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sonnenreich · 6 months ago

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Every person reacted differently to situations and sudden challenges, based on their experiences, lessons and the wisdom that have lasted for generations. Humanity was inquisitive, always striving for more, rarely stagnating. Not everyone demanded the complexity of quantum physics or the never-ending flow of knowledge about microorganisms, but at its core it seemed that the brain was a counterpoint to the rest of the world; ready to absorb it, to increase it, to build life around it. Humanity was a very young life form compared to the universe, still an infant. While they were learning to walk, stars had already burned out, always in the watchful gaze of the sun and the planets. They were naive, made mistakes, sometimes more often than they should have, were hostage to their own greed and fears. Fortune was said to be with the foolish, and yet there was boundless bliss in having dreams and desires in the limited span of their lives and testing the borders of fulfillment to see if they would ever achieve them. These possibilities had been curtailed within one unfortunate day, restricting freedom and motivation. Suddenly, countless people realized that their missed opportunities would never be within reach again.

The blonde's eyes darted around as if he'd seen the dormitories for the first time as well. Occupied by observing the different geometric shapes of the interior design, the hexagonal patterns of the floor and how the light broke on the even, glossy surfaces. He was still paying attention to his visitor, just not by looking at him—at least not when Zeev did—, which was odd. The witcher was used to unwavering attention, especially in regards to his outer appearance. Sometimes it felt like his mere presence left a sense of familiarity in others, as if—even without knowing what he actually was—they felt it regardless, whatever that entailed. But leaving another human being nervous or uncomfortable was a new experience, to which he catered by keeping his eyes on him. At least that was what Zeev assumed he felt and soon after he showed enough mercy to glance down at the meal that he had been offered without asking for it.

The blonde man, the name Isaiah resonated in him like a singing bowl, was just a bit taller than he was, but given his posture and his hidden frame within the loose shirt and his unfitting trousers (one couldn't be too picky in regards of the attire), he seemed smaller than he actually was, reinforced by the way his shoulders slumped. Considering the dark circles underneath his eyes, he hadn't rested much, which wasn't surprising at all. A comfortable sleep while being out here wasn't really coming easy.

Carefully, Zeev started to eat, the warmth of the food helping to feel at ease. After half the plate, he offered the remnants to the other, who shook his head no.

“I'm full,” Zeev insisted, a white lie. “Let’s not waste it.” He mustered up a smile, realising Isaiah was no threat as of right now. Although it did leave him confused as to why the guy was out here and believing he was going to get saved. Considering MeriTech, they wouldn’t waste precious man-power to retrieve a common Technician, although—if the guy truly had managed to get this outpost to run all by himself—he seemed to be a pretty good one, impressive even.

Zeev eyed him some more later on, seated on the thin mattress that wasn't truly aiding a good sleep. Something about the other felt oddly familiar, even though his face wasn't ringing any bells. Zeev had met quite a lot of people, despite the vastness of the current state of the land. But most had been either MT's scientists or soldiers, even some officers and leading center managers. Just once he met the CEO following the name Viktor Zamádis, a tall brunette with wakeful hetero-chromantic eyes—blue and brown—, the smile on his lips all but inviting. He hadn’t said anything to him ever, just mustered him like a prized possession, a useful trinket. A stark contrast to the people starving and surviving on the last bits of hope left, crammed in bunkers and waiting for aid kits to get them through another lonely day, while he most likely lived like a king as if the world never had changed. Feasting on the misery.

Zeev remembered them all, even the quiet and passive ones. Isaiah, however, felt different. Like a memory he couldn’t grasp. When he spoke, it felt like a Deja Vu, a dream that slipped away after a deep slumber, ingrained in the REM-Phase he had drifted out of. Despite his stuttering and search for words, they seemed eerily clear in his mind. He had heard once, that not all people were thinking in clear sentences, that not everyone heard their own voice, even when speaking to oneself seemed to be the only conversation one might have. Somehow, and strangely enough, it seemed to Zeev that Isaiah resembled the voice his mind was utilizing. Constant loneliness apparently left him hallucinating.

Zeev, forehead still drawn in confused lines, turned to his backpack, rummaged around and sighed the second he didn’t find what he was looking for. At some point he turned the rucksack and shook the contents all over the linoleum ground. Most he possessed hadn’t been his in the first place. An old book about human history, weathered with a broken spine, a notebook with loose pages, some pencils, a few spare clothes, food bags, soda cans and chocolate bars he had never touched—a last resort, so to say. He grabbed three of five and offered them to the other with an open palm.

“Here,” he said. “It’s not much, but it’s the only sign of gratitude I can come up with as of right now.”

At first it seemed Isaiah was about to decline the offer again, but after a round of hesitation, he gave in. Even if only of politeness, the result was all that mattered to the Witcher.

“How did you end up out here?” he wondered, opening up a little, relaxing in the presence of the stranger who had been nothing but welcoming so far. Zeev listened to every word, his explanations falling into a steady rhythm. Perhaps he got more comfortable within the sonority of his own voice and the presence of him alike. Whichever it was, it was nice. It had been before already, if he were completely honest. Listening to someone else—even if the voice seemed to be the same as the soft and soothing windchime of his mind, dangling in the sun, nestled between the branches of lively woods—was a great change after weeks of wandering alone. Absent-mindedly, his lips curled into a smile, although the reasons for his unintended stay were not some to enjoy in the slightest.

“I'm sorry that happened to you,” he mumbled, sitting back on the mattress, shuffling to lean against the wall with his legs drawn in, running his hands over his knees, moving his fingers in between the wrinkles the fabric threw around the joint; calming himself by touch.

A wave of guilt hit him. Isaiah might as well have been one of the people he had doomed for his escape. He hadn't known any of those soldiers and scientists who had accompanied him, not that they had tried to change that either—probably not even allowed to. Humans were prone to fall victim to emotional bonds. A beautiful trait, but inevitably a reason for disobedience as well. What would have happened, if he had had an ally? Someone who had cared enough about him to help? Would they have supported his escape—or would they have broken his heart by betrayal?

