The silence was suffocating, like being trapped in a tank of water with eels. The air is thick, heavy and hardly breathable. Porter shivers as he feels the blood rushing in uneven pulses from heart to fingertips, his hair slightly in his eyes as he tries to make peace. He can't stay here. It's too much like the cam. Too much like them. He despises it. The mere view of the room began getting hazy. Shizn. He needed to breathe properly, he was going too fast, not getting enough air. But he couldn't stop. His fingers were trembling and the reassuring touches of his dear sister weren't helping. ¨I′ll wait outside.¨ he chokes out, rushing towards the door on unstable legs. The hot steam of the peppers and home feel like a trap. A trap that feels like heaven to get out of. Porter bursts out of the home, the cold chill brushing against his skin instantly. The cold wrapping around him like the wings of the upsidedown phoenix. Cold and unforgiving like its ice. Porter then realizes he ran out, he wasn't being peaceful. It could fall into chaos there. He knew both Bailey and Alexander wouldn't control their mouths enough to keep the table peaceful. He couldn't go back in. The yelling, the suffocating silence in a hot room. He couldn't handle it. His fists clench, and he turns. He had to go back in.

  He needed to make sure they didn't get them all killed–Even if every drop of blood in his body said no. Porters lifts his hands, looking down at his hands that shook like the tail of a rattle snake.

  Clink. Sheeeeeenk.

  The creakyness of the hinges snap him out of his head. Somebody had followed him out, yet he felt calmed by the familiar presence.

  ¨You rushed out quickly, if you'd waited a few minutes longer we were about to leave.¨

  ¨I know,¨ Porter responds, ¨But you know I couldn't stay there, Alex-y.¨

  ¨It′s Alexander.¨ The raven responds, walking next to Porter. Alexander had seen them like this a few times. And despite his gravelly voice and avoidant personality type, he was always gentle to them. That was why they stuck to him. A critical thinker with bad temper tantrums, yet really just an emotional boy with walls of rusted stone.

  ¨Did you continue running your mouth,¨ Porter asks, his gaze drifting to the ground before him in shame. ¨Or Bailey?¨

  ¨Nobody. We aren′t that stupid, Porter. ¨

  ¨ That's arguable. Ya Shizn.¨

  ¨I′m not a shit. you anxious sheep. ¨ ¨Whatever you say.¨ Porter feels Alexander's hand pat his back, his limber fingers curving to fit the curve of his upper back. ¨First you wouldn't leave me alone, and now you have me chasing you.¨ Alexander 's voice, like grinding stones, continues to reassure him. ¨Now cover up that shaking and stand. You′re a sheep, but not one in a village of wolves.¨

  Porter smiles softly, lips shaping the words ¨Thank you,¨ as he looks down to his palms. And he tightens his lean muscles, keeping himself steady. Before Porter, who still feels nervous, tries to stand, he is held in place. Before him, Alex-y was kneeling, his lips curved into a private, reassuring smile.

  ¨Seriously, You can't go making us look weak now. ¨ Porter feels a burst in his chest, a burst of comfort in Alex-y′s hands. A burst of relief that he isn't being misunderstood. A burst of pride in his Friendship's growth since they met those months ago.

  Clink. Sheeeenk.

  Alex-y jumps up quickly, looking behind porter to whomever was behind him. ¨What do you want, dog?¨ Alexander hisses

  ¨ I ′ m taking you to the Rinnock, remember?¨ barks the boy behind him.¨And you all stormed out before I could grab everything and figure out the plan. ¨

  Porter turns around, a warm Quokka smile plastered on, ¨My apologies, it was just really warm in there and I needed a breath.¨

  ¨As if,¨ The blonde scoffs. ¨It was a regular temperature there, same as mid-day sun. ¨

  ¨It was hot and he needed a breath.¨ Alex-y retorts, his gravel-voice snapping in perfectly played annoyance. ¨And it's not like we could escape, you wild gorillas would probably catch up too quickly. ¨ ¨Zorche rolls his eyes, stepping to the side as he leads Bailey out. Her short haystack-hair had been brushed back into a tiny-ponytail. It was messy, but fit her well.

