Kaya wakes in a dark, empty room. A thin mattress. A black purse with a cat keychain dangling from it, that's all.
Her hair is tangled as she pulls herself from the comfort of the bed. Sunlight pours through a blurry window, casting a glint in her dark brown eyes.
She grumbles, yawning as she stares at the room.
Wearing a baggy gray T-shirt and black shorts, she adjusts her hair and fluffs it before heading to the door.
"I want to help him today. He seems different," she mutters to herself.
She opens the door, passes the stairs, faces the main entrance, then ignores it, taking a sharp left toward Malik's room.
Everyone's door has a design or symbol on it. Not his. His is a blank canvas in comparison.
She exhales and knocks twice.
Knock . . . knock.
She presses her ear close to the door and hears shuffling, the sound of desperate movement.
"Not yet."
Kaya leans in closer. She heard him, but . . . what happened?
He sounds troubled.
Suddenly, he opens the door.
"What the-"
Papers scatter across the floor, strings and thumbtacks bolted to the wall with countless words, phrases, and theories for the door.
"What is this, Malik?" Kaya insisted.
"Stole some stuff from Amaya's room. And I spent all night on this." He kept an emotionless expression.
Kaya inspects the words on each paper displayed. Certain words stood out: Sea, forget, fall, silently, they, forgive, grief.
She inspected along the room and saw a note barely tugged under his mattress.
He's hiding something.
Atlas goes to write more on the paper with theories upon the door.
Maybe it's about the moment, not the feeling. Four bolts . . . four agreements?
Intrusively, she kneels down and slowly peels the paper from under his mattress.
Flipped over, she gently turns it as Malik writes nonstop on the wall.
It read something, something vague, and Malik immediately swiped it from her hand before she could read it.
"Not now," he resists himself.
Why did he react like that? It's obviously something he doesn't want me to know.
His fist clenched, veins protruding from his hands profusely.
Blood rushes to his head as he struggles to form a coherent thought.
Damn it . . . now she'll lose trust in me. But I have to. She can't know, and it's for their sake...
"Atlas . . . is there something you want to tell me?"
"I'm sorry, I just can't tell you right now. It'll only worsen things."
"If it's about the door, then we'll figure it out. But you can't hide stuff from me when I'm the one helping you."
"I know."
"What could be so bad?"
"Like the door is something I can't imagine, you can't imagine what I wrote."
"Did you . . . figure it out?" Kaya asked.
Malik clenched his jaw tightly, the muscles outlined in striations across his face.
"All I know is that words aren't the big picture," he said softly.
"Then what is?" Kaya asked.
"I only know what it isn't, not what is. People evolved to spot problems, but never solutions."
Suddenly, Kaya's eyes glow amber under the bright light above them, the shadows on both faces contouring their elegant facial structures with blank expressions.
"I understand that you don't trust me."
"But I want to! You can't just keep lying. Aren't you the one that's tired of being lied to, tired of having stuff hidden from you?" Kaya persisted.
Nothing, again.
"I can't read a single thing out of your head. It's all silent," she adds, monotone.
"How am I supposed to answer a question that sparks more questions?" Malik continues.
"You make it very difficult to trust you."
"I'm sorry. Just please . . . understand this is for the best." He kneels down, ashamed.
Kaya frowns.
I can't be mad at him.
She looks down, her eyes returning to their regular color.
"I understand," Kaya says. "I'll leave you alone."
She leaves the room delicately but with no emotion, avoiding the scattered papers on the floor as she keeps her head down.
Malik stares at the open door frame, sighing.
You did it again, Atlas. Congratu-f**king-lations, man . . .
"Now I have to."
Gazing, he stares at the possible meanings and patterns it could all mean. For now, he has no other choice.
"I forgive the one. Grief before joy emerges. The sky returns silently." He writes those words down as he mumbles them briefly.
Then, taking a look at the note that he failed to hide.
Struggling, he wants to crumple the note, but he can't.
