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She stood patiently as Altas fumbled for his keys. For someone so young she had a near-impossible composure. Eventually he did wrestle the door open. Gesturing Cora inside, he flipped on the light. It was a mess, of course. Mugs and takeaway and books, so many books, lined every surface in his modest apartment.
“Sorry about the chaos,” he said with a cringe, “I, ah, wasn’t expecting guests.”
Cora simply took it in for a moment before finding a place on the couch of her own volition.
She smiled. “It’s alright. Already much better than the basement.”
Ah.
Atlas felt in that moment like he had been the one with a price on his head.
“Do you want anything? I have, um.” He surveyed the apartment. “Tea? How about I put on a kettle?”
“I would love some tea,” she replied, already flipping through the magazines on his coffee table. “Do you have mint?”
He nearly laughed at her causality.
“Yes, of course.”
It was an old flat, none of the new fancy open floor plans. Atlas had never once before been grateful for his coffin-kitchen. Apparently there’s a first time for everything. When he was safely out of the child’s line of sight, Atlas allowed himself to crumble slightly. He started the water on the stove, dug out mugs for the both of them, and thought, for the first time since this day began, what he would have to do next. He needed help, obviously. Unfortunately, there was only one man who understood the situation as intimately as he did. There was one man he had to call, and Atlas would have rather put his hand on the hot stove than do just that.
He spoke aloud to himself, then, as the rogue academic was prone to do.
“You are not a man of pride. You are not a coward,” he said to the kettle as much as himself, “-and you are certainly not going to let this happen again.”
Deep breath. Another one. Atlas picked up the phone.
Romeo was at home. Comfortable at home. He had had a long day, frankly, and was enjoying a warm evening in his armchair with his dog. Crazy. He was comfortable at home with his dog and his phone was ringing. Let’s be honest, it was probably Sasha getting on his ass for some problem he didn’t even cause. Romeo swallowed his curses and answered.
“Rome. I need your help.”
What. The fuck.
“What the fuck?”
Atlas winced. “Ah. Um, I probably should have started with hello. Hello?”
“What the hell do you want?”
“They found the next prophet.”
Romeo was an open wound. It had been three years.
“What do you mean, they found him?”
“Her.”
Her. Great.
“Okay, she’s been found. What does that have to do with me?” Romeo’s warm evening was on fire now. “Better question, what the fuck does that have to do with you?”
Altas groaned and leaned his elbow on the counter. He felt weak. “She. Um. So-”
“Spit it out.”
“She’s in my living room.”
“…what?” Romeo sounded hollow.
He was a mess now, Atlas was. He was not equipped for heroics.
“She’s just a kid, Rome. They were going to kill her. She’s- I-” he sighed, “I couldn’t let it happen again.”
Silence.
“…Romeo?”
“You’re still at that place on Drummond?”
Atlas laid his forehead on the cold countertop. He was so tired.
“Yes.”
“Alright. I’ll be there soon.”
“Thank you.”
Romeo paused. It had been so long, and his typical goodbye wasn’t fit for this call.
He hung up the phone.