The late afternoon sunlight blazed down upon the tent’s canopy, worming through the canvas’s tight weave and pooling in a layer of thick heat that loitered at the crest of the tent. Both the front and rear entrances were open, the flaps rolled tightly and tucked up and away, allowing a current of dry–but much cooler–air to circulate through the space within. The tent seemed to breathe as the canvas quietly crackled inwards and outwards with each yawn and sigh of the wind.

        Cecilia stood at one of the openings as she looked out over her surroundings with lidded eyes, leaning heavily against a structural pole as her thoughts drifted in and out of focus like the distant mirage-warped mountains. For a moment, she imagined that she was stranded on the surface of Mars, with nothing but rock-strewn sand as far as the eye could see in all directions. Her crashed spaceship lay just over the horizon, and she had just narrowly escaped a band of vicious martians with her only surviving crew member in tow. She needed to regroup, to find a way off of this god-forsaken planet…

        The magic of her illusion dissipated with a growl of her stomach, reminding her that it had been some time since her last meal. She sighed.

        The lone Javelin soldier accompanying her slacked his head over his shoulder, his watchful eye turning its gaze on her. Cecilia caught the critical nature of his stare in her peripherals but paid it no mind. 

        Becker, according to the name tape that was neatly sewn above his breast pocket. He was young–just as boy-faced as John, really–with a smattering of freckles that had probably only grown in number with each minute he had spent baking in the blistering sun today. Surely his unit had drawn straws to determine who would get stuck with guard duty first. 

        He seemed to be taking it all in stride, at least, and hadn’t complained–or said a word at all, for that matter–for the duration of his shift, despite his skin having already reddened several shades since their arrival.

        With word from Captain Davy that his mission was a success, Lochte had gone to great lengths to have Cecilia’s makeshift satellite R&D center set up in the span of only a few hours–with construction still in progress on the main building, the premise of having radioactive matter on base without the proper protection was off the table. The idea of moving her research away from the base for the time being was actually Cecilia’s own, although after spending the afternoon twiddling her thumbs in the heat, she found herself beginning to regret the suggestion. 

        She was immensely grateful that Lochte saw the urgency in allowing her to get straight to work, but it was an odd sensation, being so suddenly whisked away from the hustle and bustle of a life she had just barely gotten used to after almost a year of solitary confinement. An unfinished novel sat on her bedside table eight miles away–she had forgotten to pack it–and she had to admit, she had been growing quite fond of having access to the humble selection of vending machines in the Command building, and being able to properly dry and set her hair after a shower. She was right back where she started now, trading the brand new blouses and slacks she had only barely begun to become reaccustomed to for the same drab, sand-colored uniform everyone else sported.

        At least it was her own gear this time, and not previously blessed with someone else’s mystery stains. An improvement.

        Her new friend in R&D–the illustrious Junto–had wanted to accompany her, and she would have been happy to have him out here now to save her from her boredom, but his compatriots swiftly shut down the premise of such an escapade. Too risky for their ringleader, considering the remoteness of the post. 

        Cecilia pressed her cheek against the cool metal pole, her fingers lazily following a groove set within it as they traveled down, down, down… Until her hand dropped limply to her side altogether.

        She recalled the words of her dear old professor, Dr. Welsh: Time spent idly waiting is time idly wasted.

        Cecilia turned, her eyes passing over the contents of her shoddy temporary home. A threadbare cot and blanket, a few small tables, and a mound of bulky equipment cases of varying sizes had been haphazardly arranged in one corner or another–Cecilia would get to them later–and draped upon a central table was a clear plastic lining, pinned down by Cecilia’s canteen. A single bulb hung above it, beaming down on the emptiness with great anticipation. It swung gently in the breeze.

        All this waiting…

        Cecilia’s boots crunched over the gravel as she exited the tent. She placed her hands on her hips and looked out over the sands around her. The desert was aglow with golden light that seemed to catch every crystalline grain, turning it into a sea of resplendent beauty.

        A distant, moving shape appeared over the horizon, warped by the waves of heat.

        Cecilia squinted, angling her brow away from the sun.

