The last residues of daylight wade through the windshield. Dusk comes in short intervals of rain and shine, as capricious as the ever-changing sunset glow. Their military truck rolls through gravel at seventy miles an hour. The terrain is slightly damp, and each turn of the wheels leaves crackles and crunches. The ambience is soothing and quiet.
Peeking through cloudy skies are some slivers of sunbeam. The top of the windshield is covered by a gray sheet, fairly dense but enough for some light to get through. The material is slightly see-through – must be some sort of protective veil, though the driver, Yang Rong, doesn’t mind a bit of sun exposure. He fiddles with a few buttons on the panel and slides the veil closer to the passenger seat.
Now, the passenger is shadowed entirely and by contrast, Yang Rong is dipped in golden hues.
Upon sensing movement to his left, Noah opens his eyes. He’s leaned against the declined seat, his hair pooled under in every disheveled direction. Come dawn or dusk, rain or shine, Noah always has certain lethargy. His shirt is pulled down by the collar, crimped by the seams and sleeves. His trousers are loose enough to be considered sleepwear, clasped in place by a haphazardly looped belt.
He stifles a yawn and blinks himself awake. He turns to the colonel with a slight frown.
Yang Rong catches his stare. The man’s lips curve up softly – very attractively, now that all of his noir features are showcased in fine light. High-tipped nose, angled nose bridge, structured jawline that shows more prominently in sideview. Contrary to his normal appearance however, Yang Rong has eye bags that extend centimeters lower than usual. He looks tired.
“Hmm?” Yang Rong’s voice is caught in a drawl as well. Husky and low, sluggish too. He reaches behind the seat, takes a black jacket, and drapes it on top of Noah. With one hand still on the steering wheel, Yang Rong leans over to ruffle his hair. “Good morning again, little kitten.”
Three days after heat and Noah’s symptoms are unusually intense – he isn’t usually this lethargic, let alone from a sporadic, pseudo-heat of sorts. He’d woken up roughly five hours ago – earlier than Yang Rong, he might add – only to be hit with a wave of dizziness and knock out once more. Another hour later, he finds himself no longer lying on top of the colonel, but placed decently comfortably on the backseats. Then, another hour later, he’d woken up to the scent of tobacco.
Yang Rong, half-naked and with his eyes closed, was lazed on the driver’s seat, calmly smoking a cigarette. His back was lightly glazed in sweat and his fingers were mildly shaking – his face remained calm, however. He had caught Noah staring, had promptly stubbed the cig on the armrest, and had given a small smile.
A light curve of his lips like he did just now, attractive and no less fatigued.
“Good morning, little fox,” the colonel had said. “Did I wake you?”
“…No,” Noah had replied with a single shake of his head. “It is fine.”
He had climbed into the passenger’s seat, had been coerced into eating a stale biscuit, coerced into putting on a seatbelt… but had also somehow fallen asleep before he could refuse.
Now, three hours later, he finds himself sitting in the same position, uncomfortably strapped to the passenger seat, his arms and legs constrained to a few degrees of freedom. Noah stares as the colonel double-checks the clasp, fixes the collar of his loose shirt, pats him down placatingly and ruffles his hair once more for good measure.
“Seatbelts really do reduce crash injuries by half,” the man informs him with a smile before retracting back. Thankfully, Yang Rong keeps his eyes on the road as he drives – he is, as always, incredibly alert. However, the signs of fatigue are very clear. “Be good and sit back, alright? Rong-ge will take you there safely.”
Noah examines his state with a light frown. The dark eye circles indicate many sleepless days.
“Yang Rong,” he murmurs, his words coming out slightly raspy. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Yang Rong chuckles lightly. “Kitten, I believe you’ve slept enough for the both of us. Rest assured, your Rong-ge’s driving skills aren’t impaired regardless if I function on one hour or five full hours.”
There is a bitter scent that emits from the colonel’s body – it’s mildly of antiseptic, alcohol and smoke. Noah’s line of sight lowers from Yang Rong’s collarbone to his upper torso, then to the unbandaged areas that peek out of his combat uniform. The clothes are a new set, still damaged but less shredded. Yang Rong has a certain habit that Noah’s come to identify – when out of battle, he’d roll his sleeves to forearm, undo the top buttons of his shirt, unbuckle the waist strap for comfortable movement.
