Peter curled into himself, pulling the covers tightly around his naked flesh. The night was cold, out in the dessert, and the chill seeped through the cracked windows with a sibilating sound. He stifled a sob.
He should have known the world was going to come to an end. He should have anticipated the unstable planning of the high power would, soon, destroy the tentative peace he had created for himself. After all, why give him nice things if not to take them away? He sighed; the old cabin in which he had taken refuge was hardly better than the exterior. It had been two days of staying still, and eating the last bites of some stale cookies he grabbed when he ran out of his home.
It had been an entire week since he last saw the agent.
Peter closed his eyes, pressed them shut so hard his head began to swim. He could feel a headache forming, but continued trying to convince himself that all of this was a bad dream; another torture from the program, anything but the truth.
Agent's face drifted into his thoughts, his shiny white mask, and his swollen, deformed face. Peter found himself hoping the agent would find his way to him, opened the door of that ratty old cabin, and curled right behind him on the mattress. He let himself dream, about how the agent's arms would have trouble enfolding him, how he was smaller than Peter and could barely hold him, but still tried, with his usual stubbornness, to support him.
He sighed. Imagined how the agent's mask would dig into his back. He wouldn't mind, he was so damn touch starved that any tough would break him.
"I'm waiting" he whispered into the dust.
