Different shades of red were all he saw through his half-shut eyes. The puddle was spreading lazily, unable to soak through the hardened sand.

"I said you go too far, but you not listen." An annoyed voice above him blurred in his semiconscious mind, but he knew it too well not to recognize it. "And now he broken."

He listlessly lay face down, stupefied by the coppery stench. His gaze wandered thoughtlessly over the irregular shreds, scattered in the mess under him and the sunlight's reflections, glistering on a wet surface.

"Sorry, sorry, I told you I'll repay you." The second voice, hoarse and nonchalant, the one he hardly had any memory of. "But let's get out of here already, this place stinks!"

Heavy steps accompanied by irritated huffs receded, then were cut off by the slam of car doors and engine roar.

The blood on his skin was drying, leaving a scratchy, tight feeling. He tried to move, first his hand, slowly and carefully. His fingers resisted bending fully, as if they were swollen, but he managed to shift it slightly closer to his chest. When he was gathering the scraps of strength in his arm, panic crushed his stomach. Every motion brought more pain, he didn't want to move. But he had to move, he had to go somewhere. Anywhere. The thought of lying on the parching remains of himself and dying in this foreign place that smelled like dust and decay was more terrifying than any physical suffering.

Holding his breath, he pushed rapidly. Freezing pain pierced his body. Skin tearing off from muscles. Muscles tearing off from bones. With a cry, he fell again on the still warm slop and curled up instinctively. Sweat caused by strain, fear and pain mixed with blood as more disgusting wetness flowed from his stomach. The coldness didn't want to pass, sucking the rest of his power. He couldn't move anymore.

His tumid eyelids were too tired to blink, making his eyes stung, but he quickly got used to this feeling. His wounds started to seem more bearable too. The numbness taking over his body brought a relief.

Some noises reached his ears, muffled voices that could as well have been a figment of his imagination. He didn't intend to check it or to even try to move again. Blurry shadows shifted in front of his eyes, stirring the dust. He winced slightly when harsh grains hit his face.

"He's alive?!" A scream pierced throught his skull.

"Can you hear me?" The shadows leaned over him. "Ugh, that doesn't look good. Hurry, we have to take him to..." The rest of the sentence was lost when he felt the burning touches of hands on his body, shifting, tearing him to pieces. His lung barely allowed him to breath, so he could only whimper in protest.

After abnormally prolonged minutes of agony, his position stabilized, held by someone's arm. Through dark spots obscuring his vision, he could only see a clutter of yellows. The unclean air, glaring sun, blond strands of hair. With each step, the rocking of his body hurt, but there was also something soothing in this motion. A firm grasp kept him out from giving up to a sinking feeling, creeping into his head.

"It's not far away, so don't die, okay?" A worried boyish voice above him quavered.

"No dying," he tried to respond, almost choking as more blood flowed from his mouth.

Maybe he was dying, he thought, suddenly scared of the fate he seemed to accept a moment ago. But the panic didn't have time to fully burst out, before exhaustion took over, making him faint.

No restrains.

No freezing cold.

No overwhelming darkness.

He was slowly regaining consciousness. Bandages tight on his body, impossibly soft in contrast to his soreness. Steady plashing sounds somewhere nearby. Forcing his eyes to open, he discreetly examined the surroundings. He lay in the small room lit by the oil lamp, its glass broken in a few places. The elderly woman sitting close to it was the reason for the weird noises. Leaning to the plastic basin at her feet, she was washing cloths, big red stains visible in the flickering light.

She took another piece of fabric from the hands of the boy sitting on the floor. He could be of a similar age to him. Regularly combing his light hair back when loose strands fell to his forehead, he folded and sorted the cleaned ones. At one point, the boy raised his head, and they looked directly at each other.

"He woke up!" The boy sprang up closer, observing him curiously. "Me and my friends found you all beaten up, and I brought you to my nanny," he talked enthusiastically. "She bandaged you, so you probably won't bleed out."

He remained silent. He wanted to tense, but his muscles were too exhausted to do this, so instead, he just narrowed his eyes in distrust.

"Maybe he's deaf?" Momentarily, the boy turned to the old woman, but then started waving before his eyes. "Hey! Are you deaf?"

"Phinks, settle down a little." Her tone was reprimanding but warm. "He has to be very tired, let him rest."

The woman stood up and came closer to the mattress he lay on. Her hand reached his forehead, he flinched at the touch.

"A fever went down," she sighed with relief. "How are you feeling? You must be hungry, would you like something to eat?" No reaction. She looked in worry and tried again: "Or do you want to sleep a little bit more?" After staring warily for a while, he nodded hesitantly.

She smiled softly and walked away, folding the washed cloths and picking them up with the basin. Then persuaded the boy that rest was necessary for wounds to heal, and they should give 'their guest' time to recover. He lingered for a moment, but urged by the woman's voice, he finally left, taking one last look.

