Archive of Our Own

The booming of the explosives still rings dully in his ears from an hour ago as Zam fidgets with the mechanical pencil in his lap.

He’s tuned out the disappointed words of the Higher Up sitting in front of them because the man doesn’t sound disappointed at all. He sounds glad. And that pisses Zam off more than anything because of course he’s glad. Sitting in that damn chair and doing nothing all day while the rest of the miners are forced to do hours and hours of labor to feed the government’s greed. The man has no reason to feel anything but glad.

Glad that he finally has an excuse to punish two nuisances he’s tried to catch in the act ever since they arrived on the island.

Zam’s not too worried though, if he’s being honest. The Higher Up, who Zam just recently discovered to be named Ash, usually doesn’t give harsh punishment. They’ll most likely be given extra mining duty or be tasked with cleaning the restrooms which, while disgusting, could be worse.

But this doesn’t help to ease the small pit in his stomach, and one glance at Wemmbu sitting next to him lets Zam know that the other feels the same way.

Maybe that’s why Wemmbu has been trying so hard to convince Ash of their innocence.

“So,” Ash started, “you just so happened to stumble across a random pile of dynamite while mining, and the open lantern nearby set it off?”

Wemmbu turned his gaze away and Zam held in a laugh.

“That is the stupidest excuse anyone has ever given me,” Ash stated.

“Ok, so—“

“What about you?” The Higher Up interrupted.

Zam stopped fidgeting with the pencil and sat up straighter. Ash took the slightly confused look on his face as a sign to reiterate himself.

“What’s your excuse?”

“Why does that matter? You already know it was us.”

“Dude, can we just get this over with?” Wemmbu said. He leaned back in his chair, boredom openly displayed on his face. The rubellite attached to the goggles on his head glimmers harshly underneath the accent light above. This is yet another reminder of how sick these people can be.

Oh, yeah, sure Zam and Wemmbu! You can put the gemstones you found during your hours of hard labor on your goggles! We’ll just use it as an excuse to tell everybody on the mainland that we’re good people without you guys knowing anything!

Admittedly, that was kind of given and they should’ve been expecting it, but when Zam tried to take them off his goggles, he was met with the force of five guards and had to watch as the gems were forged into the metal. Unremovable. Stuck for the rest of his time at the mine. A gesture of his place in their fucked up system.

He thought of just taking his goggles off completely and never using them again, but one trip back into the mines without them and Zam got so much dust in his eyes he had to go see Hannah—the mine’s only doctor. Poor woman doesn’t even get paid five dollars an hour.

Wemmbu didn’t seem to care in the slightest about the gems. He argued that it wasn’t that big of a deal, but Wemmbu thinks everything isn’t that big of a deal so it doesn’t count.

Ash opened his mouth to say something but the abrupt ringing of a phone cut him off. He gave them both a glare before picking up the device and holding it to his ear.

Zam goes back to messing with the pencil, taking it apart and reassembling it again.

He can’t help but think back to how he got into this situation to begin with. It wasn’t even his fault in all honesty. He was just trying to reach his daily quota like everybody else when Wemmbu appeared out of nowhere with a pile of dynamite he had stolen from one of the guards’ weaponry rooms. He was originally going to say no, but Wemmbu had already started to blow up ore veins. Besides, they weren’t that close to the surface, and Zam was itching for a chance to perform some sort of rebellious action. How were they supposed to know that there was a guard nearby? There were usually never guards that far down because miners normally don’t go that far down. Zam just wanted some alone time for a bit, but apparently, Wemmbu had other plans.

He flung a piece of the pencil at Wemmbu out of annoyance and it hit the other in the side.

“Ow,” Wemmbu commented. “That hurt.”

“No, it didn’t,” Zam responded.

“Dude, do you think we’ll finally get extra mining time?”

“No.”

“Aww,” Wemmbu complained, “I hope we do. I didn’t get shit today.”

Yet another thing to hate about Ash. All the other higher-ups think that giving the miners extra mining time is a punishment, but almost everybody enjoys it because the daily quota is always nearly impossible to hit. More mining time just helps them, and Ash knows this, so he never gives anybody extra mining time.

In all fairness though, none of the higher-ups really do get to give anybody a punishment because nobody ever does anything serious enough. Apart from Spoke and Mapicc of course.

The last time Zam even saw Ash was his second year here. Another accident with Wemmbu’s involvement.

Another accident involving explosives.

He feels himself subconsciously hover over what was once his right arm, the metal that now replaces it cold to the touch. The prosthetic used to be uncomfortable and made him feel uneven, but now that he’s used to it, he barely feels a difference. He could do without the occasional phantom pain that pinches at him every time he hears an explosion, but he’s even gotten used to those by now.

“Alright boys,” Ash said, slamming the phone back down on the desk. He shuffles through one of the drawers and pulls out a form that Zam recognizes a little too well for his liking. Ash probably doesn’t even keep up with any of the forms he fills out for people who try shit. He’s supposed to, but Zam’s definitely seen one or two in the trash can by his desk.

Wemmbu sinks further down in his chair with a yawn.

“Your sentence,” Ash begins with a glare in Wemmbu’s direction. The Higher Up picks up a pen and begins filling out the form as he talks, “Is the exploration of the Twenty-First layer in the Metallum. Also known as, the Deep Dark layer.”

Zam felt his heart drop and his eyebrows furrow.

“Wait, what?” Wemmbu asked. He sat up infinitely straighter and the tone he was using did nothing to ease Zam’s increasing awareness of just how bad this could be. The pencil in his hands grew still, the bottom cap halfway unscrewed and Zam snapped all his attention to the Higher Up in front of them.

There’s no way Ash is being serious.

The Higher Up continued as if he hadn’t heard them at all, the room falling deathly silent except for the scratching of pen against paper, “Both offenders are ordered to collect the valuables they find and turn them into the Collector if they are to return. Both offenders are ordered to return in no less and no more than 48 hours after sunrise tomorrow and they are to be waken up early.”

The only coherent thought Zam can muster up out of the mess that is his mind right now is that he’s read about the Deep Dark and there’s is no way—

Ash’s arm distorted abruptly, magenta particles sprouting in the air and landing on his desk before disappearing against the wood. He swore before continuing, the glitch having messed up his writing, “Both offenders are to have their quota increased by a total of 20 grand—“

“That’s not even a possible goal to reach,” Wemmbu complained.

“Both offenders,” Ash interrupted with a harsh glare in Wemmbu’s direction—a challenge to interrupt him again. “Are to have no outside help.”

“We will die!” Zam exclaimed.

“And that’s not my problem,” Ash responded smoothly, turning his gaze in Zam’s direction. “Nobody knows what is down there and I don’t feel like risking any more of my men.”

He added his signature at the bottom and slid the paper to the side, plunking the pen back into its container as Zam bit back the retort that wanted to shoot from his mouth.

The pit in his gut only grows until it feels like it’ll swallow him whole. He spares a glance at Wemmbu but the other looks deep in thought, so he’s forced to search elsewhere to try and gain at least a small sense of reassurance that they weren’t just sentenced to their death.

“Now get out of my office before I have to do more paperwork,” Ash stated.

“Dawg, you filled out one piece of pap—“ Wemmbu started.

“Get out,” Ash said coldly. “Unless you want Red to escort you.”

The fear that was tearing into Zam’s insides suddenly simmered to anger because this wasn’t fair. Nothing on this damn island has ever been fair but Zam can’t do anything about it because he doesn’t know how.

He gets up, chair scraping against the floorboards, and turns to leave. He hears Wemmbu do the same behind him with an empty threat in Ash’s direction, but Zam’s already out the door before he can hear the full sentence.

The cool, autumn breeze hits him like a truck the second he steps outside. It’s a striking contrast to the warmth contained inside Ash’s office, and he would probably appreciate the cold more if it weren’t for the constant smell of smoke and machinery that coats the air on the surface of the mine like a thick blanket. It mixes into something that constantly scratches at the back of his throat and he has to force a cough down. He’ll get used to it in a few minutes anyway.

Zam takes this time to watch the sunset. The way it paints the sky with a mix of pink and orange hues is mesmerizing, and a rare site for him to catch. They aren’t allowed all the way up here where the Higher Ups stay, so he hasn’t caught one in a while. There was a time back when he first arrived on the Metallum when him and Pangi would sneak up and watch it from time to time. It was his favorite part of the day until they were caught once and forced to spend the next three days entirely in the mines. No food, no water, nothing but a pickaxe and they weren’t even allowed to help each other.

Distant chatter rose from down below where all the miners have started to turn in the shares they’ve gathered from the mines today. Zam watched as the Collector, Mr. Ferre, descended the platforms on the other side of the mine to meet them and couldn’t help but wonder if Ferre would keep his word.

He didn’t get the chance to see it.

His eyes caught sight of two familiar figures standing at the bottom of the ladders on this side, waiting for him and Wemmbu to emerge from the Higher Up’s office.

Speaking of the latter, the door to Ash’s office opens again and Zam manages to make out Ash shouting something before Wemmbu shuts the door to drown him out.

And just like that, their situation comes crashing down on him again. Whatever anger he held had simmered back down into worry, and whatever momentary peace he had had shattered and blew away with the breeze ruffling his braid.

The Deep Dark.

He doesn’t remember exactly what it was that he read about it. He just recognizes the name. It wasn’t much considering the fact that the only thing he remembers about the Deep Dark is that it’s home to a creature known as the Warden. It was probably just the title of a book that managed to catch his interest on one of the shelves in the library.

However, it’s no surprise he took a quick glance at it and put it back on the shelf. If he can recall correctly, the poor book was in terrible shape. Somebody had scribbled messy notes on a few of the pages as if it were a school textbook and the cover page had been removed completely, leaving nothing but a plain navy blue hardcover in its place. All of the pages were crinkled like somebody had spilled water on them, and half of them were hanging on by a mere thread.

Zam just has to hope Squiddo hasn’t thrown the thing out yet.

Wemmbu says nothing, and for one of the first times since Zam has met him too. Usually, Wemmbu is all talk and no care, doing whatever the hell he wants because he’s normally a lot more careful about being caught. Admittedly, there’s also never been a punishment that’s as severe as this one either.

There are too many factors to consider—that Ash didn’t care to consider.

Only experienced miners who have been here for years are allowed to go down that deep. The air is unbelievably thick, so they have to be given proper equipment to survive. It takes around six and a half hours to even reach the bottom from the surface, and around the same time to get back up. Most of the miners down there stay down there in small huts with makeshift beds lined against the walls because it’s not worth coming back up just to go right back down.

After one last look at the sunset, Zam began to follow Wemmbu back down the ladders.

He hates these ladders. Always the extra spike of anxiety as you hear the creak of the wood or look down to stare into the deep abyss below.

Each step among the platforms sends dust sprawling underneath. The planks are ancient with time and weak from occasional storms that sweep above the island, so they’re bound to give out any day now surely.

“We’re dead,” Zam finds himself muttering suddenly as he glances through the cracks of wood to see the gaping hole beneath them. “We’re so dead.”

“No we aren’t,” Wemmbu insists almost instantly. Zam wasn’t aware the other could even hear him.

“We’ll just uhm…” he trails off, thinking for a moment while looking out over the many buildings lined along the side of the mine. “We’ll just take some equipment from the guard’s room tonight. Like those masks they use to breathe better on the lower levels.”

“You know where it is?” Zam asks, the undertone of sincerity in the other’s voice surprising him.

“I’ll figure it out.”

The rest of the climb down was silent and filled with dread. At least, Zam’s silence was. It coiled into a suffocating knot in his stomach that refused to untie itself no matter how hard he tried to cut it away.

“So what’d you guys get?” A familiar voice asked after they climbed down the final ladder.

Flame stood leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The ends of his blindfold whipped against the hilt of the sword on his back as the wind kept up its furious current. His dark skin shone a brilliant gold in the sunlight and the pickaxe at his hip was the only thing that signaled him as a miner and not a guard. However, he is offered guard services occasionally whenever more are needed. Hence the shoulder pads for protection.