It reads one word. A word banished. A word scolded for. A word that is hated then forgotten, even though it makes us.
"How would Dad even know about that?" he whispers.
He drops the note and walks toward Cyrus's room.
Kaya had gone up the stairs, past the hall to view the ocean.
Malik leans closely on his door. He hears faint snoring.
Still asleep, huh? Yeah, right.
Malik rushes up the main stairs and heads to Vos's office.
Just like I thought.
The door was adjusted, and the paper he threw on the floor at night was moved.
Dad always wakes up the earliest, and he knows where to put his stuff. So why'd he go back to sleep?
Malik cracks his fingers and laughs.
Looks like I'm not the only one watching, eh.
Malik goes back to his room, piecing together the test while keeping an eye on Cyrus's door.
This must be quick.
Looking at the notes, the papers, he throws them all around his room in frustration.
He writes one more note on a small sheet: "I forgive you, Malik."
No, that can't be. It has to use 'that' word.
He scratches it out in one sweeping line.
Forgiving is the last one, and it seems like the most important one. Because without forgiveness, there is no grief, joy, or even fear.
They all tie to each other . . . if forgiveness is last on the wall, then . . . something to the bolts must be done before saying the phrase!
They want to hear something, but they whirr at the sound of words, like in judgment. Maybe I'm just not agreeing.
Each word is a counterbalance of another. So that means I have to disperse the feeling of these words across the bolts, right?
But that begs the question: which bolt to display emotion to . . .
Intensely, he remembered that each banner briefly had different colors.
'Grief' is navy blue, 'Joy' is gold, 'Fear' is mauve, and 'Forgiving'… is black.
Wait a minute.
He finally saw the door's message. Scurrying to it, he checks the bolts on the large door.
No way.
Each bolt had the corresponding colors of the banners.
He lets out a laugh. His pupils dilate. He jumps in excitement.
I wasn't able to see the colors well that night. Such a small lining of color that's easily missed.
Top left, bottom left, top right, bottom right. I went in reverse before. But merely saying the word can't be the end-all-be-all.
Malik gets closer to the top-left bolt. He taps the center of the spiral. It presses, leaving a navy-blue glow behind.
Not just a microphone.
Malik breathes loudly in excitement. Then-
Step. Another step.
Sh*t! I was so close!*
He embraces his loss.
"What'd you find out now?" A soft feminine voice, familiar.
"Kaya?"
"Well yeah, who else? I just wanted to say that I'm sor-"
"Hold that thought," Malik said. "The colors of the banners link to these buttons. We couldn't see them clearly last night."
"Interesting." Kaya kneels down, taking a quick glance.
"Also, I think words for these buttons don't count. They want feelings, agreements."
"They want to feel the moment," Kaya added.
"Exactly!" he cheered.
Visibly smiling, but in his conscience, he knew he had to speak a banished language.
He closed his eyes, exhaled.
"Our words in the moment are the ones with meaning, Kaya."
"So we should feel . . . grief?" she asked.
He slowly nodded, hesitantly. He stood up and pressed the top-left button microphone. It shone with navy-blue light as he held it.
"It can do that?"
"Kaya, is there anybody you miss?" Malik asked.
"What?" she asked. "Ooh . . ."
She's getting the idea.
"I miss my friend Emilia. She passed away when I was fourteen." She looked down.
"I . . . I miss my old crew. They left, and I don't know where they are," he stated.
They both looked down.
The machine whirred joyfully when Kaya spoke, but fell flat in ambience when Malik began to speak.
Oh. I see.
"I do miss my crew, but they're probably happy now."
Kaya stared at him with a frown. She knows.
"What I do miss is my childhood. I miss being careless. I miss innocence. But as I grew, I only started to hate myself. I fell into despair, lying to others when I expected the truth from everyone. I've only felt that I'm alone in a world with people that don't exist to me. I miss the time when I felt real. A real friend, a real son, a real marine. Now I'm a seashell with a hermit crab hiding inside." Malik trembled. He spoke the truth.
