Archive of Our Own

Panzer once said:

"I signed up to sell drugs, not to die in some god forsaken war."

It is tragically, ironically, comically fitting when Micro thinks back on it. He laughs, legs crossed in front of the memorials he built for his friends. Then the laughter breaks, and he cries, tears spilling enough to gather into a small pool of misery and grief at the center. And shortly after, he laughs again.

He is, surely, losing his mind.

At the very least, he hopes Panzer is cursing him from the afterlife, stringing together insult after insult for being the only cartel member left alive, saying, rightfully, I told you so, Micro! We should've never involved ourselves in this stupid war.Neptune is probably shouting, Kill them. Kill them all, Micro! For what they did to us! while Banana plays the mediator, busy tending to the parrots perched on both shoulders.

Micro has thought about joining them. More than once. When he first returned to the van and found it dead silent. When it finally sank in there was no one left to joke with. Death didn't sound frightening compared to being alone. Micro hates being alone.

But for one, he has never been good at killing, not even when the target would be himself. Clumsy and hesitant, as if every axe and sword he ever held never quite belonged in his hands. And two, there's still a legacy left to carry on. The Canadian Cartel isn't about to end here. Someone has to stay alive to tell their story.

So, he decides to carry the weight of their deaths.

The waves rise, matching the strengthening wind. It splashes against Micro's boat, some hitting his cheek, most soaking into his clothes. He winces. Every breath he lets out, he also has to deal with his damp hazmat suit, sticky like slime, clinging to his skin.

“Wonderful. Just wonderful,” he mutters to the infinite blueness. Like the thousand other times he has talked to himself, everything is dead silent. “Damn you Neptune and your sugar cane addiction.”

He rows and rows, pushing against the ocean. Dolphins squeak and leap beside him, playing among themselves, one in particular trying to befriend him by nudging the side of his boat. Then a pair of squids drift close, circling his flimsy vessel in a synchronized pattern, reminiscent of two inseparable companions. The sounds they make almost resemble laughter, as if they're trading secretive inside jokes with each other.

Fantastic. Even the sea creatures are mocking his loneliness.

Hours pass. Micro half-heartedly shoots them away while struggling to keep the boat steady. The sun burns high overhead, signaling noon, and that he has already spent two long, exhausting, painfully dull hours out here. And if his terrible sense of direction hasn't failed him this time, he still has about four more hours to go.

Why in the world did he and his beloved friends think it was a brilliant idea to set up their initial base on one of the most remote islands in Pandora?

Micro parks his boat along the shore. The familiar, breezy scent of the island greets him first, palm trees swaying left and right. He spots the cobblestone border that replaced Neptune’s half-finished project, and the sign written in big, bold letters:

Obviously, because why wouldn’t he, Micro ignores the warning and walks along the fence. This island belongs, and will continue to belong, to the cartel, no matter how many strangers pass through and proudly claim it as their own, or try to offer it to Pandora as a natural preserve.

The sand is soft and crunchy beneath his feet. He wants to forget about everything, lie down, and move his limbs wildly to make sand angels. Banana would have loved watching him fail at coordinating his arms and legs and make a fool of himself for the second time. Okay, so what if Micro sucks at syncing the top half of his body with the bottom? He's good at plenty of other things: building efficient makeshift bases, or striking totally-not-scammy deals for the cartel with pirates. Sand angels are not on the top of his list.

Fifteen minutes later, he stops a foot shy of where the stone fences end and Neptune’s beloved sugar cane ring begins.

A small, wavering sigh slips from him, touched with awe.

The surrounding structures look as he remembers. Maybe too much as he remembers, because tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Micro officially declares himself a crybaby, among many other traits that drag him back to a five-year-old version of himself. Apparently, he can't go a single day without sniffing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Damn, what happened here…” he mutters, walking toward the pile of dirt at the center of the clearing. Panzer had once planted a sakura tree right there, but there's no trace of it now. “Panzer would be so pissed if he saw this.” The thought pulls a smile from him, caught somewhere between fondness and ache.

Second time’s the charm, right? Micro decides it's how the saying goes now. He pats the dirt down with satisfaction, securing the sakura sapling he pulled from his bag as firmly as he can. With a quick nod and a steady exhale, he wipes his forehead, the scent of soil lingering in his hands.

Then, closer to the ocean, Micro hears a series of familiar chittering sounds. He recognizes them instantly.

“What the— You guys are still here?” Micro walks over and looks down. The parrots chirp excitedly at him, their tiny feet tapping against the sand. “Yeah, yeah, good to see you too." His voice wavers. "Maybe I’ll bring y'all over to Banana sometime, hm?” At the mention of his name, as if recognizing it, the birds grow louder. “Yeah, you should’ve seen how devastated he was leaving all of you behind.”

That idiot Banana had cried and sobbed over these parrots for three whole days. One day of mourning for each bird. Oh, my poor sweethearts, he had claimed. Easily the most simple-minded guy Micro had ever known.

Micro tosses a handful of melon seeds their way, gives them a small wave goodbye, a Take care, then finally pulls himself out of his thoughts and turns back to the real task at hand.

He stares at the empty expanse of land where the sugar cane border should — will — be.

He's going to be here all night.

Micro doesn't want to see a single sugar cane again.

Finally, finally, after an unprecedented nap that lasted four whole hours and pushed everything he planned into the next sunrise, he plants the last piece. With it, he's officially done fulfilling Neptune’s dream.

“You’re so fucking welcome, man.” Micro huffs and drops onto the sand with a heavy thud. The adrenaline wears off, and only then does he notice how hard he has been breathing. All he wants now is to shut his eyes, sleep for another fifteen hours, wake up in the dead of evening, and figure out what comes next.

This feels good. Finishing something for once. And he did it alone, without asking anyone for help. Take it, universe! Take it, Pandora! Micro didn't lie when he promised to carry on the Canadian Cartel. He never lies. Not ever.

He lets out a long, exhausted yawn while stretching across the sand, limbs sprawled like a cat soaking up every bit of sunlight it can find. The smell of sweat and dirt itches his nostril, He could use a long, relaxing soak in the ocean, but Ish, every part of him aches to even lift a finger.

Sleep sounds more tempting. He barely has to try; his eyelids are already drooping until he sees the world through a thin veil of curtain. Paired with the calm of the morning as a warm, soothing embrace welcoming him in, there's no reason to stay awake. Soft rustling drifts from the dense palm trees, brushing against his ears.

Five minutes pass. Then ten, he imagines. He rolls onto his side and stares blankly at the glistening azure. If he had another arm growing out of his palm, he could reach the water and swirl his hand around until the repetition finally lulled him to sleep.

He curls in on himself, making himself smaller. This is why he hates being alone. With no one to talk to, he's left alone with his thoughts, with nowhere to run when the guilt creeps in. He really should've exhausted himself enough to pass out completely.

So, for Micro, his eagerly awaited la-la land never arrives. Eventually, he gives up on tracing random shapes in the clouds, especially after muttering the mandatory, I swear that’s a cat, look at the pointy ear, and pushes himself upright, brushing off the grains.

Then he hears more rustling.

Huh, the parrots must be wilding today, Micro thinks, but soon after, he realizes he guessed wrong. Either he's starting to hear things, or those are actually footsteps, too human to belong to a parrot, or any animal.

His next guess is Captainlights returning after the war for the island he so boldly claimed. Perfect timing, actually. Micro has a thing or two to tell the man. One being, Hey, I was about to fucking die building this sugar cane ring. Where’s my money? Under no circumstance will he let go of his pettiness.

Micro brings a hand over his eyes and squints, scanning left and right for any figure passing by. There's nothing near the lush palm trees. Nothing along the shore either. Whoever it is must have come from the opposite side of the island.

This is how he comes up with the brilliant plan of going into stealth mode and becoming as light and sneaky as a ghost so he can corner the suspicious person from behind. That, and he kind of just needs another human being to talk to, whoever it is. Even Captainlights.

He starts with small tiptoes and heads left, back toward the cartel’s base. Luckily for Micro, the island is about a thousand times smaller than Pandora, so despite the interruptions, he succeeds and makes it back.

There’s the sakura tree sapling he planted last evening, still secured tightly in the dirt Micro had meticulously packed together until his palms went numb. Three blocks ahead is the chest the cartel left behind, holding some of their loot Micro never dared to touch. Like a sacred treasure, a legacy to be remembered, he plans on leaving it there.

And there’s the person standing right in the middle, facing away from Micro, a diamond sword clutched loosely in their hand, its tip pressed into the ground.

…There’s actually someone here?

“What in the..?” Micro mumbles to himself. Quickly, he ducks behind one of the palm trees, its rough trunk scraping against his side. Then he peeks his head out again.

Sure enough, the figure is still there.

A man with auburn hair, wearing a bright purple blazer that painfully stands out against the nature surrounding him. Although Micro is probably the last person who should judge someone’s outfit, he huffs awkwardly

The real question is what he's doing here, and why he's standing so still, like a rock hard block of ice, haven't moved an inch since Micro first saw him. He could circle around to get a better look, but at the same time, he can't risk being spotted.

So he watches. Does it make him feel a little like a creep, spying on someone for his own entertainment and curiosity? A bit. He almost feels guilty about it.

Keyword: almost.

Because in the very next moment, as Micro is about to give up and approach this statue of a man, the guy finally moves. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t lift his head from the ground he had been staring at, doesn’t spin around after noticing Micro’s poorly hidden position. No.

He raises his hand, twists his arm until the blade points at himself, then brings his other hand up and grips the cross guard.

It takes Micro a single beat to understand what is happening. And when it clicks, he bolts faster than he did when he barely escaped the battle at the castle of Infernus alive, covered in scraps and wounds that are still present.

“Stop— Stop!” Micro screams. He closes the distance in quick, bounding steps and, as roughly as he can, grabs the stranger by the arm, squeezing tight.

What a frail man, is Micro’s initial thought. He wouldn't call himself particularly strong, especially compared to the trained, bloodthirsty soldiers he barely escaped at Yggdrasil, but the thin arm in his grip feels as though it might snap if he squeezes any harder.

The man doesn't look up. He doesn't acknowledge Micro at all.

But Micro is more stubborn, and even more competitive about it. “Hey, drop the sword, ’kay?” he tries again. “C’mon, man. You really wanna bleed out and die in a place like this?”

Silence. Isn’t his neck strained from cranking it all the way down? Micro leans closer, wincing as he puts weight on his barely healed leg.

“Look. Whatever it is…” Micro bites his lip. He sucks at this whole—comforting, lifting spirits thing. Plus, he doesn't even know the guy. “I’m sure this, you, uh, stabbing yourself with a sword isn’t the answer, yeah? Are you alone out here? Did anyone else come with you?” He glances around. “No? Then hey, how about this? We can go find them together. I’ll personally escort you—”

Maybe it's pity. Maybe Micro sees a bit of himself in this man, trying to follow through with the one thing that has, lingered in a distant, dark corner of his mind.

Whatever else he's about to ramble dies on his chapped, dehydrated lips. From behind the mess of his bangs, the man finally looks down and meets his gaze.

The first thing Micro notices — Wow. His perfect eyes match the perfect shade of his perfect hair.

“Yeah?” Micro tilts his head. “I promise I’m a great trip buddy—”

"Saparata…?"

Micro blinks. The guy spoke just now, didn’t he?

“Uh, what? Sap— Saparata?” The name barely rolls off his tongue; he must’ve butchered it completely. “Is that one of your friends—?”

The response he gets is the last thing he expects.

Another word would have been better, so he could hear that voice again. Or even a shove, an annoyed grunt telling him to fuck right off. Micro is reasonable enough to know when to stop pushing.

What he doesn't expect is to groan in pain as he hits the ground, the briny sand digging into his back again. Even less does he expect to be pinned there by the very man who had been motionless seconds ago.

Bloodshot eyes glare down at him. The sword that had been pointed at himself rests lightly against Micro’s Adam’s apple. If Micro takes even the slightest breath, the tip will break into his skin.

Micro forces a weak, “Um,” that comes out more squeak than voice. He swallows the lump in his throat as slowly as he can, and feels the blade shift, sliding up along his skin.

Is he about to die right here because he tried to, genuinely, comfort someone, and the universe decided to punish him for it with every ounce of its being? With his luck, the panicked theory doesn't sound too far off.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

Micro’s eyes go wide at the cold, sudden spit of words.

"H-Huh?"