The same thing applies to Mane, who stands next to Flame idly, head tilted in Ferre’s direction.

Zam feels a small shiver crawl up his back because despite having no eyes behind the blindfold, Mane’s abnormally sharp. Which makes sense because he’s had to learn to rely heavily on the rest of his senses, but with the kind of fighting he participates in, it’s insane how fast he got used to it. Zam would admire it if it weren’t for the fact that Mane looks for the fights he ends up in. Instead, Zam holds a high respect for him and considers him one of his closest allies. Somebody he trusts to be capable of doing what needs to be done, good or bad.

Flame also falls under that light, albeit usually lurking on the quieter side of the mine’s antics.

It’s rare to find one without the other when it comes to Flame and Mane. They have an understanding that doesn’t quite reach anybody else’s knowledge.

“A death sentence,” Wemmbu finally answers.

Mane snapped his head in Wemmbu’s direction and Flame got off the wall, “What? Are you serious?!”

Despite the fact that he could feel one of their gazes boring into his back, Zam didn’t look at either of them. Instead, he caught sight of the library on the other side of the mine and the book resurfaced to the front of his thoughts. He directed his next words at Wemmbu, but didn’t bother to turn around, “I’m going to go look for something to help us.”

Wemmbu didn’t seem to acknowledge him as he heard the younger ask Flame and Mane if they knew where the guards kept equipment. Zam didn’t stick around long enough to hear their answer.

The library was easily his favorite building. It’s stayed the same ever since it was first made here, and if anything, the old medieval-styled architecture provided a sense of comfort none of the other buildings gave.

He was met with the warm aroma of old books mixed with the smoky smell of the fireplace over in the corner as soon as he walked in the door. Shelves and shelves of books lined the walls, making the room feel endless despite its small vicinity.

“Zam!” Squiddo greeted cheerfully. She poked her head out from behind one of the shelves near the fireplace. Her arms were full of books and her glasses lie tilted slightly on her nose, so he went over to offer help.

“What’s wrong? You look down,” Squiddo asked. Her British accent slips into her words every time she speaks, and he’s spent so much time with her that he forgot it even existed.

She handed him some of the books. He started slipping them on the shelf while contemplating on if he should tell her or not as the warmth from the fire settled over him like a wave. It felt nice. It always felt nice in here.

And Squiddo seemed to be in a good mood.

He didn’t want to ruin that.

“Nothing,” Zam said. “Just tired.”

“Aren’t we all in this damn place?” Squiddo replied.

“You can’t say that here!” A laugh escaped his mouth regardless of the burning reminder of how little free speech is allowed on the island. They don’t seem to give that much of a damn when it comes to the miners, but Zam remembers clear as day when one of the old bartenders, Ro, was fired for speaking out.

“What do you mean? This is my library! I can say whatever I want.”

“They’ll fire you,” Zam reasoned with a smile. He began scanning the shelves for the book he came here for.

“No they won’t,” Squiddo replied with a laugh. “Where are they ever going to find another librarian as awesome as me?”

“Good point.”

Silence enveloped the two, except this time it was a comfortable silence interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. The library has always been a place Zam can go to to find peace. He feels he has a lot more freedom than he’s ever had out where the mine is. Sometimes whenever he comes in here to rest, he finds himself imagining that he isn’t at the Metallum at all and that he’s back on the mainland.

Squiddo starts humming, and for a second Zam finds that he forgot what he even came here for.

“Squiddo?” Zam asks, walking back over toward her.

“Hm?”

“Can you help me find a book about the Deep Dark?”

Squiddo readjusted her glasses and stood up, setting the books down on the floor, “Yeah, sure! I think I saw a book like that up top.”

There’s no room for a staircase inside the building, so they have to climb a ladder. The second floor is significantly smaller than the first, but surprisingly uncramped despite its size. A fuzzy stool sat in the corner next to a small window and Zam yearned for the time when his only problem was that there wasn’t a good view outside of it.

“I’ll help you look around,” Squiddo said. “I haven’t gotten the time to organize half of the shelves up here recently, unfortunately.”

“Thanks,” Zam replied.

Despite the peaceful environment he found himself in for the time being, his mind wouldn’t stop racing. It had calmed down a bit when he first entered, but now that he was fully back into motion, his head was swimming with endless questions and dilemmas.

Like if they actually make it out alive, whose to say he has to come back to the surface? Can’t he just stay down there and they wouldn’t know? Would they send people down there to find him? And then he’d have to be sentenced extra. Would he even survive down there?

Or if this is really his last night alive, shouldn’t he be spending it doing something else?

His hand paused midair, hovering over a random book’s spine as that last question reverberated around in his head.

“Found it!” Squiddo called abruptly.

Zam blinked.

Squiddo held the book out with both her hands to stop the pages from falling out, “Oh man, this thing is not in the best condition is it?”

Zam carefully takes it, rubbing off a bit of dust on the cover, “It really isn’t.”

The daily alarm that signals when the mine closes for the day erupts outside, snatching both of their attentions towards the window.

It’s unnecessarily loud, but he guesses that’s so the people still mining can hear it from all the way up here. It’s always switched on after everyone has turned in to the Collector at the end of the day. The rest of the day is meant to be spent hanging out or doing other things that need to be done around their “town”. This is usually where sentences need to be carried out, but his and Wemmbu’s are a special case apparently.

The question resurfaces again.

“Can I check this out?” Zam asks.

Squiddo shrugs before climbing back down to the first floor, “Honestly, mate, you can keep it. I don’t think anybody’s touched that book once since I put it on the shelf. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Zam followed her down with a soft smile, “Thanks, Squiddo. You have no idea how much this helps.”

The door to the library opens abruptly, and he panics, shoving the book into the part of his belt that acts as a satchel. Fading sunlight pours into the room, interrupting the candlelight, before disappearing again as the door shuts.

Zam lets out a small sigh of relief, “Jeez, Jumper.”

“What?” Jumper asks incredulously. She slips off the brown goggles on her head and slides it across the desk Squiddo stands behind. With brunette hair at medium-length and somewhat cozy-looking pink attire, JumperWho offers them both a kind smile.

“He thought you were a guard,” Squiddo says.

“Hey! I am a guard!”

“One that actually cares.”

“Yeah, I knew what you meant,” she replies with a laugh.

The alarm cuts off finally, relieving Zam’s ears. “Ok, I’m going to go. Thanks again, Squiddo!”

“Bye, Zam!” Squiddo called at the same time Jumper said, “See you, Zam!”

Guards walked back and forth between the multitude of miners as they rushed from place to place tending to their own business. There was a line outside of Branzy’s Mechanic garage and the lights inside of the bar were finally on.

Zam picked up on a few conversations between groups here and there, interrupted by the occasional guard talk near the railings that are supposed to keep people from falling over the edge (they don’t).

He offers a small nod as he and Pentar pass each other, the guard probably heading to talk to Ecorridor.

When he doesn’t find Wemmbu anywhere outside, Zam heads over to the bar knowing that the younger usually spends most of his evenings pissing people off.

Silhouettes and shadows dance around inside, and the babble of miners mixed with the music blasting filters out through the small line underneath the doorway as well as tiny cracks that have developed in the building’s structure over time. Most of the people inside are severely underage, but nobody here gives a damn about what was and wasn’t a law on the mainland. The Metallum and the people who run it have made it strikingly clear that they have their own way of running things.

The smell of stale ale as it sloshed around in half-clean mugs fills his nose the second he opens the door. He’s also immediately reminded of how hungry he is as he begins walking further in. The sizzling of roasted meat as it hits a pan in the back makes his stomach growl, but he ignores it. He’s been days without food, it’s fine. They all have.

Zam thankfully finds Wemmbu quicker than he expects to. He can already feel himself gaining a headache from all the noise, so the sooner he can leave the better.

The younger is sitting with Flame and Mane in one of the corner tables. They didn’t have anything to eat or drink in front of them, but they looked like they were challenging another table to a match of Coins versus Cards. An old game that comes from the mainland where one side of participants are the “Coins”, and the other, “Cards”. It’s been a while since Zam has played, so he can’t remember all the rules, but most of the time, the aim of the game is to earn the most of the opponents’ cards or coins by completing a numerous amount of smaller games. For example, rock paper scissors. Except, it’d have to consist of cards and coins instead of using hand signals.

Quite a complicated system, but one gets used to it after you play it a couple of times. Everyone has their own strategies, and some people have even come up with their own games to play. After all, it is played by house rules, so every game is different than the last. That’s what makes it fun.

“Awe, come on man!” Wemmbu complained as the three people at the other table got up to leave.

Zam gave them a slightly apologetic look before they shuffled past him with little acknowledgment.

“Zam,” Wemmbu sang, drawing out the ‘a’, “Will you play a match with me?”

“No,” Zam deadpanned.

Flame laughed.

Zam didn’t bother sitting down. He just leaned against the wall of the booth next to their table as Mane called over a waiter. The sun was fully drowned out beneath the horizon now, the last remnants of sunlight slowly fading and small speckles of white began littering the sky outside. Another one of his least favorite things. He can’t even see most of the stars because of all the pollution in the air from the machinery used.

“Why not?” Wemmbu complained.

“Because you play with stupid rules,” Zam explained.

“You’re so boring.”

Zam internally sighed and brought his voice lower, “Did you find out where the room is or not?”

Wemmbu’s gaze lingered on Zam for a little longer before it drifted off toward the doorway. Zam glanced over his shoulder in the same direction. Two guards are posted there now. They must’ve entered after he had because there’s no way Zam missed them on his way in.

He recognized one as soon as his eyes landed upon them.

It’s hard not to notice the porcelain white clown mask that sits on his face. ClownPierce stands tall, posture straight, and hands crossed in front of him. He’s the most infamous guard at the Metallum, known by even those who have heard tales of the Metallum on the mainland. He’s never left out of the story. The double swords at his side glint menacingly in the bar’s warm light, and Clown always makes sure to hold an intimidating stance wherever he goes, but Zam knows better. He’s seen the way Clown is whenever he’s near Branzy.

The guard that stands in a similar position next to Clown is someone Zam has seen before, but he doesn’t know much about. He recalls Pangi calling him SB before, though, so there’s that.

“Seems word finally got around to the guards,” Wemmbu said.

Both guards were staring in his and Wemmbu’s direction, which could be a problem. Zam knows Clown most likely wouldn’t snitch because of the organization, but SB might, and that’s a risk they shouldn’t take.

Wemmbu weaves a coin between his fingers, “Dude, what if instead of a fortune cookie, it was a fortune coin?”

“What?” Mane asks as the waiter walks away with his order.

“No, because like, think about it,” Wemmbu says. He deliberately meets Zam’s gaze as he tosses the coin in the air, “Heads we live, tails we die.”

“What is wrong with you?!” Zam asks incredulously.

He catches the coin in his palm and flips it over on the back of his other hand, “Yay! We live.”

He decides that if Wemmbu’s acting like this it must mean that he’s found the room. If not, he’s taking this a lot better for somebody who might die tomorrow. Especially compared to the way he was acting when they were first sentenced.

Zam sighs, “Where’s the room?”

“I’m not going right now,” Wemmbu says.

“Then I’ll go by myself.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll probably fuck it up.”

Zam opened his mouth to retort, but the waiter came back with a tray full of cooked meat and fresh bread. At least the system at the mine allowed them to get fresh food every night. He took a piece of bread off of the plate after it was set in the center of the table and stuffed it in his mouth.

He can’t even remember the last time he ate. Must have been this morning for breakfast, but still. He and Wemmbu ended up skipping lunch to pull off that stupid scheme, so breakfast felt like ages ago.

The waiter said her usual shpeel about how you can call her over if you need something and walked away to go serve another table.

“Meet me by the sleeping corridors in an hour,” Wemmbu said. “We’ll go then.”

Zam wanted to argue because then he’d just be bored for the next hour, but decided against it because he couldn’t be bothered to even try with Wemmbu at the moment. He left the booth with a simple, “Fine.”