  Zorche than grabs their leashes and starts to drudge them through the town, the sweet smell of fresh cooked food from the earlier market fading in the wind. The gravel is covered in wood pellets and stones. There steps each making little crunches as they press together.

  ¨Sounds just like your voice, Rabbit.¨ The blonde ahead snickers, ¨rough as stone, and weak as a child's argument.¨

  ¨I wish you to hell, dog.¨ Alexander retorts, ¨At least I don't look like a floppy-eared puppy, with the voice of chihuahua.¨ ¨Chihuahua?¨

  ¨Tiny dogs whose bark is bigger than their bite. ¨ Bailey cuts in, his gaze fixed on the stars. ¨There known to be small dogs, short fur and shad a lot for such little things.¨

  ¨The only small dog here is that blue-tipped baby hiding behind you, and the little cute bunny wabbit,¨ Zorche snarks. ¨ Let's talk a bit more civilly, please,¨ Porter intervenes, begging for peace. ¨We just need to go to sleep and calm down.¨ They all go quiet. The rushing of wind between the houses is the only sound between them all.

  ¨I said civilly, not none at all.¨ Nobody responds.

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  As they walk, porter notes the villages set up. Since they had left Fiona′s house, they passed a few rows of homes. All similar, yet decorated to the people who live there. They all shared the basic structure of 2 floors, a flowerbed on either side of the stairs, stone walls with plastic roofs, yet nothing else. Once past the homes, they saw the tall rose-wood building they had passed earlier. Its golden chains of fake-life truly did sculpt a beautiful prison. The dead-greying roses just as beautiful as they began to droop down from their bush. As they walked past, Porter could smell the sweet-yet fading scent of the flowers.

  And now, currently they stand in front of a simpler building, One that has a flat top, weed-filled garden beds and windows with the brokenness of an old soldier. The scent of roses is gone, replaced with lotus blossoms. Odd enough for an old home. Zorche stops before the home, almost unwilling to go inside. A cool breeze passes them, and Porter gasps it gratefully. However Zorche seemed the opposite. Shivering, the blond boys curled hair flows in the light wind, catching the moon's gaze. After a few long moments, Zorche tugs there leashed and drags them to the door.

  Knock, Knock, Knock.

  The door opens to find a long black haired girl standing there. Her lashes batter her cheeks in a calm ethereal way. The length and straightness of her hair is different from the others. Like the silkyness of a panther, and the gentleness of a mother. Her cream-yellow gown drooping down to her knees, with careful flamingo pink stitching up her side in a wisteria pattern.

  ¨Good evening, Zorche-ban.¨ The girl greets.

  ¨Good evening, Isolde,¨ Zorche responds. ¨I have come to give the outbounders to your care.¨ The girl, Isolde, just nods. Her gaze fixated on his, lips tilting into a soft, fleeting smile. Before waving him into the building. The inside is much cozier than the outside,Thinks Porter, Taking notice of the home. a creamy scent of tea wafting through the air. The walls, though rustic, are beautiful, in an almost Diaphanous glow when touched by the moon-drenched light.

  ¨Would you like tea?¨ The girl asks, her hands drifting to an old kettle, ¨I've been expecting you here for a while now.¨

  ¨Our apologies,¨ Zorche murmurs, sitting on the Canapé. ¨What type have you made, Isolde-basa.¨

  ¨Smells delightful here, miss Isolde.¨ Porter murmurs, fingers grazing a cobweb spiderwort.

  ¨Thank you, out-Dan¨ She lulls. Beside Porter, Bailey was taking in the view of all the flowers. And it was true, the place was flooded with them, echinacea, lavender, marigolds, passion flowers, wisteria, yarrow, but mostly lotus. Those were only the ones he can name, There were piles upon piles. Shelves apon shelves, Desks upon desks worth. But it felt odd, there was also a sour stench in the room, like old meat, or acid.

  ¨ We're having lotus tonight. ¨

  ¨I see, Isolde-basa.¨ Zorche starts, only to be cut off. ¨Only Isolde, you know me well enough.¨

  ¨You're one of the higher ranks in our village. And you're the one who finds the-¨

  ¨And we grew together, Zorche-ban. ¨ She cuts him off again, sighing. ¨Friends don't need to use honors, And According to my memory, I believe we've been friends since before our placement.¨ Her movements are fluid like a deer, as she talks and serves blackberry cobbler.