Alone, he lay in silence. No thoughts were going through his head as the heavy emptiness crammed him. His breath was steadying, the pain slowly passed. But when it was fading, something else started to be missing too, leaving the itch.

Three years. The time in which the Troupe was going to meet again. The time of leaving Meteor City behind and changing their fates. As well as the fates of many others standing in their way.

One day. It was enough to irreversibly shatter their lives. No, he knew that wasn't exactly the truth. They were rotting for a long time already, just like everything there. Clinging to the falling apart seams that kept the guise of normalcy in Meteor City. Sarasa's death was just a reminder that they meant nothing to the outside world, and without her infinite optimism it got more difficult to ignore. Perhaps it finally broke them, but somehow it also broke them free, gave them the purpose and impulse to change.

Feitan left the meeting dazed. He walked straight ahead, with no clear direction, pushed by unidentified thoughts and feelings. The familiar heavy steps behind him woke him up from the stupor.

"Fei!" Phinks caught up with him and fell into step alongside. "You okay? You left earlier, I didn't even notice when you disappeared."

"Yeah," he said dully.

They roamed for some time, while Phinks kept muttering, partially to himself, partially to Feitan. "...revolutions, technologies, infrastructures, eh, that's a lot."

"Yeah," he repeated and stopped walking. "I think we need go different ways for now," he blurted abruptly.

"Huh, why?" Phinks halted too, blinking in confusion.

Feitan thought for a moment, not sure how to explain this fleeting feeling, a hunch, telling him it was the right decision.

"Three years, we need prepare, be stronger. And... I need think alone, there is this... something." He couldn't find the right words, but from the shift in Phinks's expression, he knew he understood. "You saw Machi?"

"So you noticed it too?" He scratched his head and a skin, where his eyebrows should be, furrowed. "Yeah, she's acting weird lately. Weirder than usual, I mean. Do you think it's related?"

"Maybe."

They went silent, both deep in thoughts of the same matter. It didn't take long, before eventually Phinks broke it with a taunting chuckle.

"I bet I'm gonna figure it out first."

"In your dreams." Feitan's lips widened in a sneer.

After they parted ways, Feitan continued his aimless wander. He tried to bring himself back to his senses, but his mind kept returning to the recent events, to their gathering, to the Chrollo's words.

Chrollo. He should have never been in Meteor City. He was meant for something greater. Younger and sometimes childish, but had this miraculous ability to win people over and bring them together. He was inspiring both other children and adults, waking everyone from the lethargy, so typical for this place. Always full of ideas and full of life. He didn't fit, and it was only natural he was the one to start the breakout. Only Chrollo had what it took to unite their conflicted group, only Chrollo could become their leader. And when the unshakeable resolve resonated in his voice, Feitan could swear he saw the shine beaming from his body.

Mindlessly taking another turn, he stopped immediately and hid behind the corner. There was something lying on the ground. Something of the well-known shape of the human body. He held his breath and listened if there were other people around. It was a common knowledge here that murders rarely ended on just one death. Long minutes passed and not hearing anything suspicious, he decided to check what happened.

He didn't need to come close to see the puddle under the man's body. Blood and fragments of his head were slowly expanding. Feitan heard the execution-style gunshots were popular among gangs from towns closest to Meteor City. Dragging their victims here was considered an additional punishment, as their bodies would never be found in the official part of the world, left to merge with ever-present junk. He noticed this killing had to be done in a rush. A bullet didn't go through the middle of the head but scraped the top of it, revealing the shattered skull and viscous insides. The face was almost intact. Only when he saw it distinctly, Feitan realized how close he got, not being aware when he even did it.

His thoughts were cut off by a gurgling sound. He froze. That was impossible. This man should have been dead. He jumped back and observed vigilantly. Blood foamed from the mouth, moving slightly in voiceless words, hazy eyes were absent-minded. The heart might still work, but he was basically dead.

Feitan tried to calm his breath, but he couldn't look away. The sight of a mutilated body and the life fading in reds, caused weird tingling inside him. A distant memory ran through his head, the scene almost parallel, but back then he wasn't the one looking. Yet there was a similarity in this feeling — the restlessness tugging his muscles, blood storming in his veins, longing for something he couldn't identify. And the shine.

The shine he saw earlier today.

Scavenging was a common activity among the Meteor City inhabitants. The amount of articles people threw away that could still be used, or renovated and sold, was unspeakable, but here, this wastefulness was always gladly welcomed and exploited.

Feitan rummaged through the heaps of rubbish, noticing parts of the bigger construct buried beneath. Every piece of electronics and machinery could be highly valuable and worth salvaging. Night and day, clustered near the city center, there were groups of enthusiasts willing to trade food, clothes, or even medicines for those scraps of metal junk, especially if they beeped or glowed.

