Rain sluiced off the greasy sheets of Thornhold's bio-domes, turning Sector 7's Rootburn Pits into a steaming, sulfurous hellscape.
In the pits, branded children shuffled between rows of ironclad vines—mutated crops with barbed tendrils and pulsating amber pods. Each kid wore a thermal suit patched with mildew, wielding a scorch gun that coughed unstable flames more often than not.
4317 dragged his scorcher across the muck, its sputtering fire barely licking the ironclaws. These weren't crops—they were man-eaters pretending to be plants. Thick as a man's thigh, coated in bone-white thorns, their amber pods throbbed like infected hearts.
Keep moving, dammit.
Sweat-drenched hair clung to the raw brand seared into his forehead. His arms trembled. The gun felt heavier by the hour.
Ten more minutes. Then the bell rings.
A barbed tendril snapped. He stumbled, his thermal suit hissing as acid sap chewed through it.
Overseer Jax's boot landed squarely on his back.
"Stop daydreaming, maggot! Burn the root cluster before it grows!" The man spat beside him and moved on, kicking the next nearest kid with a muttered curse.
It was routine. Beatings. Threats. Burns.
4317 had long stopped reacting. His only concern was surviving.
The flame blistered his gloves. His palms stung. But the fatigue couldn't outmatch the fear.
Not here. I don't wanna die without seeing the last rays of day. I wonder how the world looks outside.
The bell clanged.
4317 dragged his body to the nearest shade of the towers that stood guard over the dome. He slumped against a corroded coolant pipe jutting from a processing duct, peeling off his glove with trembling fingers. His hand was swollen, red, and cracked.
His vision blurred.
"Easy, man," came a familiar voice.
3952 slid down beside him, arm slung across his shoulder. "Don't peel too deep. I can already see your bones shining through."
Sixteen. A head taller. Split lip. Eyes like cracked glass. Hairs dusty and matted. He looked older than he's supposed to by folds. Well, most of the kids here looked like that. Slaves don't get to choose.
He pressed a canteen to 4317's lips. The warm, metallic water trickled down his throat—tasting of rust and blood.
"Not hungry," 4317 rasped, though his stomach twisted like a coiled rope.
"Liar," 3952 muttered, inspecting his face under the dome's pale light. "You're grayer than corpse moss. Vomiting shadow again?"
As if on cue, a cough tore out of 4317's chest. He spat—a black, tarry glob that sizzled on the wet ground.
"Just tired," he whispered.
3952's gaze darted toward the Overseer's platform.
"The culling is in three days, you remember? Becoming fertilizer is worse than death."
He opened his palm. Three figs sat in the grime. Two were sickly green, veined in red. One was soft yellow, glowing faintly with golden threads.
"Found 'em where the vines ate Old Man Gerrick. The greens—mine. But the gold… that's yours."
4317 shook his head. "I can't be coughing and shitting at the same time."
3952 choked back a laugh, shoulders shaking.
"Man up," he said, jabbing him in the ribs. "How long are you gonna survive on moldy bread?"
He placed the golden fig gently in 4317's palm, then popped the others into his mouth and closed his eyes in bliss.
4317 hesitated. The fig was warm in his hand. Almost comforting.
He looked at 3952, who gave him a thumbs up.
"Don't forget to chew."
4317 placed it on his tongue.
The first bite nearly made him cry.
It was sweet—so painfully sweet his teeth ached. A rush of floral warmth coated his mouth. He had no words for the flavor. Only feeling.
His eyes widened.
So this is food…? We work all day, all night—for one crust of mold. I… We deserve better.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
3952 grinned, tousling his matted hair. "Don't die, okay?
And are you sure you don't wanna sneak out?"
4317 shook his head. "We're dead if we get caught."
"Only if we get caught," 3952's nose flared with confidence.
The siren screamed again. The last two and a half hours before earning themselves a moldy bread.
