Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The world was ending.

It was ending, and there was barely anything anyone could do about it.

The process of its own destruction was already long on course, ever since the wars left the solid Earth and took to the skies. Ever since they rose above the stratosphere and into outer space, where even nearby planets weren’t spared from their ruthlessness. It’s really only a matter of time before all of humanity tears itself apart, leaving not even ashes behind.

And Zandar can only watch as everything falls to ruin from where he safely stands behind the Rhadamanthus’ windows.

He sips from his coffee mug with a little too much nonchalance for someone who’s watching missiles be launched between all the nations of the world, the explosions barely making the windows rattle.

Though he knew that those weapons have enough power to destroy large asteroids. He’s helped develop some of them, after all.

(Those weapons would forever be a stain on his record, a regret he can never truly wash away from his skin no matter how harshly he scrubbed his hands, trying to get the invisible blood off— )

How the war started, no one truly knew; some said it was a disagreement between two nations over allocation of territory, others say it was over the shortage of resources, and still others say it was just a misunderstanding between two leaders who were too quick to jump the gun. Honestly, Zandar wouldn’t be surprised if it was some twisted combination of all three, considering their track record and how wars usually started.

Well , Zandar thinks to himself, at least he has no active part in it anymore .

“Professor Zandar!” He turns around at the call of his name to find Polyxia wheeling towards him with a smile on her face.

”Polyxia,” he nods in greeting, before his scarlet eyes flick to the person walking nervously behind her.

Blonde hair and golden eyes . The blonde was normal enough, but he doesn’t see golden eyes everyday— especially that shade, and he sees a lot of odd genetic combinations here on the research station. The newcomer is young-looking, not too far off from his age, and he stands maybe half a head taller compared to himself, nearly towering over Polyxia in her wheelchair.

Zandar tilts his head towards the new face, acknowledging him, “And this is…?”

Polyxia’s smile widens, “I knew you’d notice him immediately—“ 

He’s not exactly being hidden by you , Zandar refrains from saying.

“He’s our new intern.”

”Khaslana, sir,” the man— Khaslana— holds out his hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He gives Zandar a small smile, genuine enough, but still tinged with that anxiety he’d noticed from when he walked in. Must be newcomer nerves. Or maybe he’s still adjusting to space life; Zandar knows it took some of the researchers a few weeks to get accustomed to the lack of solid, steady ground beneath them.

”Likewise, Khaslana,” Zandar shakes his offered hand, noting how Khaslana has a firm grip. The scientist then turns to Polyxia, a delicate eyebrow raised, “I take it I’m supposed to be mentoring him, then? Considering you've brought him to me.”

Polyxia’s smile grows a little sheepish when she shrugs, “If you don’t mind. Calypso and Herta already have their hands full with everyone else, Gnaeus is already in one of his isolation phases along with Stephen, and Bartholos…”

Bartholos was always a last resort.

”…Right. No problem.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Polyxia gives a wave as she wheels away, probably off to find Castorice somewhere in the conservatory.

Which leaves Zandar with the new guy who shuffles awkwardly on his feet, looking even more nervous with the ensuing silence.

”So,” Zandar sips his coffee, “Let’s go to my laboratory.”

He turns on his heel, setting off at a brisk pace that has Khaslana staring a bit before stumbling after him to keep up. The man was probably expecting there to be some kind of idle chatter, maybe some more introductions beyond just names, but Zandar was never one to bother with small talk.

And especially now, with time running against them, they couldn’t exactly afford a few minutes to get to know each other.

Or, at least, that’s what Zandar tells himself. The others would probably disagree with him on that point— actually scratch that, they definitely would, but when has he ever cared for what others think?

Besides, Khaslana needs training, and there really isn’t any better way to learn other than just jumping straight in. He’s nervous enough as is, so it’s unlikely they’ll have any fruitful conversation anyway, might as well get the important things over with.

Though maybe he’s made an error in judgement about Khaslana being too wracked by anxiety, when the man breaks the silence in the hallway.

”I heard you’re the head experimental scientist here on the station, Professor Zandar,” there’s a cheer in his voice that wasn’t there before. The nerves must have worn off now, especially when he practically hears the sun when Khaslana says, “That’s incredible!”

Zandar shakes his head dismissively, not bothering to glance behind him— he’ll probably see nothing more than a grin far too bright for a dying world like this, “It’s nothing special.”

”Really? I disagree,” at that, Zandar throws a brief look at Khaslana’s face to find nothing but genuine admiration in the other man’s expression, and a little bit of something else that he can’t quite put his finger on, “You get to work closely with the Conduit. Not many people get that kind of opportunity.”

The Conduit— or, as some would call it, the Zohar. A mysterious entity that had suddenly appeared in their world a few decades ago, emitting potent waves of power that broke every scientific measuring tool brought near it. It’s often described as a “source of infinite energy”, which probably wasn’t too far fetched considering how rapidly humanity’s technology was able to progress after its arrival. Though that didn’t mean that it didn’t also come with its fair share of headaches. Countless wars were waged over who would gain complete control over the thing, and they always ended in devastation. Nations wiped off the face of the Earth, the displacement of millions of people, all for this one alien mystery.

This war was likely no different, even though others would try to come up with a myriad of other excuses.

Really, it was only through multiple conferences between the leaders of the world that the station was given permission to study it and try to glean any of its secrets under the pretense of finding information that would benefit all of humanity. Just as long as the station remained unaffiliated with any government. Didn’t stop the blockheads from pointing their guns at each other weeks later, though.

Still, something in Khaslana’s tone makes Zandar scoff, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, “You’re starting to sound awfully like those power-hungry politicians who are trying to get their hands on it.”

”Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Khaslana immediately waves his hands in defense, “The Conduit is an awe-inspiring thing, to be sure, I just think it’s amazing that you have the ability to potentially make the world a better place— being an experimental scientist, you must have a lot of ideas in mind, right?”

Zandar doesn’t give any response to that. Not because he doesn’t have ideas— he’s Zandar One Kuwabara, it’d be stranger if he didn’t have a line of theories at the ready. But he doesn’t respond because he still remains cautious of the way Khaslana’s voice lifts between them.

It’s eager, but in a way that it’s a little too eager. A sort of naivety the youth have when they think they can completely change the world and bring about peace within just a few years of reaching adulthood— but Khaslana looks older than someone who would still hang on to those kinds of ideals. He looks like someone who’s survived through the unspeakable horrors of war and still clings on to whatever shred of innocence he might’ve once had.

Not inherently a bad thing. If anything, Zandar’s impressed if that truly is the case, but…

A crease forms between his eyebrows as he keeps a careful eye on the once-nervous now-earnest man walking next to him.

Just what is it about this Khaslana that keeps him so on edge?

“Professor Zandar, I brought the data you asked for.”

Not even a knock on the door, no greeting, and yet Khaslana still walks in like he owns the place, never mind the fact that it’s Zandar’s laboratory.

Still, though, Zandar doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t berate him for disturbing his silence while he was poring over the energy wavelengths they had recorded from the Conduit just four system hours before, after they had finally managed to come up with an instrument strong enough to handle its power. Zandar doesn’t even throw Khaslana a glare, even as his other assistants— Hyacine especially— glance at him worriedly for his reaction.

No, he just calmly looks up from his papers as though Khaslana breaking one of the unspoken, but most important, rules of Zandar’s lab was something completely normal, “You can set them right over there.”

Khaslana does as he’s told before he sidles next to the scientist, peering over his shoulder at the new graphs, “Energy readings?”

Zandar hums in affirmation, pen tapping rhythmically on the desk for a few moments before something on the graphs catches his eye. He scribbles some notes down in the margins, his mind already going a mile a minute with potential theories and hypotheses.

There was a spike in the wavelength frequency at the thirteenth hour, much higher than what the Conduit usually emits on a daily basis. And yet, this isn’t even the first time. There was another increase at the ninth hour in the previous cycle they recorded 24 system hours ago. Such odd numbers to be having a surge of energy. What could be causing it? Is it something happening in space?

The war, perhaps? Quite morbid for death to be what helps power this thing. That doesn’t sound quite right, though…

And besides that, if it’s possible for the Conduit to emit more energy, then—

“Professor, have you eaten yet?” Khaslana interrupts his thoughts, and this time, Zandar really does throw a glare his way. Only to be met with the bastard’s easy going grin.

He should throw his pen at him.

Zandar’s been mentoring Khaslana for the past week or so— or at least, that’s what it says on the system calendar, they have no way of truly knowing how many days had passed up here on the space station— and yet, somehow, within those few days, Khaslana has deemed them close enough to nag Zandar about his supposedly-horrendous living habits.

‘Supposedly-horrendous living habits’ was a statement his colleagues would definitely agree with, but again, when had Zandar ever cared about what they did or didn’t think?

But Khaslana was a different matter, mostly because he’s known him for a far shorter period of time compared to, say, Calypso, who has known him from even before they were transferred to the space station. Calypso , he could forgive— begrudgingly— for constantly asking him. Khaslana, though? Khaslana, asking him if he’s eaten. Asking him what time he went to sleep. Asking him how many cups of coffee he’s had within the past 24 hours (he never gives a proper number).