He was dying to get out of this place anyway.

Right when he was about to leave, however, Clown shot an arm out to stop him. Before Zam could ask anything, Clown holds up a piece of parchment between two fingers in his direction.

“What is this?” Zam asks as he accepts it curiously.

“You’ll see.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to distinguish the expression on the guard’s face underneath the mask, but it was to no avail. That was another thing about Clown. He’s hard to read when he’s all guard mode or whatever.

Zam frowned but didn’t question it further and left.

The temperature outside had significantly dropped since he entered the bar. Its cool breeze sent goosebumps coiling along his arms, seeping in through the tiny holes in the fabric of his coat. Winter is right around the corner. Everyone’s least favorite time of the year at the Metallum. There’s hardly any heating unless you’re a guard or a Higher-Up, so most miners either die from hyperthermia or don’t even make it back up from the mines due to extreme frostbite.

Zam’s part of the lucky few to never become close to experiencing any of that. He plays it safe and sticks close to the surface when winter rolls around so he isn’t walking uphill for over an hour. Part of it is pure luck too, because he usually ends up getting assigned close to the surface as well whenever assigned mines are handed out.

He opened the parchment Clown had given him and read the messy, quick scribbles of cursive.

Reading it only left him more questions than answers, and Zam had to stop himself from sending a questioning look behind him in Clown’s direction.

Instead, he began heading in the direction that was stated on the parchment, tossing it away inside the next trash bin he spotted for safe measures.

The sleeping quarters are located on the opposite side of the surface from the bar in order to keep the atmosphere quiet for those who actually care about their health, even if it is only around ten people. There are restrooms and showers in the back, and the building is three stories, but the only floor visible is the top floor. The other two are beneath it and are considerably worse in Zam’s opinion. The harsh stench of sweat and humidity made it nearly impossible to breathe on some days, and sometimes Zam found himself yearning to sleep elsewhere despite the risk of being caught.

He walks quietly over to his bunk near the middle of the room to not disturb those who are already asleep. Mapicc isn’t yet, though, which leaves Zam’s bunk empty.

He climbs the creaky ladder to reach the top and gently settles himself on the old mattress to try and make the least noise possible. He places both of his hands against the wall to feel for the tiny indent he had carved into the wood. In the darkness, it’s impossible to see it with just his eyes, but he’s used it enough times to have practically memorized the location by now. His thumb brushes against it and he pushes it in.

A piece of the wood pops back out toward him silently, revealing the compartment Zam had made within the first few months of staying at the Metallum. He made it for multiple reasons. Recently, it has been used more prominently as a source of communication, but he used to keep valuables in it.

Inside sat a single, tiny, jar made of glass. It was filled with a handful of matches.

That’s it.

No note, no other information, nothing.

Just a jar full of matches.

Zam was even more confused now than before because what the hell are these supposed to be for? What does Clown expect him to do with these? Light the candles on a birthday cake?

Nonetheless, he grabs them and loops the jar through an empty spot along his belt to get it out of the way.

He cautiously places the wood back to cover up the compartment and climbs back down the ladder.

Zam debated on whether or not he should go ask Clown, but part of him fought against it. Clown’s a man who always knows what he’s doing, it’s why Zam trusts his judgment on things a lot—at least, things that don’t involve violence because he already knows Clown’s answer to that.

“Oh, you were inside?” A familiar voice asked the second Zam exited, causing him to nearly flinch.

Wemmbu’s goggles shimmer brightly in the moonlight, deep purple hair poking out from underneath like an ocean’s current. It’s messier than usual, but at least it’s still pulled back in a ponytail.

“What are you—it’s only been like ten minutes,” Zam said.

“I got kicked out.”

“Of course you did.”

He glanced around to watch for guards. Most of the miners were beginning to file into the quarters, so they could probably use them as cover for wherever they needed to go.

Wemmbu seemed to have the same idea because one second he was standing in front of Zam, and the next he was off toward the guard’s district, “We’re going up.”

The guard’s side of the Metallum consists of nothing but a multitude of buildings for them to sleep in, one neat, scenic space for them to eat at, and a few shacks here and there for equipment purposes and other needs. It’s set up in the same way the Higher Ups are situated. Structures are built into the Metallum’s walls with ladders that lead up to one wooden platform after another until you breach near the actual surface of the island. Not too close, because some guards have tried escaping themselves before, but close enough to where they can see the details of trees that loom overhead.

Most of the guards are still hanging around the stomping ground. Others are too busy watching all the miners to make sure nobody is out past curfew to notice as he and Wemmbu silently sneak their way up to the top. They use the darkness to their advantage, scaling closer near the guard’s quarters to keep in the walls’ shadows.

Everything is significantly quieter up here aside from their footsteps on wood, but even that is kept to a minimum. Wemmbu manages to lead them to the highest shed. It’s so close to the surface that all the crickets chirping are within earshot, and oh how Zam wishes he could hear their lullaby every night. The ambiance is a pleasant change from the constant churning and muttering of all the machines that are left running overnight.

“Should be in this one,” Wemmbu said.

Zam plucks the hair clip from his belt that he usually uses to keep his braid together and shoves it into the lock. A click is heard not even five seconds later and he catches the lock before it can clang against the ground.

Wemmbu cautiously opens the door and dips inside.

Zam spares a last look over his shoulder, paranoia getting the better of him. A shadow moves somewhere in the dark. He tries to catch it again for a few seconds, but eventually brushes it off as a bird flying above and follows Wemmbu inside.

The door shuts behind him and Wemmbu clicks on a light overhead that flickers once before steadying.

On the left side of the shed, there’s a rack that holds up extra tools for the guards. An electric baton—Zam hasn’t seen one be used in ages—and a supply of swords with dull tips that probably get sharpened whenever they’re needed.

“Oh,” Wemmbu started, “That could be an issue.”

Zam turned to see what Wemmbu was looking at. He was met with nothing but empty shelves.

Empty.

Where the masks should be is now the home of dust bunnies and cobwebs as if it’s been abandoned for the past few months.

Heavy footsteps pounded outside.

Zam reached up and turned the light off before the thought had even entered his mind. Wemmbu moves somewhere behind him but he can’t see where even if he wanted to. It was pitch black except for the hint of moonlight pouring through the tiny window in the back. Tension clogged up his throat as the footsteps continued to approach. His brain was screaming at him to move toward the back of the shed, but he can’t see and it’ll just end with him knocking something over.

He takes the risk anyway and shuffles his way toward the back corner to the best of his ability. His back hits part of the wall and he decides that’s good enough, letting out a breath he forgot he was holding.

For the next few seconds there was nothing but tense silence before Wemmbu’s silhouette moved over toward the corner by the door so that when it would open, he’d be behind it. His scuffle was masked by the footsteps, but they stopped abruptly, shadow appearing beneath the door.

Moonlight was welcomed into the room. Zam spotted a glance at a couple of stars before they were torn away from him again—just out of reach—and replaced by two exclusively bright white dots in the dark shed.

He somehow recognizes them. Maybe it’s the tall outline.

“Jeez, Minute,” Zam exclaims. His chest heaves with relief and Minute flicks the light back on.

Minute’s pitch-black skin was sprinkled with white luminescent dots in small patches that matched his eyes. He was wearing his suit for the first time in a while. The last time Zam spoke to Minute was when he was explaining to the other all the steps that have been taken so far in the organization. Zam’s positive he can trust Minute despite the sword at his hip and the tiny crown on top of his head.

“Zam? I thought it was only Wemmbu up here,” Minute said.

“Alright, man. Am I really that bad at being sneaky? How’d you even see me?” Wemmbu complained.

Minute smiled, “You were better this time. You two are lucky I was the only one paying attention.” He fished something out of his bag and held it out to Wemmbu.

It was a mask.

Made for the lower part of the face with two metal filters located on each side. The thing looks like it was designed for an apocalypse. Zam’s never seen one before. He only knows of their existence because Derapchu explained to him how thick the air is once you find yourself deep enough in the Metallum. The filters are supposed to help the miners and guards who are down there be able to properly breathe.

“I could only find one. If I kept looking for a second one, it’d raise suspicions,” Minute explained. “I already have one too many people on my back. It’s not worth risking my position in our current state.”

“Thank you, Minute,” Zam said honestly.

Wemmbu took it and Minute headed for the door again. “I don’t know what it’s like down there, but don’t do anything stupid.”

“Ok,” Wemmbu dismissed.

“I’m serious. No heroics, no messing around, no leaving anybody behind. You stay together, you get whatever the hell it is you need to get, and you get out.”

Except, what is it exactly that they need to get? Ash just said to get any of the valuables they see.

A realization sparked inside his head as Minute left the shed. Ash had said the valuables. Which implies that he knows there are valuables down there, to begin with. Which means he’s expecting them to give Ferre something specific, but what is it?

What the hell is down there?

“Can’t sleep?” Mapicc’s whisper drifts up from the bottom bunk.

Zam lost count of how long he’d been staring at the ceiling. There are too many questions left unanswered and every time he closes his eyes to make them go away, they only get louder. He’s flipped through a few pages of the book, but he stopped after around five minutes because all the words he managed to see—which wasn’t a lot, for the record, since the room is too dark to even see the person sleeping in the bunk next to him—only made him more anxious. Plus, he’s not necessarily in the mood to read when the threat of his death tomorrow is eating him alive.

He hums because he can’t find it in himself to respond with words.

“What happened?”

Zam stays silent. He knows Mapicc would try to do something about it which would only end in him getting in trouble as well. With the kind of sentence he and Wemmbu got, who knows what lengths Higher Ups are going to start reaching to keep people in check? Zam isn’t a big fan of adding a Mapicc-got-in-trouble-because-of-you-shaped wave into the stormy sea that is his conscious right now.

“Come on, man!” Mapicc said.

Zam begrudgingly decided to respond, “People are trying to sleep.”

“I don’t care. I’m bored. What’s on your mind?”

He paused and decided to humor the other, propping himself up on his pillow with his elbow and asking, “How far down have you gone in the mine?”

“I don’t pay attention to the number,” Mapicc replied. “But I do remember that I’ve been near the really cold level. There was a bunch of ice or something.”

“So you’ve been past the Deep Dark?”

“Yeah, why?”

So, Zam decided to tell him. He explained what he did to get into this situation to begin with and what sentence Ash had given them. He left some things out that weren’t necessary—like the book he found in the library and how Minute gave them a mask (which is necessary but another miner could be listening), but he expressed at least some of the questions in his mind and asked for Mapicc’s opinion on them. Zam made sure to never mention the obvious elephant in the room about how he could die. Partially for his own benefit, but he’s positive Mapicc has already put the pieces together considering he’s using that tone he always uses when trying to calm Zam down. Mapicc didn’t intervene a whole lot unless Zam asked him to, and when he was finally done getting almost everything out, the two fell into an awkward silence.

“Shit, man,” Mapicc eventually spoke up.

Zam let out a shaky laugh, “Yeah. That’s—yeah, okay.”

“It’s just like—why?” Mapicc asks, thinking out loud. “Why have such a jump change all of a sudden? What changed?”

Zam has a suspicion as to why, but he doesn’t want to speak it out loud in the case that somebody else in the room isn’t sleeping. The more he thinks about it though, the more he starts to question if he’s right. Everyone’s been so careful.

They both stay silent for a while, stuck in their own heads. Zam’s pretty sure Mapicc falls asleep at some point, but he himself just isn’t tired. He feels a lot more motivated now that he’s talked about it, though.

He sits up and pulls the book from his satchel sitting at the end of his bunk. He also grabs the matches Clown left him as a light source, though he’s a little weary of using them because he doesn’t trust himself not to light the pages on fire by accident.

He props the book open on his knees and presses down to stop it from slipping. He lights a match with his other hand against the bunk’s backboard.

