A/N: hello dearest bitches! Now, I know I have promised some things, but how about a bonus Levi chapter? I just realized this chapter had 11k words, so I had to split it in two, otherwise I know you'd skip the philosophical monologues and only read the dialogue, and I wouldn't want that. Not to brag about it, but I'm really proud of both these last chapters. LOL! Enjoy

(still looking for a beta reader, if anyone is interested)

Levi

I like to call this following adventure a story of three realizations or how Rhea marched right into my soul one day.

A bit too long for your liking, isn't it? I'll think of something else then …

There are times when I wonder why I bother with this manuscript. Why am I wasting the time I have left describing something long gone?

Perhaps Hanji is right…Whose soul can my words make vibrate? Is it worth becoming vulnerable in front of an unknown audience?

Will my ideas travel across the world and make an impression, or am I throwing what is left warm inside me, in the form of many pages, over the edge of a black hole?

Are you listening to my deep cries of anguish, or am I praying to deaf gods?

You have known nothing but my armor of apathy, stoicism and brashness.

But now, when you realized I have dimension, that I have layers and I am so capable of love, that I'm not confided between black and white, you perceive me as the prey.

'Cause when the hedgehog retracts his spines, there is only one way for the fox's teeth to go.

I'm willingly open myself up to you, and all the blood and the flesh arouses your famished gazes.

You are so pleased to see my weak spots, to see me grieving, defeated, hurt. You will feast on me, there is no doubt.

I can already hear the hungry clinking of the cutlery.

PS: If you didn't get it, I'm not talking about the Titans for once. That's a metaphor for you, my dear readers.

You are, sometimes, the worst type of monsters.

Yet I still crave you to give a meaning to my being. Weird, isn't it?

So let's, without further ado, jump into the story. I was just done with my first year in college…

~the otherworldly past ~

The same feeling of not belonging, of futility followed me whenever I went: I pretended interest in what mattered nothing to me, I bestirred myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracted me was elsewhere, and I knew exactly where that elsewhere was.

After I took my final exam , which was a nightmare no less, I walked out from the University building so fast as if the very core of the pavement was burning the soles of my feet. I despised my lecturers, those posh Titan supporters I had nothing to share with. It seemed as, the only reason I pursued a philosophy major was because of the library section dedicated to existentialism.

Outside it was raining cats and dogs, but it was a warm type, the kind of rain that people in movies dance, kiss, and live in. I was soaked in a matter of minutes, and boy did I felt alive. Everyone on the street grunted as some punk Napoleon bumped into their ordinary existence. I passed thousands of nobodies without muttering a single apology and looked up at the sky as if I were seeing it for the first time.

Black leather boots and trench coat, accompanied by patched army pants spoke to those people louder than I could ever scream.

It's strange how reviving those memories makes me change things I was so sure about. For example, I thought for a long time my college years were a tragedy, but as I recall the little man dressed in black leather trench coat, army pants and boots, accompanied by a thin line of pencil across my eyes, I now realize,

It was the ultimate cringe compilation.

I pushed back wet hair strands and got into the first public telephone booth available.

I put a few coins, pushed familiar buttons, and held the handset to my ear. I leaned against the greasy interior of those glass walls, and after a few rings, the deep voice of a woman answered in a slubberish tone.

"I swear I-Hic! Did not do it! Hic! "I sighed, exasperated by the situation.

"Ms. Rose, did you get drunk on rakija in the middle of the day, again?" My voice said with worry.

"You got me boy…who's this?" she continued, her raspy tone almost making my ears bleed.

"It's me, Levi. Listen, is my usual room available? I arrive tonight and have the cash ready."

"You, youngsters, are going to kill me. You're the first guest this season, I have to go turn up the heat in that wretched guest house and sweep a little. You know where the spare key is; make yourself at home when you get here. If by the time you arrive your room is dusty and cold, it means I have died in a car accident and mark my words, you are paying for my funeral!" The old lady added with a cough.

"Ms. Rose…you are a blessing." I chuckled and hanged up the phone.

I had returned. Of course I had. How could I deny myself the pleasure of here?

But first, let's clarify some things about this whole Zone, there, here, this place, that place, whatever.

Around 18 years ago, a meteorite crashed into the virgin lands of the southeast beach region of Paradis.