It miffed him a little bit.

The fact that the man was younger than him and still chided him about his sleeping and eating habits annoyed him even more.

And yet Zandar can’t find it in himself to be irritated at the outgoing man for too long, not when he looks at him with that honest, earnest gaze of his.

He heaves a sigh, finally setting down his papers after analyzing and reanalyzing them for the past four hours, “I have not.”

Khaslana’s smile grows as he rises from his seat, holding a hand out, “Why don’t we grab a bite together, then?”

Zandar stares at the offered hand for a few moments, before huffing lightly as he takes it, “Very well.”

With almost childlike joy, Khaslana cheers as he eagerly leads the two of them out of the lab, failing to notice the stunned stares that follow the pair as they exit into the hallway, hand in hand.

Hyacine gestures to the now absent duo, “Anyone else see that?’

“With my own two eyes. And heard loud and clear,” Ratio sighs on the side, leaning back in his chair. “This is, what, the third time this week?”

”I’ve observed that Professor Zandar has quite the soft spot for the intern Khaslana,” Screwllum nods, almost clinical in his words. “Not many people escape barging into this lab without a thorough lecture from him.”

“And he’s interrupted him twice in a single sitting,” Calypso cackles from her seat, leaning her head on her hand in amusement as she stares at the door. “I’m surprised our lovely head scientist hasn’t thrown a chalk through his head on the spot.”

”Anyone want to make a bet that something’s gonna come out of it?” Aventurine wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

”Why make a bet when it’s something inevitable?”

”Boo, you’re no fun, Veritas.”

…

…

…

Zandar pokes around at the fried rice in front of him, still deep in thought about the energy spikes from the Zohar, what they could mean, and how he could utilize that new information. Across from him, Khaslana, who was initially eating his own meal with gusto, slows down at the sight of his mentor not even taking a single bite.

”You know the purpose of the cafeteria is to eat, right?” Khaslana chuckles, “Not keep running your head into overdrive while playing with your food.”

The intern frowns when Zandar doesn’t say much besides give a noncommittal hum, still pushing around his meal.

”I can practically hear the gears turning— you should really let them rest for a little bit.”

Another hum.

Khaslana heaves a sigh, likely realizing that his attempts at verbal distraction were a fruitless endeavor. He leans over instead, aiming for his spoon to take a small portion of Zandar’s rice—

A light whack on his wrist, “Don’t take my food. Weren’t you the one who invited us out?”

Zandar sharply glances up at Khaslana, who only smiles triumphantly.

”Not much point to it if my meal companion stays silent,” Khaslana shoots back, to which Zandar only responds with a roll of his eyes. But then the other man pauses for a moment, his smile softening around the edges, “If you’re so insistent on keeping your mind working overtime, though, why not share some of your thoughts with me? After all, I’m your best mentee, aren’t I?”

The older scientist stares at him for a minute, throwing the idea around in his mind.

It wouldn’t hurt, really, to share his thoughts with the man. No matter his earlier reservations about Khaslana, the man has proven himself to be at least somewhat trustworthy, and definitely capable of working with Zandar’s more…radical ideas that even some of the scientists here struggle to grasp or accept. If anything, maybe the extra help would be beneficial for his research.

In the end, Zandar exhales as he leans his head on his hand.

”Then listen closely.”

…

…

…

”You want to…” Khaslana stares at him with a mixture of emotions— awe, disbelief, incredulity.

But no fear.

The younger man swallows thickly, “You want to channel the power of the Conduit…?”

Zandar nods, “Considering the energy readings, and how it’s possible for the Conduit to emit even more energy than thought possible, there might be a way to create something that might be able to channel that power.”

Khaslana covers his mouth, rendering his expression unreadable besides the thousands of thoughts that flash through his mind, “What for, though?”

”Simple, really,” Zandar leans back in his chair, “It’s like you said: to make the world a better place.”

A disbelieving laugh almost escapes Khaslana, his eyes crinkling in that same emotion that had Zandar on guard during their first meeting.

”By reshaping the world?”

Zandar’s eyes narrow, “What? No. Haven’t you considered what kinds of side effects that might cause?”

Now Khaslana is the one who leans back, propping his chin on his fist, face thoughtful, curious, eager , ”Then how?”

”By regulating the amount of energy available for mankind to use,” Zandar shrugs, “The whole reason all of these wars started was because of the abundance of power, after all.”

If there was a way for them to be able to limit how much energy could be used by each nation, or equally distribute the power, that would resolve many of the conflicts that these so-called world leaders have been having with each other. By creating a medium in which they could separate the powers of the Conduit into smaller portions, with a neutral third party in charge of maintaining said medium, that should render other nations incapable of creating more wars between themselves in the race to monopolize the Conduit. Of course, this was just a rough idea— there were far too many wrinkles that needed ironing out, such as how the neutral party would be able to maintain truly neutral and avoid the ire of the rest of the world.

But it was something .

Is it idealistic? Most definitely— in fact, it might even be a little bit too idealistic for Zandar’s liking. But to reshape the world was even more so. To destroy and reconstruct the world from the ground up was an even more naive thought. Because that would mean that someone would have to pull the trigger. That would mean someone was confident enough they thought they could shoulder the weight of the world.

That would mean that someone would have to play god.

And divinity was not one of Zandar’s end goals.

What other option did they have, then, when faced with an entity of unknown origins and unlimited potential?

It becomes a matter of choosing the lesser between two evils.

”That’s quite the naive thought to be hearing from you, Professor,” and of course Khaslana calls him out on it. “I never thought you’d be the type to give that kind of answer.”

”It might be a little unsophisticated, yes, but it's to maintain balance,” Zandar huffs indignantly, “Counter an object containing infinite power with an entity that could infinitely suppress power, and perhaps those power-hungry loudmouths would shut their traps.”

Khaslana throws his head back and laughs at his brazen words, “And you’re all about maintaining balance, aren’t you, Professor Zandar?”

”Don’t say it so patronizingly.”

”I’m not!”

The older scientist rolls his eyes when Khaslana doesn’t wipe that bright smile off of his face, his mouth opening to give another sharp retort before he pauses in his tracks as Khaslana’s face gradually morphs into something more serious.

”No, really Zandar, I’m not,” Khaslana murmurs his words, leaning just the slightest bit closer as though he wanted Zandar to see all of the emotions flickering through his face, “It’s an idealistic thought, yes.”

Zandar can only stare as Khaslana leans closer, his hand almost reaching the older man’s across the table.

”But it’s still an incredible one.”

His golden eyes glint with a sense of awe that cuts through the emotion that had Zandar so on edge.

“You nip the source of the problem at the bud, without having to make as many sacrifices as completely redoing the world,” Khaslana muses aloud. “And if you manage to be successful with it then, well, you’d be considered a genius.”

“As if I’m not already one,” Zandar scoffs.

”Right,” the researcher almost recoils from the bright smile Khaslana gives him, “Of course you are.”

The hallways are mostly quiet, everyone already in their quarters, sound asleep, nothing but the buzz of the Rhadamanthus’ engine filling up the emptiness.

Or— most of the emptiness.

A light filters through the cracks of the door leading to Zandar’s laboratory, faint clacking sounding from behind it as no one but Zandar sits inside, typing away at his computer. The beginnings of a line of code flit across his vision, and he blinks his eyes blearily as he types in a new command, not letting his fingers stop on the keyboard— if only to take up the weight of silence that rests on his shoulders like a heavy blanket. And not a comforting one.

Don’t let the silence creep up on you , his fingers seem to say as they fly across the keyboard, despite the words already having blurred together long ago in Zandar’s eyes.

Don’t fall asleep , his shoulders seem to say as he rolls them, bones popping in the areas left too still for too long.

Don’t think about those blueprints , his head seems to say as he shakes it, almost violently so, his hand reaching up to brush away his stray bangs that fell across his eyes.

A sigh escapes his lips as he cranes his neck closer to the screen, squinting his eyes to make sense of his own words and coding as they line up the computer. 

It should be functional, but there’s something missing about it…just what, though?

He tries another line of code, readjusting his glasses as he tries running that, only to scoff in disappointment when it still doesn’t yield the results he’s looking for.

Something to combat the Conduit…what could achieve that? What does this need? Should I fortify its defenses…? No, but that wouldn’t do anything to help it with channeling the Conduit’s energy. It needs something else, not necessarily something as powerful as the Conduit itself.

He shivers from the chill of the laboratory, having forgotten to take his sweater from his bunker before he made his way over here. No matter, the cold should be able to keep him awake—

Something warm blankets itself across his shoulders, startling Zandar so awfully he fully flinches in his seat. His head whips up to find Khaslana standing over him wordlessly, with two mugs of tea in his hands.

A small smile makes its way to Khaslana’s lips as he silently places the mug beside Zandar, but the smile doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. No words are spoken, and yet Zandar feels as though Khaslana can see right through him when he settles into a chair at a nearby desk, sipping his own cup of tea while his gaze occasionally flicks to him.