A whole minute of silence (Yang Rong allows his scrutiny without a word) and then Noah says quietly, “XA-027 isn’t meant to be injected. It’s a tranquilizer, Yang Rong. A single dosage may be enough to knock out a high-threat, large-sized anomaly in an instant.”
“You are incredibly perceptive,” Yang Rong murmurs with the hint of a smile. “How did you figure, little kitten?
Noah finds it inexplicably difficult to look the man in the eye. “…Your blood. Scent and taste.”
“Half a liter of my blood throws your circadian rhythm astray,” Yang Rong says to him teasingly. “Your sleep-wake cycle has turned quite problematic, Noah.”
The conversation is odd. Awkward but not quite. The both of them talk with heavy contemplation. Their words are pointless, but their expressions are layered in gray film. Noah is all downcast eyes and slight twitches. Yang Rong is carefully disguised smiles, little frivolities.
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
Ahead of them, the road is gradually thinning. Stripped trees and barren hills are part into a more residential area – not that residential accounts for much regardless, considering the next village over is as ghostly as any other. Four decades ago, Vinctus Village was home to fishermen and wild hunters. Unfortunate that the nearby lake has dried. The location still sees some intermittent rainfall, but solar winds will no doubt strip the terrain arid and bare in the future, near or far.
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He goes on an aimless spiel without himself noticing. “Radiation-resistant glass takes years of experimenting for definite results and even so, testing on animals is hardly a substitute for humans. The lines may be blurred if continuous studies can prove correlations between humans and anomalies, match DNA with radioactivity, understand morphs and possibilities. It is only that the sample size is small. The world’s measly population isn’t willing to take higher risks, but there are some…?”
He trails off when he feels a pair of eyes probing his side. “…What is it?”
Upon eye contact, Yang Rong only tilts forward slightly and says with an increasingly widening curve on his lips, “Hmm? Please continue talking, little fox. I only think you are infinitely more attractive like this.”
Noah promptly stops speaking.
He is quite petulant – Yang Rong would have to be aware – and when pegged, Noah would only do the opposite. He schools himself back into stoicism with zero regard for Yang Rong, much to the latter’s disappointment. Disappointment brims on amusement, however, when Yang Rong catches a pretty tint of coral on his pale ears – flushed, but not so much in embarrassment as it is in muddle.
There’s implication in Yang Rong’s words that skitters back to nights and weeks prior. Noah isn’t prone to address their flawed… acquaintanceship (but not quite) or relationship (but not quite either). But Yang Rong, straightforward, firm, less turbulent than he, has a way of unraveling him every way. The colonel leans toward him, those green eyes twinkling not in tease but in something much more genuine. Perhaps relief.
“Truthfully, Noah,” Yang Rong whispers, unfairly magnetically, “the scientific drabbles coming out of your mouth are much more pleasing to hear.”
“…” Noah taps his fingers softly against the control panel, gesturing to brake. “…I will switch with you.”
Yang Rong appeases the change in topic easily. His eyebrows quirk up in questioning. “I wasn’t aware you could drive an armored truck, little kitten. If so, I would’ve designated you as replacement driver to Yoo Seok long ago. You’ve freeloaded your stay – no work, no chores – and only now, you tell me you can operate the helm.”
“I never said I couldn’t drive,” Noah retorts. “A tactical truck is no different than a sedan.”
“I do beg to differ. This is a new model, year 2064, equipped with solar-resistant linings, steel-reinforced tires, hidden artillery and… in cases of emergencies, a self-destruct mechanism,” Yang Rong says with a teasing grin. “Turn the ignition key the wrong way and the vehicle may just blow up, hm?”
Noah furrows his eyebrows. “…I don’t believe the 2064 model is any different than the one of the year prior.”
“There are several differences in design. The control is fairly similar, I suppose, but…” Yang Rong’s attention is back on the road, but his eyes shift to the side. “I really didn’t think you could drive, little kitten, else you would’ve run away. I gave an opportunity, even.”
Noah shifts his gaze to the road – it’s breaking dusk, and all that’s left are small splotches of violet among navy blue skies. The dimness hides the ugly, cracked terrain. “There were two,” Noah says slowly. “Opportunities, I mean. You were careless, Colonel Yang, and I could have left before boarding the ship that time.”