Instead of meeting the warm, orange light of what fire is supposed to be, he’s met with the spark of a brilliant blue light. It illuminates his face in the darkness. It catches him so off guard that he nearly drops the match, grasping it just in time as it is about to slip through his fingers. He brings his other fingers closer to the fire, expecting to feel heat radiating from the flame, but he’s introduced to a shocking coldness instead. It’s weird—abnormal but in a way that only makes Zam question how Clown could have gotten hold of something like this. And why?

Zam tries to ignore it for now, bringing the light closer to the page until his eyes can finally piece together words in the darkness.

He begins to read.

He hasn’t read anything in a while. He forgot how calming it is to get lost between the lines of letters upon letters. Get sucked into a world that may or may not be true. Only the author knows what’s real, and even that isn’t necessarily true in some cases.

The next three hours or so—he kind of lost track—is spent by him reading and taking mental notes inside his head. Not everything is useful information, but he tries to remember at least a little bit of everything. He learns more about the Warden. How it’s blind and can only detect things through sounds and smell. It can feel the vibrations from any kind of noise within a close radius, and if it doesn’t hear anything for a while, it’ll try and smell anything nearby.

He also learns about the plantation of the biome. It’s absolutely covered in sculk, which apparently is similar to mud in certain spots, and consists of multiple patches of vines—called sculk veins (real creative)—that grow sporadically throughout the biome. Something that piques his interest is how sculk can supposedly spread if anything dies near a sculk catalyst. The book doesn’t explain how that’s possible much to Zam’s disappointment. He’d never heard of something like that before.

He doesn’t trust that everything in the book is true, though, because there’s a bunch of talk about curses and other mythical creatures which is stupid.

It takes him another half hour of flipping through pages until he reads something else that catches his attention. His eyes skim from left to right and realization continues to dawn on him the more he reads.

This is what Ash wants them to find.

An ancient city.

The book doesn’t have any information on how to navigate one, how to find one, or anything like that. It’s just history.

According to the book, there used to be a massive civilization of pillagers in the Deep Dark. Long ago they had created these cities during their war against the witches. They would use cave tunnels to travel from city to city and used sculk sensors as a way of communication between themselves since they could barely speak. The sensors also acted as good alarm systems. These cities were left abandoned with old artifacts and loot still tucked away as if the pillagers had left in a hurry, chased out by something that even the author of this book doesn’t know.

Zam suppresses the uneasiness clawing at his insides like a wild beast. Ash expects them to find an ancient city—if they even exist. He highly doubts that Ash knows of the existence of one, but it’s definitely not out of the equation. With how far down the Deep Dark is supposed to be, he and Wemmbu will be able to search far into its depths. It’ll surely be able to stretch underneath the ocean’s bottom, which only makes Ash’s time limit seem even more impossible.

It’s only when he takes a break from the words that he realizes how heavy his eyes are. He’s been staring at the pages for so long that he’s beginning to feel a little lightheaded.

The fire light has heavily dimmed since he first lit it, and as much as he thinks he probably should read more just in case, he’s too tired to hold his eyes open.

Zam slips the book back into his bag and gently shakes the match until eventually, the flame disappears. He gives it a few more seconds before also slipping the burnt-out match into the jar since he has nowhere else to put it.

He has no idea what time it is.

He just hopes he can get enough sleep to remember everything he read when the morning comes.

He’s woken up by an excruciating pain that shoots up his leg and into his spine.

He gasps, a shout escaping his throat, and he barely has any time to even open his eyes before there are hands on him. They drag him off the top bunk against his will, and another wave of pain bolts through him as soon as his leg hits the ground causing him to nearly buckle if it weren’t for the rough hold on his shoulders.

Zam blinks rapidly to try and clear the haze clogging up his mind.

There are voices and shuffling from miners waking up, curious about the disturbance. He recognizes a groggy Mapicc, “What the hell?”

The fog clears enough for him to register that the hands holding him belong to that of two guards, with a third one marching ahead.

He shakes them off and says, “I can walk myself,” even though he hardly can with the way his leg threatens to fold underneath him with each step. Despite the very obvious limp, the guards release their grip. They were holding him so tightly he swears there will be bruises there in an hour or so.

There’s a baton in one of the guard’s hands and he realizes that that’s probably what they hit him with to get him up.

His eyes still have a glaze over them as he looks around the room. The walk to the door is supposed to make him feel ashamed of what he’s done, but instead, it makes him feel a twinge mix of guilt and sympathy because he knows some of these people needed that sleep.

Early morning sunlight pours through the trees on the east side of the island, blinding him momentarily. The guards never leave his side even as he exits the sleeping quarters where he meets even more guards and an annoyed Wemmbu in their grasp.

“Talk about a rough awakening,” Wemmbu comments upon seeing Zam’s shape.

“You’re not funny,” Zam groans.

Wemmbu snickers and Zam wants to punch him.

The guard does it for him.

Zam’s eyes droop again of their own accord. He must not have gotten more than two or three hours of sleep max. He subconsciously lifts his leg as if it would stop the throbbing but instead, he’s met with an abrupt hot fire erupting in his side that actually does cause him to fall to his knees this time with a cry. The fire doesn’t stop, either. It digs itself deep until it feels like his insides are melting—but just as quickly as it had appeared it vanished and he was left panting on the ground and a leftover sharp sting.

There’s movement next to him before Wemmbu asks, “Was that really necessary—are you even allowed to use those?”

He has to take a second to collect his bearings again as he’s being lifted off the ground underneath his arms. “Jeez, man,” he starts. His voice is wavering and a little raspy. “Can you at least give me a minute?”

“New policies,” one of the guards states. The electric baton crackles at their side and Zam can’t suppress the wince that arises at the sound.

The door to the quarters opens again to reveal another guard that must have stayed behind because Zam hadn’t seen him before. His suspicion is confirmed moments later when the belt containing all of Zam’s stuff is shoved into his hands and Wemmbu is given his own belongings.

Zam wishes a guard he actually knew was with them instead of eight strangers with fun, electric toys.

“Alright, listen up because I’m done dealing with witty comments,” one of the taller guards demanded.

A guard firmly grabs his wrist. Zam automatically tries to wriggle it away, but the buzzing of the baton reminds him not to try, so he doesn’t. A metal band clamps around his wrist, needles pricking his skin as they slide into place with a mechanical beep. The sound echoes a few seconds later, indicating that Wemmbu also got a fancy new bracelet.

“Forty-eight hours,” The same guard as before announces. “If you are not back here in forty-eight hours those bands will shock you for each hour you are gone. It will progressively get faster every day you haven’t come back until you can’t come back at all.”

Zam feels around the band to try and get an understanding of its mechanisms as the guard keeps telling them things they already know. There’s a tracker in the band, which is unfortunate but makes sense, and then the guard starts going on a whole monologue about how they can’t do this and they can’t do that or whatever.

He doesn’t pay attention to almost all of it, and he knows that Wemmbu doesn’t either. So, they both end up standing there impatiently. Zam fiddles with the metal band so much that it ends up starting to itch by the time the guard finishes.

His side still hurts.

The guards escort them to the start of the mine and Zam’s heart gives its familiar stutter it always does whenever he’s close to the edge. There are rails, sure, but those never stopped him from feeling a small coil in his stomach.

“Forty-eight hours!” The guard calls after them once he and Wemmbu have already begun their descent into the abyss.

A gentle breeze swept across them, causing the wood planks to creak with age and Zam’s braid to slap against his back. The railings have disappeared entirely by this point. The further they go down, the skinnier the planks get. There’s wood sticking out over the hole in random places and even the remnants of miners who have tried to create their own pathways up—or down—against the side of the wall are still visible. Some stone was even carved out wide enough for a human teenager to fit inside. Because that’s all the miners are; teenagers. Only allowed to leave at 18, but even that doesn’t happen to everyone. And the people that do happen to just get shipped back to a prison on the mainland.

They pass by a makeshift hut one of the miners probably slept in on a journey up from the very bottom. They also pass by what must be hundreds—thousands of tunnels that miners have dug through. Each one stretches further than he can see.

“So you know how to take these bands off, right?” Wemmbu spoke up.

Zam thought for a moment, “Yeah.”

“Good because—“

“But I don’t have the tools for it.”

“Then we’ll just make the tools,” Wemmbu replied. He felt around in his pockets and pulled out the mask Minute had given them. “Dumbasses didn’t even pat us down,” He said through a muffled voice as he put the mask on.

Zam flapped open the satchel attached to his belt, Wemmbu’s words sparking a reminder. He was expecting to see the book inside only to find out the guards had searched it and taken everything except Flint, a compass dangling from a chain, and the matches Clown gave him. He still doesn’t know what they’re used for, though. The author never mentioned blue fire.

Fine. That’s fine—he can deal with that.

Since they still had a while to go, Zam took this time to explain everything he could remember to Wemmbu, and the two shared plan ideas and different strategies. Two minds working is better than one.

Machinery begins to start back up at the surface. The churning ricochets off the walls and meets their ears down below. He’s both surprised and not surprised that he can hear it as clearly as if he were still up top. Just slightly more echoey.

The deeper they travel the more Zam realizes how dangerous this is going to be. The temperature has started to drop significantly, and he can already begin to feel the thickness of the air as it scratches at his throat.

He coughs to clear it and hesitantly walks over to the edge, heart pounding in his ears.

“We’re almost there,” He reports, spotting the dark cyan of the sculk covering the atone below them like a plague. He steps away and continues.

By the time the sculk is close enough that he can hear it withering around, the temperature is so cold that he has his arms wrapped around himself and the coughing has increasingly gotten worse. So worse, in fact, that Wemmbu had to give him the mask to keep him from collapsing into a coughing fit. He didn’t think it’d get this bad, but in all fairness, they have been descending for quite some time now.

“This is going to suck,” Wemmbu states through his own coughing.

Zam thinks for a moment. “Since we have to stay quiet,” he starts, “whenever you feel like you need the mask, just tap my arm like twice.”

Wemmbu nods, “Ok, yeah. That works.”

It’s around another two and a half hours before the sculk is close enough for them to be able to see the pulsing lights dotting the muck like stars. By then, the two have fallen into a deathly silence. The plant, much to Zam’s surprise, has a smell that’s similar to moss and that smell that fills the air right before a rainstorm happens. Squiddo once told him there’s a word for that smell, but he’s forgotten it.

The plant is soft when he first steps on it as it winds its way into the wood on the path. It reminds him of mud but is a little more sturdy with how his boots sink. It squelches under their feet in the same way mud does as well, and Zam spots an opening into the wall a few more feet down.

There’s their entrance.

It only takes a few steps into the opening to realize why they call it the Deep Dark. Not a single sliver of sunlight reaches further past the very entrance, the sculk absorbing as much of the light as it can. The only thing allowing him to see Wemmbu next to him is the constant beating dots, but even those are impossibly dim. The environment sends shivers down his arms, reminding him too much of the fact that the plant really is alive. It all pulses together like one, giant thrumming heartbeat.

Zam reaches down and grabs his lantern along with some flint to light against stone—if there is any exposed.

He shuffles over to what looks to be the cave wall.

He manages to find an empty patch devoid of any sculk and scrapes the flint against the stone. It takes a couple of tries before it eventually sparks a flame, but when it does, he’s ready, and quickly lights the inside of the lantern before the flame can disperse.

The cave glows a brilliant orange, contrasting with the low blue of the sculk. The first thing he sees has him choking down a gasp.

It’s a sensor.

So close to him that he can feel the small tendrils brush against his pants in an almost ticklish manner. It’s not enough to set it off, thankfully, but it’s also not the only one.

Further ahead of them, the cave expands into a more open area with certain parts of the ceiling meeting the floor in what looks like spikes. There must be hundreds of sensors scattered everywhere. Some right next to each other, and others multiple meters apart.

He shivers involuntarily.

On the bright side, it’s less cramped, giving them more wiggle room.

He and Wemmbu make their way over to the opening. They watch their feet, careful not to step on anything they shouldn’t. There’s a catalyst to their left, but no signs of any shrieker near them. He saw a couple in the clearing, though.

