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He must be stupid.
Flux thinks Saps must be utterly, irredeemably stupid.
There’s no other explanation.
Not in the conventional sense. That would imply a lack of awareness, a failure to understand the systems everyone else is already navigating.
Saparata understands.
That’s the problem.
He notices things. Patterns. Gaps. The way people move around each other like something fragile is being preserved, even when it isn’t there anymore. He reacts to them, too. Adjusts. Adapts.
And then—
He ignores all of it.
Trusts anyway. Stays anyway.
Flux has seen it happen more than once now. The same sequence, repeated with minor variation. It should be predictable by now.
It still isn’t.
There’s a brief moment, sometimes, where Flux considers intervening. Correcting it before it becomes inefficient.
He never does.
The hesitation is negligible. He discards it quickly.
Stupid.
When everyone was first brought to the island—welcomed into their new lives—most of them seemed to share the same goal.
Have a good time.
Flux, however, had no intention of making friends.
Unless it proved useful.
Thomas had been a good example of that.
Their first interaction had been brief, unremarkable. Somehow, that had been enough for him to start following Flux around afterward. It was irritating.
Still, Flux tolerated it. Loyalty had its uses. As long as Thomas remained predictable—contained—Flux didn’t mind the label of “friend.”
It was meaningless, anyway.
Over the next few days, Flux made a point of observing the others. Speaking when necessary. Listening more often than that. It didn’t take long to understand them.
The ones that mattered, at least.
They were easy to identify.
The ones forming nations. The ones with direction.
The rest followed. Not out of loyalty, but a lack of it.
It was inefficient. Predictable.
There were exceptions.
3belowzero, for example.
His intentions weren’t fully formed yet, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he had them. Ambition. Intelligence. Charisma. The kind of person people gather around without needing to be told to.
Flux didn’t like him.
But he could respect him.
Overall, most people on the island were… lacking. Engaging with them required very little effort.
Which is why he notices it immediately—
the outlier.
Pearly white hair. Not that it matters.
What matters is the absence of structure.
While others form groups, settle into patterns, establish something resembling permanence—
he doesn’t.
He moves. From one conversation to the next. From one person to another. Never staying long enough to belong anywhere.
And yet—
he’s not alone.
People seem to… accept him. Easily.
Flux watches him longer than necessary.
If he were what he appeared to be—a “people person”—he would have settled by now. Found a group. Stayed.
He hasn’t.
It doesn’t make sense.
Flux finds himself stepping closer before he consciously decides to.
He doesn’t realize how close he’s gotten until he can make out the details of his face.
He’s—beautiful.
Objectively speaking. To deny it would be absurd.
Not that Flux cares about physical appearance. He simply understands its function. It draws people in. Alters perception. Makes things easier.
He takes advantage of that himself. Presents well. Controlled. Intentional.
He knows he’s attractive. The lingering glances are evidence enough.
But this—
this is something else.
More than appealing. Almost otherworldly.
White strands blending into pale skin. Faded, sandy freckles. Coal black eyes catching light like a fractured night sky.
He looks… soft.
In every sense of the word.
If Flux were less composed, less restrained, he might have reached out just to confirm it. To see if the illusion held under touch.
It doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t care.
He isn’t like the others.
He’s curious.
He wants to understand what’s happening inside that head the same way he’s already dissected everyone else.
Flux is so caught in the process that he doesn’t realize he’s been standing there, staring, for at least a minute without saying a word.
He’s about to speak when—
“Hey?”
The voice is quiet. Careful. Not afraid—just aware.
Flux snaps back into himself instantly.
“Sorry. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Fluixon. Flux is fine.”
The stranger blinks, then offers a polite smile.
“Oh—well. Nice to meet you. I’m Saps… then.”
Flux’s gaze drifts over him again, more deliberate this time.
Nothing particularly unusual about his clothing. If anything, it seems intentionally understated. While others lean into extravagance—as if the island demands spectacle—Saps avoids it.
Flux had done the opposite. Controlled, but deliberate. Presentable.
Saps doesn’t try to stand out.
And yet, he does.
There’s something in the way he carries himself. Not hidden. Not withdrawn. Confident, in a quiet, unassuming way.
Open, maybe.