Yang Rong turns toward him, both of their expressions undecipherable. “That’s right. Why did you not?”
There isn’t an answer, but it seems the colonel had expected silence anyway. With a small, resigned curve of his lips, Yang Rong returns his attention to driving, swerving through miles of gravel, knocking over small birds and more underdeveloped endotherms. When the road converges into a broken-down highway, anomalies gather in droves. Among smaller fowls are ravenous beasts and swarms of flies.
They’re flocking toward several human corpses, all of them recently deceased – a day or two, from the state of their decomposition. It may even be some short hours with how mangled their limbs are. Bits and pieces of decayed flesh are littered the rain-damped ground, laid for the animals to feast. A few meters away is a car overturned, one of those older models that stopped manufacturing four decades ago.
Yang Rong comments on the scene. “Accidents are common especially among early-21st century car models. There have been countless cases of mechanical errors and irreparable engine damage. Coupled with the unavailability of gasoline, many… civilians opt to produce some improper substitutes. Of course, there are some ways to procure it, though I suppose it comes down to… capitalism?”
Noah turns his head away as a large sparrow swoops to peck at the remains of brain matter. A closer look would send bouts of nausea. “Currency is only a means of resource control. The city border allows the trading of food and necessities, but the rate is incredibly high for little return.”
“The Nexus purchases rare species and never-seen anomalies,” Yang Rong responds. “The offer is quite hefty.”
“And the price to pay to procure those anomalies is heftier,” Noah says simply. “If fully armed military men cannot deal with them, what hope is there for people in the slums?”
“The city or the slums?” Yang Rong asks. “Which do you prefer, little kitten?”
In the far distance comes a whirring sound. The sound of engines revved up and roaring, of tires clanking on the ground, tons of metal rolling across basalt. Noah watches the two approaching military vehicles, focuses on the turrets propped on their hood. The shots go off one after another, the heavy artillery weapons slamming dust and shrapnel down the ground.
“…I don’t believe I fit in either, Colonel Yang.”
“I see.”
Ahead, one of the vehicles take a sharp dive into the railing. It had taken a sudden hard turn on the road, spun two rotations and crashed into the steel road guard. Subsequently, the vehicle following it doesn’t brake in time, heavily colliding against the back plate. The second truck – a lighter, less durable model – takes the full brunt of impact. It upturns, skids harshly across concrete and bulldozes into a cloud of smoke.
The crash is lethal and while the tactical truck itself remains in one dented piece, its passengers are no doubt suffering worse injuries. Whichever driver operating the first vehicle doesn’t manage to rev up the engine again, either. A technical malfunction, perhaps, though the artillery still remains intact. The turret is still firing, pelting away the flock of birds coming their way.
“One of the more active assault squads,” Yang Rong comments rather casually. “A 2064 model vehicle, just like ours, though theirs is modded. They may be a more elite force or they’re a branch of one.”
“Oh,” Noah only says simply.
“A strange road for them to take,” Yang Rong muses to himself. “There aren’t very many missions assigned here. I reckon they’ve come from the southeast base, taken the intersection to Vinctus, taken several other strange turns, I suppose, and the current destination is… perhaps northwest. The 31st District base.”
“Mm.”
“We’ll speed through them in no time, little kitten,” Yang Rong says. “Don’t look so frightened, hm? Military folk are simple forks on the road.”
Or so is what he says, but the road is entirely blocked. They could potentially squeeze to the leftmost lane, but they’d also risk toppling downhill, plummeting to a completely arid lake – and that is an unappealing risk to take. No U-turn is possible here either, for the highway is too unfortunately narrow.
They drive further.
Soon, the silhouettes of the soldiers become clearer. Three of them come into view as they crawl out of the first vehicle. The passenger windows are smashed but not from the collision – a likely mechanical malfunction had prevented them from opening the doors. The men are clad in standard black attire, their rifles strapped behind their backs and their shirts buckled with numerous pockets. The men are well-equipped and quite imposing. They’ve probably been through many battles. They don uniforms that are tattered, wrinkled and unclean, carry weapons that certainly pack firepower, and with much usage too.