Was it a visit of inhabitants of the cosmic abyss?

One way or another, our small country had seen the birth of a miracle -

The Zone.

The Titans immediately sent troops there. They hadn't come back.

Then they surrounded the Zone with walls, barbered wires and police officers.

Perhaps, that was the right thing to do, because the meteorite held something more dangerous than any of their feeble minds could imagine: an alien egg.

From which, two months later, an otherworldly being emerged,

My girlfriend.

…

LOL. Did you seriously believe that?

This ain't sci-fi, kids.

Now, for the real story, here is the summarized version: after establishing their regime of political terror, the Titans thought 'hmm…what is the 'must' of every dictatorship? Oh, that's right, preventing the citizens from escaping.' They made sure emigrating was illegal, that the borders were packed with ruthless mercenaries aka the Military Police and if they found out about your cute departure, it meant a bullet in the head for your mother, wife, kids, uncles and so on.

Still, they were way too many fugitives for their liking. But didn't the lovely Party have the perfect solution, as per usual? The morons decided to build walls, I repeat, WALLS, around the island, to further prevent the sweet taste of freedom.

As I was saying, many years ago, before I was born, so like, in the Cretaceous or something, they began wasting bricks and cement, raising walls. They were not even that big, at around 4 meters high. The Titans wanted to trap us in the perfect cage, and they would've done if not for their own stupidity.

Back when I was a cute chubby baby, a horrible scandal aroused. The plans for the construction had to be abruptly revised, because apparently, the current funds did not cover completely surrounding the island. But how could that be? A great team of economist and engineers devised the perfect budget years prior, the best the country had, they said…

If only the party members didn't dip their corrupted fingers in…Apparently, organizing cruises, lavish parties and buying real estates with cash from the public budget has consequences. Who would've though?

Anyway, long story short, every titan felt deeply humiliated for about three hours, then had to make do with what was left. They finished the construction, but a small piece of land, located by the southeast beach portion, had to be left behind.

And so, an oasis of about 10 km was born. A place where western ships stopped by occasionally, blessing us with foreign music, liquor and books. A long string of music clubs adorned the filthy shores, enveloping our cores with unknown tunes and fancy alcohol names. It was here people discovered Bowie, Zeppelin, Beatles, read the Rolling Stone magazine and Orwell's 1984. Perhaps, to the outside world it looked like the average hippie beach resort, but to those whom life only mistreated, it was an unimaginable cure.

The Eden itself, which cleared out the filth of our caged world with every drunk swim in the ocean.

We'd been warned not to name it, so it was even harder for the Titan spies to find out about the mess. A simple neutral " there" or "here" with enough shimmer in your eyes was enough to make anyone around understand what you were talking about.

Everyone wanted to go visit the place that escaped the Titans. And the more forbidden it was, the more popular it became. Soon, it became the favorite vacation spot of the rebels, the outcasts and the misfits. That's how the Garrisons came to be: an "elite" group of revolutionaries that, during the popular summer season, ensured the illegal passing of citizens back and forth over the wall. And by that I mean they drove several trucks to pick up the tourists and shoot the Titan spies that jumped over the walls. We've been blessed with such responsible guides ….(no).

The first time I visited this place, it seemed as if someone took off my sepia-colored lenses. And the colors were blinding. My best friend and follower accompanied me and together we danced, drank and enjoyed cherry-flavored cigarettes for three long months.

I had become so addicted to it that, by the second time, I did not wait for them any longer.

And that's why I endured a two hour long sweaty train ride, then hitch hiking, followed by jumping over a wall and then another ride in the back of a truck.

"Hello Farlan" I called him from a public telephone just as I got off from the train.

"Hello? You completely disappear from the face of the Earth and all you say is hello? You can shove that right up your ass!"

"Calm down, princess, I ain't dead yet."

"You'll be by the time we meet. Where the fuck are you?"

"Halfway there, you know, the usual."

"As expected from a traitorous little bitch to leave his friends behind."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You hate me, I love you. See you in a week when you finish your exams or whatever."

"I didn't say I was coming."

"But you will. Bring Izzie. Au revoir!"

"Hey, wait Levi!" But the receptor already returned to its place. I threw my angry bad boy frown to the whole world in general and in particular to the fat man behind me who had been constantly nagging me to finish quicker.