No questions. No tilt of the head. No ‘why are you still up?’. Nothing passes between them in the silence that ensues.

Perhaps it’s because Khaslana can see it. Can see the dark circles lining ruby eyes. Can see the exhaustion— not from the lack of sleep, but from something else— bearing down on small shoulders. Can see how haunted Zandar looks, even from this distance, the way his posture is too stiff, too guarded.

In a way, it’s unnerving that his ex-mentee— Khaslana had already moved into his own space in Zandar’s laboratory a few days ago— is able to read him so easily. The others always complained to Zandar about how unreadable he is, how difficult it was for them to glean any sort of emotion or internal thought from him. And that was something Zandar had always prided himself in, because if no one could perceive his thoughts, then those feelings— that guilt— could be left for him to shoulder alone. He was content with that.

But at the same time, it’s also comforting, knowing that someone out there could see the mess that lay beneath his skin. That someone can see all that, and decide not to say anything besides give silent support. Because Zandar’s not exactly sure what he’ll do or say if that someone decided to scratch a little bit at the surface, dig a little deeper. He isn’t sure if he’s ready for that just yet.

Maybe someday, when these wars are over and they could return back to solid ground. Maybe when he’s able to find that someone of his own volition, rather than be constrained to the same faces every waking hour on the station. Maybe he’ll be ready then.

But for now, just the piping cup of tea and blanket around his shoulders is enough. Just Khaslana sitting there, a few feet away but feeling closer than that, is enough for Zandar.

He reaches for his own mug, taking a small sip. Herbal tea . He glances in Khaslana’s direction.

It’s a wordless acknowledgement, one that makes Khaslana’s smile grow a little more relaxed.

Zandar turns back to his computer and starts typing again.

Khaslana peeks over Zandar’s shoulder as he rapidly types something across the screen, interest waving off of him in droves to the point that Zandar can feel how closely he leans towards his back— almost leaning against him— as those golden eyes take in the lines of code on the computer. Zandar has to fight down a smirk at how intently Khaslana inhales the coding with his eyes.

”There, and now the objective is complete,” Zandar leans back in his chair as he types in the final line, “That is all.”

”This is…” Khaslana leans closer.

”Part of the Trinity Processor,” Zandar finishes for him, unable to fight the pride that filters into his voice as he starts to run the program. “Our way to harness the Conduit’s power.”

”Trinity… so there’ll be two others?” The chair scrapes against the ground as Khaslana settles down next to Zandar.

”Right, this one will be in charge of regulating the Conduit’s power, making sure that none of its energy overrides the preset limitations. Sort of like an admin.”

The scientist beside him remains in pensive silence as he stares at the coding, “…It’s like it’s breathing.”

He says it in such a soft whisper that the wind would’ve blown it away, and yet Zandar still hears the wonder in his tone.

The way the code expands and relaxes has him mesmerized, each line constantly changing— not in a way that was chaotic, but in a way that was beautiful , and Zandar can’t quite stop himself from smiling as he watches Khaslana pore over his work. It took him a while to get the hang of it, inputting certain commands or lines and deleting others, until he was able to achieve this level of complexity. After all, in order to effectively stand against the Conduit— a being of unpredictable power— their invention has to be just as unpredictable. Well, not unpredictable to the point that they’re unable to control it, of course, but unpredictable enough to be able to withstand the Conduit’s energy.

After all, the Processor should be able to learn and adapt to any changes, like those spikes in energy from a few weeks ago.

“Does it have a name?”

Zandar blinks.

”A name? It’s just the Trinity Processor—“

”But shouldn’t the individual parts have their own names?” Khaslana leans closer towards Zandar again, close enough that Zandar can feel the warmth of his breath brush against his cheek. Excitement bubbles up in those aureate eyes of his.

”What would even be the point?” Zandar furrows his eyebrows, not meaning to be rude about it, just confused.

”Humor me, Professor.”

The older scientist huffs as he leans back in his seat, watching as the code gradually stirs. Seems like it's aware of its surroundings now— was it asleep earlier?

It doesn’t even seem surprised that the two of them are observing it, merely content with watching back and just being .

Being…

”Ontos,” Zandar murmurs under his breath, and his eyebrows shoot up when the program actually seems to respond to the name, the coding changing a little faster as though it were pleased.

”Looks like Ontos likes its new name,” Khaslana chuckles, leaning closer to the screen, “Hello Ontos.”

A pause, and then the code rearranges itself until it forms letters, clearly greeting Khaslana back.

Now it’s Khaslana’s turn to blink and stare at the lines of code, “…You can talk?”

Another mirage of code reforming words.

”Incredible…” he whispers, a hand coming up to gently touch the computer screen as though it were truly a living being.

”Isn’t it?” Zandar rests his chin on his hand, “It’s able to interact with humans in a way much more advanced than our own artificial intelligence, despite being of a similar kind.”

Khaslana gives a disbelieving laugh, “Are you kidding me? This is another thing completely! It’s— it’s like a—“

A living human.

Breathing and speaking like one.

The younger researcher cups the bottom of his face with a smile on his lip, looking like a child in the candy store. Truly, the things that would get scientists so excited…

He turns to Zandar then, a new kind of fire alight in his golden eyes, “You said you were planning for there to be three? What are the functions of the other two?”

Zandar tilts his head, amused at the level of enthusiasm; not even Hyacine was nearly as energetic when he showed her.

”One of them will be responsible for repurposing the power of the Conduit, making so that the energy would be usable, but without overpowering the system,” he drums his fingers on the desk, staring as Ontos watches them attentively. “The other will function as a…sort of firewall. A preventative measure against any malicious minds that might want to try monopolizing the Conduit again, and get rid of any malware that might appear in the Processor.”

“So a creator and a destroyer,” Khaslana mutters, mentally noting each of their purposes, “With Ontos as the mediator.”

”…In simpler terms, yes.”

“Pneuma and Logos, then,” the other closes his eyes as he nods to himself, “That’s what we’ll call them.”

Zandar chuckles, “I haven’t even finished with their coding yet.”

He glances Ontos’ way, faux-annoyance in his gaze before he smiles at the way that Ontos seems to look sheepish under his stare. Almost as though it knew what he was going to say.

”This one was rather time consuming, after all.”

Khaslana hums at that, “Well, at least you now have a base, right? It’s only a matter of adapting the base code to their respective functions— shouldn’t take you too long, knowing you.”

”Your faith in me continues to astound,” Zandar shakes his head, though his smile doesn’t falter, “But of course it won’t take me long.”

”Can I help?” Khaslana leans towards Zandar again, and Zandar has to lean back before their noses touch— maybe he should start telling Khaslana to have a sense of personal space, with how often the other tends to breach his own.

“Can you handle it?” Zandar raises an eyebrow.

”Is that a challenge?”

”Only if you want it to be.”

Khaslana grins, confident in a way that only men who have the skills to back up their confidence can be.

”Then it’s a challenge I accept.”

“You’re up again.”

No question of why, no judgemental tone, no worry flitting around Khaslana’s golden gaze when he finds Zandar in the room illuminated by the light of the Conduit, weeks after finding him the first time in the darkness of his laboratory. No, he says it like it’s just a simple face— the bare faced truth, nothing more and nothing less.

”As are you,” Zandar replies with a fact of his own. No inquiries.

Khaslana hums with a smile on his face that looks plastered on— a mask— as he walks to where Zandar stood, right in front of the Conduit with their finished work thrumming between them and the source of infinite energy.

The Trinity Processor.

They’d completed it just a few days ago, with the help of Stephen and Polyxia and the others once Zandar finally voiced out his idea to the rest of the research team in Aoidos. He’d gotten some incredulous looks, then, a few disbelieving chuckles here and there, even some mutterings of ‘is this guy for real’ in the quiet hush that fell after his presentation. But when he and Khaslana showcased Ontos, and its sentience, the doubts had started to die down. And when Khaslana showed the beginning works of Pneuma— the progress on its programming astonishing even Zandar— everyone gradually got on board with completing the project together.

Since they had first installed the drivers and began running the program, Zandar’s somewhat made it a habit of coming back to this room, staring at the three embedded crystals in the pedestal.

Ontos.

Pneuma.

Logos.

They thrum with energy, as though greeting him and Khaslana. He huffs lightly, brushing a hand against where they lay.

Would this be enough?

Would this be sufficient to rid him of this guilt he carries beneath the harsh glares and rare smiles?

Would this be able to wash away the blood that stains his hands, even if he’s never seen the crimson actually spill across his palms?

If it does, if only a little bit, then why does he still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, drenched in a cold sweat as he can hear nothing in his ears but explosions?

Why can he hear nothing but screams asking him why he would design such a monstrosity?

Khaslana brushes his shoulder against Zandar, as though he sensed that the other’s thoughts were wandering far away. He doesn’t say anything though— at least, doesn’t say anything at first. Then—

”I used to be in the armed forces,” his words are quiet as they drift between them, a soft admission. Such simple words, and yet they sound like they hold a thousand painful memories within them.