The machine whirred and lit the blue light as he let go.
"We . . . we did it," Malik cheered emotionlessly, keeping composure.
They went to Joy. They vented to the room that accepts only truth.
"I'm happy that I have my brothers. I'm happy to have a dad who cares about me. I'm glad that I have my crew!"
It makes noise, but it asks for more. It squeezes out the truth from tongues like lemons.
If I must.
If it's the truth they want, it's the truth they get.
Malik breathes in. "I'm glad to have met a girl I like. A girl named Kaya. Although I barely met her, she pulled me out of the water when I was drowning," he let out.
Kaya's eyes widen. Her face forms a shocked expression, then an ear-to-ear grin.
"I'm happy to have met a guy like you, Malik. I haven't felt anything like this since I met you." She drops one tear, instantly wiping it in reverence.
The bolt glows golden, joyfully blinking.
'Fear' was up next.
Malik clears his throat as his smile fades. "I'm scared of nobody understanding me. I'm scared of lying to myself, and others lying to me, and the doubts of others. And I'm scared of not being able to trust. I want more to trust than the ocean, and I'm afraid that I won't," he says.
She adds to the moment, "And I'm scared of liars too. A two-face. Somebody who holds a mask on their face. I'm scared that nobody will truly love me the way I love them!" she emphasizes.
Applauding, the bolt lights up a lilac purple, tracing the spiral.
Forgiveness. The last bolt.
Inching closer, he presses it lightly, expecting it to whir with sound.
But it stops mid-press, like it's waiting for something more human than hands.
Malik keeps calm and thinks to himself.
Is it a feeling anymore?
They stare at the last black bolt: A black spiral shaped like a drain in the abyss.
Kaya places her hand gently on Malik's shoulder.
"You ready?" she asks softly.
He doesn't answer. He has a staring contest with it, a match with the abyss, unmoving.
Instantly, he rushes and presses the button with force.
It whirs. Whirring and stirring like a washing machine.
But-
Nothing.
What?
It rejected him. A sharp feedback of resentment hums through the wall around the door, like being denied access to your own memories.
"Why didn't it work?" Kaya looked at him.
He swallows. "Because I haven't forgiven myself."
The microphone listens.
"I watched innocents die. I let people die and covered it in memories forgotten. I lied to my crew and ran away from it all. I've put off doing this out of cowardice. And now here I am, pretending I'm worth something. Ha."
He steps back.
"And I've never forgiven myself. Maybe one day . . ."
Suddenly, the door shakes. All lights glint with full luminance.
It doesn't want lies. The cost of honesty, truth, is true access to the veiled truth.
"I don't forgive myself either. I act empathetic, yet I know people won't feel the same way-"
Malik comes closer to her, softly speaking into her ear, "I forgive you, Kaya."
She closes her eyes, hugging him, laying her head on his chest. "I forgive you too, Malik."
He smiled. "Now Kaya, there's one favor I need, and you have to trust me."
She listened.
"I need you to cover your ears."
"Why?"
"Please, for me . . . I'll explain later."
Kaya sighed, covered her ears, and waited for him.
Malik crept closer to the machine, finally in its glory.
The green light on the touch pad in the center turned into a bright yellow.
He knew the phrase.
From his pocket, he pulled out the paper he had crumpled earlier. Shaking, he firmly held it.
In barely legible writing, it read: I forgive you, Malik.
No. I know the word, but I'm afraid she's listening.
He pulled out a pen, pressed the paper against the door, and wrote four words.
This is it.
Unknowingly, he drops the paper as he says the words.
Kaya hears a muffled voice with four pauses. Then she hears a large diffusing sound, like tension letting go.
Atlas lets go, so does the door.
Robotically, the screen scans Atlas, shooting a bright yellow beam on his face. It speaks: "Access granted. Hello . . . Seeker."
Seeker? I mean, I guess.