No—
trusting.
That’s it.
Flux extends his hand. Saps takes it without hesitation.
Soft.
Of course.
“Don’t mind me asking,” Flux says, “but do you belong to any particular group?”
“Me?” A pause. “Oh—no. Not yet. Well…” He hesitates, just briefly. “Honestly, I think I might stay on my own.”
That—
makes no sense.
“A loner, then?” Flux lets out a quiet chuckle.
“Not really. I just don’t want to get involved in all the politics. Feels like it’ll get messy.”
“I see.”
He isn’t wrong.
Conflict is inevitable. With this many people, this beautiful land at their exposal, with these resources—there’s no avoiding it.
But that doesn’t outweigh the advantages of structure. Stability. Protection.
Left alone, he’d have nothing. No security, no one to rely on. No place to retreat to.
He’d be—
helpless.
If it came to that, Flux thinks he might almost feel bad for him.
It doesn’t make sense.
Saps isn’t particularly bright, then. That must be it.
Or—
maybe he just needs guidance.
Maybe Flux could offer that. Provide structure. Safety. Something useful.
Saps is naive. That much is obvious. He needs someone.
That must be it.
That’s the only explanation that makes sense.
The only thing that could explain what Flux was about to say.
“Let’s be friends, shall we?”
Flux smiles.
It doesn’t feel like the ones he uses out of habit. Polished. Performative.
This one feels—
different.
Genuine, maybe.
Or maybe he’s just misreading it.
Considering his options, 3belowzero had been the correct choice.
The logical one.
Flux could have established his own nation, certainly. But that would require something more than capability. It would require direction. A goal compelling enough for others to follow.
He doesn’t have one.
He cares about Island 2. In theory. But not with the same reckless devotion as Cass, and not with the same hunger for control as the Commonwealth.
3belowzero has structure.
Even if his goals are… questionable.
Still, that kind of leadership is useful. Adaptable.
With enough time—and the right influence—his stance on Island 1 might shift. If not naturally, then with subtle encouragement.
Flux is capable of that.
Especially now.
Second in command.
The title sits comfortably.
He might have cared more about it if his attention weren’t occupied elsewhere.
Saps.
Of all places, he’d settled in the southern slums. Predictable, in a way. Isolation suits someone like him.
It also makes things inconvenient.
Flux’s new responsibilities limit his time. His access.
That wouldn’t matter if Saps didn’t have other people around him.
But he does.
Too many.
It’s inefficient. Unbalanced.
Unfair.
They get more time. More proximity.
They don’t understand him properly. They don’t pay attention the way Flux does.
They don’t care the same way.
Flux does care.
He’s already admitted that much to himself.
He isn’t completely devoid of feeling.
Saps needs him.
Of course he does.
Flux is his best friend.
Saps said so himself.
The others are temporary. Replaceable.
Flux isn’t.
He sets the thought aside.
For now, there are more immediate concerns.
Luminara. The stability of Island 2. The meeting scheduled for tomorrow.
Saps will be there.
Convenient.
Two variables resolved at once.
There’s something almost ironic about it.
The one person trying to avoid politics entirely is the one chosen to mediate the first official meeting on the island.
He could have refused.
But Saps is—
kind.
Or, more accurately,
stupid.
Island 2 was ridiculous. No—worse than that. It was weak, not in any obvious way, not in resources or numbers or even leadership, but in something far less visible and far more dangerous. Structural. Foundational. The kind of weakness that doesn’t reveal itself until it’s already too late to correct it, until the moment where failure stops being avoidable and becomes inevitable.
And now it was showing.
They had voted against his plan. Almost immediately. No hesitation, no real consideration—just dismissal. Insane. Selfish. That’s what they called him. Selfish, for proposing the only solution that ensured survival. As if survival were something negotiable. As if protecting what was theirs could somehow be framed as greed.
And ontop of that—
they voted to send aid to Island 1.
Aid.
Even now, the word feels hollow, disconnected from reality in a way that almost makes him want to laugh, because the alternative is admitting that they truly believe this, that they genuinely think this is the correct choice. “The people of Island 1 aren’t savages.” That’s what they said. That’s what they’re clinging to.
Not savages. No.