When Isaiah asked him to leave him at least a bit of a chance to survive the next days, Zeev felt guilty for a theft he hadn't committed and even though he had learned to do what was necessary to get through the next harsh weeks, he couldn't even bring himself to consider robbing the other of anything—not anymore at least. Usually, when stumbling upon resources that may or may not be abandoned, the other person wouldn't even have known of his existence. Now, however, he couldn’t hide behind anonymity. What if they, against all odds, met again at some point, and all Isaiah would remember were the mistreatment of his? Zeev wasn’t one who wanted to be remembered by that.

“I can't get you back,” Zeev denied at some point, aware of the disappointment of the Technician that tried his hardest to not let it show, either afraid of the weakness it might display or, which was a more confusing assumption, not willing to make him feel bad for his decision. Zeev wondered if he knew how people were treated at MeriTech. No, not people, how tools like him were treated. He knew that he was a witch, a confession and revelation that worried him beyond measure but somehow his promise felt believable. At least to a certain extent. It wasn't unlikely that Zeev just wanted to believe him. That he wanted to hold onto the goodness of another person, even if they were part of the gearwheel of an organisation bigger than the remaining population. “But I do… could use some company out there.”

A soft smile graced his lips as he spoke the truth. Although he was more aware of the dangers of the outside world than anyone else, he could not deny how much he was buoyed by the thought of not being alone, at least for a time. For now, Zeev found it difficult to gauge whether Isaiah's intentions towards him were pure; whether he wouldn't hand him over to MeriTech at the next opportunity for his own benefit—even if it was just for a warm bed or basic supplies. Who knew if he was really telling the truth and not like the Mercenaries and Outlaws who had fallen from grace and were sent into exile where they lived a subsistence existence. They faced a system that had no room for mercy and charity, not if they wanted to live to see the next day. Zeev was unwilling to accuse him of having a vile intention. Built on his desire for companionship and the despair of loneliness, but also blossoming in his stubbornness to believe in the good in people. He quietly made the decision to leave at the slightest sign of treason. His urge for self-preservation was stronger than his melancholy in view of the deserted conditions. Come what may, he would not return to the Meridian Corporation, not even for pretty blue eyes like his.

At some point, he switched the position again, hobbling almost as he tried to move closer to the other, exerting his hand towards him.

“May I see your hand?”

It came to no surprise that he was eyed in confusion, funnily enough a common way of the other to look at him whenever he dared to do so. Most of the time, Zeev wasn't really sure what Isaiah was questioning him wordlessly for.

“You hurt yourself back there… I just want to see you're alright.” Carefully, he took his hand in his, his touch featherlight and almost unnoticeable if it weren't for the strange shiver Zeev felt, running down his back like shower droplets. With a tilted head, he examined the back of his hand—slim fingers, but a broader palm than his, quite dry too, as Zeev unintentionally noticed. Still, his attention was drawn towards the faint red and scarred mark, almost perfectly centered. A huff of relief escaped him, letting his hand fall after a hint of hesitation. When was the last time he had touched another human being?

“It didn't spread, that's good…”

The witcher couldn't deny the slight awkwardness in their behaviour with each other; the short conversations, tainted by distrust and social withdrawal, the uncertainty whether or not it was a good idea to open up to the other. Zeev rarely had problems doing so, but he was used to meeting survivors and leaving them the next day. If Isaiah would tag along, all he would say sooner or later would turn into an attachment, positively or negatively just a hair's breadth apart.

“What makes you think they are looking for you? You said you couldn't send a signal. People die all the time, they won't have troops looking for you based on a hunch.”

His own words rang in his mind. “I’m sorry, that sounded… mean. I’m certain you’re valuable to them. It’s quite impressive what you’re capable of. I know nothing about this technology, but I can imagine it wasn’t easy to get this place up and running, I just think… unless you make them aware of you, they won’t come.” Tentatively, he lowered his gaze and crossed his legs beneath him, brushing his fingertips along his jaw as if realising his own structure again. Out there, he rarely dared to even begin to touch his face, an urge he was often in danger of succumbing to. In the safety of the Distribution Centre, however, nothing stopped him and it had a resounding effect. He hoped that there were shaving utensils somewhere, otherwise the sprouting beard would drive him mad sooner or later. It was already far too long.

“I'm not trying to convince you of anything, just voicing my thoughts. As I see it, there is the possibility of you dying out there, but here… you will die without a doubt.” He sighed loudly, falling onto his back and stretching his long legs in the process, staring at the sterile ceiling, illuminated by white, cold lighting, radiating evenly from elongated lamps that held memories he would like to erase.

“26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33,” his own voice sounded detached, echoing off the wall as if rolling out of the speaker the scientist's voice usually emanated from. His back hurt from laying, his heartbeat annoyed him, as did his own breathing. Every sound he made scratched a nerve. Yet, nothing maddened him more than the constant waiting for someone else to decide his next course of action. He felt like draped on a liveless shelf, stripped of personality. Not even dust. All felt too clean. All felt too artificial. Zeev figured, as he lay there day after day for MeriTech to decide over his fate, that he didn't feel real either. He was just bored. “34. 35. 36. 37. 38…”

“I-”, he sighed, rubbing the back of his head, glancing down at the fabric of Isaiah’s trousers, roughened up after time, just like his own. At some point, he was distracted by the way the hands of the other moved, how he kneaded his fingers, twisting his joints in hope of a relieving crack. Zeev was met with an urge to touch him again, something about the fleeting contact from before resonating deeply in him. The Witcher knew he had a weird obsession with touch, most likely upheld by the rarity of sharing those with anyone. Somehow he thought touch was just another way of communicating when words were hard to grasp, when everything else died on the lips before forming. He touched the earth when given the chance; nature unable to speak in any other way, just as much a victim of current circumstances as they were, but far better in adapting than humankind. There was a slight chance that they’d teach him their ways if he just listened closely enough, if he just opened up enough to get a glimpse at the wisdom they possessed.

