Zone 5-C housed the poorest in the base. Zones 2 - 5 sectioned around the center, divided into regions that could be handled in case of an outbreak or the appearance of a Rift. In the past, the protocol was to eliminate the entire section in case exposure to the Rift led to a mutation.

Zones 2 - 4 divided into three sections surrounding the center, while Zone 5 formed the outer ring at the highest risk of elimination.

Once an Infected appeared, it would continue to spread like wildfire.

Thankfully, symptoms appeared quickly in all recorded cases. Those returning from missions outside would be isolated in Zone 5–where the sacrifice would be minimal, not in quantity but in quality.

The train rumbled into a torn station fastened with scraps. The lights flicked wildly along the filth-covered walls, rusted and covered in cobwebs.

He walked towards the fenced gates bordering the station, blocking the cement staircase leading to surface level. A guard was stationed behind a glass screen, lazily glancing at him with a yawn.

“Identification?”

Ian stood there blankly and the guard sighed, shaking his head with irritation. “What’s wrong with you? Scan your band underneath there—“ He nodded at the flickering scanner positioned over a small gap in the window. “Hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”

The Esper had changed Ian into regular clothes—loose jeans and a slightly oversized black windbreaker. His shirt was tight around his chest, strapped with a harness that kept two blades at his back, hidden underneath the jacket.

He didn’t know how to use knives, but the Esper had said he’d have a guilty conscience leaving him weaponless.

Ian didn’t think that was possible. As if that bastard knew guilt.

He pushed his wrist underneath, hearing the dull beep of the scanner. The guard squinted at his old monitor, coughing.

“Coming from Zone 1? Guide F-28–what does that mean?” He sneered, fiddling with a small cylinder in his fingers. A puff of smoke filled the space and Ian’s nose wrinkled as wisps slipped out. “Looks like you were abandoned by your Esper, little Guide? A migration to this zone can’t mean anything else.”

Ian stared unblinkingly, his cold black eyes unnerving. F-28, unknown. That fact registered in his mind. It was the facility’s method of identifying Guides—

—but did society not know of their existence?

His eyes flickered with uncertainty. The guard’s attitude told of the discrimination, but the air ghosted through the fence and prickled against Ian’s skin. Too many unknowns. In the facility he was strong—he knew the layouts, the location of every camera, the attitude and the hierarchy.

“Where do I go to make money?”

The guard blinked at the abrupt question before throwing his head back with a guffaw. “Ha! What pretty cage have you wandered from? The base runs on a point system. Here, most take on outside missions to get by—though that’s hardly suitable for a solo guide.”

Then, the guard leaned closer to the window with his square jaw covered in stubble. He blew out a puff, smoke seeping from the gap underneath.

“You’re a little on the more muscular side, ey? Not too bad, a bit simple but it’s better that way, ain’t it?” He coughed, waving his hand. Ian’s pitch-black eyes stared back, like bottomless pools of the abyss. The guard frowned. “Your eyes though, little guide, could sell for a pretty penny.”

Ian considered it, running a finger over his eyelid and brushing against his dense lashes. How painful would it be to pop it out? He was a poor, penniless man now, and the poor could only remain so, or use all resources available. All he had was himself.

The guard licked his lips. “How ‘bout this? My shift is done in say, an hour or two. You wait here, and I’ll treat you to a nice meal that’ll keep you full for days.”

He wriggled his short, fat fingers between the gap suggestively.

Ian lowered his eyes, flicking them back up. Then, in the blink of an eye, a blade slammed onto the counter with lightning speed, narrowly missing the guard’s fingers.

The booth trembled violently, and the guard froze in horror, feeling the slice of the sharpened blade scraping a thin layer of skin.

His breath caught and he choked on the smoke still in his throat.

The simple Guide, tall and muscular, regarded him calmly. He leaned in, holding the hilt of the blade and looked a little mournful.

“You’re too fucking ugly.” Disgust swarmed in his gaze, and in the sea of black ink, nothing was disguised. Ian pulled away, yanking the blade that had embedded the counter slightly. “Just looking is enough to make me want to hollow out my stomach.”

The crude words were spoken with the sharp edge of a blade, every word enunciated. The guard came to his senses, trembling with rage as he slammed his fist into the glass barrier.

“You fucking—I’ll wash your mouth with soap you good for nothing Guide!”

Ian already turned away, ignoring the shouting behind him. By the time the guard could escape the little box, he’d already be a distance away. Abandoning post could result in punishment.

Anyway—Ian’s eyes flicked to the blade held securely in his hand—it wasn’t a bad weapon. He could see why Lucian favoured it.

He decided against his original plan of tossing it later.

He left the station, passing the cracked walls that were dusted with dark hues of moss and dirt. Ants gathered in the corner over a rotten apple core.

Zone 1, with the furthest development, had a magnificent city with towering buildings, made and scraped together of old materials, broken buildings and the ones that remained standing still. The electromagnetic field created a dome over the entire base, limiting the infiltration of mutations or disease that may escape the Rifts.

Zone 5-C was the lowest point of living. Buildings stacked on top of each other, bleeding into another, broken and old lights strung together from building to building to create a glimpse of brightness when the night fell.

It was the zone of old things—ratted tarps and blankets hung high to create shelter, chipped wood holding unsteady structures.

Ian continued walking for a while, ignoring the curious gazes that attached to his black jacket, free of grime.

He walked underneath tattered flags poking out of broken windows, through arches tilted at random spots along the sidewalk—if the sidewalk existed. There were people curled along the drains, clutching a blanket to their chest or nursing a loaf of stale bread.

He didn’t linger, didn’t cast a second look of pity.

But he looked—his clear, black pupils took in the scene before him. This was the surface—the lowest point in the base. In this place named Humanity’s Last Defense.

Of course, there were boundless worlds outside and other bases that met less success, less development, but perhaps they were happier. There might be those who survived the Rifts and Infected, retreating underground.

All the unknowns haunted him, a phantom of possibility lingering.

There was so much caving over him, and when he looked up at the skies—at the wisping clouds that streaked across the pale blue skies as if everything were right in the world, he felt as if he were trapped in a glass dome.

The crescent moon and the rich red glaring sun remained firm in the skies, sitting a distance apart.

A black trail followed the clouds' edges, polluting sections of the clear canvas.

But for Ian, this was the sky.

This was a whole, entire world.