4317 waved to 3952 as he trudged through the mud, waving to his station.
4317 wore his gloves again, picking up the scorcher. His mind raced.
Man, I wish I could have really snuck out with him this time. The night outside is really pretty, he said. I wonder what the 'Moon' he kept talking about is. Sighs~
…..…
KKK-RRAAACK!
Everyone froze. A pod exploded ten feet away—not bursting, detonating. Razor-seeds sprayed the air. A girl screamed as they shredded her arm.
SCREEEEEEEEE—
The sound wasn't human. It came from within the vines.
Hundreds of bone-thorns scraped together as the tendrils awoke.
Then the field erupted.
A whip lashed around a boy's ankle, yanking him into a maw of snapping thorns. Wet sounds followed. Tearing. Squelching.
Acidic pollen billowed into the air—thick, yellow, and corrosive. It clung to one kid's face. It melted into red, sinew-like wax. Screams rose like wildfire.
4317 stood, frozen.
The girl beside him—no older than seven—was snatched mid-step and slammed into the ground. Her spine snapped audibly.
What was her number? I…
He scrambled back, feeling the tremor. Too slow.
CRUNCH.
Agony flared through his leg. A root had impaled him through the calf.
He screamed. His mind cleared from the pain. He forgot about 3952.
"3952!" he shouted, eyes wild, gasping through the acid haze, and he kept clawing the root.
There—through the smoke. 3952 was fighting. Not fleeing.
His scorcher lit arcs of fire, shielding three kids behind him.
"RUN! NORTH CHUTE!" he bellowed, torching a vine that lunged at a crying boy.
4317 clawed at the root pinning him. His blood mixed with sap. Pain blurred his vision—but something flared in his chest. A strange warmth.
He pulled again. And again.
SNAP.
The root cracked, softened from its own acid. He staggered free, dragging his mangled leg, sobbing through clenched teeth.
"3952!!"
He picked up a discarded scorch gun; he couldn't find his—he dropped it in the chaos. His eyes locked on the towers.
The guards didn't move.
They watched. He saw them drink from their cups.
They must be betting. They like it. One day, it'll be them who die.
Flames burst around him as he ran, ducking barbed tendrils, the gun clicking in his hands.
A pod detonated. Sap sprayed across his back. It burned—but he didn't stop.
WHERE IS HE?
A vine speared through a boy's throat ahead of him. Two others screamed as their hands melted.
Then—
He saw him.
Eastern trellis. 3952 fought bare-handed, yanking a thorned vine from a younger boy's neck. The kid ran. 3952 looked up.
Their eyes locked.
And he smiled.
Then it came—fast. Silent from nowhere.
THUNK.
A massive vine punched through his shoulder.
RRRIIIP.
It yanked him into the canopy, dragging his broken body like a rag doll.
4317 lunged, but the air had thickened. The world slowed.
No. No. No!
Only the blood remained. Soaking into the soil.
He dropped to his knees beside it and kept hitting the vines with the scorcher's butt that covered the canopy.
Please. I let you be the elder brother… PLEASEE.
He screamed. Pulling the trigger on full throttle. It spewed flames. The vines burned and crackled under the heat, and so did his hand.
Fucking vines. Burnnn already.
Then the purge sirens howled.
Toxic gas hissed from vents, driving the vines back with blistering force.
Through the settling fog, 4317 saw the remains of 3952. He crawled under the canopy and dragged 3952's body out. Half of his body was gone, mangled. Oddly, he looked at peace. His face wasn't a mask of pain; rather, he looked free.
4317 held the body of 3952. What remained of him. 4317 didn't cry.
He wanted to. But the tears never came; he felt a hollow ache.
After all, death was more plentiful than bread.
He wiped the blood, the gore, and the sap off 3952's face with the back of his hand.
He looked down.
3952's lips were parted—still curled in that half-smile.
Even in death, you fought with a smile. Rest well, brother.