chrysalis-thestateofchange

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ─| “La Madeleine” |─ *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters \\ Wren (they/them), Atlas (he/him)

Wren slumps down further against the wall as their DS plays a little funeral march, their avatar displaying dead on the screen. With a huff, they thrust the DS out to the boy for him to take. “Beat this level for me.”

He’s positioned beside them, sitting straight as a board as he fiddles with a piece of jewelry. He takes it from them with a bit of an eagerness that Wren has become glad for now, restarting the level and starting to play. His expression is one of pure, straight concentration. It’s almost kind of goofy to see. Whether sorting through files, training, or playing a silly little video game, he always wears that tight-lipped, stony-faced expression, all serious and brooding. 

They scoot close to his side to lean over his shoulder as he plays, careful to not fully allow their bodies to graze each other. “Don’t touch that guy, his spikes are poison,” they warn, pointing at the screen as he carefully swerves out of the enemy territory, meticulously climbing his way through this rather difficult level. He’s annoyingly good at it, having not seen a DS before this week. He seems to be good at just about everything he gets his hands on. 

Wren’s jaw hangs open as he passes the finish line, completing the level so easily that it should actually be impossible. “Thats not fair,” they mumble, taking back the DS with an indignant huff. They don’t move to sit in their previous spot, instead making themself comfortable by the boy’s side. “Wanna go get something to eat? You liked those shops downtown, right?” 

He gives them one of his many nods. “Dinner sounds nice.” 

Wren smiles, satisfied, as they tuck their DS away in their bag. “We can go to that bistro we passed. I think it’s French. It’s called La Madeleine so I’m going to assume so,” they say with a shrug as they climb forward and start the van, the boy clambering into his seat next to them. 

The drive is a short one, seeing as the bistro is just across from the park they visited the day before. Wren parks on the side of the street and peers through the windows of the van. There is a comfortable crowd of people inside, either seated at their tables or ordering at the counter, pointing at various beautifully decorated steaks placed inside a large display case. “Looks good,” they say, climbing out and leading the boy inside as he glances around in that wide-eyed awestruck way he always does. 

A sign is placed inside the entrance, telling them to seat themself in big, thick chalk letters. And so Wren does exactly that, plopping themself down in a small, square table by the front window. They tilt their chin towards the boy, leaning back in their chair. “You like this?” 

He nods, sitting down all neat and carefully, as he usually does. “Yes,” he mutters, gaze not on their face but instead travelling around the restaurant, soaking in all the sights with a sort of interest that no normal person should be able to carry. 

Wren taps their fingers upon the table, pulling out two menus out of the little box on the table and sliding one over in front of him. “Oh! They have grilled cheese and tomato soup,” they say with an air of excitement. “Is that even French?” 

“I don’t believe so,” the boy replies, picking up his own menu and scanning through it, violet eyes narrowed in concentration, as per usual. “What are you going to get?” 

Wren shrugs slightly. “I don’t know what half the stuff on this menu is. It’s not even a fancy place, I don’t know why all the names are so fancy. I’m pretty sure this one is just chicken tenders,” they say, gesturing to one of the items, which has been pompously labelled, la délicatesse du poulet de la dame. “I think I’ll just do grilled cheese.” 

The boy nods. “I’ll get that too then.” He says, setting his menu back inside the little holder spot. 

Wren snorts, looking up from their menu with a small smirk. “You don’t have to get everything that I get, y’know. You can pick something else if you want.” 

“That’s okay.” The boy dismisses them easily. He looks sort of content, in a way, to follow them and copy what they do. They guess it kind of makes sense, given how Eden operates. Yet they still can’t feel slightly uneasy about it. They thought that within a few days he would manage to shake off his odd little habits he’d picked up at Eden, learn a little more independence. But obviously they were wrong. Eden seems to have tangled its roots into his core deeper than they had assumed. 

They hum, choosing for once not to argue back. This dinner is nice, and they’ve come to realize by now that the best way to earn his trust is to be patient with him. And so patient they continue to be, as they slide their menu into place beside his, glancing towards the counter towards the back of the restaurant. “You wanna try ordering or do you want me to?” 

He hesitates for a second, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he sets his shoulders back, determined. “I’ll try.”

Wten smiles and nods, fishing cash out of their pocket and handing it over to him. “Want me to come with?” 

The boy nods, getting to his feet and accepting the cash from them. Wren allows him to take the lead this time, nodding reassuringly to him as he approaches the counter and steps towards the cashier.  

His fingers fumble with the crumpled-up cash in his hands, gait awkward as he attempts to order for the first time. “Could I get two orders of grilled cheese?” He asks in a painfully monotone voice, eyes drilling holes into the cashier’s. Wren does their best to bite down their laugh, crossing their arms and trying their best to look serious as the cashier shoots them a look. 

In a few quick seconds their order is ringed up and the boy is accepting their receipt and a little wooden block with their number on it, muttering a thank you. 

He glances towards them for approval, eyes downturnt, head cocking to the side a bit; the similarities between him and a little wet-eyed puppy is almost enough to make Wren laugh. They shoot him a wide grin, giving him two thumbs up. “Good job dude, you did it. Let’s go and sit now and they’ll bring it to us.” 

His face brightens almost instantly, eyes shining at the praise. In a seemingly more chipper mood than before, he follows them back to the table, chest puffed up in pride. 

Wren finds a certain delight about it all. They smile to themself, lounging back in their seat and glancing down the street. This spot is actually quite nice, with the soft, gentle warmth of the fading sun casting an orange haze from outside the window, and the breeze of the air conditioners blowing upon their neck. Wren thinks this place, despite all of its pretentious regality, was quite a nice stop in between the two of theirs nightly routine. The boy loves familiarity, they’ve noticed, with all his careful regimes amongst their own nonchalance. It’s good when they can manage to pull him out of his own shell. Even with the impending doom of Eden chasing after them, tonight all Wren can think about is how completely nice this is. 

“That’s a cute dog,” they say, pointing. There’s a little Dachshund down the street, all dolled up as it's led away by its owner. 

“We were never allowed pets at the base.” The boy murmurs, softly adding, as his gaze shifts down the street, “I always secretly wanted one, though.” 

Wren snaps their head in his direction. “What? Actually?” They gape, quickly recovering from his shocking backstory reveal. They sigh, puffing their cheeks out in a dramatic fashion. “As soon as this is all done, we’re getting you a pet.” They declare defiantly. “What kind of pet have you wanted?” 

The boy pauses. “A cat seems nice. That or maybe a porcupine… Perhaps a lizard.” He replies thoughtfully. 

Wren grins and lets out an amused huff at his answer. “You seem like you’d like cats. I used to have some lizards. They were cool.” 

“Oh.” He blinks, fixing them with that piercing glare. “Did they die?” He asks, blunt as ever. 

Wren snorts and shakes their head, amused by how unequivocable plain-spoken he always is. Eden has no sense of decorum with their soldiers, it seems. “Nah, they’re still at my house. My mom probably takes care of them. She always liked them.” They say softly, brow furrowing slightly. 

The boy nods. “You don’t talk to her anymore?”

Wren’s posture goes stiff – almost as stiff and straight as the boy’s own. Their face hardens, and they glance away, chewing away at a piece of skin on their lip. “Nope. Not anymore.” 

A large lump seems to have suddenly grown inside their throat, their mouth dry. Wren blinks hard, ignoring the twisting pain resting in their gut, stronger than it's been since their companion has left with them. Jesus, when was the last time someone asked them about their mom? 

They didn’t realize it would hurt so much. 

The boy doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh.” He echoes, folding his hands in front of himself, copying them as he gazes out the window, eyes unfocused as he seems to become wrapped up in memories himself, his expression melancholy. 

Wren sighs, pushing the thoughts away from their mind and resting their chin in their hand. Rather than pursue the subject further, they change it. Everything to do with their mom is unimportant, as of now. She’s long gone now, they’ve made sure of it. It's best they just keep that part of themself shut away. It’s easiest like this. 

They smile at him again. “What would you name it? Your cat.” 

“I’m not sure,” the boy admits. “I’ve never really thought about that.” 

Wren scoffs and clicks their tongue, wagging a finger in his direction. “That’s just no good. You need a name!” 

The boy ponders on the name for a moment. “It would depend on the type of breed that I bought, and the personality of the cat, I think.” He says, humming. 

Wren hums to themself, nodding along. “That makes sense. If I got one, I’d want a calico. A fat one.” 

The boy nods again. “I’m not sure what I would want yet.” 

Wren leans back in their seat and nods. “We’ll find you a good cat.” They look up when a server makes her presence known with a smile, setting down two plates with little cups of tomato soup and a sandwich in them. Wren thanks the woman and looks down at their food excitedly, licking their lips. “Mmm.” 

They don’t hesitate to tear their sandwich apart, watching the cheese pull with delight. “You have to dip it in the soup. That’s the best way to eat it,” they explain to the boy, who watches them stiffly, not yet making a move towards his own dish. They demonstrate gracelessly, dunking their sandwich in the soup with vigour and taking a large bite.

The boy slowly dips his sandwich, letting it soak up some soup before taking a large bite. Although he isn’t as excited or animated as he had been when the two had stopped for McDonald’s, he still chews his food happily, savouring each bite.

Wren finishes half of their sandwich in a surprisingly little amount of bites. Before grabbing the other half, they look up at the boy, covering their mouth as they speak through a mouthful. “Good?”

The boy nods, swallowing and delicately wiping his mouth before he allows himself to speak. “Yes. Very.”

Wren grins from behind their hand. “Good.” They look out the window again, eyeing a few people before pointing at a random man in a peacoat, hurrying down the sidewalk. “What do you think his name is?” 

The boy squints. “I’m not sure,” he says, his limited social skills striking once again. 

Wren shrugs.”Well what do you want to name him?” They ask, shifting their eyes towards him again. 

“I don’t know.” He states, eyes still on the man. He’s definitely not catching on very easily. 

Wren rolls their eyes. “Okay, his name is Arnold. Call Him Arnold. What does Arnold do for work?”

“I don’t know.” The boy examines the man, trying to detect some sort of hint that allows him to guess where the man works. But before he can find anything, the man is gone around the corner.

Wren sighs and gives him a thin smile. “It’s a game. You pick someone and make stuff up about them. Let’s try again,” they say, pointing to a woman sitting outside at a cafe across the street, phone in hand as she sips out of a steaming mug. “What about her?”

The boy pauses, eyes flicking to Wren for a second before back to the woman. It’s obvious he’s trying to impress them, even with his limited social skills. “Uh, her name is….” He glances around. “Willow.” He says, his eyes landing upon the symbol of a willow tree in a nearby shop.

Wren smiles at his answer, their companion finally seeming to understand. “Willow? All right, good name. Tell me about her. Any pets? Married? Job?”

“Ummm…” The boy is seriously struggling here. A ring on the woman’s finger catches his eye, and he latches onto that idea. “She’s married.”

Wren turns to look at the woman again as he speaks. “Oh yeah? Tell me about her marriage. Who’s she married to?”

“Uh–” The boy’s eyes scan the customers eating outside in the cafe. He points to a man making his way to the tables scattered about in the dining area outside the cafe, a bag of sweets in hand. “She’s married to him.” 

Wren raises a brow and tilts their head slightly. “Oh really? And what’s his name?”

“Um,” The boy frowns for a second, trying to think of one. “Atlas.”

Wren hums. “Atlas, okay. Atlas and Willow. What’s their life like?” They ask, eyes glued to the pair they are observing as they take another absentminded bite of their sandwich.

“Uhhhh,” The boy pauses again to try to come up with something. “They have two kids and live in a three-bedroom apartment up the street.”

Wren chuckles. “Oh really? What are their kids’ names then. Are they good parents?”

“Mhm. They have a son and a daughter.” The boy replies, his response coming a little easier this time.

Wren smiles as they finish the rest of their sandwich, the sun dipping low into the horizon now, sky a splash of magenta and pink. “Well,” they say, turning to stare at the boy, eyes crinkling. “It was nice to meet Willow and Atlas.”

His expression softens, eyes shooting to his own unfinished dinner as he takes a few big bites, his ears a little pinker than usual. “Right.” He mumbles, busying himself with eating the rest of his meal. 

Wren watches him for a moment, in all his timidness, an unknown emotion stretching between the pair; they snort to themself, something about this entire scene, this feeling of complete normalcy with the boy — all of it fills them with a sort of warmth they’re not used to. Weird. Gulping down the rest of their soup in one big slurp, they sigh with contentment, gazing out into the darkening street once again. 

“There’s live music in the town square tomorrow. Every week according to the flyer I saw on the way in here.” They mutter. “We should check it out.” 

They boy nods, tapping his fingertips against the polished wood of the table. “Okay.” 

Wren smiles, pushing their dishes away from them as the boy finishes his own. “Let’s head back.”

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

Atlas has always wanted to go to a real concert. 

He can’t count on how many occasions he sat in Ira’s room, hanging onto her every word as she mumbled in that soft, deep tone her voice would always take after lights out, describing in perfect detail her first concert. She’d only been to a few before Eden took her in, but Atlas didn’t care. He made her replay each of the stories over and over, until he knew her memories like they were his very own. From the music the band played to the weather of the night, he could still imagine each instance with such a clarity he could almost convince himself he was actually there with her. 

The thought of Ira’s old stories about their life before Eden brings a sharp pang of pain to his chest; he hasn’t allowed himself to think of her much since they arrived here. He tries to push away the sadness their absence brings, focusing instead on the facts he knows. It was all fake. Just a lie. 

There’s no reason to feel sad about it. She certainly wouldn’t have actually enjoyed coming here with him, wouldn’t have even thought of showing him a real concert. She wouldn’t have thought of anything that didn’t revolve around herself. And that’s all that matters. He made the right choice leaving — they would have just used and discarded him. And what kind of life would that have been? 

Rather than continue to focus on his guilt-ridden memories of Ira, he pushes them out of his mind completely. Because today, Wren is going to take him to his very first concert, and he isn’t going to miss it for the world. He won’t let the unwanted thoughts of a bastardly traitor dampen his mood. 

“Alright!” Wren, who has been glancing at the time impatiently every minute or so for the past hour, leaps up excitedly when the clock finally hits seven. “Let’s boogie.” 

They grin, squirming into the front seat and starting up the van. “It’ll probably be super crowded,” they say, glancing behind them as they pull out of their parking spot. “You okay with that?” 

Atlas follows them to the front, buckling himself in as he nods. “That’s alright.” He says. 

Wren nods and then they’re off, leaving the parking garage and rolling down the street, passing through downtown as a blur of activity whizzes by. As expected, the town square is packed with people. A stage is set up at the center and it is surrounded by a hoard of picnic tables and food stands. 

When Wren is able to finally find parking, they climb out, zipping up their jacket. “The band’s announcing themselves right now. No one I know though. Apparently it’s all local artists.”

Atlas climbs out after them. “Wow.” He states, glancing around at all the people. Despite the fact that his voice carries no emotion and his expression is blank like usual, it’s evident he is very, very excited for this.

It’s better than he ever could have imagined. 

“Let’s go find somewhere to sit,” Wren declares, leading him through the bustling crowd as they scope out an empty table. Atlas finds himself barely able to keep up, his attention pulled from one thing to the next. It’s loud, an ambience of noise carrying over the entire area, speakers blasting music Atlas is unable to decipher over the rest of the noise. His head turns from side to side, eyes sparkling with excitement as he takes in all of the people. This is so cool. 

Wren spots a couple abandoning their picnic table and is quick to grab Atlas by the arm and tug him along to sit. They plop down facing the stage and lean forward, watching curiously. 

Atlas is kind of taken aback by the abruptness of it, everything to do with this concert the exact opposite of what he’s come to expect. There’s people everywhere, groups of all different ages and backgrounds. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many people together all at once, not even in the warehouse. His classes were always carefully confined, each face and body molded to look exactly like the next. It’s so… diverse. He’s not sure what to do with it. 

Sitting down next to Wren, he subconsciously copies their movements, looking up towards the stage excitedly. 

The first act is already in full-introduction. A woman stands alone on the stage, leaping and twirling around, music blasting from the speakers behind her. She sings an upbeat song Atlas has never heard before, the genre completely foreign to him, a mix of electronic and bouncy guitar music. He has to admit, it’s pretty catchy. 

He watches on in awe, entranced by the performance. He’s wanted to see a concert live his entire life, and it feels surreal that it’s truly happening right before his very eyes. It’s bright, vibrant, and most importantly, fun. There’s no judgement or imposed rules, the woman on stage expressing herself with a sparkly pink, disco-style pantsuit that reflects the flickering lights of the place. It’s so different, so new. 

Wren bobs their head to the music from beside him, swaying to the tempo of the song, slowing in speed as the woman fades into a new one. They glance over in his direction, giving him a slight nudge with their shoulder that Atlas finds he doesn’t mind just as much as he usually would. “You like?” They ask, shooting him a wide grin. 

“Mhm.” He nods, not peeling his eyes from the stage. “This is remarkable.” 

Wren’s lips pull into a smirk at Atlas’ honest, simple answer. “Yeah, it is.” They agree, shouting from over the music. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen something live.” 

Instead of attempting to keep their conversation flowing, Atlas allows it to fizzle out, keeping his full attention on the performance before them. It truly is remarkable. The music is lively and exuberant, loud and flashy and everything Atlas isn’t. Yet he finds himself in love with it, the lyrics and voice of the main singer reverberating around him, completely real and alive. He becomes wrapped up in it, intertwined and entangled in a way he’s never allowed himself to before. 

“There’s nothing like your first concert,” Ira told him once, hanging off the edge of his cot. They’d brought a new CD for him to listen to — Boston — and he’d sat there, soaking in the music as they recalled old tales. 

Sitting here now, the vibrations of the music shooting through his entire being, he can’t help but agree. He’s lost in it, none of his worries or anxieties present in his mind. All he can hear is the sound of the music, a perfect melody to his ears, washing over him in perfect hypnotic symphonies. 

He doesn’t even remember to miss her. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “The Park” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters \\ Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

“Let’s go somewhere.” 

The better part of the day has been spent rooting through files that the two had not yet reviewed the previous day, slowly and methodically sorting through the various videos, documents, and other miscellaneous recordings that Wren has collected. Atlas finds the organizing somewhat relaxing; something to pull his thoughts from the crippling truth of his reality. A distraction. 

But Wren, on the other hand, evidently thinks otherwise. 

He turns his gaze to them with a blink, not surprised when they sigh loudly and snap the laptop shut, cutting off his view of the document he had previously been viewing. He’s noticed, over the course of the past few days, that Wren tends to be very exaggerated in their reactions to practically everything. “Where shall we go?” He asks, tilting his head curiously. 

“Somewhere.” Wren shrugs, clamouring over the console and into the front seat, turning the van on with a hum. “I dunno. We’ll find a place.” 

And just like that, Wren is pulling out of their little hiding spot, gliding back onto the main road as Atlas tucks himself back in his own seat. No sense of routine, no rhyme or reason. Simply “going with the flow”, as Wren puts it. Atlas can’t help but feel annoyed by it. 

But there is no inane rambling as they head down the road, or the shrieks of past Elites leaking from Wren’s laptop, and so Atlas can’t bring himself to be too uncomfortable by it as they pass into a nicer part of town, away from the graffiti and torn-down buildings. The more empty, abandoned streets are exchanged for brightly-lit ones, shops bustling with excitement. People can be seen walking together with cups of coffee, checking out different sorts of attractions lining the road, bakeries and restaurants alike passing them by. Atlas even notices a guy playing the guitar on the one street corner, a bucket of change at his feet. 

His eyes flick over each and every person they drive by. He likes people watching, he’s found, with all this travelling he and Wren have been doing. It’s so interesting, to see all the different things people are up to as they go through their day, nothing like the same strict routine he had at the base. 

Out here, Atlas has come to find new faces surrounding him every day, not a single repeat for the past three days he’s been gone. Here, he doesn’t stand out, with his dyed hair and piercings, the other soldiers at the base not allowed with such privileges. The civilians that pass them by are nothing like that, with their own unique clothing styles, haircuts, and accessories that fit right in with Atlas’ own. No one person appears the same, allowed to freely express themselves as they so please.

“There’s a park over there. Wanna walk through it?”

Atlas perks up at the sound of Wren’s voice, their question cutting through the smooth melancholic music leaking from the radio. A park? He’s always dreamed of passing through a park. 

His answer is immediate. 

“Yes.” 

Wren nods and parks along the side of the street behind a row of other parked cars, turning the van off with a turn of their key and stepping out. They jerk their head in a motion for Atlas to follow and begin to cross the street over to the park where a cobblestone path begins, leading through a field of grass with artfully placed flowery shrubs. 

Atlas glances around in wonder of it all. It’s almost an exact replica of everything he’s ever dreamed of. Late nights inside the warehouse, holed up down in the library, scouring the long, towering shelves for anything that could give him an inkling of information of what life outside was like. Biographies, mind-numbingly boring scraps of articles that anyone else would have disregarded within an instant… he took anything he could get his hands on. 

He’d always fantasized about something like this. A solo mission, perhaps; one where he wasn’t stuck inside the back of a cold, steel-plated, windowless truck up until the moment they slid into whatever destination Cato had deemed as necessary. No, a mission where he was alone, free, in a sense. Travelling on his own, watching with careful eyes for every sight he passed by. Discovering all the things he missed while dedicating his life to the greater good. 