He felt Isaiah held knowledge that he wasn’t able to convey and therefore Zeev felt drawn to his hands. Skillful enough to do his bidding, to keep a system running that had been lost, to scribble or write down notes his mind couldn’t keep track of, memories woven in the lines of his palm and back of his hand. The mark of the acid rain just another part of his story. Why did he promise to keep him a secret, even though he worked for MeriTech? What experiences had he made? The only reason Zeev could come up with as to why he rather wanted to return than to venture out into the unknown, was that there was nothing waiting for him except the prospect of death. But how would he know if he didn’t take a look? How would he know that MeriTech truly was the only solution, just because they said so? The world had changed. Who knew what laid behind the treetops and hills. Where was his hope for something greater?

“There are more centers like these,” he kept on, stating the obvious. Aware of how desperate he must sound and that he, in fact, in some way tried to convince him anyway. He wouldn’t if he weren’t sure that Isaiah was just as lost as he was. “Maybe some have a working communication panel. I could keep you-…”

He clenched his jaw for a moment, pressing his thumb into the scar tissue of his palm. “I could keep us on a somewhat safe trail.”

Compared to the outside world, regardless of the dangers and weather conditions, the bunker seemed barren and cold. What had once been a refuge for survivors who had since died, moved on or found shelter at larger reception centres, now looked like a mausoleum of days gone by in its size and desolation. How quickly technology had developed, based on past experiences and knowledge. Even Zeev, who had only come into contact with said technology to the extent that he had been exposed to it, thought he could recognise the differences in the design. Old, long outdated standards. Something he had to give MeriTech credit for, no matter how much he despised them for the way they had treated him. Their intentions might be double-edged, but they were indeed the ones most likely to solve the mystery of the Blackout. They were working tirelessly and expanding widely, offering protection to the people and keeping them alive. Many found a hope in them that they could not have outside. But does this excuse their countless transgressions? The way in which they drove humanity into dependency and exploited it? Zeev was at loss for answers, not in position to find them either.

As the day progressed, the blonde found himself strolling aimlessly through the facility. Halfheartedly searching for anything useful but figuring anything of value had either been used by Isaiah or wasn’t particularly beneficial for his cause. The centre even was too outdated for his oxygen canister to be refilled, apparently too new of a survival asset. Every now and then he retreated to the room the other had offered him, not feeling particularly comfortable scavenging with him around but relaxed enough to do anything else he pleased. He felt more secure having somewhat of an eye on the other, as if it would prevent him from breaking his promise. Considering his lack of knowledge, he might as well have lied and already called MeriTech; the claim of a broken communication system just a way to lull him into a false sense of security.

Upon investigation of his quarter, he got into possession of a used pack of chalk. The pastel coloured canes were partly broken or already overused till there wasn’t much left than a nail's length. Zeev assumed they had belonged to a child once, perhaps one that had found refuge at a much safer place. He didn’t dare to imagine anything else. He found a children's book alongside, weathered and cracked, some pages missing or intentionally ripped out for another purpose. The witcher sat down on the mattress again, the cushion worn out and far from comfortable. He had dimmed the light at the panel close to the automatic door, leaving him in a less straining surrounding, the white unable to reflect. Tenderly, he flipped through the pages. There wasn’t much written, mostly adorned with pictures of woods and children playing at a lake. It was a story about companionship and helpfulness, about sticking together and taking responsibility for their actions that led to a minor injury of another. But instead of accusations, they apologised to one another.

Truly, Zeev had been alone for way too long, he couldn’t prevent the silent tear languidly following the edge of his cheekbone, beading at his chin, clinging to the stubbles and incapable of falling. Stories didn’t need much to evoke emotions, lessons even. Somewhere, he hoped, there was a child having learned what compassion truly meant and despite all odds, remained as helpful and loving as these kids. Reminiscently, his fingertips brushed over the drawings of the trees, coming alive in his blurred vision. Coming to a halt as he looked at the blonde girl, her teeth chipped and her smile bright. For a moment, he was sure to smell the dampness of the woods, felt the morning dew of leaves and heard the chirping of birds going on about their busy days. Unsure of how long he had just sat there, thinking about glimpses of a past he couldn’t quite grasp, but knew was somewhere ingrained in his memory, he left the book open but resting on the mattress. His eyes wandered through the barren room, MeriTech’s footprint all over. Within the design, the edges, the clean surfaces, the sterile furniture. The only hint of personality within notches of usage over time. Nothing spoke of being alive, only clinic survival.

His hand brushed over the wall behind him, rough enough for his plans. He grabbed the chalk, a speck of colour within these walls, and started to draw. The witcher couldn’t remember if he had ever done such a thing, but he had observed his surroundings enough to at least force a resemblance.

Pine trees grew out of the edge of mossy and green hills, lacking depth in colour, but not significance. The chalk abrasion sprinkled the black material of the bed, as well as his pants and sleeves, tickling his nose when he huffed in frustration when a tree didn’t turn out as he had wanted it to. Perfectly imperfect in shape. At some point he stood on the mattress, expanding luscious white clouds towards the edge and beyond. His arms and hands turned numb as he raised them above his head to plaster a sun on the ceiling, a childlike depiction with several clear lines indicating yellow rays. Somewhere at the far off corner he drew a hill and a blue—there was no grey—building. The mouth of a whale. A slumped shape with yellow hair sat at the edge, assumingly looking at the forest in front of him. And the shape of a girl with long blonde hair, waving out between the tree trunks.