  ¨You need to stop referring to it as that.¨ Zorche mumbles, hand reaching for a piece of the sweet warm treat.

  ¨You say that every time.¨

  ¨And I mean it every time too. ¨ Zorche retorts.

  ¨What's the placement?¨ Porter asks, accepting the plate of cobbler gratefully. He hadn't the time to finish his food at Fiona's, so the cobbler felt like an angelic blessing.

  ¨It′s when we tell the village what we wish to do, when we leave Child-hall.¨ Zorche explains, mouth full of food.

  ¨It′s when we're given the chance to choose our usefulness.¨ Isolde adds.

  ¨Choose?¨ The three outbounders ask in unison, ¨You choose it?¨

  ¨You earn usefulness, not choose it.¨ Alexander's voice growls from behind the group, pushing the cobbler away across the rustic wooden table.

  ¨Is that so? Then what have you earned in your guy′s lives?¨ She retorts.

  ¨They go silent. Porter looks down at his feet, the blackberry cobbler suddenly doesn't taste so good. His vision blurts and he feels his chest rise and fall at a rapid rate.

  ¨We got what we earned. ¨ Alexander growls quietly, his gravelly voice suddenly more smooth, ¨But possibly not what we deserved.¨ Porter's head snaps up, searching for Alexander, only to see Alexander's eyes already on him. Alexander has a private soft look for him, One of understanding. Alexander wasn't from the same place as them, but he knew them. He knew what they had been though. what they did. Yet he never resented them, He was never disgusted. He was just like Him. A protector who had a thorn for armour. A boy buried in his crumbling stone wall.

  The room that had just started to lighten felt heavy again as soon as Alexander's purple-black eyes looked away towards Isolde.

  ¨Deserved is a strong word, Alexander-dan. Some people don't get what they want, no matter how much they wish. Some people get exactly what they wished for. However you always get what you deserve in the end. You could make a deal with the devil, repent for your sins and accept the lord,His angels, but you'll still go to hell.¨

  Porter's skin crawls cold, like an unwelcome bug has burrows in his skin, laid eggs, and they hatched. Beside him, Alexander feels like he changed within a moment. His eyes are more narrow, more cold. More like his old eyes.

  “Hell grabbed my wings and ripped me apart, yet I still escaped,” Alexander snarls. His lips curve into a gleeful, jagged smirk. “And I will make it back no matter what.”

  Isolde doesn't flinch. She leans in, her breath smelling of honey and the underlying rot of the sour stench. “Brave words for a trapped out-dan,” she coos, her voice a silk ribbon around her throat. “But the devil always finds its way back.” The "bugs" under Porter’s skin stop crawling and start to bite. He can feel the heat of the stove behind him and the cold of the "Hell" Alexander is talking about in front of him. They are caught between two monsters—one who wants to protect them with thorns, and one who wants to harvest them with kindness.

  Porter’s hands shake as he grips the edge of the table. To his left, Alexander is a pillar of cold, defiant stone. To his right, Isolde is a shimmering, weeping nightmare. He feels small—smaller than he’s ever felt—like a piece of kindling caught between two grinding tectonic plates. “Don’t,” Porter whispers, though he isn't sure if he’s talking to Alexander or Isolde. His voice is swallowed by the sour wind coming from the open door. It doesn't matter what they 'deserved' or what 'Aga' said. He just wants the bugs under his skin to stop hatching.

  ¨Were not here to argue.¨

  ¨We weren't supposed to be her at all, in case you forgot.¨ Alexander snaps at him, eyes almost glowing in a luminance purple as he glares Isolde down.

  ¨Sorry.¨ Porter chokes out, his voice more like a mouthing-of words. Alexander, however, stands down. Stepping back and looking at his Schello instead. She had always pretended to be braver, although younger. A pebble of dirt pretending to be diamond. A house cat playing jaguar. Porter looks between the two people. On one side stands Alexander, whose purple eyes glow with a rage so ancient it feels like a physical heat, a monument to a fallen disgrace that refuses to stay buried. On the other is Isolde, half-submerged in the shadows of her own home, a woman woven out of flowers and lies. He is caught in the middle—the only one without a glow, and the only one without a mask.