#(threads; sonnenreich Zeev)

[hochmvt]

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.”

⸻ 𝐖𝐄'𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌. / @hochmvt

Thick, lush green grasses swayed gently in the spring breeze, though there was no higher reason anymore in differentiating between the seasons. In the warmest days of summer a sudden blizzard could occur, in the former cosy coldness of autumn, there were occasional outbursts of blossoming greenery and whenever it rained it poured. The grass tingled under his hands as their dampness got in contact with the nerve ends of his palms. Lost in thought, he looked at his fingertips and rubbed them together, the morning dew leaving tiny red streaks that irritated his skin and reminded him not to touch his face. Slowly, almost reverently, he pulled a cloth from his breast pocket and wiped his hands dry. Some of the fibrous cloth's stitches had already come loose, showing how the frequent use was straining the fabric and slowly but surely decomposing the handmade product. It was no comparison to the acid rain, unbeaten in its intensity and danger. However, the sky was blue and somehow he felt safe, enraptured by the soft warm blanket of the sun's might. Some saw her as a traitor, others knew she was a victim. Zeev had never felt betrayed by the universe, which was a surprising statement to admit. 

The Great Eclipse, or as the scientists call it: the Blackout, had changed the world from one day to the next. Technically, it had been the same day, but it ended entirely differently. A total eclipse, a natural rare astronomical event, dependent on time and location, occurred two years ago, visible for the western hemisphere—but despite its invisibility for the eastern part of the world, had impacted every speck of the earth. Much like the big assumption of 2012, the anticipated event had caused a stir in much the same fashion. The end of the world, foretold by some, doubted by many, but for once the ones who had been deemed delusional were right. In some way, at least. In Zeev's eyes, the world seemed very much alive, but it had changed nonetheless. Within the glimpse of a moment, wrapped in darkness as the moon covered the sun, parts of humankind had vanished. Entire civilizations were left inhabited, families were ripped apart. The rain that followed did the rest to most, skinning them alive and leaving nothing but acid remnants, as if the sky had cried tears of bitterness and wrath, angered by something it didn't tell the rest of the world. The result of climate change to some, a cosmic doom to others. Suddenly, scientists listened to former conspiracy theorists, but both were faced by a development that seemed to have no real answer to their questions. 

With time, the last survivors who hadn't given up on their lives, found refuge in bunkers underneath the earth, some had turned to organisations trying to rebuild what had been lost, while some just waited. Waiting for a life that most likely wouldn't come.

Truth be told, though, Zeev didn’t remember much of how it had been, considering the lack of memory regarding the past. He knew something, but it felt strangely detached. As if it were myths and legends that had been told to him like a bedtime story, filling his blonde head with fantasies of a life as it used to be, while he had been flowing with a much different tide. Perhaps it was his way to cope with the loss, to avoid the ever lingering question of why, as he, alone and powerless, wouldn’t be able to change the cause of events anyway. Why look at the past, when the rocky hills of surrounding mountains, the high growing trees of the woodlands and lucious fields of seemingly endless acres lay right before his eyes? A wide and vast freedom of nothingness and all at once. Somewhere to find yourself and lose yourself along the way entirely alike. 

Touched by the sun, lungs filled with itching molecules within the oxygen, Zeev was aware once more why the empty fields were called lonesome. It hadn't been like that before. Zeev didn't know why, he just knew that. He remembered presences, feelings—something attached to faceless arrays of energy. A family he can't name, but he knows that has abandoned him. He couldn't blame them, hate them, feel guilty for or sorry with. He was devoid of any emotional connection except one: loss. A feeling so deep, it twisted his heart and left him breathless, urging him to move forward in a world where nothing seemed to follow a reachable goal. 

He struggled to his feet and followed a path that was invisible, overgrown by nature and muddy soil. Zeev had no place to retreat to, so he went wherever he was welcomed. Which was a rather laborious effort and usually took hours of wandering. Sometimes he found shelter in dilapidated buildings, remnants of a civilization that had crumbled so tremendously in just 700 days that it was hard to imagine it had ever been different. It was essential for the blond to keep an eye on the weather and seek shelter early, before even the hint of a drop swirled through the air. Every now and then he came across equipment on his way, too careless to muster up enough compassion to wonder whether it still belonged to a living person or not. The umbrella on his backpack, whose material he couldn't even name, was marked with a symbol he knew very well.