        There was a shuffling behind her, and she looked to Becker, who had already lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Judging by the lack of any alarming response, Cecilia could only assume that this far-off visitor was expected. 

        She watched as the shape moved and morphed as it bobbed over distant rocky outcrops, then finally emerged from a mirage.

        Two–no, three–men on horseback. 

        The steeds picked their way down a steep dune in single file, remarkably sure of their footing as sand spilled down around their hooves with each carefully-placed step. Their glossy coats shimmered and rippled in the sunlight like waves of chestnut and stony gray. Voices began to carry across the stillness of the desert, an amalgamation of animated chatters and steady, clipped remarks.

        “What on earth…” Cecilia muttered.

        The advancing riders were none other than Davy, John, and another–possibly that lumbering oaf of a Russian, by the look of his size in comparison to the others. They looked akin to a band of Arabian bandits straight out of a storybook, the three of them, as they leisurely made their way along the rocky landscape, buckled saddlebags bumping the horses’ twitching haunches with each step.

        Cecilia watched the group’s approach with incredulity. It really was the image of a living watercolor masterpiece laid out before her. Twinkling silver reins jingled like chimes as they struck against shimmering beads woven into the horses’ mane. The threads of the group’s enthusiastic conversation drifted toward her in the wind, the golden glow of a descending sun on their backs. There was an utterance of a phrase unintelligible to Cecilia. Laughter–yes, it was definitely the Russian. A horse whinnied. Was that a smile she saw on John’s face?

        She had only a singular exchange with the boy during their shared time here, aside from the accusations she had hurled at him during his interrogation–Cecilia was quite embarrassed by her behavior, in hindsight–but it was more than enough conversation to know that he didn’t belong in a place like this. 

        Butcher, they called him. 

        The name puzzled her. 

        The window of her humble quarters back on base overlooked the recreation yard, and over the course of the past few weeks, she had watched him from afar. She would often rise early for work, expecting to be the only one awake at such an hour–there was something comforting about the solitude, after growing so accustomed to it. But a glance out the window would inform her that she was very much not alone; the boy had risen even earlier, and was already hard at work folding tarps, or cleaning guns, or whatever asinine task he had been assigned to that morning. The last hours of the floodlights that aimed down into the recreation yard illuminated his singular form and chased away the darkness that teetered on the edge of dawn. 

        In these moments, he must have thought he was alone, too. 

        He behaved differently during the day, when the captain’s eyes–and all of Javelin’s–were on him. Every day, it became harder and harder to spot him under the afternoon sunlight amongst dozens of similarly-clad soldiers. Every day, it seemed, he lost a little more of himself to the blazing sun and the captain’s merciless badgering. Daylight stripped him of John and made him into Rycroft. 

        But in the hours before the birth of a new day, in the moments when the captain was elsewhere, she watched John emerge once more–just until daybreak. He would sulk around as he went about his duties, his posture slackened from the rigid standards of the captain. A shock of dark hair, already matted with sweat, spiked over his brow in a manner he would certainly catch flak for any other time of day. At times, his mouth moved in heated conversation no one could hear. 

        Was he a little crazy? Perhaps. But he was certainly no butcher. He was just a boy in a strange place, under strange circumstances. He had lost everything, had nothing left to live or die for other than what Javelin told him to. His story was not all that different from hers, and such was the sentiment that continued to draw Cecilia to her window every morning when she woke.

        Today, though, she was surprised to see something that was–up until now–utterly foreign to the boy’s face, as far as she was concerned. A smile.

        Such a thing suited him. 

        The horses plodded up to the tent, tails swishing and lips curling up to reveal large yellow-streaked teeth as they investigated the curious billowing canopy before them. John wore a look of immeasurable pride, cheeks flushed with exhilaration as he gave his steed’s neck a hearty pat. His countenance was framed by a blueish sky that now softly melted into warm pink hues, the sunlight painting the sharper edges of his face with molten brilliance.

        Another horse chuffed past behind Cecilia, close enough that she had to move forward a step to avoid being clipped. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked up just in time for Davy’s shadow to pass over her.

        “Becker.” The captain acknowledged Cecilia’s vigilant sunburnt guard with a nod. Davy clicked his tongue against his molars and maneuvered his mare in a tight circle, the reins loose in his hand. He certainly lacked the posture of any stranger to the saddle.