'I ain't about finishing quick, mister' and I bit my lower lip hard enough to not actually say it.

I could tell you, of course, all about my journey, about the train ride fiasco and the magic of it, or the Garrison ritual: basically, you had to offer them two roses and the equivalent of around 100 euros to let you in.

But I'm sure there will be writers far more skilled who can do a better job at that. I won't rob them the pleasure of describing, through their studied gaze, the road to paradise.

When I had reached my accommodation, the sun was already setting down. Rose was nowhere to be found, so I invited myself in, threw the backpack on the bed and took a well-deserved shower.

At dawn, I considered a long walk with a good book would do me good. And if I ever took a smart decision in my life, it had to be this one.

A deep dark night settled by the time I could bask into my solitude: up on a small hill, a fire was burning. Left abandoned, the flames offered me a warm spot to rest. I sat down on a damp wood trunk, deformed over time by the butts of the many people who sat there: lovers, drunks, loonies. And now, a misanthropist opened a soiled copy of On the Heights of Despair.

Approximately 10 meters in front of me sat a peculiar building. It was an unprofessional structure of a two-story house. I noticed the shape of more than 6 rooms, yet to be fully separated by bricks. The pillars supporting the first floor were very crooked, walls were mended with various wood planks in the cement and the rooftop was plainly the other way around.

The people who had built it must have been so, so shit-faced drunk.

Do you know that Buster Keaton film where he builds a house from scratch with his wife? And because someone changes the original instructions, it ends up looking like an LSD nightmare? Yeah, I was looking at that type of thing.

I asked myself, right before I went back to my book, who could've been the cursed designer of this? What kind of torment the architect must have felt when, after selling his soul, he received in return an immovable monstrosity?

It was not my business anyway, I thought and returned to my book. Taking out a pencil out of my inner pocket, I underlined the ideas that spoke to me the most. It was an old habit of mine.

"We are so lonely in life that we must ask ourselves if the loneliness of dying is not a symbol of our human existence."

Someone whistled nosily out of nowhere and interrupted me quite rudely.

"My, my who upset you?" But I didn't answer and went on with my reading. I wanted to be left alone. The intruder was a well-known character, well past his prime, which, by the way, plopped down next to me with quite the nonchalance. The makeshift wooden seat creaked under our weight.

"Are you lost, young man? Where are your friends?" He asked, but he received my silence instead. He stretched his legs to warm his old joints and stared at the torrid flames.

Former leader of the Garrisons, actual annoying human wreck, the one who had dared to interrupt me with his nonsense was none other than the charming Dot Pyxis.

His wrinkles, old-fashioned moustache and clean shaved head gave the impression of an army officer or, nonetheless, a person of sustenance. The man was wearing one of those creamy cheap suits you often spot on small town mayors. Certainly an odd outfit, especially here, by the sea. Perhaps he still wanted to command other's respect.

And just like the village priest sees himself as an oligarch, this man by my side pretended to be a glorious hero. Nothing but an unpleasant delusion on his part…

Because no matter how hard he was trying, he couldn't hide his yellowish orbs, permanent redness in his cheeks or protruding lower abdomen. This was not the face of a redeemable person. By my side sat someone life had branded with the hottest iron possible: the humiliation of cirrhosis.

And while half the people in Paradis were suffering from years of alcohol abuse, not many chose to leave the hospitals and the medicine behind, so as to waste their final years in this place.

"You look very heartbroken. Just thought misery loves company." He revealed and shifted his weight. His nimble fingers went inside his jacket and fished out a small bottle with a transparent liquid inside. Major Hint: it was not water.

" I, however, certainly did not request yours." I muttered and raised my eyes from my notebook. Watching as he gulped down a few sips, followed by a pleased grunt, I put the book back in my inner pocket, since philosophy was out of question for now.

His lack of mercy to his own liver was quite the inspiration. How great must be the hatred towards your own self, for you to slowly commit suicide in the most degrading way possible? I was fascinated by the way he was perpetually lying to himself.

"My, my. Someone's certainly pissed. Did the lack of original ideas get your panties in a twist?" And he laughed, deeply and sincerely, looking at the starry sky.

