"Are you betraying us?" it blurted, pouncing closer to Selune.
She stayed silent. They were in a long hall with arrays of sleeping soldiers.
"I don't," she asserted.
"So why . . . why oh why, do you not do the one thing I ask you?"
Her lips trembled; then, feeling the need to scream what couldn't, but knew the price. The mask stuck like glue, resetting herself to a blank canvas with no edges to shear.
Uttering, "It's not in our jurisdiction."
He sniffed. "So you're telling me . . . Mala claims such nature, and Zi Jin Cheng upholds their innovations. They worship it like slaves—one calls it order, and another calls it polishing."
"Like I said, its not in our jurisdiction . . ."
"And you call that order? Oh please."
Selune tensed, her large eyes focused on him.
"No words? So, what's the difference when being enslaved by soil or steel? It all finds a way to trap you."
Selune stayed silent, in the same way one would not provoke an ignorant.
"You're hopeless," it uttered. "Live, so you can suffer another day."
He turned. The door collided violently; a bright light blinked at him, but before he noticed, it passed.
Selune sighed, went to her desk, pulled open a cabinet, and dialed a number on an emergency phone-like device exclusive to the military—more like a brick than a handheld device. She smiled as she typed words across a digital keyboard.
Across the brick-like machine, an emblem of a black rose stuck out on both sides. She slowly creaked it shut as she looked around. Everyone was asleep. She went to bed herself in another corridor.
. . .
A penthouse, high above the clouds, golden gleams of sunlight shining through the windowed wall. A man sat comfortably in black robes as he sipped coffee.
Lime-green plants hung on rails, vines stapled to the walls, flowers placed in every corner. A pot with black roses lay in the middle of a table beside him.
On the table, a phone with buttons shrouded on its border. The screen operated with the intentional thoughts given from the user's necessities—a tedious device.
He received a call on the phone with a thought-screen. Without moving a finger, he answered.
"Head-Bearer, Yulou," a static voice seeped.
"Hello, Selune," Yulou smiled. "You need a better microphone, by the way."
"Apologies. The man of replicants has confronted me. I'm wire-transferring the footage to you as we speak."
"Very, very well, dear. Now, may you remind me why you sabotaged your country?"
A static of ambience flowed from the speaker.
"Because . . . because of the money, sir. I needed to stay alive, to be stable."
"Ahh, I see. Do you believe it was worth it? I mean . . . you could've sent a real watcher to the woman, and who knows? Maybe she could be okay with her daughter right now!"
"But know this. Money never saves you. Only buys you time, and wine. Both stain, permanent as blood."
". . ."
"Ah, relax! In your position, anybody can understand you, especially me. Sad truth, but hey, you live nobody else's life, right?"
"Yes, boss."
"Boss? That's a new one. Well, take care, darling, and thank you for the feed. Your payment will arrive," Yulou scoffed.
"You're welcome . . ." she said monotonal, almost stressed.
"You're worried. Remember, were living in our most peaceful era. Believe it or not, this isn't the worst thing our country will face."
"Yes, Head-bearer. Thank you."
. . .
Crackling, the call concluded.
Yulou sat up on his black couch facing the windowed wall, the wall that can't conceal the light over the fog—the utmost luxury amongst seas of fools.
"Huh, a withered rose can grow a mind of its own. How tragic."
On the device, footage of a replicant. The replicant was withering on the screen, a withering that was proof of a disheveled lower garden with a welcome sign gilded in floral elegance. Those that are flowers of beauty live in the high-life, covering the below from the light, taking in all the moisture, all that lets them grow further.
"Careful with your petals. After all, you're an artisanal miracle."
Yulou cackled, sinking back into his couch, bathrobes melting into it. He grinned slyly with the tooth of a fox.
"A fox that claws for the prettiest of flowers, I am."
He got up quickly after; he had work to do.
. . .
The hotel room remained silent as Mercury hunched over and sat on his bed.
Lisan crossed his legs, sitting on the other, Sara sat in the corner as they looked down at their hands and legs.
Contemplating, they all pondered. Thoughts concurred and bloomed endlessly.
What a bother.
Mercury's luscious white hair hung over his face, the braid concealed halfway.
"You shouldn't have been so hostile, there were dozens of soldiers asleep there!" Sara asserted.
"Is that so?" Mercury scoffed. "Coming from you?"
Sara's eyes enlarged; she glanced at the priest. He was silent.
She swallowed a heavy throat. "Well, I've changed. I was just just looking out for you, no need to be rude."
"And I left my entire platoon to rot in that desert. But does that make me innocent of murder?" Mercury asserted. "They all melted, turning into weird—"
"Enough."