Finally, the door fully extends, revealing a dark red square room with blood-like lights all over. Walls painted in carnage of war and misery.
Kaya steps back. Her amber tint is engulfed by the red of the room in an attempt to read it.
It screams, warning anybody who dares to enter.
Malik immediately goes in.
"Wait, Malik!" Kaya yells, but he still goes in.
Bloody fog emits from the bottom of the room.
She looks down at it, then spots a white square.
It has scratched-off words: I forgive you, Malik.
But below it, vaguely: The stars forgive me.
What the hell? Stars? That sounds . . . wrong.
She enters the room with more questions. "Malik, what is the meaning of-"
Interrupted, she is mesmerized by the terrifying room that looks like torture. Except there is no furniture. No bed. No emotions. Just red.
Looking to the left of the room, she sees Malik staring at an old CRT TV on a stand. He steps away from it, not understanding the technology.
Backing up, until he accidentally turns on a light, lighting the room in its full glory.
A VHS player sits in the stand, awaiting.
Taped up, labeled only: MALIK
. . .
Kaya stands at the doorway. Malik is lured in by the room like a fishing hook.
A box lies in front of the stand, begging to be opened.
A shaking hand opens it.
He opens it like a Christmas present, only to find a beating heart.
Documents, photos, medical files, a Microdrive, and letters lay alongside the VHS, once hidden.
Taped up, labeled only: MALIK V. // ARCHIVAL
He turns on the TV behind the box. A blue screen. Then a white flicker of static.
Sliding in the VHS, it feels agonizing to watch it slide in slowly in an era of speedy technology.
The tape on the TV has a white background with bold black text: CYRUSCAM_2712.BAT
It begins.
A screen blinks to life, Cyrus's old camera. HUD flickers, timestamped, grainy, marine-grade but forgotten.
Bold black text flickers vibrantly lighting up the whole room: "YOU KILLED YOUR CREW BAYONET!"
What the f**ck?!
In the corner of the grainy screen, a date can be noted: 6/2/3000 - 4:44 PM
It's attached to the front of the familiar kitchen, displaying the full deck. A dark storm runs as the old crew walks around the ship, unbothered.
Audibly, Cyrus is heard speaking to someone offscreen, in low quality: "Mashia, I tried to tell you. That mission was suicide. And you're not a 'Replicant'. You are a man."
Nothing can be heard. The audio cuts out after. The camera shakes.
It jumps to a date: 12/5/3000 - 8:44 PM
A black table with eight people around it. Laughing. One plays a soothing song on an old guitar.
Malik commentates loudly as Kaya watches from afar—distressed, "Them, I know them! My old crew!"
It cuts. Static floods the camera. A roar can be heard, it shakes the TV.
Screams.
Metal rips like cloth.
. . .
Fate, the leviathan. It emerges from black, making it impossible to see it whole.
The screen shatters into static.
It read another piece of text: "YOU KILLED THEM AND MORE TO COME!"
No . . .
From the hall, Cyrus and a young boy rush to the main deck, but it is too late.
A small young boy, with dark brown hair, steps forward. He sees the ship cut in half.
Entrails of dark red blood seep through each body still visible in the feed.
People squished like nothing. A graveyard.
The boy screams. He pounds the metal on the floor, screaming. It turns to a screech from the audio.
Roaring, the leviathan moves until-
The boy disappears. He vanishes in a blur.
Cut.
He's crying. Screaming. Holding a severed arm that isn't his, in a pool of blood littered with guts and intestines, leaking sea animal remains.
The leviathan's corpse is barely visible . . . dismembered.
Vos, in the corner of the camera, kneels, shaking, mouthing a prayer with no sound.
Cut.
From the hallway : "Malik? . . ." Kaya muttered.
He can't hear her. Or anything else . . .
The screen flashes a phrase from the HUD logs.
