Two days pass before Shunya finally gets a notice of summoning into office while resting in his silo, having finished all necessary reports. Courtesy of being a Khloris flower, he’s got a personal (aka private) silo, just a couple of kilometers away from town. From what he’s heard, the communal silos designated for some of the other units are absolutely filthy. 

The drought in the midst of the rainy season has been nice, although the blazing sun beating against boiling cracked pavement isn’t exactly a “better” alternative to the pouring rain. But it means Shunya can go for a run without muddying his clothes, so he’ll take wins where he can get them. 

It’s a typical post-mission recovery period, and typically, Shunya would spend his time training and skulking aimlessly around town after completing the formalities, but he figures it’s unnecessary now, seeing as he won’t be sent on any high level assignments if Maradas plans to assign a rookie to him like Sahil had feared.

He had shot Anamika a message earlier inquiring about the time of her return, but apparently it would be another few days due to information being compromised. The journalist who had been the whistleblower informant to the disappearance of a British-Cambodian diplomat’s family in Yangon dropped off the grid while Anamika—rather, Daliah and Violet’s plane was still in the air.

The UK officials who discreetly requested the extraction want the issue solved before the media catches hold, obviously, but Maradas had to bargain the return, as what’s the point of taking a mission if the risk is higher than the reward?

Not that Anamika or any of the KHLORIS agents will taste the profit slid across the table in exchange for the operation. 

Taking the rickety elevator down to the third level of the conference building (it used to be an office of some kind, years ago), none of the folks passing glance twice at Shunya. 

Finding the hallway he’s looking for, sunlight sparkling on chipped tile, he makes his way to the heavy, code-locked silver door. Next to it, a dark-skinned girl with tangled, hay-colored hair and bright green eyes sitting in one of the shattered window sills waves him through with the barrel of her shotgun when he flips the screen of his humming pager in her direction. 

Wordlessly, he lifts an eyebrow. She grins at him, lopsided and all teeth, leaning back against the wall, uncrossing and recrossing her legs before settling the firearm back against her shoulder. 

Shunya glances inconspicuously at the patch stitched into the front of her uniform shirt: 28-451.

Unit twenty-eight, guard duty. Unsurprising—Shunya recalls only Maradas units one through twenty take active assignments outside of Novaraya, and only twenty through twenty-five are regularly called on for assignments within the region. Whatever.

He scans the back of his pager against the door sensor, listening to it unlock with a click. 

Pushing it open, he’s met with the derisive stares of four lower brass administration officers. A fifth gaze is softer, and without checking, Shunya recognizes it to be Sahil, standing about a meter behind the men in black roller chairs at the far end of the round conference table. 

It’s warm. Sticky. Shunya glances at the ugly paneled ceiling and finds the culprit—the air-conditioner is busted, dripping chemical-scented fluid onto the floor. 

One of the men taps at the table, signaling him to approach. 

Shunya folds his arms politely behind his back and obeys. 

Of course, Shunya knows who he is, but names of authority mean so little to him in the world they live in, and Shunya will never call him by his name, so it’s alright if he knows him as he appears—lanky, wearing a counterfeit belt hidden by his belly, which flops over it boorishly, his gaze lazy but arrogant, a sloppy rose tattoo on his wrist, and a silver cross swinging like a pendulum from his neck, where the first three buttons of his white (yellow, sweat-stained) shirt are undone. 

“Foxglove,” he greets Shunya in English.

“Sir.”

He lazily studies Shunya for a moment, noncommittal, before switching to Nayrak to ask, “I trust you’ve had a good resting period?” 

“Same as usual, Sir,” Shunya takes the switch in stride, answering punctually. 

“Hm,” he considers, leaning back in his chair. He uses his thenar to wipe excess sweat from his oily brow. “Alright, I know you hate small talk, so I’ll cut to it—the units work in teams. Khloris works in pairs of two. You had a partner. You lost him. You need another one now. That all sounds about right?”

He sounds like a caricature villain from a crappy PG-13 movie. Shunya finds it all ridiculously stupid. If you’re going to be performative, at least perform it well.

“Sir.” Shunya nods curtly. “How is Arthit? If I may.”

“Don’t think too hard about it, he’ll likely be transferred elsewhere, to reserves, if nothing else.”

Another one of the men pipes up, “Getting sentimental about it, Foxglove?”