Exhausted and tired, Zeev sat down on the mattress again, looking at his work, disliking the imperfection, but enjoying the sentiment. Suddenly, the room didn’t feel empty anymore. Didn’t feel unreal. Something palpate had taken form, like a map of his mind. He stirred when the door suddenly opened, the hissing sound of the airlocks startling him enough to make his heart quickening in his chest. For a moment he had forgotten that he was in fact not alone. A smile graced his lips when he saw the other, who had stopped in his tracks and stared at the room.

Zeev cleared his throat, overtaken by insecurity he hadn’t felt before. A vulnerability he hadn’t shown anyone ever. No one would have cared anyway. For some reason, he felt the need to justify his creative outburst.

“I'm… looking for my family,” he mumbled, averting his gaze towards the chalk drawing. “I don't know if they're still alive, but they weren't at the capitol.” As far as he could trust MeriTech’s words, but if they had been, they surely would have used them for his obedience. He was positive that it would have worked. They were the reason for his escape after all. “I guess I'll see how far I'll come. Some people used to say the earth is flat, I know it isn't, but silly things can be motivating. Would be quite interesting to see the edge of the world.” Would he jump, if he were standing at the cliff? Would he turn back when hope died, return to a purpose that wasn't his own, or would he dare the change and see where it led him? A decision made purely by himself? “But what's the point in wandering around if there is no one waiting for your return?”

He hoped they waited for him. That they were just as desperate as he was to find their missing piece. Still, he couldn’t shake off the doubt nestled inside his heart.

If they’d loved him, why didn’t they save him?

In front of the garden's white picket fence, the red apples hanging from the heavy branches of the tree, which leaned slightly to the right, appeared even more juicy, you think. The roots protruded from the ground in parts, peeking out of the green lawn every now and then until they disappeared completely underground. The leaves dance in the wind as you look outside, the sun's rays filtering through the leafy canopy on the other side of the window. The upper of the two windows is open, blowing the red and white checked curtains slightly forward; the late summer air is warm, but not suffocating. Quite pleasant, actually. As it always is, just after it rains. “Honey,” a woman's voice sounds from the left. You look away from the window, over to the cleared dark wood table in the kitchen. Your mother looks so gorgeous in the warm summer light, you think. You get why your father calls her the most beautiful woman there is. Curly, black hair (optionally all other colors and hair structures, he had to keep that in mind), sticking out in all directions, barely tameable and only loosely held together by a scarf. Her rolled-up sleeves kept slipping down, flour caught in the fine fabric. Whenever she tried to brush it off, she only made it worse. Her cheeks were flushed, either from the heat of the oven or from the smile that wouldn't leave her face. “My darling angel,” she finally said, her floury hands cupping your cheeks gently. Your mother was always gentle with you. And you feel the love, as she looks in your eyes. "Would you be so kind as to fetch me another apple from outside? The biggest one you can find.” And you nod eagerly because you know exactly which one is the biggest. It hangs a little higher up, you have to climb to get to it—but you climbed the tree so many times, it's not even a challenge for you. The tree a little further back in the garden on the right was a living altar of late summer, reminding you of how beautiful your childhood was. You see impressions of you helping your mom spread the apples in the metal cake-pan. How you burned your mouth on the still hot apple pie. It smells of cinnamon and butter and baked apples. That's what carefree smells like, you remember.

He took a few steps back from the scene, examined the picture, the people, the small details; and made minor changes to them. Placed the apple slices a little more irregularly, shaped the branches a little more crooked, positioned a few more props in the garden. Considered adding a dog, but then decided against it. Cinnamon and butter and baked apples. Isaiah sat down on the cushioned floor. The glass half-dome was kept entirely in warm white, as were his clothes: a large, cushioned surface beneath him, a white canvas. A bed that invited him to dream. He pondered for a while, looking at the little scenarios and details, replaying them several times until he was completely satisfied. A moment from a past that had never existed, but felt more real than anything the present could ever offer. In a way, there was a tragic beauty to it. While he saved the memory at the nearby panel and set the customizable parameters (hair color, eye color, mother's hair texture, when the sun was at its zenith, depending on where the recipients had grown up), he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and sat in the chair, watching as the world he had created gradually disintegrated and was uploaded in its individual components. This was the art he was doing, the temporary bliss he created. A garden in the summer, baking with mom, cinnamon and butter and baked apples—a simple truth. Hope in its purest form.

Tomorrow he would have something like a vacation. Two days away from the Capitol, this time they would visit the so-called Appalchians, he would be able to gather new inspiration. Feel the cool breeze around his nose. Draw. Take in moments that were his. And share them shortly afterwards to give people what they needed most at this time: Hope.

MeriTech had quickly realized after the great eclipse that people who had hope were much more malleable than those who had given up on it. Humanity, or rather what was left of it, could not survive on food, protection or order alone—the megacorporation had also realized this early on. The loss of the “old world” had robbed people of something fundamental: their sense of purpose. The past was not just an infinite collection of experiences that shaped everyone's being and made them unique; it was both an anchor and a foundation that told people who they were, where they came from and where they were supposed to go. The past had always been the cornerstone of the present and the future. Without it, people would collapse. Humanity would collapse. And the collapse would be swift and final. In the first months after the disaster, the bunkers had to deal with a crisis worse than famine or sickness: People who had lost the will to live. Hopelessness had become a national epidemic. Something MeriTech had dedicated itself to first after securing basic needs. People with fond memories that reminded them of days when life was easy and carefree question less. They are calmer and more compliant. They have goals, even if they are based on an illusion. The implanted memories were puppet strings with which MeriTech wove a new society—a society that worked toward the carefree days of the past, together with the company that promised to do everything in its power to restore that world order. MeriTech strove for stability and perfection. The idealized image of a past that did not exist. No wars, no poverty, no injustice. In these memories, shaped and crafted, resided a new history, one that MeriTech controlled. And those who controlled what people remembered also controlled what they were—their desires, their fears, their values.