        “Is this a regular mode of transportation here?” Cecilia said, only half-joking.

        Ignoring her jest, Davy swung his leg over the worn leather saddle and dismounted. A large, dirt-streaked rifle was strapped across his back.

        “German,” he said to the Russian, ducking around the horse’s head as he hooked two fingers through the bridle. “Tie them off.”

        “A’right.”

        A nose-curling fog of body odor and horse excrement descended upon Cecilia as the men closed in on her once-serene encampment. A tail whipped through the air and slapped across her shoulder. She swatted it away and turned to see the rump of the Russian’s horse bobbing inches away from her head. 

        “Heh–devushka,” German said with a grin, tilting an invisible hat in mock apology.

        Cecilia set her jaw and turned her attention back to the captain, who was busy retrieving his gear from the saddlebags. 

        “Did you find him? The place–what was it like?” she asked, unable to stifle her curiosity any longer. 

        From behind her–again–a dry laugh curdled in the Russian’s throat. “How about–we send you back with horses, you see it for yourself. And be sure to take scenic route through next town over–say hello to old comrades for me.” He shuffled over with reins in one hand, the other hand preoccupied with picking the seam of his trousers out from his behind. He gave his leg a shake and sidled up next to her, his hulking frame craning down to her level. “I think this is good arrangement for everyone, yes?”

        His remark managed to coax a wry smile out of Davy–though the captain quickly tried to hide it with an itch of his nose as he busied himself with another pack. Cecilia fanned away the unwelcome heat that German’s words had left next to her ear, choosing not to dignify his ribbing with a response. Only further spurred by her reaction of disgust, though, the Russian guffawed again as he led his horse around the other side of Davy’s.

        “Cecilia–”

        She turned with a whip of her braid and a sigh, half-expecting another ruffian to come forward with something clever to add, but instead she came face-to-face with John. He was still catching his breath from the long ride, his lips parted with the corners turned ever so slightly upwards. His sand-crusted eyes shone brightly from under a mop of tousled dark hair.

        “Yes…?” she said with a touch of unintended annoyance, searching his face for any hint of whether or not the boy below her window intended to join in on the grand joke everyone else was apparently enjoying at her expense. 

        His smile disappeared and he drew back a step like a scolded dog, as if he hadn’t actually expected any sort of acknowledgement from her–let alone a response–and now had no idea what to do with her attention now that he had it. He seemed to catch the intent behind her scrutiny, at least, and quickly raised his palms. 

        “I just–” he stuttered, a train wreck of words unfolding behind his teeth. “You should see what we–” Before he could finish his helplessly mangled attempt at a pleasantry, Davy grasped him firmly by the shoulder and pushed him away. 

        “Enough, Casanova. Go help German.”

        John cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he stumbled toward the side of the tent, narrowly avoiding tripping over one of the stakes. 

        Not a Butcher’s bone in that lanky boy’s body, Cecilia thought, bringing her hand to the back of her neck. The coolness of her palm brought some relief to the stinging kiss of the sun on her skin as she watched John disappear, thinking about how much softer–kinder–his eyes looked this time than when she had seen him last.

        She was jostled back to reality as Davy pushed a sandy canvas kit bag into her arms, knocking a premature breath from her lungs. She clumsily folded her arms around it just in time to save it from dropping on her toes, shuffling her stance with the effort to maintain her grasp; the bag’s weight was oddly distributed, like a giant bean bag chock-full of nuts and bolts. 

        “What’s this?” she huffed, readjusting it in her arms with a grimace.

        “Courtesy of Batoor Jagdal.” Davy dusted his palms off against each other and unslung the rifle from his back. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

        The glass.

        Wasting not a second further, she spun on her heel and whisked the bag into her cool, dark sanctuary, sidling up to the covered table and gingerly setting the bag upon it. She took hold of the metal zipper and paused, her eyes flitting around her. 

        Alone. Good. She didn’t need anyone else tainting this moment.

