must open my eyes to navigate to the bathroom because my senses are so aflame. I know he can see the heat in my gaze as I slowly crack my lids, allowing my sensitive vision to adjust to the wan candlelight. 

There is a mild smile of affection lifting his mouth, and I almost lose my senses once more. But I take a deep breath, even though it rattles unsteadily, and I focus on his eyes. I have seen them in cloudy sorrow and harden into anger. At the moment, his deep brown eyes are soft and liquid. I see that he could easily set them dancing merrily in mirth or draw into quietude. It helps, and I find myself stepping away from the razor edge of lust.

Meshani and I turn away at the same time, each to our tasks. My footfalls are soft on the stonework floor as I tread toward the bedroom, and I hear him return to the vegetables. The light remains in the kitchen, and I embrace the absolute dark as I pass through the bedroom to enter the small attached bathroom.