Gideon slumps beside the den entrance, watching as the lights go by beneath a distant bridge. His brain pounds in his cranium. Three days with constant pressure behind his eyes—the same rinse-and-repeat days eat at his tired mind.
Brandon sits atop a pile of discarded steel and pig iron, dancing above it with no care in his heart. Gideon breathes heavily and stands with a tired sigh.
"Brandon. C'mere." His hoarse voice cuts through the darkness.
The fire elemental skips to his beloved friend, squatting to talk eye to eye.
"Yes, Mr. Grumpy?"
"They're back."
Brandon's faceless expression widens. He cowers, looking around frantically, and ducks beneath some cardboard—
which curls into ash immediately.
Gideon groans and opens his arms, a temporary safe haven for the being made of white cinders.
Brandon whimpers and scurries into his gaunt companion's hold. Gripping the fragile life he loves, the man tiptoes into the den. The younger curls up, resembling more of a ball than human—though he isn't either.
The creaking of rusty hinges follows. A scout entering their section of the combs.
Brandon crawls to the far corner and crosses his arms.
"Why do we need to hide so much from them? We can easily knock them out or something."
"Any activity is confirmation of life. Confirmation leads to investigation. Investigation leads to our murder."
He grunts as the massive rock moves under his strength, blocking the entrance.
"We NEED to stay buried. If we're found by any of his goons—"
He rubs his neck, a nervous tick he developed when something attaches itself to his psyche.
"Life…"
His swallow echoes off the wall.
"LIFE doesn't give second chances. Bran."
Brandon's cracked skin dims, the embers beneath his outer layer beginning to stifle.
"You've told me that six times today, and it's only four!"
"Hush. It's because it's true."
Lights shine behind the boulder, the scouts leaving no crevice unchecked.
"Let's wait out the scouts."
The source of their worry approaches the rock. Their footsteps slightly awkward.
Something made of steel drags over the rock, reverberating outside the den.
Index finger pressed to his lips, Gideon joins Brandon in the far corner, a hand resting on nearby Sachisteel. Lucky him this type of material was ever dumped here.
The scout's hands scamper across the rock. Its joints crack with unnatural, uneven sounds as it tilts its head.
Brandon looks ready to explode from suspense, but Gideon wraps his other arm around the dustborn. Brandon cools, closes his eyes, and breathes deep—just like Gideon told him.
Slowly, but effectively, Brandon steadies himself.
The air surrounding his palms vibrates with pressure.