She will help you, they insisted. She is stronger than the others.

They will help you, too.

Trust them. You can trust them.

Trust who? Atlas wanted to ask. But he couldn’t speak. There was no way to grab onto the words he was trying to say, no sensation to hold on to. All he could do was think. Was wonder.

They are the right ones, the voices said. It was almost like they were singing. You chose the right ones. We agree. You have done well. We were right to pick you.

___

Atlas woke to the smell of breakfast.

He knew it well, thanks to his time in the kitchens at the orphanage. The familiarity had only been strengthened by his shifts at that terrible night diner, the sharp, sizzling sounds of a griddle going long into the night. 

He would die knowing that smell. It was greasy, and potent, and alluring as much as it was infuriating. It was the same smell that always stuck to his apron, and his hair, and his hat — trailing him home and into the squalid smallness of his apartment.

It lived on you. It marked you as what you were: poor, and tired, and pickling slowly from the inside out.

What did it say about him that it was still enticing?

He’d so rarely found himself on the receiving end of a breakfast he hadn’t made himself. Even that was a novelty. A prize.

Phi was asleep beside him, paws twitching, her ears pressed back against her skull. She seemed none the wiser, less unsettling like this than she ever was while she was awake.

And Zig was still asleep on the floor of his suite, wrapped tightly in an old, thick-knit afghan that Ace had offered when it got late enough for it to make sense. 

Zig had spent more than one night on Atlas’ floor. It was rarely in a place a nice as this.

“It can get chilly in here,” Ace had told Zig in passing, as Atlas hauled one of the innumerable packages he’d ordered up the stairs. “You’ll want something dense for the night. Hold on.”

They had invited Ace to sit with them, but he had solemnly said he was going to bed, and dropped off the blanket a few moments later without another word.

Atlas couldn’t blame him, not really, for not wanting to stay in the re-purposed room of a dead friend.

“Zig,” he said. The smell was getting stronger, and Atlas hadn’t eaten much, considering he’d spent the better part of yesterday watching senseless violence playing out in real time. The takeout hadn’t seemed particularly interesting to him after that. “Zig.” 

When Zig didn’t respond, Atlas threw a pillow at his head. He threw it hard enough to sting. “Come on! Wake up. Someone’s making breakfast.”

“What makes you think there’s any for us?” Zig mumbled, swatting the pillow off of his face and sending it careening into Atlas’ nightstand. It hit hard enough to jostle the clock. Zig screwed his eyes shut tighter. “Don’t be dumb. Why would anyone here bother to make us something?”

“Don’t you want to find out?”

There was a long pause. A sigh. They were too similar, in the end. Zig was as food motivated as Atlas ever was. “I hate you, man. You know I do.”

Atlas snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Punch me about it.”

By the time they’d fumbled their way into the kitchen, Ace had finished filling serving dishes with the last of whatever he’d made as he flipped off the stove.

There were eight plates, set out at even distances along the banquet table that served as Last Bastion’s dinner hub. He could see the table over the bar, long and glossy, the same white at the marble floors. The center had a blue runner, too handmade to be anything other than an heirloom or a project.

“Eight?” Atlas asked, scratching the back of his head. It was later than he’d thought, the bright late morning sunshine almost blinding where it flooded in from floor to ceiling windows. “Who else?”

“Intercom informed us the new recruits are coming up this morning.” Senka said. As always, she seemed to have come from absolutely nowhere at all. She was in a dark sweater, with her short, dark hair pinned out of her face. Her voice was brusque. “Ace wanted to welcome them.”

“There’s an extra seat.” Atlas said. “Even if you include the two of us.” 

“I bet my brother’s gonna worm his way in,” Zig surmised, snatching a slice of toast from the countertop and taking a bite that generated so many crumbs, they could nearly be called confetti. “He’s bringing them up, right?”

Senka blinked, then nodded. She was as nonplussed as ever, apparently. “Yes.”

Atlas wasn’t exactly thrilled to see Izar. But there wasn’t much point in fighting it. He was in charge of a big portion of Portal Group — they weren’t going to change that just because their moodiest S-Class had an attitude problem.

Izar was here to stay. Whether Atlas liked it or not.

He sighed and decided against putting on airs for the new kids. There was no point in dressing up for their arrival. These first few meetings were going to suck anyway. He was expecting spite and fear, more than anything. He hadn’t exactly prioritized people who would be easy to get along with. “Who’s watching Charon?”

Ace cleared his throat. “Senka and I take turns with the Vice President, when he’s resting, but he’s awake in the days now. He could defend himself, if need be.”

Atlas hadn’t had the chance to meet him, not yet. He was the newest member of the executive suite, and had only taken over the job relatively recently. He was actually on the shortlist to join Last Bastion before he’d been appointed beneath the Guild President instead. 

Ace had taken his place after the surprise appointment. 

Atlas slid into one of the seats facing opposite the window. It was comfortable in a way the shabby furniture in his apartments never had been. “I haven’t met him.”

“Head of the table!” Ace interjected. His smile was a little forced, Atlas could tell. “We heard news of your appointment already. We can’t confused to new recruits.”

Atlas looked over breakfast as he swapped his chair. Ace seemed to have made an impressive set thick, colorful omelettes, with peppers, onions, various meats, and cheese. A variety of breakfast sides peppered the rest of the table runner.

Zig glanced at him, taking an adjacent seat. “So, who did they choose?”

Almost like they’d planned it, the sound of the door and a veritable cacophany of heavy footfall broke the tension of the moment.

Phi jumped up into his lap, translucent and quiet, apparently not up for talking with others today.

I can tell you are anxious, she said. Her head tilted a little to the side as she sniffed breakfast. I am surprised you have not asked me more questions. I anticipated you would have them.

Atlas’ heart thundered as the footsteps grew closer. You seemed tired, he told her. It was still strange, to speak like this. To converse without making any noise at all. I figured this week or next, it wouldn’t matter. They’re not going to send me into a portal just yet.

Phi rolled into his chest, looking up at him. Wherever she touched, it was like his Skill bristled — pleased, for some reason. You are so different than he was. And yet the same.

Atlas raised a brow. Game Master?

But before she could answer, the sound of glass shattering richocheted across the penthouse.

Senka was out of the room in an instant, as slippery and silent as a shadow. Ace wasn’t far behind, his utensils discarded so quickly that they spun recklessly across the countertop.

Atlas was on his feet nearly as fast, shifting Phi to his shoulder, his heart in his throat.

Because who would break something in Last Bastion’s penthouse?

Who was strong enough, reckless enough, to try?