But this, here with Wren, is better than he could have ever imagined. 

Wren begins their trek down the little path, Atlas in tow. There are couples, joggers, and the occasional elderly person scattered around the trail. Perched upon a bench, walking their dog, chattering excitedly, watching the passersby. All of it is exhilarating to Atlas. The nature surrounding them is truly remarkable. Unlike the warehouse, which, although being hidden deep within the woods bordering no-man’s land, had always been not much more than tall, plain gray buildings, the thick gates circling the base cutting off all connections to the true outdoors. But here, it’s brilliantly green, with bursts of colours in every direction. Flowers, weeds, plants, and the like. Atlas is in love with every inch of it. 

“Usually,” Wren says, glancing toward him. “There’d be more kids but school is still in session.” 

“What’s school like?” 

“Well the classes are shitty and the people are shittier. But I guess it has its pluses. Or so I’m told,” Wren says as they tuck their hands into their pockets. 

“How are the classes shitty?” Atlas asks again, hanging onto Wren’s every word. 

Wren shrugs with a mild huff. “Usually it has to do with the teachers. They suck most of the time. And the things they teach are dumb. Science is cool sometimes though.” 

“School sounds fun.” Atlas states. “I went to lessons when I was younger to learn the main subjects, but I don’t think it was how a normal school operates. I think it would be nice to learn around a bunch of different people.” 

Wren looks at Atlas for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I guess most people take it for granted— getting to be around people and stuff. It’s nice, sometimes.” They add, almost wistful. 

Atlas nods, glancing back towards the shrubbery with a barely concealed look of awe. Being on the road for so long, he and Wren haven’t passed by many spots like these, so rich in natural plantlife. The most he’s seen these past few days is long stretches of dirt and grass, as they cross through the prairies between each town. It’s nothing like this. It’s beautiful out, gentle sunlight filtering through the trees, soaking into his skin with its warmth. With a cool breeze and not many clouds blocking the view of the sky, it feels like a perfect day. 

“Hey, let’s go over there.” 

The path curves, winding around trees and over hills. Wren points down a few feet to their left, where a little play area is set up, fairly abandoned as adults pay it no mind. 

The area isn’t very large. A few simple climbing structures smattered about on a sort of surface covered by wood chips. Slides, a merry-go-round, and swing set can be found around it, rusting and well-used. It’s nothing like Atlas has ever seen before. 

Wren makes a b-line for the swings and plops down on one, chains creaking and groaning at their suddenness. Atlas copies them, sitting down rather stiffly on the plastic swing beside them, his eyes flickering around the playground in curiosity. The swing is hard, uncomfortable, and cheap. The play structures seem to be the same, rickety and old. Not suited for a proper soldier. 

Atlas loves it. 

“You swing your legs like this,” Wren instructs, pumping their legs in an exaggerated movement as they show him. Atlas quickly copies them, falling into place beside them, and Wren smiles. “Good.” 

Wren turns their attention elsewhere, body tilted back as they shoot upwards, eyes closed in pure bliss, and the two fall into a comfortable silence, only the sounds of the park around them to disturb their peace. 

The breeze feels nice along Atlas’ arms as he swings, the activity strangely freeing, despite its simplicity. He scans the playground as he moves, unable to tear his gaze away for more than a small moment. Everything out here is so colourful and vibrant — nothing like the dark grayness of the base. 

He decides he likes it better out here. 

“How’s this?” Wren asks from beside him. 

Atlas is quiet for a small second. “It’s nice.” He murmurs, content as he rises higher into the air, enjoying his newfound freedom. 

And he truly means it. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

With school finally over (for me anyways), I’m hoping these updates will become a little more frequent for you guys!! Thank you for being so patient we truly appreciate it. They might be a little slow right now because Ohagi is really busy but I’m hoping I can do my best to get as many out as possible.

O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ──| “Lots of Firsts” |── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters \\ Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

The room is silent. 

Atlas lays stiff as a board on the bed, turned away from Wren, his muscles cramping from his tense position. He’s still trying to put as much distance between the two of them as he can, refusing to get close to them by any means necessary. He’ll do anything to avoid them, even if it means filling the room with a suffocating, thick atmosphere. 

He hates it here. 

The bed is nothing like his inside his dorm, this one so smooth and plush, his weight seeping into the mattress. It’s soft — too soft. He misses his cot, with its familiar sturdiness and thin starched sheets. He misses his dorm room, the same pale gray walls meeting him every morning, all of his belongings placed carefully in a row, exactly where he needed them. He misses its silence, without Wren’s ear-grating snores to disturb his peace. He doesn’t want this life, all twitchy and jittery, floating mindlessly with no clear direction to go. 

He would go back to the warehouse in an instant if he could. He’d do anything, as long it meant he could return. Come home. 

“Ungh.” 

Wren’s grunt comes from behind him, yet again cutting through his attempts at some sort of calm — the familiar kind of quietude he would have in the mornings at the base. Back when his routine was respectable and orderly, what you would expect of a proper soldier. Not this complete disarray that comes with living with Wren, each morning beginning in another new, bizarre location, the day's plans completely done on impulse. He couldn’t hate it more. 

Atlas can feel Wren’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t move. No, not a single inch. He’s still, rigid, just as he was trained to be. He doesn’t really want to talk to them ever again, but especially not after last night. He can only pray that they feel the same. 

The thought of facing them leaves him burning with shame. 

A beat of incredibly tense silence passes, and Atlas hears them moving, standing, unzipping the bag that was tossed towards the end of the bed, near their feet. “We should leave soon,” they mutter. They don’t prod at him to answer, don’t check if he’s heard them, don’t wait for a response. They don’t do anything. They simply turn on their heel and pass him, the bathroom door shutting closed behind them with a gentle click. The sound of running water quickly overwhelms the quiet. 

Atlas allows himself to lay there for a moment before slowly standing up and walking over to the doorway, standing straight, shoulders tilted back, gaze level, as he waits for Wren to finish. There’s something familiar about it, his uniform tight against his skin, the fabric gentle, welcoming. It gives him some sense of… belonging. Of what’s right. 

Something to cling to. 

Wren is quick to rinse off and redress, carefully stepping out of the bathroom with their typically fluffy hair now flat and sopping, water droplets pattering their shoulders. They regard Atlas for a miniscule moment, their mouth drawing into a tight line. “Let’s go.” 

Atlas doesn’t give them any sort of acknowledgment, not daring to look in their eyes. At this point, he’s not sure he’s able to. Silent as ever, he follows them out, glad to be finally getting out of here. 

The ride down the elevator is long, silent, and painfully awkward. Atlas makes no attempts at trying to talk to Wren, to break the ice, as some would say; he doesn’t even spare them so much as a glance as they make their way down to the car. He’s not quite sure what’s worse. The previous day where all he encountered was their needless, irritating questions. Or now, with this suffocating silence burning a pit of shame into his chest. 

He thinks he’ll have to run away soon enough. There’s no possible way he thinks he’ll be able to endure any more of this torture. 

“Sorry about the bathroom!” Wren’s walk is brisk and their posture sharp as they rush out the door. They give Atlas a sidelong glance, lowering their voice to mumble, “Gotta get out of here before they see what you’ve done to the bathroom.” 

Atlas has the decency to look thoroughly embarrassed as he follows them to the van, quickening his pace. He wishes he could forget last night entirely, wishes Wren wasn’t a constant reminder of all his complete failings, of his betrayals to himself. He’s above all of this — of sleeping in a dingy, deteriorating environment, each new location worse than the previous. Of allowing himself to be carted around by a grime-covered delinquent, each of their comments pricking at his weakening resolve. He knows better than to lose his temper, he knows better than to throw a tantrum. 

Everything about this is wrong. He shouldn’t be going along like this, shouldn’t be turning his back on the very principles he’s carefully curated his persona with. They’re the foundations of who he is — he’s afraid of what will happen if he allows himself to lose more of the rules he’s built his entire life around. 

And yet, even with every last sensible thought inside his skull begging him to do the right thing, to take back all of this treachery before he goes too far, he doesn’t stray from Wren’s side, sliding into the passenger seat beside them as they speed out of the parking lot, tires screeching upon asphalt. 

They glide out onto the road, the sun beating down against the car as Wren pulls them down along the street. “We’re only going a city over today.” They say, eyes flickering momentarily towards his. 

Atlas doesn’t bother with even giving them a nod of acknowledgment today, his gaze drifting towards the street just outside his window, where blurs of brightly-decorated shops, cars, and early morning walkers with a dog or a stroller to accompany them pass them by.

The better half of an hour is spent like this. In silence, the air rigid around them. Wren slumped in their seat, letting out the occasional sigh which Atlas supposes means they want him to say something — though each one of their groans is strictly ignored. Atlas is still, unblinking, inside his own seat, hands folded neatly in his lap. Perhaps if he stays like this, an echo of what he was inside the base, the pain aching in his chest for each mile they cross will reduce. Maybe this will somehow make life inside Wren’s van somehow easier. 

It’s Wren that finally breaks the silence, pulling Atlas from withtin the depths of his melancholy. They speak, their voice a soft grumbling sound as they say, “Is your hand okay?” 

“Yes.” Atlas doesn’t move, his voice a lower tone than usual as he focuses his gaze on a specific car beside them. Its a sleek silver, small and rectangular, with a sharp sort of shape. A woman sits inside, fair hair, sharp cheekbones, pale lips. One hand pressing a phone similar to Wren’s to her ear, the other resting loosely against the steering wheel. 

Atlas wonders what she’s saying, who she’s speaking to.

Wren’s eyes are fixed on the road in front of them as they clear their throat, continuing. “If you reach back in my bag, there’s some numbing ointments and disinfectant. Should be bandages back there somewhere too.”

“It’s fine.” Atlas answers gruffly, subconsciously rubbing his fingers along his reddened knuckles.

Wren spares a glance over at Atlas’s hand with a slight frown before shrugging. “Just there if you need them.” 

And silence fills the car once again, neither of them with a will strong enough to fight against the tension that is slowly swallowing them whole. 

Thirty more minutes pass and Atlas watches as the city they had once resided in blends into another, this one seemingly smaller than the previous, with less attractions to occupy the streets. More people are out and about, as the morning spreads into day, bringing along school children and their nanny’s, stressed businessmen and women clambering into their cars. 

Wren licks their lips, chewing down against a dead piece of skin. “I’m sorry about last night.” They state, the sentence coming out with more of a hesitance than their previous comments. Atlas is unsure of what to make of it. 

He’s never heard an apology before. Afterall, soldiers never recieve apologies. They exist to listen and obey. They hold no power over their superiors. He blinks, registering their words slower than he normally would, almost confused. Then their statement settles, and he’s quick to dismiss them entirely. “No need to apologize.” He tells them begrudgingly. 

He can feel Wren quickly glance over him, their eyes back to squinting at the road within seconds. “There is. I was uncool last night. Sorry.” 

“Okay.” Atlas manages, no less tense than before their apology began. It’s almost unbearable. 

Wren hums and nods slightly, seeming to be satisfied enough with that answer. “Do you want to stop anywhere?” They say, quickly switching the topic. 

Atlas shakes his head. “I don’t know where to stop around here.” He says in the same monotone voice as before.

Wren shrugs at Atlas’ words. “There’s probably fast food places if you want to try more stuff. I know there’s a thrift store. We should probably get you some more clothes.” Their gaze travels towards his uniform, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst their surroundings, the Eden insignia a bitter reminder of everything he’s abandoned. 

Atlas nods. “Okay. We can do that.” 

His willingness seems to come as a surprise to them both, the sudden itch along his skin pulling him from making any sort of protest at replacing the only clothes he’s ever owned. 

Just past the next exit and a couple minutes down the road Wren finds the thrift store, a short red-bricked building that stretches out along the plaza, other quaint stores tucked alongside it. Wren parks the car, cracking their knuckles and unbuckling their belt. “Let’s go.” 

The inside of the thrift store is stuffy and stacked wall to wall with racks of clothes and bags, random trinkets and pieces of furniture joining the piles. Signs hang from the ceiling, directing customers to men’s and women’s clothing specifically, different gaggles of people filling out the rows, hangers scraping against their posts. The smell is musty and the lights overhead flicker dully, not providing as much light as they should be, yet Atlas has to stop and stand in the entrance as he takes it all in, awestruck by it all. His eyes widen and he glances around to all the different areas, his head buzzing as he witnesses the pure amount of everything that has been fitted inside. 

This has to be just about the most wonderful place he’s ever seen.

“Why don’t you go pick out some things from this section,” Wren suggests, tugging on his sleeve and directing him to a thick rack of clothes. It’s overflowing, different colours sticking out from the almost bursting row, what is probably hundreds of shirts all organized into one section. Atlas steps forwards, tugging at the different materials, immediately enraptured by the clothes as Wren wanders over to an aisle just across from him, sifting through shirts of their own size. 

“See anything you like?” They ask, holding up a baggy white shirt with neon colours splashed upon the front, examining it closer under the light. 

Atlas picks through the clothes, appearing to be a bit overwhelmed. There’s so many items… he has no idea on which ones to select. What would be the proper wear for a homeless runaway? “I’m not sure what to pick.” He murmurs, pulling out a coral polo shirt before quickly placing it back on the rack. 

Wren hums, making their way across the aisles to stand beside him. “Well, you like red.” They state, leaning over to shove some of the shirts aside. “What about this? It’s kinda cool.” They ask, holding up a baggy black t-shirt with jagged red lettering that Atlas can’t exactly decipher. 

Relief floods through him at the direction and his fingers tentatively find themselves around the material, holding it up carefully as he inspects it. It’s not like anything he’s worn before, something that he’s sure Cato wouldn’t disapprove of, the edges of the clothing slightly worn down. But without Cato here to sway his decision, the word no never makes it past his lips. 

He folds it tightly into his arm, turning his attention back to the shirts as he begins to search for similar items. “Let me know if there’s anything you’re not sure will fit you so you can try it on. Or we can just check out when you’re ready.” Wren says, clapping him on the back and turning back to their own leisure browsing, leaving him to his own devices.  

Atlas nods, picking up more items and inspecting them, easing up a bit with the more clothes he finds he likes. Or at least, he thinks he likes. He’s not entirely sure yet. All of this is still too fresh, too overwhelming. He doesn’t even know if he’s picking the right things, if Wren will find his selection satisfactory. Does he even want them to? 

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, a neat but rather bulky pile of clothes now gathered in both of his arms, he wanders over towards Wren’s side again so that the two can both check out. 

Wren has their own little pile of clothes, brightly-coloured things with flashy designs or weird little cartoon characters Atlas doesn’t recognize, and they lead him over to where the cashier is with a small smile, fishing out a tightly-rolled wad of cash from out of their jorts. 

There is a ding from the cash register, the payment going through, and the next thing Atlas knows he’s carrying several plastic bags stuffed to the brim with clothes. They thump along his legs as Wren leads them back to the van, sliding the back door open and tossing their own bags inside. “You can change in the back if you want,” they say, clambering inside. “Or you can wait until we stop again.” 

Atlas nods. “I’ll change in the back.” He mutters, carefully placing his clothes down inside. There’s a relief to it, as he slides the car door shut, a weight off his chest at having so many new clothes to wear. The knowing that he can finally shed off his uniform. 

But he can’t help feel a pang of guilt that washes over him at the thought, another reminder of the duty he has abandoned, as the uniform that had once provided him comfort now provides him nothing but a foreign despair, no longer home against his prickling skin. 

How much more will he allow himself to lose?

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

Wren has just pulled back out onto the street when the boy clambers back into the front, buckling his seatbelt without hesitation. He’s shed the nasty green uniform, opting instead for a baggy band tee and oversized black jeans, a cheap little silver necklace they’d scored from inside the thrift store now hanging from his neck. 

Sitting here now, with his tattoos on full display, dark ink designs swirling up and down his forearms, he looks completely different from what Wren had initially taken him for. If they didn’t know any better, they’d say he was just a regular teenaged boy, not some super soldier from inside the depths of one of Eden’s warehouses. Any sign of the soldier they’d met a month ago is easy to miss, the only thing giving it away being his rigid posture and closed-off expression. 

They give him an approving nod, gaze settling back on the road. “Looking good.” 

“Thanks.” He mutters, hands fumbling with a loose string attached to the knee of his jeans. He stares out the window as they come to a stop at the lights, eyes flickering to where an elderly couple passes the crosswalk ahead of them. 

“So,” Wren drums their fingers against the steering wheel, following along to the beat of the current song they have on in the background. “Wanna tell me your name now?” 

“No reason to.” The boy responds, squashing all their hopes at some sort of trust between the two of them. He simply stares out the window, following the same routine of every single damn time they’ve gotten into this van together. 

Wren throws their head back with a dramatic groan. “Rats.” They grumble, chewing at the inside of their cheek with irritation. 

The boy doesn’t care for their dramatics. And if he does, he doesn’t show it. “Where to next?” He asks, brushing past the topic altogether. Wren can’t help but notice he has a tendency to change the subject whenever a topic he’d rather avoid pops up. It’s rather annoying. 

“Outskirts of town,” they reply. “We’ll stay there a few days and go through all the files we’ve got. I want to get it properly organized.” 

The boy nods, continuing his people watching with no further comment, curious eyes flickering to each shop and restaurant they pass. 

They make the rest of the drive in silence but unlike before, it’s not nearly as tense. There is still a certain weight carried between the two, but Wren feels that it’s significantly less awkward than the morning, where the boy’s high emotions seemed to bleed onto them, tainting the space with his frustration. Now he seems to almost tolerate their company, something Wren almost feels glad for. 

With only a few minutes left of their drive, it’s Wren that speaks up for the third time. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” They say, turning down a new road, this one uneven and smattered by pebbles, the car rumbling and bouncing as they move further away from civilization. “I’ve got my information, you’ve got your safety for now. If there are things you want to pursue, I won’t stop you.” 

The boy is silent, unmoving, something Wren has come to expect. With each question they fire at him, the longer it seems to take for him to compute and properly digest it. They guess it’s foreign, all this new territory. He’s probably unused to it, growing up so sheltered from the world. They’re sure it isn’t easy, leaving everything you had grown up with behind. Being with them definitely isn’t helping the transition, either. 

They wait patiently for an answer, only prodding him again when the silence begins to grow uncomfortable. “Do you want to? Leave, I mean. I doubt it would be safe for you. But it is your choice.” 

He bristles at those words, his fingers twitching from where he has them tucked inside his lap, grip tightening just slightly. His face is ducked away, out of view, so they can’t attempt to read him, but when he finally responds, they can hear the discomfort in his voice. “This is fine.” He mumbles, scratching at the inside of his hand — a nervous tic. 

Wren leans back in their seat, surveying him slowly. “Oh, okay.” They say, offering nothing more as they near an abandoned parking garage with graffiti smeared across almost every inch of cement. They park in a tucked away corner before shutting the van off, climbing into the back without another glance towards their companion. 

Settling down into their corner stuffed with pillows, they stretch, relaxing into their little set up with a small groan. “I��m gonna eat and then take a look at those files,” they say, pulling out two granola bars from out of a plastic bag and offering one to the boy, who has followed them and now sits expectantly, almost as if waiting for instruction. 

He’s almost like a baby duck, Wren thinks, watching him closely as he gingerly unwraps his granola bar, almost like he’s holding something valuable. Unable to make decisions for himself, always checking with them on how to act, what to do. It’s strangely unsettling, paired with the fact that he hates their guts — or at the very least, doesn’t respect them. Yet he’s compulsive about it, always giving them a sideways glance to double check, even at times where he doesn’t seem to realize it. Wren isn’t sure what to make of it. 

They wonder if they’re all like this. So mindless that obedience is just second nature to them, always bowing down to whoever they deem in charge. What kind of life is that, with no thoughts of your own? How long was he forced to live like this? 

Wren crumples up their wrapper, finishing off the rest of the granola bar in one big gulp. “What was your life like before Eden?” They ask, propping themself up a little straighter. “Were you a student?”

The boy straightens at the mention of his life before Eden, twitching fingers reaching up to pull on a strand of his hair, instantly averting his gaze from theirs. His answer is short, voice clipped. A simple, “No.” 

Wren notes he seems more agitated — or perhaps nervous? — at this than any of their previous questions, and they hum, pushing on. “Younger, then? Did you grow up in Eden?” 

“Yes,” is all he supplies, not going into any further details of his childhood. 

Wren leaves it be, deciding to not push him further than he’s willing to go. “I was a student. Before I started all of this.” They say, changing the topic. “Dropped out though.” 

The boy offers them another nod, holding his empty wrapper firm in his hands as his eyes dart from them back to the van floor, suddenly timid. No matter what they do, all kinds of conversation leave him with some level of discomfort. 

They sigh, continuing on. “Middle school was never really for me anyways though so I’m not too bummed about it. I was glad to be out of there, honestly.” 

Their eyes flicker back to him, and they notice that he’s focused on them now, leaning forwards slightly, as if truly interested in them for the first time since they’ve parted from the warehouse. It gives them the courage to go on. 

“I’ve actually only been on my own for a few months or so. It’s not all bad though. I mean I've got my van. I’ve got ways of getting money. The worst part is the weather. It’s getting colder and colder and so I can't exactly leave the van running all night.” They lift their rolled-up sleeping bag and pat it. “That’s why I’ve got this baby.”