And now there was a sound. The steady high-pitched ringing on the verge of audibility, stuck somewhere deep in the debris. Piece by piece, he was taking apart the rickety construction, careful not to fall from the stacked trash. Through the newly made hole, the sound was clearer, chiming with the hope for untorn clothes or a hearty meal.

He outstretched his arm as far as he could and stood on the tips of his toes, trying to reach inside. His fingertips skimmed on the cold metal. A tremble under his feet. A loud gride. The contraption he balanced on plummeted. He crashed down right after. His hand stuck in the hole was yanked out, grating against the jagged refuse. A choked cry left his throat when he hit the ground.

He felt light-headed, observing blood flowing from the fresh wounds, but the pain didn't fully dawn on him. It seemed distant, muffled by the throbbing of his nerves, as the tingles inside his body drew explicit shapes of veins, sinews and muscle fibers. The unnaturally bright red was dazzling and mesmeric.

"It's not healing well." The elderly woman sighed, tying new bandages on his arm. The swollen skin was ragged and irately reddened, still seeping pus in patches.

Guilt gnawed at Feitan, but no words of comfort came to his mind. Anything he could say would only make a matter worse. He knew she wouldn't understand it. He himself didn't understand it. Instinctively, he hid his other hand behind his back, covering the remains of scabs under his nails. Finally, she let him go, escorting him with detailed instructions on how not to agitate the wound, he wasn't going to follow.

Nobody was surprised that lately he had been spending most of his time in loneliness. He was known for being rather withdrawn and laconic, limiting his interactions to a few people he trusted. Besides, this little group was now scattered; some in feverish search of the undefined, just like him, some repeatedly disappearing without a word, some lost in grieving. Everyone was in their own world, so his isolation couldn't cause any worry.

Therefore again, he set off seeking a secluded place — yet, always staying away from the forest — and eventually found some cramped hideaway to hole up in with a pocketknife in his hand. Every time it went the same — growing uneasiness, tormenting him with restlessness and constant tension, his thoughts unable to focus for days. Although he soon learned the way to stop it, he scrupled. It felt wrong. It brought the release but was inevitably succumbing to shame once his mind regained composure.

His muscles quivered in fear and anticipation when the blade moved closer to his skin. Then he let himself sink into delirious faintness, and the knife, his body, his blood became unreal. Through the dead calmness, all he could sense was the pleasurable force surrounding him, and perversely making him more alive.

But one detail wasn't allowing him to fully indulge in the sensations. He was terrified to admit it, but he couldn't disregard this realization.

Every day the relief was becoming shorter and weaker.

Raw bruises marked the erratic trails under his skin as they bloomed in purples. The one on his shin, with a faint shape of boot sole, the one on his arm, scraped by being shoved to the ground, the one under his eye, from the punch he didn't try to dodge. The air carried bits of dust and sand, irritating freshly scuffed knuckles, grazed on the metal elements of their clothes.

Feitan didn't even know who he fought with this time. The last days passed in hazy and desperate attempts to find anything that could evoke those feelings again. He wasn't sure if it was distress, anger or some kind of intuition, but thoughtlessly letting himself be carried away in meaningless scuffles and brawls, he discovered the crumbs of that release. While hurting and being hurt, he could see the shine he needed.

Something rustled on his side, and he instinctively tensed but quickly relaxed, seeing an earthworm-like tail wriggling among the trash. He watched a plastic bag shifted with noisy crinkling before the culprit showed its head — a rat, wretched and mangy, although, probably in better shape than Feitan. It fluttered its whiskers, sniffing the surroundings, then toddled closer to investigate who intruded its territory.

The impulse. The urge. Without a thought, his arm shot and grabbed the animal. His head was spinning, and his body seemed to belong to someone else, when his hand squeezed the neck. The creature struggled in helpless convulsions, its frantic pulse pounded under his fingers. Stifled squeals rung inside his skull. The numbness began to pass, but he didn't loosen the grip. He finally snapped its spine with a quiet click. The little corpse in his hand was gradually turning colder and stiffer. He didn't feel anything. That wasn't it. With frustration, he tossed the dead critter aside.

His nails dug deep into his skin, scrambling on his sides, hips and thighs; the places no one saw, so no one could be suspicious about. Opening cuts stung and steadied his breathing. The pain and fatigue spread over his bones as the reality was slowly returning to his senses. He started to feel the itchiness of dry air, smell the familiar heavy stench, and hear the surroundings; amid the typical stirring of wind in the waste, he noticed raised voices.

