[ 🫧 ] sᴇᴠᴇɴ 𝘢𝘯𝘥 ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ

iii. cornelius

Cornelius took pride in having burned down a building when he was sixteen years old. So much that he visited said building whenever he got angry so he could look back at all the destruction he had caused. For a good cause, of course.

The place used to be filled with so many different “medical” supplies and technology, all stacked on shelves and piled around each other in the corners. An advantage on Cornelius’s part, since most of it was flammable and/or explosive.

The walls were now charred, pipes rusted, shards of glass scattered on the ground along with some medical tools that survived. None of the lightbulbs worked anymore, so the only light the warehouse got was from a large window on the ceiling, which was the same one he snuck through to get in.

See, back at home, he couldn’t break anything or hurt anyone whenever he got angry, so the best way to calm himself down was to go to this desolation and remind himself that he already down a building and almost everyone in it.

Cornelius slowly jumped down through the window and landed on the second-floor loft, some shards of glass clicking beneath the soles of his shoes. He walked over to the railing, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on it, hands clasped as he scanned the entire room.
The bed he laid on two years ago lay alone in the middle of the warehouse, a rather flimsy one. It was put together from an old examination table and leather straps since the other hospital beds weren’t portable.

If Cornelius hadn’t been such an asshole, maybe they wouldn’t have had to bring him to the supply warehouse because they thought he was a disruption, maybe they didn’t have to create a makeshift hospital bed for him, maybe Cornelius wouldn’t have broken free and burned the whole place down. Maybe he still would’ve gone by C-0135, maybe he’d be walking on the streets with no thoughts other than doing The Seven’s will. Or locked inside a white room in a straightjacket, who knows which.

Good thing he was such an asshole.

A small click sounded throughout the room, subtle like a faint breeze. Cornelius straightened his posture and tightened his fists.
A bot—no, a human—no. . .

Whatever it was, they poked their head through the door—which was supposed to be locked—and surveyed the room. Their brows were furrowed, hands clasped tight around the strap of their bag. They didn’t look anything like something The Seven would make; short, small, thin-framed glasses, and short black hair like the blank midnight Cornelius had been running through two years ago.

They took a small step inside, looked around the warehouse again, and then took another one, another one, until they picked up a normal walking pace. They stopped and knelt down next to a rusted pipe on the wall and stared at the ground for a minute or so.

Cornelius stepped back and frowned. That wasn’t a bot. But it didn’t act like a normal human, either.

The Seven isn’t interested in aliens, right?

Cornelius darted to the other side of the loft and pulled out his phone, opened the camera app, and began recording. He ignored a text from his friend, Corky, and carefully zoomed in to the tiny figure on the ground.

The stranger stood up, took a step back, and jumped even though nothing happened. Their footsteps made a sound that was hardly even considered a sound since it was so quiet as they bent down and inspected a shiny object on the ground.

Cornelius leaned forward and squinted, and when that didn't help, he zoomed in with his phone camera.

The stranger turned out to be a boy, but Cornelius didn't know it at first; his features were soft, skin pale and slightly glowing in the sunlight, and big, gentle brown eyes hidden behind his glasses. Cornelius had never ever seen a face like that in any human or bot roaming the city these days.