The Meridian Technology Corporation, which had been considered innovative and progressive long before the Blackout, had risen to the top of the food chain after Day 0. When Americans spoke of science, Meritech had always been mentioned in hushed tones, with equal parts admiration and reserve. The future of the world, the progress of humanity, has been the fuel of research, without ignoring the state of the earth and the impact of society in these matters. Diseases, greenhouse gases, climate change, changes in living conditions and world hunger. MeriTech presumably had tried to find a solution to all these problems. Perhaps it was a testament to megalomania, the desire to be a savior who achieved god status. In a way, they had failed and won on all levels—because now MeriTech seemed to have become humanity's only hope. As quickly as they had created shelters and developed concepts of reconstruction, evil tongues could claim that they had seen it all coming. But no matter how bitterly they were confronted, they were literally all they had left. 

The Meridian Corporation, however, was too broad and large a concept to be tangible to the remnants of the general public, and while they addressed all concerns of current conditions, they established a sub-organization dedicated solely to new world research: Project Failsafe.

Their research didn't just entail the possibility of using the acid rain and how to reverse it, the reason why the weather seemed to be indecisive or why people had disappeared without anyone noticing—after the Great Eclipse something else had happened, too. Something that was far more confusing and raising questions than weather ever could.

On some parts, changing with the wind and unpredictable like the outburst of sudden cones of sunlight between stratus clouds, one was able to see black lines reaching into the sky, moving like loose umbilical cords. In the beginning, they were just a phenomenon, seemingly leading to nothing like a colourful rainbow. But unlike the legendary and non existing pot of gold, they pointed at areas everyone needed to keep their distance from. 

While humankind had disappeared, something else had come to existence. 

The wailing of something invisible, of something that is there and simultaneously is not. A fragile structure that, if stirred, unleashes the full asset of antimatter and creates a chaos that Failsafe considers a so-called Voidout, a reaction to an action like a Newton Cradle that can't be avoided nor prevented when started. Humankind had been unable to identify the entities that were attached to the black cords for the longest time, not even aware of their existence except of their widespread destruction and deadliness when disrupted. That hadn't changed much, however, Failsafe—during their long search for willing scouts and volunteers for their cause—had found people with abilities that were as unexplainable as the events that had shaken their home planet. 

Those people have been branded W.I.T.C.H, a necessary shortened down acronym translated to: Warpstream Intelligence for Transdimensional Contact and Hyperawareness. Humans with the ability to see beyond the confines of common perception, who were able to foretell the change of the weather and its upcoming danger, who seemed to be able to sense the tune of an earth that had become a stranger to most—but above all, were connected to the cosmic sources. They were able to see the beings clearly, who appeared and disappeared like the tide. With Witches, and considering the ever falling numbers of humans left it wasn't truly necessary to mention that those were rare, MeriTech had been able to not only make progress in their endeavours, they also managed to come to some conclusions. One of which was the impingement of cosmic influences. The entities looked somewhat human, as far as they could believe those who had tried to assist them, but they most likely weren't.

Witches were rare and with the promise of a better future, they were of high importance for their cause. Unfortunately, if you play with fire to this extent, you get burned sooner than later. And most had turned to the ashes at the stakes they had been forced to build themselves. 

And Zeev truly didn't want to be reduced to a means to an end. He had dipped out weeks after he had assumed to have found safety and meaning in a mess he couldn't understand. At that time, he had thought his abilities weren't very special, until they had told him differently. At first, that revelation had been uplifting, motivating and in some egoistical way filling him with pride and an arrogant self-confidence—until, in reality, he was nothing more but a mere plaything they sent out in the name of science, just to risk his life. Zeev didn't mind helping, but if the burn scar that resembled a sun on his palm was any indicator, his survival meant little in the greater scheme of things. 

And he had goals of his own. Goals more important in his eyes than the survival of people he didn't know. In a sense, he was still pridefully egoistical, but there was little he had of his own anyway. If being alive was all there was, he wanted to live on his own terms. Still, being on your own for the longest time turned one wary of one another, especially when being who he was.