Zam keeps his breathing steady and silent, but he can tell that Wemmbu’s struggling a bit. The overwhelming smell of sculk mixed with the suffocating high pressure is not a fun combination to deal with. Wemmbu hasn’t tapped in yet, though, so Zam trusts that he can handle it for now.

The opening not only looks less cramped, but it feels less cramped. A breath of fresh air that’s not actually so fresh. He notices it the second they step out into it. The smell is less constricting, and the stuffy knot in his chest loosens a little. Zam’s never been claustrophobic, but something about the eeriness of the Deep Dark and being in an enclosed space where he can’t speak irks him.

“We should test some waters,” Wemmbu whispers and it’s so loud in the silence that Zam jumps.

He looked over to the closest sensor with panic, but it didn’t go off.

Wemmbu goes closer to it and Zam really thinks this is a bad idea and they shouldn’t waste one of their three warnings on this, but Wemmbu’s already too close for Zam to voice his opinion.

“Hi,” Wemmbu whispers.

The reaction from the sensor is immediate.

It lets out an obnoxiously loud squall, tendrils glowing a brighter blue than normal as visual sound waves ricochet from one sensor to the next, lighting each one up like they were Christmas lights. The train stopped abruptly when it came to a sensor that was further enough away to not reach another one, but by then it had already alerted a shrieker.

Like clockwork, the blinking dots within the sculk went out one by one, descending the cave into a darkness that was somehow darker than it was before. The lantern hardly did anything when everything around them was deliberately trying to stay dark. He couldn’t even see Wemmbu anymore. Only the small part of the ground circling his feet.

The sculk did this in a similar pulsing pattern to how they would normally but ten times slower for a few more seconds. His heartbeat was so impossibly loud in his ears that he didn’t even recognize it as his own. He thought it was coming from his surroundings.

“Ok, the waters are dangerous,” Wemmbu whispers after the pulsing has stopped and the dots return to their usual pattern.

“I hope you die,” Zam whispers back, half expecting another sensor to ignite. None of them do. “Why’d you say hi to it?”

“I wanted to see if it was friendly.”

Zam rolls his eyes.

The two continued their descent further into the cave, cautiously avoiding every sensor or shrieker they came across and making sure to keep their eyes out for anything new. Zam almost fell down into a ravine at some point but managed to catch himself, and Wemmbu kept cutting it a little too close with the sensors on purpose to throw Zam for a loop. Why’d he have to be stuck with Wemmbu of all people?

Ominous noises fill the atmosphere sporadically, putting him even more on edge each time. It sometimes reminds Zam of the machines on the surface even though that’s impossible (he can’t even hear anything back the way they came), and sometimes the sounds aren’t even recognizable. He doesn’t know what’s scarier.

It’s real.

It’s real and it’s staring him down as if Zam’s its next meal.

Lanterns, with the same turquoise blue flame that the matches Clown gave him have, are sat high atop ruined, black stone walls. Torches of the same color light pathways of what once was a great civilization—filled to the brim with a population nobody has seen in years. Broken pillars still stretch toward the ceiling praying for the day they’ll finally be able to reach it, and small frames of houses litter the outskirts of the walls. Fragments of places that used to hold families—a father, a mother, maybe some children. Bridges connect one place to another over a massive ravine separating the city in half, and holes branch off into the darkness in plenty of the walls around the entire city. A tunnel system that is most likely way too much of a labyrinth for him and Wemmbu to ever begin to comprehend themselves.

And everything—every bit and piece he sees, every plant that spreads, every passageway carved into the stone— everything just makes Zam’s chest ache. He aches for something he’s never even experienced before and he aches for something that was once great. He aches for the knowledge of knowing just so somebody can know. Every lantern—every torch—a soul of someone who once stood where he stood and who once roamed this place they called home.

It’s real and looks a hundred times more daunting than the pictures plastered amongst the pages showed.

He hopes that Wemmbu isn’t tired yet because this will take a while, and it doesn’t look like they’ll be able to sleep any time soon.

It only takes a couple of steps forward inside the city when Wemmbu taps his metal arm as quietly as possible. Zam cautiously slides the mask off from around his face, preparing himself for the constricting feeling. He can last longer than last time, surely.

Wemmbu equips it silently and the difference that Zam can hear makes him question why Wemmbu didn’t ask for the damn thing sooner. It sounded like he had just smoked a cigarette or five.

“Where do we start?” Wemmbu whispered.

Zam shrugged and then realized that Wemmbu probably couldn’t see it, “I don’t know. Let’s just search through the houses first and work our way from there.”

The first ruins they find themselves searching through look to be one of the bigger houses. Large window holes are left open in the walls, and glass shards still lying on the ground. They crunch underneath Zam’s boots as he quietly checks cabinets and drawers for anything valuable. He gave the lantern to Wemmbu and watched as the light slowly disappeared up the crooked stairway to a second floor.

It’s in the third drawer Zam looks through that he actually finds stuff. Amethyst crystals are scattered against the wood mixed with a few chunks of coal and a fragment of something Zam doesn’t recognize. It looks like it was snapped off of something. Sharp edges, and a blue outline that matches the color of the sculk. It reminds him of the way a music disc would look if it was shattered into tiny pieces.

Something touches his foot. He flinches away on instinct and backs up. He can’t see whatever it is, but he sees shapes moving around on the ground in a similar pattern to that of a snake and decides that he shouldn’t stick around.

“Wemmbu,” Zam tries to call out as quietly as he can as he hurries over to the steps.

Whatever it is wraps around one of his ankles after a few steps. He’s pulled to the ground with a loud thud, and it sends his shoulder crashing into the side of the staircase. A sensor activates outside, but that’s not what Zam’s focused on as the lantern’s light reappears at the top of the stairs and lands on what has a hold of his foot.

It’s a tendril. Similar to one that is on the topside of sculk sensors, but ten times bigger and ten times more aggressive apparently.

The second the light hits it, however, it unravels itself from around him and screeches a sound that’s almost as bad as a fork scratching against a nice porcelain plate. Zam winces and scrambles backward, hoisting himself to his feet using the wall and Wemmbu’s outstretched hand.

Everything turns infinitely darker around them because of the sensor. Zam holds his breath, he knows it’s only their second time setting it off, but he can’t help but keep a tense posture and a stance ready in case they need to run. When it finally stops, though, the sensor doesn’t even seem to register the loud hiss of the tendrils as they sulk off back into their shadowy corners away from the warm lantern’s light.

“They’re everywhere,” Wemmbu whispers, barely audible over the sensor that is just now dying down. He moves the lantern in front of him and the light sweeps the room, revealing far too many of the giant vines than Zam feels comfortable being near.

The book didn’t mention anything close to tendrils actively trying to—what, kill you? He doesn’t know, but he honestly doesn’t want to know.

Wemmbu has an unreadable expression on his face, “This complicates things.”

Zam gives him the look everyone knows says no shit before snatching the lantern from him and leaving the house.

The rest of their searches go in a similar manner. At least for the houses. There are wooden outlooks stationed in every corner that are a challenge to get to the top of and search through, but after a few trials and errors of almost setting off at least ten of the nearby sensors and nearly breaking a leg from a fall, they managed to find a system that makes it easier. It also doesn’t take long for them to figure out there isn’t anything useful to loot inside the citadel that lines the middle of the city. Two walk-throughs are enough to understand that they all look the same on the inside and are way too fancy. Anybody else would take one look at them and assume there’s a castle in the middle or something.

It’s when they start getting closer and closer to the center that it gets harder to figure out where they are and find any loot the higher-ups might consider valuable. There are one hundred percent more drawers to check and old cabinets to shuffle through, but they can’t find any. The houses get bigger the deeper they travel, and the pathways turn this way and that until it’s a massive labyrinth stuck between buildings that Zam has no idea how to navigate and suddenly he can’t remember the direction they came from or what they’ve already checked.

And the tendrils that keep reaching for them hungrily every time they pass by don’t help.

Zam wards off another mass of them, practically chasing them back away into the shadows. All of them retreat pretty easily, everything considered. They hiss and squirm and he shivers uncomfortably, “I hate these things.”

“Yeah,” Wemmbu agrees because he’s not sure how else to respond. He’s more focused on figuring out where they’ve come from. “Where the fuck…”

“Hey,” Zam begins while suppressing another urge to cough, “I know where we haven’t been at least.”

Wemmbu turns to him and he points in the direction of the ravine.

It’s almost too vast to catch sight of the somewhat panoramic view of larger, more formal buildings compared to the many they’ve just walked through. The other side appears to give off a much more medieval look with a giant rectangular frame resembling that of a portal in the center and plenty of architecture similar to that of a castle surrounding it.

Bridges expand over the large gap in multiple different sections of the city allowing for the old residents to take however many routes they’d like (although, half of them have fallen apart by now). This has Zam assuming it wasn’t taken as a place of formality if it was open to the public like that. Maybe for citizens who were on the more richer side of things?

Did the pillagers have a class system? That’s interesting. It doesn’t surprise him that much—the greedy fuckers.

Zam’s never been one to fear heights before despite practically living next to a massive hole that has a concerning amount of depth to it. It’s the fact that the bridges, even though they’re made of stone and have railings that look naturally made just carved out, still have random holes in them where the rock just doesn’t exist. Not potholes like he stumbles across in the mines occasionally where it’s just a little dent, but actual holes, and parts of them nearly stretch across the entire width of the bridge as if they were large claw marks.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know was clogged in his throat and it comes out slightly more shaky than he’d like to admit. He tries not to acknowledge the fact that it’s beginning to sound wheezy and how the heaviness is starting to feel suffocating again.

He refuses to tap in, though, because while he might not be scared of heights, he knows Wemmbu definitely is no matter how many times the other tries to deny it. It’s why Zam made sure he was the one closest to the rails on their way down. He doesn’t understand why he cares because if anything, he should tap in! Wemmbu’s the reason they’re down here, to begin with, he should have to face it full force! But that’s the selfish part of him talking. The part of him that he knows is the exact opposite of what they both need at the moment.

Besides, despite all the times Wemmbu’s purposely dragged him into bullshit and all the times the other has wronged and annoyed him for the sake of his own amusement, he could never find it in himself to hate Wemmbu. He thinks it’s due to how he can feel himself actively enjoying the other’s presence whenever they’re together. Not in the way he enjoys Derapchu’s company or Pangi’s or Vitalasy’s or Mapicc’s. He enjoys—no, he craves the rivalry. That rush of always trying to do something to one-up the other, the witty comments, the quote-unquote playful competitiveness (they both know the undertone of sincerity in it. Nobody else around them acknowledges it as such, though). And Wemmbu’s the perfect person for it because they can never just get along, can they? Not unless it benefits them. Opposites in practically everything. Including favorite colors.

So, yeah, he won’t tap in because it would throw Wemmbu off his game, and if Zam’s being honest—Wemmbu’s so-called game right now is one of the only things keeping himself from freaking out. Of course, he would die before ever admitting any sort of admiration (because maybe Wemmbu does actually have some good qualities) or care for Wemmbu to the other’s face. And he certainly would rather die than ever call Wemmbu his friend. He just likes the other’s company and so what if he doesn’t fully understand why he likes it?

Just another thing to add to the list of things he doesn’t quite get about himself he supposes.

Crossing the bridge is easier than Zam imagined. There is a noticeable lack of sensors, but with how wide the ravine stretches it would be a miracle if any sound they make doesn’t carry to sensors on either side, so they decide that it isn’t worth the risk. Stone perks up on the sides of the bridge like giant spikes, and thankfully, not many tendrils seem to have taken a liking to the bridge either, so their path is clear from those creatures as well.

If anything, the walk across is peaceful. Which is something he never thought he would use to describe anything down here.

A low hum vibrates to his right and he pauses, glancing at Wemmbu who is a couple of paces ahead of him. He doesn’t notice when Zam stops.