He nods, almost unblinking with the way he’s staring at them. He doesn’t try to offer anything to the conversation, sitting in silence as he absorbs what they’re saying, his eyes curious as they explain. Although Wren had initially found it off putting, there is a sort of calm that comes with someone so willing to listen. 

On that note, Wren pushes the sleeping bag out towards the boy. “You can use it tonight. I doubt you’re used to sleeping somewhere with no air conditioning. We’ll have to get another one soon,” they ponder, running a hand across their chin.  

“It’s fine. ‘A soldier must learn to adapt to their surroundings, no matter what.’” He recites, gently pushing it back towards them. “Keep it, I don’t need it.”

Wren eyes the boy with a skeptical look, crossing their arms and letting out a small humph. The sleeping bag sits between them, neither daring to reach it. “Dude, you don’t have to act like that anymore.” Wren huffs, indignant. “You’re allowed to want to be warm.” 

“I’m more comfortable without it.” He states, levelling his gaze right back at them. 

They watch him for a moment before reluctantly nodding, allowing him to win, just this once. “Alright.” They sigh, resignedly grabbing the sleeping bag and stowing it back away in the corner. “Okay, wanna grab my laptop out of that bag?” They ask, leering over to shuffle through the bag of files and flash drives they’ve collected from their mission at the warehouse. 

The boy does as they instruct without question, quickly passing over their laptop and scooting closer beside them. He watches over their shoulder as they boot it up, their Vocaloid homescreen flashing for him to see in its full glory. They rummage around in their bag some more before their fingers close around the first hard drive they’d acquired, and they are two seconds from sticking it inside and sorting through all the evidence when a new thought occurs to them. 

The contents within these files may be rather triggering to their ex-Eden companion, given the circumstances. With the knowledge of what his superiors had planned for his own fate, they’re sure seeing the same cruelties and torture placed upon others wouldn’t help much with his already conflicted, distressed emotions. “Uh, you don’t have to look through these with me if you don’t want.” 

The boy stares at the blank computer screen for a second, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.” He tells them. 

“Alright.” Wren shrugs and inserts the drive, opening the file and scrolling through the list of names. “You’re not going to like, kill me for leaking these anymore, right?” 

The boy’s expression darkens, his unrelenting gaze still fixed harshly upon the screen, eyes flickering over all the names of the Elites of the past. Wren can’t even try to decipher what he may be thinking. 

“No,” he decides. “I’m not.” 

They study him for a moment, searching for any sign of a lie. Perhaps the tightness of his posture, or his avoidance of their gaze. But after a second, they realize there isn’t much of a point to it. Even if he is lying, they doubt they’d be able to tell. He’s probably been trained out of every “tell” in the book. “Alright.” They shrug, turning their attention back onto the files. 

They scroll through the list, eyes scanning through it for a moment before they make a copy, saving it to their personal files. They grab another flash drive — this time the one with the videos. Opening the file, they grimace as a video, debatably worse than the last they’d seen, pops up onto their screen. 

It pictures a girl, much smaller than Wren themself, curled into a corner, as if trying to disappear altogether. She is bare besides for the remnants of what may have been a green uniform such as the boy’s. Though there’s not much to it now, the fabric worn and faded, ripped in such a way it can’t be classified as more than tattered rags upon her figure. She is trembling, staring up at the camera with tear-stricken eyes. The source of her pain is evident to be the contraption fixed upon her head; a silver, clunky thing, with entangling wires spindling around the base of her skull. Tubes run under the thin, pale skin upon her head, hair shaved off in harsh chunks, leaving only pale red patches behind. 

The camera shifts slightly, as a long, green-panted leg appears into view. “Again.” 

“No,” the child moans, the word broken, said in a half-sob. Her voice is hoarse, crackling, rasping against the air. It breaks Wren’s heart. “Please, please no more, I can’t—”

“Again!” 

The girl jerks as a sharp beeping noise cuts through the scene, the contraption on top of her head lighting up with a sort of terrifying brilliance. The girl screams and Wren watches as she collapses, twitching and seizing in uncontrollable motion, as pleas escape from her lips with complete desperation. 

The device only burns brighter. 

Wren sharply clicks out of the file, putting an end to the senseless destruction before them with a quick, press of a button. They spare a glance at the boy, mouth twisted up into a grimace as they stare at him for a moment, finding no words to properly cut through what the two just witnessed. 

Finally, they settle on what they hope isn’t too antagonizing: “Wanna look at these later?” 

“You don’t need to coddle me.” He states. He still hasn’t met their gaze, eyes focused on the exact place where the girl had once been displayed, now replaced by rows and rows of digital white files, just sitting there, waiting to be sorted. “I may have not known about this,” he continues after a moment, voice unwavering. “But I’ve still been more than prepared to not be affected by videos like these. I’m fine.” 

Wren can’t help the guilt that crawls through them at his words. Even they were made sick with each video they opened — and he’s claiming to not be affected? Whatsoever? They eye him for a moment longer, waiting for just a tiny crack to appear inside his steely cool exterior, but they are met with nothing. Of course they are. From the looks of it, last night was the last time he would express his true emotions with them. Wren isn’t sure if they should be relieved or disappointed. 

“Alright man, whatever you say.” They shrug, turning back to their laptop with a slight sigh, pulling at more of the files. 

The following minutes that ensue are tense, silent, as Wren clicks away at their laptop, the boy peering steadily over their shoulder with that same petrifying gaze. Wren forces their eyes to remain on the screen, not turning to give their companion another pitiful glance — for both of their sakes. 

Their face hardens into a glare with each new file they sort through. Anger churns in their stomach and they can hardly get through the videos and documents that each new hard drive reveals. Children stolen from their homes, memories manipulated, different experiments played out; replacing flesh with mechanics, power enhancing drugs, abuse when the results are of disappointment to the scientists. It’s all absolutely disgusting. They’re quick to save each onto their laptop, refusing to look deeper into the evidence they’ve collected. It’s enough as it is, already. Much more and they think they’ll hurl. 

“It’s terrible,” Wren mumbles, gritting their teeth and slamming their laptop shut, shoving the thing away as if it's too hot to touch. “I hate seeing those videos.” 

They inhale and exhale rhythmically, forcing down the building bile within their throat. It’s horrific, everything they’ve seen come from this investigation. The files, the documents, the secrets buried within — all of it is more disgusting than they could have ever imagined. The rumours did nothing to do the true terrors justice. 

Wren glances over at the boy, who they find already has his own gaze transfixed onto them. He blinks at them, face blank, and Wren wonders for the millionth time what must be running through his head. Does he recognize any of the children in these videos? Did he train with them, take lessons with them? Is he truly as unaffected as he proclaims he is?  

“You good?” They ask, raising a brow. 

He nods, not a flicker of emotion peeking through. They study him, trying to find an angle that may reveal what he’s feeling, something to give away his personality besides the guarded, quiet one they’ve come to know over the past day. There has to be something more to him. But of course, they find nothing, the violet of his eyes dark, unrelenting. They sigh, leaning back against their little pillow corner and tucking their arms behind their head. When they had thoughts of a companion, they’d always imagined someone to fill the space, stealing away the suffocating silence and gaping emptiness the van took on in all those long nights by themself. This boy seems to have the opposite effect. He’s so… boring. 

“Hey,” Wren glances over at him again. “You ever play a video game?” 

He tilts his head slightly at them, confusion wrinkling his stone-sculpted features. “When would I have the time for that?” 

Wren blinks at him. Figures. Of course the evil power-hungry organization also banned video games, humanity’s best invention by far. They sit up, leaning over to their bag and digging through it, producing a little blue Nintendo DS. They flash it in front of him with a proud grin. “Ta-da!” 

“What is that?” The boy asks, staring at the device in their hands with a curious look. 

“It’s a DS. You can play games on it.” Wren explains, scooting closer as they turn it on so he can see the screen. “There are little cards with games on them and you put the cards inside. Here, I’ll show you.” 

The boy looks infinitely more interested as the stolen files are replaced by Wren’s DS. He watches intently as Wren begins to navigate the game, demonstrating how to play. 

“You take care of the animals in the zoo. Look, I just got giraffes,” they say, making their little avatar walk around. “And you get little alerts when your animals want to play or take a bath. And you have to remember to give them food and water.” They add, showing it off. The boy is enraptured as they push their avatar to walk beside the giraffe, holding a cartoonishly large leaf up to feed it. The giraffe bounces happily and little hearts appear above its head. “You can tell how happy they are too.” 

Wren glances over their shoulder towards the boy, whose eyes are locked on the screen, filled with a certain childlike wonder. The expression is similar to the one he wore when they were in McDonald’s, taking in all the new sights. Wren finds it to be sort of wholesome. “Want to try?” 

He nods excitedly and Wren swears that they’ve almost managed to get a smile out of him for the first time since the two crossed paths. The thought almost makes all their awkward tension from before worth it. They shoot him a small grin and place the DS into his hands. “Use those two buttons to move around.” 

The boy nods, shifting to tuck his feet under his lap as he moves the little avatar around the island, a light present upon his face that wasn’t there before. Wren wonders if this is the first time he’s actually done something for fun. It makes them feel strangely sad.

They watch him for a long moment as he plays the game, almost instantly absorbed in it. He looks content almost, maybe even close to happy. That’s more than they could’ve expected from him for the past 48 hours, so Wren declares it a definite win.  

With a hum, they lay back down again and close their eyes, allowing themself to relax now that the boy is preoccupied. The only sound inside the van is the gentle clicking of buttons from the DS, the gentle heat within the van enough to lull Wren asleep. For the first time in a long while, they feel perfectly at peace. 

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

“Fun?” 

Atlas has completely lost track of himself by the time Wren’s voice cuts through the van once again. Cato and Ira are no longer present on his mind, this new addicting game pushing away all worries momentarily. He looks up towards Wren, rubbing their eyes and smiling lazily at him, and offers them a quick nod. “Would you like it back?” He asks. 

Wren shakes their head and puts a hand up. “No, you seem like you need it. You’re good to keep playing if you want.” 

“Okay.” Atlas nods, turning his attention once more to the vibrant game. It’s not like anything he’s seen before. A simple premise, really. No true objectives to the game, nothing for him to strive towards — no enemies to defeat. Yet he couldn’t enjoy it more, something calming filling him from going through the rounds of caring for the digital animals. It’s a sort of funny thing, how something so mundane can be so fulfilling. 

Silence fills the van again, though it’s only brief this time around. Atlas has only been clicking away at the button’s of Wren’s DS for a few minutes when their voice interrupts him again. 

They let out a slow exhale. “…You know they probably won’t just let you go, right?” 

Atlas stills, slowly meeting their gaze. This was the one conversation he’d been dreading the most. The one thought that has been repeating inside his head incessantly all day long. The very thing that rests heavy inside his chest now, anxiety seeping into his bones. They’ll be searching for me.   

Wren frowns, propping their chin on their elbow with a sigh. “Just be ready for that. I don’t know how long we’ll have before they decide they want to get you back.” 

Atlas shifts uncomfortably, the DS forgotten in his grip. He can’t believe he was so stupid, so reckless. He knows better than this, has been warned maybe a thousand times about the consequences of ignoring his responsibilities. Deserters were dishonorable, shameful. He’s thrown away all hopes of a respectable life.

He should’ve thought this through. He’d just been so upset, all he’d wanted to do was get as far away from the warehouse as he could. He wasn’t thinking clearly. No— wasn’t thinking at all. Anyone with a sliver of sense could see that this plan of Wren’s is destined to fail. He’s doomed himself, following them. 

But where would he go? He doesn’t know who he’d turn to, outside of Eden. He hasn’t ever even left the warehouse by himself, up until now. Cato is probably so disappointed in him, abandoning her during Evaluation Day, the day she’d spent the last decade preparing him for. All those hours spent, tirelessly whipping him into shape, turned to waste with one horrible choice. He doesn’t even want to imagine what she’d do to him if he tried to return. 

And Ira…

“They won’t find us though, okay? I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m good at hiding. We can go underground until they lay off.” Wren pipes up, perhaps noticing Atlas’ calm exterior begin to slip, his despair clouding his eyes. Despite it, Atlas doesn’t feel any reassurance from it. Nothing Wren has said up until now has managed to calm his thoughts. 

He stares at his hands, wondering if he made the wrong decision. It was the first time he had truly picked something for himself, without it being laid out for him by one of his superiors, steered in the correct direction. He’s never truly picked something for himself, not in any way that mattered. And this one, life-shattering decision was done without a second thought. 

He hadn’t dared to think about what would happen after he left. What people would think, what it would feel like. If he was even capable of surviving without Eden’s warmth and guidance. He was being so completely stupid. Now he hadn’t just cursed himself, yet Wren too. The small steps they’d made in achieving their impossible dream would be erased within seconds, once Atlas led Eden straight to them. As much as he didn’t like them, he didn’t want someone so innocent to get hurt for his sake. 

Cato was not a merciful woman.

He’s scared to think about what she’d do if she found out Wren was the one to push him to leave. What she’d do to them.

Wren sits up, sliding closer to where he sits. They’re quiet for a moment, biting down on the piercing dangling from their lip, before taking a deep breath, beginning to speak. “Look uh…” they cough out, wringing their hands. “It’ll be okay. I mean it probably sucks right now. But eventually it might not suck. We’ve got loads of granola bars. And you know what a DS is now.” 

They lift their hand, as if to rest it against him, before quickly withdrawing it before contact can be made. Atlas barely registers it. 

Wren's words have fallen on deaf ears. Now that they’ve pointed out all the gaping holes within his plan, or lack thereof, he can’t push his terror back down. He thinks about all the different ways Eden can track the two of them down, all the technology they have access to. How far will they even manage to go, in one tiny, clunky van? Did they really have any chance at this from the start? 

He’s never even heard of a soldier running away — no, escaping, but maybe there’s a reason for that. What if…

“Hey.” Wren’s voice is firm as they lean in close. “Look at me for a second, will you?” 

“Yes?” Atlas asks, voice quieter than usual as he glances up at them, hoping they can’t read the fear screaming within his mind — or notice the shake in his hands. 

“Look, you’re going to be fine. Well, not actually, like, fine. But they’re not going to get you. We got you out of there and you’re going to stay out of there.” They grasp his shoulder, grip harsh, yet just the kind of pressure he needs to ground himself. “Later on we can go somewhere further if we need to, so stop worrying about it.” 

For a moment, Atlas almost believes them. There’s a sort of confidence that they carry themself with that makes it almost believable. Almost. 

And then reality sets in. 

“If you truly believe that, you’re way in over your head.” He states, staring dead into their eyes. His hands tighten into fists from where they lay upon his lap. 

Wren releases Atlas, slumping back. “I might be.” They mutter, fumbling with their fingers as they avoid his gaze.

Atlas continues to stare at them, almost unblinkingly. “Eden has more resources than you’ll ever have in your entire lifetime. Just the Task Force alone has warehouses spread all over the country, some, I think, have even started opening up in neighbouring countries. It was foolish of me to follow you. I’m only putting a target on your back.”

Wren tilts their head. “You only made the target bigger. I’ve had a target on me for a while.” They retort, crossing their arms defiantly. “It’s fine.” Their eyes soften just slightly, and they offer him a small, pitiful smile. “I don’t regret getting you out of there, you know.” 

Atlas tries to ignore the way their comment slices into his chest, a foreign feeling enveloping him with its strength before he quickly shoves it down.

“That’s not the point.” He huffs. “You don’t seem to understand what Eden is capable of. I don’t either, not fully, but I do remember about what we were taught from my training. These soldiers are born to be ruthless.”

Wren sighs and shifts their gaze upwards. “Yeah I know. But I’m going to stop them anyways. Or die trying,” they add with a dry smile.

Atlas furrows his brows. “Why would you want to get involved in this? Your life sounds like it was really… nice.” 

He thinks about going to school and being able to do all these things all the time. Fast food restaurants, video games, the freedom to pick what you’d like to see, or wear. And then to give it all up to be homeless, dirty; alone. It doesn’t make sense to him. He’d do anything to have a life like that. To be born without expectations, without the cruel realities of life thrust upon him. To have something quiet. He’s always dreamed of exploring, of experiencing more than the same four gray walls inside the warehouse. Wren had all that, and a million times more. And then they abandoned it without a second thought.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand them — how could someone give all that up?

Wren sighs and drags a hand down their face, closing their eyes. “It was nice. It was. But we can only live peacefully among humans for so long before things get complicated. And I can’t sit by and act as if nothing’s happening,” they explain, folding their hands in front of them. “It’s just not right.” 

Atlas nods, accepting their answer, as much as he can’t see himself ever truly agreeing. “I see.”

Wren purses their lips and then puffs a big breath out. “You know, that freaky ass cult is next. If you’re interested in beating their shit.”

Atlas nods. “Okay.” He mumbles, reaching up to fiddle with his hair again. He wishes to have nothing to do with the Congregation of the Chosen, or anyone associated with it. Not now, not ever. There’s nothing that could ever make him feel prepared to face that. But he doesn’t dare to express it. If Wren is set on exposing their lies as well, then he has no choice but to follow. 

Afterall, he has nowhere left to run. 

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

The boy doesn’t speak after that, and Wren leaves it at that for a long while, simply sitting, basking in his company. They’re unsure if they’ve done much to dull his nerves, but they hope they managed to give him some sort of comfort.

The silence has settled between the two of them for a long moment when they finally bring themself to speak again. “So what’s your name?”

“That’s not important.” He dismisses them almost immediately. God, he really is stubborn as a damn mule.

Wren tosses their head back with a groan, flopping back onto the floor. “You’re no fun.”

“I don’t see the point in giving you my name. We aren’t friends.” The boy says thoughtfully. “Everyone at the base either referred to me by my surname or my number.”

Wren crinkles their nose at the mention of his number, disgusted that he’d even suggest they refer to him by that. It’s bad enough to have seen it plastered upon every page inside his file, so… so dehumanizing. They could never bring themself to call him by it. Even “the boy” was a million times better.

They glance over at him. “Well, you know, it would be nice to have something to call you by, obviously. And something that’s not a number. We may not be friends but we are stuck together now. You gotta give me something, dude.” They point out, before adding with a slight groan, “And I’m not from the base. Those rules don’t apply anymore.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like you’re going to be talking about me to anyone. I don’t see when you’d have to use my name.” He points out, not budging.

Wren lifts their head to properly glare at him, eyes narrowed as they stick out their tongue. Then they let their head thump back against the wall with a pout. “That makes no sense.”

“I think it makes perfect sense.” The boy declares.

“You’re impossible.” Wren grumbles, and they swear they almost catch him smirking.

Masterlist || Previous || Next

TAGLIST \\ @ohagiwrites @oros-ash3s @bloodinkandashes @corinneglass @icantthinkofablognameatm @vesanal @inky-anathemata @bioniclechronicles @seastarblue @gr3yhellh0und @aalinaaaaaa @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @sugaredparchment @lunaeuphternal @ifmasonbasonwasawriter @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @lancedoncrimsonwings @sharkblizzardblogs @nightmaricwriter @scoundrelwithboba @cepheusgalaxy @cacophonyofwords @theink-stainedfolk @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @write-with-will

★ Send an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

Apologies for the (checks notes) two month hiatus! Ohagi and I just got caught up on life for the most part, but we’re hoping to bring back our more frequent posting schedule. Thanks for understanding, and being so patient with us（´∇｀''）

O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

[ID. A drawing of Atlas, a young man with a red mullet cut, some tattoos, golden piercings and violet eyes. He has a pair of white wings behind him and a golden halo. He is crying, and cracks form on the right side of his torso and face, but he looks away from it. His hands are posed into a prayer, but a bit hesitantly. Atlas' scars glow and the image has a golden tint to it. End ID.]

Oh hey it me im back with drawings yayy!!! Yet another fanart for @oros-ash3s 's Atlas again bc i like him. Although I do hate rendering more than I love him so it's a bit uncooked. Sorry atlas

This took me quite some time but esp because since I didn't know what to do? With it? I like it anyways. Moreso flat colored version under the cut also, as a treat

[ID. The same drawing as before, but the shadows are minimal and the golden circle behind the halo is gone. The colors are also paler. End ID.]

^this was the stage where i stopped knowing ehat i was doing lmao. jokes apart i just messed with colors and blending modes from then on but it got kinda cool! I confined my rambles ab the piece to the tags this time

Art taglist || @for-the-love-of-angst @seastarblue

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

…── •̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⋆ Eden’s Name ⋆˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙ ──…

|| An excerpt from “What is Eden Inc.?”

⋆˙⟡ Ade Kiran, Yue Ramsay, and Alexander Gray, with assistance from Silas Fazel. “Eden Incorporated, a Detailed History”. 863.

── .✦

Founded nearly four centuries ago on the eighth day of the fifth month, [Eden Inc.] has since risen from the lowly and humble beginnings it started as and expanded to the highly influential and distinguished company the public knows it as today. Led by its current leader, Altan Möngke, the organization still stands strong with its core values and beliefs, remaining resolute for the fight that began over three hundred years ago to this very day.