The blade presses under Micro’s chin, forcing his head up. “How… How dare you show yourself in front of me?” He trembles, and then he's shouting. “Huh? How dare you?! How fucking dare you, Saps—?!”

Saps? Saparata?

Oh. Great. So he's going to die at the hands of some crazed individual who thinks he's someone else. He doesn't even get to have his own death.

"I-I'm not this Saps pers—"

Then raindrops land on Micro’s cheek. It pitter patters, trickling down from the sides, onto the sand. The timing couldn't have been any better, adding even more melodrama to this already surreal moment.

"Because of you, I… I…"

Crying would be too weak a word. This stranger holding Micro’s life at the tip of a blade is full on sobbing. Tears spill freely, falling onto Micro. One on his cheek. One on the the tip of his nose. One on the corner of his lip. Another lands just under his eye, and Micro blinks on instinct, boldly reaching up to wipe it away.

No wonder the raindrops tasted a little salty.

"I-I lost everyone because of you! I have no one left!" He yells.

The blade digs deeper than Micro expects, and he lets out a sharp, pained yelp at the sting. A drop of blood quickly forms, trailing down from Micro's chin.

What in the world is he talking about? Why is he being blamed for something he's certain he didn't do? Unless… Oh Ish, he's somehow connected to CasualPotato98, and after hoping he could forget and move on, the memory of blood on his hands has come back to haunt him.

Who the fuck is Saparata? Why's this person completely convinced Micro is him?

Hiccups interrupt him from his question filled thoughts. "If only you died back then… If— If only you…"

Funnily enough, even with the stubborn part of him that wants to survive, Micro doesn't have it in him to fight back. Anyone else might have gathered whatever strength they had left to overpower him — and in Micro’s case it wouldn't be hard if he actually put work — and yank the sword away.

But if he's being completely honest, he doesn't really want to.

“Go ahead,” so he finally says.“If it’ll make you feel better, then sure. Kill me.”

The sword trembles against his chin.

“I-I don’t know who this Saps— Saparata guy is, but…” Micro might be crazy for offering a crooked smile at the worst possible timing. He’s always been bad with timings. “I’m… sorry?”

I’m sorry. Has he even said that out loud since the war? The phrase feels awkward, insincere on his tongue. He braces for the blade to cut clean through his neck.

Micro, a proud member of the Canadian Cartel, accepts his fate. Cowardly, he lets go of the legacy he swore to carry on.

He shuts his eyes, fully ready for the burst of pain, for the darkness that follows, for the slow fade into nothing, to find out if heaven and hell truly exist on the other side, if his friends are waiting for him.

But ten full seconds pass, and nothing happens.

He isn't dying. He isn't bleeding out. There's no sickening, slimy and warm wetness spreading over him.

"I… Wh…?"

Then, to Micro’s left, something is tossed into the sand. Heavy, though not as heavy as a rock. Long, shiny, catching the sunlight so marvelously it almost burns Micro's eyes. If he didn't know better, he would think it was the very sword that had been pressed to his throat—

"Who…?"

For the first time since their encounter, the man looks at him without hostility. Instead, there's confusion, as if he has woken up. They stare at each other in silence, Micro’s uneven breathing matching the rise and fall of the body above him.

“Um.” Micro whispers, apparently the only sound he can manage now.

Tear stained, swollen, puffy, the stranger blinks. “Who are you? Y-You’re not— I—”

…He should have killed Micro when he had the chance. But now, out of pure spite, after being attacked for only trying to help, Micro decides, for the time being, he wants to live.

It's embarrassingly easy to push himself upright, flip their positions in the next second, and have the man sprawled beneath him, his arms pinned above his head in case he has any hidden weapons tucked in his clothes.

“I should be asking you that.” Micro leans in, trying very hard not to soften at the sight of those watery auburn eyes. “Who are you? Why were you trying to kill yourself? Why did you— fuckin’ jump me? Who’s Sapara—” He trails off, then lets out a defeated, “Oh, come on…”

In this mess of a situation, where Micro is supposed to play the bad cop and fire off question after question, his resolve crumbles. Puckered lips, a scrunched face, eyes heavy with enough sadness to flood the entire island. Even worse, the man tries to cry as quietly as possible, biting down on his lip whenever a sound threatens to slip out. He turns his head away, hiding behind sandy brown strands.

Micro loosens his grip. Immediately, the man drapes an arm over his face, his fist clenching until his nails press into his palm. Then Micro rolls off to the side, settling close by. He sits with his legs crossed, propping himself up on one elbow.

This is so unfair.

He says, “Sure. Cry it all out, man.”

One thing Micro thought he had learned by now is to never fully put his trust in anyone, unless that person is part of the Canadian Cartel. And well, given the circumstances, he should have known that, barely, he can only trust himself at this point. There's no space for pity, kindness, forgiveness, or anything remotely resembling being human.

So he shouldn't be disappointed when — after falling asleep beside a complete stranger who had been hacking his lungs out — he wakes up to silence, with no one there to greet him, or threaten him again.

The sun has long dipped past the horizon, replaced by a milky moon illuminating him with its glow. Pandora’s light doesn't reach this far, so the sky is filled with stars scattered across it. The opportune moment to lie back and observe for hours, even if he has zero knowledge about astrology, or constellations.

That guy looked like the type who knew a thing or two about books, smart enough to point at the sky and teach him about stars, fate, and everything that bored Micro to no end.

Unfortunately, more disappointed than he expected, the sword, along with the stranger who had nearly killed him, is gone.

Micro looks around anyway, even though he knows it's pointless.

He didn't even get his name.

Time passes slow, boring and incredibly monotone when there's no one around.

Twice, he sails back to Pandora. Once to pay another visit to Harborbloom, hoping to see familiar faces and maybe talk to someone other than himself before he completely loses his mind on his lonely island. But the nation is still drowning in grief, whatever citizens remain mourning the loss of their loved ones.

Micro included. As he promised Banana’s parrots, he brings them to the tombstone and speaks for them in between. Once he has enough of serving as a translator, he spends the rest of the day catching up with his friends. The sail back to the island is heavy, filled with memories of the cartel, as clear as yesterday.

The second time is more selfish. Much more indulgent. Very, very stupid.

He goes looking for the stranger who appeared and vanished just as quickly. He has absolutely no idea where to begin. Beyond his appearance, Micro knows nothing about him.. He doesn't know if it would be enough to search through every nation in Pandora, or if he would have to cross dangerous waters all the way to Yggdrasil.

So the obvious first choice: Pandora.

Harborbloom comes to view again. There, he approaches anyone willing to talk and describes every feature he can remember. Matching auburn hair and eyes. A striking purple blazer paired over a simple white tee, and a yellow scarf around his neck, deliberately leaving out the part about the diamond sword.

It's rejection after rejection. One person, a teenage girl, drags him to a modest village house, where a boy around her age lives. He matches most of the description. A shame that Micro is fairly certain a seventeen year old kid isn't the one who almost drove a blade through his throat.

Then he goes to Tricolor. Cautious, wary, since he did steal the crown from their beloved queen’s statue. They let him go the first time thanks to the legal immunity book, but who knows if they would still honor that.

He approaches a group of guards. The responses are unlike he hoped. “No, we don’t know anyone matching those features.” Or, “You won’t find him here.”

He barely covered twenty percent of the island, but walking out of Barbieland, it feels easier on his body and mind to convince himself the man was nothing more than a figment of his broken imagination. And that figment happened to take the form of a conventionally attractive, crazed man.

The entire day passes. By the time the sun starts to set, he tells himself this will be the last stop. He heads to a faction right next to Barbieland.

At the center stands an ominous looking temple, lit with torches from every corner. Micro hesitates as he approaches the entrance, only to be stopped immediately by two guards.

“You are?” one of them asks coldly.

Micro swallows. “Uh, Micro,” he says, coughing lightly. “I’m Micro.”

“From?” the other guard asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Harborbloom.” he quickly answers. It's not exactly a lie, even if he no longer lives there. “I’m looking for someone, so I was wondering if you guys could… help? It won't take long.”

The two guards glance at each other, somehow managing to communicate without a word. After a few nods and quiet grunts, they turn back to him.

“Wait here,” one of them says, then walks inside without another word.

Does this place enjoy playing it coy and cool? Wait here? They don't even know the context. Why can’t he just ask them directly and be on his merry way? What kind of pyramid scheme is going on here?

And so, Micro is left standing there awkwardly with the other guard. “So, uh, cool temple, huh?”

The guard looks at him like he's an idiot.

“…Yeah.” Micro scratches the back of his head and taps his foot against the ground. “Great. Sure. I can wait here. Totally.”

Micro, partly by force, partly willingly, shuts his mouth for the rest of the wait. The people in this faction clearly lack small talk and basic human communication. Would a sword be shoved into him if he tried to leave right now? It wouldn't even be the first time. Micro could say he's quite experienced with that.

At last, after ten more minutes of silent suffering while Micro composes a new melody by tapping his foot on the floor and drumming his fingers against his biceps, the door opens again.

The guard holds it open. A man Micro has never seen before steps out of the temple.

…Is that a hat in the shape of a turkey head?

“Good day, señor.” The flamboyant man, dripping in gold jewelry and fancy iron armor that covers one of his shoulders, tips his hyper realistic turkey hat.

Micro opens and closes his mouth a few times. He gives up when no words come out. What a… presence. Intimidating, yet strangely friendly. The type who could crush Micro in his hands, yet greets him like an old friend. Huh.

“Uh, good day.” Eventually Micro says, giving an awkward wave.

“This is Captain Manchego, one of the six major Captains of the Conquesodors,” the guard announces, placing a hand on his chest, as if reciting a sacred ritual. “He will answer your questions.” With a narrowed look, adds, “Be wise about them.”

Cool. He's being threatened now too.

“Micro.” Micro ignores the ominous tension and extends a hand. “From the Canadian Cartel.”

Instant regret hits.

He refuses to take the blame. It has just been a long time since he last introduced himself to anyone, let alone to the glorious “Captain of the Conquesodors.” Surely he didn't sign his own death sentence by telling a man of this status that he was part of a cartel and made trades with pirates.

Much to his relief, the Captain lets out a wide mouthed, booming laugh. The sound of him slapping his thigh echoes through the space. A warm and sweaty hand clasps Micro's own, shaking it vigorously.

“Turkey is fine, señor.” Turkey. That's actually his name. Okay. Micro, don't laugh. “Don’t mind these hotheads, they take their job a little too seriously.”

“Right, right, right.” Micro chuckles, abnormally loud. “It’s great to meet you, Turkey.”

“The feeling is mutual, señor. So you’re looking for someone, eh?” Micro nods slowly. “Our connections extend all the way to Yggdrasil. We know more people than you think.”

A flicker of hope blooms inside Micro, unwilling, sudden. It spreads through his chest and into his lungs.

Micro fidgets with his fingers. “I don’t know where he’s from, or what his name even is,” he begins, briefly glancing at the three pairs of eyes on him, like he's giving a speech. “He has matching brown hair and eyes—”

“I’m afraid half of Pandora has brown hair and eyes, señor.” Turkey tuts.

I wasn't even done. Micro mutters internally. Now's not the time to make an enemy out of what might be the only faction willing to help him after an entire day of running around.

“…Other than that, he was wearing a bright purple blazer, and I think… he had a white tee under it?”

Turkey’s expression shifts. The hint of humor Micro thought was permanent fades into a frown forming at his brows, at the corner of his lips.

“Go on,” Turkey prompts.

Micro straightens a little. “Uh, what else…” He scratches his chin. “Oh, yeah. He also had a yellow scarf around his neck. Or, well, closer to orange than yellow? I don’t exactly remember. It was somewhere in between.”

A beat of stillness later, one of the guards standing nearby moves at a snap of Turkey’s fingers.

“Bring a copy of the wanted poster,” he orders.

The guard responds with a quick, “Yes, Captain!” and disappears inside, footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.

Micro stands there, too baffled to process what just happened. So he waits. He has been doing that all day anyway. What's a little more?

Not even two minutes pass before the guard returns, holding a thin, worn sheet of paper. He hands it to Turkey.

“This man you’re searching for, señor.” Turkey lifts the paper between his fingers, holding it up in front of Micro. “Is it him?”

At first, Micro has no clue what he's looking at. Wanted is written in big, bold black letters at the very top, followed by the classic Dead or Alive stamped beneath it. Slowly, Micro drags his eyes downward.

