Time blurred inside the base. Missions came and went, but between them he drifted through corridors like a malfunctioning machine left on standby. He gambled with guards in storage rooms, with technicians in maintenance halls, with soldiers in mess lounges long after curfew. Cards, dice, digital tables—it didn't matter.
He would lean back in a chair, boots kicked up on a crate, and bet everything.
Every last zell.
And he always lost.
When his pockets emptied, he would turn to Kess without even looking embarrassed. Kess would sigh, shake his head, and transfer the credits anyway.
"You're impossible," Kess would mutter.
And Youri would lose that money too.
That was usually when Adin stepped in, arms crossed, voice sharp but controlled.
"You're not self-destructing," Adin would say. "You're just wasting oxygen."
Kess and Adin had recovered—at least on the surface—since the day they first arrived at the base.
Kess had become Helios's active pilot. He flew often. Too often. Each mission carved something out of him. Helios demanded synchronization at a cost no one could fully measure. Within a year, Kess had lost half his sight. Numbness spread slowly through his limbs. His reflexes sharpened even as sensation faded.
He never once complained.
Adin had not been so fortunate.
He failed to synchronize with Montern. The attempt nearly killed him. When he woke up, he was physically intact—but altered. He still laughed. Still argued. Still carried that quiet intensity in his voice.
But something behind his eyes had dimmed.
He was given an inactive role—Halvek's second-in-command. Strategy, oversight, execution planning. He was still important. Still sharp.
But not chosen.
Youri, unfortunately, remained chosen.
And when missions came, he and Kess were assigned together more often than not.
Two years after they joined the God Unit, Helios finally claimed its due.
The mission had been successful.
It always was.
But when the extraction teams arrived, Kess was barely breathing. His heart had collapsed under the strain of forced synchronization. They stabilized him long enough to transport him back.
He died shortly after.
Youri didn't react when they pulled him from Altopereh's cockpit.
He returned to his quarters without speaking.
Hours later, the door slid open.
Adin stepped inside.
He did not look up.
He couldn't.
He stood near the doorway, hands clasped behind his back like a man delivering a report instead of a death.
"He's gone," Adin said quietly.
Youri stood up from where he had been sitting.
No expression crossed his face.
No tightening of the jaw. No shift in posture.
He had lost all his tears long ago.
Kess deserved them.
But weapons do not cry.
He let out a faint, hollow chuckle.
"Huh," he muttered. "I owed him ten thousand zells."
Silence swallowed the room.
Adin slowly lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
They were green.
But only in color.
Whatever warmth once lived in them had eroded completely.
Adin hated him once.
Not for who he was—but for what he represented. The rival he could never surpass. The pilot chosen above him. The standard he could never reach.
Yet he respected him.
And he respected Kess.
Kess had never hesitated. Never feared Helios. Never regretted stepping into that cockpit.
Adin turned away first.
Without another word, he left.
Youri didn't stop him.
—
That same day, Youri left the base.
When the transport vehicle dropped him at the perimeter checkpoint, he noticed a bike in a small storefront across the road. Sleek. Matte black.
He walked toward it slowly.
Ran his fingers along the frame.
"Can I take it for a spin?" he asked the seller.
The man hesitated, then handed over the keys.
Youri straddled the bike.
Then paused.
"You know what," he said calmly, handing over a card, "send the bill to this address."
He didn't wait for a response.
The engine roared to life.
He drove into the night.
Fansilia's streets glowed beneath him—neon reflecting off polished metal and wet asphalt. Towers of glass and light stretched toward the sky. Traffic lines blurred as he accelerated, weaving between vehicles like a shadow with headlights.
The city didn't sleep.
Neither did he.
Eventually, he slowed.
The night district.
He turned into narrower streets, then into an alley lit by holographic signage.
A new pub stood on the corner of an aging building.
Above the entrance, a hologram shimmered—an animated woman laughing, glass raised high. The sign read:
Marta's.
Youri cut the engine and stepped inside.
The interior was warm and dim.
Dark, aged timber paneled the walls. Brass fixtures casted soft halos of amber light over solid oak tables. Each table held a small embedded holographic display, flickering with drink menus and mission updates.
At the far end stood a long counter lined with chairs.
Behind it stood the woman from the sign.
Tall. Confident. Hair pulled back loosely. She smiled as if the world had never wronged her.
Youri took a seat.
She approached.
"Hello there," she said. "What can I get you tonight?"
He raised his head slowly.
"A special drink," he replied, voice low, "to send someone off."
She studied him for a second.
"You're a soldier, aren't you?"
He let out a quiet chuckle.
"I wish I was. That way it would probably be easier."
She laughed.
"I like you," she said. "I'm Marta. This is my place. To whom do I owe this pleasure?"
For the first time in months, Youri smiled—faint but real.
"A ghost of the past," he said, "and the destroyer of futures."
Marta blinked.
"Damn," she grinned. "I'll give you that drink first."
She placed two small glasses on the counter.
"This is called 'Last Words.' Gin and green chartreuse. One for you. One for your friend."
Youri stared at the liquid.
Pale green. Sharp scent.
"This might be the right drink," he said quietly. "But I've got to go to the right place."
Marta nodded.
"I'll make you a bottle to go."
When he stepped back outside, bottle in hand, he heard a voice behind him.
"They said I'd find you around here."
He didn't need to turn.
Barnaby.
Barnaby stepped beside him, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
"We haven't seen each other in a while," Barnaby said.
"Yeah," Youri replied. "It's been some time."
Barnaby took a drag.
"What do you think of this empire?"
Youri chuckled faintly.
"That's above my pay grade."
Barnaby laughed too.
"True."
He flicked the cigarette away and slid his hands into his pockets.
"I feel like I've had this conversation with you before."
"Who knows," Youri said. "We were never the talkative type."
Barnaby smiled.
"I'm leaving, kid. And I'm not coming back."
Youri stayed silent.
"I know what you did," Barnaby continued. "And I don't blame you. But Volar was home to me too."
The city flowed around them. People walked past. Music thumped in the distance.
"Come with me," Barnaby said. "Let's build the next great empire."
The night waited.
Then Youri spoke.
"Barnaby… maybe in the next life. If I'm allowed to exist again. And if you asked me the same thing… I'd do everything for you."
A pause.
"But in this life, I'm someone else's weapon. And my hatred for you—I won't forget it. So for the sake of that… I hope we never see each other again."
He mounted the bike.
And drove away.
He didn't look back.
What he felt for Barnaby, he didn't understand.
He had hated him once.
Truly.
But whatever that feeling had become… he would only understand much later.
He returned to the base.
To the old academy barracks.
The field was empty.
Cold.
A lone bench and table sat beneath the open sky.
He placed the bottle on the table.
Pulled out two glasses.
Poured carefully.
He leaned back on the bench and stared at the dark, star-strewn sky.
He lifted one glass.
"May I pay that debt," he murmured, "when we meet again."
A tear slid from his right eye.
Just one.
He remembered standing on that same bench years ago. Kess laughing, pointing at the wide blue sky. Youri lying back with legs crossed, pretending not to care.
Peace.
Real peace.
If only for a few moments.
He closed his eyes.
And drank.