But as Eden draws near to its yearly anniversary, the population of its ranks growing with each decade that passes, a myriad of questions begin to arise. The days of old are long gone, murky and forgotten with the passage of time. Where Eden originally began, and what led to its existence, is more of a mystery than ever. Many recruits are left wondering where this battle arose, and how it’s ended up here, in these very warehouses, so many centuries later.

Founded by Castor Wright, the company was not always the organization of wealth and riches that most know it as. Finding its creation in the darkness of a candle-lit inn, Wright started the organization as a wish for unity and hope amongst his people. With the destruction of the secretive Magicae communities and societies and the creation of the Unification Act, Wright had witnessed firsthand the harm and damage that Human and Magicus integration caused. With not much to his name, he began the first blueprints to his seemingly impossible pipe-dream: A peacekeeping organization to keep the calm between the two worlds, set on keeping magic and humans separate, reducing the bloodshed brought on by their continuous congregation and communication. A world of perfect, careful balance; as it should be.

With a slow start, Eden Inc. eventually found itself with an impressive and well-rounded assembly of Magicae, all with alike aspirations to Wright’s own dream of the new world. It took nearly a decade of preparations, but it was with this very council that Eden Incorporated found its current name.

Eden Inc. is most notably associated with the Garden of Eden, a biblical paradise of pleasure and delight from which Adam and Eve originally lived. This connects deeply to Eden Inc.’s own cause, having its own ideas of a utopian society of complete justice and stability, dreams towards a paradise much like the one inside the Bible. Many have assumed this was Wright’s intention when naming the organization, but Wright actually expressed his extreme disdain and revulsion towards this notion. Throughout several interviews, he explained that Eden Inc. has and will not have anything to do with Christianity, instead focusing on a completely scientific approach to the wellness and greater good of the public.

“Eden’s mission has absolutely no association with any religion for that matter,” Wright explained to the press. “But especially not Christianity.”

He refused to go into any further detail in how he got the inspiration for the name of the organization, simply requesting to keep the questions focused on the more important details of what Eden is conducting. It is well-known throughout the company that many of its members follow the same atheist beliefs as Wright did, with the infamous Congregation of the Chosen being a strong factor into why so many of its members found peace through Eden’s open arms.

── .✦

Eden Inc. as a company has gone through a long line of developments through the almost-four hundred years that it has been around. With hundreds of leaders to rule over the organization over the years, it has found itself headed in a long, twisted path. Many people focus on the company in its current, with its thinly-veiled secrets and mysterious aura. But there is still so many decades to unpack beyond this, starting from the very beginning.

Eden’s name is up to debate, with its own founder claiming it as having no ties whatsoever to the church, despite its misleading name, while most of the public assuming it to be a somewhat Christian organization, due to its themes to do with the Garden of Eden. But there’s no true clear answer on this, the true reason Castor Wright chose this specific name being left up to interpretation of the reader.

This little excerpt above was inspired by @cepheusgalaxy, who wrote out quite a brilliant theory about the roots of Eden’s name and the religious themes of the story — especially to do with the first arc of The Chrysalis. I recommend giving that a read, as it’s pretty genius and well-thought out, if I do say so myself. Check out the ask over on my other account, right HERE.

(As a reminder we love to hear all your different theories, especially to do with the overall themes of the story, so never be afraid to send an ask or reply!!)

─ O.A. .ᐟ

TAGLIST \\ @ohagiwrites @oros-ash3s @bloodinkandashes @corinneglass @icantthinkofablognameatm @vesanal @inky-anathemata @bioniclechronicles @seastarblue @gr3yhellh0und @aalinaaaaaa @shadow-of-tea-and-tea @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @sugaredparchment @lunaeuphternal @ifmasonbasonwasawriter @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @lancedoncrimsonwings @sharkblizzardblogs @nightmaricwriter @scoundrelwithboba @cepheusgalaxy @cacophonyofwords @theink-stainedfolk @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @write-with-will

★ Send an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Snapped” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Atlas surveys the streets below, sure he must be dreaming.

Taking up the entire back wall of the hotel room is a long, shiny floor-to-ceiling window.

A window.

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen one. The warehouse, despite its many floors and levels, didn’t have any. Not ones that led outside, anyway. And definitely not ones as grand as this one. It was nothing but the same steel-gray walls along every hallway, stretching on endlessly, inescapable no matter what room you turned into. His bedroom had been like that too: four bare, gray walls, not a single window in sight.

But here — here he can see it all.

The darkened streets stretch out below him, bustling with cars and people. It isn’t as crowded here as it had been when he’d first drove with Wren this morning, less people around to watch. Still… It’s beautiful.

Outside. He can really see outside.

Wren’s van sits out in front of them in the parking lot, the pale white of the paint glistening from the streetlight overhead. Wren had slid into the parking lot only fifteen minutes prior, flashing a sleek credit card in his direction, proclaiming it was for “emergencies only”, before leading him inside the hotel. It’s a nicer place than the rest of the buildings he’s seen today — much cleaner than the McDonalds — with shiny elevators and smooth marble floors, a few people bustling around in the hallways; kids and adults alike, smiling and laughing with each other. 

Now settled in their hotel room, he can spot a few men gathered on the corner of the street, little wisps of smoke drifting up into the night air around them from their cigarettes. They’re laughing loudly, throwing their heads back, mouths spread out in a grin. Atlas wonders what it’s like, to laugh like that.

He stands there in silence, simply taking it all in, eyes flickering towards every person that passes by on the street, to every car in the distance. They are all but blurs of colour in the darkness of the night, the illumination of streetlights casting a dull glow over everything, the lights from nearby shops slowly starting to flicker off as the day falls to a close.

Atlas is pulled away from the serene view at Wren’s eyes on him.

They look up at him from their spot criss-crossed on the floor, face curious as he meets their gaze. They pat the spot beside them, expectantly waiting for him to sit.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning their expression for any hint of hostility. He still isn’t sure what to think of them. They’re brash and rude — not to mention stupid — but then again, they’d genuinely tried to help him, hadn’t they? Slowly, he obliges, taking the seat next to them.

Wren fixes their gaze back onto the street below, pressing their forehead into the glass. “How old are you?”

Atlas bristles at the question. “You first.”

All day they’d been asking things like this, trying to… get information out of him. He guesses it’s what anyone would do, he is a practical stranger, after all. But a part of him can’t help but feel on guard at it. He isn’t supposed to tell people about himself, isn’t supposed to give anything away. Especially to someone from outside of Eden. Though, he guesses, he isn’t a part of Eden anymore either, is he? Those rules don’t apply to him anymore.

Not after he left them.

Wren sighs, but for once doesn’t push, instead opting for answering his deflection. “Fine asshole. I’m fourteen.”

Atlas falls quiet at their answer, weighing his options. Eden’s rules don’t technically apply to him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about Wren, either. It isn’t like they’ve ever been nice to him before now. Still, it isn’t like he’s going to gain anything from being so prudent with them. And telling them his age can’t be that bad….

“I’m fifteen.” He relents.

Their head jerks towards him at his answer, eyes going wide in shock as they mumble, “You’re just a kid.”

Atlas’ gaze doesn’t leave the window, his face still a perfect mask of calm, the only movement coming from him being his eyes as they scan the different buildings outside. “I’m older than you.” He points out.

Wren clicks their tongue loudly and shrugs, tearing their face away from the window again to glance at him. “Yeah. I’m a kid too.”

Atlas focuses on a particular car — a deep maroon in colour, with a dent in the side, little chips along the paint. He places all his attention on it, taking nice, even breaths, holding back his urge to scream at them. He’s never felt so miserable, so helplessly alone, in his entire life. “My age doesn’t matter.” He responds, voice clipped. So just shut the fuck up already.

Wren rolls their eyes, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Did they tell you that too? Did they tell you it doesn’t matter that you’re a literal kid?”

Atlas stiffens. “That’s none of your concern.”

Wren sighs and leans back on their hands, still staring out the window. “Fine, whatever.” They go silent for a long moment before a thought suddenly occurs to them. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?” They ask, glancing back towards him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He says coldly, unable to hold the exasperation from leaking into his voice. Wren seems to have that sort of effect on him; he never feels quite so defensive or angry as he does when he’s around them.

Wren huffs, sagging forwards and resting their forehead upon the glass once again. They seem unable to sit still for more than a minute, constantly fidgeting and moving around. Atlas has never found something quite so irritating. “Look, I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But we can’t do anything unless you trust me a little. At least enough to give me your name.”

“I don’t need to give you anything.” Atlas replies rigidly. He decides that he in fact isn’t going to tell them anything. He’s out of Eden now, so that means he can choose. There are no rules against that, not anymore. And Wren is definitely not his superior. He likes it better this way. That way they can’t use anything against him. That way he still has the slight upper hand.

Wren lets out a long, hard sigh, rocking for a minute before flopping all the way back, lying flat on the scratchy carpet. “Okay. Whatever.” They mumble, closing their eyes.

Atlas doesn’t move.

Wren thumps their feet on the floor rhythmically, disturbing Atlas’ peace. “Fine, I don’t need to know your name. Do you have a favourite colour?” They ask, glancing towards his hair, a shaggy mullet with burgundy streaks littering throughout it. “Is it red?”

“Is yours blue?” Atlas counters, still annoyingly refusing to answer any of their questions. He can’t stand it — can’t stand sitting here, with them, can’t stand their constant chattering. He wants to be at the warehouse, with Cato, with Ira; wants to be in his dorm room, curled up on his cozy bed. Wants to be training, the familiar feeling of his staff in his hands, strength surging through his core. He wants to be at home.

You left that, remember? He chides himself. That isn’t your home, not anymore.

“Very clever. Did you figure that all on your own?” Wren asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It doesn’t take a genius.” He grunts, not once glancing toward them to meet their gaze.

“Sarcasm.” They mutter. “You dye it yourself?” They gesture vaguely towards his hair.

Atlas answers with nothing but a curt nod, hand subconsciously raising to fiddle with his hair, a dark red strand twirling around his fingers. 

“Me too. I’ve spent too much money on box dye.”

Atlas hums. He still remembers with perfect clarity the first time Ira came over with box dye and helped him with his hair — almost as if it was just yesterday.

He had been twelve. She’d swung into his dorm room with a small grin, waving the box around like it was pure gold. It had been, to him. He remembers, up until then, he’d barely even had belongings to himself. No books beside his textbooks, no notebooks or paper besides the ones supplied to him for his lessons. No souvenirs, no nothing. His room had genuinely been bare. Just a bed and a small desk pushed into the corner. Wren had commented on the absolute emptiness of his room, but it was nothing compared to back then.

So when Ira had offered to dye his hair, he’d been over-the-moon. For as long as he could remember, her hair was always done up in some interesting way. A streak of colour, or ombré, or jaggedly cut in a way that Atlas wished he could pull off. He remembers how excitement coursed through his bones as she helped him chop off his ordinary, plain black locks for the shaggy mullet that he then kept for the past three years. That pure, child-like excitement… it was the best feeling in the entire world.

Wren doesn’t take his lack of a response as a sign he isn’t in the mood for a conversation, simply continuing to talk. They might as well be talking to themself, for all that it matters. “The first time I dyed my hair, I bleached it without instructions. It was so bad, it started falling out of my head.”

Atlas still doesn’t react, simply winding his hair around his finger, over and over and over again. Its soothing, almost. Something to focus on. 

Wren continues. “I had a big bald spot on the side of my head for the entire first part of 6th grade. My mom bought me this hair growth stuff for bald guys. Didn’t work at all.”

Atlas doesn’t give them a second of his attention. He stares out the window, watching out into the streets below, half-forgetting to blink. He wants to be out on those streets, walking. Free. It has never been a thought he admitted — not in full extent — but out of everything in the entire universe, that has always been his dream. To go out, by himself, no watchful eye of his commander or the judgemental gaze of a scrawny insufferable rebel. Just him and the quiet of the night, the chill of the breeze cooling the back of his neck. Calm, contented peace. 

Wren’s gaze doesn’t leave him as they sit up, scooting closer to his side. “Hey…?” They ask, leaning over slightly and waving their hand in front of his face. 

“Hm?” Atlas hums, his piercing gaze falling upon them. This is the closest they’ve dared get to him, only inches apart. “What is it?”

Wren furrows their brows at him. “You went all zombie on me.”

“I was listening.” Atlas says dismissively. What he really wants to say to them is “shut up, I do not want to talk to you right now, or ever, for that matter”, but he holds his tongue. He wants to do many things — shove Wren away from him, scream at them, beat their annoying face until it’s black and blue, run away from them and never come back — but that does not mean that he can actually do them. He’s stuck with Wren, as much as he hates it, so the best he can do is try to tolerate them. For now.

Wren frowns but shrugs, brushing past it. “Okay.” They say, leaning away to resume their position of resting their forehead against the window, letting out a heavy exhale as they do so. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Atlas focuses his attention back upon the window, watching outside in silence for a second. If he was to be honest, he’d say that he really couldn’t care less if Wren told him anything about themself. But he knows that’s not what they want to hear. “Whatever you would like to tell me.” He says with the slightest of shrugs. We are not friends. He thinks. And we will never be friends. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind on that.

Wren rolls their eyes with a loud and dramatic groan. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you plenty and you won’t even respond.” They say, shooting him a scowl.

Atlas hums. “What would you like me to say?” There’s a reason I didn’t answer, you dunce.

“I dunno man. Usually you’re supposed to acknowledge what someone’s saying.” They say with another loud huff. “Whatever, you get a free pass because you got brainwashed.”

Don’t fucking speak to me like that.  

“I’m not brainwashed.” Atlas mutters, side-eying them.  

Wren clicks their tongue and scoffs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you kind of are man.”

Atlas scowls. You’re a naive, stupid child that thinks they know everything because they managed to steal a few fucking files. You’ll never amount to even a sliver of what I am right now, even if you spent your entire life trying. Pull your head out of your fucking ass.

“You don’t know anything about me. Stop acting like you do.” 

Atlas’ words only cause Wren to shrug. “I mean, I knew a lot more than you.” They point out matter-of-factly.

Atlas is so sick of Wren’s constant comments, their know-all attitude. Their audacity. All he’s had to deal with this entire day is their snarky quips, poking and prodding, rubbing salt into his sore wounds.

He should’ve known better. They’re a rebel, after all. Rebels are cruel, apathetic. Why would they care about what he’s lost, what he’s sacrificed, leaving with them? A homeless middle schooler with a clunky, dirty van that barely operates on its own. And he’s supposed to just be grateful, accept their treatment with the same grace he always holds. 

They don’t have a single clue about what his life was like, the hardship and struggles he’s had to endure. They don’t know how much he gave away, just to join their shitty little grandiose delusion of “revolution”. They make him sick.

Fuck, I’m so tired. 

He gives them a hard glare. “No, you didn’t.”

Wren narrows their eyes at him, giving him a skeptical glance before sighing. “What-ever.”

This finally snaps Atlas’ resolve.

It isn’t their dismissal that does it, more an accumulation of the last day. He should know better than this, should know better than to snap at them like he does, but suddenly the burning anger that has been boiling, slow and steady, in his chest all day is exploding out of him, hot as flames. Unrestrained.

“I hate you.” He spits, whipping around to glare down at them with pure hatred shining in his eyes. “At least Eden treated me kindly. At least I belonged.” His voice shakes, emotion slipping through in a way it hasn’t in — he doesn’t even know how long. Years? A decade? Forever? “At least I wasn’t stuck with an insolent child.”

His words come out quick and sharp, a part of him almost too scared to even say them. He can’t remember ever speaking out against someone in his entire life. He isn’t supposed to — it’s against the rules. He’s supposed to keep his feelings in check; a soldier who can’t keep control over themself is as good to Eden as a ticking time bomb. Soldiers are polite. Soldiers are obedient. Soldiers don’t voice their own opinions. Soldiers don’t have opinions — don’t have emotions. For all of his life, he has been this: The perfect soldier.

But what had that gotten him in the end?

“You don’t know anything about what it was like.” He says coldly. He has to admit to himself, actually voicing what he’s been thinking the entire day…. It feels kind of good.

Wren’s eyes widen slightly, a look of shock that gives Atlas the slightest hint of satisfaction evident on their features. They slowly tilt their head up to look at him again, the words hanging lowly in the air between them, turning the atmosphere thick with tension.

Finally, Wren breaks the dreadful silence. “Yeah, I get it.” They say, pausing for a moment, as if they were for once going to put in a sliver of thought before they spit out some crude insult at him. “I don’t expect you to like me. And I don’t really care if you do.”

Their face is calm, voice even as they speak. It feels as if they are addressing an explosive child, not a boy who has spent the last fifteen years of his life carefully pushing down his true feelings for what matters, who always does what he’s told without questions, who works and works and works. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to experience true relaxation — true peace.

“I may not know what it was like,” they say, the slightest bit of exasperation in their voice. “But I know what would’ve happened if you stayed.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Atlas pales, the thought of the files — the videos; the horrific images of torture, torture that he would’ve endured, torture that Eden had been doing on its own soldiers for years — causing his mouth to instantly snap shut.

The smug feeling dissipates just as fast as it comes. There is no rebuttal to their statement. Although he never would admit to it, both he and Wren know that they are right. What had been waiting for him after today….

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

In one swift movement, Atlas jumps to his feet. His hands are shaking as he roughly turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and making a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time in his life, he feels the careful control he has over his emotions slip through his fingers, anger burning in his chest fiery hot, flushing his cheeks red.

He fucking hates it here.

The door slams behind him with a sharp bang.

He is shaking as he enters the bathroom, his entire body trembling, the weight he’s been holding upon his shoulders for too long finally cracking away at his perfectly poised exterior, slipping him under the waves of unconstrained emotions he has tried so hard to dull. His control is dissipating faster than he can manage, the short rapid breaths through his nose doing nothing to cool the fury within him. 

The stress of the past 24 hours — no, the entire past month — have taken their hold on him, sending him spiraling down a well of no return. He is untethered, boundless, suffocating in the infinite unknown of space. And there is not that usual rough calloused hand to pull him back to safety, reassurances of warmth and belonging easing him back to reality. 

His reflection glares back at him, only inches away. The boy in the mirror is a shameful thing, cheeks all blotchy and red, flushed by his rage; eyes glassy and tinged with tears, squinting with a determined will to force them back; his chest is heaving, uncontrollable gasps slipping from his lips. 

He hates it. 

He hates all of it. He hates the perfectly tidy bathroom, too similar to Eden, with its sparse toiletries, carefully unordinary, and pale gray walls, no decorations adorning them. Too similar to what he left behind — what he’s missing so desperately. 

He hates not knowing what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. Before today he had every single second in every single minute carefully and methodically planned out, his whole future set in stone, just waiting for him to arrive. And now he is lost, his plans of a picture-perfect future set aflame, all notions of normalcy or structure crumbling to ash with it. He is a nobody, with nothing to his name.

Useless. He’s fucking useless.

He hates these new emotions swirling up inside of him. He hates being so fucking angry, every breath of air igniting his insides, erasing this perfect persona he has crafted so delicately for himself. He hates this new life, hates this stupid smartass kid who thinks they know better than he does, thinks they’re somehow greater and better because they didn’t get roped up into a corporation like Eden, didn’t fall for the sweet-as-honey lies, the manipulated comforts. He hates living in a van, hates having no home. 

But most of all….

He hates himself. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·

“I was gonna shower, asshole.” 

Wren stares at the closed bathroom door with a scowl. The boy has shut himself in there and it looks like he’s not going to come out anytime soon. Great. Just what they needed. 

They sigh, standing up and flopping back onto the bed with a groan, their body limp. The mattress bounces underneath their weight, creaking in rhythm. The blankets are smooth, though not cozy and gentle like the ones they have back at home, impossibly soft to the touch. But they’ll do, much more comforting than their worn-down sleeping bag rolled up in the van, which is much overdue for a wash. 

They stare up at the ceiling, eyes bleary from exhaustion. It is in this quietness, a sort of rest washing over them for the first time all day without the boy’s tense presence to bother them, that the realization dawns on them that they haven’t really slept properly at all in weeks. At Eden they were on constant alert, left with the choice of camping out in their van half a mile off-grounds or cloaking themself somewhere ambiguous, body forced into a small, impossibly cramped crawl space no one would think to search. And this morning they woke up far too early for their own liking, the boy’s piercing violet gaze disrupting their dreams. 

They groan, turning their head towards the bathroom door. The water isn’t even running. “Hey,” they call out. “You gonna shower? Or can I?” 

They wait and the air is left brimming with tension as silence stretches out, no response coming from the other side of the door. “Hello?” 

The sound of slight shuffling is the only noise they can catch. 

They frown, sliding off the bed and going to stand in front of the door; their eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled taut. “Dude, you good?” They ask, voice louder this time, fist brought down in a light knock. 

An explosion of fury booms from behind the door, ripping the next words from Wren’s tongue. 

“SHUT UP!” The boy screams, unbridled rage cracking his voice. It is deafening, hitting Wren with a truckload of emotion that has evidently been pushed down for far longer than he’s capable of withstanding. It's a violent kind of rage, one that’s dangerous to get caught up in. A stark contrast to the quiet and polite attitude from before — Wren is almost unsure if it came from him. “FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Wren flinches slightly at his outburst, the anger coming unexpected. Their eyes are wide and they are still for a moment, lips parted slightly. Shit. 