There's a face. A man, to be specific. Objectively, an incredibly attractive one. More attractive than most, if not every man. Silky chestnut hair parted neatly over his eyes, resting at the nape of his neck, cut with precision. Sun kissed skin glowing through static, freckles scattered across his cheeks, resembling the starry sky Micro stares at every night on his island.

Micro deliberately skips his eyes. He can't bring himself to look at those distant auburn hollows, drained of emotion. Because he knows what they look like when they're anything but.

“Micro?” Turkey shakes the paper lightly. With each movement, the yellow fabric wrapped around the man’s neck becomes more noticeable. “Is it him? Is it Thomas?”

Micro’s gaze drops to the bottom of the poster.

Thomas5200, with the massive bounty reward for whoever captures him. Dead or alive.

The world slows down around Micro. In front of him, two paths unfold. One is easy, a means to become filthy rich in a single breath. All he has to do is tell the truth. Yes, it's this very man in the poster. The same gorgeous stranger who's apparently a wanted criminal and who also tried to kill him.

No one would be idiotic enough to choose the other path. Micro certainly shouldn't. He has no land, no connections to his name, so if he gets caught, prison and public execution await him. Worse, no one would mourn him, or even bother to build him a tombstone.

The right choice is obvious. It flashes at him like a lighthouse guiding lost sailors home.

Micro clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white.

“…No. No, I don’t think it is.” He grits his teeth.

His friends did always call him an idiot.

“Are you certain, señor?” Turkey presses. He lowers the poster, revealing a cold, authoritative glare. “Have you not seen the posters all over Pandora?” Micro shakes his head, feeling stupid for not paying attention to any of the billboards he passed. “This man is currently the most wanted criminal, and correct me if I’m wrong, but everything you said matches this description perfectly." Turkey leans down. Since when is he taller than Micro? “You do know lying is a punishable crime, right?”

Okay. Think, Micro. Sure, he might not be a prestigious Captain, the ruler of a nation, a skilled soldier, a smart diplomat, or anyone remarkable, but he's still a member of the Canadian Cartel.

If the Captain has his ridiculous turkey head hat, then Micro has his own weapon. A fancy top hat hiding a monster under it called Micro’s How-to-lie-in-any-situation machine.

With the warmest, most understanding smile he can manage, Micro speaks.

“Damn, it’s crazy to think a criminal like him is still out there somewhere.” He lets out a pitiful sigh. “Seeing this guy reminded me the one I’m looking for actually has a massive birthmark covering half his face, so, uh, unless it got edited out of the posters, then…”

He glances up through his lashes. Turkey’s posture loosens, the suspicion from earlier fading away.

Bingo!

“Sí. Our guy doesn’t have a birthmark or anything like that.” Turkey rests a hand on his hip. “Sorry, señor. Sorry if I scared you there. I hope you understand.”

“No, no, not at all. It's fine,” Micro waves his hands. “I’m sorry for not being much help. But, uh…”

Curiosity won't kill the cat, he hopes.

“What exactly did this guy do, anyway? I’m not exactly, like, well versed in what’s going on around Pandora.”

Turkey’s expression darkens again. He cracks his neck sharply, and replies, “Señor, all you need to know is he was part of a group that aided in the murders of multiple leaders. He’s the only one left alive. We can only hope he died in a ditch somewhere. It would save us the trouble of a trial.”

So not only a wanted criminal, but a mass murderer too.

Then on that day, was Micro supposed to be another name on his hit list?

He wants to believe that. He really does. Maybe if he speaks up again, admits it, says, “Hey, I think I got it wrong again. The man you’re looking for was actually on my island!” there's still a chance he might be spared.

But fucking hell, how's he supposed to forget him crying, breaking apart right in front of him?

Curse the universe for throwing someone like him into his path. Micro never asked to meet a person who's a direct mirror of himself. Someone made of guilt, loss, rage.

Someone unfortunately, very human.

“I see,” he answers emptily. “I should get going now, but, uh, I hope you find him soon.” A white lie.

“The sentiment is appreciated.” Turkey pats his shoulder twice. “Hey, I like you. How 'bout we grab a drink at the tavern nearby? You got time?”

“Maybe next time?” Another white lie. “I’ve been traveling all day, man, so I’m kinda exhausted. If I drink on top of it I might actually die.”

Turkey lets out a hearty laugh. “Sure, sure. Next time it is, then. I’ll let my men know, so if you introduce yourself as Micro when you’re back, they’ll know what to do.”

"Thanks, Turkey, man."

At least one good thing came out of today. Micro managed to befriend a powerful figure in a random faction he stumbled into by coincidence, because it happened to be right next to Barbieland. Go, sentimentality.

Turkey calls out a cheerful, “See you, señor!” before disappearing back inside the temple. On his way to the boat he left at Barbieland’s dock, Micro makes a quick stop at one of the wooden billboards. Papers are plastered all over it. Most are random announcements from different nations. Only one stands out.

He rips the wanted poster off and stuffs it into his suit pocket. He glances left and right. Luckily, the street is empty, not a single soul in sight.

In the span of twenty minutes, possessed by the influence of a wanted criminal, Micro has already committed two crimes, worse than anything the Canadian Cartel pulled when they tried selling drugs at every possible opportunity, even in the middle of an ongoing war.

He sails back to his island, carrying thoughts that will keep him up for the night. Or several nights. Or maybe the rest of them.

One: There was a goddamn murderer on his island.

Two: This murderer also tried to kill him.

And three: Micro lied to protect him.

Turns out, it's offensively easy to obtain information.

You only need to know what to ask, who to ask, and when to ask. The three important Ws required to hold knowledge in the palm of your hand.

For Micro, it begins in a humble tavern at Tricolor. A few warm smiles, easy gestures, drinks offered to both regulars and newcomers are all that's needed for mouths to run loose and tell their side of the story.

By his fourth visit, Micro boldly claims he knows this Thomas like the back of his hand. Borderline stalking a serial killer through the words of others turns out to be a great way to pass the time. He learns enough facts and cruel truths about the so called Architect to know that yes, this man is evil. Micro would be stupid to deny it.

He just doesn't know what to do with it now.

Moving on with his dull island life is the obvious choice. Thomas5200 would be nothing more than a brief chapter, an unfortunate encounter born from a moment of weakness and a need to escape. By now, Thomas might have already succeeded in taking his own life somewhere else, for all Micro knows. Or he's busy driving a fancy sword into others, adding to his growing list of kills.

He probably doesn't even remember Micro anymore. It's only Micro who's still stuck.

The morning greets him in the worst way imaginable. His first thought — the world is finally coming to an end, and it decided to start on his island. Crashing echoes through the air, Banana’s parrots screech like they're being yanked from place to place by their tails, and even more pounding. As if that's not enough, thunder roars overhead, promising another miserable day of rain, and damp, disgusting sand.

Two minutes of staring at the low ceiling, and Micro has enough. He drags himself out of bed and steps outside the small, makeshift house he built from stone and wood.

He freezes without taking another step.

Yep. The world is, in fact, ending. So much so it's starting to mess with his head. Because now he's hallucinating.

That explains why, not even five blocks ahead, a man wearing a purple blazer permanently etched into Micro’s mind lies on the ground, Banana’s parrots swarming him, pecking at him while he tries to shield himself from each attack.

That explains why, the second the man spots him, he lights up and starts pleading.

“The— These parrots are trying to kill me— Ow—!” The green one jabs its beak straight into his thigh. “A little help over here before I become bird food? Please? Are they supposed to be this aggressive— Hey!” The feistier one lands a brutal peck on the crown of his head.

Okay, what the fuck? Micro thinks. Then, a, What the actual fuck am I looking at? follows. And a, What in the actual fuck is going on right now? Am I seeing this correctly? And finally, ending it with, …You know what, fuck it.

If he really is going insane, he might as well entertain himself with this personally crafted dream slash nightmare. He closes the distance and crouches beside Thomas.

“You kinda deserve it, though.” He says with a pointed shrug.

Thomas stutters, his eyes darting between Micro and the parrot still stubbornly trying to dig into his thigh. He could easily swat the bird away, or punch it hard enough to knock it out. Isn’t this imaginary Thomas still supposed to be a ruthless criminal? What’s so hard—

Then a hand roughly grabs his hazmat suit. "Get these off of me," Thomas… pleads? His fingers tighten around the plastic, rustling fabric.

Micro feels every second of it.

“Wait.” He blinks.“Wait, you’re— you’re real?”

Thomas looks at him the same way the Conquesodors guard did.

“…Holy shit. Holy fucking shit—”

Micro’s legs go numb and give out, from crouching, he fools himself into believing. He drops onto the ground, catching himself before he topples over Thomas.

He's real. He's very much real. And he came back.

What? Why?

“C-C’mon, guys. That’s enough bullying,” Micro says, breathless and confused. The parrots, trained and practically his second family by now, scatter away at once — though not before leaving a few final pecks behind, pulling a string of “Ow”s and “Ouch”es from Thomas.

“Thanks.” Thomas huffs. He sits up straight, brushing dust off his clothes and inspecting his thigh for any serious injury.

Only then, after watching Thomas desperately rub at the minor scratches the parrots left behind, does Micro laugh. It starts small, hesitant. By the time Thomas glances at him in confusion, it has already grown into full blown laughter bringing a stream of tears to his eyes. The whole situation is bizarre, stupid, insane, stupidly stupid, something straight out of an exaggerated Daybreak Media story made for crowd entertainment. Except it's very much real. Even better, Micro is the sole witness.

“Are you done?” Thomas asks, arms already loosely crossed over his chest. His hair is tousled, sticking out in different directions like a dog that rolled around in the dirt for too long. “Do your pets attack everyone who shows up here?”

Thomas is still there even after Micro wipes away his tears and rubs his eyes until they burn to make sure he's not imagining things.

"Well, I wouldn't know. You’re only the second visitor.” Micro says, not without one last chuckle.

“Who was the first?”

“Also you.”

A beat.

“…Oh.” Thomas finally says. He gazes off into the distance, toward the ocean, the waves, the start of the sunset. The wind moves through his hair, adding to the kind of beauty Micro has been drawn to since day one.

He can't look away. If he does, Thomas might disappear again.

"What are you doing here, Thomas?" Involuntarily Micro lets out a sigh of relief. "I thought you'd never come here again."

A single eyebrow crawls up Thomas’ forehead. “So we’re already on a first name basis?” he asks. Micro answers with a lazy nod, so Thomas lets out a long, drawn out sigh. “I heard you’ve been gathering information about me.”

Instantly, Micro tenses. “You— You know about that? How?”

“There are many citizens willing to exchange information with the last living Conspiracy member.” Thomas clicks his tongue. “They love playing hooky. All you need is enough money, and words spread faster than your little parrots.”

Micro shouldn’t be surprised Thomas has connections. It's how The Conspiracy probably worked behind the scenes. Befriending citizens from every nation. Getting close to people higher up in the hierarchy — all sorts of dirty work building a grander, darker picture. He didn't expect Thomas to still be active in whatever underground business he has going on.

“Huuuuh.” Micro stares longer than he means to. “But that doesn’t answer my question.” He wets his lips nervously, then continues, “Now that I know too much about you, are you here to actually kill me this time? Is that why you came back?”

“Who do you take me for?” Thomas huffs, but when Micro tilts his head in a silent, I don’t know, you tell me, more guiltily, he adds, “…I apologize for pointing a sword at you. It wasn’t exactly a good first impression.”

Oh, you didn’t just point it at me, you were seconds away from killing me, Micro wants to bicker like a petulant child, but bites the tip of his tongue. This man, still unbelievable, is in front of him; he isn't about to scare him off

Thunder strikes again, painting the cloudy sky in pastel purples and blues. In contrast, Micro feels nothing but glittering sunshine and rainbows inside.

Micro leans back. "It's okay, man. It happens," he simply says.

"Does it?" Thomas asks, sounding genuinely confused. “I mean, I suppose it's not surprising. It must be the whole,” he scrunches his face, hand making a vague, wiggling motion between them, “unique attire.”

“Hey, I’m part of the great Canadian Cartel.” Micro puffs his chest proudly. “I’d be nothing without my glorious uniform.”

A subtle, almost unnoticeable smile tugs at Thomas’ lips. He mutters something under his breath Micro can't quite catch. He tries to, but before he can make out even the first word, Thomas speaks again, smile no longer there.

Sorrowfully, he says, “I wish you weren’t the splitting image of him.”