Savages act without thought, without foresight.
Island 1 is worse.
Island 1 is patient.
And patience waits. Waiting creates opportunity. And opportunity always, without exception, leads to taking.
It isn’t cruelty. It isn’t even personal.
It’s just logic.
Something Island 2 seems almost determined to lack.
3below had looked at him differently after that. Not angry, not disappointed—just distant, like something had shifted into the wrong place and couldn’t quite be corrected. The demotion followed soon after. Quiet. Efficient. Second in command reduced to just yet another insignificant follower, as if removing the title would somehow lessen the truth of what he said.
It doesn’t.
It never does.
Titles don’t create value. They recognize it. Removing one doesn’t change what’s already there.
If anything—
it proves his point.
They don’t understand what’s necessary.
They don’t understand him.
Which means they will fail.
Island 2 will fall. He had known it from the beginning, even if he hadn’t allowed himself to say it outright. And then—
Aculon.
It doesn’t come back properly. It never does. Just fragments. Noise—indistinct, overwhelming, something that drowns everything else out until there’s nothing left to process. And then absence. Not silence. Something heavier. Something that replaces instead of fades.
He doesn’t remember losing it.
Only that it was there—
and then it wasn’t.
And no one had stopped it.
No one could have stopped it.
But they had tried.
They had understood.
They hadn’t hesitated.
Not like this.
Not like Island 2.
He won’t let that happen again. He won’t stand by and watch something collapse simply because people were too kind, too hesitant, too willing to believe in something that has no reason to exist. Trust is not a strategy. Kindness is not a defense. They are weaknesses, and Island 2 treats them like virtues.
If it comes down to it, he would rather destroy it himself than watch someone else take it. At least then it would be controlled. Intentional.
Necessary.
If he dies trying to protect it—
then so be it.
At least then it means something.
At least then he was right.
Saps finds him later.
Of course he does.
There’s no pattern to it, nothing Flux can track or predict, just this quiet inevitability, like Saps decides and then appears.
“Hey.”
Same tone. Soft. Careful. Like he’s approaching something fragile.
Flux doesn’t like that.
He isn’t fragile. He isn’t something that needs to be handled cautiously, like he might break under the wrong kind of pressure. The thought irritates him more than it should, lingering just long enough to matter before he forces it aside.
He doesn’t respond immediately.
Saparata waits.
He always waits.
“Do you… want to help me finish my place?”
Like nothing has changed. Like Flux hadn’t stood there and made himself perfectly clear. Like the room hadn’t shifted. Like people hadn’t started looking at him differently.
And Saps must have noticed.
He notices everything.
So this isn’t ignorance.
It’s a choice.
He’s choosing to ignore it. Choosing to stay.
Choosing—
Flux agrees before the thought can finish forming. The answer comes too quickly, too easily. For a moment he considers justifying it—proximity, influence, control—but even that feels unnecessary.
The truth is simpler.
He doesn’t want to say no.
He can’t say no.
Because Saps is—
No.
He cuts the thought off.
They work in relative silence. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just quiet, occasionally broken by Saps speaking—small observations, thoughts that don’t lead anywhere, and yet he says them anyway, as if the act of sharing them matters more than whether they’re useful.
Flux listens.
Not because he needs to.
Because he’s still trying to understand.
Saps builds slowly, carefully, each movement deliberate, like he’s thinking beyond the immediate result. There’s dirt on his hands, along his sleeves, sand caught in his hair.
It should make him look disheveled.
It doesn’t.
If anything, it makes him seem more… real.
More grounded.
Like he belongs somewhere.
Flux doesn’t understand that.
Belonging implies permanence. Permanence implies vulnerability. Anything that lasts can be taken. Or destroyed.
“Thanks for helping.”
Flux looks up.
Saps is smiling again. The same way he always does—open, uncomplicated, completely unguarded. No hesitation. No calculation.
Just genuine.
It doesn’t make sense.
It should have changed. Something should have shifted after the meeting, after everything Flux said, everything he made clear.
But it didn’t.
Saps is still here.
Still looking at him like nothing is wrong.
Like Flux is still something worth—
He stops the thought.
Redirects.
Forces it into something usable.
This isn’t kindness.