And so the day had came when Zeev, with a group of scientists and an armed escort—although firearms only suggested a false sense of security—had been led to a place where a high density of antimatter had been measured. In the end, they only had to follow the tracks in the sky and the instinct that Zeev possessed like no one else. That day at the latest, the Witcher had realised that his cooperation with Failsafe was not voluntary and that the escort was not necessarily for his safety, but to prevent an escape. What they hadn't reckoned with was the lengths he would go to in order to ensure his freedom and that they, in their blindness, were inferior to his abilities. He was unable to stand up to their multitude and power, but the supernatural apparitions could—so he had taken advantage of them. His escape had not been without danger and he was lucky to have done so without as much as a scratch. If fortunate enough, MeriTech thought he was dead, as was everyone who had gone to this cosmic event that day. Zeev was not proud of what he had to do, but there was no room for regret in this world any longer. 

Since then, Zeev tried to keep his heritage hidden, which wasn’t the hardest task to succeed in. The rare encounters never went deeper than smalltalk, everyone too wary of one another to put too much trust into each other and therefore as fleeting and forgetting as any dull day within grey walls built by a company that served as much as it took. MeriTech had created a network that only functioned under their supervision. All remaining people were dependent on their work and the mercy that their care brought to light. An unspoken propaganda, a loyalty without alternative was the result of a pervasive hopelessness. Anyone who wanted to survive inevitably had to stand up for MeriTech. In principle, Zeev would probably have found fulfilment in that if he wasn't who he was and thus, he felt more alone than anyone. Unable to stay in one place, even if the company felt soothing for a change. Afraid he might be forced back into the care of the company.

Wherever Zeev was really walking towards, not even his instincts could tell him, and more often than he would have liked, he was just wandering because it felt right to keep moving. In places he had been, run-down towns and deserted forests, he had not found what he was looking for and the answers had not yet opened up in front of his eyes like the clearing of the sky. So he wandered without a destination, driven only by the knowledge that somewhere, with all the luck he potentially had left, he might stumble upon something that felt like progress. 

To conserve his resources, he rarely used the breathing mask and the oxygen canister that came with it, a rare commodity that he could only obtain from a few fallen travellers, unable to recharge the canisters at MeriTech's collection points and use them for safe travel. The air was not necessarily bad, but over time the acidity of the humidity took its toll. 

The roughness of the terrain was sapping his strength, and as the day wore on, it became increasingly difficult for him to keep his concentration up and his eyes open. Zeev skirted mostly around the high mountain landscape, roaming instead through the nearby forests that had once been known as the Appalachians. The new weather conditions had literally diminished the appearance in places, creating craters out of mountains and cutting a swathe through the lowlands. Bare serpentines wound their way up to the peaks and promised the same as after every other milestone of his hikes. Fallow nothingness, devoid of human life or the possibility of creating any. The only signs that there was a spark of life anywhere were MeriTech's excavations, old and abandoned scaffoldings that were supposed to be used for research before being left behind due to lack of results..

The smell of ozone filled the air and Zeev turned his gaze to the sky, watching the colours of the sun as they refracted in the distant water droplets, shimmering with grim promises as the star sank lower. Zeev had to decide, moving upwards, slowing down, and hoping for shelter or darting fast through the open, diminished fields with no cover in sight. The umbrella he carried would only hold off a little and the suit he wore would soon need repairing. In the end, he decided for the latter and for another time, luck seemed to be on his side. 

His eyes were only human in regards to earthly conditions, hence he hadn’t seen what lay beyond a hill along his way. Relief flooded through him when he spotted the characteristic grey structure of a MeriTech bunker. An unhoisted flagpole, indicating an absence of habitants and thus posing no threat to him, peeked out from behind the lush green hill. His gait slowed and he allowed the exhaustion to unfold, saturating his steps and taking away his sense of purpose. The entrances to the bunker reminded him of the wide-open mouths of whales feasting on krill. Not that he could remember ever having seen anything like it, but it was his first association. The firm concrete ground caused his skull to shake, while the soft grassland had cushioned his every step in comparison. Sighing, he slumped his shoulders and circled his head on his neck, about to pull a stranger’s keycard out of his pocket, when he noticed a rucksack.

Tattered, but no doubt not too old to be considered abandoned. 

Interested and curious, he took a look inside. A few tinned foods, a bottle or two of water with MeriTech's logo, writing utensils and laundry. Before Zeev could consider taking the food and drink, he glanced back so as not to get into an awkward predicament and make a bad first impression on the person he wanted to pray to for a place to stay for the night and be sheltered from the approaching storm. At first he didn't spot anyone, so he straightened up and stepped outside. 