Zam looks over and his eyes widen in awe at the sight before him. It’s a flower. A group of flowers, actually, that glow in the same blue hue as the torches and lanterns in the city. It reminds him of those glow-in-the-dark sticks that his neighbors back on the mainland handed out on Halloween to all the kids. He kneels next to it and hesitantly brushes his fingers against it in case it’s poisonous or toxic, but after he doesn’t feel anything he plucks the tallest one of the group from the ground. He smiles and tucks the bioluminescent plant behind his ear.

He likes it.

Big fan of this kind of flower, he is.

He carries on his trek across the bridge. His nerves spike when he can’t see Wemmbu’s frame in front of him, but he pops back into Zam’s vision after only a few seconds.

The pathway continues once they reach the other side, but instead of it being worn out sculk from multiple people stepping on it like it was on the side they just came from, it’s neat cobblestone and mossy sculk bricks. The temperature has dropped significantly on this side as well. If he thought the other side was cold then this must be freezing . He’s even begun to see his breath cloud in front of him each time he exhales. How could anything live down here?

He wraps his arms around himself in a fruitless attempt to keep the warmth from leaving his body more than it already has before increasing his pace to catch up with Wemmbu.

“What is that?” Wemmbu asks with a head tilt in the direction of the radiance.

“A flower,” Zam answers helpfully. “I really like it.”

“Where’d you—“ Wemmbu starts but then his gaze swaps over his shoulder toward the bridge, “Oh.”

He looks as though he’s contemplating for a moment while Zam ushers away another horde of tendrils. “It’s ugly,” Wemmbu decides before moving forward again.

“Fuck you!” Zam shouts after him in the quietest loud voice he can muster. “Be nice to the flower please.”

The two explored one more ruin before Zam taps in. He realistically could’ve held out a little longer, but that was unnecessary and the pressure was starting to give him a headache.

Something worth noting, however, is the obvious change in loot they found. Buildings on this side contained items more valuables—at least in Zam’s eyes. A whole piece of gold was just sitting there for him! Left behind like it was just some junk. There was a bookshelf in what was once a living room that had an old book, but he could’ve sworn it had a shimmer to it. When he brought it over to one of the torches, however, instead of the blue glow he was met with a purple one that moved over the book’s surface in waves of pure light.

He recognizes the shimmer. It shines the same way as the bottle he sees Hannah use on patients does. Regeneration is what she calls it. He recalls Wemmbu found something similar in one of the other houses.

He shoves the book into the satchel on his belt.

“Have you been keeping track of time?” Wemmbu whispers when they’re back on the path.

“No,” Zam responds. “I don’t like math.”

“Ok, so we’re fucked,” Wemmbu concludes.

Zam frowns, “I mean, I guess. Are you tired yet? There’s a possibility we could guess based on that.”

Wemmbu hums, “Surely there’s like a clock or something down here right? They had to of stayed connected to the surface level somehow.”

“Let’s just keep looking.”

So that’s what they did. The only thing they could do.

They searched through at least five more houses, each two stories tall, and all in close proximity to one another. The further they traverse into this side, Zam notices, the more amount of land is swimming in tendrils and sculk. It gets to a point where they can hardly even see any of the original cobblestones on the pathway.

Zam turns around to ward off another group of the creatures when the lantern accidentally swings too far to the side and crashes into an old lamppost with a loud clang that has his heart dropping to the floor.

“Shit,” Zam whispers a millisecond before a sensor screams bloody murder next to them.

“What the hell did you do?!” Wemmbu asked, not bothering to whisper anymore.

Whatever defense Zam had mustered up left him when he felt a splash of something heavy on his leg and the sound of digging from a few feet away. The sculk died their light and Zam wished they didn’t revive it. Time seemed to slow as he caught sight of what was happening.

Crawling out of the ground as if the sculk was nothing but mud—as if the fucking creature in front of them was the sculk. A creation Zam’s only seen through the words inside a book is now rising out of the ground in front of him and—holy shit it’s massive.

They both watch, practically mesmerized by the sheer way the Warden towers over them. Broad shoulders and an exposed ribcage writhing in starving tendrils and a beating, blue heart that glows like a thousand suns with a steady pulse that echoes in Zam’s eardrums until it replaces the sound of his own heartbeat.

He’s the first to move as the Warden turns in their direction, sniffing the air for any traces of pray—what had woken it from its home underground? He snatches Wemmbu’s wrist and drags both of them inside the closest house he can find.

He gives credit where it’s due—the thing is surprisingly fast despite its ginormous size. It’s at the door of the house within seconds, giving another giant sniff. Zam had forgotten entirely that I could smell them. Actually, he forgot everything he learned in that damn book the second the thing crawled out of the ground; the only thoughts in his mind screaming for him to run run run, and get as far away as you can.

The Warden barges in their direction and this time it’s Wemmbu who pulls him out of it. Their shoes pound against the ground, uncaring for the noise they make (though it doesn’t seem to make a lot somehow, whatever they’re standing on masks it) and it appears like the tendrils they were dealing with previously have gotten more aggressive because Zam’s turning this way and that while he runs to try and keep himself from tripping over them.

Next thing Zam knows, he and Wemmbu are crouching inside one of the walls near the giant portal frame, breathing heavily. His heart feels as if it’ll burst out of his chest like a rabid animal trapped in a cage.

“What the hell do we do!” Wemmbu whisper-shouts. His sword is clutched tightly in his grip. Zam hadn’t even noticed he unsheathed it in the first place.

Right .

Zam tries to calm himself down as much as he can so he can focus on trying to recall any helpful information he read last night.

Wemmbu props himself up on his knees and peeks through a hole in the wall to keep a watch on where the Warden is. They ran far right? How can they still hear the damn thing?

For some reason, the first rational thought that shoots to the front of his mind is about how wool stops sensors from detecting whatever sound you make. He wasn’t able to find any before going to bed, but that thought is when it clicks for him how his fingers are running through wool right now. Soft, fluffy fibers that remind him of the cotton the pillows on the Surface used to be made out of before shipments stopped coming in from the Mainland. That’s what has been masking their steps on the way to wherever they sit now.

“The wool,” Zam begins, “It hides the sounds we make. If we stay in here—“

He’s interrupted by the Warden howling from somewhere off to their right. It’s loud enough to have the ground rumbling underneath them, and for a second it feels like one of the annual earthquakes they get on the Surface. He doesn’t get time to dive further into that thought because the next thing Zam knows, the wall they are hiding behind explodes, leaving nothing but a resounding boom in its wake.

He’s instantly knocked onto the ground, and a blue light (brighter than the glow of the sculk) flashes in the corners of his eyes before disappearing along with his surroundings.

He doesn’t remember blacking out. It couldn’t have been for too long though because he can still feel the vibrations in the ground from the impact. There’s a crushing weight on him from an invisible force. He’s too disoriented to care at the moment.

Zam makes a move to get up, but that process is instantly shut down by one quick glance over his shoulder. The weight belongs to a slab of concrete currently pressing down on his ribs, threatening to crack them under the pressure. His arm accidentally shifts something nearby due to his attempt at movement a few seconds ago and the concrete slips further on top of him, sucking a sharp gasp from his lips and dark splotches to interrupt his already blurry vision.

He thinks he calls Wemmbu’s name out of instinct, but the ringing in his ears is so loud he can’t hear his own voice.

When his vision clears he notices a crack splintering across his view in the mask. The rational part of his brain instantly takes note that the crack isn’t enough to do damage but the part of the wall currently holding him in place definitely is.

As the ringing subsides in his ears, he can finally hear the warden’s increasingly powerful footsteps somewhere to his left. Zam reaches up and starts trying to lift the concrete while also looking around for Wemmbu, a task made impossibly hard by the dust coating the air. The mask filters it all out, but it feels like he can taste it nonetheless. The muscles in his arms strain tiredly, but Zam keeps pushing anyway, ignoring the desperate cries his body lets out.

He pauses his movements before his dazed mind can even register why. The Warden’s form towers over the newly made ruins a couple of feet away and Zam has to stop himself from crying out as the concrete slab slips closer to him yet again. He swears he can feel a rib crack as a burst of pain erupts in his chest somewhere, but his mind could be playing tricks on him. It’s not out of the picture considering how hazy he feels.

He shuts his eyes and tries his best to concentrate on leveling out his breathing. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t make any sound Zam repeats to himself however many times it takes until his brain is functioning again. He’s never been more grateful to hear the swarm of buzzing thoughts seep past the dust-muddled cloud.

The Warden sniffs and it’s so loud Zam can feel the vibrations of the sound inside his own body. The Warden stomps closer in his direction, but Zam can only pray that it doesn’t smell him because he can’t see it. The only thing he can see is the lantern discarded off to the side somewhere behind the rumble and the continuous pulsing sculk lights.

Something else moves next to him and before Zam can sort out what it is, a shiver shoots through his body as something slithers onto his torso.

Fuck, he forgot about the tendrils.

The muscles in his arms lock up automatically as one climbs its way up one of them, and another climbs its way across his legs—wherever they are.

Footsteps pound so close to him that he swears he can practically feel the Warden’s leg brush against his hair. Zam holds his breath as the Warden sniffs again and there’s another tendril making its way across his neck and his heart is beating so obnoxiously loud in his ears and there’s so much happening—

The Warden lets out a low whine before the sound of digging rushes to meet his ears. Sculk lands on his face in splashes and he winces when some lands on his lips. The ground next to him shifts, dipping lower the deeper the Warden sinks into it until it’s gone completely. Sculk levels out once more as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

Zam gratefully releases a shaky breath, but his thankfulness is short-lived as the tendril tightens around his neck, and the one climbing up his arm starts sliding underneath his fingers to loosen his grip on the concrete.

It’s not fast enough.

He slides the part of the wall off of him as quickly and quietly as possible. Once his hands are free he reaches up to wrangle the tendril away from his neck and flips himself over on his stomach to catch his breath.

When he manages to turn his gaze upwards, however, he feels his heart drop all over again as his eyes immediately lock onto Wemmbu’s form, crumpled on the ground against the far wall like a ragdoll.

“Oh, shit. Wemmbu!” Zam whispered while using his hands to hoist himself back onto his feet. The remaining tendrils that had snaked up his body were shaken off by all his jostling around. He ran towards the younger, snatching the lantern from behind debris on the way so he could ward the tendrils off Wemmbu’s body. He tried to spot any sign of breathing, but it was too dark to properly see anything until he was close enough, and that only scared him even more. The mask was already halfway off Zam’s face by the time he slid to a crouch above Wemmbu, vines scattering away like ants about to be crushed.

His fingers searched the other’s neck desperately for a pulse and he could feel the wave of relief that flooded him like a tsunami as Wemmbu’s heart beat against his fingertips, smooth and steady.

Zam carefully attaches the mask over Wemmbu’s face to hopefully help him breathe a bit better before giving him a nudge. The younger doesn’t even stir. He’s out cold.

Zam sighs and turns his body around so that he’s sitting against the wall, practically collapsing in exhaustion. Part of him is tempted by the idea to keep exploring without Wemmbu and just stick nearby, but he decides against that the second tendrils begin their crawling toward him and Wemmbu again.

The bracelet on his wrist has started itching again, but he doesn’t want to try and bother it because it stings whenever he does. He’s been trying to find something that could help take them off but no luck so far. There was that one pointy crystal in a house on the other side of the ravine, but it wasn’t nearly pointy enough to cut through whatever unnecessarily thick metal the bracelets are composed of. He even tried prying off a circuit, but that only resulted in a fun little jolt of electricity to shoot up his nonmetal arm, so he decided against doing it again. He’d prefer for that arm to not be useless, thank you very much.

A few minutes pass by in silence. Zam’s mind takes him back up to the Surface in an attempt to take his thoughts away from nearly dying. Everything’s too overwhelming to have hit him yet, but guarantee, come a few hours, it’ll all hit him like a train. For now, though, he’ll accept the distraction his mind has to offer with open arms.