Zandar inclines his head towards Khaslana. If he was surprised by this new information, then his face betrays none of his emotions, “I see.”

No judgement. Just simple acknowledgement.

He doesn’t give any further questions, doesn’t ask what Khaslana did there, what he saw, doesn’t ask about the bodies he holds in his heart. He lets him do all the talking.

”It was awful, you know— and not just because of the food,” it was a minor deflection, a lighthearted joke made to lighten the atmosphere a little bit, only to fail miserably when Zandar still refrains from saying anything. “Countless hours of patrols, nothing to fill your mind with in space besides the thrum of your engine and the vibrations of distant explosions…and it was like that everyday.”

Khaslana exhales heavily, settling down on the floor— uncaring for the coldness of the metal, just watching the Conduit and its bright, divine glow. His gaze looks faraway, dredging through memories that Zandar has only managed to fabricate in his own imagination.

”Sometimes I wondered what the point of all the fighting was,” Khaslana continues, his hands clenching his arms, “If there even was any point to all the bloodshed and the death. Every time I sent another missile, I always asked myself ‘is any of this right?’…never really got a proper answer.”

And Zandar—

He understands .

Not in the way that people say they do just for the sake of comforting the other person and make them feel less alone, when they really don’t get it. He doesn’t understand in a way that feels superficial.

No, he feels it all his being.

Because he’s thought the same, countless nights, when he stared at the blueprints in front of him, mapping out the weapons that he knew he would have to shoulder the consequences and guilt over his own actions. He’s thought the same when he looks out the window of the Rhadamanthus, staring out at the explosions in the distance as the sound never reached him but the light of ships being blown up did.

Zandar’s long stopped believing in the gods, ever since they took away his family, his sister, everything he held dear to him.

But by the gods does he understand.

And maybe it’s that understanding that allows his mouth, once wired shut for years, to open:

”I used to design military weaponry,” he settles down next to Khaslana, staring out at the Conduit just as the younger scientist once did. He feels Khaslana’s eyes snap to his face, and he feels the weight behind Khaslana’s gaze.

But Zandar doesn’t meet his gaze, only curls his knees up to his chest.

”Those missiles you see launched in the distance—“

Missiles you’ve likely launched yourself , he doesn’t say.

”—half of them were likely designed by my hand.”

It was an offer their government gave to all top scientists in the nation at the beginning of the war, gathering them together in the middle of nowhere and coercing them to draw machinery that would have the ability to destroy millions of lives. ‘It’s for the betterment of the nation’, was what they were told as they were locked in their little rooms with nothing but light filtering through the window and the lamp on their desk. Barely any human contact, besides the guard nearby who wordlessly pushed their food through the crack in their doors, and the monthly meetings they held with each other solely for the purpose of discussing their projects— nothing else. 

‘This is to finally achieve world peace’ were the lies dripping through the government officials’ teeth as they watched their creations be tested on barren land, remote islands and villages, the resulting explosions a promise to them that they would bring about the ruination of countless people.

Those testing days always made Zandar writhe in his bed at night, hand gripping at his hair as he thinks what has he done what has he done what has he done—  

When a young woman— his old student and teaching assistant from his bygone days as a professor— had come up to the facility, breezing through the guards with her head held high, she had walked straight up to where all the scientists were housed.

” My name is Hyacine, a member of Aoidos ,” she had said, her small stature completely unlike the determination flaring up in her gaze, though the way she clenched the unicorn charm on her satchel betrayed her anxiety, “ And we’re recruiting the top scientists in the world to join an unaffiliated research organization with the purpose of researching the Conduit. ”

Her gaze had met Zandar’s at that time, and there was a flicker of sadness in her expression. Even to this day, Zandar isn’t quite sure what Hyacine saw, only remembering how she held out her hand to him, her earlier determination morphing into one of pleading.

” Would you like to join? ”

Please join , was what her eyes told him.

And Zandar had grasped at that opportunity.

But running away saves nobody, and even as his blueprints mapping out missiles and ships instead mapped out scientific instruments they could use to progress their research. Even when his tiny room had expanded into a laboratory, filled with people he could talk and exchange ideas with. Even when he began working not to destroy the world under the guise of helping his nation, but instead truly save it.

He still heard them, the imagined screams. The cries. The explosions. He still heard all of them, the weight of thousands— millions— of lives clawing at his ankles despite never having seen the face of their murderer.

And they’d likely follow his conscience to the end of time.

“I also kept wondering,” still do , Zandar’s mind tells him, “I kept asking myself if what I was doing was really worth it.”

He sighs, leaning against the cool metal of the pedestal housing the Trinity Processor. His one true masterpiece. Their masterpiece.

“But now I have the chance to do something to make up for it— to make up for my mistakes.”

They both do.

Khaslana stares at him in that familiar sense of wonder, a gaze akin to the one he wore when Zandar first showed him the completed programming of Ontos.

A chuckle gently breaks through the silence, the other man leaning against Zandar, pressing their shoulders together. Grounding. Stabilizing.

”I see.”

No judgement. No disgust. Just acknowledgement.

”Makes me glad I left the forces,” Khaslana has his eyes closed when Zandar glances over, “I was still wondering, y’know, even here.”

His eyes open, and finally, finally , golden meets scarlet.

”Wondering if what I was doing here was worth anything.”

Khaslana’s smile comes back to his face, genuine this time around.

”But after listening to you…I think it is.”

Zandar stares at him for a long moment, holding his gaze, before he permits a small smile of his own to come to his face.

”…Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

There have been some murmurs traveling around the Rhadamanthus, curious glances thrown as scientists cupped their hands over their mouths and talked to their friends about something that wasn’t just data or how the Processor was faring.

“Khaslana and Zandar sure have gotten close, haven’t they?” Herta props her head up on her fist as she watches the pair walk around in the hallways, walking together a little bit too close to be called friendly. The taller blonde leans down to whisper something into Zandar’s ear, something that makes Zandar chuckle a little bit.

Ratio’s face scrunches up as he watches right next to her.

”Disgusting.”

“But fascinating, no?” Herta snickers, “It’s not everyday that you see the Ice King Zandar One Kuwabara smile so freely like that.”

”He looks lovesick .”

”I think it’s kind of nice,” Hyacine smiles as she walks up to them, “They’d be cute together, don’t you think?”

”I think it’s disgusting,” Ratio deadpans.

”Besides, you’re only saying that because you were Zandar’s old student, aren’t you, Cinny?” Bartholos giggles.

”It’s not just because of that,” she pouts, “I want to see him be happy for once. Is that so wrong?”

“Of course not,” Herta waves her hand dismissively, “God knows that man needs to smile more.”

The small group watches as the pair turns the corner, looking towards each other in wordless agreement before they silently tiptoe their way around, following the duo.

”Do you think they’re already…like, a thing?” Bartholos gestures between the two of them, “Or are they in that weird space in between?”

”Definitely dating.”

”Definitely the space in between.”

Hyacine and Ratio look at each other in equal incredulity.

”Are you serious? Zandar wouldn’t look that happy with someone he wasn’t seeing,” Hyacine angrily whispers, putting her hands on her hips, “They have to be dating already.”

”Are you blind?” Ratio frantically waves between the two of them, “There’s so much pining between the two of them it makes me sick. You don’t see someone staring longingly at another person for hours on end if they were dating.”

The two of them continue to (quietly) argue whether or not Khaslana and Zandar are really together, as if the pair they were arguing over were walking just ahead of them, barely out of ear shot. Behind them, Herta rolls her eyes at their antics while Bartholos snickers at the ensuing chaos. 

And, unbeknownst to the small group, the said pair they were arguing over may not be as out of ear shot as once thought, because Zandar throws a casual glance behind the two of them.

”Should we let them know that we can hear them?” He mutters, a faint look of annoyance on his face. “If they have time to gossip about us, they have time to get back to work.”

”Don’t be like that, Zandar,” Khaslana chuckles, and Zandar briefly wonders when they stopped using honorifics. “What are they even talking about, anyways? I can only hear some words here and there.”

”Don’t know, don’t really care,” Zandar scoffs, “All I know is that they’re saying something about the two of us.”

The man beside him laughs again.

”…What I said wasn’t that funny.”

Khaslana snorts, nudging his side, “It’s your expression.”

”See, they’re laughing together!” Hyacine hisses in the background, “They have to be dating.”

”Them laughing together doesn’t mean that. You’d be dating Castorice if that was the case.”

”That’s different! This is Professor Zandar we’re talking about here! Laughing!”

”You lot do realize that we can hear you right?”

Zandar lightly taps his pen against his desk, staring blankly at the papers in front of him without actually taking in any of the words on the page. He glances up at the hiss of the door opening, nodding in greeting when Khaslana walks in with his signature, easy smile on his face.

He doesn’t know when it started, these wordless conversations of theirs. This new rhythm they’ve found themselves under, where they can give and understand small gestures and looks from across the room without mouthing or breathing a single word to one another. It might’ve started ever since they’ve started finding each other in the late hours on the station when everyone else was asleep, nothing but the explosions in the distance and each other keeping them company as they wandered together through the dimly illuminated hallways of the Rhadamanthus.

