Almost every set of myths and legends, regardless of where in the world they originate, contain stories about gods birthed from fire—Agni, Kagutsuchi, Xiuhtecuhtli, Ra. Shunya wasn’t born from fire, but he was born amidst a fire. A raging one, one that still hasn’t been put out. 

But unlike the lucky ones, the heavenly beings, Shunya wasn’t born a God. He wasn’t born a soldier either, contrary to what people may believe. Much like his name, Shunya wasn’t anything. He wasn’t born anything at all. 

But “nothing” isn’t poetic enough, and “empty” lacks creativity, so Shunya likens himself to the clean curves of zero. He likes it—he remembers being seven and drawing times tables in the dirt at training camp with the edge of a rubber dagger, remembers the satisfaction within the circle, the way anything number times zero automatically became zero, like zero absorbed all it was and left it as nothing. 

He likes the way any number divided by zero becomes an undefined entity like all those who wish for Zero’s demise jump at him with swords in hand only to watch in horror as he becomes a god. 

Shunya didn’t even like math all that much. He still doesn’t. But there weren’t that many ways to pass the time outside of training. It’s almost funny how imagination keeps a person sane yet delusion drives them mad. Maybe “zero” was a bit overwhelming before, but Shunya thinks he’s grown into it. After all, there’s something inexplicably boring about one—about being first. Shunya would almost rather be the darkest part of overlapping shadows, a void of nothing at all. 

After all, that was where he was born. Where he grew up. Where he lived. The Novaraya region was half jungle and half torn up. Not war-torn, because that would imply other nations care enough to send across their resources and weapons to carve holes into the infertile soil. Why would they do that when Novaraya is perfect as it is—unclaimed territory marking a perfect breeding ground and training ground, the perfect area for a controlled experiment? The country that it used to be might as well no longer exist. 

Although everyone seems to call Novaraya a different thing. Rather than a volatile region, it’s more poetic to call Novaraya the land of a hundred nicknames. Although only the most common ones really stick. Shunya’s heard it—from passing Sinhalese contractors, clientele, mercenaries—north, in Sri Lanka, they call this place ‘Nīti Virōdhī.’ Rather, ‘Lawless.’ And in the east, Thai traffickers and stragglers have a myriad of names. Shunya’s personal favorite, however, is the Bahasa term—Malay humanitarian aid workers and cartel heads call it Yang Tertinggal, as he’s heard tossed around, supposedly meaning “which is left behind,” but Shunya knows it’s just a kind alternate translation of the reality, “abandoned earth.”

“Little fox,” is the first thing Shunya hears when the blades of the helicopter finally stop spinning. Shunya tugs the safety undone and hops down onto the helipad before the door even slides completely open. 

He greets his superior with a polite bow of his head, ignoring the disgusting, lukewarm stickiness all over his body, sweat and mud, and a plethora of things he would love to wash off as soon as possible. “Sir. What brings you here? I would have come down to you if you wanted the report early.” 

Sahil shakes his head, plain black tie blowing in the dusty breeze cascading across the surrounding buildings’ tops. Unconsciously, Shunya reaches up to touch his own collar, the damp skin adhesive to his fingertips. He hated the thought of wearing a tie. It feels too much like a lie, a single piece of spurious, constrictive fabric, a subterfuge for feigned aplomb. Additionally, of course, Shunya can’t tolerate the sensation of something, anything, resting against his throat, so that’s most likely the primary reason. 

“Don’t worry about the report, I already know you completed your assignment; I expected nothing less. But this is about Arthit.” 

“Tansy?” Shunya implores, shifting awkwardly as he bends ever-so-slightly at the waist and sticks a hand in his outer vest. The weight of his tactical gear is starting to make his shoulder ache, digging into the tense muscle. He glances around, checking for additional presences that may be listening into the conversation—they’re still in a Maradas building, it’s strange for Sahil to refer to Arthit as anything but his Khloris title. “How is he? It’s been only three weeks, I can still take assignments by myself for a while. At least a bit longer—I doubt he’s raging to come back.”

Sahil sighs and gives him a small, tight smile, one that’s a confluence of frustration, exhaustion, pity, and sangfroid. Although, none of it seems to be directed at Shunya. 

He raises an eyebrow at the older man, “Something wrong, Sir?”