And said distraction is the fact that the guards have been getting a little too violent a little too quickly for anyone’s liking recently. First was his and Wemmbu’s sentence which in and of itself should be way too cruel for even the Metallum’s standards. Then, the unnecessary shocking when they were given the metal bracelets—which, by the way, never seemed to have existed before they were sentenced. Having a tough awakening to a guard was common when miners had to get up early to carry out their punishments, but electric batons?

He wonders if those are being used right now as he’s stuck all the way down here. Surely Minute and Jumper wouldn’t use those, right?

The possibility makes him sick.

It reminds him too much of how he was first treated by the royal guards back on the Mainland when his parents died. He didn’t even do anything wrong and yet he was still tossed away because they couldn’t find anywhere else for him to go. A useless kid in a palace bigger than he could comprehend was all he was. All they saw him as. Casted away the fact that his parents died in a battle defending the throne even though Zam knew they didn’t quite believe in what it stood for.

It’s always the same entitled, avaricious and power-hungry assholes in charge of everything. And if they aren’t at the start (he refuses to acknowledge 4C), they always turn out to be.

Zam forces himself to swallow the aching lump in his throat because as bad as he might have it, other people have it worse.

Who is he to complain about how he used to live in the royal palace when Mane literally had his eyes gouged out? Or when people like Ratrick were publically executed every day for the simple crime of stealing for their own needs?

God , Ratrick. He hasn’t thought of that name in ages.

Wemmbu shifts beside him, drawing Zam’s attention away from his excuse of a childhood. He tries to hide any amount of concern plastered on his face as Wemmbu wakes up. The last thing he needs right now is the younger ridiculing him.

Wemmbu hisses through his teeth, wincing and clutching his ribs as he sits up, “We need to get rid of that lantern.”

An incredulous laugh escapes Zam as his gaze searches Wemmbu’s body to see if anything is too injured. “You have a sword,” He dully notes.

“If you think a sword was getting anywhere near that thing you’re as delusional as Spoke.”

“That’s offensive,” Zam said offensively.

There was silence again that was only interrupted by Wemmbu trying to make whatever pain he was feeling go away through grunts and gasps. It didn’t seem to be working very well for him. “I didn’t tap in,” He spoke up, now realizing the mask was on his face.

“You couldn’t. And it helped you breathe easier,” Zam explained simply, the half-truth slipping from his mouth smoothly.

“Yeah, sure,” Wemmbu hums, a mocking tone seeping back into his voice.

Zam rolled his eyes and rose to a crouch. He plans on getting rid of the lantern, but he needs its light to find a stick so they can at least have a torch.

The light illuminates the ruins around them in a warm glow as he hovers it a few inches above the ground. He searched until a pack of tendrils screeched away, revealing a somewhat moist—slimy—stick, but it should work nonetheless.

The small door that exposed the flame inside the lantern to the rest of the world squeaked a concerningly loud sound as he opened it and blew out the flame inside.

Instantly, it was as if every light on the planet had suddenly disappeared (not like there was any down here to begin with). His eyes were so used to having at least some form of light, that when the world went dark around him, he couldn’t even register the small dots of sculk littered everywhere. It was nothing but pitch black.

“Who turned out the lights,” Wemmbu’s whisper drifted from somewhere on his right.

Zam somehow finds a smile creeping into his face despite the corny ass joke and there’s no doubt in his mind that it’s audible in his voice, “You need to actually be killed next time.”

“Yes please,” Wemmbu responds. His words are light, but there’s an undertone of sincerity that twists a part of Zam’s gut. As bad as he might have it, other people have it worse. And if that selfish part of his gut knows that he can relate, he pushes it down because he also knows that that part of him is small and hardly exists. He knows it’s not important, and he knows he’s thinking about it longer than necessary right now.

Zam’s fingers fish around his belt until they brush against his satchel. He digs into it and pulls out the same piece of flint from earlier, feeling blindly at his surroundings until he finds part of the wall and scrapes the flint against it. It takes a couple of tries before the top of the stick bursts alive with flames.

Ignoring the vines shrinking away, Zam gets to his feet and holds his free hand out for Wemmbu who takes it and Zam helps haul him to his feet. The other immediately shut his eyes and swayed, face wrinkling up in discomfort and one hand coming up to his forehead, the other using Zam’s shoulder as a crutch.

“You okay?” Zam reluctantly asks.

Wemmbu nods, but immediately stops at the movement. “Yeah. Just lightheaded.”

“Concussion?”

“Probably.”

Zam tucked his braid over his shoulder so that it wouldn’t get caught in the torch fire. They’ll probably force him to cut it soon. He’s never been able to grow his hair out as long as he’d like to, unfortunately.

“I saw something interesting through one of the cave tunnels,” Wemmbu explains as their journey through the muggy biome continues.

“Which one?”

Wemmbu stops him and points in the direction of a short tunnel up top. He can’t make out what’s through it from this angle, but he can see the faint glow of flowers like the one in his hair. That’s enough to convince him by itself.

Zam leads the way this time. They head over to some of the more defensive-looking walls—what they were trying to defend against is still unknown to him. He makes sure to keep his footing light where there isn’t any wool carpeting his footsteps, and they manage to make it to the top of the citadel without any trouble. His body has grown both numb to the cold and somewhat accustomed to the oxygen levels as well, though there are a few splotchy patches here and there that are unpredictable and leave him with harsh coughing fits.

Thankfully the top of the wall is made of wool too. It’s surprisingly clean architecture if you put aside all the natural growth. There are tiny stubs of stone poking up on the outskirts of the wall to serve as a railing, but Zam isn’t too sure how because they’re so small he could probably step on them and not feel the difference in elevation. Yet another thing to add to the list that begs the question of how people could live down here. Maybe they just built it like that for the aesthetics. If that’s the case then Zam can forgive them.

They seemed to have never gotten around to extending the bridges to their cave tunnels, however. The cross-over to the entrance was nothing but three dark planks secured by loose rocks on each side. Relatively new compared to everything else he’s seen so far, and he doesn’t know if that should scare him or reassure him. Probably the former.

He finally gets the angle to view where the tunnel leads when he crosses the planks and turns a corner inside of it.

It’s a gladiator pit.

The spectator seats that slowly slide into eyesight are enough to assume that much.

He wishes he could take a proper tour of this place like how people used to take tours of the castle as if it were a wonder of the world. Surely the history would be amazing, because why on earth is he staring at a gladiator pit?

The tunnel opens out into a staircase leading down towards the center as well as two separate thin hallways along the outer ring—that he turns down—with blue lanterns still glowing profusely as if they were lit just yesterday. In said hallways, Zam can also make out the shapes of windows covered in who knows how old grime for old onlookers who couldn’t get a proper seat.

Wemmbu had already made it halfway down the stairs when Zam turned back around.

“There’s a chest,” Wemmbu’s whisper ricocheted all around the pit’s walls and made them both wince in anticipation. Miraculously, nothing happened. Maybe the sensors don’t register echoes.

The chest Wemmbu’s talking about is located in the very center of the pit, and if Zam didn’t know any better, he’d say that it almost looked like a gift left behind for whenever the owner returned.

“That’s got to be the most obvious trap,” Zam said. He finds himself walking down with Wemmbu anyway.

The actual ‘pit’ part of the ring didn’t live up to its name of a pit. It was more of just a slightly lowered platform surrounded by eight stone pillager statues only moderately taller than him and Wemmbu. The stairs lead into the pit, and Zam hadn’t realized how massive this place really was until he reached the bottom and stepped foot onto the circular platform in the center. Despite the area not being as low as expected, he still feels small and it makes him uncomfortable. There was a design on the floor of the platform, but all the overgrown sculk made it ineligible. There aren’t any drop-offs at the corners of the platform like some insane sumo match or like Zam’s seen in some movies, thankfully. It’s just enclosed in walls.

He spun himself around a full three-sixty, taking everything in. An uneasy feeling set up camp in his gut. It felt like he was a gladiator in the ring with all the spectators jeering him, pushing him around for their entertainment. He could practically hear the shouts and cheers of spectators as he glanced around. He hates it. It feels eerily familiar to his life as a whole, and he hates it. He hates this whole damn city.

He hates the Metallum.

He hates the system.

He hates the fact that he knows he won’t do anything rash to escape because he knows Ash and he knows Ash will drag other people into it—people Zam cares about. Hell, he cares about everyone. And some days it feels like he hates that as well.

“It doesn’t look trapped,” Wemmbu spoke up. Zam turned back around to face the center. He can’t see anything except the silhouette of the younger from one of the flowers as he crouches down in front of the chest.

Zam lurched forward, “That doesn’t mean open it immediately!”

Wemmbu pulls his hands away from the lid and backs away with them both in the air in as mock surrender. “You’re so paranoid.”

“We are in an underground city that hasn’t been touched in who knows how long,” Zam deadpanned. He handed Wemmbu the torch as he came up next to him. Zam took his place, crouching down and inspecting the chest himself.

Wemmbu scoffed, “Yeah, 'cause if you do it, it makes a difference.”

Zam debated on ignoring him, and he probably should’ve, but for some reason, he didn’t, “I’m sorry I don’t want us to die.”

“Is my word not enough for you, Prince Zam?”

The use of the word Prince in front of his name sparked an unholy amount of anger in him that he had long forgotten existed, “No, Wemmbu! Matter of fact, it’s not!”

A harsh silence met his words.

He didn’t know where they had come from—where this anger had risen. They were doing just fine getting along (somewhat) until then.

If he had said those words a couple of months ago, he probably would’ve meant them as well. But now that they’ve finally left his mouth, he’s questioning himself for some reason.

Despite that thought, an apology rests on the tip of his tongue, but before he can say it, Wemmbu interrupts him, “What are you waiting for then?” The other’s tone doesn’t scream of bitter or sharpness yet somehow that makes Zam even more regretful.

He swallows down whatever guilt he has and opens the chest.

“It’s a compass,” Zam says bluntly.

“That’s it?”

He scoops it out from the bottom of the chest and into his palm, the metal cool to the touch. His face stares back at him in the smooth glass. It’s surprisingly not dirty at all and looks as if it had just been cleaned for some reason.

The earlier thought of the rocks anchoring the planks resurfaces again, but he pushes it away into his Think About Later playlist and focuses back on the compass. He has to squint in order to see past his reflection and glimpse the needle pointing in—wait a minute.

Zam reaches down and unclips the compass chain from a loop on his belt, bringing it up near the torchlight.

“Why do you just have that on you?” Wemmbu asks.

“I found it,” Zam replies with a shrug, recalling the descent into one of the deeper tunnels. It was lying on the ground next to a makeshift bed and a still-lit lantern.

His compass was strikingly filthy when juxtaposed with the recently discovered polished one. Now that they’re side-by-side, Zam also discovers the cyan-blue rim on both the outside and the inside of the new one. Not to mention the fact that the needle on the blue-rimmed one was also glowing the same beautiful blue as the flower in his hair. But that’s not why he unclasped the compass from his belt. He grabbed it because a small part of his brain told him that the one in the chest wasn’t pointing north.

And that small part of his brain was right.

The compasses in his hands are both pointing in opposite directions.

“It’s leading somewhere,” Captain Obvious said from over Zam’s shoulder. When he had gotten there was a mystery to Zam. “Did your book say anything about this?”

“No,” The older answered honestly. He hastily reattached his own compass and stood up, shutting the lid to the chest in the process. He spun around a few times to dictate where the new one was leading. The needle appears to be pointing East, toward one of the pillager statues. There isn’t a tunnel in that direction, though, which confuses him. He also mentally takes note of the fact that the lights inside the sculk seem to have dimmed significantly since the last time he looked. Damn. He’s been down here so long that his eyes have even gotten used to their light.

“Let’s follow it,” Wemmbu states.

“Right now? Do we have the time to?” Zam inquires. He subconsciously reaches down to scratch at the metal clasped around his wrist once more.

“Who cares.”

“They clearly do,” Zam points out. It’s the bracelet he brings into the torchlight this time.

Wemmbu gives him a look with his eyes that everyone knows means so with a question mark before speaking, “We’ll just find something to pry it off.” He says it like Zam hasn’t been trying to do that very thing since the moment they entered the city.