And yet, despite those silent conversations, despite this sense of closeness he feels, Zandar comes to an uncomfortable realization that he doesn’t know all that much about Khaslana.

Sure, the man told him about his days in the military before, after that first revelation. And sure, he recounted to him the kind people from his homeland, talking about his parents who lovingly pushed him to do better and his best friend who was his anchor during difficult times. But beyond that, Zandar doesn’t really know anything, doesn’t know the name of Khaslana’s homeland, or how he grew up, or how he got recruited into the military in the first place.

Maybe Khaslana’s realized the same thing about him— probably because Zandar’s spoken even less about himself even though what he’s told Khaslana was leagues more compared to what he even tells Hyacine— because the man opens his mouth and asks:

”Do you have any family waiting for you back home?”

It’s an innocent enough question, one that’s meant to make him look towards something in the future. But all Zandar feels from the inquiry is the twist of a knife, and he’s barely able to stop his face from wincing.

”…No,” he says. Simple, to the point, and he watches as Khaslana’s face falls.

Falls into something like empathy.

Not sympathy.

Hm.

”My condolences,” Khaslana starts, “I didn’t mean to—“

”You didn’t know,” Zandar interrupts quietly, looking down at the papers across his desk. “And it was a long time ago.”

“Still, though, I can see how it pains you,” a wry grin as Khaslana pulls up a chair to sit beside Zandar— as he always does, another part of their newfound rhythm that Zandar wasn’t aware of either, “And…well, I know the pain of losing those close to you.”

Zandar doesn’t say anything for a moment, just the tap tap tap sound of his pen clacking against the metal desk filling up the silence that stretches between them.

”…You…don’t have a family to return to either?”

He almost winces at how callous his words sound, but there isn’t any nicer way to put it.

Khaslana doesn’t seem to take any offense, though, when his smile doesn’t falter; it just grows a little more melancholic, “I don’t. They…My hometown was destroyed by a stray missile.”

Zandar freezes. Stops his tapping.

He doesn’t look up at Khaslana.

Can’t.

“…Where are you from?”

His words come out as nothing more than a hushed breath forming something like a sentence. Something like fear tightens itself around his neck.

And Khaslana doesn’t notice any of it, his next words coming too easy even though they shatter everything inside Zandar:

”I’m from Elysian Fields.”

“ Breaking news— “

It might not be the same town. There might be thousands of other Elysian Fields on earth that were run to the ground by a missile. Especially now.

”I heard on the news it was during a test launch, and they failed to accurately measure the direction and distance the missile would travel.”

” During a test launch, a missile was accidentally sent straight towards a quiet, rural town called Elysian Fields. ”

”…The only reason I’m alive now is because I was out of town at the time, studying abroad with another friend.”

” No survivors were located in the aftermath of the destruction. ”

”So imagine my surprise when I came back and found everything just…destroyed,” Khaslana’s laugh is dry, his smile looking off place on his face.

His expression darkens as he derisively scoffs— the first outward display of hatred that Zandar has ever seen on the man.

“And yet all the government could do was send a hefty sum. Like that could bring back any of my family and friends.”

” The government has formally apologized to all families affected by the accident, sending over funds reaching over a million dollars as compensation. ”

Zandar stared at the television, an emptiness reaching into the pits of his heart as he committed the images to memory. Committed every face lost to memory. He noted down all the names of the deceased, the family members they left behind, their phone numbers.

Nothing had even remained of Elysian Fields. No buildings. Not even their foundations.

He saw a young girl with pink hair and bright blue eyes flash across the screen, her face young and hopeful. She looked like she had a whole life waiting ahead for her, a future she could look towards.

Something ugly gnawed at his gut, twisting his organs and punching the air out of his lungs and he—

Zandar can’t breathe.

Khaslana notices that , notices the sharp line that Zandar’s shoulders have become, “…Zandar?”

He reaches out to touch his shoulder.

”Are you alright—?”

Zandar flinches away from his touch in a way he’s never done before.

The other man blinks at him in surprise, eyes flitting across his face.

”…I’m sorry, did I say too much?” Khaslana immediately tries to make amends, “I’m not mad at the military, honestly— I can’t blame them or any of the scientists behind the weapons for making the missile.”

But Zandar isn’t really listening to him, not in the way he always did. His eyes look past Khaslana, and all he can see are those images of nothing standing. All he can see is the burnt earth and burnt golden wheat fields. All he can see is that pink-haired girl who looked like she had something to live for.

All he can hear are the imaginary screams.

The devastated phone calls wrought by grief and pain.

He had numbly walked to the phone, and dialed the first phone number.

”…Hello?” A sniffling voice sounded from the other end, and Zandar felt that emptiness grow, “Who is this?”

”I’m sorry for your loss,” he had mumbled into the phone, barely audible even to himself, “If there is anything I can do for your family, please call back this number.”

”Who are—“

He cut the line.

Dialed the next number.

Repeated the same words.

Heard the same sobs from the other line.

Ended the call before he felt himself crumble into a million pieces.

Rinse and repeat.

(It won’t wash away the innocent blood on your hands.)

”Zandar?” Khaslana calls out to him again, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “Can you hear me—“

” I designed that missile ,” Zandar finally breathes— gasps, actually, the universe stopping him from cutting off his airway any longer.

Khaslana goes very, very still.

“ I watched them as they launched my missile. I saw them make the wrong calculations and I—“

A laugh wrings itself out of his chest.

I’m responsible for all of your family being gone.

Did you know that girl with the pink hair?

Or the woman that had the same smile as you? Was she your mother?

Or the man with the same facial features that you have? Was that your father?

Zandar sharply rises from his chair, the metal legs scraping against the ground grating on his ears as his knee crashes onto the bottom of his desk. But he doesn’t wince, he doesn’t care for the way his mug topples over and shatters on the ground, tea spilling everywhere.

He needs to get out of here.

He needs to get out—

A hand closes in on his wrist.

He stops. Looks back to see Khaslana’s expression.

The other man opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

”Look—“

Zandar can see the pain, the grief, that floods Khaslana’s tone, his eyes, his everything .

And it ruins him.

”…You don’t have to say anything,” he quietly speaks for Khaslana, forcing his words out despite his throat closing in on itself. He tries to appear distant, unaffected. Fails miserably.

Gently tugging his hand out of his grip, Zandar leaves the room.

”Zandar—“

The door hisses shut.

…

…

…

They don’t talk for a long while after that conversation. Hyacine asks Zandar if something had happened, he simply glances away from her and walks off. It’s after that he tries, for a while, to make it seem like nothing was wrong; he tries to settle into a new kind of normal, but he can’t find the rhythm that came to him so easily before. And the silence between the two of them permeates everywhere on the Rhadamanthus.

Calypso is the next one to find him alone in his laboratory, and her mouth presses into a thin line when she approaches him, none of her usual teasing in sight.

”You should talk to him,” she doesn’t specify who, and yet Zandar knows who she’s talking about all the same. “He’s been walking around the station looking far more than just lost.”

Zandar wordlessly shakes his head, turning back to the data being uploaded on the screen. Ontos, Pneuma and Logos linger in the corner, their coding fluctuating in worried waves. So even the AI is aware of the conflicts between humans, no matter how small, and it makes him want to laugh.

A shaky sigh escapes his lips instead.

Calypso drags a chair, settling down next to him like he had during that conversation, before that conversation, days ago.

”Have you eaten yet?” She gently prods.

Another shake of the head.

”You should. Come on, let’s go to the cafeteria—“

”I killed his family, Calypso,” Zandar finally lets out, the words leaving his numb lips before he can stop them.

His colleague stops from where she was about to rise. Stares at him. Doesn’t say anything, letting him continue.

”You remember that accident that was on the news?” He presses the heel of his palms to his eyes, fingers getting tangled in his hair, “That was his home .”

He doesn’t specify which piece of news it was, even though they had made many more mistakes before and after that, more missiles launched at more rural towns, wiping out people that barely made a dent on the world’s population. He doesn’t need to, not when Calypso was there . She was there, lingering on the other side of the wall, listening to him shuffle around his room and make hundreds of phone calls. Listening to the way he fell apart on his bed.

She didn’t ask him about it after they decided to join Aoidos together. She didn’t even ask after they had been transferred to the Rhadamanthus space station. 

“I see,” she leans back against her chair, and if she feels anything, then her tone betrays none of it.

”I can’t…” Zandar inhales deeply, “I don’t know how to face him.”

”Why not?” She tilts her head, not in judgement. Just asking.

” Why? ” He lets out a laugh that he feels no joy in, “I just told you— I’m the one who murdered his entire hometown—“

”Except you aren’t.”

His jaw snaps shut, a flicker of irritation flaring up in him at being interrupted.

”Just talk to him, Zandar,” Calypso places a tentative hand on his forearm. “You don’t know how to face him because you haven’t even tried.”

…

…

…

…

…

…

Khaslana finds him in the lounge after that, sitting on the couch and staring listlessly out the window.