It can’t be.
Kindness requires awareness. Understanding the risk and choosing it anyway.
This—
this is disregard.
A lack of self-preservation disguised as something admirable.
It’s flawed.
And flawed things fail.
That’s consistent.
That’s reliable.
Which means Saps will fail too.
Unless something intervenes.
Unless something ensures the outcome before it becomes unpredictable.
The conclusion settles slowly, then all at once.
If this is what kindness is—this insistence on trusting, on staying, on believing in something that cannot sustain itself—then it has no place in what Flux is building.
It will interfere.
Weaken.
Compromise.
Even if that includes Saps.
No—
especially if it includes Saps.
Because Saps won’t leave.
He won’t change.
He’ll remain like this—open, trusting, breakable—
and that makes him a liability.
So Flux will do what needs to be done.
Maybe it’s Saps’s fault.
For letting him this close.
For trusting him.
For calling him a friend like that word actually means something.
Maybe—
Saps is just stupid enough
to believe he won’t be the one to break him.
The moment arrives quietly.
It almost disappoints him.
No grand shift. No weight to mark its significance. Just the simple, undeniable fact that everything is in place, every variable accounted for, every outcome calculated and accepted.
The leaders will die today.
Saps will take the blame.
And Island 2 will finally understand.
The people gathered in his hideout move with purpose. Focused. Committed. They believe in what he’s building, in what he’s promised, in the necessity of it.
Not in him.
That distinction matters.
They’re not here out of loyalty. Not out of attachment. Not because they care.
They’re here because he is right.
Because his logic holds.
Because his outcome is inevitable.
That’s how it should be.
Clean.
Predictable.
Controlled.
Thomas is the only inconsistency.
He had been there from the start, long before there was anything to gain from it, long before Flux had given him a reason to stay. The loyalty doesn’t make sense. It never has.
Flux chooses not to understand it.
Some things are better left unanalyzed.
They aren’t friends.
None of them are.
That was always the intention.
That was always the rule.
Until Saps.
But that—
that will be corrected.
He admitted, briefly, to Ish that he felt bad for Saps. It irritated him the moment it left his mouth. He doesn’t understand why he said it, why he allowed that moment of weakness to exist, especially in front of something that could see through him if it chose to.
Maybe he didn’t want to look weak.
Maybe he didn’t want to look cruel.
It doesn’t matter.
Because he doesn’t care.
He can’t.
Care is weakness.
And Flux isn’t stupid.
The dripstone falls.
It’s almost anticlimactic.
A single, decisive moment stretched across multiple lives, reduced to impact and aftermath.
Most of the leaders are dead.
Efficient.
Necessary.
From the safety of his bunker, Flux lets his thoughts drift—not to the outcome, not to the consequences, but to something far more specific.
Saps.
He tries, for a moment, to picture him.
The scene forms easily.
Confusion first. Then realization. Blood where it shouldn’t be. On his hands. His face.
Shock.
Fear.
Something breaking behind his eyes as everything he thought he understood collapses.
Flux lingers on the image longer than necessary.
And then—
He must look beautiful.
The trial unfolds exactly as expected.
Saps speaks.
No one listens.
Of course they don’t.
He had realized the truth—of course he had. He notices everything.
But it doesn’t matter.
Truth has no value without belief.
And no one believes him.
The execution fails.
Saps escapes.
Flees to Island 1.
It wasn’t part of the plan.
Flux tells himself it doesn’t matter.
It shouldn’t.
Everyone believes Saps is the murderer. The outcome remains intact. The structure holds.
So why—
why does something feel wrong?
He could justify it. Say Saps being alive introduces risk. Exposure. Instability.
But that isn’t it.
There’s no real threat.
He has no proof.
No one would believe him.
So why does it feel like something slipped out of his control?
Why does it feel like something was—
lost?
The answer is immediate.
Unwelcome.
Unavoidable.
He cares.
He always has.
And as long as Saps is alive—
he will continue to care.
The realization settles like something heavy, something final.
Unacceptable.
Saps has to die.
Not because of strategy.
Not because of risk.
Because as long as he exists—
Flux is compromised.
It’s his fault.
Saps’s fault.
For staying.
For trusting.