A title sticks out: EMERGENCY_CAM_BOOT - AUTH: CYRUS / SEC LVL 4
It's tagged: _BAYONET_ (ACTIVE)
The camera scans the desk where Cyrus sat before the events. The date: 5/31/3000 - 6:44 AM
He writes something in lettering big enough to be discernible: "Mashia, if you're alive when this gets to Mala, don't follow their orders. They want you dead. They did it before. They'll do it again. Do the Sklaves even care about us anymore?" He flips to another page.
"Anyways, something's wrong with the boy, he killed one of my own long ago. You remember him? I don't think he's human. Not normal. But . . . he's beautiful. Elegant. And that scares me. I think they'll try to kill him before they let him grow."
Vos sighs. He crumples the pages.
I . . . killed?
Cut.
Date: 6/2/3010 - 4:44 PM
"That's . . . tomorrow," Malik stresses.
The camera is recording . . . tomorrow.
Corrupt, the video crumbles in flashing lights.
An injured Atlas stands alone on a charred, rusty, bloody ship deck that resembles Cyrus's, but uncanny, surrounded by twisted corpses of familiar faces. He holds a long bayonet.
I see now, I remember everything. This tomorrow is a mirror of my past.
Kaya's necklace hangs from his palm, broken. He screams into a sky with no stars. Something huge falls from above, cutting the video feed.
It returns. The sea is black. Many bright lights are visible. Atlas sees everything past the video.
A personally generated sorrow.
"Oh God . . ." Malik mumbles. He stumbles back, trying to stand up.
His heart beats like drums. His cortisol spikes. His chest burns like it's been cooked while being carved open in an oven. A black energy seeps out. He foams at the mouth, black. The energy grows a white outline, white bubbles within.
Something ignites.
Kaya instinctively uses her amber eyes.
Hearing two words, surprisingly:
"Kill me."
She jumps back at the horror.
What? How? I heard him clearly!
"Malik! Snap out of it!"
He's going through an unnatural awakening! I've never seen anybody do it like that!
It ignites, brighter. A jagged spiral of ink-black and light crawls across his spine and up to his back, chest, and shoulders, like a living brand with a life of its own.
Something whispers, backwards into the room: "Your path is borrowed. Return it at once."
It continues: "You were chosen because you lived. Now suffer . . . to live."
"I know that voice. You! YOU! IT'S ALWAYS YOU!"
Kaya rushes in. "MALIK, STOP—!"
Storming up the steps, Cyrus watches—but, its too late.
"Malik . . . I'm too late." He murmurs.
"AAAAAAAAAHAHHAA!" Malik howls like thunder.
He attempts to dig into his temples in agony, then—
. . . .
Nothing. There's nothing anymore.
Nothing. But a white light covers his vision. Everything bursts in white undying flames. Ablaze they go, memories.
Something pierces his eardrums like needles stuck deep into his brain and twisted clockwise.
And then—
. . .
Silence. He wakes up.
A tall black room. Malik opens his eyes and sees the wall, a giant mirror shrouding the wall.
He leans closer to it, sees his grey-storm eyes. But one pupil is spiraled in navy-blue lining—swirling in a cyclone.
He pulls his white T-shirt open, and sees that his skin faintly glows with an unfamiliar sigil mark branded across many scars. Malik speaks to his new self in the mirror.
"They knew. All of them. Cyrus. My crew. 'The Messengers.'" Malik twitched. "They made me forget. Now I am alone. Nothing exists past me. I've killed, and I . . . will kill again, no matter how much I hate it." A single black tear ran down his cheek.
"I-I am . . . the Bayonet." He stares into his reflection. It scatters, colorful, like a kaleidoscope.
Then, a voice: "You don't kill. You send."
It added, "Do stars really forgive?" White robes brush the floor. A tall figure stands in front of Malik. Its face is covered by a mask.
"Who are you?"
"Voice of thee."
Malik laughs. He cackles. His vision blurs. He sees yesterday, now, and tomorrow.
"Meridian," Malik says.
He repeats: "Meridian." Again.
"Meridian."
. . . .