Warily, he walked out of his hiding and stepped onto the trail. A group of three boys walked in his direction, but they seemed not to see him. They were much taller than him, and older by quite a few years, yet still clearly not adult, with their pimples and weak trace of facial hair. He vaguely knew them by sight, the rowdy group, sometimes obnoxious, but not overly dangerous from what he heard. They looked to be in high spirits, and their noisy laughter needled him, as if it was aimed at his distress. Feitan knew it would be absurd to expect everyone to match with his current feelings. And he knew personal tragedies in Meteor City were nothing to write home about. And he knew it would be a bad idea to provoke a fight with much stronger hooligans.

With a firm stride and uneasily light head, he walked towards them. Getting closer to their leader, the lanky tanned teenager with fair hair and big teeth, he deliberately and forcibly bumped into him in passing.

"Watch your step!" One of his goons shot forward and seized Feitan's tank top.

He didn't respond, just looked him straight in the eye — a gesture, that he knew made people like this the most furious. His prediction was immediately confirmed by a punch in his face, sending him to the ground.

"Don't overdo it, Jaro." The leader patted his friend on a shoulder and kneeled near him. "You will just apologize nicely and we good, right?" Overly sweet voice didn't even try to hide a slight threat.

Feitan didn't intend to answer this time too. He jerked up and hit the teen's head with his forehead, making him lose balance.

"You better learn to pick your fights, shorty," he snarled and leaped up to attack.

Before he could dodge, Feitan was struck by a piercing pain, when a guy named Jaro kicked him in the stomach. His heart thudded and blood rushed to his head.

More.

With an unexpected strength, he tugged on the boy's leg, dragging him down and simultaneously using him as a leverage to stand up. He rose in time to see the third teen charging at him with a rusted pipe in his hand. Ducking the main attack, he couldn't evade the second swing from the side. While weaker, it still severely rung across his bones when metal met his arm.

Just a little bit more.

Another fist landed on his face, throwing him back. He choked on blood and tauntingly spat in their direction. His head was whirling. Monotonous piles of junk shone with colors he didn't know existed.

A little bit more.

More punches, more kicks. Fingers painfully tangled in his curls. He was lifted, his feet hovering limply high in the air. The teen forcefully hurled him down. Feitan's head hit the ground and the jolts shot through his body. He gasped, but not from the pain.

Now.

He tottered, trying to stand up. The group laughed mockingly at his attempts, and the leader swung to land another hit. But this time his moves seemed weirdly slow, as if he was trudging through the tar. Feitan effortlessly caught his wrist and shuddered in surprise, hearing cracking sounds accompanied by a wetness under his fingers.

The teen howled, frantically jerking away his maimed hand. He wobbled, barely keeping himself on his feet. All three of them froze, their eyes locked on Feitan in terror. He saw their lips were moving, but all he heard was a blur. No matter if those were cries, pleads or curses, everything was muffled by the heart pounding in his ears. He staggered forward and saw his fist diving into the boy's head, yet he almost didn't feel the impact.

Bones shouldn't be so soft. A fleeting thought terrified him and excited him at the same time.

The body fell to the ground with a dull thud. He went closer and crouched down in a morbid need to look. The jaw was sunken, broken bones bumped the skin, giving the face an unnatural shape. Horrified eyes bulged at him, mangled chin quivered in helpless gibberish. Feitan put his hand on the forehead and pressed lightly. Delicate tissues split under his touch, crackling and squelching. With fascination, he observed the hole widening until his fingers sensed hard, wet ground.

He gulped with difficulty, his throat sorely dry from panting. But he wasn't tired, far from it, his muscles trembled with untamable energy. It was his blood — boiling, burning his veins, making his heart race and his breath quicken; it was the power — otherworldly shimmer surrounding him and his now bloodied hands.

Water was slowly washing off rusty brownish stains, which dissolved into dark ribbons, writhing in a deep puddle. He watched it fading, turning the already muddy liquid dirtier, and fought growing nausea. When his skin regained its natural color, he looked at his hands and many shallow cuts all over them. For anyone else they could pass as a normal effect of physical work, but he knew they were made by shattered bones; the distressing knowledge that was twisting his insides with guilt. Although, he couldn't hide from himself his heart speeding up at the memory of that scene, and it only made this guilt worse.

In a fight frenzy, he didn't notice when the two others ran away. And he didn't notice when he caught up to them.

Their bodies and bones were identically fragile.

He couldn't hold back the nausea.

Different shades of red were obscuring his vision as the heavy scent of iron filled his every cell. The partially flayed hand desperately stretched away, digging in the dirt. His boot quelled its shivers. Bemused by the hazy amok, he observed life seeping from every wound, yet the person under him still fiercely clung to its scraps. It was a futile effort. The lungs were already letting out more blood than air, exposed meat pulsated chaotically. All this life ever was or could have been was reduced to the pain.

Feitan added another cut. Not the one that could shorten the suffering. That wasn't what he wanted, what he needed. Even if they were teetering on the verge of death, he could make sure this moment would last long.

And when he watched the writhing body at his feet, one thought lingered in his mind.

Is this what they felt?