"When you say it like that…" I raised an eyebrow and rested my forearm on my bent knee.

"Oh, it's always the same with you younglings. It's either inspiration, or search for a meaning, or trying to make some sense out of this mess. Do you think some silly waves will give you sudden knowledge? Listen to me boy, life has not been kind to me, but the debts to be paid have taught me one thing: the way is backwards, march-arriere style."

"What does that mean, old man? Booze first, dinner after?" Geez, he was getting on my nerves. I was not in the mood to deal with the antics of some drunk.

I was not in the mood for anything in fact. Except a cigarette, to replace the bitter feeling of failure with the acrid taste of smoke. I lit one of those toxic sticks and exhaled a long trail of smoke.

" Haha. Such an unpredictable joke" he said sarcastically. "It means that if you are looking for the afore mentioned things, stop looking on the outside. The answers lay on the inside, within yourself. Your journey must lead to your innermost layers."

"I bet your liver is telling you the same." I grunted and stared at the blinding flames.

"Give me a break, will you? Everyone in Paradis has a mild alcohol addiction."

"Yours, however, is anything but mild. You reek of rakija, old man"

"And you're the pot reeking of tobacco calling the kettle back.

The state of my country and the fight I was carrying to protect this place is not something I could've endured sober. I have never controlled myself was because I was certain the Titans would get me before my own vices did. We all have our coping mechanisms. Mine are only more biological." He took another healthy gulp from his bottle, it was already a quarter-empty.

"What gives you the kick, huh? Nicotine? Women? Perhaps music?" He smirked full of disgusting curiosity. I didn't know why, but I indulged in the conversation.

"More like ancient Greece wisdom…" I was so ridiculous back then, expecting others to perceive me as that old, unimpressed soul. I glanced at the other man for a moment, eyebrows in a slight frown, mouth turned downwards, and dark eyes glistening with loathing.

When I was 19, I thought myself to be so out of reach for everyone because I had read maybe three major books about the human nature. I grunted. My eyes glanced his way for a moment before my attention shifted back to the fire.

"So you're a philosopher then…" that old bastard asked then leaned in towards me, invading my personal space.

"Do you mind?" I frowned and turned away from him, shielding the precious book from his curious eyes. He still managed to take a peek at what was underlined.

"Philosophy: Impersonal anxiety; refuge among anemic ideas." The man read out loud my latest ad notation, adding a whistle at the end.

"Such a pretentious young man...She's gonna love you."

"What? Who's she?"

"Oh, just our little nightingale. She's simply the worst. Look at all of this" And he gesticulated to all the wood lying around, the unstable two-story structure and the mortar machine.

The man sighed deeply, the flames hypnotizing him into a deep sense of pity.

". That slacker dreams day and night in her hammock about her beach club. I tell her all the time, dear, please pick up a book about administrating a business. Or economics. Or anything more practical, really.

Learn some advanced math, how to strike a deal with the merchants…things like that. But nooo…..She just won't listen. Says those down-to-earth things appeal her .

So this spoiled brat makes us do the dirty job and build everything. What is she going to do when the Garrisons can no longer help her? We've been way too nice to her."

"Well, I don't think she forces you. You could simply refuse." I said with my signature 'tsch' at the end.

"Oh, believe me, this girl's not someone you can easily say no to. So stubborn and proud…kinda like you, she always gets it her way. But man… She's a delight to our sore eyes: she drinks, smokes tobacco, parties like an animal. Nothing you'll ever see in your well-mannered posh city girls." He gesticulated all over the place, throwing out his arm, slapping his knee, you name it.

"Then what can I say, enjoy slaving under her." I replied in a flat tone, not really interested in his clownery.

"Ehe, it's not that simple. That girl's all about the good stuff" He slid against the wood and threw an arm around my neck, trapping me, pulling my upper body towards his chest. I tried to pull away, I struggled as hard as I could, but his grip was too strong. I had to endure his unrequited display of friendship.

"There is no subject she can't talk about for hours: poetry, religion, politics, dancing, you name it, she can make you feel like an idiot. And her voice…man, everyone loves her voice. The way she sings …if only you'd hear her….ohohoho that girl's a siren" I rolled my eyes at the way he enthusiastically talked about some ditz.

"Let go of me! I don't wanna hear about your daughter or even worse, your sugar baby!"

