.:ᴀᴠᴇɴᴏɪʀ:.
[REBELS AGAINST GOD]
—002 : seven days since—
Six days had passed since the day he made the deal.
Gray sits in his compartment, a makeshift jail cell, stripped away of the rusted bars and dank, grim interior. The inside was bright, smooth walls gleaming white. No painted bricks or cement slabs to carve tallies into. To etch there scribbly lines, indicating how many days he had survived so far. Quite spacious. It includes a lot of what the young man remembers was in his house, before the incident happened.
He remembers things like vintage skirts with floral patterns. Blue.
(But it didn't have the fragrant scent of her newly-washed old clothes that were stacked away in the drawers, fading away piece by piece.)
Things like gold-and-brown picture frames and leaves that lean up to kiss the summer sky.
(Not the slightly scratched picture of them—shakily taken but he treasures it, always—with his arm around her and her blue dress and that big sycamore tree in the back.)
Stirring blankets. Frail sunshine that threatened to seep through closed curtains.
(Not her saccharine smile that used to greet him every morning.
It didn't have everything he needs.)
The meals were edible, and that was all. Just enough so he could stay alive. That seems to be all they want.
Gray notices the tracker clipped tightly to his left ankle. He looks up at the silvery-white light on the ceiling. He didn't like it. He missed the morning light that tried to pry open his eyelids while he buried himself deeper into the covers, into her.
Just who is she to me?
And he hates how he has finished the puzzle already, but there's one piece left. One piece off to the side, and it didn't fit anywhere.
Who was I to her…?
"Greetings, Patient #0117."
He dreams of the smell of crepes—a whiff of them being slightly burnt. He dreams of panes of sky, behind a cloudy window. He dreams of…
"Patient #0117."
Gray reluctantly opens his eyes at the irritated tone. He groggily scowls at whoever intruded on him. A dark figure stands outside his compartment, dressed in white with a helmet-like object obstructing most of her head and face. He can make out brown eyes that look almost warm under the icy light.
Almost.
"Patient #0117, you may follow me," the young woman instructs, voice unwavering monotone, slightly distorted through an altering machine it seemed, but laced with something different. Hints of the same thing the man in the mask had when he spoke. Human.
The raven-haired man slams his hand on the side of his bed and heaves himself up. "And who the hell are you?"
She remains calm, albeit not doing a very good job of hiding her annoyance. That annoyance made Gray feel a flutter of something he didn't think he would—relief in this one-dimensional world.
"A mentor. I'm taking care of you and monitoring you from now on." Her dark cocoa eyes flashed coldly under the dark grey face shield. "Mostly monitoring."
Gray scoffs and turns away. "I don't need a mentor. Run off."
She doesn't flinch. "Commander's orders."
"Then tell your commander that these are the patient's orders." Gray eyes her through his slitted peripheral vision.
Stubborn one, she thinks, her patience quickly erupting into sparks, almost as if flames were radiating from her body.
"You will cooperate, or else." The woman lifts her chin slightly and stares down at him assertively. "Or do you not take your promise to heart?"
How does she know about the deal? Gray's eyes widen and frost spreads in his veins. Just who is this person? Another guard?
"Well, Miss Mentor Lady," the raven-haired man spins around and marches towards her, "has anyone told you it's not polite for a stranger to just charge in and interrupt someone and expect them to go with you?"
She stands there, still and unwavering with her arms across her chest. He can sense the aggravation. "You are the lesser one, and the inferior will abide by the superior's orders."
She's hiding it quite well, Gray remarks in his mind, his white coat tied lazily around his waist, his chiseled abs well-defined under the heavily contrasted light. But not well enough.
"I have enough respect for myself not to," the young man chuckles frigidly. "What am I to you people, an object?"
"Patients are exactly that." She advances nearer. "Masked under a politer name, sure, but you are nothing but a test subject. Something kept alive long enough to give us the answers we need. I have power over you and I can and will go to extreme measures to—"
All of a sudden, he lashes out, swift and skilled movements through clenched teeth and dark eyes. His fist, however, never ends up making contact with the suit-clad woman.
He feels a hand, delicate but powerful, impact his own closed one in mid-air. He sees her cocoa eyes, indifferent and collected. What happens next—his body being spun around, his arms twisted violently behind his back, being pushed into the wall with a force from someone he previously underestimated and pinned for at least ten seconds—was an all-too-quick blur.
Her face is masked but it is as if his hairs were standing up from a chillingly hot breath on his neck.
She says it in a this-is-the-last-time way: "Patient #0117, you may follow me."
So he does. He walks behind her as she leads him out, out of his jail cell and out of the maze structure he was now forced to call home, heading towards the ruins of towns and cities that once were, just a stubborn puppy too headstrong to admit anything happened.
"Patient #0117—"
"You can call me Gray," he murmurs abruptly, gaze drifting off lazily to the side.
The young woman stops, split-second halt. She glances back, only the span of one heartbeat, and then continues walking. He almost doesn't catch it.
Almost.
"You may call me Erza, then."
Seven days had passed since the day he made the deal.
They had asked him.
He knew everyone was lying to him.
And he said "yes".