With every crisis and every revolution in human history, new jobs were created. After a global apocalypse—one after which humanity started all over again—there was no longer a need for storytellers. Instead, MeriTech instead created so-called Memory Technicians: people who created memories that seemed so real that they blended seamlessly into a person's innermost being, as if they had always been there. People who brought together technical precision and a deep understanding of the human experience to create new memories. Memories that had to fulfill a life, that gave comfort, that awakened hope. Without this fabricated past, there was no connection. And without connection, there was no future.

There were only a few people who could maintain a certain balance that was needed for credible, real memories: Romanticized perfection of the past and human imperfection lay awfully close together, a balancing act that was not easy to navigate. Birthday memories with a gorgeous, perhaps a little too big, cake (you were a child after all), but the candles had to burn unevenly, a little wax had to drip onto the frosting and the sellotape had to slightly damage the wrapping paper so that it couldn't be reused. It was details like these that mattered most. Details that burn themselves into your memory almost unconsciously, and yet are inconspicuous enough not to be questioned. Isaiah had always been perceptive and observant enough to give even the small trivialities of life the attention they deserved. This ability to not beat reality and still paint over the pain of real life requires a sense of human emotion, an empathy that few people had. An empathy that was almost unbearable, mixed with an imagination that often exhausted itself in endless loneliness. Many failed because of it. Isaiah knew there were other Memory Technicians out there. He was one of five in the United States. Without them, there would be no hope in this barren world where no one without special abilities could survive in the outside world. There would be no illusion to drive people, no society to rebuild itself. And at the same time, Isaiah felt, these were the loneliest people: they were not lulled into the safety of the past, they saw what was real and knew how deep the abyss beneath really extended. Isaiah was well aware of the importance of his profession. Without the memories he molded with love and dedication to give people something to hold on to, humanity would not be able to go on. And yet he kept asking himself whether a future based on a lie was a future worth fighting for at all.

His temporary refuge seemed to be divine intervention. Or fate. Upon returning to the Capitol, the unit that accompanied the Memory Technician, supposed to take Isaiah there and back unharmed, had been caught in the acid rain. The radio had cut out beforehand and he had heard the guards talking to each other over the intercoms. “Acid rain incoming. We should be seeking shelter immediately.” The sky above them, which had previously stretched to the horizon in a washed-out white-gray, had condensed faster than they would have liked. The vehicles they were traveling in would last a few minutes to half an hour, but they wouldn't have made it back. Especially as the engine failed. The team panicked. Grown men who drove several tours like this started to panic—and this caused panic in Isaiah, too. He put on his hood, grabbed his backpack and left the car with the men, who led him further towards the nearby rock formation, hoping for a cave or something similar that would offer them shelter and protection. But the acid rain was not what they should fear the most. Black, amorphous shadows came with the rain and with them came the inevitable demise of the rescue mission. “Run, kid! RUN!” one of the men had shouted at him, barely audible through the heavy downpour. And Isaiah just nodded diligently, running blindly in the direction that would at least increase his chances of survival to 2%. And every time he looked around, he saw fewer and fewer guards, they disappeared without a word of farewell. He felt torn in two: The desire to survive led him further and further towards the jagged rock formation, even if his curiosity kept urging him to stop and look around. There was something about these BTs that made him pay more attention. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to draw inspiration from them, perhaps he wanted to fathom them, to know what lay behind them. Fear pushed him further, his curiosity made him pause.

The following day, when the rainfall had passed and the skies cleared up again, he saw the abandoned Distribution Center on the other side of the ridge in the distance and made his way there, hoping not to be surprised by the acid rain again. He had not seen his team, nor the vehicle they had used to get here. Only Isaiah had made it. Just as the guards had planned. He was the most important asset, and the team knew it. Still, he felt guilty.

The Distribution Center almost seemed like a relic from eons ago. By now, the Capitol was considered self-sufficient, as were the other major cities where people had taken refuge. The Center's systems were old, but against all odds, Isaiah was still able to boot them up with his MeriTech chip ID. The touch-sensitive display flickered under his palm and he stood on the large, circular platform that would take him to the living quarters. Forty people would have found shelter and refuge here, but MeriTech only made their rations and technology available to those who were in favor of the company. The food rations were neatly stacked in one of the back rooms, dust-covered plastic packets with the MeriTech logo: mac'n'cheese, chickpea curry, vegetable lasagna, pasta with creamy spinach. Simple food, but some that satisfied the soul nonetheless. They would last him for about eight days. After that, he would starve here if he didn't manage to call for help. If he was found and they weren't couriers hired by MeriTech, they might be looters who didn't care about Isaiah's misery. Hm. Outside, left by himself, he would most certainly die, too. And if Isaiah was honest, he was hanging on to his life. Or perhaps to the realities he himself created. First and foremost for others, but perhaps somewhere for himself as well.

As he walked the corridors of the Distribution Center and past the empty dormitories, he realized how desolate the scene was. On day one, he had tried to repair the communication channels, but they remained silent and his hopes of sending a help signal were slowly fading. The antennas were damaged, perhaps by rain, perhaps by time, perhaps by both. Without a working signal, he was trapped here and he was painfully aware of this truth.

When it rained or the day was drawing to a close, Isaiah continued to worked on repairing the communications system. He scavenged the center for spare parts, improvising tools from cables, scrap metal and anything else he could find. Sitting idly by and waiting for help was not in his nature. When the rain subsided, he ventured outside, the danger of the BTs always in the back of his mind, which is why he never strayed far from the Distribution Center. The sun rarely showed itself, a faint ray of light breaking through the dense, gray cloud cover. But when the repairs seemed hopeless and endless and the weather allowed him to find moments of peace, he would venture out onto the nearby cliffs—binoculars and notebook in hand—and just take in the surroundings. The mountains in the distance, their peaks emerging dimly against the sky: Not clearly recognizable, vague hints of rugged shapes and shadows. The light of the pale sun, which sometimes broke through the clouds, gently brushed over the terrain, tracing edges and adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise barren picture. Somehow, everything here was... beautiful. Everything out here was real. No warm white, sterile floor that gave way under his feet, no glass half-dome, a golden cage whose even, indirect lighting never lost its intensity. No perfect illusions that he created himself. He let the surroundings sink in, almost as if he wanted to absorb it, as if he wanted to preserve it in case this was the last place where he could feel the world. Because there was still something about the world that was worth fighting for. Did it really need people like him to give humanity hope when there were moments like this?