"Oh, If only she were any of those things, I would've considered my life not entirely wasted. Hahaha Speaking of the wolf, look who's coming." The man said and pointed towards the upper hill. So I was finally going to see the object of his admiration and bound to be completely let down. It was not hard to be disappointed in women nowadays, especially when most of the men were describing them with their other head.

Still, I was a little curious.

I shifted my gaze, following the direction and was greeted with a scene straight out of a noir film.

Six men of all sorts were carrying a long wooden table, the kind used for alcohol-filled reunions. Behind them, three more dragged some chairs, while a fourth had a big pinkish vintage armchair, with the covering peeling in different corners, chained on the back of his scooter. They were all wearing the standard hunting rifle thrown over their backs along with a Garrison jacket: a beige cheap denim with two roses patched on the back. Some of those men were decent, some were not quite sober and some probably joined the ranks because society casted them out in all the other aspects anyway.

But lo and behold, those six men were not only carrying a table. On the sturdy wood sat a small feminine figure. She was holding an accordion and played an old national song with much skill and gusto. The woman was a little far, but I could see her fingers pressing the keyboards, while a loud, talented voiced boomed from the bottom of her chest. She threw her head back, full of emotion, while all the others were accompanying her, stuck in reverie. The tune was dreamy and, like all our local songs, made you wanna get drunk to forget all the sadness.

They walked further and you could see they were enjoying every bit of the extra weight she put on the table. Those guys were not really carrying it, they were carrying her, even with honor, as if she were made of glass and limited-edition.

Look, I certainly was not the type of guy who laughed, but I couldn't hold back a puff at the sight. It looked like they were carrying a dilapidated version of Cleopatra or something. A dilapidated Cleopatra with her pack of dilapidated Che Guevaras, was I dreaming or something?

'Guess you don't need a golden throne to be a princess.' I thought briefly.

When they finally reached the bottom floor of the precarious structure, they set the table under the ceiling and that creature perched on top of it hopped off with a thump. She stopped her singing and, tugging on the strap attached to the instrument, positioned her accordion behind her back.

The thing that stuck out was that she was not wearing a standard jacket. That man, Dot Pyxis, spoke about her with such familiarity, I thought she must've certainly belonged to his former group. Instead, she had a short black denim dress on , along with some sort of thighs full of tears and holes and peculiar high heeled clogs. That witch-of-sorts had her back turned to us and hands on her hips as she examined the handiwork of those men.

"No! No! No! Place it more to the right!" Her talking voice was so different compared to her singing one, high-pitched and far more childish. And grunts and sighs were heard in disagreement as those guides moved the table in various positions.

"Hey, darling, come over for a second!" The old geezer called her loudly, making sure to probably deafen me permanently.

"What do you want old man?! Can't you see I'm busy?" She replied, very annoyed, turned our way, pulling copious amounts of hair out of her eyes.

"I think you'd like to meet my new friend!" That bastard yelled back.

"I'm 100% not your friend!" I spat at him, my whole face scrunching.

"I am guiding the construction of a fortress old man! I don't have time for your-"but he cut her off instantly.

"He's a philosopher!" And all hell broke loose. That strangely feminine beast completely abandoned her servants and sprinted our way, as fast as she could in those shoes. Behind, the last guys were putting down the chairs.

She soon reached us, barely managing to maintain her balance as she stopped like one of those cartoon characters. I heard a multitude of cheap jewelry clink in inertia, and I couldn't form an opinion yet: Was my minimalism completely triggered by the excessive amount of earrings, bracelets and rings, or did I found it funny how she was making music, even with her mouth closed?

Perhaps I agreed with both statements. But it's not like I pondered for too long, because in that moment, as I saw her up close, a certain realization hit me up with brute force, the first of that night.

Holy shit.

It was that girl from last summer.

And she must've read my mind, because she shifted her weight on one leg and crossed her bare arms. That woman eyed me up and down then rose one eyebrow up and pouted her mouth as if questioning reality itself.

"You look familiar…have we met before?" She asked me, and her tone seemed way to drawling to me.

Yes, we did. Almost a year ago, I asked you to call me when you'd start reading real literature and had not stopped thinking about it ever since. I still did not know what came over me that night. I was usually such a serious and held-back person… I had never acted like such a lecherous wanker before.