Micro picks at his nails in his lap, tearing at a loose piece of skin. “…Saparata, you mean?” he whispers.

“So you went digging about him too.” Thomas scoffs, though there's barely any bite to it.

How could Micro not? Saparata's one of the few things he knew about Thomas. The first time he heard it: almost got him killed. So of course he asked around. He didn't have to search for long; turns out, Saparata's one of the most well known figures in Pandora. Micro has been living under a big, fat rock floating adrift in the middle of the ocean.

“You called me that multiple times, so yeah, I got curious.” Micro shrugs. He blows a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “People call him a hero.”

Thomas’ expression hardens, distant and frigid. “Some hero he is,” he mutters. "A hero doesn't kill one of his closest friends without batting an eye."

There are a lot of things Micro wants to argue, to push back against. For example, Well, you did pin everything on him and chase him out of Pandora. He was blamed for crimes he never committed. That's one, probably the biggest one. But even after learning the truth from strangers, from people who might be the culprits behind snitching him to Thomas, Micro still can't bring himself to see Thomas as a monster. He should. Everyone else does. Somehow, though, he ended up in the minority.

“Do we really look alike? Me and Saparata?” Micro shifts the conversation. “I haven’t seen a single picture of him.” And he's not about to dig through every news article to find one, blurry image.

Thomas narrows his eyes. “Enough to give me chills.”

“Uh… Thanks?”

“Down to the moles on your face.” Thomas gestures to his own cheek. “The white of your hair, the same aloof expression. Your idiotic naivety.” The last one comes out exceptionally bitter. “It’s too much, you…” He sucks in a breath and looks away. “It’s like you came from the same womb.”

Thomas moves like he's barely holding himself back, a predator, going against its innate instinct, trying not to sink its claws into prey. He scratches at his arm over and over until faint marks form through the fabric.

This guy isn't normal at all, Micro thinks matter-of-factly.

“Rest assured, man.” Micro tilts his head up toward the grayness. The first drop of rain could fall any second. “I’m an only child. My parents died when I was a kid.” He closes his eyes, reaching for memories no longer there. “I've been alone ever since. So I guess the universe is fuckin' with you, sending someone like me your way.”

"I guess you're right," Thomas responds calmly.

Micro sees nothing interest going on in the ocean, no dolphins dwaddling around, or no other movement that would warrant Thomas' attention so intensely. Micro switches from pretending to watch the water to actually watching Thomas. His lips pout and relax, shoulders rise in tension before settling, fingers tap against the sand.

Then their gazes meet again. Micro's breath hitches, chest shakes.

"I came here to say goodbye," Thomas finally says with a smile. But a smile isn't supposed to look so sad.

"W-What?" Micro sputters. Nervous, antsy goosebumps prickle along his back, arms, legs — everywhere.

"I'm turning myself in."

Cruelly, Thomas throws daggers at the fluttering rainbow inside Micro's soul. It shatters, turns into uneven, jagged shards attaching to his lungs.

"…Why?" Micro manages to bring himself ask.

Thomas' smile grows even sadder. "I'm tired. I'm, really really tired. Do you know how unbearable that is?"

Micro knows Thomas isn't expecting an answer.

"I do," he says anyway. "Trust me, I do."

Thomas’ eyes widen for a brief second. “I guess we’re not so different,” he continues. “I wouldn’t be here right now if you hadn’t stopped me that day.” Micro braces for a sharp, accusing bite, but it never comes. “Because of you, I got to see this world through my own eyes a little longer. I thought it would help me figure something out, you know? I waited for that 'eureka' moment.”

This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.

To Micro, Thomas5200 is a stranger pieced together through rumors, through stories, all from a world that makes absolutely no sense, just as stupid. He’s the most wanted criminal: a murderer, most say. An evil, maniac psychopath, some others shout. And to Micro, he's a goddamn manipulator, masterful with his fucking words and always knowing exactly what to fucking say.

At least, it's what he wants to believe.

If he does, then he wouldn't feel like bursting into tears right now at how beautifully, horrifically, awfully, wrongly human Thomas is. Thomas is nothing like Thomas5200, but every bit like Micro. Like him, he was never really able to pick up the pieces he lost after the war. Perpetually broken souls, forever miserable, simply pretending everything is okay just to make the days pass a little easier.

The first raindrop finally falls, as if mocking him, splashing against his face. Within seconds, the unsteady pounding of his heart is drowned out by the downpour. Even his hazmat suit, meant to act as a raincoat, is soaked, water sliding off in every direction.

Micro doesn't move. He doesn't get up, doesn't look for shelter, does nothing. Silence grows between them, Micro's half grateful he can barely see the look on Thomas' face from wet strands of hair clinging to their eyes.

Thomas is the one who breaks it.

“I never got my ‘eureka’ moment.” Droplets slide from his lashes. “So I’m done looking for it. I’ll turn myself in before they find me. I should’ve died a long time ago, anyway.”

Aggressively, Micro wipes the wetness from his cheeks, his eyes. It's futile — the more he does, the harder the rain comes down, relentless and mocking.

“Is that— Is that really why you came all the way here?” Micro thinks he is shouting. “To what? To say your final goodbye to someone you don’t even know? That’s so selfish,” he spits, bitter, “That’s so fuckin' selfish.”

“Can’t you play along with my selfishness? You’ll never see me again after today.”

Micro wishes Thomas would stop smiling. Right now. He wishes he would drop the fake, hollow curve of his lips.

“…No.” Micro forces out. “I won’t.”

His wish comes true.

“Okay.”

Then, with half the beach clinging to him, Thomas stands up, fists clenched tight at his sides, knuckles white as a sheet.

He doesn't spare Micro another glance.

This is the part where Micro is supposed to let go of this strange man who, briefly, disrupted his endless cycle of mundanity. What happens to him once he reaches Pandora is not supposed to be his concern. A criminal will receive the punishment he deserves in the end. Another happy ending secured, the citizens are satisfied, the world returns to normal, and Micro can finally have some peace of mind.

Which is why he has no idea where his backbone went. More specifically, it's when Micro pushes himself up too fast, nearly slipping on the wet, sticky sand, and grabs Thomas by the wrist, stopping him in place.

What happened to letting Thomas5200 go?

“W-Wait—” Micro stumbles over his own thoughts. Thomas doesn't pull his arm away, but doesn't lean into it either. “I— you— what I mean is—” Rain slips into his mouth with every failed attempt, making it even more awkward.

Then he blurts, “You don’t know my name.” Micro might actually be the last idiot on earth. “How're you gonna leave when you don’t even know my name?”

Micro definitely deserves a sword through him this time. Really. If Thomas decides to go through with it, he will gladly let him.

But instead of the metallic kaching of a sword being drawn, or even a string of curses before walking off, Thomas says over his shoulder, “Micro.”

"Huh…?"

"Your name," Thomas confirms. "It's Micro. Right?"

Micro tightens his grip around his wrist. “How'd you know?”

“If you thought you were the only one snooping around, then you’re an idiot,” Thomas says, shakily.

Everything stops. Micro’s breath, his faltering, unsteady steps, the mini movements and twitches on his face, even Thomas’ trembling frame beneath the thin blazer barely shielding him, the world stills like a Polaroid frozen in time.

He only thinks of one, simple thing. Nothing else.

"Don't go." Micro begs. "Please don't go."

Had Micro known it would be as easy as breathing to make Thomas stay, he would have begged from the very start.

Thomas, much to Micro’s surprise, doesn't object. Not even a stubborn “No.” Micro can't figure him out at all. Does he want to leave? Does he want to stay? Does he hate Micro for looking like his sworn enemy? And despite everything, does he still not mind being around him? A million unanswered questions, none of which Micro dares to ask.

Micro manages to squeeze another bed into his base, placing it on the opposite end, barely five blocks away from his own. Thomas watches him work in silence, always keeping his distance, always enough steps away, like there's an invisible line drawn between them.

Micro offers a spare neon yellow, crinkled suit he dug out from the depths of his chest storage. “So you don’t sleep in wet clothes,” he says, confident it's the most reasonable explanation in the world.

He gets shunned out brutally.

“The rain stopped. It’ll be enough if I wring the water out of my clothes.” Thomas says, finishing it off with a firm, “You don’t have to keep me company,” before stepping outside and shutting the door behind him.

So Micro is sprawled on his stomach, whining like a kicked puppy, head turned to the side to stare at the empty bed across from him. He hears rustling outside, footsteps, sometimes heavier, sometimes lighter. He imagines Thomas already took off his blazer, maybe tossing it over a stone to dry. Maybe he's holding his white tee in his hands, wringing every drop of water out of it. That would mean he's shirtless, bare skin out in the open, in the dead of night. His pants would be next, and then—

Micro slaps his cheek.

He's losing it. He's actually, inevitably losing his mind.

Maybe sharing a six by six base wasn't such a great idea after all.

He squeezes his eyes shut, steadies his breathing, and decides to keep it this way until he falls asleep. No thoughts, no wondering, no fantasies about a certain man with brown hair and brown eyes and a face that could enchant anyone lingering outside his door.

There isn't a single person in this world who's about to sleep more peacefully than him.

…I wonder if he kept the scarf on.

A morning that should've been lovely, with the sun shining brighter than usual, is instead spent in panic when Micro doesn't see Thomas in the bed. A strong sense of déjà vu hits, followed by the realization that, huh, Thomas really likes running away. He jolts up, still groggy from sleep, and rushes outside.

The storm from last night has finally lifted, leaving behind a perfect day for sunbathing and drinking coconut water until his stomach bursts.

“Good morning,” a voice greets.

Relief hits him instantly.

“M-Morning.” Micro walks over to Thomas, quickly wiping the corners of his mouth. “Your bed was still untouched. Did you not sleep at all?”

"I wasn't sleepy."

Saying it out loud triggers a yawn at the worst possible timing. Thomas tries to cover it with a cough, but Micro is already grinning.

“Huuh, that so?” Micro rests his arms behind his head. “What did you do all night, then?”

“I walked around the island a bit. The other side is much prettier. I don’t know why you built your base here.”

Micro nods quickly. “Tell me about it. My friends were impatient and wanted to set up a base as soon as possible. The view over there is way better cuz it faces Pandora directly.” He glances at Thomas. “Although I dunno how safe that would be for you since, y’know, you’re kinda a fugitive.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, slipping a hand into the pocket of his blazer. “Your friends, you say?” Then, quieter, “Did they…”

Micro tenses, shoulders stiffening. “…Yeah.” He hasn't talked about them with anyone since they died. “They, uh, they didn’t make it out of the war.”

The same war the Conspiracy helped spark, something Micro learned during his visits to Pandora. And now he's standing here, spending his time with one of its core members, without hating him for a single second. If anything, he wants more of it. The world is cruel like that.

Thomas doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t look surprised; most likely, whatever he dug up about Micro, the rest of the cartel members must've been brought up too. So he doesn’t offer empty words he can’t mean either. Instead, he says softly, “They sound like a fun bunch.”

Micro smiles, memories of his friends flickering to life. “Yeah. They’re fun as hell. You saw the sugar cane ring around the island, right?” Thomas nods. “That was my friend Neptune’s biggest obsession. He was crazy about it. It’s why I came back here in the first place. Didn’t want him beating me up in the afterlife for not finishing his passion project.”

“I’m sure he’ll be grateful,” Thomas says, rocking lightly on his heels. “You’re a good friend, Micro. I can tell.”

Something bubbles inside Micro. A giddiness, an urge to jump around and laugh. “Heh. They better be.” He rubs the underside of his nose with his finger. “I even settled for this peaceful island life for Panzer. He never wanted to get involved in the war. And I'm taking care of those parrots for Banana. Man, I’m such an awesome friend, aren’t I?”

When he turns, Thomas is smiling.

Oh.

This must be what having a heart attack feels like. If he wouldn't look like a complete lunatic, Micro would clutch his chest through the plastic, collapse, and cry out in pain. His heart pounds so fast it climbs up to his ears. He's sure Thomas can hear it too. It might even reach all the way to Pandora.

One time he saw Thomas cry, one time he saw anger cloud his eyes, and now he sees his lips curved, wide and genuine. It's the most beautiful version of Thomas yet.

“So those parrots belonged to your friend?” Thomas asks, pulling Micro out of his daydream.

“Oh, uh—” He scratches the back of his head. “Yeah. Banana was obsessed with parrots, man. We had to leave those three behind when we moved to Harborbloom. I was honestly surprised to still see them here.”