With a sigh, they turn away from the door. If he wanted to be left alone, then Wren would leave him alone. That bursting, uncontrollable anger is one they are all too familiar with. It’s no use in trying to comfort him, they’ve never been very good at that anyway. They’re sure their presence is only making his breakdown worse.

They turn and shuffle through their bag, pulling out a pair of large sweatpants and a t-shirt. They carry it to the door before dropping it in front of it wordlessly, and returning to sit on the bed. 

The bathroom is quiet for a second, so quiet that Wren thinks the boy has calmed down. They listen out for any further sound, and it’s at that moment that a large crash cuts through their hotel room. There’s a deafening bang, the sound of smashing glass shattering from behind the closed door. Wren gasps as a series of muffled thumps follow, clattering and clanging alerting them of the destruction reigned upon the bathroom. 

The sound of running water hisses from the tap and Wren grimaces, wiping at their face, their exhaustion settling in. They kick off their shoes, curling up under the covers. This should have been expected. 

They can shower tomorrow. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*─ | “Something to Eat” | ─ *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

The next morning.

Wren slides out of their sleeping bag in the back of the van with a grunt, the hair on one side of their head flattened against their face. They blink the sleep from their tired eyes as their gaze lands on a very awake new companion of theirs. “Did you sleep at all?”

His piercing gaze flicks over to them, and he gives them a quick nod, but it’s very apparent from the weary look in his eyes that he’s lying.

Wren stares at him for a long moment, tracking the lie immediately. “Mhm.” They push the sleeping bag towards the boy. “We need to get on the road again. We’ll stop for gas and food in the next town over.” Wren leaps up and crawls over the console between the two seats and plops down on the driver’s side. “Sleep while I drive. You’ll be useless if you’re tired.”

The boy quickly rolls up the sleeping bag for them and tucks it into the corner, following them to the front. “I’m fine.” He grunts.

With a huff, Wren rolls their eyes and starts the van. “You won’t be soon. If we’re lucky, they won’t come looking for you yet, or ever. But if they do, we’ll be sleeping a lot less,” they explain, pulling out of the parking garage. “So sleep.”

He is quiet at their words. Leaning against the window, the boy stares out at the surroundings with an unmistakably sad sigh. “I’m fine.” He reiterates.

With a hum and an exasperated wave of their hand, Wren turns onto the main road. “Whatever. I’m not slowing down for you when we’re being hunted like animals. And trust me, whether it’s your people or not, we will be.”

No response. He stares straight ahead, gaze level. His hands are clenched tightly where they rest on his thighs, and his posture is stiff. Despite seeming to trust Wren enough to follow them out of Eden, he still doesn’t seem to have relaxed the slightest bit from the night before.

Wren sighs and slumps into their seat as they speed down the freeway. “You’re not going to say anything?” They ask after a long moment of silence. “I got you out of there. You should at least tell me stuff about you so I know who I’m working with.”

The boy’s gaze flicks over to them but he still doesn’t move. “Why should I?” He asks in a monotone voice. “I have no reason to.”

Wren glances away from the road to narrow their eyes at him. “I saved your ass. I say that’s plenty reason. I’m going out on a limb to trust you won’t kill me in my sleep.”

His gaze shifts away again. “Eden said the same thing to me, did they not? They were a whole lot kinder to me, too. That’s no reason for me to trust you.” He says again in the same flat voice.

Wren clicks their tongue and shakes their head, fixing their eyes on the road again. “Fine. Don’t expect to know anything about me either,” they grunt between gritted teeth.

“Don’t care.” He says with a slight shrug, eyes dull, going back to watching out the window.

With a groan, Wren tips their head back, eyes leaving the road for longer than was considered safe. “Okay, whatever asshole,” they grumble with a snarl. “We’re driving for another two hours.”

“Okay.”

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

They have been stuck in this damned van for over an hour already and Wren is suffocating in the presence next to them. He hasn’t so much as uttered a single word since Wren’s last attempt to strike conversation. The silence becomes too much and Wren finally speaks again, saying, “You have any…hobbies?”

It’s silent for a bit, the boy just staring out the window, watching with his back turned to them as they pass through the city. “Why do you ask?”

Wren’s shoulders sag slightly as they let out a sigh. His questions make their brows stitch together. “I don’t know man, I’m just asking.”

“Do you?” 

Wren admits defeat, nodding with a shrug. “Yeah man, I guess.” They glance over at him again, biting at the inside of their cheek. “I like to draw. And I like music.”

He hums, still staring straight ahead.

Wren adjusts their grip on the steering wheel as they wait for their companion’s reply. Nothing but stiff silence fills the air. They click their tongue and pry further, saying, “Were you allowed to listen to music in that place?”

The boy nods slowly, not taking his eyes off the road. “Yes.”

Wren leans forwards in their seat, pressing against the steering wheel. “What kind of music?”

“Whatever I like.”

“And what kind of music do you like?” Wren asks shortly.

“Am I annoying you?” 

They shoot him a sideways glance, letting their body relax as they sigh. “No. You could talk a little more though. You’re so dry. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I like a variety of music.” His gaze is blank – unnerving –  as he stares at them. “Is that a sufficient answer?”

Wren hums, rolling their eyes but accepting the answer. “All right,” they sigh, shrugging. “It’s good enough. I like K-pop.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

Wren’s head snaps towards him as he speaks. “Open the glove box. There’s CDs in there.”

The boy robotically does just as they say, opening the glovebox and carefully rummaging through the CDs.

“Pick one. Then put it in the slot.”

After a moment of hesitation, he selects a random CD and puts it into the disc player.

Wren presses play. “Just listen to it. If you don’t like one you can skip it.”

He nods and starts to listen.

Wren taps their hands against the steering wheel as the song is carried out. Their gaze shifts sideways with an expectant raise of their eyebrow. “So?”

“It’s different from what I’ve heard before,” he says, not sounding quite as terribly dull.

Wren hums. “What does what you usually listen to sound like?”

“I had a lot of old rock CDs at home.” He says. “I usually listen to stuff similar to that.”

Wren raises their eyebrows slightly at the boy’s first seemingly carelessly given response. The corner’s of their lips quirk up slightly. “Hey, that’s cool. Rock is cool.”

He nods in agreement. “It is.”

Wren feels lighter than only moments before. While the boy is still guarded and blank faced, at least he’s willing to speak now. A little anyway. “My dad’s a big fan of old rock. He’s got a ton of records and a big fancy record player. You ever own a record player?”

“Yes. I had one in my dorm.” Briefly, it seems like he wants to say more, but no more words reach Wren’s ears.

“That’s cool,” Wren says, fixing their eyes on him once more as they take the exit. “I’ve never had one myself. But I had a CD player at home. That’s why I've got all of those,” they say, nodding towards the glove box.

Silence.

Wren sighs. They turn down a bumpy road, grunting as the van jerks and grumbles against the asphalt. “Let's get something to eat. I’m hungry. What do you want to eat?”

The boy shrugs. “Whatever you prefer.” He says, glancing down the uneven road.

Wren glances over at him. “What, have you never had fast food before?” they ask with a raised brow.

WIth a blink, he slowly shakes his head no. From the look on his face Wren can tell he doesn’t even know what fast food is.

Wren stares at him for a long moment, silent. Then they sigh and rub a hand down their face. “Jeez.” They take another turn, the road smoothing out. “We’re going to McDonald’s.”

“Okay.”

Wren nods, satisfied, as they turn into a parking lot, shaking their head with a hum. “What food do you normally eat then?”

“The food provided at the cafeteria. It’s carefully selected to give us all our proper nutrients and vitamins.”

Wren scoffs and rolls their eyes. “That’s so boring. Do you even have a favorite food?” They ask as they put the van in park in front of the golden arches of heaven.

“Not particularly,” he says, staring up at the McDonald’s.

With a sigh, Wren thumps their forehead against the steering wheel. “That’s so sad dude. How do you not have a favorite food? Whatever, let’s go.” They turn the van off and climb out, gesturing for their new “friend” to follow. When he follows in suit, Wren leads him through the sliding doors and approaches the counter, jabbing a finger at the menu. “What do you want?”

“What kind of food do they serve?” he asks, looking around, lips parted, eyes sparkling in awe.

Wren deadpans and points at the menu again. “Read it. They’ve got burgers and nuggets and shakes and stuff. And chicken sandwiches. I like the spicy one.”

The boy narrows his eyes at the menu. “I’ll just have whatever you usually order.”

Wren sighs and marches up to the counter, placing their order and dropping a fist full of crumpled dollar bills in front of the cashier. “Let’s go sit,” they say, not waiting for the boy as they find a small table in the corner.

He follows, trailing after them like a lost dog, sitting down at the table across from them.

Slumping into the chair, Wren hums “It’ll be quick. That’s why they call it fast food.” They tip their head back and stretch their arms over their head. “Is there anything you wanna do before we’re being hunted down?”

“I don’t know.” He mumbles. He continues to look around at all the new people sitting around them, his eyes scanning basically everywhere except for Wren. 

Wren raises a brow and sits up, leaning forward against the table. They stick out a finger at him and shrug. “You’re free now. You can do whatever. For a short period of time anyways. There’s never been something you’ve wanted to try?”

He shrugs. “Not really. My duty to Eden is the most important thing for me to focus on, everything else is just a distraction.” He is still in the habit of quoting the mantras Eden has forced into his head.

Wren frowns and narrows their eyes at his words. “Welp, that’s not the case anymore. You can actually do shit now.”

“I’ve always wanted to travel…” he murmurs, quickly glancing to Wren for approval, like he’s scared he might get punished for saying the wrong thing. It makes Wren slightly uneasy.

They quickly brush it off and chuckle, their lips splitting into a faint smile. “Traveling’s cool. We’ll be doing plenty of that now.”

His eyes dart down to Wren’s smile. “Okay.” He says, perking up slightly.

Wren doesn’t miss the way he seems slightly more intrigued by the matter. “I mean, it’s not like we’re going backpacking in Europe but we’ll get to see different places at least.” 

The boy nods, running his fingertips along the edge of the table.

Wren eyes him for a moment longer before their order is called. “I’ll be right back.”  They retrieve their food from the counter and return, dropping the tray on the table. They grab one wrapped burger and hold it out to the boy, pushing a carton of fries towards him. “This is a Big Mac.” 

He takes it with a “thanks” and carefully unwraps it. He inspects his burger for a moment before taking a tentative bite.

Wren doesn’t wait for him to speak again, grabbing their own burger and ripping open the paper, sinking their teeth into the food with a groan. They chew away at their food, plucking fries from their own carton every now and then and cramming them into their mouth. “So?”

He chews silently for a moment before swallowing. “It’s… really good,” he admits.

Wren can’t help the smirk that breaks their features at his answer. “Hell yeah it is. You want another?”

The boy takes another big bite of his burger and nods. Wren takes a bite of their own burger, snorting before heading towards the counter again.

He continues to eat his burger, content washing over him, the last night's events slipping from his mind for a moment.

Wren places an order for another burger before returning to their place in front of the boy, busying themself with their own food once more. They finish their burger just as their second order is called and make their way over and grab it, delivering it to the boy.  For a long while, they stare, studying him as they pluck at their fries. They want to ask more. They want to pry information out of them. But this is the first time since meeting him that he hasn’t seemed completely tense and on edge. Wren remains silent.

Finishing off the last of their fries Wren crumples up their trash, stuffing it in the bag their food came in. “We should get back on the road soon. You want to finish that here or take it with us?” they ask, nodding at the burger he’s clutching.

He swallows his huge bite of food and wipes his mouth. “I’ll eat it in the car,” he says, carefully wrapping his food up again.

Wren almost smiles at the sight, him wrapping his food almost as if it were something precious. They nod and stand, tossing their trash in the nearest bin and nodding towards the door. “Let’s go.”

After tossing all of their trash, he nods and follows them back out the door.

Wren climbs into the van with a sigh, feeling more comfortable with food in their stomach. “All right. We’ll drive for another hour or so and stay in the next city. It’s pretty busy so we shouldn’t have a hard time going unnoticed.”

He nods, buckling his seatbelt and getting comfortable in his seat once more.

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A big thanks to @oros-ash3s for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.W. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

[ID. A boy with red hair and teary violet eyes carrying a massive sphere over his shoulders as he kneels down. His haircut is a mullet, whose tips are black, and he has many tattoos, a few silver piercings and wears a basic tank top and black pants. The sphere displays many bright green stars, including the Taurus constellation, with the star Atlas being highlighted in it. /end ID.]

"Endure"

fanart for @oros-ash3s 's atlas :) || his and @/ohagi-writes' story The Chrysalis is so so so so cool, you can check it out at @chrysalis-thestateofchange !!!

OKAY SO MY THOUGHTS AB IT GOING UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE I WENT BRRRRRRRRRRRRRR MAKING THIS clears throat

first of all atlas is so COOL. There is this one quote on his character intro (lift your knees atlas/the heavens are a burden but in the starlit ink of constellations/you have written/endure) that made something to my brain and. well i had to do this.

searching for a reference of "atlas" the greek myth was quite easy, tbh. pinterest was filled with them. so i just picked one i liked and went to work! in the og composition, actually, the "world"/"sky" he lifts is entirely inside the canvas but i ended up cutting a bit of it out to frame atlas a bit better. it was absolute HELL to figure out his hair but once i did i wouldn't stop staring at ittt. its so pretty. he is so pretty.

speaking of which, i took extra care when drawing his face. ash describes atlas as having the build of a soldier (oops, might have slacked off on that but alas i still like it) which contrasts with his pretty, delicate face. he even has lashes ^^ i also colored his eyes with a glint of both marine blue and magenta, to make the violet color pop out a bit more. that's i trick i picked when drawing my own violet-eyed pretty boy, petrichor, lmao.

finding a reference for atlas zielínski himself was also quite satisfying :) ash has a bunch of super duper incredibly cool art of him so i had a pretty solid base for it. i also went into atlas's pinterest board and took a while taking some inspo for what clothes i was gonna draw him in, although i did end up with this basic thing he has been drawn once in one of ash's drawings (the one with a guitar, if i recall well). having a reference for the tattoos was also VERY helpful im not used to drawing them lmao. And!!! you see his lil necklace. i stole it from the pinterest board to give him some decor :)

i also spent an embarassing amount of time trying to decide a gradient and a color and a level of darkness for this background. i went with green at first, because eden's color seems to be green, to imply how it's eden's influence that weights on him something something but Then i thought it was a bit too colorful so i put an overlay purple over it to correct the colors, and it was looking good until i finished coloring, in when i decided to adjust it, and it only went downhill from there.

i also had fun making his pose!!! i tried a new method for making the anatomy look a little better, and i'm glad of how it turned out. his face was also trying to resist looking cool for a while and i had to lasso tool my way into adjusting it quite a few times lmaoo. i flipped the canvas like almost solely to fix his face on this piece. it was Essential that it looked good.

AND

THE STARS

it was quite a big brain move of me, if i do say so myself. in the myth, atlas holds quite literally the sky, although it's often, like in the rendition i picked as a reference, represented as being the globe of Earth. so i thought, well, why not sprinkle some stars on it? his weight is the sky, after all. and then i remembered that time ash mentioned atlas's favorite constellation was the one that gave him his name, so i decided to google it and try to draw, but then i realized i was recalling it wrong and it wasn't a constellation, but a single star. Atlas belongs to the Taurus constellation in fact, and is also known as tauri-27. it was pretty nice to draw it if im being honest :) i had, of course, to highlight the tauri-27, although it ended up a bit subtle, but i don't mind. i also didn't linger on the color a lot, because the whole background was already green so i just leaned a bit towards jade/cyan/teal to make them pop.

also im pretty proud of how the shadows came out it was really really handy to have a reference!

art taglist || @for-the-love-of-angst @seastarblue

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* | “Atlas’s Final Decision” | *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Tomorrow is Evaluation day. 

Atlas sits stiff on his bed, staring down at his hands. He can’t even count how many times over the years he wished for this day to finally come. It has been the only thing present on his mind for nearly a decade now, this sparkling, shiny dream that hangs over his head every single day. Everything he has trained for, every single ache and hit, every punch and kill, every night spent huddled over thick books, studying until his eyes burned. They were all for this. The hurt in his muscles and the wear in his bones, they were all supposed to amount to this very moment. This is everything he has ever wanted. Everything he has been building and molding his life after. 

So why does he suddenly feel terrified to go through with it?

He should want this. This was supposed to be his big moment - his day of celebration. The ostracization from his peers, the nights spent with Cato, training until he couldn’t stand, the suffering and pain he has endured, it was all for this. The Elites were his victory, his reward. After all of it, they were supposed to make it worth it. He was supposed to be the winner, the one with it all. But right now, he couldn’t feel more lost and confused than he has in his entire life. 

The spy has come here, uplifting the meticulously crafted life he has set in stone for himself. They’ve torn down the vision of perfection he had, dismantled and disrupted everything he thought himself to be. And now here he is, just hours away from achieving his dream, and he couldn’t feel more scared. 

Soldiers aren’t supposed to feel fear. Fear is a useless emotion, one that only prohibits the strong from completing what needs to be done. Fear is meaningless. He shouldn’t be scared. He shouldn’t be feeling anything. This is his duty and that’s all that matters, his own opinion on the subject shouldn’t even be taken into consideration. He shouldn’t be thinking these things. 

But now that he’s started, he’s not sure if—

Atlas’ head snaps up at the sound of a knock. It is abrupt, interrupting the heavy silence that has settled over his room, cutting through it without a care. Unlike Cato’s, which is loud and sharp, three bangs against the metal, or Ira’s, one singular rap. It’s quiet, as if the person is hoping to go undetected by the others along the hall. One that certainly can’t belong to any of the commanding generals. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Who could possibly be looking for him at this hour…? 

Slowly, he stands, pulling his door open in a hesitant motion, peeking out into the hall. He’s not sure why it comes as a surprise to find himself face-to-face with the spy again. Their jaw is set, brows furrowed, gaze level. But Atlas for once cannot find his usual confidence, posture slouched in on itself, if only slightly. His mouth parts when he locks eyes with them, shock seeping into his core. He had been certain they were finished with him.

Without another word, the spy pushes past him, forcing their way in despite Atlas’ standstill position, not caring as they shoulder-check him to the side. While Atlas may have once shot them a warning look, lectured them in a threatening tone about their thoughtless attitude, today he just allows them inside, his fear reducing him to silence. The door shuts with a click behind them, any stragglers left behind in the halls forbidden from seeing inside. 

“Geez, this place is so boring.” The spy huffs, glancing around, evidently unimpressed. Their eyes scan over his belongings, taking in the place that he has called home for over a decade. The walls are gray, plain, with no photographs or decorations to mark them, not even so much as a scuff or a chip in the paint to show that anyone has lived here. His books, which are no more than encyclopedias and history books that Cato begrudgingly agreed to allow him to keep, are tucked away neatly into his miniature bookshelf, pushed up in the corner, the same plain gray as the walls and cement floor. His bed, a small cot, has no more than a few thin sheets, tucked in military-style, and his desk is mostly empty, his few belongings ordered in a tidy row. It is exactly up to code, just as it should be. But in the same sense, it is completely and irrevocably bare. 

Atlas has never even had the thought to decorate. His mission has always taken top priority. 

The spy plops down on his bed, the springs creaking slightly as they hop on it carelessly. They turn to face him again, eyes gleaming silver before, with a startling abruptness, their appearance starts to… change. 

The air around them shimmers and it is within seconds that Atlas is not staring at the plain, blank-faced figure of an Eden soldier, but instead a kid. Choppy dark blue hair which appears to be cut with inexperienced hands, a mismatch of baggy clothes unlike any Atlas has seen before, and silvery eyes that fade to a normal hazel colour. Of course. It makes perfect sense. It had been an illusion all along, a trick for his eyes. He doesn’t know why he expected anything less. 

He stands still, staring at them in silence. He has not even blinked, the whole scene settling a sort of confusion in his already disoriented mind, leaving him unsure on what to do, how to react. He isn’t sure what he’s even supposed to say to them. He isn’t sure why they’ve come to find him. They made it strikingly clear they thought he was just as disgusting as the rest of Eden. What have they returned here for? To rub more salt in his already stinging wound? 

The spy hums, leaning back on their arms and tilting their head. “I’m here for those files.”

Of course. 

Disappointment settles heavy in his chest and he quickly forces it down, bottling away with the rest of his unwanted emotions. He doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting, what he was hoping to hear. Why else would they come back for him? It’s only logical that they would be in search of the files, the last solid evidence needed to build their case. They’re a spy, afterall. He doesn’t know why he thought of them as anything different. They’re just another rebel, nothing else. 

He takes a single step towards them, before hesitating. The thought of giving away those files suddenly fills him with an insurmountable amount of anxiety, freezing him in place. It seems like something impossible, something that will tear away what little sanity he has left. 

He should want to get rid of this, the evidence of his betrayal, his insubordination. These files are a representation of his doubts, his unwanted thoughts. The lies. They’re exactly the thing that could put his position at risk, the thing that could end him up in severe punishment. Spies and their accomplices didn’t get such merciful treatment. He should be lucky that the spy is here to steal them back, to take the burden away from his hands. He should be glad. 

But he isn’t. 

He doesn’t want to let them go. Those files are the only proof he has that this stranger has been here, that any of this had ever been real. The only proof he has that maybe Eden isn’t what it seems. Maybe Eden is more than the clean, shiny front they put up to the public. That maybe, Eden isn’t a place that he still wants to go through with supporting, with being a tool for. 