They don’t say a word at first. No one even moves for a few moments, Khaslana remaining frozen at the doorway while Zandar keeps looking out the window at the space ships that whir in the distance.

Someone moves. Who moves first, they don’t know. But someone takes a step forward. Someone turns their head.

Khaslana makes his way over to where Zandar is sitting, meeting his eyes unwaveringly as he stands above him.

A wry smile appears on his face, “Finally found you.”

Zandar huffs, but it sounds empty.

”I wasn’t hiding.”

”But you were.”

He bites his tongue at that, breaks eye contact and stares at the coffee table, even as Khaslana slowly sits down next to him. Their shoulders don’t brush.

An inhale, “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t upset, that I didn’t feel hatred when it happened.”

Zandar nods.

”But not at you.”

His head snaps up to Khaslana’s face.

Khaslana’s smile becomes a little more gentle when Zandar meets his gaze again, golden eyes softening.

”I could never direct any of my hatred towards you.”

Zandar can’t contain his scoff at that, face twisted in disbelief, “I just told you that I was the one who drafted the weapon that destroyed everything you loved. How could you not—“

”But you weren’t the one who pressed the button, were you?” Khaslana leans just the slightest bit closer, almost like he used to, “You weren’t the one who calculated its trajectory. You just came up with the idea.”

The older scientist’s lips thin at being interrupted for the second time that day, but he keeps his mouth shut.

”I’ve been thinking about it for a while, y’know,” golden eyes flutter shut as he leans away, relaxing back against the couch. “You didn’t have much of a choice, did you?”

He stills.

”I mean, I don’t think anyone who willingly designed those missiles would have that look in their eyes,” Khaslana cracks an eye open to look at him, “And that guilt looks like it completely eats away at you.”

He doesn’t know how Khaslana managed to glean all of that. He feels like he’s been cut open, his skin melting away under Khaslana’s gaze and allowing him to see everything that he’s kept under lock and key. He feels too transparent, too exposed .

And it makes him turn his head away again.

”Still, I’m sorry nonetheless,” he also leans against the cushions, “And even that doesn’t feel adequate.”

He sees Khaslana tilt his head in the corner of his eye, “And you have nothing to be sorry for.”

”Just allow me this, Khaslana.”

A small chuckle, and finally, it starts to feel like they’re beginning to find their rhythm again, the weight of the past couple days lifting ever so slightly.

“Alright,” he concedes, “If just saying sorry when you don’t have to doesn’t feel like enough, then how about we consider us saving the world your complete apology?”

There’s that lofty ideal that Khaslana’s been holding onto, all this time. That innocence he’s managed to salvage even after everything around him burned.

Zandar snorts at his words despite himself, his shoulders falling just a fraction, “Quite a grand ordeal you’re demanding from me.”

”One I think you can manage,” he looks at Khaslana again without turning his head, seeing the way the other man still has that unwavering confidence in him, “You’re…you, after all.”

He pauses, before tilting his head downwards, “You sure have a lot of faith in someone who’s destroyed so much.”

”So what?” Khaslana brushes their shoulders together, grounding him, “You can create something new to make up for it— in fact, you’ve already created so much.”

Zandar…

He can’t find any words to refute him.

Zandar rarely ever goes into the conservatory. Not necessarily because he has an aversion to plants or the artificial sun, like how some people— like Calypso or Herta— might think, but simply because he can’t find the time to. A shame, really, when Castorice and Polyxia take such good care of the plants, the twins taking turns sometimes to bring him a small pot with something new they’ve started successfully growing.

At least he gets to experience it now, brushing his hand along the ferns and being mindful not to accidentally touch any of the ivies lingering nearby.

Khaslana gazes around not too far behind him, staring up at the fruit trees that were already producing some buds in the spring they’ve simulated.

Honestly, the only reason why Zandar’s found himself here was because Hyacine kicked him out of his own lab, saying something about how he should stop looking at the Trinity Processor’s coding and how he ‘needs to stop looking at the graphs with his god-awful posture’. Which, first of all, rude: he does not have horrendous sitting posture— look at Stephen, for goodness’ sake. Secondly, who was she to ban him from entering his own laboratory? She must’ve gotten that audacity from somewhere.

(He fails to consider that he might be that ‘somewhere’.)

But he can’t stay too upset with Hyacine, as he usually can’t, not when the conservatory is quiet and peaceful. Unlike the hustle and bustle of the lab and the rest of the research station. And the air felt lighter, somehow, without the heaviness of metal and formulae and coding weighing down on it.

He looks up at the artificial sky, a rather decent imitation of the one back on Earth before everything turned red, and huffs at the way the sun glints in his eyes.

”You should really come around here more often, Zandar,” he hears Khaslana approach him from behind, and he turns around to see the other standing right there with his hand in his pockets. “It’d do your complexion wonders.”

Zandar rolls his eyes, “My complexion is doing just fine, thanks.”

Khaslana shakes his head with a laugh, “Not sure if I can believe that when you obsess over the Processor for more than twelve hours without end.”

”As if you’re any better,” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow, “You’re constantly engrossed with it and the Conduit just as much as I am.”

If not more , he refrains from saying, but he sees it.

The way Khaslana would look towards the Conduit with a kind of reverence that nearly makes the hairs on his arm stand up. It was the dangerous kind of reverence that some people hold when they believe that the object they behold with such a stare holds all the answers to their problems.

Or when they want to possess something.

Sometimes, that look rudely reminds Zandar of how cautious he was of the other man when they first met. It reminds him how he should keep a watchful eye on him.

And yet those thoughts have begun to clash with themselves as of late, warring with the others who reason that Khaslana truly does want to make the world a better place. He wants to save it from the destruction it was inevitably heading towards. He’s already lost so much, that’s why his gaze borders on obsessive when he gazes upon the Conduit and the Trinity Processors.

Sometimes— rarely, but sometimes— he would even direct that look towards Zandar. As though Zandar was everything right with the world. As though he held all the answers Khaslana searched and yearned for.

Every time, though, Khaslana always catches himself, throwing a laugh his way before he directs his attention elsewhere.

’Have you eaten yet? Let’s go together!’

‘I brought the materials you were looking for.’

’That was quite the explosion earlier, wasn’t it? Don’t suppose we might get another like that anytime soon, huh?’

Those kinds of distractions. And he knew that Khaslana knew that he caught his stare. Zandar just lets it slide every time.

Because, well, he hasn’t acted on them yet, has he? Zandar sees no reason for him to bring it up yet.

(That sort of lenience will come to bite him someday, and he knows it. But he will wait for that day to come when it does, and he will deal with the consequences of his own fondness then.)

“…sunflowers?”

Zandar quietly shakes off the rest of his thoughts as he redirects his attention back to Khaslana, who stares at him expectantly.

”What about sunflowers?”

”So you really weren’t listening,” a teasing glint flashes in Khaslana’s gaze, coupled with that charming grin, and Zandar has to fight down the flush that creeps up his neck, “I was asking if you think Cas and Polyxia would be willing to plant some sunflowers here.”

The researcher hums as he looks around, taking in the height of the conservatory, the strength of the sunlight, and what conditions would be needed to allow such flowers to grow without it hindering any of the other plants. He may not be an expert gardener like the twins, but he still has some knowledge he’s retained from his biology days.

”I don’t see why not. If they place it in that space over there,” he points to a far corner of the conservatory, where there was nothing but barren soil, “it should be fine, as long as they rotate the crops once the sunflowers are harvested.”

Because if he recalls correctly, sunflowers tend to take up a hefty amount of nutrients from the soil, meaning that it would need to be cycled out every so often so that they could replenish the necessary vitamins.

Khaslana blinks at him for a few seconds before bursting into laughter, his laugh ricocheting off of the walls of the gardens and startling Zandar so badly he whirls around on his heels to stare at the other man.

”I fail to see what’s so funny about what I said,” he narrows his eyes, “I was just answering your question.”

”Very thoroughly at that,” Khaslana says between laughs, “I never thought you to be a botanist, Professor Zandar.”

”Don’t say my title only when you’re making fun of me.”

Another round of laughter, and Zandar’s starting to feel a little embarrassed, that warmth crawling up his neck again.

”Sorry, sorry,” a wheeze, “I just found it amusing how such a simple question got such a lengthy response.”

The blonde smiles at him, his eyes crinkling in delight.

”It’s cute.”

Zandar, very slowly, blinks at the man. Speechless.

They stand like that for a while, staring at each other. One second, two seconds…

…Three seconds…

And Khaslana seems to just register what he’s said out loud, his face comically going red as he waves around his hands, flailing for some kind of excuse.

”I mean— that’s not—!” Khaslana’s mouth opens and closes like a gaping fish, “I meant that you giving such a detailed answer was cute, not that you’re cute— wait, no I didn’t mean it like that either—!”

Zandar continues to give him a deadpan look, watching as he scrambles around for a good enough explanation.

”You are cute— ugh, no wait, don’t take that wrongly— I mean, no— !“

A snort. Khaslana stops in his rambling, looking up at Zandar’s face.

And he stares .