“Did they almost kill you too when you first got here?” Thomas asks, a hint of bite in his tone.

So Thomas can be petty too. Micro laughs, loud and carefree. “Course not, man. They recognized me right away.” Thomas furrows his brows, lips puckering. “Hey, it’s not my fault they thought you were an enemy.” The words barely leave his mouth before something clicks. “Ah. Actually. Wait…”

Thomas tilts his head.

“Uh, well,” Micro whistles. Multiple times. His boots tap along, building an awkward symphony. “Okay. I might or might not have shit talked about you to them.”

Thomas stares, completely blank.

“Listen, listen, listen!” Micro blurts, dramatically stepping back. It’s ridiculous how loudly his suit rustles, stealing his spotlight. “What was I supposed to do! There was this— this gorgeous dude who appeared out of nowhere, tried to kill me, then bawled his eyes out, and disappeared without even saying anything else! Of course I needed to rant to someone. It just so happened I only had parrots to talk to—”

“Gorgeous?” Thomas cuts in. His eyes are wide, unreadable.

"Huh? What?"

"Gorgeous," he repeats. "You called me gorgeous just now."

Micro's mind empties. "Wha— I did?"

Thomas steps closer. "You did."

"Y-You probably misheard—"

"Micro."

Micro snaps his mouth shut instantly. Those eyes make it far too easy to ramble until he makes a fool out of himself. Better to stay quiet, before he throws himself into the sea.

“Is something wrong with your head?”

Now it’s Micro’s turn to stare blankly. “…What,” he says, less like a question and more like a robot.

Micro must’ve said something horribly wrong. Thomas has gone rigid all over, muscles tensing again, lines in his face more pronounced.

“I can’t tell what your motive is. First, you dig up information about me after I tried to kill you. Then, instead of punching me yesterday, you beg me to stay. Now you’re—” He takes a deep, tired breath. “I don’t understand you.”

…Okay, he didn’t expect to be interrogated at the crack of dawn, but sure, why not. Who’s Micro to deny him of it?

“What’s there to not understand?” He rubs the tips of his fingers together, distracting himself with the sensation. “I’m a simple man. I don’t know jack about being mysterious, or talking in riddles. And besides,” Thomas’ eyes look velvety, richer under the sunlight. Pupils engulfed by the color, hypnotizing, addicting to get lost in. Focus, Micro. “I could say the same about you.”

Thomas thins his lips. Nothing witty to bite back now, huh?

“You had no reason to come back,” Micro continues, taking the lead, making Thomas take a step back this time. “If you really wanted to, you could’ve turned yourself in right away. I mean, fine, I did stalk you behind your back, but I never did it thinking I’d see you again. Did I want to, though?” He chews on his bottom lip until it turns raw and swollen. “Sure. I did. So what?”

The wind blows strands of Thomas’ hair across his face, creating a shot straight out of a poster you’d stumble across in a tavern. His bangs tousle and fly, covering his eyes only to reveal them again, like a chest filled with surprises, with Micro's favorite things tucked inside.

Thanks to Thomas, Micro is turning into a lame poet.

“I’ve committed crimes, Micro,” Thomas whispers.

Micro scoffs. “You think I don’t know that already?”

“There are wanted posters of me in every corner of Pandora. They’ll kill you on the spot if they find out you’re with me.”

“I know.” One of them is even tucked under my bed.

“Then— Then you must know that war — the one where your friends died — it was the Conspiracy who—”

“I know, Thomas.”

Thomas’ eyes grow impossibly wide. He stutters over himself, stringing together words that don’t make a sensible sentence. He paces back and forth, sighs, keeps moving, unable to stay still. Then he rakes a hand through his hair, revealing the forehead usually hidden.

"So you're an idiot," Thomas quips. "You're actually an idiot."

Micro takes zero offense; he really is. He accepted it the moment he rambled about someone he knew nothing about to goddamn parrots.

“Why did you really come back?” Micro asks, desperation threading between every word. “Be honest.”

Thomas licks his lips, wets them again and again. Just as Micro thinks he’s stalling, trying to come up with another excuse, Thomas proves him wrong.

"I was tired of being alone."

It comes out so quiet, Micro thinks it’s the wind feeding him what he wants to hear. It wouldn't the first time. Sometimes, his imagination did wonders, a wonderful job at deluding himself. The doubt fades quickly, however; Thomas stands like he wants to grow a shell, fold into himself, and hide inside it forever.

But it's too bad. He’s dealing with someone known for being notoriously annoying and stubborn.

“Were you really going to turn yourself in?” Micro asks next. When he steps closer, Thomas doesn’t try to close the distance.

Slowly, Thomas nods. “I was going to.” He exhales. “If you hadn’t told me to stay.”

“So that means not only did I save your life once, but I saved it twice.” Micro wiggles his eyebrows. He has always struggled in tense situations, always the first to break the heavy atmosphere with a dumb remark. “Right?”

Some of Thomas’ fight-or-flight tension eases. His shoulders relax, and he lets out a quiet huff. “Sure. Something like that.”

“Which also means you owe me.” Micro grins.

“Is that so?" Thomas sighs with a fake mock. "What can I do to make it up to you?”

Micro thinks. Or at least pretends to. He already had his answer ready since yesterday.

He straightens his face, puts on his most serious expression. He has to make sure Thomas understands.

“Not much,” he says, then adds, firm and final, “Just give me a heads up the next time you wanna leave.”

Up this close, Micro can count each freckle scattered across Thomas’ cheeks. His left has more than his right. Some stand out, darkened by the sun’s heat, while others stay faint, soft like an airbrushed stroke. He watches them shift and move as Thomas, for the second time today, lets a smile bloom. It dazzles Micro deep inside, reaches all the way to his soul.

"Alright."

Thomas confuses Micro to no end.

Such an enigma, such a mystery, layered and layered, each one needing to be peeled back just to catch a glimpse of who he really is. Sometimes, Thomas stares at the ocean for hours without moving. Then, when he feels like it, he answers Micro’s attempts at breaking the ice he keeps putting up. Thomas builds walls that stretch to the clouds, while Micro tries to climb over them, or run straight through with a bulldozer. All in all, Micro’s simplemindedness clashes with Thomas’ complexity. While he says everything outright, Thomas hides his true intentions behind riddles, behind doors with multiple locks, each key tossed somewhere deep where Micro can’t reach without Thomas letting him.

Every time, the same belief keeps Micro going: what more do they have than time? Time, more often than not, solves everything.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. Micro, finally remembering to tend to the cocoa bean farm Panzer set up, sees Thomas, who has been mostly silent and avoidant all day, enter their base.

For a while, Micro holds back his curiosity. Sure, it’s normal to want to sleep in the middle of the day. I do that sometimes too. It’s totally fine, totally normal, nothing to worry about.

But Micro is still Micro. And because he is Micro, fooling himself never works. He can’t resist the curiosity that might kill the cat, or in this case, him.

Out of courtesy, he knocks on the door. Then steps inside without waiting for a response.

Thomas is lying on his bed. Toward the wall, specifically. His face is hidden from view, curled in on himself so tightly he looks smaller than Micro has ever seen him. The plan of pouting and bickering fades at the sight, replaced by a growing dread, a tight coiling between his ribs, threatening to lock itself up, block his airways until he gasps for air. More than he expects, this Thomas leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“Hey, Thomas.” Micro stays rooted at the entrance. “Are you, uh… feeling okay?” he asks worriedly.

No response. No acknowledgment that Thomas even heard him.

“Are you in pain? Do you feel sick?”

Micro takes one step at a time. Stupidly, he wants to get closer, to see for himself. If something is wrong, if Thomas is in pain anywhere, then Micro is ready to hop onto his wooden boat and sail to the main island until he finds a remedy. Anything to get Thomas back on his feet. Anything to not be alone again. 

“If there’s anything I can do,” his voice comes out gentle. He looms over Thomas, peering at the man who’s stubbornly hiding his face. Micro may not be the best at reading the room, but if Thomas would just let him see those eyes, the same shade as the ripe cocoa beans outside, he might understand what’s wrapped him up in this cocoon.

As if approaching a feral, untrusting cat, Micro places a light hand on Thomas’ shoulder, barely touching him over the creased fabric of his shirt.

“Let me know. I’ll do what I can t—”

His hand is slapped away violently. Thomas, fast as a lightning strike, snaps around in fervor. Micro has never seen literal fire — oranges and yellows and reds bleeding into the brown — burning in someone’s eyes before.

“Why can’t you get the memo?” Every word comes out ground between Thomas' teeth. “If I’m not answering, maybe I want to be left the hell alone.”

Instinctively, Micro takes a step back. “I was just worried—”

“I don’t need you to be worried about me,” Thomas snaps. “Why are you so worried, anyway? You don’t even know me enough to pretend you care. If it's pity, then I don’t need it.”

If Micro says anything else, it feels like Thomas might do more than just throw words at him, might yank that sword hidden under his bed and finish what he — accidentally — started. Did Thomas really think Micro didn’t know?

It's not fair. It's not fair at all.

“I wasn’t pret— Okay, look,” Micro was already at the door, but he turns back. “You’re the one who showed up again after almost killing me. You could’ve ignored my stupid begging when I told you to stay, but you didn’t. So that means, for some fuckin' reason, the words of someone who barely knows you meant something.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “But fine. I don’t care if you’re upset or sick or anything else.” The door handle nearly snaps from how hard he grabs it. “I really, seriously, don’t even care.”

He slams the door shut and storms out of their base.

It feels worse than it should.

Micro thinks about sailing over to Pandora to distract himself, but despite yelling I don’t care right to Thomas’ face, he can’t actually bring himself to leave him alone here. Who knows what crazy antics he might pull when there’s no one around to keep him on a tight leash. Micro just doesn’t want his island to go up in flames, or something.

This is how he ends up furiously writing Thomas into the sand with a broken branch poking into his skin, over and over again, scribbling it out, then writing it again somewhere else. It takes the edge off, a little, especially when paired with occasional insults:

Stupid Thomas. Idiot Thomas. Mean Thomas. Rude Thomas. What-does-he-even-know Thomas. He's-taking-me-for-granted Thomas.

Using the sand like his own personal diary, he fills a generous stretch of shore with one name, stacking multiple adjectives in front of it, smirking to himself in satisfaction. This is oddly fun. What other negative connotation can he pair with Thomas? Is he ugly? Unfortunately, no. Every part of him flashes across Micro’s already Thomas filled mind, one by one. His eyes? Unfairly mesmerizing browns. His nose? Like it was crafted just for him. His lips? Curved at each corner in perfect measure. His hair? Luscious, the sun’s favorite shade. There’s nothing he can use as an insult. So back he goes to stupid mean rude terrible sadistic Thom—

"Cool artwork."

Micro nearly throws himself into the ocean.

“Motherfu—” He falls instead, equally pathetic. “Holy fuck! You scared me! What the hell!”

Thomas crouches beside him, looking down. “Thomas here, Thomas there.” He points at each one, one by one. “Oh, look, there’s another one here. Rude Thomas? Wh…at-does-he-ev— I can’t even read this one. Stupid… Thomas?” He glances at Micro, brow raised.

“U-Uh, that’s—” In a rush of panic and pure embarrassment, Micro drags his hand across the sand, wiping away whatever he can. Embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing! “Nothing! I was just—”

He braces for anger, for a So this is what you do with your free time? You're so petty and pathetic, that never comes. Quite the contrary, Thomas looks like he’s just having another normal day. Then Thomas picks up the branch himself and starts doodling. Half convinced he’s hallucinating, Micro watches him like a hawk.

“Naive Micr— I’m not naive, man.” Thomas ignores him. “Inverse-Triangle-Build Micr— Okay, wow. Wow, that’s a low blow.” Micro swears he hears him snicker. Thomas — maybe he felt a pang of guilt — quickly erases that one. “Too-Kind-For-His-Own-Good Micro, Goody-Two-Shoes Micro—kind and thoughtful, you mean?" he huffs. "Desperate Micro, I’m…

Thomas writes the last one painfully slow, each stroke at a turtle’s pace.

“…sorry Micro..?”

Micro squints, rereading the same phrase until his eyes hurt.

Only when Thomas stops writing and looks away does it land.

“Oh.”

Thomas rocks back and forth, clumsily running his hands over his thighs.

Then, hesitantly, even more shockingly, he says, “...I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that." He stares everywhere but at Micro. "It was a low blow from my end.”