        Cecilia exhaled, pulling the zipper along its length and worming her fingers inside. She wriggled them around until they found an entanglement of cool metal pieces–what felt like coins–all strung together. She took hold of what she could and carefully freed it from the tangled mass within the bag. 

        “Oh…” Her breath was stolen from her lungs as the light of the setting sun caught the faces of metal discs that wove between her fingers.

        A necklace. 

        Tiny hand-hammered plates of metal–perhaps an oxidized silver, or even aged gilet–adorned the intricate chain with what seemed to be a floral inspiration. The chain led to the focal point of the pendant, upon which four dark gemstones had been embedded amongst similar, smaller decorative plates.

        Cecilia traced her thumb along the jagged beads of dark ore. 

        Tanzania. 

        It had all felt like a half-forgotten dream until now. A nauseating chill plucked its way up Cecilia’s spine, one vertebrae at a time.

        A momentary flash of a vision–a skeletal figure embedded in such glossy depths–tugged at her attention. It reached out to her, a scream frozen in the cavernous, lifeless pit of its mouth. Its jaw widened, and widened further still, until the bones cracked and curled back on themselves, summoning her to peer further into the churning pool of blackness within. She could hear its agony. It rippled through the glass and up her fingertips. She could feel the scream pressing against the base of her skull, beating against it.

        She felt a presence at the tent’s entrance and quickly looked up. 

        Davy ducked through the opening and approached the table. He raked his fingertips through his unkempt mustache absentmindedly, regarding the spoils of the day’s escapade. 

        Cecilia shook her waking nightmare from her mind. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, swallowing the sick taste that had risen to her tongue. 

        Christ. She was suddenly so warm.

        “The readings,” she began, clearing her throat. “You’re certain that you were picking up less than eighty counts per minute where you found these?”

        “It varied–but yeah, about five, ten in either direction of eighty.”

        Cecilia nodded, willing her heart to return to its resting rate. “Good–that’s good…” she trailed off as she searched the table for her own caela counter. Her wandering gaze caught flecks of red on the captain’s uniform. Her eyes traveled upward, only now taking note of the alarming amount of blood that adorned his clothing. 

        “What happened?” Cecilia pressed. “The jeweler–”

        “Dead,” Davy said as simply as if he were acknowledging the weather forecast as he reached across the table. “There’s more of it, you know–” He took the bag by the bottom corners and unceremoniously upturned it, spilling the contents out over the table. Metal jangled on metal, and flashes of black glass glimmered like sparks in the light.

        The crystalline embers craved to be stoked. Begged for it.

        “Jesus–careful!” Cecilia pleaded, her hand automatically shooting out over the pile of gleaming jewelry. She met Davy’s judgmental stare. 

        His eyes flickered down to the necklace she now held tightly to her chest, as if it were a babe that had to be shielded from his recklessness.

        “Please,” Cecilia added, hoping to punctuate her brazen demand with at least a modicum of civility, as she set the plated chain down on the table and straightened up. Davy’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but he folded his arms against his chest and took a step back.

        Cecilia upturned a crate to reveal her caela counter, and she switched it on, passing it over the table. It crackled to life with a series of clicks–not a worrying frequency, thank God. Davy lingered, eyeing the small screen.

        77…82…83…

        Cecilia released a breath she wasn’t even aware that she had been holding, shedding her fatigue jacket and throwing it over a crate behind her. She quickly readjusted the tuck of her white tee and squatted level with the table, observing how the sunlight permeated the faceted forms of the black glass. 

        “I would recommend showers and a thorough laundering of those uniforms when you return–your exposure was nominal, but it’s always best to err on the side of caution,” she said, somewhat distracted by the manner in which the droplets of light melted into the rich depths of the ore. A particularly large jewel embedded in the bramble of metal caught her eye, and she carefully reached into the tangled pile to free it.

        A thick, bangled bracelet had been hammered around the quarter-sized chunk of black glass, holding it fast to the body of the piece. The cuff bore carved markings, although they appeared to be of a more celestial nature than those of the previous piece she had inspected. Cecilia was hardly an astronomer by any means, but she recognized the forms of a few of the more well-known constellations.