"Don't think so." I played it cool, burying back as far as possible that shameful memory. " 've never seen you before in my life" but God, I wish I had I wanted to add, but only the weak ever show desperation.

Then, out of the blue, her whole expression changed: a wicked smile, brighter than the full moon, adorned her features. She shoved that old man aside, almost knocking him off the trunk, disrupting with ease the vice-like hold he had on me.

Forcefully, she sat down between us, cross legged, waddling one heeled foot, and brought herself closer and closer to me. The old man got up somehow, brushed the sand from his clothes, and went to his ex-regiment, swearing and cursing us under his moustache.

Left alone with this young beast who stepped over every notion of common sense, I was sitting across that rotting, humid trunk, while her upper body was twisted so that she was facing my right side, perpendicularly to me. Did no one in this whole damn place understand the notion of personal space? It sent shivers down my spine how impertinent those people were. I felt assaulted and offended.

When would these humans get that physical proximity did not mean a psychological one? You just couldn't force your presence into someone else's and expect to befriend them. A true intimacy is built on the prospect of mental connections, mutual aspirations, not a trivial need for clos-

"Wow, you're the first philosopher I've ever met." She said in utter admiration.

Hot damn, what was I thinking about? I couldn't remember. The ideas vanished.

My frustrated ideologies went…

Poof. Out the window. Then nothing.

.Blank.

Creux.

Leer.

She was studying me, as if I were a being from another planet., when clearly it was the other way around Her curiosity was enchanting, partially because it fed my deprived of attention ego, partially because…

Her eyes. Dear Gods, her eyes simply staring down at me, wide and glistening, they made me freeze in my spot, as if she were the otherworldly creature. I glanced for a long time at her long dark lashes, adorned with the tiny lights of stars. The tastefully- applied black shadow, her natural pout, rebelliously styled curls, everything was indiscreet on her.

"You're the real deal, right? I bet you know so many interesting things…" She said yearningly. Then that alien leaned to my left, covered the exposed side of the face with her hand, and whispered in my ear, as if sharing the greatest secret in the world. Her breath tickled my skin with every word, and I vehemently denied enjoying it.

"I mean, those Garrison bitches all claim themselves to be one, but to be honest with you, they think Subjectivism and Relativism are the same thing…so you can imagine what I'm dealing with." She ended with a delightful chuckle and got back into her previous position, as if nothing happened at all.

Do you know how ornithologists wait hours after hours, in swamps or in forests, hoping to see some rare kind of bird? And just as they are so close to giving up, a supposedly extinct specimen plops right in front of them, unaware of the circumstances. That wild, feathery animal, with no apparent purpose other than possibly serving as a nice meal, totally subdues the intelligent, educated, top of the chain human. For he does not move, even if his muscle scream, even if his joints crack, to not disturb it. Because as soon as he would pounce on it, out of sheer desire for deep knowledge and study, the winged animal would fly away, scared to ever return. No person with a bit of common sense would waste the opportunity of seeing such beauty up close. So the wise man settles for the undivided, albeit brief attention of the bird.

Yeah, well, that was the perfect metaphor regarding the situation I was currently stuck in.

"Do you bother random people with annoying questions and constantly think you're better than us?"

'no, people annoy me, yes, I'm better than them. Also, I understood that reference to Plato's Republica' I wanted to answer, but no words came out. My face was cold and neutral, but my body was turned towards her completely, arms by my side, with the fingers digging into the wood. If there were anything I was genuinely proud of, it had to be my always available mask of disinterest.

Earlier, I thought so lowly of the Garrisons to do the bidding of some spoiled little girl. I underestimated the threat and fell right into the trap of her chutzpah.

I felt as if I have shown myself bare in front of a Gorgon, no shield, no mirror.

"I'm not a full-fledged philosopher yet. The name's Levi, by the way." I managed to mutter somehow. She took one of my hands, which I had not extended, by the way, in both of hers, and shook it slowly, gently, her red-painted fingers gliding against mine with ease.

Never in my life had I been touched without my permission. That thing she was doing was definitely not an impersonal handshake…some audacity the girl had. I did not like it, and yet I couldn't find the strength to pull away.