Fortunately, Micro is a very, very, very easy man. He can drag this out, pretend he’s still mad, make Thomas apologize twenty more times if he wanted. But he’s easy. And simple. Moreover, patience is something he never practiced.

“Don’t worry about it, man.” Micro geeks, eyes drifting over the stupid, borderline offensive nicknames, and right at the center, a big, obvious I'm sorry Micro. “I shouldn’t have pushed either. We're cool.”

Barely tilting his head, thinking he's being super sleek with it, Micro takes a sneaky peek when nothing else comes from Thomas. 

And would you look at that: The Thomas who chewed him out hours ago too, is smiling.

Thump.

Time flies at a rapid pace.

Already, a week has passed since Thomas arrived. Turns out, spending all twenty four hours of your day with someone gets you talking pretty fast. About anything and everything. What else are they supposed to do on this barren island, with no one to talk to but each other?

“Okay. There’s something I need to confess,” And so Micro blurts, right as they crack open their fourth coconut, calmly sipping its contents. “I— I don’t know how to tell you this, but if we’re gonna spend the rest of our lives together”—of course Micro slips it in casually, satisfied when Thomas’ eyes widen a little—“then I gotta come clean.”

Thomas shifts in place, angling his body toward Micro. “…Should I be worried?”

“It depends.” Micro hums. “Do you get worried easily?”

“It depends,” Thomas mirrors. He sits up straighter. “So? What is it? Do you have a body buried here or something?”

Micro steeples his hands in front of him. “Well… Not quite.”

“Then?”

It’s incredibly entertaining to watch Thomas’ usual cool unreadableness melt into clear confusion, with a hint of curiosity. Micro could happily drag this out for hours until Thomas gets annoyed enough to storm off.

But Thomas is not Neptune, and Micro is very much weak against those ridiculously long lashes batting his way.

He takes a deep breath, pretends he’s calming himself down, and without warning, snaps his whole body to the right, his hazmat suit whirring along with him.

“Try not to be too surprised, 'kay?” he says, dragging out each word as slowly as possible. Thomas pinches his brows, squints, and braces himself. “I, uh…”

“You…?”

"I do drugs."

In this moment, Micro wishes he had something to capture the white as a canvas blankness settling over Thomas’ face. A photo, another poster-worthy shot.

“Are you, like, not gonna say anything?” Micro bites back a laugh. “Look, I know you might draw the line at doing drugs, but I swear I never meant to hide it.”

Thomas blinks, and when he does, he slumps with a long sigh, then tilts his head back, hair falling with gravity.

“You’re having a lot of fun, aren’t you?” It comes out whiny, unless Micro's hearing things. Thomas' bangs look shorter leaning back, bringing a new, childlike energy to him. Way, way too cute, to the point Micro wants to grab a pair of scissors and snip them.

Micro laughs at last, a satisfied, “Pffffffffft,” all teeth and wide mouth. He doubles over, clutching his stomach as the laughter drags on for a good three minutes. It isn’t even that funny, but to Micro it's the funniest event in his life.

From the past few days together, Micro has realized not much fazes Thomas. Maybe it’s his time in the Conspiracy, where he’s already seen everything, or maybe he was born nonchalant. The possibilities are so endless, Micro has learned to accept all of him, including the silences followed by hour-long rants about whatever topic they landed on.

So what if Micro wants to push his buttons? See those little sides of him, how he reacts when he’s annoyed, when he’s upset, when he’s about to brutally murder someone — preferably the least of all — when he’s cheerful enough to laugh without holding himself back. Micro is a greedy, greedy man.

And damn, it feels selfishly good to crack Thomas open.

“I’m having so much fun, man,” Micro wipes at his wet eyes. “You should’ve seen the look on your face. Like, I don't even know what you were expecting to hear.”

“How was I supposed to know you were messing around?” Thomas quips, tossing a handful of sand into the distance.

Micro leans into Thomas’ personal space, looking up with a wide grin etched onto his lips. “You know now. Micro101.” He winks playfully. Then, a brilliant idea pops into his mind. “Actually, Thomas.”

“…Yeah?” Thomas responds cautiously.

“Wanna do drugs with me?”

In follows another blank stare. Mouth slightly ajar, brows lifted. Cute, Micro almost says out loud.

"I— No?"

"Oh come on, why not? My babies sit at a whopping 98% purity. I don’t go around handing them out for free.” Micro pouts. “Can’t you see I’m tryna give you special treatment here?”

Thomas rests his cheek on his palm, propping himself up on his knee. “If special treatment means coercing me into getting high with you, I’d rather not get any.”

“Huh. Your loss.” Micro shrugs, sarcastic. “You’ll regret it eventually.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing every day?” Is that a trace of worry Micro hears? “Getting high out of your mind all day and crashing after. It doesn’t exactly sound like a healthy coping mechanism.”

So trying to kill yourself is better? Micro holds back. He’s been doing a lot of holding back lately.

“I mean, I never did crazy drugs anyway. I — we — mostly sold them. Just every now and then we’d do a lil' getaway, snort a line or two at most.” He drags his foot through the sand, pushing it in and pulling it out from the other side. “You’d be surprised how many Harborbloom citizens are addicts, man. We had customers who came every single day, shitfaced, begging for more. One even tried to mess up our van because, in his fantasyland, we were supposed to give him the drugs for free. Free.”

"I'm guessing that didn't happen." states Thomas.

Micro scoffs loudly. “Duh. We never sold anything for free. That was our golden rule. It was, but… shit, Thomas,” he shakes his head, chuckles in a silly upbeat, “if you had come to us back then, I might’ve broken that rule for the first time.”

He realizes what he said, how he said it, a beat later.

"I mean—"

Gone is the embodiment of confidence, replaced by a panicked guy waving his hands around frantically.

“What I meant to say was— because of how threatening you’d look—”

“I look threatening?” Thomas asks innocently.

“No!” The response comes embarrassingly fast. “By threatening, I mean you have this— this aura we’d bow our heads to and, uh, offer you a sample for free, once, and if you came by again, then we’d do a discount, and for the third time, we’d… um— fuck—”

Then Thomas laughs, and Micro goes still. He shuts up, stops flailing his arms around, and stares. A simple chuckle at Micro fumbling over himself would’ve been enough. But no, Thomas is actually laughing, to the point his eyes crinkle at the corners, brows lifting as a series of giggles spill out.

Micro hasn’t met anyone else who laughed so beautifully, the action crafted for him.

“Sorry, I—” Thomas’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “You’re terrible at coming up with excuses.”

Micro flushes pink. “Ish, I totally rambled there, didn’t I?”

Thought he wouldn’t mind doing it more if Thomas turns into his personal sun every time.

“You did, but that’s alright,” Thomas says. “If anything, I wouldn’t have wanted us to meet back then anyway.”

Micro frowns. “What? Why not? It’d be way better than hiding out on a tiny island.”

There’s an equal but different kind of sadness swimming in Thomas’s eyes. He tries to say something without actually saying it, but Micro has always been terrible at reading minds.

“I would’ve done anything for my friends,” Thomas carefully says.

“Well, yeah, me too, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Anything, Micro,” Thomas clarifies. Micro already misses his carefree smile. “If Flu— the Conspiracy leader told me to kill, I killed. If I was ordered to flip a place upside down, I would.”

Is Micro crazy for wanting to pull Thomas into an embrace?

“So if there was any chance your cartel would’ve been collateral damage, I’m glad we never met. I’m glad you set up your base far away, and lived somewhat peacefully.”

Micro remembers the wanted posters still plastered across every street, all bearing this man’s face. He remembers that, in the eyes of Luminara, Thomas deserves to be drip stoned to death. Maybe he does; no matter how much time passes, Micro will never truly understand what they feel. He was never part of that world, too busy trying to live inside his own bubble. He can’t defend Thomas when he doesn’t even know the full extent of what he’s done.

But he knows one thing.

“You’re a better person than you think you are, Thomas,” Micro says softly.

A beat.

“Even if I don’t regret anything I did?” Thomas asks quietly.

“Even if you don’t regret anything,” Micro reaffirms. Thomas presses his lips together. “That’s what I think. Coming from the Canadian Cartel’s last standing member. I think Thomas5200 is a pretty decent person.”

The familiar, yet equally mesmerizing view of the ocean, especially calm today, keeps them company. To Micro, Thomas’ presence is vulnerability, silly jokes that turn into deep conversations, laughter and crying, rage and tranquility. A culmination of comfort, with exhilaration close behind.

Sometimes Micro forgets they don’t know each other at all. Sometimes he forgets they’ve only met. Thomas is a contradiction that waltzed into Micro’s life uninvited.

He’s unfairly addicting.

"You're pretty decent too." Then, in a nasally whisper, he says, "Thank you, Micro."

Falling into a routine comes as easy as breathing.

They always talk. A lot. Micro tells him everything about the cartel, how they met, how they came to be, while Thomas, more hesitant, reminisces about his peaceful days with the Conspiracy members.

Micro doesn’t remember ever talking this much to anyone else.

During this time, many of Thomas’ quirks start to show.

For starters, he’s a clean freak. If Micro forgets to make his bed not even ten minutes after waking up, scolding awaits. If he doesn’t clean up after eating, Thomas bickers and argues until Micro begs him to stop.

Through exhausting mental gymnastics, Micro tries to keep up.

One of Thomas’ more difficult sides shows in the mornings.

Unlike Micro, who used to sleep through most of his days before Thomas came, he wakes with the sunrise. “We always woke up early. It became a habit,” Thomas had said casually after Micro complained about being woken up too.

By force, Micro now has something close to a normal sleep schedule.

Then one day, in the midst one of their early morning walks, Micro notices that Thomas always avoids a specific part of the island. Smoothly, he always steers them back the way they came, guiding them toward the other side instead. Rinse and repeat, it happens enough times for Micro to catch on and question him.

Only then does Micro find out why. He doesn’t ask how Thomas knows that, or if he had visited him before, or how close they really were. All he does is nod when Thomas says, “I don’t trust myself enough. I know none of it is his fault, but if I see him again, I might forget that.”

The past still haunts them both, heavy as a boulder, chains shackled to their feet. At the very least, neither of them has to go through it alone. While Thomas offers what comfort he can when Micro cries over his friends after visiting their tombstones, Micro gives him space in the moments he grows quiet and distant.

He just wishes he could do something about Thomas’ nightmares.

A habit? Maybe. But on most, if not every night, Thomas wakes up drenched in sweat, breaths coming out in gasps. He can’t fall back asleep after. Either he sits there, staring at the wall for hours, or leaves the base. Micro pretends he doesn’t notice; Thomas never brings it up either. It’s hard, it hurts to feel this helpless, but Micro chooses to ignore it.

Tonight isn’t any different.

Like clockwork, Micro wakes to Thomas’ pained grunts. Through the grogginess, he glances over from his side. Usually, Thomas is quick to wake. He doesn’t let the nightmares hold him for long before he comes to.

But this time, he doesn’t. He mumbles incoherently, body twisting and twitching against the sheets, fabric rustling with each movement.

Immediately, Micro knows something is wrong. Alarmed, he strides over to Thomas, stopping beside his bed.

“Thomas?” he calls, voice hoarse with sleep.

Thomas’ eyes are squeezed shut. He keeps mumbling, but Micro can’t make out a single word. Beads of sweat gather, dampening his hair and sticking it to his forehead. The color has completely drained from his face.

“Thomas, hey—” he tries again. “Thomas, wake up.”

Micro's voice doesn't him.

More desperate, more impatient, he urges, “Thomas. Thomas.”

Still nothing.

He can’t bear hearing Thomas in pain any longer.

As gently as possible, Micro wraps his hand around Thomas’ shoulder, over his sweat-soaked shirt, and gives him a soft shake.

It all happens in a split second.

Micro gasps for air. Still barely awake, he doesn’t understand what’s going on until he feels strong, crushing hands clamp around his neck.

He can’t get a word out. Barely, he tilts his head down and sees Thomas wide awake. Sitting up, panting, heaving, still mumbling, all while choking Micro with a strength he can’t fight against.

Shit.

Micro gathers enough strength to tap at Thomas’ arm, clumsy and desperate. It comes again and again, replacing the words that should’ve left his mouth.

Then he's shoved on the bed. Thomas pins him between his thighs and squeezes, tighter and tighter, until Micro’s vision blurs, the world churning and tilting sideways.