        It was only now that she realized that all of the samples of glass before her had been set into the jewelry in its raw form, each crystal unaltered–unworked–and unique in shape and size–

        “I’m not chasing down any more of this,” Davy’s voice cut through the silence, his tone suddenly level in a way that demanded Cecilia’s acknowledgement.

        She regarded him from across the pile of gleaming black gemstones. Whatever his reasoning was–whatever qualms he possessed–they were all wrapped up tight and tucked away under his bloodstained uniform, buried under the layers of steel sewn into his vest. His eyes–tired, yet sober–matched the weight of his words in their returned gaze. 

        What else had he found?

        Cecilia chewed on the inside of her cheek, but finally relented with a nod. 

        The sunlight that shone in through the tent's entrance was suddenly eclipsed by the massive, sweaty shadow of German.

        “Boss is on his way,” he said simply, his voice booming into the space with no regard for the delicate balance Cecilia had just barely established with the captain.

        A distant pounding of hooves against the sand came into earshot. 

        “Oh–and Shahzar, also,” the soldier added with a simpleton’s understanding of the English language, gesturing outside.

        Davy shot a final glance at the tumulus of metal and glass upon the table, then followed German out. Voices rose as the newest arrival cantered up alongside the tent. 

        Cecilia shook her head, excusing herself from the ridiculous expectation that she would follow them, and stood. She gently set the cuff back on the table and tried to collect her scattered thoughts.

        Oh yes, the shape–

        “Are they not alike the stars?” said a voice like pouring black tea; warm, and dark. 

        Cecilia turned to a flow of green entering the tent. A sudden feeling of vulnerability plucked the hairs on the nape of her neck. She pulled her braid aside and watched the man trail his fingers into the thistly pile of jewelry. 

        “I see you know this,” green eyes met hers in the low shade. A ring with twin stones lifted in his fingers. The table, the sand, and the underside of the canopy were washed with the green of his robes, but the stones denied all color. Nothing escaped their midnight core. 

        “Stargazer,” he said.

        “I–”

        “Shahzar,” Davy ducked into the shadow between them. “The horses.”

        They left, taking the living color with them and leaving Cecilia to the void of her mind once more. Her questions spun rapidly in disarray, her previous thread of thought tangled in knots. She traced them as she could and was left crossed over herself. 

        Cecilia shook her head and squeezed her eyes for a moment. When her eyes opened again, she allowed them to stare at the collection of jewelry. 

        The glass began to pull. 

        Her eyes held, unfocused, sinking deep into the colorless constellations before her. The nomad’s words echoed in circles. Somewhere behind them, a low thrum beat.

        She shivered suddenly, and the feeling broke as she looked away. Frustration filled the hole it left–then a spark. She found herself digging into her palm with her thumb. 

        Cecilia stepped out of the tent. Shahzar–she needed to speak with him. Unsure of what, she felt commanded by a warmth to take this moment to talk. Intuition, maybe? 

        John, Davy, and German bustled around the horses, patting their shoulders and making a drivel of conversation. Shahzar had already mounted, gathering each of the reins from the men. 

        Her chest burned, and her head filled with a dull hum. But then her vision grew bright, and the shapes of Davy’s squad blurred. She stopped, holding a hand to her face to block the sun. 

        A moment or two passed, and she felt oddly cool. The surge in her ribs had gone, and her question for Shahzar fuddled into deja vu.

        What am I doing?

        The amalgamation of voices became abrasive to Cecilia’s ears. The party as a whole–the colorful nomad as well–had now certainly overstayed their welcome. She turned, hoping to retreat back into the tent before anyone noticed she had slipped away, but she froze mid-step as her eye caught a bolt of robin’s egg blue ahead.

        Lochte stood just outside the tent’s entrance, his silken shirt fluttering with the wind as it fought to be free from the constraints of his trousers’ belted waist. His spotless brown loafers were planted firmly atop the sand, as if the desert itself knew better than to muss his carefully manicured presence.

        A smile creased the corners of his eyes as he watched the gathering before him. It was uncertain how long he had been there, but it was apparent that he was in no rush to be acknowledged. He seemed to be content simply observing, like a proud parent watching his children’s messy, bumbling interactions with playfellows. He raised his chin as Cecilia’s eyes met his.