"It doesn't matter, Socrates wasn't famous overnight either was he? Levi, it's a pleasure to meet you. You have such a beautiful name. It's Jewish in origin, right? Means 'attachment' in Hebrew." Damn, she was the talkative type. " Sorry, was I racist? Are city boys easily offended? My name's Rhea, by the way. Rhea as in…"

"As in the Greek goddess, yeah. Mother of the Olympian Gods, she was one of the last titanical deity, before her children rose up against the cruel king Saturn, putting an end to the Titan era. Considered by the mythologists as the 'liberating maternal figure'. I know."

She smiled so delighted, a toothy, sharp grin, her eyebrows lifted high and she held my hand even tighter.

"You're the first person to guess that right." Her tone was so melodic, like she was singing, not carrying a conversation with the most obnoxious man on Paradis.

"You're kidding. You have to be joking, girl. I don't buy it, Greek mythology is quite accessible knowledge, you couldn't have been surrounded by idiots for so long…" I questioned, afraid of the answer. Finally, she let go of my hand.

"You'd be surprised, Levi." And she looked at me with the same disappointment, pushing some hair behind her ear. I breathed deeply, angry with the world that even in this place, which was supposed to be an oasis of cultural freedom, idiots were allowed in.

"Rhea's quite a weird name for a baby, though. Your parents must have high expectations for you."

"I wouldn't know. My parents are rotting away in a political prison." She said as a matter of fact.

"My parents are rotting 6 feet under." I replied.

She chuckled bitterly. "Then we are more alike than I thought."

Back at the shaky structure, the garrisons were placing some foods and plates of the table. A blonde, average man waved his hand frenetically at us.
"Rhea, come here and help us set the table!" He yelled, obviously pissed-off.

"Get lost Hans! I'm having an interesting conversation for once!" She screamed so loud it echoed, made me clench involuntarily at the force her lungs were capable of.

"Rhea's self-given, actually." She said, her voice dropping back to a warm, soft volume. That transition was mesmerizing.

"That's adorable." And so cool. "You want to become a mentor of youngsters who will have more guts than you to overthrow the regime. Those who can't do, teach. Guess that saying is true after all."

"It, still, is an admirable dream." She turned away from me, staring in the distance.

" Tsch. You just want your name mentioned in history books."

"Maybe." She paused, moving her big, celestial orbs side to side, fidgeting in her spot. "But I'm already working on it…" And her index pointed out the far-away crowd and the unstable wood and brick structure.

"Please elaborate, oh mighty goddess." I pressed every word with a mean irony, and the girl laugh, in unison with the clinker of her bracelets.

"I am building-"

"The Garrisons are building…" I corrected her.

"The Garrisons are building my club of awesomeness. One day, when it's ready, I want to welcome with open arms misunderstood young people, and guide them, teach them about life, the great secrets of it, make their talent shine through, whether it be drawing, writing, dancing, singing…

I can almost see it, the wooded floors, big bookcase of forbidden books, instruments lying around…

I want to share with them every great thing that has left an impression on me, you know?. Cause what good is my knowledge, my sensibility, if I have no one to pass it to?. They will listen, I tell you. I will search day and night for answers, I will master this complicated art of living and shape their needy, violent minds." She said with such hope, I couldn't bring myself to roll my eyes at her childish dreams.

"Kinda like Rodin, I see." I concluded her fantasies.

"Sorry, what?" The girl asked.

"Auguste Rodin? The French sculptor?" But she hummed with confusion. I huffed. Geez, I hated having to explain myself.

"A genius in his field, really. The guy did the Thinker, the three Adams, the big stuff anyway. His talent was recognized even during his lifetime, so naturally, many young people wanted to learn from him. He's known for those enormous studios in Paris, where dozens of people would work as his apprentices, listening to his every word, practicing the secrets of his craft, chocking on dust and hitting their fingers with the chisel in hope to surpass the master."

"Well, then, yes. Kinda like Rodin." She looked funny, I had to admit, with a small blush on her face, looking away in embarrassment. Suddenly, our position from before reversed: I was turned 90 degrees to my side, studying her profile, while she retreated across the long vines of the trunk and shut up for once. Did I say something bad? If so, why did it bother me? I had no problem pissing off people before…

What's your deal, girl?

To be continued…