The priest uttered with the command of an echo from a true hymn.
His golden eyes gleam even in fog, forming a light source if you stare too long. Absorbed, the others came to their senses.
Mercury kept a frown.
Flowers. Black rose. Hah. Not now, I must remain calm.
"They did everything," Mercury whispered.
Sara leaned in like an interviewer with microphones huddled. "What was that?"
"They bear our messages," Mercury gazed into Lisan's eyes without shame.
Instantly, the priest's eyes gleamed. Sara caught on. She translated what his words meant in a split-second.
"Replicants," Mercury uttered, disgusted.
His teeth digging into his lips, uttering those words felt like a bayonet to his tongue.
"How long have they been doing this for?" Mercury asked.
Sara stayed silent, hesitating to answer.
Mercury laughed. "So . . . they've done this for long, huh."
She nodded her head with a frown, an answer she didn't accept but had to face.
"The parents I've seen walk by when I was younger . . . they walked with children. Smiles on their faces and everything. How many of them had artificial caretakers?"
A drip of sweat fell off her face; she excused herself from the bed and went to the restroom.
. . .
"They all hate us, Mercury." the priest said.
A ticking clock in the cabinet beside their beds clacked. A tap on the desk emphasized every second. Every second the garden has yet to bloom.
"Selune hears, Sara listens and obeys, and Amira truly trusts you. To what extent do they stem from people to your puppets?" Lisan remarked.
Mercury stiffened. "And they're still alive when they abide by me, no? Yet when it's you involved, is that the case? I mean, you've seen what happens . . ."
Golden eyes dim; the priest's face stared blank. He looked up with a curious expression, readjusting his scarf harshly.
"She left because of your badgering."
Mercury smirked. "Or it's more like she left because she knew you'd prefer to listen to your voice than hers?"
Whispers arose as they stared at each other. The restroom door opened.
Sara walked laid-back. She laid back down onto the bed, calmly.
"You feeling better?" Mercury asked.
She laughed, eerily, eyeing Mercury top to bottom.
Then—
Abruptly, the window that plays fantasies shows another reality broadcast.
. . .
Crackling, it adjusts.
Thin lines of film drag across the window. It wants to overshadow the message with another, but one cannot fake what's right in front of them.
Entirely, the whole wall is shrouded in a cyan background.
In the film, the room holds two foxes, one a talker, the other a listener. One shorter, one taller—they are revered, as the talker cackles in a sly manner.
The talker uttered, "Great process! Citizens of Zi Jin Cheng, I remain, Yulou Xiao."
"The nation must become aware of such important matters, so forgive me or not for interrupting your dreams—it doesn't matter to me. There has been a stain, a wither in the garden yet to fix."
His pitch-black pupils stared hard into the camera. The listener beside him held an older device. He opened it—a screen with a video ready.
The fox nodded, and the other pressed a button on the screen.
Immediately, the video played as the camera enhanced closer to immerse itself.
. . .
A corner contained an overlay with a title: "Conviction Of Withers."
It rolled.
A camera, in the same place.
A tall man came with a fedora, luscious hair beneath. He pulled off the fedora; a glistening black rose in his breast pocket.
Pure-white.
Suddenly, the door opened. The man entered. Two flashes came—eyes of yellow-green, and a pale face caught in broad daylight.
Cackling in the background's audio, the fox could be heard from miles away, as withers could be heard further and further.
Cries of love?
The decrepit cries of the defiling from a falling rose echoed through the room. What withers it, stays silent.
. . .
A moment passes, asphyxiating.
The rose collapses. The room goes silent. And then—cries.
Still movements of the camera say all that they need.
Blood of a rose drips on dirt of bloody gates leading to the garden.
Dragging, dragging, the wither drags the rose—innocence no longer. The tall man holding the screen shakes, faintly quivering, but forces a smile.
It beams without remorse. Picked for a collection undesired, but only for a bouquet to undermine itself—to illuminate the beauty of the prettier roses.
. . .
End.
Condescending, his voice overheard. "Did you see that footage? No stutters, no static. Almost too good, aye? That's how you know it's true." He winks.
It turns dark. However, the reflection of the black screen shows a bright flashing camera, with a smiling crowd of masks behind.
The talker steps into frame. "Well, bearers, shears, roses, and withers—you have all immersed yourself into the truth."
"Acts against humanity itself! Can you even say this individual was even human?"
"I mean . . . you saw it here. It's the red rose. How shocking . . . not . . ."
He chuckles. "And . . . it has come to our attention that the monster responsible for this has revealed themselves."
In their cyan room, a projector pops. It renders a photo slowly. A face—known, loved, hated, and regretted.
. . .
"Mashia Var K'drailes!"
No.