“Arthit,” Sahil sighs once more, emphasizing the use of his name, “isn’t returning to the field. There was an admin meeting four days ago, after Arthit’s physical and psych eval. He passed the physical exam, but,” he trails off purposely, waiting for a beat for it to register and sink in. “His Khloris title’s been stripped as the lower brass are figuring out what to do with him. He’s no longer part of the unit. His future status is unconfirmed, but he—you get the point.” 

Shunya inhales deeply, boxing the sudden influx of emotion, compartmentalizing quickly and quietly so that not even a sliver of it shows on his face. Sahil frowns at him, and it’s honestly ironic that the man seems upset with the constant guard, because Sahil knows as well as anyone how Shunya and the rest of Khloris were trained all those years ago when they were just disposable child soldiers. He’s tempted to point out that fact, knowing Sahil wouldn’t punish him for it, but knows it would be taking his agitation out on the wrong person. He lets the emotion sizzle and die within himself. 

Fiddling with the clasp of his first gun belt, Shunya replies with a statement instead of a question, “I’m being assigned a new partner.” 

After all, Khloris works in teams of two. It’s practically the slogan: Two is enough. More than enough. 

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he hums, thinking of the few Khloris agents he’s in contact with and on good terms with. “Is it—wait, who’s Daliah’s partner right now?”

“Violet,” Sahil replies without hesitation. “Officialized last month, I believe. Received an assignment and the two were deployed to Burma; they were sent in for a CDM extraction request for a higher profile prison.”

Anamika, that lucky bitch, Shunya suppresses a sharp grin as he pictures Anamika’s highfalutin smirk, triumphant as she lords it over him. Whatever, honestly—he’ll just meet up with her when she gets back. But damn, he’d love to be in Burma right now.

“Then, I’ll assume one of the reserves will be chosen as a new partner.” It’s disappointing, to be frank. The Khloris’s reserve subunit is composed of a handful of kids a couple of years younger than Shunya, likely fresh out of training.

However, he doubts he would keep this partner for long—teams are created and assigned to missions based on the difficulty of the task at hand. The assholes in the rolling office chairs in the fortified underground can’t afford to bench Shunya, who takes primarily high-level, high-risk assignments. 

Sahil just shrugs, “I don’t know yet, to be quite honest with you, little fox. But I just came to let you know to expect to be called in soon.” 

The wind blows sand through the shattered and loose-hinged windows of the ruined buildings around them, making a low and familiar whistling, one that Shunya is plenty accustomed to yet still finds oddly pleasant. His eyes sting when his loose and unkempt hair blows into his face with his back facing the hot gust. 

The sun hangs low, spilling fiery orange across the sky. Shunya glances past Sahil at it—and traces the sharp yellow circle around it, chasing the thickest part until the star starts to look like a loading ring. He reaches out and blocks it with his outward-facing palm, but the warm yellow rays slip between his fingers, casting triangles of light across his forehead. In his peripheral vision, Sahil crosses his arms and shifts his weight to his back foot to look at him quizzically but doesn’t say a word. 

It was only a matter of time, Shunya muses. It was a miracle that Arthit made it through training in the first place, much less hold a Khloris title for what should be—Shunya squints as he tries to remember—two years. And it’s better this—it’s better the unceremonious removal than having to deal with the unnecessary guilt of having him die in the field.

Arthit’s a sweet kid—one who probably deserves a ticket out that isn’t a bullet. However, Shunya isn’t too sure of the likelihood of that, either. 

He just wants a competent partner, dammit. If it was up to him, he would be taking missions with Anamika—or, rather, Daliah—like they did when they first finished training. But Maradas’s typical rule of thumb is you don’t keep your first partner forever. Flowers that can’t grow in multiple and various environments.

Shunya slowly curls his fingers into a fist, still blocking the sun but letting more light roll like waves over his knuckles and crash against his face, warm and temporarily blinding. 

He rolls his left shoulder to ease the ache, eyes fluttering open again. “Thanks for the heads up, then.” 

“Yeah, well,” Sahil answers, scratching his head. “I don’t mean to keep you, go clean up, and whatever.” 

Shunya accepts the dismissal with a polite nod and walks past him toward the door leading to the staircase, gear still heavy on his shoulders.