Isaiah took out his notebook, the leather soft and worn. And fake. It was one of the few things that truly connected him to the world, beyond the undoubtedly beautiful lies he created every day. He sketched the contours of the mountains, the grasses, the slightly more distant water. And sometimes, between observing and capturing, he simply let his surroundings engulf him. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the wind gently brushing his nose. Moments that made him hold on to this world, not to change or reproduce it, but to understand it. It was a strange feeling to see this beauty, to experience it, and at the same time to know that he could never convey it as it really was. No one was demanding these memories. MeriTech would delete them every time, never approve them for transfer to the end user and Isaiah's work would be for nothing. He had tried it anyway: the consequence of this was a year without a 'vacation'. 300 days of work without external inspiration.

Who knew what was in store for him now? The blonde was aware that MeriTech was certainly doing everything they could to get him back as soon as possible. That search parties were on their way. And if they were not sufficient, MeriTech would use their extensive network to send out mercenaries and outlaws as well. Even if he could only imagine the rewards, they were often the same for the megacorporation when it came to such important matters: Immunity from punishment, access to vital and high-value resources, maybe even a chance to rise to the upper ranks of MeriTech-if one wanted to. Or even great freedom. Something Isaiah liked to fantasize about and would probably never achieve. Perhaps this was the closest he would get to that feeling. Out here, there were no boundaries, no sterile light, no one to stop his sensations and impressions; only the vastness of Earth. And in this great expanse, he felt something he hadn't felt for a long time. Not hope, not freedom either—but perhaps the memory of what such things had once felt like.

It couldn't hurt to take a look, he had thought to himself on the third day when he saw the distant figures, sitting on the cliff again. BTs, most of which he had only heard stories about, had appeared not far from him. Just a glance. Just a minute that might give him a little more insight into what these shadow creatures were. Until he felt a hand on his mouth, someone pressing Isaiah's body firmly against his. And then, handprints appearing on the ground as if from nowhere. Isaiah's breathing became more panicked and the stranger tried to hold him still, calming him wordlessly and Isaiah closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, too. Panic would not only kill him, but the stranger, too. Now, he wasn't alone. His curiosity had almost cost him his life—and someone else's, too. Maybe it still did, but that didn't matter right now. “Traverse carefully,” the stranger had whispered to him as soon as the greatest danger was out of reach, but had by no means completely subsided. The blonde had nodded silently, strapped on his binoculars and clutched his notebook tightly in his hand. A drop of acid rain hit the back of his hand and he wiped it off on his overalls, following the stranger along exactly the same path. His footsteps followed already existing ones. He was following paths that others had already trodden. A strangely familiar picture.

“Thank you,” was the first thing Isaiah said when they arrived at the Distribution Center and the rain outside was already getting a little heavier. The blonde looked outside and chewed on the inside of his cheek, seeing animals fleeing the acid rain and those shadow creatures that had just gotten too close to him approaching slowly. His gaze went to the stranger, who was wearing a mask and suit—both damaged by the weather conditions. As soon as the rain became heavier, he would have to descend again to avoid breathing in the toxic fumes. The stranger, despite his mask, would certainly be no different. “Follow me, it's safer down below,” he offered and took a few steps towards the oval platform that led down. The stranger stopped and eyed him hesitantly. Oh. "Sorry, I'm Isaiah, it's a pleasure— I know, it's— I have food downstairs, I can get you something to eat. And a new suit perhaps, I found some in the abandoned living quarters. Just let me... I don't know, thank you for saving my life out there? Black is so not my color and I kind of like the molecular composition of— me.” A faint smile graced his lips, a failed attempt to ease the tension and his counterpart still hesitated. Of course he did. “It's okay. I'll just wait there and give you some time to think. As soon as the toxin levels rise I have to descend to not— die.” Gods, Isaiah, would you please shut up. “I'm sorry,” he finally apologized, smiling faintly at the stranger before walking down the large ramp and sitting down on the circular platform. He looked up for a while, the silhouette of the stranger was small and unassuming in size, even though Isaiah perceived him to be much taller. He had just saved his life. The Memory Technician bent his legs and chewed on the inside of his cheek, rested his head on his knees and opened the notebook again, trying to draw something from memory. And he drew a somewhat distorted, probably romanticized image of the world outside on the paper. He looked up again and scrutinized the stranger as he sat down, his eyes averted from him and the inside of the Distribution Center, looking outside. He didn't trust him. Hesitantly, he looked up at the stranger and then back down at the sheet of paper in front of himself. With his pencil, he drew the entrance to the Distribution Center around the scene and the stranger sitting in front of it. An outlaw, Isaiah guessed. Free. And well-versed in the world as it was today. A good fifteen minutes later, the toxin levels had risen considerably, Isaiah noticed how he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, but he hadn't found any masks downstairs. Nevertheless, he gathered all the courage he could find and closed the notebook, left it on the platform and walked back up the large loading ramp. Near the entrance, his lungs burned when he breathed in, his eyes watered slightly, but he had not yet given up hope of somehow returning the favor. “I've got chickpea curry or pasta with spinach downstairs... If you want. And water, if you want to replenish your supplies,” he spoke down to him, examining the brown eyes as his counterpart looked up at him. “The communication systems are offline. No one knows I'm here. No one knows you're here. You can leave anytime,” he continued, turning away from him briefly, coughing heavily, turning back to him. “I promise you,” he added, speaking the truth. "I have to leave now. This is your last chance.”