A mouth usually set into a firm line, only sometimes forming a smirk or a small grin, now stretched into a bright smile. Laughter ripples through Zandar in waves, in a way it hasn’t in a very, very long time. He doesn’t even really remember when the last time he last laughed so openly was. Was it before he lost Zenais? Before he was recruited by the government? It must have been years ago. Maybe even decades. Regardless, it’s been a while .

Yet, despite that, he can’t stop it from bubbling through his chest, escaping through his mouth, bright and free.

The entire situation was just so ridiculous, watching Khaslana try and fail to desperately grasp for some kind of excuse to something so minimal. And he was the one who laughed at Zandar for giving such a complicated answer!

He feels that golden gaze fixate on his face, but Zandar chooses not to acknowledge it.

Ah, it really has been a long time since he’s felt so free.

“Another late night, huh?” This time it’s Zandar who says it, settling down on the floor next to Khaslana in the room with the Conduit once again, already curling his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees.

Khaslana tries to give a laugh in amusement at how their roles have switched, only to wince when it comes out watery. His eyes are a little puffy and his nose is slightly red. Zandar doesn’t comment on either.

”Just…couldn’t sleep, that’s all,” the younger man says, staring out at the Conduit and the Trinity Processor, both of them thrumming back in the silence.

Zandar stills ever so minutely at his words, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looks away from Khaslana’s face, glowing in the light of the Conduit.

As though sensing the other man’s hesitation, Khaslana leans against the other, pressing their shoulders together— trying to bring him back from the thoughts that Khaslana knew threatened to drag him under. Zandar remains still for a time, feeling the warmth of Khaslana’s body radiate across his arm.

Then, he moves.

For the first time, Zandar leans back against him, and that makes Khaslana freeze.

Zandar uncurls his legs, freeing his hands from where they were wrapped around his shins, and wordlessly, he places his hand right next to where Khaslana’s lay pressed to the ground.

Their fingers barely brush.

And yet Khaslana holds his breath regardless. Waiting for something he knew would never come.

They don’t really have a label for what they are, too many moments shared between them filled with unspoken words, words that they both felt like they weren’t ready to speak into existence just yet. They don’t even know if such words would be able to encompass all that they are, really. And, honestly, they were fine with that. Not having labels. Leaving the words they want to say be left unsaid.

Of course, the whispers made it hard to ignore, subtle jabs and teasing from colleagues for them to finally “make it official”. Zandar stubbornly ignored them. Khaslana gave an awkward smile and laugh. Neither have a proper answer.

But there were times. Times when they wish they could say something, say anything, without the words getting caught in their throats. It’s in the times when Zandar would wordlessly take some of Khaslana’s paperwork when he’s noticed the bags underneath golden eyes, no matter the fact that he has more paperwork waiting for himself at his own desk. Or when he would gently press his hand against Khaslana’s forearm when his hand grew shaky after a particularly terrible explosion in the distance. It’s in the times when Khaslana places a mug of herbal tea on Zandar’s desk on yet another long night spent staying up and studying the Conduit. They can feel it in the moments when Khaslana subtly brushes Zandar’s long mint-green hair out of the way while the other’s too busy staring at countless lines of data.

It’s in the times when their hands brush against each other in the hallway as they walk side by side, almost grasping at each other’s fingers yet stopping just before.

It’s in the times like right now, with their shoulders pressed together to ground each other and fingers barely touching. A few breaths between them and yet, at the same time, a million light years apart.

‘What are we? ’ Words that remain unsaid between them.

Maybe after the war is over, they’d find the courage to ask each other that question that’s been echoing through their minds for the past couple months. Maybe once the destruction of the world no longer knocks at their door they’d find the confidence to face each other, brushes of the hands turning into intertwined fingers. Maybe once the guilt of blood staining their hands no longer haunts them in the cloak of darkness and solitude.

(Zandar still writhes in his bed, after all, blankets strewn about before he promptly gives up and walks to the laboratory instead, drowning himself in paperwork and computers.

Khaslana still wakes up, after all, a cold sweat drenching his clothes as he shakes off the lingering, blinding light of explosions and stunned faces floating past his space ship window, frozen in shock just before death claimed them.)

Maybe when peace comes around, they’ll finally say those three words that they’ve been restraining on their tongue for so long.

Khaslana slides a breath closer.

Zandar’s shoulders relax a hair.

Their smallest fingers overlap with each other.

For now, though, this would have to be enough. This wordless support and steadying presence with each other.

For now, they would have to be content with this ephemeral peace they’ve built for themselves.

…

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The peace doesn’t last long. 

Such is the fate of something so fleeting.

Zandar blankly stares out the window, hands limp at his sides as he stares at the stray pieces of the Rhadamanthus slide past his gaze, the debris reflecting in the glass of his helmet.

A unicorn charm dangles from his gloved fingers.

No one had seen it coming.

A nuclear bomb designed for outer space, developed in secret, detonated without any warning.

Destruction. Everywhere.

The aftershocks. Shattering the left wing of the Rhadamanthus.

Tearing apart the hallways, the laboratories.

Tearing apart the conservatory.

Tearing apart the medical bay.

The alarms blared, everyone scrambling around him to get their emergency gear on in the off-chance that the oxygen in the station would be cut off. In the one in a million chance that very much became real. They pushed and shoved at him to get him out of the way, screams ringing in his ears as panic flooded the space station.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t move, even as Calypso pulled at his arm to get him to his bunker, screaming at him to go, go, go.

How could he? When he sees a head of pink hair float in the distance, teal eyes wide in shock as though even she hadn’t realized what had happened. Why she was missing the entirety of her bottom waist down. Why she was aimlessly floating in space without any destination in sight.

The medical wing was destroyed.

And of course she was there.

Of course she had to be there.

There wouldn’t have been anywhere else she could have been.

It’s only when the lack of oxygen burns at his lungs that he allows Calypso to drag him away from the window, saying nothing as she forced him into his suit and turned on his oxygen tank.

And when he turned his head towards the window again—

Hyacine blankly stared back at him.

Zandar takes in a shuddering breath, his hand tightening around the charm in his hand. The charm she had decided to give to him right after he joined Aoidos.

” Keep little Ica safe for me, won’t you, Professor? ”

She had said it with the brightest smile in the world as she pressed her beloved unicorn keychain into his palm, telling him it was to keep him company when the memories became too harsh. Telling him it was his little good luck charm.

He should’ve given it back to her.

If he did, would that luck have applied to her too?

(Such a strange thought for him to have. He’s never believed in superstitions.)

( He should’ve been in the medical wing instead of her.

He should have been the one caught in the destruction instead of her.

He should have been the one to die instead of her. )

If he gave it to Aventurine, would he have been able to stand next to Ratio? Stone-faced Ratio, who now crouches by the window a few feet away from him, his hands curling against the glass as though that would bring their colleagues back.

If he gave it to Ruan Mei, would she have laid her hand on Herta’s shoulder in that gentle, reassuring way of hers? Rather than leave Herta to lock herself in her laboratory to tear herself apart in her research.

If he gave it to—

If he gave it to Castorice and Polyxia, would the conservatory have been spared from the destruction? Would the sunflowers that they had just started growing been able to sprout and mature? Rather than burn in a light too severe for them.

If he gave it to Hyacine, would she have been able to stand here in front of him, smiling in that bright way of hers? Rather than float outside in the endless space with her legs missing and her eyes wide with fear and with shock.

(So many ifs and maybes. This doesn’t sound like him at all.

Is this what death and true grief does to a man?)

So many lives lost.

So many precious, precious lives lost in such a meaningless way.

That familiar emptiness threatens to crawl up Zandar’s spine again, swallowing everything within him whole— just like the aftershocks of the explosion which swallowed the entire west wing of the Rhadamanthus.

He tries to exhale slowly, feels more than hears the way his breath shakes.

A presence makes itself known beside him, a presence he’s begun to know like the back of his hand. A presence that weighs on the heavy silence and adds to its suffocation.

Zandar doesn’t turn his head, not yet, not when Hyacine is still floating there.

Not when Castorice’s detached hand lingers by Polyxia’s, sisters still reaching for each other even in death.

But Khaslana has a different plan in mind, his words making the breath in Zandar’s chest stop.

”…Let’s reshape the world, Zandar.”

Slowly, Zandar turns his head. Sees Khaslana stare out the window.

His face is carved from stone.

No emotion.

No pain.

No grief.

Khaslana just stares at all the death and destruction surrounding them without a flicker of pain in his expression.

Then his golden gaze slides over to Zandar, dull yet at the same time— somehow— burning. Blazing, the hatred in his eyes traveling down his arms as they clench into tight fists at his side.

”Let’s reshape the world,” Khaslana repeats with a calmness unbefitting of someone who had just seen his colleagues— colleagues he laughed with— die, with a level tone as though each of his words don’t drive a nail of dread through Zandar’s chest. “This one isn’t worth saving.”

…

What?

A dry laugh rips itself from Zandar’s throat.

”…Are you— Have you gone insane?” Ironic, that he’s the one to ask this of him. Him, Zandar One Kuwabara, who was always said to hold the most radical of ideas on the space station.