That maybe, he doesn’t want to be a part of the Elites. 

But he sees no point. He’s going to be an Elite and there’s no changing that. This is what he has worked so hard for, what he wants. Evaluation day is tomorrow and there’s no chance he can abandon it. It’s what he was born to do, and he has to accept that. Whether he likes it or not, he belongs at Eden. His own personal feelings on that matter are secondary, unimportant. This is his duty. 

He’s sure the spy has collected plenty of files without his awareness anyway. If he gives them away, he can pretend he never saw any of it. He can purge these terrible, haunting emotions from his memory. He can just… go back to his life how it used to be. How it’s supposed to be. 

He crosses the room in two quick strides. “Move.” 

The spy furrows their brows but begrudgingly scoots off of the bed, moving to stand by the door again. Atlas carefully lifts up the corner of his mattress, pulling out the worn-down bag where the files have been tucked inside in an organized pile. He sucks in a sharp breath, summoning the rest of his resolve, and turns sharply on his heel. “Here.” He sticks it out towards them.

The spy raises a brow, accepting the bag and slinging it over their shoulder with a small grunt. “I won’t be coming here again. I’m all done spying.” They state, eyes locking onto his, something unknown resting underneath the surface. Atlas doesn’t bother to try and decipher it. 

“Okay.” He responds in a flat tone, unmoving. He would make himself forget about all of this, forget they even existed. Evaluation day is tomorrow, and that’s all he should care about. The things he’s seen, their words that he can’t stop from repeating in his head… it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re leaving and he’s staying, and that’s how it should be. 

This is his duty. This is his duty. 

Atlas is sure they are about to stomp straight out the door, files in tow, never to be seen again, when they suddenly open their mouth, words blurted in his direction sharp and fast. “Do you really want all of that stuff to happen to you? Are you really okay with it?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Atlas replies after a second’s hesitation, an acceptance passing through him. This is how it should be. “Why do you care?” 

The spy sighs and tosses their head back. “Because it’s fucked up, man. Now that I know it’s going to happen to you, it’ll be on my conscience.” They pause, taking in the sight of him again with narrowed eyes before pulling back their shoulders, standing straight. “Come with me.” 

“I can’t.” 

Atlas stares at them with sad eyes, heaviness wearing him down, crumbling his self-righteous exterior. He looks at the bag across their shoulders, thinks about everything they’ve uncovered about what Eden is really doing behind the scenes. Hundreds of children, buried and forgotten. Children just like him. 

But what else would he be, without Eden? Washed up, starving on the streets. Alone. Wasn’t this just… inevitable? “I can’t leave my home, the only family I have. I just can’t.” 

The spy crosses their arms across their chest and frowns. “Is that really what you want? Are you just going to accept how horrible it all is?” They protest, expression pulled tight. “It’ll happen to you too. Unless you come with me. I can get you out of here.” 

Their offer hangs heavy in the air, an escape Atlas had never considered; a doorway to free him from the cards of life he had thought were set in stone. To forget his destiny, his duty. To be… free. 

But he thinks of Ira, and the answer is immediate. “No.” 

Maybe he no longer can trust Cato, trust his superiors. Maybe his life here is built off sugar-coated lies, and the mission he had thought he had sworn himself to was nothing more than a cover for something darker, more sinister. 

But at the thought of Ira, even the notion of considering this offer dissipates. She’s had his back for longer than he can name, always at his side. When he has doubts, it’s Ira who eases them, nudging him and giving him reassurances of his place, of his capabilities. She’s his partner, his very best friend. If he has no one else, he’ll always have her. She doesn’t know what’s headed, doesn’t know about the horrors he’s witnessed. If he leaves, she’ll be alone, forced to be subjected to that. With no one to protect her. 

He can’t leave. She’s counting on him. 

“They’re the only ones who have ever cared about me. That will ever care about me. I’m not going to… give that up. Maybe it’ll be different this time.” He adds half heartedly. 

With a sigh, the spy takes a step closer to him, shaking their head. “It won’t be any different. They’re telling you the same thing they told all of them. You’re in danger and you’re just going to stay here? I don’t get it. If they really cared about you that much, why would they want to do that to you?” 

“They do care about me. They wouldn’t lie to me, not for something like this.” Atlas’ face is set. He won’t back down. He won’t leave everything he has ever known. He… he can’t. 

The spy lets out an exasperated huff. “Is tricking you into becoming an experiment a way of showing that they care? They’re just going to use you. You’re just like all the others, in their eyes.” They take another step forward. “Your evaluation is tomorrow, right? What have people been saying about it? That ‘it’s important’? That this will be ‘good for you’? How can you not realize they’re tricking you? They’re pushing you into a trap.”

Atlas stares at his feet, quiet for a moment. “You don’t know them, not like I do. I…” He swallows heavily, forcing down the emotions spurring up inside his throat. “I can’t leave them.” 

Ira wouldn’t leave him. She’s loyal, good. She takes care of him, stands up for him, fusses over him. She and Cato are more family than he’s ever had. He won’t ever belong anywhere else — the outside world is dangerous, unpredictable. Eden is the only place he’ll ever have a sense of stability. 

He needs this. He needs to stay here, he needs his mission. He needs to fulfill his duty.  

“How do you know they’re not all waiting for you to go along with whatever they say? Don’t you think it’s possible they gained your trust for a reason. They drilled all of these things into your brain for years so that you wouldn’t think to question them or leave. You’re going right along with their-their manipulation!” The spy is growing frustrated, pacing slightly as they run a tense hand through their hair, brows drawn together in a tight line. They’re agitated, desperate. They need to be right almost as much as he does.

Atlas just shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to understand.” 

The spy groans. “No, I don’t understand!” They huff, turning towards him again, throwing their arms around as they speak. “Risking your sanity, your life, for people who have done nothing but lie to you? It doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you want to live? You’ll become a lab rat if you stay here.” 

“I just have to believe they’ll protect me. Like they always have.” Atlas reiterates, his voice growing smaller with each rebuttal. He feels as if he is trapped inside a cage, forced into a position where no answer is the right one. Becoming an Elite is the last thing he wants to do. But does he have a choice? 

Cato’s words repeat in his head. The Elites will make you great, Atlas. They’re just what you need. Perfect potential like yours, it’s too good to waste. You’ll shine along their ranks. With time, you’ll understand. A true warrior like you is just what they’ve been waiting for. 

“Maybe…” He pauses, breath hitching. “Maybe it’ll be for the better. Maybe I’ll at least become something stronger.” 

“That’s stupid! Your life is in danger and you’re just going to trust them?” Their voice rises. “They’re the last people you should trust right now after they’ve done nothing but lie to you!” 

They suck in a sharp breath, their eyes hardening. There is an air of regret around them, their hands tightening into fists. As if they’re about to do something that they wished to avoid. 

“Like your little friend, you think you can trust them?” 

Atlas’ head snaps up, brows furrowing. “What?” 

The spy huffs and swipes a hand through the air with exaggeration, impatience lining their movements. “Buzz cut. You think you can trust them?” 

“What are you talking about?” Atlas snaps, suddenly defensive. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need their riddles and games. He needs them to leave and disappear, needs to go back to his old life; It’s all he has left to cling onto.

The spy grunts, reaching into the pocket of their jacket and pulling out a folded, dark green booklet, so rich in colour it appears to almost be black. “I found this in your mommy’s office.” They spit, thrusting it towards him with a sudden jerk.

Seeing it more clearly, the colour drains from Atlas’ face. This is no booklet. 

It’s a file. 

Atlas’s eyes are wide as he stares, reaching out for it with shaking hands, his movements slow and unsteady. There is a hesitance in him that he can’t ignore, the very action of just reaching for this dark green folder, one that is almost too difficult to complete. 

His fingers close around the hardcover of the file and Atlas is so tense as if a detonating bomb. As if the information hidden inside these pages will be the very thing to do him in. There is a terror thrumming inside his bones and he suddenly very badly wishes to run, to flee from the spy’s watchful gaze and disappear altogether. 

The file is marked by three silver numbers in the very bottommost corner. Three numbers Atlas knows all too well by now. 

792. 

He swallows, his stomach twisting. This isn’t just any ordinary file, isn’t like any of the others that the spy has stolen or uncovered. No, this file is not unlike the rest, because this file is— 

His own. 

He stares down at the cover, unblinking, too afraid to move. He was always aware of the fact that he had a file, had documents and reports dedicated to him. Of course he did. Nearly everyone inside the warehouse, inside Eden, has one. It’s how their system works, how they manage to keep their organization one of balance and careful security. 

But staring at this now, he feels dread spread through his stomach, eating away at his insides. He’s already seen enough, seen the things Eden is capable of. He doesn’t…. He doesn’t know if he can take anything more. He just wants this one thing, this tiny little memory, amongst all the lies, to stay. To be the same, unchanging, like he knew it. Please. 

It is with trembling fingers that he begins to read. 

Inside is a mission report. No — several mission reports. Most are recent, with dates from this month alone; but flipping through the pages, it’s clear that this isn’t the first time these reports have been conducted. These are no doubt going back years, perhaps a decade. The amount of information inside these pages… only someone who had been watching his every move for years would know all this. 

And at the top of every single page is another number. One not unlike his own, one that he would recognize instantly, no matter where he saw it. 

261. Ira’s number. 

Atlas’ expression morphs, betrayal replacing his uncertainty. Their name is plastered along nearly every line in every page. Sentences strung along each of the pale paper, documentations of conversations, private thoughts shared in the darkness of his room, through the quiet of the night. Secrets and whispers of dreams, and they’re typed out without another thought. 

Ira had been assigned to him. 

Pages and pages reporting how he is making progress towards the Elite, his doubts and uncertainties, and the reassurances that he had thought were given to him out of genuine kindness and belief. Spying on his every move, prying anything of use to the higher-ups out of him, trust given so easily. His best friend, his partner through it all. The only one inside the warehouse who didn’t doubt his strength, who truly and honestly supported him. Who believed in him. 

All this time, and he’s been nothing but a…

A fucking assignment. 

She wasn’t his best friend. She didn’t care about him, like she had said. None of them cared. She’d been using him, pulling out all of his hidden thoughts and worries to feed directly to Cato. Checking on him, making sure he was prepared for Evaluation. Asking him with furrowed brows if he was alright, if anything was still weighing heavy on his mind. If he needed to talk, needed someone to listen and lean on. And all of it had just been her stupid fucking lies. 

“Is this who you trust so much?” The spy asks, sending a jolt through him. He clenches the file tightly, fingernails digging into the rough pages. “That’s who you’re staying for?” 

Slowly, he looks back up at them, utter and complete defeat passing through his face. “I…” 

The spy sighs, moving beside him to sit on the bed again. “I’m not enjoying watching you learn everything in your life is a lie, by the way.” They say, staring down at their hands. “But you need to face the truth.”

There is a beat of silence that passes through the room. The spy glances back up at him, brows downturned. “Is it really worth your life to stay here?”

Atlas glances around his room, the same one he’s had for almost ten years now. But even all these years later, it barely looks changed from the day he stepped into it. Not a scratch or tear, everything in perfect order. He thinks about all the nights he and Ira laid in here, staying up late, whispering to each other through the night. He confided in her, trusted her. She’d been the only one he had at the warehouse, the only one he had on his side. 

But with the file in his hands, it’s for the the first time that he realizes….

He has nobody. 

He has no family, no one to support him. No purpose, not when they molded him like this to use and discard — to kill. Does he really want to die for this?

Does he really want to die for Eden? 

“You’ll be safer leaving.” The spy speaks again, their voice almost faraway now, unable to compete with the static cutting through Atlas’ violent, swirling thoughts. “You can even fight against what they’re doing if you decide to. But you can’t stay. You gotta let me get you out of here.” 

“Okay.” 

His answer is abrupt, coming as just as much of a surprise to him as it does to the stranger. He isn’t looking at them, isn’t staring at anything, his eyes burning back to a time in this room when it wasn’t cold and stiff, when it had been filled with hopeful dreams of a new future, of unity and acceptance. He has no place here. Not anymore. And as he steps forward, he wonders, Was there a time where I ever did? 

The file flutters from his grip, tossed haphazardly onto his sheet. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need any of it. What would it be, if not another reminder of his naivety, his failures? Everything he thought himself to be, everything they told him he was, all of it was lies. He truly has nothing to account for. Nothing to make him happy. 

“Okay?” He doesn’t meet the spy’s gaze as they blink, evidently shocked by the sudden agreement. “You’ll come with me?” 

Atlas nods and turns away, hiding his face, keeping silent. He looks around the room, eyes scanning over all his things tucked away, things he’ll never see again if he leaves. He has half the urge to pack a bag — if he’s really leaving, is he going to just abandon years worth of belongings? But his mind drifts back to the files. The evidence. Years worth of lies. A part of him knew, he thinks, that this was how it was going to end. And if Ira and Cato had all orchestrated this as a huge plan to take him as another lab rat, to trap him and abandon him, then is there really any other option than leaving?

He truly doesn’t have anyone he can rely on. It doesn’t matter anymore.

The spy crosses their arms and hums, standing up slowly. “Grab what you need. We’ve gotta be gone tonight.”

Atlas is brisk as he heads towards the door, jaw clenched. He blinks hard, emotions he has tried — and almost succeeded — in erasing all the years suddenly crashing down on him in a tidal wave of chaos, swirling within him and turning his throat dry. He sucks in a sharp breath, clenching his hands. He won’t be upset about this. He won’t cry. He won’t allow any of them the satisfaction. 

He doesn’t ever cry, and he certainly won’t cry now. Ira is nothing. A nobody. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t— 

He doesn’t need her anymore. 

“I don’t need to bring anything.” He whispers, voice impossibly soft. 

The spy tips their head to the side, adjusting the bag strap on their shoulder. “Alright. Let’s get out of here.” They say, stepping beside him, their hand settling on the door. They fix him with their gaze again, hazel eyes searching his face. “We want to be far away from here when they realize you've ditched your evaluation.” 

The two are quiet as they creep through the halls, the spy’s disguise slipping back up with a flicker of silver. The corridors are dead silent, not a single trainee out and about. To everyone else, it is a normal night, the air holding a shimmer of excitement to all those awaiting their final evaluation — the very thing they’ve been preparing so desperately for. 

But to Atlas, these halls couldn’t be more suffocating. 

“There’s a maintenance elevator on the far right side,” the spy whispers to him, gesturing for him to follow. “Easiest way to get out discreetly.” 

Atlas stares down at his feet as they make their way to the elevator, refusing to stare at his surroundings. He’s made his way down these very hallways possibly thousands of times over the years, but right now, he couldn’t feel more out of place. Lost, in a place that he can travel around almost effortlessly. He just wants to purge the memories of his home from his brain completely. He needs to forget. 

The elevator jolts slightly as it starts to move, thick steel doors shutting with a familiar hiss. Their quiet is only broken once, the spy’s voice cutting through the tension. 

“I’m Wren.” 

The elevator fills with silence. 

It is within minutes that Atlas is breathing the familiar cool autumn air, the breeze of the night sending a chill down his back as he follows the spy into the surrounding forest. They are met by low-hanging trees and dying shrubbery, until finally—

“This is mine.” A van, disguised with tree branches and other plant life piled around it, as some sort of pathetic cover. It’s chipped and dented, white paint much-due for a touch up; its condition is fairly weak for a spy so set on eradicating a wealthy, widespread company like Eden, a vehicle that looks as if it belongs to a homeless beggar. But Atlas has no time to dwell on that, standing still as the spy shakes off the greenery and slides open the door. 

They toss in the bag of files, dropping it down next to several other piles of evidence, before slamming the door back shut. “Get in.” 

Atlas feels disconnected from his body as he climbs into the passenger seat of this musty van, trash and other miscellaneous items discarded by his feet. This is no place to live. He’s surprised someone could survive in such filth. 

Unfortunately, the spy has even worse news of their own. “I don’t have a house.” They interrupt, starting the ignition. “I have roll-up mats back there that I use. There’s a parking garage in the next city over with no toll. We’ll go there. It’s two hours, so it’ll be far enough for now, but we’ll move somewhere else in the morning.” 

Atlas turns his back to them, leaning his forehead against the cool glass as the car shudders and comes to life, shakily backing out of its nest. He stares out the grimy window, the last slivers of the warehouse consumed by trees as they speed away in the other direction. 

He has never felt so indescribably empty. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

..─＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆Character Bio⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊ ─..

✩🖇️ Ira Mawar, the Second Choice 🖇️✩

“I’ve never believed in destiny.

No the stars never whispered my name, my future.

I grabbed my own fate with two hungry hands, pulling and pushing and molding my life, leaving smudges and dirty fingerprints all over a once clean soul.

My mistakes belong entirely to me.”

⟢ Misty Gorley, “Destiny”

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚒️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Basics ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⚓️

Name || Ira Mawar

⁀➴༯ Name meaning || Ira is a gender-neutral name with Hebrew origins. Found in the Torah and the Bible, the name translates to “watchful”, referring to one of King David’s Mighty Warriors. The name Mawar is Indonesian, with the meaning of “rose”.

Nicknames || 261, Mawar — her subordinates, Cato

Age || 20 years old

Birthdate || March 1st, 893 (Pisces)

Gender and Pronouns || Unlabelled (they/she)

Sexuality || Lesbian

Ethnicity || Indonesian

Classification || Magicus

Power || Metal Manipulation

Explanation of Power || They can control metals of any kind and bend them to her will. She can also enter a state where her skin is made out of pure titanium.

Occupation || Ira serves Eden Inc., a Magicus-run corporation that focuses on the protection of Magicae and the seclusion of magic from Humans. She works inside the Task Force Branch as a rank 10 soldier, taking orders directly from the head commander Cato. They joined the organization when they were 12 years old.

Role || Secondary character

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚒️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Personality ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⚓️

Ira is driven by her ambition.

She comes from a life of hardship, her preadolescent years being ones of struggle and poverty. With no parents to call her own and her grandfather to take care of, she learned early how important hard work and determination is in the real world — and how even then, it sometimes isn’t enough.

They aren’t a stranger to hunger or the cold, struggling for three long years to even survive without anyone else to care or feed them. They’re independent and strong, they have to be. And living so many years of their life falling behind, doing anything possible to just survive, they’re determined to never experience that again.

Eden Inc. saved them. It’s given them so many opportunities in life they never would’ve had, fed them and clothed them and offered them a home. And for that, they’ll never be out of its dead. They’re deeply loyal to the company, almost to a fault, owing it everything they have. They will do anything to prove their place amongst its ranks, anything to reach the top.

Without Eden, they’d be nowhere. A nobody.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🪨⋅ ☆

Ira is an Eden soldier at Warehouse #004 and couldn’t be more proud of it. She lives in her single dorm and has almost everything she could ever want in life, with her best friend Atlas being perfectly prepared for the Elites, just as she is, all of her assignments running as smoothly as could be. They work directly under Cato, the Head of the Task Force Branch, and only seem to be growing closer to their lifelong goal of becoming an Elite with every passing day. As long as they stay on her good side, there’s no doubt they’ll land a spot and pass their Evaluation, just as planned. Their mission depends on it.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🪨⋅ ☆

Traits || Straight-forward, overachieving, hard-working, loyal, stubborn, driven, determined

Alignment || Lawful neutral

Likes || Atlas, Eden Inc., art, tattooing, record players, music, training, winning fights, carpentry, vintage items, her grandfather

Dislikes || Feeling weak, being alone, disappointing Cato, the cold, failure, scratchy fabrics

Fears || Not being good enough, Cato

Hobbies || Carpentry, fighting, going on missions, completing reports, tattooing, piercing, sketching, glass blowing, whittling, sculpting, painting, boxing, martial arts

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚒️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Appearance ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⚓️

Ira is short of stature, standing at just barely over 5 foot, something that simply has refused to change, no matter how much they willed it to. Despite that, their build is stocky and muscular, one that is evident to the amount of hours they’ve put into training, leaving them as an intimidating foe to face.

Her hair is shortly cropped, a black buzz cut that she cuts herself. No one has seen her with hair much longer than that, perfect for on missions, never getting in her way. Her skin is darkly tanned, with a few brown freckles marking her square face. Piercing, darkly-lined monolid eyes complete her appearance, being a dark gray in colour, with splashes of green inside them.

Many silver piercings bedazzle her skin, most namely on her eyebrows, nose, lip, cheeks, ears and tongue. Quite a few tattoos can be found along her body, mainly on her back and legs. The most distinct one of them all, though, is the symbol of Eden, which has been tattooed onto the back of their left hand.

Height || 5’2”

Aesthetic || Ira, like every other soldier inside Eden, can be seen wearing a dark, navy-green uniform lined by black. On days where she doesn’t have any assignments or missions, she can be found lounging in more casual clothes. She usually wears a very baggy, layered style, and dresses kind of butch.

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

The wasted years, the wasted youth / The pretty lies, the ugly truth / And the day has come where I have died / Only to find I've come alive—

“Teen Idle” by MARINA

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚒️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Extra Tidbits ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⚓️

Ira had recently been picked up off of the streets by Eden before she met Atlas, and quickly rose ranks, despite only being there for a couple months. She had been on the run from CPS due to her only living relative passing away a year prior, and had been struggling deeply due to homelessness. Eden provided warmth, shelter, but most importantly, safety. It was everything she needed.