Shunya wets his chapped lips with his tongue. “No, sir.”

“Of course, I figured,” he laughs. “You’ve gone through a decent handful of partners, haven’t you?” 

Imperceptibly, Shunya grits his teeth at the insinuation, beginning to get irritated. Hair sticks to the back of his neck with moisture, and this train of conversation seems to be heading in a direct trip to nowhere at all. Pressing his tongue hard against his bottom teeth, Shunya exhales, “As we all have, Sir.” 

A snort, “By we all, you mean the original Khloris agents?” 

“I—I mean, I guess I do.”

It’s strange to reminisce. Although his memories of that time years ago are fuzzy, he recalls the original control group that went into Khloris’s trial run was about forty. Twenty completed the training and were subsequently numbered and named. That became the first set of Maradas’s infamous war-machines. 

Although, over the last few years, the numbers of Trial Zero, Shunya’s group, of active KHLORIS soldiers have dwindled to about twelve. At least, last he checked. It’s hard to check heartbeats on moving shadows. 

“Ah, that’s right, Daliah was your first partner, wasn’t she?”

Shunya refocuses as another administrator beside the man chuckles at that, pushing away from the table and nearly crashing into Sahil, who adeptly steps out of the way, “You aren’t wrong—shit, I guess whatever formula they used to get you kids still hasn’t been perfected yet. They still can’t replicate it.” 

Shunya just blinks at him, expression unchanging. 

The man’s throaty laughter dies quickly, and he frowns at Shunya, visibly annoyed. Off-put, maybe. Shunya thinks it’s hilarious—the way they expect things like this—expecting a person to fear you when you personally trained fear out of them. Raising a wolf among wolves in a forest and then expecting it to act like a dog when you drop it in a fenced-in yard, when you knew what it was in the first place.

Shunya keeps his gaze trained on the man and continues staring. The man looks away. He mutters something like all still fucking creepy.

“It’ll be a waste to stick you with a reserve, considering the profile of the assignments you take. We figured it would be easier for you if we put you with someone somewhat familiar.”

“Ah,” Shunya vocalizes monotonously. At least he’s not getting a reserve or a trainee. 

“It’s a funny coincidence, since we were just talking about the Trial Zero participants,” wrong, Shunya scoffs internally, there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Not here. “You’re acquainted with Iris, I presume?”

Shunya takes care to keep his face flat, not betraying anything. After a moment of intentional pause, he clears his throat, “Somewhat. We trained together. But we aren’t close. I actually haven’t seen him in a long time.” 

“That’s fine, you’ll be seeing him plenty from now on, then.”

Sahil pipes up with infinitely more helpful information, taking a step toward Shunya, a kind smile gracing his features. “He should be back soon—he was spectating some training exercises for Unit Seven in East Nayol, by the river. He’ll also be informed of this upon his return to central HQ.”

Shunya nods. Inhales. Compartmentalize. Don’t overthink it. Exhales. In English, he says, “Am I dismissed?” 

A chorus of nods send Shunya on his way; he bows politely before turning on his heel, expression dropping as his back turns. Pushing through the doors, he thumbs at the tattoo that sits below his collarbone, combat boots squeaking against the floor. Objectively, it’s not a bad deal. It’s been a while, though.

His pager beeps against his thigh with an update. That was quick. Shunya doesn’t check it—instead, he descends the emergency exit staircase and steps into the hot, dry air, where the sun perches in the cloudless sky, beating down relentlessly on the orange, dusty ground.

KHLORIS Number 04, huh?

Shunya makes his way to the muddy green dirt bike parked in the lot on the west side of the building. Fumbling for the keys in his pocket, he nods a greeting at the bearded watchman slumped in a white plastic chair on the step of the security cubicle.

Shunya’s memories of Iris aren’t muddled, per se, but they are tinged with the unpleasant sensations of aching bones and pebbly dirt rubbed into freshly bleeding cuts. Wet hands—pus, not water. Blisters, obviously. 

He’s not angry or verklempt by it, though. The Trial Zero training is the only reason he’s alive right now. Still, as there was no bond forged between the two of them during Trial Zero (virtue of competing for a chance at survival), Shunya hasn’t seen Iris, in passing or otherwise, in over two years.

He yawns, unlatching the motorbike lock and tapping the kickstand with his heel.

Shunya tips his chin up to stare at the sky. Starting back from zero again, it seems.