tw: sexual assault attempt (non-explicit)

Ian lay on his room's metal bed. He curled on his side, facing the wall. Metal walls boxed him in the square, confined space, and another thin mattress stood across from him, the bedsheets tossed.

His roommate, slender and lean, brushed his brown hair back carefully and moisturized his lips. He straightened his collar. He stared at himself in the small hanging mirror in front of his bed—one of his few belongings.

In it reflected a thin, handsome young man that was wasting away his years.

His name was Lucian.

“Aren’t you going to get ready soon? The Culling is in an hour. Most will head down before that, in preparation for the guests.” He frowned when he turned his head, staring at the straight back of the other. He saw a scatter of bruises along his neck. “They hate bruises, you know that. You should’ve kept the fights to a minimum.”

“Because I ask to be beaten daily, of course,” retorted Ian with an air of sarcasm, rolling onto his back.

Lucian stiffened. “Well you can hardly blame them—look, even I only deal with you because we’ve been stuck together for years. You don’t have to talk back all the time if you don’t have the skills to back it up.”

Ian snorted and said nothing. In exasperation, Lucian shook his head, adjusted his collar again, and examined his appearance. He jammed his finger on the door button and it slid wide.

“Ian. Is this really the life you want to live?”

“We aren’t spoiled for choice.”

Lucian turned his head back a fraction, his soft hair brushed back on one side while the other drifted lightly over his alluring green eyes. There was a distant sorrow in his eyes, but it was always there. Simmering, waiting.

“No. But if this is the life we’ve been given, learn to surpass the system.”

He left without another word.

Ian slowly dragged his long legs over the bed, drowsily sitting up. He licked his lips and felt a sting of pain from where it was cut the day prior.

But his goal was never to remain invisible in this prison.

No, he wanted to be noticed. He wanted to be so fabulously pathetic and miserable, that the very thought of him being anything more would make anybody laugh.

For twelve years, he endured. He laughed, touching the slice on his lips lightly. An F-rated guide would rarely be chosen to support the Espers in battle. He manipulated his test results too, on the off-chance he would match with somebody.

But the Culling was a different opportunity—a time of intimacy beyond the battlefield, a chance of connection that could lead to many more benefits.

A chance to go to the surface.

Although they were periodically tested for compatibility with listed Espers, and lower-level Guides were often shipped away, it was rare. One either had to have a fabulously low-level and degraded as a product or a match rate so high that it became a life-or-death matter.

After all, guiding was more successfully done with the consent of the Guide, than without.

But Ian had to choose carefully. He brought his face to his palms, taking a deep breath.

The perfect candidate was somebody who didn’t really care for him—neither infatuated or interested, but compatible enough to desire his abilities. A person neither curious nor suspicious.

Somebody, he wouldn’t feel sorry to ruin or betray.

He stood, unbuttoning his shirt and changing into a clean, white button-up. He left the top two undone, loosely draping a tie over his neck. They were allowed the grace of fashion, only there, only to dress them up.

He wasn’t particularly delicate nor charming, and his long hair didn’t grant a gentle touch, but a wild, disobedient nature. He was no overwhelming beauty, that he knew well. That he utilized.

To be a successful guide, or successful in an institution that trained, molded, and manipulated them into conforming to a certain ideal, they were to be desirable, powerful, and skilled. They were to be everything that he was not.

Everything others believe he wasn’t.

He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, reflecting fragments of his appearance. Lucian never replaced it because he stood a little shorter, viewing himself against the smooth plane.

Lucian, the poor fool, was a hard worker most likely to reach greater heights. He was desirable and an S-ranked guide who excelled at soothing the chaos that stirred within the depths of an Esper.

Only he was granted the mercy of choice, with many seeking his attention, and spoiled with options. Lucian stayed, here in the institution even though Ian knew he desperately longed for the light.

He didn’t want to wonder why. The person he wanted to understand and love had already left a long time ago.

He turned away from the broken mirror, stepping through the door and towards the hall. The one room that had a touch of life, drinks lining the wall as bodies and debauchery unfolded into the night.

It mimicked the old scenes of clubbing when the earth had been whole—he was sure there still existed bars and such in the upper city, filled to the brim with the rich and the greedy. Mockeries of what had once been to forget that it was no longer.