“I’ve been trying.”

“Not enough,” Wemmbu mutters, fending off a couple of tendrils.

“I’m sorry?” Zam said incredulously.

“Look,” Wemmbu begins, “All I’m saying is that one of those tunnels has got to stretch long enough to get us close to the Mainland. You’re telling me you don’t want to find whatever hidden riches that compass leads to and skedaddle away from here and back to freedom?”

Zam takes a minute to calm his voice from rising and alerting the sensor that is way too close to them for them to be arguing right now, “That place is not freedom, Wemmbu. You’ll be stuck there just as much as you’re stuck here until they find you and probably not be as quote-unquote generous as they were before. Besides, what about the people up there we care about? What happens to them? You’ve seen how the guards have been.”

“The people you care about,” Wemmbu corrects.

“Flame? Mane?” Something flickers across Wemmbu’s face behind the mask at his response before disappearing as quickly as it had come. Zam wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t looking.

He scoffs, “Well, I’m going whether you’re coming or not, Zam.”

He feels disbelief flood through him like a rushing river, “You think you’ll find freedom there? Wemmbu, they’ll kill you on the spot—“

“—I can take care of myself—“

“—especially after what your parents did—“

“You don’t know shit about my parents!” Wemmbu snapped. His voice increased concerningly loud for Zam’s liking, the younger having no spatial awareness of the sensors nearby.

The two were quiet for a moment, tension evident amongst them.

Zam understood. He did—he does. He wants nothing more than to leave this damned island, but he can’t because he cares and why can’t Wemmbu ever think for somebody else but himself for once?

He wants to scream. He wants to yell and shout that they need Wemmbu here because he’s one of the only people who actually stands up to the assholes that run this place and one of the only people who can help actually give them a chance in this resistance Zam’s somehow found himself in the middle of starting.

And he wants to scream because he wants Wemmbu here. It’s the conclusion that’s been circling in his head ever since they’ve gotten down here—hell, even before that. He’s just never accepted it out of sheer spite and annoyance. He came close early on the bridge—but it all hit him full force now how much he actually gives a shit about the man in front of him. And he hates that because why should Wemmbu deserve his care?

“Give me the compass,” Wemmbu spoke up, shattering the silence into a million shards that stabbed into Zam’s skin like tiny daggers.

“No,” the word leaves his mouth before he can process it. He doesn’t take them back.

“Zam,” The other warns, taking a step forward.

“I’m not going to let you get yourself killed.”

Wemmbu lunged forward, hand outstretched in the compass’s direction. Zam blocks it with his metal arm on instinct, and the next thing either of them knows, a loud clang erupts into the atmosphere.

Followed by a horrifying, dread-inducing shriek.

“Shit,” Wemmbu breathes as a warden crawls out the ground a few feet to their left.

Zam begins heading in the direction of the compass and toward the spectator seats, “We need to go.”

Before either of them can get anywhere, however, there’s the same blue flash that Zam saw before as the warden lets out a deep, guttural cry and his feet are off of the ground.

He crashes into the platform a few feet away, pain exploding in his side, sharp and blinding. His body flips itself over once and slides against the rough stone leaving nothing but fire wildly clawing into his skin. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, earning himself a raspy cough and spots that dance across his vision as he groggily attempts to get back on his feet.

He’s pretty sure the pickaxe at his side came loose and flung off to the side somewhere, but there’s no time to search for it as something all too familiar slithers across his ankles.

“Zam!” Wemmbu calls, voice too far and disoriented as his ears start resurfacing from their muddy underwater hell.

He kicks uselessly at the tendrils curling around one of his legs. Oh, the black spots have disappeared. He just can’t see anything because Wemmbu has the torch.

He backs away from the tendrils and tries to stagger to his feet as the blurry warm light in the distance comes back into focus. His attempt at standing is shot down as another vine trips him up.

He needs light.

He needs it now.

His fingers fumble around in the pouch until they brush against the jar of matches. He desperately pries it open, snatching a match and flicking it across the ground without bothering to close the jar or the pouch. It bursts alive with a rapacious blue flame. Instead of warding off the ever-growing maelstrom like how Zam expected, however, the tendrils rush up to meet him. He tosses the flame away instinctively and the tendrils chase after it like starving ants, allowing him some breathing room and for him to stumble to his feet.

At least, he thought it would. But they just kept coming. In every direction, tendrils snake out from seemingly nowhere. They twist around his legs, and each time before they can climb higher he tosses a match off to the side.

It’s only two more times he can do this until there’s an overwhelming number and the matches—he can’t even reach a match anymore because suddenly there’s one latching onto his arm and there’s too many on his legs for him to even move .

“Wemmbu!” Zam cries out, a new sense of panic overtaking his senses.

“Zam! Where are you?” Wemmbu shouts back.

Wemmbu hears his name be called again, but the warden’s whine overpowers it, and he can’t tell where Zam’s voice is coming from. He had seen the sparks of blue light popping in and out in the distance, flashing Zam’s silhouette whenever they did, but now all Wemmbu saw was nothing but his torchlight. He’s not used to this, to only having to use hearing as a sense of direction. He’s never had to use anything but sight for most battles despite being trained to use more. It throws him off.

Nonetheless, he unsheathes his sword from his side and tosses it around in his hand silently to get a proper grip. His breathing falls into a steady, rhythmic pattern, but it does nothing to solve his erratic heartbeat as he tries to listen.

There. Heavy footsteps to his left.

He can do two things here: Run or fight.

His mind tells him to fight as it always does, but his instincts travel back to how when he woke up earlier and Zam was there with no warden. Zam doesn’t have anything to fight it with, so there’s no way he had killed it. Ergo, there’s most likely a better way of going about this no matter how much he’s itching for a fight against something he’s trying to kill for once.

He’s never doubted his instincts, and he doesn’t plan on this being the first time. Wemmbu softens his footsteps and shuffles his way toward where he thinks he heard Zam, but the other hasn’t said anything in a minute which he considers to be mildly concerning.

Maybe more than mildly.

“Zam?” Wemmbu whispers into the darkness. Something furls around in his stomach at the lack of response he receives.

The heavy footsteps pound their way over in his direction so abruptly that he hardly has any time to stagger away. He had forgotten that the creature’s enhanced hearing picks up things even sensors didn’t. The ground vibrates against his hands, sharp edges of rocks digging into his palms as he has to backward crab-walk in the opposite direction, away from the bulky beast’s form. It proves to be difficult with one hand full of torch.

He stays wherever it is that he ends up.

For the first time in years, Wemmbu finds himself being patient. Ever since he arrived at the Metallum he’s been taught that the only thing patience gets you is a bunch of inconveniences that end up with you killed.

This time, not being patient gets him killed. And Zam. It gets Zam killed too.

Wemmbu isn’t sure when exactly the “and Zam” in that statement seemed to start to matter to begin with. Just yesterday there was a guarantee he’d forget it all and dip. Hell, he’d have done it ten minutes ago. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But now? He can’t leave.

Within the next few minutes, he slowly starts shuffling himself further and further away from where he last saw the warden. He tracks its movement in his mind, a mental map developing piece by piece based on low whines and tumultuous sniffing. He guides his crawling on that basis until his back hits the smooth stone wall outlining the pit.

An eternity of haunting thoughts passes by before Wemmbu finally hears the sound of—what he thinks is—the warden digging back beneath the ground. He waits until the way-too-loud-considering-their-distance sound disappears before staggering back to his feet. He is acutely aware of how less the tendrils were active during that whole charade and it only causes more unease to blossom achingly in his gut, eating away at his insides in an obnoxiously noticeable way.

“Zam?” Wemmbu calls out again. The last time he felt like this was a few minutes before he got the news that his parents were to be exiled.

Damn it, why won’t Zam answer him?

It took Wemmbu six minutes to figure out the answer.

Six minutes.

He should’ve figured out sooner.

He came across a pile of tendrils in the dark all tangled together in the form of a person near the outskirts of the gladiator ring. He brought the torch up to scare them away and they dispersed off as a flock, hissing and flopping to the ground like fish.

What was left in their wake—what they were covering made his world come to a crushing halt.

It was Zam. Except, it was only a version of him, frozen in time. His skin is grey and rough as the warmth of his torch brushes against it. One hand is outstretched down into his belt satchel for something Wemmbu can’t see. In the other hand lies the compass, completely and entirely untouched. A shaky breath escaped Wemmbu’s lips as he cautiously stepped up to the other and reached out. Instead of the warm touch of skin he was usually met with, he found nothing but cool, rugged stone.

His fingers jerked back as if he had been burned and a wave of sickness encased him, that feeling in his gut blooming into a million flowers that clawed their way into his throat as lumps he couldn’t push back down.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, his own words sounding foreign to his ears. He brushed his fingertips against Zam’s arm because it should be his arm. It should be him. Not some stone replica—oh shit.

He couldn’t find any words to leave his mouth and he took a stumbling step back, knees threatening to buckle. His breathing becomes uneven until it feels like it’s exiting a stranger; a different person.

Wemmbu could only stare. He could only stare as he felt his hands start trembling ever so slightly, sword clattering to the ground next to him. He could only stare as a wave of nausea crashed into him. He could only stare as Zam, stubborn, stupidly caring Zam—this isn’t real is what Wemmbu decided. He had never even considered death down here as a possibility for him—for Zam. Fuck, it was Zam . Zam dying? Not possible. Shouldn’t be possible. None of this—

Except—

Wemmbu doesn’t even realize there are tears falling down his face until he reaches up and wipes them away because why is he crying? They don’t stop—stupid fucking—and Zam, fuck.

Fuck .

Why is he crying? Why does it feel like all of his thoughts have left him when he needs them most? Why does it feel like the stone is itching its way across his skin, climbing until it suffocates him and takes him down too? Why does he feel—

Why?

Why did he want Zam to blow that shit up with him in the first place?

Wemmbu feels the other’s name leave his mouth, but the word falls on deaf ears—including his own, all the words spoken in the last conversation resurfacing and burning themselves into his skin as harsh reminders.

He doesn’t care. He repeats it over and over and over again to distract himself, but it’s like everything dissolves the second he gets a chance to try. And then suddenly the only conscious feeling he could understand in his body was anger burning underneath his skin as his gaze (finally) traveled to the only thing not stone. The stupid compass sat in Zam’s metal, stone arm, tauntingly shimmering in the torchlight.

Almost as abruptly, thoughts begin rushing back at him at full force, and he stops himself from reaching to retrieve the compass. Wemmbu picks at the only useful information his mind gives him in the swarm, but a few seconds later he realizes it’s not his mind he’s picking, it’s his arm, leaving behind cruel red marks in its wake that ground him back to reality.

He pulls his hand away and swallows the horrifyingly aching lumps in his throat until they’re far enough down that he can deny their existence. A disturbing blanket of emptiness settles across his insides.

Zam’s fine.

He’s fine.

He is.

Wemmbu’ll just search through that book the older one mentioned for how to fix this. He’ll explain to Ash that he couldn’t carry everything by himself and that he needs another trip down and he’ll fix this. He will. He can.

And if he realizes how desperately he’s grasping onto sporadically placed straws—no he doesn’t.

He looks around and walks over to a bed of flowers—ugly fucking flowers. Tears stick to his face as they dry, and a slightly unsteady pace jeopardizes his ability to walk straight.

He gently lifts one of the luminescent flowers into his hand (that still itches of cool, rugged stone) before picking more and more until a tiny bouquet forms.

This is stupid.

Wemmbu places the flowers at the statue’s feet.

A silent promise.

A reassurance.

He can fix this, Zam. He can.

He picks his sword back up and sheathes it. And if he catches himself on the statue’s eyes for a second longer than he would ever admit before turning his back on it, then he does just that: he never admits it.

With a newfound determination settled into his bones, Wemmbu leaves the gladiator pit and heads back in the direction of the surface.

But even then, the question of who he’s really trying to reassure, himself or Zam, lingers painfully in the back of his mind.