The warmth of the fluttering flame brought no warmth—it merely outlined the narrow space that confined them. It sparked along webs of white silk, spun into fat, irregular cocoons curled against lopsided pillars.

  Apollo's small hand grasped his tightly, with a protective desperation as those large, quiet eyes stared ahead. A gulp rolled his slender throat.

  "A spider's nest," mused Ian with disgust. He raised the tiny match higher, the orange flame painting over the shadowed shapes. "No wonder it's so fat—hiding snacks in little corners. Thanks to you, we didn't become an addition."

  The boy turned his head, blinked, and confirmed the words he heard.

  Ian stared back with a raised eyebrow. He thought of the appropriateness of his words and explained. "Fat-shaming blood-sucking, oversized insects is fine under certain circumstances."

  The boy blinked again, and Ian blinked back.

  He scratched his neck awkwardly. "Or, don't copy anything I do. That's easier." He didn't deal with kids often, and under life-and-death circumstances, the bitter old hag emerged from within, manifesting in crude remarks.

  Ian loved to complain; he loved to complain without consequence, and often, that only came when he complained to himself.

  Woefully, being bitter did have consequences in other social spheres.

  He sighed and gently pried the boy's hands away. "Squat in the corner. I'm going to take a closer look."

  The boy only squeezed, with a permanence more enduring than humanity's prolonged survival. Why battle when they could simply ask the child to cling to it with the same urgency?

  Ian stared at the hand, shook it thrice with no success, and gave up. The conjoined twins—by the teenager's insistence—moved closer to the cocoons.

  Several stacked, lumpy sacks of flesh were buried under white.

  Ian crouched down with a body on either side of him, and the boy followed his movements. He found a loose, flat piece of stone and cocked his head. Then, swiftly, he smacked it down onto the rounded end.

  The boy continued to watch with admiring, large eyes. Ian wanted to push his small head away.

  The silk sank with the impact, something soft and tender easily flattening underneath. It left a crater, and Ian didn't know if he wanted to tear away the webs to reveal the dented face inside.

  He considered it and shook his head, repulsed at his imagination.

  This confirmed they were dead. Not traps. He'd half-expected spiders to stream out, but thank goodness it didn't.

  He shuffled on his feet, still crouched low, and moved to find another corpse. A shiver chased up his spine, a rush of cold chilling, and he spun around.

  The moment he did, a hand snapped around his ankle. Withered, bony fingers drove into his skin, drawing blood. Instinctively, a wisp of agonized energy coiled at the contact, and his mind went to soothe it.

  That natural disposition he couldn't control; the instinct to soothe and guide madness. An Esper lay in that cocoon.

  "Shit," he cursed.

  Ian tore his leg away, and flesh and bone squished within, smashed together. He grimaced, scraping off the shrunken hand with the stone before he scraped it against the top, where he assumed the face would be.

  A pair of sunken, wide eyes popped under the swipe of the webs. They bulged, flesh clung to outlines of muscle and bone.

  Ian built an endurance towards ugly men—with the excess of them, he didn't have to try at all—but this was another level. He yanked the teenager closer and covered his eyes, sliding the match into his small hand.

  The Esper's clouded eyeballs rolled up delightedly, delirious and half-gone. "Ah— ah—" gasped the dying man.

  "Are you laughing, or crying?" asked Ian impatiently.

  "You...!" The head twisted with a struggle, smothered by the white webs, and finally faced Ian. "Your guiding... familiar... like that girl's..."

  Ian's disgust melted away, and his features tensed. "A girl? Who?"

  The man's voice slowly returned, although it wouldn't last long. "Girl," he gasped again, thrashing like a worm as his body reacted. "That bitch... destroyed my leg! Made... me... a waste! That boy's... mother... good she... killed!"

  His words rolled against each other, sluggish and incoherent. The body spasmed wildly in a frenzied tremour.

  Ian broke from the teenager and grabbed the cocoon, feeling his fingers sink into a mess of webs and flesh, liquids squeezing against his hand.

  But all he felt was a desperate, burning rage. He yanked the cocoon.

  "What girl?" he demanded, a hiss that commanded answers within the shadows. His eyes blazed with resentment more viscous than death. "Who killed her?"

  His hand slipped on wrinkled flesh and blood, and the cocoon thudded down with a wet slap. A gargled laugh erupted, bulging against the surface of the withered face. His neck strained as he laughed, opening his mouth wide to reveal a shrivelled, dry oral cavity.

  The eyes, round and crazed, fixed on Ian's fierce gaze. They contained hatred, lust, and degradation.