Lucian always believed it was because in that atmosphere, among the clashing lowlights and colours that bled together, blurring sight and mind, allowed the greatest freedom to both sides.

Ian disagreed. The provocative music, the endless glass bottles that lined the wall in that large yet small space with no escape seemed like a cage.

A cage that allowed predators to peek inside and take their desired pickings.

A cage that gave them the illusion of choice, of things being ‘right’ and in place, allowing no room to question the morality and autonomy of their lives.

He stepped by the door to the Spade room, one of four. The guides were allocated to different rooms, organized by popularity and temperament. It made it easier for the Espers to disperse and find their prey.

He raised his wrist where an electronic watch locked around, like a single handcuff. He tilted the square surface to the door lock, and it flashed red, beeping.

The Guides were given the entrance lock. But only the Espers had the exit.

His nose twitched at the pungent stench of alcohol in the air, bodies colliding together on a dance floor. Already, there were those already intertwined, faces pressed together.

He steered towards the bar which held several dark red seats, beside a slant that led down to the dancing.

The Guides often looked forward to the Culling. It was a night to let loose, to drink and have their freedom. Ian’s eyes slid to the watch fastened around his wrist, the watch that would not allow him to leave once entering.

He ordered a shot of tequila, and the mechanic server slid a glass across the polished wood without a word. They were poor company—he’d tried conversing with one in his youth, but they could only respond in single words.

His dark history. She’d laughed at him when she found him, curled in a dark corner with red eyes after being scolded, talking to a robot with a scowl.

Ian’s head buzzed. He pressed the artificial lime against his teeth, feeling the sourness tickle his mouth before he tossed his head back, the drink sliding down like liquid fire.

“Another,” his muted voice demanded, and the robot obeyed.

Tonight, the Guides were allowed to do anything. Anything except escape.

He drank until the liquid pooled in his stomach like a burning, boiling lake and his head spun. Nobody approached him—expectedly so. His records weren’t impressive, and his appearance was less delicate than many preferred.

But he didn’t need somebody to choose him—he would choose somebody.

Every Culling he did, an attempt to find the perfect target, and after a night of loose inhibition they would wake to a cold bed.

See, the Guides were expected to fulfill their duty. But nobody said anything about leaving once that duty was filled. Often, his target would be too drunk to remember his appearance, and even if they had a fondness for him, they would hardly know where to look.

He was the phantom of many debauched nights, escaping after the throes of one-sided pleasure—and it was never his.

He slammed the glass on the table, ready to mingle on the dance floor when he saw a familiar slender figure, struggling against a large body. The Esper grabbed Lucian, pulling him towards the door.

In the flashing lights, Ian saw a smudge of a developing bruise on Lucian’s wrists. A nerve ticked on his jaw.

His eyes scanned the crowd. Most were already lost in the haze of the Culling, choosing partners and shoving against each other as if trying to melt into their skin. He scrunched his nose.

Ian slowly trudged towards the door with a stumble, hooking his collar as a button came undone, revealing deep-set collarbones. A touch of wine spilled on his clothes, trickling down his neck as his raven hair spilled around his body.

A tall, broad-shouldered man bumped into him. Ian felt the wandering hands lightly land on his backside, giving a light squeeze.

His eye twitched as he bit his tongue to prevent a filthy retort.

“Hey little Guide, have you had a little too much to drink? Why don’t I help you feel better, hm?” The voice was deep but a little nasally. Ian mentally rated it a 4.3 out of 10. The hands squeezed his butt painfully and he almost shouted.

Was this man trying to tear it off? He would be left as a Guide with only one pitiful cheek remaining.

He coughed, mumbling under his breath with a faint, breathy nod. Although he didn’t attract others at a glance, his drunken appearance which gave weakness to the taller, aggressive appearance attracted a few perverts.

He allowed the man to manhandle him as the keypad beeped in recognition, and they slowly turned down the hall towards the bathrooms.

‘Not even a bedroom… what an uncultured pervert.’

Ian clicked his tongue in his mind. If he were to spend a night with a man, sacrificing his expensive assets, he would rather it be a handsome man. Or a skilled man. This man was neither, although his body barely gave him passing marks.

Thankfully, it wasn’t his goal at this moment. The bathroom doors slid open after a beep, and Ian slumped against the metal sink.