Contrary to his expectations, the stranger had decided to go down to the living quarters with him. Isaiah found it easier and easier to breathe as they descended, he held the notebook tightly in his hands and kept looking at the stranger every now and then without making him uncomfortable. “There are living quarters there. You can get freshened up, too, if you want. I'll gather everything for you,” he offered politely and his counterpart nodded before looking straight ahead again. I won't bother you much, I promise, Isaiah added in silence. The stranger still hadn't taken off his mask, presumably it was still filtering toxins from the air.

The foreigner had taken up residence in a living quarter not far from Isaiah's. Meanwhile, the blonde had prepared food for him—the other had decided on the chickpea curry, it was the best choice, Isaiah had confirmed, and he had made him the last ration; the food supplies would now keep him afloat for seven days—and gotten a new suit ready, which should be about his size. He held the hot plate and the suit in both his hands as he walked down the long corridor, which, at least in terms of feeling, had been filled with a little life. At his room, the shower symbol lit up green and Isaiah looked up, chewing on the inside of his cheek and considered putting the plate outside the door, but then thought about the possibility of the stranger stepping in the hot curry. Not only would it be unfortunate about the food itself, or the fact that the stranger would have to shower again, but his savior would certainly be annoyed of him. And even if Isaiah didn't know the other's disposition or intentions, the stranger was his most realistic hope that he would come back to the Capitol. Not because he expected the other to take him there, but because he might be able to get help from somewhere else. Or deliver a message. If Isaiah annoyed him, his chances of survival would drop to zero again. So he tucked the new suit between his upper body and his arm so that he had a free hand, held it in front of his eyes so as not to violate the other man's privacy in any way, shape or form, and entered the room. His gaze was focused on the table to his right the whole time, he walked straight up to it and put the plate down, placing the suit next to it. “I'm dressed,” the stranger suddenly spoke and Isaiah jumped slightly, then turned a little towards him, peeked out from behind his hand and then smiled in embarrassment, taking down his improvised visual protector. “Sorry, I didn't know— the sign was still on, I'll— I'm sorry, I'll leave you be. I hope it's hot enough, the entire technology here is a little bit... dated. But it's— I mean, it's steaming, so... it's not cold,” he explained to himself, chewing the inside of his cheek. The other's eyes were dark and watchful, following the movements Isaiah made; and also the way he kneaded his hands lightly. It was a look that got deep under his skin, a mixture of suspicion and weariness that Isaiah knew all too well. The stranger was slender, but not emaciated, and his clothes spoke of weeks, if not months, on the run. The suit was the previous model. MeriTech had developed new technologies in the meantime and thus, released an updated version. “I put some new clothes with the suit. They don't look like they're from MeriTech,” he thought, feeling a pang of relief. Maybe that helped. Maybe it showed him that he was different. Or at least not quite like the others from MeriTech. That he could understand criticism of the megacorporation. Even if he had to keep quiet about his profession.

The silence in the room was suffocating. His own hands trembled slightly and gave him away, which was why he shoved them into the pockets of his trousers. He had taken off his suit as well and was wearing a simple white shirt and loose gray trousers underneath. The stranger still hadn't said a word except for 'Traverse carefully' and 'I'm dressed' (maybe he only gave two word answers), but Isaiah could feel his gaze, scrutinizing, as if trying to read Isaiah's intentions from his movements. What should I say to him? Should I say anything at all? Isaiah bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to do something to give him something to hold onto. Or maybe to build empathy bridges with him. But every possible topic he could think of felt false in his head. What could I tell you, he thought. That I spend half the day building false memories while the world out there is falling apart? That I live in a bubble of safety and privilege that I never wanted but could never leave? Maybe I should just leave him alone. Maybe he doesn't want to talk. “I'm sorry, I'll leave you be,” he repeated again and turned around before his counterpart spoke: “You can stay. I ate alone for months.” Five word answers it is.

Isaiah turned and looked at him speechlessly for a while, but then nodded understandingly and sat down on the free chair a little further away from him so as not to get too close: literally and metaphorically. For the first while he ate, Isaiah sat quietly beside him. He was the first person in months who wasn't a specially created figure in a memory or a voice from a terminal. Or a superior giving him orders, or a hologram of a human being telling him to open up in psychological assesments. Every time he felt bad, Isaiah lied because he didn't want to be singled out. He was real. And to Isaiah, this is what made him beautiful, too.

His name was Zeev, the stranger had revealed. And that was all Isaiah knew about him. “I hope it tastes good,” he had said, smiling weakly at him. The other had asked him if he wasn't hungry too. Isaiah shook his head. “I'll eat later.” And while Zeev ate, Isaiah took the time to look at him more closely. He recognized that face. The prominent cheekbones, the delicate nose, the full lips. His features had changed a little, of course, he most likely had been exposed to difficult challenges that Isaiah couldn't even imagine. No, he remembered a peaceful, sleeping face. A face he had returned daily to for about a week while he worked hard to create a life that had never existed. Zeev, he remembered. A name as unique as the person behind it.

Isaiah forced himself not to express his surprise, which he managed remarkably well. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants tighter as the man across from him turned to his food and looked at the wall in front of him, on which images of picturesque beaches and beautiful sceneries alternated to create a sense of freedom and past normalcy. Memory Technicians' predecessors had created these false images. Prototypes of themselves, so to speak. How likely is it that we will meet here? How are you feeling? What has happened? You weren't in the Capitol anymore, you were gone and I couldn't even say goodbye. I was worried. But there was nothing in Zeev's eyes to indicate that he recognized Isaiah. No glint of recognition, no hint that he knew who was sitting in front of him.