        “Mr. Lochte,” Cecilia greeted, trudging her way back to the tent.

        “Please, no need for formalities,” Lochte insisted, gesturing to the interior of the tent. “Shall we?”

        Cecilia stepped past him into the cool, quiet shade.

        Lochte brushed his palm along the side of his hair, expertly flattening the few windswept strands into submission. “I apologize for how long it’s been since we’ve had the chance to speak face-to-face. I know this–” he motioned to their humble surroundings– “is much less than what you deserve, but I must say–you’re even starting to impress our dear Nolan with your willingness to adapt.”

        Horne, impressed? What a comical thought. Cecilia was certain by this point that Lochte had made it his mission to build a stable working relationship between her and Jevelin’s CIA liaison through he-saids and she-saids. Mutual praise by proxy. 

        “Thank you again for arranging all of this,” Cecilia said, pressing her hands together in gratitude. “I know you’ve been busy, and I really wouldn’t have pushed so hard to get things moving so quickly, but those photos that Nikolaev–”

        “Humor me, Cecilia–this black glass… What properties does it possess that make it so destructive?”

        “Well,” Cecilia began, remembering that Lochte was under the impression that she was familiar with the stuff. “The caela molecules, and how unstable they are in this form–hence the radiation… I wouldn’t want to bore you with the specifics...” 

        Flaxen eyelashes framed a piercing glint in Lochte’s eyes as he grinned. “On the contrary. I find the musings of brilliant minds quite illuminating.” His eyes turned downward as he traced a slender finger along one of the jewels.

        Cecilia smiled, her mind racing to come up with the most plausible scientific hash she could come up with on the spot.

        “But–” Pascal folded his hands together and looked back up at her, beaming. “I know you’re eager to get to work, and I don’t expect you to play professor for my delectation when time is so precious… Another time, perhaps.”

        Cecilia stepped forward, sensing her opportunity.

        “Mr. Lochte, ah–Pascal–” It still invoked such an odd feeling, referring to a man of Lochte’s status and stature so informally.  “When the weapon detonated in Tanzania–”

        “Tragic,” Lochte mused, his head bowing in penitence.

        “Yes–” Cecilia’s momentum faltered, thrown off by his sentiment. “Yes, it was–but… When the bomb detonated, the resulting heat and caela radioactivity created a large deposit of black glass at the site of Caela Plant Mischa–I saw it with my own eyes. I wonder if it would be possible to have someone retrieve a sample of it from the source–Or even–if-if I could go, it would be far more beneficial for me to compare it to these samples–”

        “I would truly stop at nothing to aid you in your efforts, Cecilia,” Lochte said, clasping his hands behind his back. “But I’m afraid that Tanzania is rather off-limits, as it were. The Soviets have damage control measures to rival our own.” He chuckled. “We took a considerable risk in pulling you and Captain Davy out when we did, and the Soviets have only clenched their grasp on the country’s borders and airspace even tighter in the months since. We haven’t even been able to fly reconnaissance anywhere near the area.”

        Cecilia offered a quick, understanding nod, feeling like she had asked for too much already.

        “But,” Lochte continued, softening his tone, “I’ll extend your wishes to our contacts in Washington and see what we can arrange in the future–if things open up.”

        It was the kindest ‘sorry, but no’ Cecilia had ever been granted, and although she was disappointed, she appreciated the courtesy.

        “Now,” Lochte said, moving towards the rear exit of the tent, “we’ll leave you to it. Remember–If there’s anything you need, anything at all,” he gestured to the handheld radio on her table, “I’m just a call away. I will be sure to let you know when the EPA has given us a date.”

        Cecilia smiled and nodded in farewell, watching as he stepped up into the idling, soot-belching truck that waited outside. Davy and German piled in, but John lingered for a moment with his hand on the door, squinting into the depths of the tent. He smiled when his gaze found Cecilia, and he offered a wave. 

        Such a simple thing, and so inconsequential. And yet, Cecilia felt warmth bloom within her chest as she returned the gesture, watching him clamber into the cab with the others.

        The truck coughed out another, final black cloud of smog, then rumbled away, the humming decrescendo of the day’s symphony.