The price of freedom

Chapter four

The year had taken its toll on Riku. Now 15, he felt hollow, his every move a ghostly echo of his former self. The Legion's relentless grind—the missions, the brutality, the loss—had chipped away at him, and any spark he'd once held was buried under a thick, smothering numbness. He fought now out of habit, each battle blending into the next, a grim dance he knew all too well. Each time they were deployed, his movements became more machine-like, almost as if he'd given himself over to the darkness that loomed over them.

Mei saw the shift in him; she could feel the weight of his silence, the vacancy in his gaze as he threw himself into the next mission with a grim determination that terrified her. She, too, had felt herself change over the past year, her optimism dulled, and her sense of hope battered down to a thin sliver. But unlike Riku, she still clung to that sliver, even if only to hold on to what was left of him.

The Legion's grip had tightened across the lands they moved through, their influence stretching over cities and towns like a dark shroud. Each time they deployed, it seemed their enemies grew fewer and more desperate. Some villagers even surrendered without a fight, the fear of the Legion's power and ruthlessness enough to strip them of any will to resist. For Mei and Riku, it only meant that the world grew smaller. More silent. More hopeless.

Yet the missions never stopped. Riku and Mei became a finely tuned pair in battle, fighting side by side with an efficiency that was almost frightening. But their precision wasn't born out of desire—it was simply necessity. They fought to survive, to make it back to base. To stave off the inevitable long enough for their bodies to keep moving. Riku's control over his powers was nearly absolute now, and when he moved, it was with a speed and brutality that left opponents with no time to react. Mei's telekinesis was almost otherworldly in its control and strength; she could stop bullets mid-air, disarm attackers from yards away, tear apart barricades without breaking a sweat.

During missions, they communicated without words, each move synchronized through sheer familiarity. But once the fighting stopped, silence fell between them. Back at base, there was nothing to say. Mei watched him, waiting for him to break that silence. But each day, he retreated further into himself, that faint glimmer of humanity dimming with every mission.

One night, Mei found Riku alone, staring out over the training yard, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls. He looked like he was somewhere else entirely, his mind lost in a place she couldn't reach. She approached him, hesitant, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Riku," she said quietly, barely more than a whisper. "What's on your mind?"

He didn't turn to her, didn't acknowledge her at first. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, distant. "What are we even doing here, Mei?" He paused, his shoulders tensing. "What are we fighting for? There's no end to this. Just...more death. More battles. More of the same."

She felt the familiar pang of despair rise in her chest, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to stay strong. "We're surviving," she replied. "That's...that's all we can do."

He turned to her then, his eyes searching her face as if he were looking for something—some answer, some spark of hope. But whatever he sought, he didn't find it. His gaze drifted back to the horizon, the weight of his resignation clear in his eyes.

"I don't know if that's enough anymore," he whispered. "I'm so tired, Mei. Tired of fighting. Tired of...everything."

She didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to respond to the empty pain in his voice. All she could do was reach out, resting her hand on his arm, hoping that somehow her presence was enough to anchor him, to remind him that he wasn't alone.

But in the battles that followed, his words lingered in her mind. She noticed the reckless edge to his movements, the way he threw himself into danger without the slightest hesitation. He wasn't fighting to survive anymore. He was fighting because there was nothing left for him but the fight itself.