**CURRENTLY A FEATURED STORY**
highest ranking: #11 in Science fiction
❝true happiness is only achieved without freedom.
There is a girl who wakes to a world that she was supposed to protect. Instead, she fights it.
There is a man who is cursed wit...
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I SEE HIM IN THE LIGHT, I see him seeping into darkness.
I find him as he turns a corner in the twelfth sector of the city. A drone flies fifteen feet above me, far to my right; I duck my head down, shove both hands into my pockets, take in a long breath of crisp air. The stone pavement is speckled with white remnants of snow from where it's been scraped off. Keeping my trademark hair tucked into the hood of my coat, I quicken my pace. The drone remains alongside me, slightly faster than me, not following me, not supervising me in particular. I can hear the smooth whirring of its engine as it hovers on a perfectly levelled plane, doing its duty.
I turn the corner just a few seconds after him- and I reach out, grab his arm. Drag him under the arch of a doorway; you'd think it'd give us some sort of privacy, but it really doesn't do much, given that the whole building is made of glass. We're close to the edge of the sector; to my right and down the street lies a sliver of the wall, powerful, almighty, brittle, showing us an endless horizon of blue that gradates into a white nothing.
He spins around, surprised and afraid. My fingers fit around his wrist and I pull him back as he tries to leave. He doesn't resist again; a scuffle would certainly attract that stupid drone.
"You."
"Me."
He's always had high cheekbones, a fine face, pale blue eyes, but today his cheekbones are more pronounced, the shadows on his face darker, his eyes paler. Perhaps it's just the cold, a cold I can't truly feel. His manner is jittery; he makes me think of a small animal, the kind that approaches you for food when you crouch, but keeps its distance and is gone the moment you stand up too quickly. His eyes don't stop- won't stop moving. Back, forth. Back, forth. His eyeballs spin.
"What do you want?" His voice is hushed.
"Your help."
His response is a croaky, strained laugh.
He's wilting, like a dying rose. He shakes his head, and three black petals fall to the floor. It's like even simple movement soaks the life out of him. "I can't help you."
I decide to change the subject. I switch it with the aim of small talk (Julian's taught me quite a bit, frankly) and ask him where he's headed. He jerks his head in what seems to be no particular direction, but when I follow his gesture, I'm faced with a large building that scrapes against the grey clouds that hang low above the city, blanketing it.
I'm surprised. "The medical bureau? Why?"
He's hesitant to answer.
"Vance."
"It's- none of your concern." He swallows thickly, Adam's Apple bobbing beneath a layer of ridges, pale skin. I conclude from that that he's not suffering from a cold, or something else as mundane as that.