For making himself into something Flux couldn’t ignore.
For becoming—
important.
And Saps will never understand that.
He’ll never know.
Because he’s stupid.
It wasn’t over.
It should have been. Logically, structurally—everything had already collapsed. He had been exposed. The plan had succeeded and failed in equal measure. The leaders were dead, the narrative had held, and yet somehow it had still unraveled around him.
He had killed.
He had fled.
And he had run to the one place he had once sworn to destroy.
Island 1.
There’s something almost fitting about that. A kind of quiet symmetry he would have appreciated under different circumstances.
But it isn’t over.
Because there are things that don’t end just because you leave them behind.
And the past—
the past has a way of following.
He tries not to think about what would have happened if Cynikka hadn’t sent that letter. If she hadn’t offered him refuge when there was nowhere else left to go. The question lingers anyway, unwelcome, circling something he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
Because the answer is obvious.
He would have had nowhere.
He had known she was here. Somewhere on this island. He had filed it away, categorized it as irrelevant, something that no longer applied to him.
He hadn’t cared.
Or at least—
he had told himself he didn’t.
Seeing her again proves how false that had been.
It’s almost ironic, in a way that feels deliberate. Cynikka, who had come from the same frozen empire of Aculon, had chosen a place defined by the exact opposite. Heat instead of cold. Fire instead of ice. The Volcano looming where glaciers once stood.
Escape, then.
Reinvention.
He understands that.
He had tried to do the same.
It makes a certain kind of sense that she found something to believe in here. Something tied to the land itself. Faith, devotion—structures people build when everything else has been stripped away from them.
Meaning, where there was none before.
He doesn’t understand it.
But he recognizes the necessity of it.
Maybe he should have been angry.
At the exposure. At the failure. At the fact that everything he had done, everything he had justified, was now laid bare for everyone to see.
At the fact that he had lost control.
But when she looks at him—
he can’t hold onto it.
It isn’t pity. He would have rejected that immediately. It isn’t contempt either.
It’s recognition.
Understanding, in a way that feels uncomfortably complete.
Like she sees exactly what he is—
and doesn’t look away.
If he had forgotten this—
if he had somehow managed to reduce this to something irrelevant, something distant—
then maybe he could do the same with everything else.
With Saps.
If he was able to forget what it felt like to still care about his last remaining family—
then maybe he could forget what it felt like to care about him.
Maybe he could erase it entirely.
Reduce it to nothing.
A variable removed.
A mistake corrected.
Island 2 is preparing for war. It’s inevitable now. Lines have been drawn, sides established, outcomes set into motion.
Sooner or later—
he will have to face them.
Face what he left behind.
Face Saps.
There’s a brief, fleeting thought—if he ignores it, if he refuses to engage with it, if he simply pretends none of it ever happened—
then maybe it won’t matter.
Maybe it will dissolve.
Maybe—
No.
It’s too late for that.
It was too late the moment he said yes.
The pain should matter more.
It registers, distantly—the heat, the burn, the way it consumes and doesn’t stop—but it feels secondary, pushed somewhere to the edges of his awareness where it can’t quite reach him properly.
Because there are things that override pain.
Watching something disappear.
Watching something be taken.
Cynikka is gone.
Just like that.
The universe has a way of doing that, he realizes. Offering something just long enough for it to matter, just long enough for it to take root—and then removing it without warning, without justification.
Like it was never meant to stay.
Like he was never meant to have it.
He doesn’t deserve it.
That much feels consistent, at least.
He doesn’t deserve this.
He doesn’t deserve the chance he was given.
He doesn’t deserve the way Thomas is still here, still following him, still acting like any of this is salvageable.
That loyalty doesn’t make sense.
It never did.
It still doesn’t.
He could run.
The thought is simple. Clean.
Disappear. Leave all of it behind. No confrontation, no resolution, no finality.
Just absence.
He could survive like that.
Barely, maybe—but survival has never required more than that.
He would be hunted. Remembered. Reduced to something simple, something easier for others to process.
A traitor.
A murderer.
A coward.
That last one—
that one settles differently.
Because it’s true.
He understands that now in a way he didn’t before.
Running, instead of staying.
Leaving, instead of avenging his sister.
