The day had finally given in to the persistence of the night, the oppressive mist simmering in the cool evening. Ronan had settled in, laying on a weathered bedframe that had probably served as the bed proper for those who had previously inhabited Atlantis. It was uncomfortable, but after the chaos and morbid thrill of the lower level, it offered a kind of subtle peace. The second floor of Atlantis held no standout feature, it was simply an extension of the first floor, made solely for the purpose of going about daily domestic activities. One thing he did notice, was the fact that it was larger than the topmost floor, containing a lot more furniture too. But most of that furniture had been ravaged by time and the animalistic predators that Ronan had found prowling, leaving the space cluttered with debris. The hassle of cleaning it caused Ronan to get feverish. He would rather go down to the fourth floor right away if Khalifa had tried to force him into doing it.
Luckily, she hadn't. She alone had spent the last few hours trudging her injured body cleaning and reshaping the room to resemble what it might have been half an eternity ago. She moved most of the staples from the first floor, like the wooden beds and food items. Then scrubbed the stone until the brown spots had faded into the grey, and stacked the husks of broken wood into the corners. Ronan almost felt guilty for leaving to her all the work, but his scorched limbs needed rest.
With the stash of strangely well preserved ingredients they had found, Khalifa began cooking dinner in a kitchenette area. She set the charcoal stove into the alcove, watching it glow in a dim and steady orange. She had no idea which ingredients went together, so she would just mix them randomly with in water and see what happens. She chopped the red hardy tubers together with an iron rich minty green. They looked good side-by-side, so that was a promising start. She perused her catalogue, settling for beany seeds that popped when she threw them into heat.
Pretty soon, it radiated with fragrance, feeling the room with the hope that she had not prepared poison. The steam smelled earthy, dancing in the air with the souls of thick spices. The sauce turned into a viscous broth, simmering with an abundance of forest flavour. It was gratifying, marking the first warm meal they would eat in a month.
When the food seemed ready, Khalifa took it off the stove and Ronan sat up with much difficulty. They ate in silence, savouring the foreign flavours that sparked professional moans of pleasure. It was unlike anything they had every eaten– sharp, salty and deeply satisfying. Unable to find any spoons, they used their hands to scoop the broth, not caring about the primitivity or mess made. The meal flowed through them like battle seeds did, beginning a mending process that no bandage could rival.
Still, it would not be able to go the full stretch. But with the abundance of cores they had harvested, recovery did not seem impossible. It was a promise, assuring them that they were not to remain maps of bruises forever.
Khalifa eventually finished and laid on her bed beside Ronan's. She looked at the dim torch they had lit, feeling medieval for a moment. Her expression slowly changed from satisfied to grim.
"Do you still think it's possible to keep exploring the lower levels?" her voice started low, almost whispering. He turned to her, his bleary eyes reflecting the dim flickers of orange.
"I mean...the third floor wasn't exactly won. It took everything and a bit more scrapping to survive. If anyone of us had glanced away that the wrong moment, we'd be a part of the floor now."
Ronan huffed, frowning his weary face with a little too much strain. " But we aren't. There are cores now, Khalifa. That's currency that keeps others poor. Besides that, the hill has some importance. I'm sure of it. Like, just take a look at those massive vents."
Khalifa didn't protest. She had made up her mind against visiting a lower floor, and Ronan's shallow argument wouldn't do much to persuade her. She turned away from him, staring at the burning torch until sleep claimed her.
***
Pluto and Saul had finally found a shelter worthy of spending a night in. In the thicket of the wilderness, a tree so massive that it might as well have been called a vertical planet, stood tall. In adherence to the results of the coin flip, Pluto took the first watch while Saul rested in the boughs of the collosal plant.
The compression itself had grown relatively distant in the last week, but its effects were anything but that. It had localised the forest traffic, forcing growth upon everything that threaded its scape. Smaller predators had learnt to rely on their speed, and larger ones on strength. The line that once outlines the power gaps had blurred a bit as everything was becoming nightmarish.
Things that would shake countries to their cores happened with mundane frequency. Saul had been so preoccupied with the daily metrics of the forest that he hadn't noticed that Pluto had found ways to even out the attraction power of his mark. But even if he did, he would not care that much.
First of all, he had not recovered as much as he'd like, so constantly engaging in gruesome battles would only delay that process. Or worse, cause regression. Besides that, Saul had acknowledged a hard truth. Pluto had covered his back time and again. Even the sonic-groan attacker had wounded him, Pluto could have easily killed him or escaped and left him to the forest, but he didn't. And if Saul was even to kill Pluto, he would first repay the debt.
However, he didn't say anything about it to Pluto, leaving him in doubt and constantly weighing his odds. He kept watching Saul, observing his fighting style with unhinged intensity. He noted the human errors, the shift in posture when fatigue told on him, the way he parried and blocked. Day by Day, he catalogued his findings into his mental playbook, and eventually, he found a tell.
An instant before Saul was to strike, his shoulder would dip in the direction his intended to wound. It was the equivalent of a prophetic telegraph, but Pluto knew that even with the knowledge, he would be unable to react in time. So he had to get better.
Sleep blurred the shadows of the forest canopy, testing Pluto's resolve to keep awake. He swatted the insect that buzzed in his ear, desperately waiting for the hours to trickle by.
Eventually, Saul grunted awake, ready to take off the watch and relief Pluto. They passed by each other with a simple nod, acknowledging the fact that they had seen each other.
But the moment retreated into the bough to rest, the air suddenly changed. His mark came awake with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, driving hot into his shoulder with a searing white pulse. Pluto yelped, clutching his arm with force enough to rip it off.
In the distance, an army of predators roared agonisingly as if pierced by the same sting.
***
Far away, in the darkness room called prison, Thea's eyes snapped open with a scream, cried into the night as her mark flared just as hot.