  He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

  "A pretty missy with a face like yours!"

  The stone slab slammed down, and filaments of flesh splattered against Ian's clothes. It came down, without hesitation, again and again. He didn't stop until the Esper's face was a bloody pulp of flesh, smeared against the ground.

  He wanted to silence that voice forever.

  He wanted the power to sew those filthy sounds and never grant freedom. Freedom so easily stolen from them, yet so easily abused by others.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The hoarse and gargled laughter rang in his ears. Ian heaved as he collapsed onto his knees, shoulders rapidly moving up and down. He didn't know if that pretty missy was the girl from his memories—pure, hopeful; an angel without wings.

  At some point in the flurry of movements, he hadn't cared. He'd only thought the wretched, disgusting laughter coated his skin in repulsion.

  His hand fell limp at his side, curled around the damp stone.

  In the corner, Apollo obediently curled away. His pupils trembled, but he didn't turn away from the beginning to the end. He observed that broad, trembling back knelt over the pile of flesh.

  Never had he seen such anger—his sister would have fallen back, seized by terror.

  She would have said, Apollo knew from all his observing, she'd never seen an anger so dark it became black.

  Then, the boy heard the flutter of fabric behind, where the jacket had been pinned. He swerved sideways, but Ian hadn't reacted.

  Ian knelt there, breathing heavily. The tip of his nail blackened, and a faint smoke brushed against the stone. His innards boiled and burned, and he thought he could almost feel the scorching heat on his hand.

  A body rushed forward, and two hands wrapped around Ian's. Gently, with caution, the teenager pried away the stone, and Ian felt a faint cold trickle into his body.

  The teenager stared firmly at the stone slab—smothered by flesh, webs, and a black sweep of dust. Ash? He exhaled and shifted forward, hiding their hands as a stranger swept into the hidden hole.

  "Sorry," said a soft voice, both young and firm. "I heard some noise."

  Apollo lifted his wary gaze in recognition, gripping Ian's hand tighter. The stranger stepped inside fully and adjusted the jacket against the pillar again. He ducked his head, widening his eyes in surprise.

  He crouched down to pick up a discarded matchbox, easily striking a fuse and raising it to the air. An elegant face appeared, disguised by a bone mask. "Apollo?"

  The strange cooling sensation flooded Ian's body and helped him regain clarity. He turned, but his eyes carried a deep coldness. Narrowing with suspicion, his body tensed to prepare for an attack.

  "You know him?" Ian asked the boy, ignoring the other.

  Apollo nodded.

  "Trustworthy?"

  Hesitation, then another nod. Ian frowned.

  "Do I need to get rid of him?"

  Apollo shook his head, to Ian's disappointment. The stranger observed them for a second and glanced around.

  "Then, I'm right to assume I haven't made the kill list?" he inquired. "I'm not looking for enemies in these ruins."

  The man stepped closer, but maintained a careful distance. He wore tight-fitted combat gear, with two guns strapped to his holster, and a loose brown cloak draped over broad shoulders. His face, Ian admitted, made one want to lower their guard.

  The soft brown of his eyes and the wavy but light bed of hair gave a youthful, familiar feeling. Against the flame, Ian could see a smattering of freckles across his pale skin. However, the details of expression were masked behind rigid white bone.

  He exuded a quiet elegance that shaped his movements.

  "My name is Hermes," greeted the man politely, taking another step. "I am allied with that boy there and his sister."

  Ian glanced down at the slow steps and frowned. "Are you treating me like a mutt?"

  Hermes blanched. "I'm sorry?"

  "You're speaking softly and trying to explain yourself. Your hand is hovering by your gun in case, and you're hunching your back to make yourself appear less threatening."

  Hermes paused and said apologetically. "Ah. I guess I am. When a stranger is in front of me, and a mutilated corpse—I believe that was once a corpse—is behind, I tend to display some caution."

  Ian glanced back. He'd lost control in the moment, thoughts pressed against each other in a blur of time. His hand tingled.

  "I didn't do it," he lied impassively.

  Hermes nodded. "I believe you."

  "You're a liar," accused Ian unreasonably.

  "I was under the impression we both were," said Hermes.

  Something about this stranger both unsettled and comforted Ian.

  Hermes seemed to be a person who didn't lack any certainty, but not in a way shaped by arrogance or noisiness. Older, Ian judged, with a calmness similar to William, only far more mature. Far more settled.

  But a little hollow. Lacking.

  Noises creaked outside in a piercing screech that grated against their ears. Hermes winced. "Can I come closer? Without being ground into paste?"

