Allice in Mysterious Land (ON HOLD)

26: Grievous

"An unidentified van was found burnt after exploding near an abandoned warehouse at Northern Dogson, killing three: Julian Warner, Highlife; Jules Warner, Lowlife; and Alexa Warner, Lowlife. Authorities are still identifying the cause to rule the case as a technical problem or suicide bombing, since there's a milk tooth and some grenade shards at the scene," Channel Four's bald news anchor drones on, barely coating his words with emotions. This news doesn't differ much from weather forecasts.

Like the victims are just like ants with names to him.

While Mrs. Sybil leans weakly on the cave's wall with tear-stained clothes and without her glasses, Grand-Mad is crumpled under the looming shadows. No tears nor sobs accompany her, but one look at her steeling gaze, entwined fingers, and silently chanting lips is enough to translate her emotions.

Roy has been sitting on his desk for hours. He has been scribbling furiously as if each word from the news anchor is an essential clue for his independent investigation. Sometimes he takes several minutes to bury his head between on his arms on his desk, and the softest of sighs will be heard.

He had lost his mother once, and now three of his colleagues. How does it make him feel now?

I clutch my head between my palms, tasting the faint heat through my fingertips. After all, our states aren't much different, since I once saw a dying man too...

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

Miro snuggles inside his blanket, but his face still pokes out from within. His sneeze must be an excuse to snivel without drawing unnecessary attention.

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

Xin-Yo doesn't share our grief, but it's tolerant enough to book a private corner and toy around with Roy's chest of weapons.

"That shows how vain your efforts are," Jorge repeats in my head, blowing out the fire I've raised since my parents' arrest. The smoke from its remnants smothers my lungs.

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

If fighting for justice is this depressing, no wonder no one has stepped up for the role.

🐾

I'm already in a comatose-like sleep when someone rattles me awake. "Argus wants to talk to you." The husky voice belongs to Roy, and as he shoves his phone to my face, I stifle a yawn, careful not to exhale my stale breath.

"What? Why?" I groan, blinking sleep from my heavy eyes. Roy slips back into the night, untraceable. Grumbling, I press the device to my ears. "Who?"

"It's Argus," a raspy voice replies, sounding as groggy as I am. "Sorry for disturbing your sleep, but Roy asked me to do this—"

But didn't he say Argus wanted to talk to me?

Muffling my stream of questions, I retort, "It's fine. What is it?" But reality slaps me like a bucket of ice water at my own question. The three unnecessary deaths burn back in the crannies of my mind, spreading pain to my heart. Argus' silence chokes me more. "Look, if you're going to tell how sorry you are—"

"I'm sorry," he clips in smoothly. "Roy called first. He talked about many things. And we're kind of worried about you—"

"Why would you?" I snap back.

His voice booms like a cannon through my eardrum. "You let Jorge drag you down, which is exactly what he wants—"

"I'm too tired of all this." I massage my temples in hopes of keeping my temper at bay, but with exhaustion poisoning my veins, it's useless. "If that's all you'd like to say, please let me catch some sleep. Who knows what might happen next to another part of my small, trusted social circle." He's about to stammer something, but I quickly bite through his words before they sink in, "Return to The Office and work your night shift, Argus. Leave me alone."