And then he did.

A good three-hundred feet away from the bunker, sitting on a rise, resting on a collection of boulders.

They just sat there drawing, or so Zeev thought, which was an odd sight to begin with, but also something surprisingly relaxing. Every now and then they presumably checked the time, pulled out binoculars, chewed on the flat end of their pencil when in thought and then continued to scribble down something. Zeev couldn’t help but keep staring. Especially since he was trying to fathom if the person was safe to be approached. Zeev was in dire need of resting and he had learned to take every opportunity when given. The chance of coming across another bunker within the next hour—let alone one unoccupied—was below zero. 

His first impulse was to go to them, to speak to another person, to feel the hoarseness of his own voice that he hadn't used for so long, to hear what they were doing and what they were looking for. A feeling of happiness as strong as the urge to sleep, but he held back and stood rooted to the spot. From experience, he left a friendly and welcoming impression on others who, like him, often succumbed to their loneliness. Nevertheless, he decided to wait until the person would start moving and see what their first reaction would be. Should the person be hostile against all expectations, he would at least still have the element of surprise. Minutes flew by and Zeev sat down at the edge of the bunker, knees bent and head leaning against the solid wall, which was cracked and crumbling due to the precipitation. He took off his mask for comfort and hissed briefly as the air scratched his throat. For a long time, he watched the person he identified as male as he performed the same procedures over and over again. Watching, observing, scribbling. Watching, observing, scribbling. There was something strangely calming about it, Zeev had to admit. The stranger was relaxed in a way he had rarely seen. As if he was exactly where he wanted to be. The longer he looked at him, the more Zeev wondered what he was even doing out here. Failsafe rarely acted alone and the scouts were usually not in one spot for a long period of time. Who was he observing for?

Suddenly, his body shook itself to the core, wiping out all air from his lungs, causing his body to tremble and heave. Every tiny hair on his body stood up, numbing and sharpening senses alike—and he rose to his feet within seconds, black spots dancing across his field of view in the process. Black lines fell from the sky like wet paint, changing the landscape from peaceful beauty to dawning danger. The bodies of seemingly sedated people came into view, connected to the cords that reached far beyond the clouds. Sometimes, it wasn’t hard to believe they were just peacefully asleep. Zeev, however, had seen what they were like when stirred awake. He wasn’t sure if the stranger could see them, too.

In awe, the guy's notebook fell to the ground, which he hurriedly saved off the ground, not wanting to risk its decomposition, Zeev assumed. His excitement was both fascinating as it was worrisome to witness. 

“What in the sun's name are you doing?,” Zeev muttered under his breath, his voice muffled by the mask he covered half his face with again. And before he knew it, he was moving forward, to the male that willingly and too curious for his own good, did the same—towards a catastrophe—instead of retreating to the safehouse.

[mikaels0n-elijah-writing]

While the other considered what he wanted and how he was going to deal with it, Elijah looked around the rooms with mild interest. He had no love for witch rooms, they were full of dangerous stuff that could go off at any time and knock him unconscious. Besides, he constantly had the feeling that something was staring at him, just itching for him to take a wrong step, to get too close to one of the shelves. He knew these were just fantasies, but he wasn't a magician. He hadn't inherited his mother's skills or interest. His brother, on the other hand, loved magic much more. For Elijah, other things were of more interest. Zeev's sigh, for example.

The vampire took the outstretched hand and gave it a quick, firm squeeze before pulling it back. The man did not agree with what he was doing here. It literally got to him and darkened his eyes a little. But he gave in. Because at the moment, owing Elijah was the best way out than dealing with witch hunters who could be dangerous. More dangerous than the vampire at the moment.

“You'd have to find out who the ringleader is. Who is the driving force behind wanting to chase you away or worse?” He tilted his head to the side for a brief moment, watching Zeev's facial expressions at his own words. “Is there anyone you'd trust to do that?” The sorcerer could probably think of a few names that could be dangerous to him, but who went that far? That was still another topic. Elijah knew this. Someone was goading. Someone was leading. “Smart hunters are the same. They observe and isolate. They found a way to get the victim alone.

“It would probably be best to catch one of them then and ask a few questions.” Elijah openly showed here that he was interested in conversation and not in killing immediately. That he was more civilized than a vampire would ever be given credit for.