Through the haze of slipping consciousness, even as his body goes into survival mode, Micro doesn’t do much to stop him. He lift his hands and rest them on Thomas, who is unbelievably rigid, completely focused on what he’s doing.

The pressure stops. The hands around his neck loosen, then go still.

The light returns to Thomas’ eyes.

"M-Micro…?"

Micro’s throat goes numb from coughing. He doesn’t have the strength to form a proper response, but through it all, he offers a weak smile.

Thomas’ hands tremble violently. Micro catches them in time, threads his fingers through the gaps, holds on tight.

“O-Oh—” Thomas gasps, breaths uneven. “What was I— W-What did I—”

Micro ends up coming to terms with what was obvious from the start.

He really fucking hates seeing Thomas cry.

Thomas ducks his head, trying to hide the tears he can’t wipe away. But he can’t hide the tremors, the small hiccups, how his hands clutch at Micro’s back, maybe without meaning to.

Micro offers the only comfort he can think of. Wordlessly, he pulls Thomas down. He meets little resistance; Thomas is limp. His face hit the crook of Micro’s neck, already dampening it with tears.

Gone is the man who overpowered him minutes ago. Thomas feels so small, so, so fragile.

“W-Why—” Thomas shrieks, muffled. “I thought— I-I thought you were—”

Micro wraps his arms around the thin line of Thomas’ waist, buries his nose into the curve of his collarbone, and breathes him in, deep into his lungs. The scent of the ocean on a rainy afternoon, with a hint of sweat underneath. It’s as Micro imagined.

“It’s okay.” Micro’s voice is hoarse, rough, thick with phlegm he wants to cough out. “It’s okay. I promise.”

“No— No, it’s not—” Thomas wriggles in his hold. Between choked sobs, he says, “Let me go, Micro—”

It takes every bit of Micro’s willpower to keep his arms locked behind Thomas’ back.

“Please—” Thomas tries to pull away, leave Micro cold and wanting. Micro won’t let him. “Micro, please—”

“You’re gonna leave, won’t you?” Micro surprises himself with how shaky he sounds. “You’re gonna run out of here and leave.”

Silence follows.

“You promised, Thomas. If I let go and you bolt out that door, I’ll never forgive you.”

Thomas goes pliant. At last, drained, he shudders, “I won’t.”

He proves it with his actions. When Micro loosens his hold, Thomas pushes himself up. No wind from the door flying open, no sound of footsteps against the sand. He slouches on Micro’s lap, which Micro wholeheartedly believes is endearing, and looks at him with watery eyes.

Just in case, Micro keeps his hands ready at his sides. Just in case Thomas changes his mind at the last second.

“Your neck,” Thomas’ fingers hover over his skin. He flinches at the slightest contact like it burns. “I— I’m so sorry, Micro. Does it hurt a lot?”

“Barely. I forgot it even happened.”

“You’re lying.” Thomas sniffles.

Micro laughs, though it comes out more like a strained groan. “Play along, will you?” He soothes the side of Thomas’ thigh. “I’ll be fine by the morning. I’ll sleep it off.”

He can tell Thomas doesn’t believe him.

“Get some rest, then,” Thomas says. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

“Okay. But I’m sleeping right here.”

Thomas blinks. “You will?”

“Yep.”

A smooth maneuver and a yelp later, Thomas is lying beside him. The cold stone wall presses against Micro’s back, while Thomas’ scorching body fights off his chillness. Micro shifts as far back as he can, taking up less than half the space despite his larger frame, and throws an arm over him.

"There," Micro hums, satisfied. "Perfect. See? We don't need two separate beds."

Now that his head rests fully on the pillow, drowsiness washes over Micro again. He pushes everything else to the back of his mind, including the throbbing pain, the urge to scratch at his skin until the marks disappear.

He wants to fall asleep while staring at Thomas. Or holding him.

"Micro, I'm s—"

Micro pulls Thomas into his chest.

“Don’t.” He sighs. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says anyway, muffled and raspy.

“Go to sleep, Thomas.” He rests his chin on top of Thomas’ soft hair. “C’mon. Don’t think about anything else.”

“You’re pushing it aside too easily,” Thomas loops an arm over him. He whispers, “You can’t just ignore it. At least let me apologize properly.”

“Watch me,” Micro chuckles sleepily. “’m about to pass out so hard.”

Vaguely, Micro recalls Thomas apologizing again, squeezing him tight and burying himself into him.

Vaguely, he recalls slurring out an “I forgive you, ’kay? I forgave you like, last week.”

Vaguely, he recalls planting a chaste kiss to the crown of Thomas’ head.

“Mornin’."

Thomas is already awake.

Micro waits for the cute, groggy “Good morning.” He wants to hear Thomas’ sleep-heavy voice for the first time. But it’s like Thomas is here and not here at the same time, his focus somewhere else.

He pushes himself lower on the pillow, forcing their eyes to meet.

Finally, Thomas snaps out of it.

“Oh,” Thomas blinks, disoriented. “Hi.”

Adorable. Cute. Lovely.

Micro smooths down Thomas’ strands, tucking some behind his ear. “Hey.” He smiles. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long,” he sighs. His gaze drifts away again, settling on Micro’s neck.

“You’re gonna burn holes into me if you keep staring like that.”

Thomas bites his lip. “It’s so bruised, Micro.”

Micro taps between Thomas’ pinched brows. “I promise I’m all good. It’ll look ugly for a couple of days, then it’ll fade. Good as new.”

Thomas doesn’t believe it. Frankly, Micro doesn’t either. He has never heard his own voice this scratchy before.

Remorse settles over Thomas. He’s relapsing into those self-deprecating thoughts again, Micro can tell. He pulls Thomas into an embrace before it takes over, nuzzling into the hollow above his collarbone.

“It’s still early,” he murmurs. “Be lazy with me today.”

He feels Thomas relax into his touch. “I thought you were going to Pandora today.”

Micro will apologize to his friends later.

“That can wait.”

Worrywart Thomas is adorable.

Worrywart Thomas might be Micro's favorite Thomas in the entire world.

What starts off as an excuse, quoting Thomas’ exact words, “I’ll do everything, so you focus on getting rest,” quickly turns into an ongoing pampering session. If Micro so much as tries to lift anything heavier than a pebble, Thomas comes rushing over.

“I’ll do it for you,” he says, then directs Micro to sit on one of the chairs he crafted for them.

Micro can’t complain. Proudly, he admits he’s enjoying every second of it. Being ordered around while getting pampered at the same time is a delightful treat he wants to indulge in for as long as possible. Even better, he gets to watch Thomas sweat through it all, his shirt turning sheer, wrapping every muscle on his body as he takes on most of the island work by himself.

Who's living the best life, if not Micro?

“Do you still think of Saparata when you see me?” Micro asks one day.

Thomas stares for a long while. A full minute passes, and Micro grows more awkward with each second. It’s an unprompted question, sure, but it’s always been sitting at the back of his mind.

Then Thomas looks ahead, toward the main island.

A small cough. Then he says, “You’re prettier.”

"Oh."

The tips of Micro’s ears flush red.

He doesn’t ask again.

A half-moon glints in the sky, dragging stars along with it and leaving behind a scattered, shimmering path on his way back from Pandora. Not a cloud in sight, a perfect night for his perfect surprise.

As always, he spots the brown tabby in the form of a worry-stricken man waiting for him. Thomas closes the distance in quick strides and cups Micro’s face between his slightly calloused hands. Micro swears he can see a pair of flattened cat ears.

“Hey,” Micro greets with a lazy grin.

More stern, Thomas answers, “Hi.” He squeezes Micro’s cheeks. “You’ve been gone since the afternoon.” A beat. “The sun’s already set.”

“Someone missed me, huh?” Micro nuzzles, rubbing along the heated skin. “Sorry. I got held up.”

Thomas’ face tightens with concern. “Held up? By who? Did they take you in for questioning?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he chuckles. “Remember the Turkey dude I told you about?”

Warily, Thomas nods.

“He cornered me in front of Bun Bun Bakery. No idea why he was even there. He said I promised him a drink at the tavern and how I should see it through.”

Thomas thins his lips. "…And you drank with him? Seriously?"

Micro bats his lashes guiltily. “It was only one tiny glass. He wasn’t going to let me go otherwise. I managed to convince him I’m super lightweight and that he’d have to carry me all the way back home if I passed out.”

"Micro…"

“I promise.” Micro squeezes Thomas’ hand. “You think I’d let myself get shitfaced in front of him?”

“Oh, I don't know. If you drank one glass, there's potential for more.”

Pettiness suits Thomas to a T. It contradicts his striking features, bringing out a kind of unexpected adorableness.

“It won’t happen again. Besides,” Micro remembers the leather bag clasped in his other hand. He lifts it up, presenting it smugly. “I’d rather share these with you.”

Thomas shifts from mild annoyance to curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Beer, what else?” Micro grins wide, all teeth and gums. Thomas’ mouth parts into a small ‘o’. “How long has it been since you last drank?”

“Way too long,” Thomas mumbles, dazed. Thomas props the bag on one knee and loosens the string, revealing its contents. Then, with a rattled scoff, he adds, “Three bottles, Micro. Really? You want to down three whole bottles?”

“You’re lucky. I was gonna buy five.” Micro wiggles his fingers in the air. “Come onnnn, we should let loose for once.” Lightly, he spins Thomas around and nudges him forward. Leaning into his ear, he says, beaming, “Let’s sit in front of the prettiest view in all of Pandora, talk bullshit, and forget everything else. The world can wait for one day.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Thomas says, no bite behind it.

Together, they settle into their chairs. Thomas places the bottles on the table, along with the matching set of glasses Micro brought for the occasion.

Micro leans back fully, closes his eyes, and inhales the crisp scent of salt and nature. “We couldn’t have picked a better day for this.” He sighs, content. “The only thing that’d make this night better is if you poured me a glass right now.”

“Someone’s impatient.” Despite the teasing, Thomas quickly gets to work. He pulls out his handy knife, lines it up with the cap, and with a smooth motion, pops it off.

Micro lets out a drawn-out “oooooh.” “You’re a natural, Thomas.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. The orange-hued liquid pours freely, filling each glass to the brim.

“There you go.” He sets one in front of Micro. “Just take it slow—”

Micro has already downed half of it.

“…or not.”

“Damn, that’s good!” He smacks his lips. The glass hits the table with a heavy thud. “Quit taking tiny sips, man. It’s beer, for Ish’s sake, not wine.”

“We live in a free world. I can drink however I want.” Thomas takes another sip, savoring it. He’s unnecessarily patient. Who wouldn’t want to finish an entire bottle in five minutes like Micro is planning and pass out right after?

While Micro takes a heavy chug, Thomas asks, “Speaking of, how was the main island? It’s been so long since I last stepped foot there.”

A second glass sounds perfect right now. Micro quickly fills it up.

“It’s, uh…”

The last thing Micro wants is to lie. He wants to, he doesn't want Thomas to worry, but he’s a terrible liar to begin with. It would take Thomas the speed of light to figure him out. He'll read Micro like an open book.

More quietly, Micro says, “If I’m being honest, things don’t look good there at all."

Thomas straightens a little. “How so? Shouldn’t it have gone back to how it was before the war?”

The beer burns down Micro’s throat this time. He took too much, and it ends in an awkward cough. Then, “In that sense, yeah. It’s perfect over there. I’ve never seen people as lively as they are now."

“Okay. So what’s the issue?”

Micro had pushed it to the back of his mind during his previous visits. He thought that, surely, after a month of fruitless searching, they would give up. Move on and forget, like he and Thomas were trying to do. But it’s the opposite. The more time passes, the more impatient they become.

For an island that represents peace and serenity, what they seek is violence, more bloodshed.

The half-empty glass feels cold in his hand, somewhat grounding. Micro taps his fingers against it absentmindedly.

“More guards have been patrolling the streets lately,” Micro says at last. “There’s been an increase in your wanted posters too.”

A beat. Thomas takes a slow breath.

“They’ll only be satisfied when I die in front of them,” he says evenly, without a hint of surprise. “‘The last member of the Conspiracy, caught at last. A fair trial will commence.’” There’s a headline for you.

“Fair trial my ass.” In a sudden flare of anger, Micro wants to grab the bottle and down what’s left in one go. “It’s bullshit. They’re all waiting to drop dozens of dripstone on you. This isn’t even about justice anymore. That dude Saparata’s name got cleared, the nation’s happy now, so what’s the point of being so stubborn about catching you? Weren’t they—”Weren’t they satisfied enough after seeing Saparata kill Fluixon? “—ugh, whatever. I need more beer.”