Watching her fall—and choosing himself anyway.
Coward.
The word fits too easily.
But at least—
at least he isn’t stupid.
The stupid one has always been—
He stops.
The thought doesn’t finish.
It doesn’t need to.
Thomas says something—he doesn’t quite register what. The words pass through without meaning. It doesn’t matter.
Because the answer is already there.
Saps.
He could have said no.
He didn’t.
That’s where it started.
That’s where it went wrong.
His gaze shifts, almost unconsciously, catching on the structure in the distance.
The Colosseum.
There’s something final about it. Something contained. A place where things end, cleanly, definitively.
Before he can examine the decision—
before he can apply logic to it, reduce it, justify it—
he’s already moving.
Already reaching for something to write with.
Already sending the message.
"I’ll be there."
No hesitation.
No revision.
Just commitment.
The kind he should have made from the beginning.
Maybe Flux had always known.
Not consciously. Not in a way he would have allowed himself to acknowledge. But somewhere beneath the logic, beneath the structure he built so carefully to justify every decision—
there had always been something that didn’t quite align.
Something he ignored.
Something he chose not to examine.
Time seems to slow.
Or maybe it just stops mattering.
Saps stands in front of him, axe raised, the motion already in place, already inevitable. There’s no hesitation in it, no uncertainty left to interrupt the outcome.
It’s clean.
Decisive.
Exactly what Flux would have wanted.
And yet—
he isn’t looking at the weapon.
He isn’t calculating distance, or angle, or timing. He isn’t thinking about how easily this could still be avoided, how one step, one movement, one correct decision could shift everything back into his control.
He knows all of that.
He does nothing with it.
Because he’s looking at Saps.
Of course he is.
It’s almost ridiculous, in a detached sort of way, that this is what it comes down to. Not strategy. Not survival. Not the outcome he spent all this time constructing.
Just this.
Saps.
There’s blood already. Not his—yet. It’s scattered across Saps’s clothes, his hands, a faint streak across his face that hadn’t been there before.
It should make him look worse.
It doesn’t.
He looks—
beautiful.
He always has.
Flux understands that now in a way that feels almost insulting in its simplicity. All that analysis, all that dissection, all that effort to reduce him into something explainable—
and it had been this straightforward all along.
He isn’t angry.
That part surprises him, distantly. There should be something—resentment, frustration, the instinct to correct what’s about to happen.
There isn’t.
There’s something quieter instead.
Something that almost resembles—
peace.
Or maybe that’s just another lie.
He’s always been good at those.
Maybe this is just the last one.
The final adjustment, the final narrative correction to make it all feel intentional.
But even that thought doesn’t hold very long.
Because there’s something else, something clearer, something that settles without resistance.
Saps was never stupid.
Not for trusting.
Not for staying.
Not for choosing something without guarantees, without structure, without certainty.
That had never been the flaw.
Flux lets the realization settle fully this time.
Doesn’t redirect it.
Doesn’t reshape it into something more convenient.
It was Flux himself.
It had always been him.
Stupid—
for seeing it.
For understanding it.
And choosing against it anyway.
The thought should hurt more than it does.
It doesn’t.
Because alongside it comes something else.
Something worse.
He doesn’t regret it.
Not the betrayal.
Not the lies.
Not even this.
Because this means something.
This is final. Permanent. Unavoidable.
And Saps—
Saps will remember.
That matters.
More than it should.
More than anything else ever has.
A mark that won’t fade. Something that lingers, something that reshapes, something that can’t be undone no matter how much time passes.
Flux had wanted to be important.
He had wanted to matter.
This—
this is one way to ensure it.
Even now, even here, the thought almost makes him laugh.
It’s absurd.
Pathetic, even.
But it’s true.
The axe comes down.
There’s no resistance.
No attempt to stop it.
Just impact.
Sharp. Immediate. Final.
It goes through him cleanly, like everything else has.
For a moment, he considers looking down.
Confirming it.
Understanding it in the same detached, analytical way he’s understood everything else.
He doesn’t.
Because that would mean looking away.
And the last thing he wants—
the last thing he allows himself—
is this.
Saps.
So he keeps his gaze where it belongs.
And lets everything else fall away.
How stupid.