The witcher had to give Elijah credit for one thing: his calm and chosen way of expressing himself triggered an equal feeling of serenity in Zeev. One that was not unfamiliar to him. Aside from the outward appearances, in which the witcher recognised much of himself, even if it was only the tailored suit, it was also the self-possession and level-headedness he exuded. It was as if there was nothing — or very little — that could upset the other. Zeev was not too naïve to surmise that this was clearly in keeping with his self-assured superiority. Something he would not judge him for under any circumstances, for it was undoubtedly arrogance based on fact. Anyone who was aware of their strengths and weaknesses could allow themselves this confidence, and as far as Zeev could tell, Elijah had gained more than enough experience in his long life to be more than certain of it. 

A fact that the witcher found admirable, but which did not dissuade him from the caution he wore like a protective cloak. Being in the debt of another harboured dangers that he would only be aware of when Elijah claimed them. Zeev fulfilled wishes, devoted himself to the suffering of desperate people. In contrast to Elijah, however, these were always quite superficial and their consequences were assessable. Zeev could only categorise what a man who harboured superhumanity himself might ask of him as morally questionable. He certainly wouldn't ask for a favour that he could solve with a simple wave of his hand. It would draw circles Zeev wasn't sure he could bear the consequences of. Or wanted to. 

Unfortunately, however, Zeev found himself in an increasingly hopeless situation. He had already confronted unruly villagers and successfully dissuaded them from their destructive ways — the price had already cost him everything. But now finding himself in the crosshairs of so-called witch hunters was a completely new experience and a frightening one at that. Their threat surpassed anything the witcher had ever experienced before. Rejecting the vampire's help would undoubtedly leave him vulnerable. Accepting it would only postpone this state to a later date. 

For Zeev, it was only a matter of deciding whether he wanted more time to brace himself for an inevitable danger, or whether he should face it now, with fading hope of victory. Zeev was neither a fighter nor willing to become one.

He sighed in defeat, extending his hand in an old fashioned manner of acceptance. “Fine, Elijah,” he sighed, obviously not on par with his own decision. “What are you going to do about the danger at hand? Do you have experience with witch hunters?”

[mikaels0n-elijah-writing]

Elijah took it as a good sign that the sorcerer did not immediately accept his offer. It meant he wasn't a fool and didn't fully trust the vampire. Nobody was supposed to do that except his family. Even if he didn't put that on anyone.

„Well, you're obviously hesitating at the obvious possibility,“ the ancient vampire remarked (one of the first vampires ever), clicking his tongue. „I can manipulate them into not attacking you. Fainting is also an option if you refuse to die.“ Then he put his hands in his jacket pocket. He was a well-dressed man, liked to be conspicuous with his suits. They fitted perfectly. „If a death can be avoided, I will always prefer this way.“ You had to hand it to the vampire. He relied on negotiation and trust. Even if many didn't see it the same way.

„I don't want anything in return for now. I just think it's good to have a favour to spare with a sorcerer. It can help in difficult situations.“ Elijah was honest and open in that regard as well. It wouldn't be the first sorcerer he'd had to ask for favours.

“I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me.” @mikaels0n-elijah-writing said.

Unfortunately, Zeev had had little contact with vampires so far, and from what he thought he knew about them, that probably wasn't really a bad thing. However, it also meant that he was working with preconceptions taken from scary stories humans had written. As a witch, he knew that stories were usually nothing more than exaggerated lore born of fear and ignorance. He'd be damned if he was going to be guided by them and keep his distance from something that was essentially just unbeknownst to him. His curiosity was stronger than his instinct for self-preservation anyway. And so far, as worrisome as it might be, Elijah had been nothing but courteous. Even offering his help. Strange, no one had ever done that before. 

“That’s… very kind of you, but I’m afraid to ask how you are thinking about keeping me safe.” A slight snicker erupted him, shaking his head in amusement. Considering the all are afraid of me part, it drew a pretty solid picture in how the brunette would achieve any sort of safety. As much as the sentiment was touching, it was also instilling discomfort in the other. Even though Zeev wouldn’t consider himself an entirely good person — due to his rather questionable line of work — he still wasn’t up to leaving a line of bloodless corpses. “However,” he hummed. “Having a guard does sound quite festive, but as far as I know, nothing comes without a price. So what are you asking for in return?”