She was assigned as Atlas’ partner for her very first mission, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. She felt a little weird hanging out with a little kid at first, but seeing how dedicated he was to his role, she was quickly won over.

They are fiercely loyal to the company and Cato, and would do anything to protect their position. The Elites have been their and Atlas’ dream since the two were just kids, and they both plan to go off with each other and become the mighty soldiers they were destined to be.

Though, unlike Atlas, they do have hopes and dreams outside of Eden. Atlas was taken into Eden when he was only five, and has had almost zero contact with the outside world, minus for missions over the years. Ira, on the other hand, grew up fairly normally until their grandfather (their only living relative) passed away. He was a carpenter and owned a second-hand store full of collectibles near the end of his life.

Many of the things he introduced Ira to while she was a kid she still has high interest in, including vintage collectibles, carpentry, art restoration, and record players.

Ira is quite skilled with piercing and tattooing, and did most of Atlas’ and her own all by herself. Both of them are basically covered in tattoos because of this, and you’d never be able to tell that they weren’t professionally done.

They don’t have any memories of their parents, and know pretty much nothing about them.

They’re one of the older ones inside their rank, as Elites are usually accepted before they turn 18. This makes them only more determined to become one.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🪨⋅ ☆

|| CHARACTER SONGS

Hard Sell — The Crane Wives

Not Strong Enough — Boygenius

Recess — Melanie Martinez

Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl — Broken Social Scene

Your Best American Girl — Mitski

|| MOODBOARD

|| MASTERLIST

TAGLIST \\ @ohagiwrites @oros-ash3s @bloodinkandashes @corinneglass18 @icantthinkofablognameatm @vesanal @inky-anathemata @bioniclechronicles @seastarblue @gr3yhellh0und @aalinaaaaaa @shadow-of-tea-and-tea @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @sugaredparchment @lunaeuphternal @ifmasonbasonwasawriter @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @lancedoncrimsonwings @sharkblizzardblogs @nightmaricwriter @scoundrelwithboba @cepheusgalaxy @cacophonyofwords @theink-stainedfolk @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @write-with-will

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ─ | “Conversations” | ─ *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Ira (they/she)

Atlas is perched across from Ira on his bed, carefully applying nail polish to her nails. It’s the first night in a while that he hasn’t snuck out to go follow around the spy, but for once, he doesn’t care, allowing himself to enjoy the moment, even with the horrors he’d discovered this past month still hanging in the back of his mind.

Ira tips her head back with a sigh, leaning back against the wall. “Geez, my back is killing me. Hitting the wall in training did not treat me kindly,” she grumbles.

Atlas’s brows are furrowed in concentration, his fingers gripping the nail polish with a kind of intensity not usually present in regular teenage boys. “Hold still, I’m not done yet.” He huffs. 

Ira straightens and flexes out her fingers once more. “Sorry,” they mutter, holding their hand steady. A beat of silence fills the room, only filled by the soft sound of one of Ira’s favourite records playing in the background. “I heard you missed training the other day. What’s up with that?”

Atlas frowns. “I don’t know.” He mumbles, leaning down so she can’t read his face. “I guess all those rumours and whispers were getting to me. I just went to blow off some steam, and by the time I realized, training was already finished.” He says, the lie coming to him easier than he expected.

Ira frowns and narrows their eyes before shrugging. “I get that. What did you do? To blow off steam?”

“Just went on a walk. I needed to clear my head.” He responds, moving onto their other hand.

Ira hums casually and when he moves to their other hand, they lift it up closer to him. “Right… did Cato talk to you about it?”

Atlas is silent for a second, the memory replaying in his mind, unsettling. What may once have felt comforting now just leaves him nervous, uncertain. “Yes. I shouldn’t have let her down like that.”

Ira tilts her head slightly. “What did she say?” She pries.

“She was just… disappointed.” He says, carefully applying the nail polish, sure not to make eye contact with her, no matter how much Ira attempts to. “She made me do extra training that night, and I swore it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Right.” Ira says quietly, voice trailing off. There is something about the quietness of her voice that alerts Atlas, forcing him to finally look up. There’s that feeling again, poking at his insides. Leaving him feeling hollow, wrong. Talking with Ira, something that was once so easy, so natural, now feels like a chore, excuses and lies slipping out where his true thoughts had once rested.

“Who told you?” Atlas asks suddenly, meeting her gaze. “That I missed training?”

Ira clears her throat and glances away briefly. “Ah, you know. You turn heads. If you suddenly don’t show up to training, people are going to talk.” She says with a shrug. “Don’t worry too much about it though. I’m sure as long as you show Cato you’re back on track, everything will be fine.”

Atlas nods, satisfied with their answer. He’s being paranoid, the files stuffed underneath his mattress wearing heavy on his heart, pushing him from the things that truly matter. He needs to get himself under control. This is Ira. There’s never been anything weird about hanging out with Ira, and he certainly won’t allow that to be a possibility now.

He turns back to their nails. “Right. I just need to work harder.”

Atlas’s response brings a wide smile to Ira’s face and they give him an approving nod.

“Do you think you’re prepared for Evaluation day?” Atlas asks with a smile, gently blowing at Ira’s fresh new nails.

Ira perks up. “Me? Definitely. I even worked to beat your last time.” They boast proudly. Their smile flickers for a moment but not long enough for Atlas to dwell on it.

“I definitely think you’ll get in.” Atlas pulls away, admiring his work. “I mean, we've been preparing since we were kids. You probably could’ve made it in earlier, if you wanted to. I’m sure that the others will be impressed.”

Ira smirks at the praise and nods. “Aw, thanks kiddo,” she says, leaning forward and bonking his forehead with theirs. “So how do they look?” They ask, holding up their nails with a grin.

“Good.” Atlas gives her a small grin back.

Ira nods, satisfied, and Atlas places his hands in front of her expectantly. “Do mine now.”

“What color?” They ask, gesturing to the container of nail polish bottles.

Atlas skims through the colours, selecting a black and a red bottle, similar to his hair. Ira smiles, not surprised by his predictable choice. “Good. All right, how do you want them? Every other?” 

Atlas nods, lifting his hand for her, still as a statue.

Ira hums and unscrews the black nail polish and starts on his thumb. She’s quiet for a beat before saying, “What about you? How do you feel about evaluations?”

“I’m confident. If Cato believes I’m ready, I have no doubt that I’ll make it.” Atlas responds, holding still for Ira. The answer feels almost robotic now, falling from his lips without any true honesty or drive behind his words. “At least I have her on my side, if no one else.”

Ira pauses her painting just briefly, her body going still before she refocuses on applying an even coat to each nail. “And this is what you want right? There’s nothing else on your mind?” She says, looking up at him expectantly as she switches to his right hand.

“Mhm.” Atlas nods. He keeps his face carefully neutral, watching Ira closely as they paint each nail. There is something foreign in their gaze, something he isn’t used to. He almost doesn’t notice it, the sliver of emotion across her face so brief it’s easy to miss.

She doesn’t press further. “Good. It’s important for you to want this. This will be the best thing for you. Nothing else. Though I’m sure you’ve heard enough of that from Cato.” She snorts as she sets the black polish down and begins with the red on the unpainted fingers.

“Yeah,” Atlas murmurs. He thinks about all the files he’s seen in the past few weeks, the death toll that spy showed him. He wonders if this is really what he wants, or if it’s just what he’s been told that he wants.

He wonders what will become of him.

Ira’s eyes narrow and this time, Atlas doesn’t miss the tightness of her mouth before she smiles. “How does the first coat look?”

“Good.” Atlas gives her a smile, continuing to keep still as she paints his nails. Ira smiles, proud of their work so far as they begin to do a second coat.

There is a tension that clings to the two of them as the night continues on, words unspoken hanging in the air. The files directly underneath him feel hot, setting his skin aflame.

He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep ignoring the lies etched into the walls of his home, the blood caked beneath the bricks. He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep up this act.

Masterlist || Previous || Next

TAGLIST \\ @ohagiwrites @oros-ash3s @bloodinkandashes @corinneglass @icantthinkofablognameatm @vesanal @inky-anathemata @bioniclechronicles @seastarblue @gr3yhellh0und @aalinaaaaaa @shadow-of-tea-and-tea @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @sugaredparchment @lunaeuphternal @ifmasonbasonwasawriter @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @lancedoncrimsonwings @sharkblizzardblogs @nightmaricwriter @scoundrelwithboba @cepheusgalaxy @cacophonyofwords @theink-stainedfolk @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @write-with-will @theink-stainedfolk

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A big thanks to @oros-ash3s for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.W. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

..＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Torn” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ＊..

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Atlas doesn't really know what he's doing, sneaking through the halls after lights out. 

He should be back in his dorm, preparing himself for the training and tests he'll have to endure tomorrow morning. They’ve only picked up, growing more intense and strenuous as Evaluation day inches nearer and nearer. It should be his top priority right now, above all else. He knows if Cato heard he was still out — that he was breaking the strict curfew that’s set for everyone inside the base, disobeying so many of their different, vital rules — she’d be deeply disappointed in him. 

“Letting yourself be distracted with such trivial things, Atlas,” she’d say. “Is the first step towards failure.” 

But those recordings have been all he’s been able to think about these past few days. With what he’s witnessed, the horrors that he cannot erase, no matter how hard he attempts to, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget about it. Not until he gets proper answers. 

He knows it’s bad. Knows it’s horribly, terribly wrong. But there’s a part of him, a small, impossibly rotten part of him…. That really wants to see that spy again. 

He can’t keep them out of his thoughts. Their words replay inside his mind at a near constant rate, distracting him from conversations and leaving his head spinning, questions spurring up in a way they never have before. He’s never met someone like them, someone so assertive and brash — so hellbent on reaching their goal. They don’t care about rules or regulations, about following orders. Atlas thought everyone followed orders. But this kid… they don’t seem to work for anybody but themself. He didn’t think that was even an option. There’s something about them, with all their loudmouthed disobedience, that seems too irresistible to forget, drawing him in with every new interaction they have. 

Before them, he thought he knew his place, knew exactly where he belonged. But now, he’s not so sure. With all the things he’s seen, the sickening images he’s discovered….

He’s not even sure he wants to be an Elite anymore.

It’s that thought that lingers on his mind as he creeps down the darkened halls, following the same pathway as that night, so many days prior. And it is just his luck that only feet away, the same spy from before turns the corner, boots clattering together as they briskly stomp down the corridor. 

Atlas picks up his pace, sticking to the shadows as he follows along. Guilt brews in his chest, eating away at his insides. Cato put her trust in him, and he’s breaking it, doing this. Fraternizing with the enemy. But he forces the unwanted emotions down, taking a breath to steady himself. He needs to find out more. He needs to…

He needs to prove them wrong.

The spy waltzes along the hallway, not checking to see if they’re being followed, before finally coming to a stop in the research wing, in front of the steel-panelled room from last time. It is a little fumbling inside their pockets that follows before suddenly they produce a small green card — one unlike any of the others Atlas has seen before. Stolen, no doubt. He doesn’t take his eyes off of them as they slip inside, the doors coming apart with a little hiss. He quickly steps in behind him, all his movements near-silent. Not even the scuff of his boot against the cement can be heard. 

He stands near the back of the room, unmoving, his figure clouded by the shadows, as the spy makes a beeline for the desk in the far corner. They don’t waste any time, hastily ripping apart the drawers and retrieving another singular black hard drive. It doesn’t look like anything special, no different than the one he saw a few days ago. There isn’t even a number code to differentiate it from the others. 

They plop down in the chair, immediately plugging the hard drive into the computer without a second thought. The computer is quick to boot up, dull blue light flashing from the screen, illuminating the plain gray of their surroundings. Unlike the other computer, all the folders inside this one are separated differently, labeled by decades instead. Atlas peers closer as the spy clicks at the mouse, pulling up a file, this one with a more recent date. 

He’s sure that nothing bad will be in this file. Surely someone would have put a stop to these experiments by now. Maybe… the previous videos had been taken a long time ago, from way before Cato had even become head director. From before their leader had come into power. Maybe—

You’re lying to yourself, a voice at the back of his head unhelpfully supplies. You saw the dates. 

He quickly shakes that thought off, eyes narrowing as a large wall of text pops up on screen. He draws closer, beginning to read. 

“Jesus.” The spy mutters, a frown etched upon their lips. 

There is a column, in darker text than the rest, listing the current Elites accepted into the new year. The column beside it is smaller, recording how many were left alive by the end of the year. The most recently recorded was twenty-one at the beginning of the year. 

Six are left at the end. 

“Hey, you,” the clipped voice of the spy cuts through the tension, teeth gritted. “Come look at this.” 

Atlas flinches at the sudden sound, hesitating for a second. Did they know he was here the entire time? He’d been so careful as to not alert them of his presence.

But this was what he had been hoping for all along, wasn’t it? Running into them again, talking to them about the files…

He pauses for a moment, before very reluctantly stepping forwards to lean down next to the stranger, staring at whatever has caught their attention.

They turn to eye him for a second, dark eyes flicking over his face, before they scoot to the side, pushing the mouse towards him. “Look at how few people survive. Every year, the number of Elites that make it out is lower than they started with. And these are just the deaths from experimentation. Not even including field deaths.” 

Atlas stares at the screen, unsure of what to even make of it. “They weren’t properly prepared.” He murmurs weakly, still desperately trying to cling onto the Eden that he knew, before they showed up and ruined everything. 

Being an Elite was what he had always wanted… wasn’t it? Was he really going to let this stranger dissuade him against it? After all he had done to reach his goal? This is why he trained so hard. Being an Elite was never meant to be easy. You were supposed to be the best of the best. So what if there were casualties? It came with the territory. In a war like this, you couldn’t avoid it. That’s why Cato was so hard on him, why Evaluation day had so much importance. So that you were prepared.

The spy arches a skeptical brow and huffs. “Weren’t ready for the experiments performed on them? The torture they were put through? Can you really say this is anyone’s fault but Eden’s?” They narrow their eyes, their words hissed and exasperated. “Look at the dates. The same pattern goes back years and years. They knew what they were doing. They knew what the results would be.”

Atlas falls quiet, for once not with a rebuttal. He stares at the dates on the screen, a sort of hollow emptiness working its way through him, sapping the little fight he had left. Cato wouldn’t have lied to him…

Would she?

“Look, like it or not,” the spy sighs, eyes darting back and forth from the computer screen to Atlas. “This is bad. There’s no excuse for it. It’s evil.”

Atlas doesn’t take his eyes off of the screen, even though he can feel their eyes on him. He rereads the information over and over again, his eyes burning from the intensity of his stare. It is almost as if he reads it hard enough, if he burns the words into his skull, memorizes and dissects them, then maybe something here will make sense. Somewhere within these lines there has to be something that explains why they could be possibly doing this. Why the Eden he’s learned about all his life, the Eden he’s lived in, could do something so… so cruel. So inhumane. There is a desperation thrumming inside him, this need deep in his bones, that he just can’t ignore. He needs this. He needs to be right. 

He needs to belong. 

The spy lets out a long, exasperated puff of air, leaning back lazily in their chair. Their gaze is still focused directly on his face as they speak again, a sort of resignation in their voice. “Is this really something you want to be a part of, now that you know about it? You could come with me, you know? Get the hell away from here.” 

Atlas jerks away from them in an instant, the colour draining from his face at their words. “No.” He gasps, the very notion of abandoning his post one that he will not, under any circumstances, even consider. There’s not a time where it could ever be a possibility. What would that make him, if he just got up and ran from his duties, as soon as things got hard? What kind of soldier did such a thing? “No. I’m not leaving.” 

Only a coward would run. 

The spy lets out a grunt of frustration, their nose scrunching, brows furrowed. “Why not? What’s keeping you now that you know the truth?” 

“How should I trust you?” Atlas steps back, panic rising at their insistence. He isn’t supposed to think these things. He isn’t supposed to question these things. He isn’t even supposed to be out.

“Maybe… maybe you just planted this here. To try and trick soldiers into leaving.” He hisses, his thoughts erratic and nonsensical as he fumbles for excuses, his voice growing hoarse. “Maybe you just— just orchestrated this whole thing. I’ve never heard anything like this in all my time here, and I’ve been inside this warehouse for years. Why are there suddenly all these files and pieces of ‘evidence’ just popping up out of nowhere? It doesn’t seem likely.”

Deep down he knows he sounds illogical, but admitting the truth in front of them would be one hundred times worse.

The spy throws their head back with a groan. “How could I plant this? How could I orchestrate footage like that? Files like this?” They spit back, defiant. “Those scientists work here, they walk this building every day. You’re just now finding out about it because it’s been covered up. I uncovered the truth. I’m an outsider. No one here could have known enough to gossip about it.”

“I’m not…” Atlas furrows his eyebrows, dread settling inside his stomach. When he speaks again his voice is not more than a mere whisper, the exact opposite of the loud and commanding tone it held when he first cornered them. “I’m not leaving my home.” 

“What’s going to happen to you if you stay here?” The spy counters, leaning towards him with squinted eyes. They don’t seem angry anymore, moreso confused. Just as confused as Atlas currently feels right now, his head a jumbled mess. “Can you really call it home if they plan to destroy you?” 

“They won’t…” He murmurs. “They’ll keep me safe.”

“Safe?” The spy scoffs and shakes their head before jabbing a finger at the computer screen. “I bet that’s what they thought too. They probably thought they were safe. They probably thought they were being rewarded.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” He spits. 

Still, he isn’t sure he believes what he’s saying. Not anymore.

“I don’t need to. I can see it. You think you’re special. You think it’ll be different with you, that you’re the one out of hundreds that will actually be rewarded.” The spy laughs, their voice dry. 

“I will be.” 

The spy crosses their arms and raises a defiant brow. “Are you sure?”

The death toll looms in front of him. It seems to be written in pure blood, inked with the regrets of hundreds before him. 

Will that be his name on the list, his pale frame on that silver table? 

Stop it. He chides himself. This is what he wants. This is what he’s always wanted. He’s been hoping for his Evaluation since he was seven years old, anxiously awaiting the day he would shine, victorious, above the rest. It’s why he trains, why he lives. It’s all he’s ever known. It’s what he’s supposed to do. What does one measly little rebel really know, in the grand scheme of things? Is he really going to listen to them, and their idiocy?

“Y-yes.”

The hesitation only seems like a confirmation to the spy. “No you’re not. You’re trying to convince yourself.” They stand with a huff, reaching forward and snatching the hard drive from out of the computer, tucking it away inside their vest. They level their stare, shouldering past Atlas with a harsh shove. “But who am I to stop you.” 

They pause at the door, turning back with one final glare. “But I gave you an out. It’ll be your fault for not taking it. 

The door shuts behind them with a resounding click, leaving Atlas alone with the darkness. He blinks blankly at the empty computer screen before him, not daring to move. 

He feels torn. 

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TAGLIST \\ @ohagiwrites @oros-ash3s @bloodinkandashes @corinneglass @icantthinkofablognameatm @vesanal @inky-anathemata @bioniclechronicles @seastarblue @gr3yhellh0und @aalinaaaaaa @shadow-of-tea-and-tea @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @sugaredparchment @lunaeuphternal @ifmasonbasonwasawriter @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @lancedoncrimsonwings @sharkblizzardblogs @nightmaricwriter @scoundrelwithboba @cepheusgalaxy @cacophonyofwords @theink-stainedfolk @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @write-with-will

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ──| “A Reason” |── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

TW: Contains graphic depictions of gore

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

The halls are quiet as most have retired to their rooms for the night. It’s the perfect chance for Wren to do some digging. The files they found were shocking but they need more. And with the newly stolen, all access key card, they would get just that. Wren had bumped into a researcher completely on ‘accident’ and even helped smooth out her lab coat and kept her from falling. If the researcher's key card disappeared later that day, it certainly had nothing to do with them.

Wren continues down the dormitory corridors at a brisk pace, glancing around every corner to ensure no one is wandering about. Just as they are exiting the housing wing, they peek around the corner and mutter a curse. Him again. Why’s he lurking in the hallway like a creep anyways? He always pops up at the worst time. Wren glances around, searching for any nook or cranny to hide in. Nothing. Just straight, empty hallways as far as the eye could see. Wren inhales. All they can do is run past the hallway that guy was down and hope for the best. With one more peek around the corner, Wren sets into motion, sprinting past the hallway. They curse under their breath as the clunky soldier boots thud against the floor. No way the trainee didn’t hear that.

With a newfound urgency, Wren rushes further down the hall, hearing no footsteps behind them. After they make it a sizable distance, they slow down, panting. Well they got to their destination sooner than they thought. The labs. The general access doors have no lock or key pad, and so, Wren slips right through them. They glance around, peering through windows into darkened offices and research rooms. They need to find a very specific room. The file room. Not the regular file room, though. They need the one that contains the videos… The one that contains medical records and files of the Elites. Wren’s gaze scans down the hallway, landing on a thick metal door at the end. The panel beside it is larger and has a green stripe on it, much like the stripe on their stolen key card. They jog down the hall and stop in front of the door.