  "You said you believed me," accused Ian half-heartedly.

  Hermes gestured at the ground. "I like to minimize risks and possibilities."

  "The exit is that way."

  "I believe I'm safer being potential ground meat than a definite blood bag," said the other, and Ian couldn't refute it.

  He thought of Victor, always with that infuriating smile. Then, he thought of this man whose lips hadn't so much as curled once, even as a formality.

  However, he didn't plan to make trouble and nodded. He shifted away from the remnants of the withered corpse, leaning against a pillar. Dust chalked underneath him, dry, brittle, and uncomfortable. He suddenly longed for the top-quality bedding of Victor's bed.

  Forget the Esper; he wanted the pillows.

  Pillows would bring greater satisfaction at night than any partner.

  He shuffled and propped up one knee. Apollo slid beside him, keeping to his sticky mission. His hand continued to grasp Ian tightly.

  In another life, the boy would be glue.

  Hermes carefully swept the match over the cocoons and lowered himself before them. He brushed at his clothes, swatting several baby spiders from the spun webbing.

  "The closer you approach the center, you'll trigger the Queen spider's movements," he offered.

  A piece of information cut through the silence. Likely, an introduction for a discussion. Ian liked the simplicity and straightforward manner.

  "In the daytime, the Queen walks around. At night, she remains silent unless provoked," continued Hermes. "Have you noticed a trigger point?"

  "Not distance," said Ian, closing his eyes. "Or it's not an equal perimeter."

  Hermes sighed. "Rifts usually follow certain rules. They have a sense to them, even if it's unclear initially. Spiders," he mused as his brown hair brushed his forehead softly. "They're such interesting insects."

  He rubbed his chin, swaying in a low crouch.

  "You like spiders?"

  "They're interesting," said Hermes thoughtfully, his answer made of consideration. "Little things trying so hard to survive. Little things that can terrorize much larger things."

  Ian snorted. "Many things can do that."

  "They can," agreed the other. "But I'm not talking about those things."

  Ian's finger tapped on his thigh, and his eyes slowly cracked open to the glow of the fire, a small, weak flame above the skinny stick. Hermes looked back at him without fluctuations.

  Ian liked words—specifically, his sister liked them, and what could he do but listen to her ramblings? She thought words were beautiful, inked letters developed from a community of thought, from their origins, to their sounds, to their structure that formed meaning.

  He could recall a collection of phrases or words, stolen and forgotten things found by her—claimed by her. It was silly to make a claim of a thing not theirs to claim, to mark ownership to something they could do nothing for.

  She liked to steal them and tell him they were hers, and he was expected to remember because she'd said so.

  What could a brother do but agree?

  Consequently, Ian gained the habit of stapling labels to individuals.

  Lucian was elegant, enduring, and carried a sturdy gentleness. Sylvan was silly, emotional, and helplessly kind. William was well-mannered, loyal, and careful. Apollo was clingy, quiet, and observant.

  Victor was an accumulation of words far too foul to note.

  "Should we examine come daytime?" inquired the stranger, fiddling with the match half-heartedly. "It's best to leave soon."

  Through half-lidded eyes, Ian gazed at him. "In a hurry to leave?"

  "Rifts should be closed to minimize damage," came the methodical reply. "If we find a method, then there's no reason to linger."

  Ian nodded. "Sure."

  They settled into a misted silence, the whispering chill seeping from the cracks. The light of the full moon couldn't invade their darkness, but by the jacket, they could tell whether day had come.

  Ian closed his eyes again, tempted to take a nap. Apollo peeked at him and leaned back too, mimicking his posture like a little follower.

  He felt Hermes' attention on him, never straying. It was better to ignore it.

  Only when daylight eventually crept into the gaps of their hideaway did Ian's eyes crack open. And he directly met the peeping gaze.

  Was he particularly dashing, or was this an incoming source of trouble, there before him?

  Ian lightly flicked Apollo's hair from his smooth forehead. The boy had dozed off, snuggling by his arm. Then, he arced an eyebrow, yawning. "What?"

  "Nothing," said the other calmly, bringing himself to a stand. "You're good-looking."

  "I know. Enough to stare at?"

  The man nodded, turning towards the entrance. "More than enough. Let's get moving now, we won't have much time."

  His actions were pronounced, and his words authoritative, carrying the familiarities of leadership. Of command.

  Ian observed the ramrod straight back and the steady gait that seemed to expect Ian's quick following by instinct.

  Hermes. Another member of the Aegis Alliance—

  —Just what sort of character was he?