Of course he doesn't remember, Isaiah thought bitterly. That was the point, wasn't it? To wipe everything away to make room for the beautiful. The perfect thing. Isaiah had only been with him while he'd been unconscious, just after they'd marked him. Even though the blonde knew Zeev's memory loss didn't even start with MeriTech's interventions, but was an inexplicable part of his being a Witch, Isaiah felt complicit and guilty. He had seen him before it all began, before the memories Isaiah created were meant to make him malleable and obedient in a world of false hope. They had led him to him when he was already sedated, the symbol of a rising sun on his palm. A bringer of hope. A tool. Promising a better future—just like sunrise. Just like he was. An asset. The wound was still fresh, Isaiah had noticed, which is why he only took his other hand while asleep, talking to him, promising all will be fine. It was the first time he had ever seen or met the person for whom he was supposed to create memories. Zeev had lain unconscious in front of him in the hospital room and Isaiah had looked at him for a long time, imagining what his childhood would have been like. He would give him plenty of sunshine, that much was certain. The Memory Technician had worked during the day, and at night he had sat with Zeev in the sterile room and held his hand. He felt sorry for the way MeriTech had treated him, he sympathized with the witcher and hoped that he might be able to give him something good with the work he did. He would have preferred to free him from MeriTech's clutches in a heroic act, but Isaiah had no idea how to do it—he would've gotten both of them killed within minutes. This stranger, Zeev as he had now learned, had grown on him so insanely fast because he had gotten to know a version of him that he wasn't, but thought he was once he regained consciousness. And every night Isaiah had apologized to him for what he will do and promised him that he would give him a beautiful childhood. The best one he had ever created. If Zeev was to have the life he never had, it would be a good one. No mistakes, no scars, no pain. Isaiah had spent days (and some nights) toiling away, trying to craft the perfect past for him—something to hold onto. Something to give him hope.

The summer sun casts playful reflections on the colorful, slightly damp forest floor. They were always your favorite. You found the sight so beautiful that you sometimes forgot to hide, which made it especially easy for your sister to find you playing hide and seek. But now, now you are really well hidden. Behind the bony oak tree that your sister is a little afraid of. Your breathing is hasty and quick, you ran here and slipped on the wet leaves. The knees of your pants are dirty, you never liked that, but now it doesn't matter, because you're having the time of your life. “Zeev!” your sister had shouted in the distance and you put your hand over your mouth and giggled with glee because you were so excited. You were guaranteed to win today. However, you found the evenings when you laid your head in your mother's lap the most beautiful. The twilight had bathed the evening sky in yellow, orange and purple pastel shades, the setting sun shone warmly on your face. Her fingers gently stroked through your hair, carefully undoing individual knots without ever hurting you. “I love you, Zeev,” she had said and the warmth of her body envelops you in a security you rarely find anywhere else. “I love you more than anything.” Your hair is a mess, which you, too, always hated, but your mother seems to take care of it with the utmost care. You've spent the whole day playing with your siblings and friends in the spacious garden behind the big house you grew up in. It was the best birthday you've had in a long time, you think.

And once you woke up drenched in sweat. You felt uncomfortable in your room and the darkness scared you. But you still managed to find courage: Because you are brave. Courageous to face things that might sometimes scare you. Things that make you swallow hard because you don't know what will happen next. But your courage allows you to outgrow yourself— Oh, the places you'll go. And yet you quickly trudge down the long corridor, barefoot. You outwitted the wooden floorboard, which always creaks, with a skillful jump. Clever you. You stood in front of your mother's bed, wiping the tears from your eyes. Your mom had woken up on her own and had wordlessly lifted the covers for you so that you could snuggle up to her. “Mom,” you whispered scared against her chest as she put her arm around you and hugged you close to her. You can hear her heartbeat, it's soothing how it pounds evenly in her chest. She gently kisses your forehead. Your mom was always gentle with you. “I'm with you, darling. No need to be afraid, huh?” she had spoken to you and you felt safe. It was quiet for a while, then she sang to you. See the sunset, the day is ending...

Now, here, in reality, Zeev's memories were nothing but an illusion, Isaiah knew that, and the man in front of him was not the cheerful boy Isaiah had created in his mind. He had hoped he would've been a cheerful man. Hopeful. Instead, Zeev was tired, taciturn, and full of caution—a stranger who had probably seen more suffering and resentment than Isaiah could have imagined. What's left of the world I built for you? Isaiah asked silently. Did it bring you at least a little comfort? And as much as he was, in some way, glad that Zeev was okay—Isaiah only heard that he'd escaped from the Capitol—Oh, you brave boy!—, because he was the only one Isaiah had ever asked about: because he was the only one he'd ever known—his shoulders slumped a little. The hope Isaiah had wanted to give him so desperately now seemed—lost. Perhaps his work wasn't as important as he had always imagined. Even though he knew who he really was, he now noticed the scar on his palm. For most people, the world had been reduced to its component parts: ruins, resources and survival. Witches, on the other hand, were different. They saw something that Isaiah would never understand, no matter how much he longed for it: the cosmic threads that ran through the world and the beings that came and went with the rain.

“You're a witcher,” Isaiah remarked, and Zeev eyed him, glanced at the scar and let his hand disappear under the table. “I'm sorry,” Isaiah apologized shortly after. To Zeev, the blonde was just another stranger in a world that had never been friendly to him. Distrust was the obvious thing to feel. “You can stay the night, if you want. I'll show you how to leave the bunker, if you want. You don't have to say anything or goodbye or something. I'll not ask any questions and I won't tell anyone you were here. If— Maybe you can tell someone I'm here though. There's only food left for four more days and— I can't get back to the capitol on my own. I'm sure they're searching for me, I'm a technician... Also— If you're deciding to rob me, can you please just leave one food ration here? Just something to—I don't know... To enjoy.”

#*✹˰ ʾ answers . ʿ but you need your rotten heart; your dazzling pain like diamond rings.#hochmvt #( probably my second favourite text after the main novel one )#( we're writing so much cool shit )#( and it reads so nice )#( i'm so proud of us and our creativity )#( we take whatever and make it ours )#( endless inspiration and motivation )#( thank you so much )

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