There are no windows to peer into. There's no way of knowing if there's anyone in there or not. Wren tries to calm their nerves by telling themself it would be ridiculous for anyone to be here this late at night yet they still find themself holding their breath as they press the key card against the panel. It beeps and glows before the door hisses as it unlocks, and thick metal slides aside to reveal the room. It’s small and plain. Not anything like the general file room, filled with stacks of files and long rows of cabinets. This room has no filing cabinets or boxes, just a single computer on a desk on the far side of the room. Wren slowly approaches the desk. It’s lined with drawers. Carefully, they open one and peer inside. A single hard drive. 

Wren hurriedly grabs the hard drive and pulls out the chair in front of the desk. They sit and immediately turn on the computer, pushing the drive into the back of the monitor. They open the files and see a vast array of folders of information. The very first was labeled “research logs”. Wren clicks on it and their jaw drops at the vast number of videos that are displayed. They click on one and their stomach churns at the contents. A boy, likely just older than Wren sits on an operating table. Tubes upon tubes were running into his face, into his throat, into his stomach. The boy’s face is slack and the microphone is very clearly picking up labored breathing. The camera pans over to a woman in a lab coat. “Day 112 of injection experimentation.” She begins and Wren grits their teeth.

The scientist pokes and prods the subject and when she says, “He’s not thinking a single thing right now,” they click out of the video with a shudder. They click on another and their lip curls up in disgust. They look away for a moment before forcing their gaze back to the screen. Much like the first video, there is a person — a child  — on an operating table. Only this is worse. The child is unconscious as blood pools beneath them. The skin of their arms has been cut through in long, precise lines and the layers of the skin and meat are peeled back to reveal muscle and bone, pulsing and seemingly drained of most of the blood that would naturally be expected. Only it isn’t natural. What lies beneath the skin is entwined with wires and chords and more tubes. The stomach and legs look just as the arms did. Wren covers their mouth with their hand, grimacing and clicking out of the video before the scientist can begin speaking. “What the fuck…”

Wren clicks through video after video, each more horrifying than the last. In some there are “patients” strewn about on tables, others they are sitting curled up in small metal cells with glass windows as scientists point at them and speak about them for their logs. One in particular makes Wren’s blood run cold. It dates back quite a few years. The video’s focus is a girl. A girl much younger than Wren is. She can’t be more than twelve, and yet, there she is, chained to a table as scientists stand around her, pressing knives into her skin, slicing through the layers of her flesh and watching her blood melt the weapons away with a sizzle, the metal mixing with her blood and running down her skin in sickening rivulets. Each time, the girl screams and sobs as the acid in her veins melts metal and stings her skin. Shrill screams tear out of her, and the scientists don’t bat an eye, they just cut and cut and cut, talking about it all so plainly. With a growl, Wren grabs the hard drive and rips it out of the computer.

Wren’s blood boils. They knew it. Those files, underground rumors, everything was true. They have proof. They finally have cold hard proof to show to the world. They grip the hard drive and slip it into their vest pocket before spinning around to leave. They stop immediately however, when they come face to face with the trainee they’d been so careful to avoid.

Wren blinks. Once. Twice. “Jesus…how long have you been standing there?” They suddenly feel stupid for not realizing they had been followed. Suddenly defensive, Wren’s hand subconsciously reaches up to tough their bandaged nose, it stinging at the memory of the last time they were in this guy’s presence. However, now, they’re surprisingly still standing, unharmed. The trainee looks shocked, his face pale and his eyes wide. “You saw all of that then, did you?”

The trainee says nothing. He seems to be struggling to even make a sound. Wren slowly steps forwards, hands lifted to show they won’t do anything. “Do you understand now? Why I wanted to find the truth, why I wanted to uncover it all?”

"It's..." The boy’s voice is barely above a whisper. "It's for a good cause. There must be... more information missing, there has to be a reason why they would do something like that. They wouldn't just..." He swallows, trailing off.

Wren grits their teeth at his words. They really brainwashed the fuck out of this guy. They could only imagine everyone else was like this too. “What reason could they possibly have that justifies that? Nothing makes that okay. If it was that cult doing it, you wouldn’t hesitate to put a stop to it.”

"It's... different,” he says unconvincingly. “Those- those people must have done something evil, or else they wouldn't have gotten hurt. Eden saves people, they take them in, give them homes, a purpose. You... you're seeing it all wrong."

Wren narrows their eyes and sighs. “And how do you know Eden isn’t evil? How do you know what’s true about whatever stories they drill into your heads? They’re using you. Can’t you see that?” They take another step closer, eyes wide as they look up at the trainee. “Don’t you want to stop what they’re doing? Or at least escape it before you’re next?”

"I have to fulfill my duty." His throat bobs as he swallows. "I'll be rewarded for my hard work. They'll protect me. Only evil people like you need to be punished. You'll see."

Wren scoffs. “Your duty? Rewarded? Do you hear yourself? You’re just spewing their nonsense.” They take another step, waving their hands through the air. “What have I done that’s worse than what you just saw? If I am evil, then you are the fucking devil.”

"No I'm not. I'm bringing justice to the world." The trainee’s voice gets quiet as he stares at them. "Someone as stupid as you couldn't possibly see the bigger picture of what we're doing, how we're bringing peace to everyone - Magicae and humans alike."

Wren takes a step back. “You don’t understand. They’re brainwashing you. You think that because they tell you to think that.” 

"I'm not brainwashed." The boy spits back, posture tense, shoulders pulled back, defensive.

They shake their head a few times, sighing heavily. “The thing that they claim is bringing peace to the world is harming your own people. You saw what they were doing. They were experimenting on people like you. Can you think of any way that’s helping bring peace?”

The boy doesn’t answer their question. "I've seen firsthand what good Eden can do. They take in abandoned Magicae and give them a new life, a better life."

Wren scowls and lets out a dry laugh. “A better life? Did that look like a better life?” They turn around and pace down to the computer before walking back with a huff. “Why won’t you believe the truth? Just accept it! Get out of here while you can.”

"Eden is eternal." The boy recites that eerie phrase, his voice still deadly quiet. "There's nothing you can do to stop it."

The stupid mantra makes Wren grunt and narrow their eyes at him. “Whatever. You’re too far gone anyways. Go be one of their puppets,” they bark, marching past him and towards the door.

The trainee does nothing, letting them pass with a blank stare.

Wren reaches the door and turns back with a glare. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you become like them.” With that, they’re gone, disappearing back down the hall.

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A big thanks to @oros-ash3s for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.W. ꩜ .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

....─── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Arc I ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ───….

Training // Recognition // Scores

Caught // Who To Believe // A Reason

Torn // Conversations // Atlas’ Final Decision

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

..─＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆Character Bio⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊ ─..

🛡️˙★ ── Cato, the General ──★ ˙🛡️

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

“If I relaxed my body now, I’d fall apart. I’ve always lived like this, and it’s the only way I know how to go on living. If I relaxed for a second, I’d never find my way back. I’d go to pieces, and the pieces would be blown away.

Why can’t you see that?”

⟢⠀Haruki Murakami, “Norwegian Wood”

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚖️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Basics ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆🗡️

Name || Cato

⁀➴༯ Name meaning || Cato is a gender-neutral name of Latin and Roman origin, meaning “wise”. Finding its beginnings in Ancient Rome, with Marcus Porcius Cato, or “Cato the Elder”, being the first to bear this title. He was a soldier, senator, and historian who remains one of the most influential people in Roman History.

Nicknames || None

Age || 36 years old

Birthdate || November 23, 877 (Sagittarius)

Gender and Pronouns || Cisgender (she/her)

Sexuality || Heterosexual, Aromantic

Ethnicity || Russian

Classification || Human

Occupation || Cato serves Eden Inc., a Magicus-run corporation that focuses on the protection of Magicae and the seclusion of magic from Humans. She works directly under the Leader, acting as one of the seven CEO’s inside the company, assigned to the Task Force Branch. Living inside warehouse #004, she makes sure that soldiers are prepped for battle and everything to do with their military runs smoothly. She was recruited to the organization when she was 24 years old.

Role || Secondary character, mentor

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚖️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Personality ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆🗡️

Cato is very rigid and set in her ways.

Coming from a negligent family where she had to pave her way to success, always seeming to fall short of her goals, she has been since hardened by a life of poverty and hardship. She's cold and brutal, appearing to be apathetic at times, but for good reason. In the past decade she has lost almost everything inside her life that she has loved or cared for, and it’s caused her to hold everyone who comes near at an arms length. She prefers to live her days out alone, rather than risk another loss. Anything to keep herself from getting hurt again.

Her mission to Eden is the only thing that she cares about anymore. She holds its values on a high pedestal, modelling her own life around its beliefs and ideologies. She’ll do anything to help support the company, having risen to the top in record time from her pure dedication alone.

She’s what can be defined as a workaholic, dividing all her time and attention to her job at Eden. Everything else is an afterthought, meaningless and unimportant. She expects all those that work under her to do the same, forgetting about anything that may distract them from their duties to the company.

She is driven and ambitious, ready to do anything if it means reaching her goal. She won’t accept anything less than it. And she certainly won’t allow herself to fail.

୧ ‧₊˚ ⚔️ ⋅ ☆

Cato is the head commander over the Task Force Branch inside Eden. Working at the company for twelve years, she has fought her way to the top, serving as their most revered soldier as of current. She is deadly loyal to their mission, swearing revenge on the company’s sworn enemy, the Congregation of the Chosen. Taking up residence in warehouse #004, with her disciple Atlas at her side, headed on track to become an Elite, she is certain victory is around the corner. With their secret weapon, there's no doubt the Congregation will fall. There has not been a day in the past seventeen years where she has not thought about tearing that church down, brick by brick, soldier by soldier. She’s determined to put a stop to their crimes — by any means necessary. She will succeed.

୧ ‧₊˚ ⚔️ ⋅ ☆

Traits || Strict, intimidating, guarded, serious, dry, determined, harsh, driven, closed-off

Alignment || Lawful evil

Likes || Atlas, kids, Eden Inc., winning, working, sincerity, schedules, fighting, being busy

Dislikes || The Congregation of the Chosen, weakness, incompetency, most of the other leaders (namely Sasha), failure, liars, meetings, most people

Fears || ?

Hobbies || Overseeing training, missions, fighting, working, writing reports, reading paperwork, training new recruits, going to meetings, cooking

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚖️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Appearance ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆🗡️

Cato is quite a petite person, standing at barely average height, with a build that is on the smaller side. Yet despite her short stature, Cato is still a presence not to be contended with. She’s very muscular, to the point that it instantly catches your attention, despite whatever clothes she’s in. She has what can be considered as a swimmers build.

She has dark, wavy brunette hair that can always be found pulled into a tight, firm bun that rests atop her head. Occasionally a few loose strands escape and frame her face. She has very sharp and pointed features, with heart-shaped lips, precisely plucked eyebrows a shade darker than her hair, and pale skin. Her eyes are mismatched, with one being a deep chocolate brown and the other being a silvery, pale blue.

She has a singular tattoo, found on the back of her left hand. It is the symbol of Eden, marked in black ink.

Height || 5’5”

Aesthetic || Cato can be most frequently found in a uniform similar to the rest of the CEOs of Eden, which is a black in colour, with jade accents. She prefers to wear outfits that are fairly tightly-fitted to her figure, most of her closet being made up of black and dark colours.

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

My primary instinct is to protect the child / Girl singing in the wreckage / My dress is torn, my hair is wild / Girl singing in the wreckage

“Girl Singing in the Wreckage” by Black Box Recorder

..✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧..

⚖️⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Extra Tidbits ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆🗡️

Her last name is actually Cato. No one knows what her first name was, and she refuses to speak about it.

Cato is skilled in many different types of combat, but prefers to use a staff as her weapon of choice. This is subsequently why it is also Atlas’ favourite.

When she was 19 years old she and her younger sister were attacked by the Congregation of the Chosen, resulting in Cato losing her eye. She’s sworn revenge ever since.

Her glass eye is personally crafted by some of Eden’s greatest minds, and has special abilities of its own. She can scan information about a person, whether it be their powers, classification, age, name, background, family, ideals, et cetera. It can also see through most magic, such as illusions. This gives her a higher up in battle, despite being human.

She personally trained Atlas herself, something that she doesn’t do often.

She dislikes most of her coworkers and prefers to complete her missions by herself. It annoys her deeply to be assigned with someone that she didn’t request.

Her favourite food is cucumber salad.

୧ ‧₊˚ ⚔️ ⋅ ☆

|| CHARACTER SONGS

Mother Knows Best — Donna Murphy

Girl With One Eye — Florence + The Machine

|| MOODBOARD

|| MASTERLIST

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[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ─ | “Who To Believe” | ─ *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Cato (she/her)

Atlas isn’t sure he believes his eyes. 

Sitting criss-crossed on his bed, crouched over a crisp file the precise shade of seaweed, he doesn’t think he’s ever read something quite so outrageous. Eden Inc. is a company built for the protection of Magicae and humankind alike, working in silent secrecy as they rescue forgotten children off the streets, providing them shelter, food, and clothes on their backs. A place to call home. The evidence in these reports is the clear opposite of that. 

The sentences inside these files are too gruesome for Atlas to even name, descriptions and illustrations of a series of reports so vile Atlas is sure that he can’t possibly be reading the right thing. This couldn’t have come from inside the drawers of one of Eden’s own filing cabinets, from inside the warehouse he has grown up and lived in his entire life. Eden has offered him nothing but warmth and love, with open acceptance and plentiful gifts. He would be nowhere, nothing, if it weren’t for Eden’s generosity. 

Yet through the dark green lettering along these pages, Atlas finds himself face-to-face with an organization a clear opposite of that; an organization built on the blood of the poor, the labour of the vulnerable. These missions have no rhyme or reason, no explanation to the horrors and atrocities committed. They don’t follow Eden’s strict rule code, their straight-lined regulations of order, justice, and structure. No, all of these reports, these missions, they’re only after one thing: Complete and total power. 

This can’t be right. 

Surely there’s another explanation for this, a reason behind it. How many times has he sat through lectures, heard stories from real-life survivors of the brutality committed against vulnerable Magicae, seen how Eden saved them? They give people purpose, give people a life. He’s witnessed it himself, his own life a clear example of all the good that the company brings to a nation so divided and at war with each other. He’s been on missions since he was only a child, and he’s never taken part in anything bad — Eden protects innocents and silences terrorists hellbent on destroying peaceful society as they know it. This is how it has always been. 

Perhaps that spy planted these here, just for him to find. They’ve been so obvious about who they are, how they don’t belong. Surely they had been trying to get him to follow. Distract him, plant seeds of doubt… just as all evil rebels would do. 

Or maybe this is a test. A part of his training for Evaluation day all along, set up by Cato herself. Having a soldier serve as a distraction, to see if he was truly suited for the Elites. Even giving them the time of day to just consider their lies would be unacceptable, no doubt. He’s always been good at assessments. So a surprise one, something that none of the trainees have knowledge of; questioning their loyalties, their dedication… That would be the true test. The one to weed out the weak from the strong, the faithless from the devoted. 

Of course. That has to be it. 

This was all a test, and he’s already on the path of failure, allowing the spy to go loose. Next thing tomorrow, he must go down and report them to Cato. He’ll be rewarded highly, granted a sure spot along the Elites. Everything he has ever dreamed for. 

It’ll be perfect. 

Yet staring at the evidence in these files, Atlas can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at straws, trying to find reason in these monstrosities. Would Cato really set all this up to see if it would dissuade him from his mission? Would he really be wrong for feeling wary of it, after all of this, after the torture he has witnessed, displayed between these lines. 

Does he really believe that it’s all made up? 

Staring at the satchel placed haphazardly across from him, he can’t fight the feeling probing inside of him that this is all wrong. That perhaps that spy may have been telling him the—

An abrupt rap against his door cuts him off from finishing that thought. He flinches, hands scrambling at lightning speed to shove everything back into the bag, swiftly stowing it under his mattress. What was he thinking, bringing these files back into his room? What will become of him, if someone finds them here? They’re classified information — he’s breaking so many rules by just daring to peek inside of them. He’s going to be in so much trouble. 

Atlas sucks in a sharp breath, patting down his sheets and trying to hide the tremble in his hands at just the thought of someone finding out what he’s done, what he’s been doing in here. He straightens up, face a perfect mask of neutrality, and crosses the room over to the door, praying the sound of his heart thumping from inside his chest isn’t as obvious to his visitor as it is in his head. 

He finds himself staring straight at Cato. Her lips are drawn into a firm line as she glares, the tenseness in her expression instantly notifying Atlas of the fact that she is absolutely pissed, her mismatched eyes stormy. He has to hold back the urge to shiver, the sight of her glass eye staring through him enough to send fear spiking straight through his spine. He has always felt like that eye has a magic of its own, being able to just pull the thoughts from his head with a terrifying ease. 

Cato’s eyes narrow and Atlas instantly moves in response, opening the door wider and stepping back to make room. She is brisk as she walks into the room, the clack of her heels the only sound to be heard through the chill of the atmosphere. Her hands are folded behind her back as she surveys his dorm, eyes sweeping across his belongings. She focuses on his bed for half a millisecond too long and Atlas holds his breath, dread filling up his already-queasy stomach. 

Oh fuck, she knows. 

He is just about to bow and beg for her forgiveness when Cato’s voice cuts through his spiralling thoughts, her tone clipped and harsh. “You missed training.” She states, head turning an inch as she eyes him again, gaze cold and piercing. “Do you have a good excuse?” 

Atlas feels relief flood through him at her question, though the comfort is only momentary. His face pales as it suddenly dawns on him that he has allowed himself to be so carried away by this spy business that the thought of training or any of his other daily activities completely slipped his mind. 

He’s never missed training. Never misses training. He’s never tardy or behind, perfectly on time and perfectly prepared for each one of his sessions. How could he ever forget? 

His tongue seems to be stuck in place for a moment too long, before Atlas finally manages to find his voice. “I, um, I forgot.” He mumbles, his cheeks burning red in shame. “I’m sorry, there’s no excuse.” 

Cato straightens her back a bit to stand taller, crossing her arms over her chest as she arches a brow in his direction. Her frown only seems to deepen at his words, eyes dark and unreadable. “Atlas, this kind of thing is already not acceptable — but just before your evaluation?” She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, letting out a heavy sigh. “Are you really trying your hardest here?” 

Atlas stares down at his feet, avoiding Cato’s gaze. Guilt bubbles up inside his gut, slowly eating away at his insides. How could he be so careless? So… worthless. What will happen to his position now, that he’s gone and broken one of the simplest rules Cato has ever set for him? 

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, voice near-silent. 

Cato tips her chin up, brows drawn into a tight line. “Sorry does not make up for the loss of time. You are going to put in extra training hours tonight to make up for it.” She instructs, voice firm and unwavering. “This will not happen again.” 

Atlas silently nods, still not meeting her gaze. He can’t believe he let himself become so carried away with that stranger. What was wrong with him? 

He was never usually like this, so preoccupied by other things. How could he ever allow himself to concern himself with anything other than his mission? Nothing else was important, nothing else mattered. All he lived for was his mission. Why did he let it occupy his thoughts for a mere second?

Now he’d disappointed Cato. 

There is a beat of silence between them, Cato’s eyes searching his face. Atlas half-expects her to criticize him, to critique his appearance or lecture him on the importance of timing — and his contributions to Eden. He’s heard the lecture a million times over. How vital he is to the company, how he isn’t like everyone else. Slacking off will just squander his high potential. 

But instead, she places a singular finger underneath his chin, slowly tipping his head up to be level with hers. It’s only now that he meets her gaze. Her eyes are still dark and gloomy, unforgiving; yet, beneath them, another emotion lingers. Something Atlas is sure is akin to… worry. 

“Is there something on your mind?” She asks, voice deadly quiet. Her hand cradles his cheek, soft against his skin — tender, almost. The slight rub of the thumb against his jaw is enough to make him shiver.

Atlas fears he’ll break right then and there, that all of his fears, the storm of questions currently brewing in his mind, will come spilling right out. Cato is never so affectionate with him. 

You’re being trained for the Elites too aren’t you? They’ll do the same thing to you.

The thought of that spy, teeth bared, eyes bright with defiance, is what stops him. He doesn’t know what they’re here for, how they even managed to sneak their way in. But someone against both Eden and the Congregation of the Chosen is an anomaly that he didn’t know existed. He needs to find out more. Needs to find out what they know.

The next words out of his mouth are a surprise to both he and Cato: 

“I just lost track of time.”

Cato exhales, the moment broken within an instant. Her touch is gone as soon as it came, expression closed off in mere seconds.

“Training. Tonight.” She says, sharply turning on her heel and marching back towards the door. “Don’t lose track of time.”

Atlas closes the door behind her, allowing it to shut with an almost silent click. He waits until he’s positive she has made her way back down the hall before he returns to his bed, slowly pulling the files back out. His head buzzes with a million questions, all of them a complete betrayal to the mission he has sought so hard after. 

He hates himself for getting distracted by the stranger, for letting them pull him away from training. But on the other hand, the stuff he’s seen inside these files…. It’s disgusting. 

He’s not sure what he believes anymore. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

....── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Eden Inc. ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ──….

|| The Warehouse

𝜗𝜚 Atlas Zieliński

𝜗𝜚 Wren Chua

𝜗𝜚 Cato

𝜗𝜚 Ira Mawar

|| The Leaders

[Coming soon]

|| The Elites

[Coming soon]