“Hey, slow down,” Thomas warns. His hand is fuzzy and lovely around Micro’s wrist, stopping him as he’s about to pour a third glass. It’s stupid how quickly the touch cuts some of his buzz. “At this rate, you’ll get drunk before we even finish the first bottle.”

“Aren’t we trying to get drunk?” Micro huffs. “I kinda really need to get drunk right now, Thomas.”

Thomas runs his thumb along his wrist before letting go.

“Fine, but I’m not cleaning up if you throw up everywhere.”

"Uuuuugh, the world is spinnin'."

Micro wishes he had a pillow. The table is rough against his cheek, making it go numb. But if he sits up and throws up everywhere, he’ll never hear the end of it from Thomas.

“I told you to take it slow.” Thomas sounds rightfully disappointed. That doesn’t stop him from rubbing soothing circles into Micro’s back. “You idiot. Why do you never listen?”

“’m sorryyyy,” Micro slurs, giggling, doing everything a drunk person does. “’re you mad?” He hiccups.

Thomas sighs. “No, I’m not mad.” Micro giggles again, pleased. “I’m never keeping alcohol around you again, though. You alcoholic.”

“That’s not fair!” he wails like a kid whose favorite toy got taken away. “’twas only once! Once! ’m a responsible drinker.”

“Sure. Because you’re not the one who chugged most of the two bottles here.” It clinks when Thomas taps one with his nail.

"We still have one more bottle—"

“No.” Thomas grabs the last beer and places it on the ground beside him, far out of Micro’s reach. “No more. That’s enough.”

Micro drops his arms onto the table in dramatic defeat. “Fine. Jeez.” He squeezes his eyes shut, even the night sky too bright. “I feel so dizzy, Thomas, fuck.”

“I can fetch you some water.” Concern edges Thomas’ voice.

Slowly, Micro pushes himself up, only to drop his head onto Thomas’ shoulder a second later.

“No,” he croaks. “You stay right where you are. Don’t go anywhere.” Softer this time. Smells way better than a pillow. “See? ’m already feeling better.”

Thomas’ chuckle is so criminally gorgeous, so addicting, the perfect lullaby. He should laugh forever. If he ever cries, it should only be from overwhelming joy, the kind that spills over and turns into tears that glint like precious emerald. Micro wants to give Thomas that, a world of his own, built for him and the life he never got to live properly.

“…Hey, Thomas?"

“Hm?” Thomas hums softly, his weight settling comfortably against Micro.

Micro clenches his teeth. Then, “What if we leave this place?”

He feels Thomas tense. “Leave? This island, you mean?”

“Leaving Pandora entirely.”

A forced chuckle. “Yggdrasil then? That sounds like a brilliant plan, Micro. Let’s go to Westhelm, actually. I’m sure they’ll let us right in.”

Micro sobers enough. He already misses the comfort of Thomas’ shoulder, but he needs to look at him. If Thomas knows him well, the same goes both ways. Micro knows that tone anywhere, the pretense that hides the truth.

“You know what I mean, Thomas,” he presses. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

A smile that is fake and disingenuous, coming from Thomas, is everything Micro hates. He wants honesty, everything laid bare, the good and the ugly, without judgment, without shame. He wants Thomas to know that nothing he says or thinks will shake Micro from where he stands beside him.

He lifts the back of his hand to Thomas’ cheek. Despite the flush, it’s cold, touched by the rising breeze. “You know what I’ve been trying to say from the start.”

Thomas furrows his brows. His feigned innocence falters, giving way to a version of him that gnaws at the inside of his cheek. “There’s no other land miles and miles away. Do you think nobody looked? There’s nothing.”

“You don’t actually believe Pandora and Yggdrasil are the only pieces of land out there, do you?” Micro’s hand settles fully on Thomas’ cheek, his thumb brushing gently under his eye. “There’s no way you believe that. I can tell from the look in your eyes”

Brown eyes dart between Micro’s gray ones, searching, searching, searching. If only he told Micro what it is. He would serve it to him on the finest, diamond platter.

"Micro, I— I don't know. I don't know what you want me to say."

“Hear me out first.” Micro scooches over until their thighs brush. “We can leave this place behind, run as far as we can. We can go somewhere no one knows us.”

Thomas’ hands ball into fists on his lap. In a voice barely above a breath, he says, “We’ll never be able to make it that far. The ocean’s more violent the further you go.”

“Then we’ll build a boat strong enough to handle it.”

"It won't be enough."

“We can try,” Micro pleads. “Don't shut me out like that. What if we succeed? What if there’s an entirely different world out there waiting for us?”

Micro doesn’t need to look up at the sky. The stars are right there, resting in Thomas’ eyes.

"I don't know. It sounds too beautiful to be true."

Micro rests their forehead together. "You and I, Thomas," he whispers, "I can't bear the thought of anything happening to you if we stay here any longer."

Thomas' breath hitches. Their bangs mingle, strands brushing and tangling together. This shared warmth is all Micro wants. Nothing else. He doesn’t care about making money from drugs, he doesn’t care about Pandora. None of it matters. Only Thomas.

Most of Micro’s words come out slurred at this point. His mind feels clear enough, but his tipsy body has a will of its own. He has to get everything out before everything slips away.

“Please,” alcohol makes him softer than ever. He thinks he might cry. “I— I’m not going anywhere without you. It’s either we live together, or we die together.”

Thomas pulls away.

He pushes Micro back by the shoulders, putting enough distance between them that Micro can’t even catch his scent anymore.

“W-What?” He laughs, but it fades fast. “What is it? Thomas, I— fuck— I know you prolly think this is the alcohol talking, all this— crazy stuff, but I’ve been thinking about it forever, 'kay?” Even if Thomas doesn’t want to, Micro grabs his hands anyway. “You don’t have to answer right now. Think about it before you shut me out. Actually, scratch that. Don’t shut me out. Say yes right now and show me that smile and hold my hand back because I feel really awkward and stupid and I can’t tell what you’re thinking at a—”

Thomas kisses him.

Micro must be dreaming. He must’ve passed out, dipped into some selfish fantasy made from everything he never dared say out loud. In it, Thomas places soft kisses to his lips, one after another. A brush against his top lip, then the bottom, then right in the middle. Some linger, some barely touch, but each one leaves behind a trembling warmth that sparks like tiny fireworks.

“Okay,” Thomas says, and it sounds so real.

Micro blinks. That feels real too.

“Let’s leave,” Thomas laughs, something breaking free in his voice. A bird unlocking its own cage. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

This is real. This is as real as the empty glasses in front of him, their endless supply of coconuts, the bed they share every night, the parrots that finally like Thomas back.

This is real.

Micro stays frozen for only a beat longer.

Then they’re kissing again. Sharing breath, matching choked sobs. Micro pulls Thomas closer, arms tightening around his waist. Hands clutch at the collar of his hazmat suit, making him tilt his head, in every sense of it. Sparks, everywhere. Bright sparks flash inside his eyelids. Micro kisses him again and again and again, unable to stop. Thomas lifts his hands, resting them at Micro’s neck, fingers tangling into the hair at his nape with a desperate pull.

Micro’s hoarse cries spill out when they part.

Starting at the corner of Micro’s lips, Thomas traces soft kisses along the path of his tears. His eyes, his nose, the space between his brows. The moles on his cheeks.

“Does this mean yes?” Micro sniffles. “Will you leave with me?” The dam he’s been holding back breaks, and he steals another kiss. Then two more. Five more. He barely gives Thomas a chance to speak, caught between laughter, sobs, wails, and breathless giggles.

Thomas pulls him in, holding him close. They melt together, inseparable, no longer two but one. Even the greatest, most impenetrable force can't tear them apart.

After drifting alone for so long, at last, they find each other.

"If we die, we die together. If we live, we live together." Thomas beams. "Right?"

Daybreak Media Investigations Desk

WHAT REMAINS OF THE CONSPIRACY? WHAT COMES NEXT?

Pandora — The search for the final known member of the Conspiracy, Thomas5200, remains ongoing.

Following the decisive confrontation between the Architect, Fluixon, and the Mediator, Saparata, Thomas5200 vanished without a trace. Since then, authorities across multiple regions have intensified efforts to locate the fugitive.

In response, the Conquesodors of Pandora and the Westhelm Nation of Yggdrasil have formed a joint alliance, coordinating resources to bring the suspect to justice. Search operations have now expanded beyond the main islands to include remote and previously unmonitored territories across the outer regions.

After forty-two days without results, officials have announced a significant breakthrough as of yesterday.

Today, Daybreak Media will provide full coverage of the development, including the investigative process, newly uncovered details, and the potential implications for both nations.

 

Interview with Eyewitness █████

Can you walk us through your day?

I had planned a short getaway to the ocean. I’d heard that dolphins are especially visible this time of year, so I set out by boat toward the outer waters. Everything was normal at first. I was just enjoying the trip until I suddenly began hearing voices.

Voices? Can you elaborate?

I was passing near one of the smaller islands, what I believe is a protected national park. I didn’t think anyone was allowed to be there, which is why it stood out to me. I could hear people talking, though I couldn’t make out specific words from that distance. I considered getting closer, but I was concerned about being seen.

Were you able to identify who was speaking?

Not clearly. I couldn’t see their faces from where I was, but I’m certain there were two individuals. Both were male, as far as I could tell.

You reported this information to the Conquesodors, correct? What led you to that decision?

Yes, I did. I strongly believe in protecting our natural environments, and I was concerned that whoever was on the island might be causing harm to a protected reserve. I never expected it to lead to something of this scale.

You acted responsibly as a citizen. Thank you for your time.

 

Following this new information, officials incorporated the eyewitness report into their ongoing case and moved forward with a field operation. A search team was assembled under the leadership of one of the six Conquesodor captains, AFreakinTurkey, and dispatched to the island in question.

 

INTERVIEW WITH EYEWITNESS AFreakinTurkey

Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, Captain. We understand you have a great deal on your plate.

It’s no trouble. The public needs to be informed so they can remain vigilant and aware.

You traveled to the island with a team, correct? What did you discover upon arrival?

Yes. The moment we arrived, it was clear the island wasn’t abandoned. We found signs of activity on the eastern side. There was a small base set up, along with a seating area, empty bottles, and various items that don’t naturally belong there. It was evident that someone had been staying on the island.

We understand your team uncovered evidence that could be critical to the case involving Thomas5200. Can you tell us more?

There were two key findings. First, we found a crumpled poster hidden beneath one of the beds in the base. It was of Thomas5200. That immediately raised alarms. Why would something like that be there? Who put it there? At that point, it had to be him, or someone closely connected to him. Second, we found a suit on the ground. One of those plastic ones. Hazmat, it's called? I recognized it instantly.

Have you seen it before?

Yeah. About a month ago, I ran into someone wearing that exact type of suit. A kid. He came to the Queso Temple asking about a man. The description he gave matched Thomas5200, but at the time, he played it off. I believed him. Looking back now, with everything we’ve uncovered, we’re confident Thomas5200 has formed an alliance with Microspr, a known member of the Canadian Cartel.

That is a significant revelation. You must feel some sense of relief.

Not really. I mean, I shared a drink with Microspr not long ago. He seemed like a good kid. It’s unfortunate things turned out this way. Right now, we believe Thomas5200 may be threatening him somehow. We don’t know the details yet, but we won’t stop until we find them both.

We appreciate the efforts the Conquesodors are making to ensure a safer future for all.

It’s what anyone would do.

 

What We Know

Authorities across both nations continue their search for Thomas5200 and Microspr.

According to multiple citizens in Pandora, Microspr had been making regular visits to Harborbloom, presenting himself as an active and trusted member of the community while allegedly maintaining contact with Thomas5200 behind the scenes.

In response, wanted posters of Microspr have begun appearing across Pandora, as citizens mobilize and assist in the ongoing search efforts.

Daybreak Media also reached out to Saparata for comment. He declined to participate in an interview, stating that he no longer wishes to be involved with the case or any related developments. Sources indicate he has chosen to remain in his residence, focusing on a quiet life tending to his garden.

As the investigation continues, key questions remain. Will Thomas5200 finally be captured, and what led Microspr to align himself with a wanted criminal?

 

Stay tuned for further updates from Daybreak Media, your source for the latest and most reliable coverage.