”Are you insane?” Khaslana fires back at him, teeth gritting together into a look of anger that he’s never directed at Zandar before, “Look at everything around you— look at all this bloodshed. Those goddamn leaders aren’t going to do a thing to achieve peace if this is all they’re capable of.”

”To hell with the government!” Zandar hears his own voice rise, hand tightening on the charm in a death grip, “What about everyone else? You’d rid them of the choice to become better, just like that? Have you completely forgotten your purpose for coming here?!”

” How can they become better, when they do this?!” Khaslana waves his arm to gesture towards everything around them, Hyacine, Castorice, Polyxia. His face, once so bright with a smile, twists into something far uglier, “This world doesn’t need a mediator anymore, Zandar. It needs someone to guide them to the right path, even if that means redoing everything from the start.”

Zandar lets out a disbelieving scoff, no words coming to his throat even as Khaslana sharply turns on his heel, walking away and leaving Zandar to wonder when he had forgotten about the look in Khaslana’s eyes when they first met.

That obsession to control.

That obsession to save.

And to save the world, Khaslana was willing to doom them all.

Zandar holds the unicorn keychain close to his forehead, closing his eyes.

Fine then .

If Khaslana wanted to destroy everything in the name of salvation…

…Then Zandar would destroy everything within himself to stop him.

He had tried. Tried so many times.

Zandar had tried to kick Khaslana off his team, place him on probation, only for Calypso to tell him about how Khaslana went off to do his own research during the late hours of the night, when everyone was asleep.

But things only got worse.

”Professor Zandar, it is imperative that you find Khaslana,” Screwllum runs up to him, panic behind what used to always be such a calm gaze. “Now.”

And Zandar—

He ran .

They couldn’t find him anywhere, Screwllum had reported. They tried looking in his bunker only to find it pristine, nothing wrong with it besides some stray papers here and there. They looked in the cafeteria, the makeshift memorial they had built for their fallen colleagues, Zandar’s laboratory. Everywhere.

And yet Khaslana was nowhere to be found.

But Zandar knew. He knew where Khaslana would have gone.

The room with the Conduit .

Despite his best efforts to sabotage his research— ethics be damned— Khaslana still managed to find a way.

A way to completely reset this world.

Zandar grits his teeth, pushing his legs faster even as they cry out in the sudden strain they were not used to.

He was never good at running.

Only enduring, withstanding, shouldering everything.

When he lost his parents, before he even had any conscience, Zenais told him he didn’t cry. He just stood there, staring at the dirt covering up their still bodies.

When Zenais died, Zandar didn’t shed a single tear, only knelt against the ground where they lay her as though he were still sitting next to her, like when they were children.

When he was dragged to the governmental research institute and forced into that small room, he didn’t scream or demand to be let out. He just sat at his desk and began drawing, theorizing, creating even though his hands yearned to stop.

When they lost Hyacine, Castorice, Polyxia— all the others, Zandar only threw himself into his research, splitting his attention between the Conduit and refortifying the Rhadamanthus’ defenses so that such a tragedy could never occur ever again.

The closest time he had ever come to shattering was when innocent people— a girl with pink hair and cerulean eyes— lost their lives to a monster of his own creation.

And now, at the precipice of destruction, Zandar feels himself cracking again, an unfamiliar desperation flooding his senses.

Not just for all the lives that would be lost back on Earth.

But also for the researchers who had dedicated their life’s work to stopping the war, only to find themselves unable to stop one of their own.

For Khaslana, who would be forced to carry this burden by himself should he pull the trigger.

Zandar’s feet skidded to a halt as they stopped in front of the door leading to the research lab with the Conduit, his heart thudding in his throat as he jammed his finger against the reader to open the doors.

They don’t budge.

Khaslana locked them.

There’s a resounding slam, and Zandar thinks he feels one of his fingers crack in the fist he threw against the metal wall.

A shuddering breath leaves his mouth as he types a code into the system, overriding the lock, praying for the first time in decades that he’s not too late.

If there’s a god up there—

If there’s any higher being up there—

He doesn’t apologize for not believing in them all this time— he doesn’t think he ever will, but he pleads with them one last time regardless. Shamelessly asks for them to give him just a few more minutes, before all of their creations are ruined without mercy.

And for the first time, they answer him in the form of the mechanical doors hissing open.

Khaslana stands there, in front of the Conduit, his fingers rapidly typing away at his computer with the speed of someone who thinks they’re running out of time. Urgency rolls off of him in waves, and though his back is turned to Zandar, he can see the tension in the sharp line of his shoulders.

”Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Khaslana,” Zandar walks into the room, door hissing shut behind him, each of his steps heavy— a rising challenge, “Have you completely lost your mind?”

”I really must be, if you’re the one asking me that,” Khaslana turns his head to glance over his shoulder, and Zandar almost shudders at the dullness of his golden eyes, “For the second time, if I might add.”

Zandar looks at the computer in front of Khaslana, a million lines of code visible on the screen. His eyes narrow.

“You’re forsaking the entire world,” the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, sharp and unforgiving, “Are you really willing to shoulder that burden?”

A laugh greets his ears. Grating. Crazed. Unhinged.

Desperate.

”Forsaking it?” Khaslana whips around to face him fully then, the look in his eyes wild and stricken with a grief that was absent when he was watching the corpses of his colleagues linger outside the Rhadamanthus’ windows.

A grin comes to Khaslana’s face, and yet it carries everything but joy.

“No, I’m saving it— I’m going to be a savior towards the entire world.”

( He still remains cautious of the way Khaslana’s voice lifts between them.

It’s eager, but in a way that it’s a little too eager. A sort of naivety the youth have when they think they can completely change the world and bring about peace within just a few years of reaching adulthood.

He should have been more careful.)

Zandar’s hand clenches into a tight fist as he reaches out to grab Khaslana’s arm in an iron-clad grip.

”No, what you’re being is delusional,” Zandar shoots back through gritted teeth, trying and failing to push Khaslana away from the computer. “You think this is saving the world? You’re just running away from everything!”

Whatever program he’s trying to run, Zandar needs to stop it. No matter the consequences.

No matter if Khaslana won’t look at him ever again. No matter if he won’t ever get to see that smile and those bright golden eyes again. No matter if those moments they shared between them become nothing more than a fleeting fantasy. None of that matters anymore, when the moments he could spend agonizing over his decision will not come to pass should Khaslana press that button.

Because he’s promised himself, beside that window where he could see Hyacine floating outside of the glass and where he watched Khaslana’s back get smaller as it walked away from him. He promised himself that he would stop Khaslana, no matter the cost.

He promised himself he wouldn’t let Khaslana shoulder that burden.

This experiment cannot take place. Zandar won’t allow it.

But curse Khaslana’s stubbornness, ever as strong as his own even in all the most inopportune of times. Curse Khaslana’s own promise to himself that he would save the world, shoulder the weight of it all even as he condemns everyone to damnation.

Curse Khaslana’s immovable body, not even budging even as Zandar tries with all his might to push him away..

”Am I the one being delusional, or are you ?” Then he grabs Zandar’s forearm in a grip that almost hurts. “You saw the destruction surrounding everything— hell, you’ve played a hand in some of it—“

Zandar almost flinches.

Khaslana had never directed his anger towards Zandar.

He would never weaponize his guilt against him.

Yet here they are, Zandar’s arm stuck in a grip that feels like it would bruise, or that it would break his bones.

( Khaslana would never hurt him. )

He really has gone mad.

”And you think that your solution is still viable?” Khaslan continues coldly. His grip tightens, unforgiving even when Zandar winces at the pain that shoots up his arm. “You think that playing mediator will be enough?”

When Zandar looks up, he finds no trace of warmth in that golden gaze.

Just relentless, unadulterated fury.

(He didn’t see the remorse that flickered through Khaslana’s expression when Zandar’s face twisted in pain. The way his other arm twitched as though it yearned to comfort the pain he himself had brought about. 

But he’s come too far. 

They’ve lost too much.

There is no time for remorse anymore.)

“If you won’t save the world with me, Zandar—” Khaslana leans close, close enough that Zandar can see the dark shadows under his eyes.

”Khaslana—“

”If you won’t stand by my side—” Zandar hisses as Khaslana harshly shoves his arm back, his balance toppling and almost sending him careening towards the ground before his gaze snaps up to see the other man turn back to his computer. His hand lifts.

Panic floods Zandar’s veins. He reaches out.

”Stop it, Khaslana, don’t—! ”

Khaslana starts the program.

”I’ll rewrite everything myself!”

The Conduit glows, blinding them.

A ball of light shoots out from the space station, beginning on its orbit around Earth.

Zandar feels something within him split.

“ And now the objective is complete ,” a familiar voice cuts through the nothingness that plagues his mind, “ That is all. ”

And then—

Then—

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..

.

The universe slows, stagnates, shifts. Stops expanding, matter turning inwards as it starts coalescing towards the center. The stars gather together, no longer light years apart. They converge.

Towards the beginning.

Thus a world was reborn anew.