Exceptionally outstanding soldiers are few and far in between (many have fallen in the battlefield, after all), but training standards are certainly strict enough to mold any common person into a gun-wielder. The three soldiers are probably alphas as well – they exude a certain air to them and subconsciously, Noah fidgets with his seatbelt. Yang Rong catches the movement with his eyes but doesn’t say anything.
The colonel cranks up the accelerator, scaling hundreds of meters a second, sludging patches of dirt and debris behind them. He’s determined to bulldoze through the wreckage.
The soldiers haven’t caught onto their approaching vehicle, for they’re still in battle. Yang Rong pays zero heed to them even as more and more soldiers begin climbing out of the broken-down vehicle. The men are now engaged in close-combat and with support of heavy artillery, the battlefield is covered in smoke and debris. Through the smokescreen are white sparks of ammunition, distorted movements and hectic footsteps.
Yang Rong strains his eyes to see past the chaos. Green eyes flicker from left to right, weighing their options – risk rolling over the road guard and topple under, or pass the smokescreen, running straight through gunfire.
“Little kitten, which direction do you like? I reckon we should go straight – we won’t topple off hill, but we’re likely to be bombarded with… bombs, bullets, and perhaps a couple of those bloodthirsty birds.”
Noah stares at their two equally-as-appalling options. Their vehicle is bulletproof. Or hopefully it should be, a 2064 model and all that Yang Rong’s bragged about (“a new model, year 2064, bulletproof and extremely durable, the blood, sweat and tears of the military, manufactured to be perfect for a handsome man like me,” he had said).
However, being in the center of fire doesn’t exactly send excitement down Noah’s spine, regardless of how armored the tactical truck is. The idea sends adrenaline, for sure, but they’re on the path to an early death.
Noah replies after some deliberation, “Wherever you like, Colonel Yang.”
“Hmm?” Yang Rong chuckles slightly. “Leaving the choice to me?”
“Mn,” Noah only hums. “I trust your judgment.”
At that, something in Yang Rong is triggered. And so too does he crank the accelerator even more, speeding well over a hundred miles an hour, slamming on the pedal with reckless abandon. At Noah’s surprised (and mildly terrified) expression, Yang Rong gives him a low smirk.
“Noah,” he says teasingly. “I wasn’t aware you trusted me much. Willing to follow me to certain death?”
“…If you focus on the road when you drive, perhaps we’d be alive by the end of the night, Yang Rong.”
“But you are much more pleasant to look at, kitten.” Yang Rong only flashes him an irritating grin – irritatingly handsome, that Noah is only slightly affected. “When you blush, does the color retain on your cat ears?”
Noah, with a disgruntled look, responds, “I am not a cat.”
“Then, does the color retain on your fox ears?”
Noah doesn’t know why he’s bothered to reply, albeit with some hesitance, “…Presumably, physical changes may reflect onto my morphed state, but logically, there will be a shift in placement. Piercings, for example, may be moved to the lower posterior. I haven’t much experience with my form…” Noah takes a small peek at the colonel who is listening very intently, his twinkling green eyes insinuating for him to go on. With a defeated voice, Noah concludes simply, “…Mn. It does.”
Abruptly, before Colonel Yang can recover from whatever spiritual alignment he’s facing, an enormous blue heron crashes against their windshield. The both of them brace for the unexpected impact, their bodies lurching forward painfully.
“Crap—” Yang Rong sounds out in gasps. “Sorry kitten, are you alr—”
Before he can finish, the ground ruptures beneath them.
Heavy artillery from the forefront had lodged countless holes on the highway, the cement ground fissuring from strain. The turret bullets have the firepower of mini bombs, and each shot sends seismic waves down their spines. Their vehicle spins an erratic turn as the road cracks even further. Uncontrollably, their wheels skid across the cracks, roll through the steel railing, collides harshly against the vehicle in front, which in turn hits the other, overturned vehicle.
Yang Rong slams the brakes immediately, but the explosions propel them to certain catastrophe. The sudden braking lurches the entire vehicle forward. Hard steel grates against aluminum, sparks fly from friction, the side mirror snaps off entirely, and everything is a rough mess.
Both Noah and Yang Rong are slammed forward, their visions blackening from impact.
Around them are incessant sounds of gunfire, bullets hitting concrete, more hectic shouts, some angry yells – none of which are registered to the two unconscious young men.
A deluge of sand, stone and concrete pelts at their windows. Glass is shattered from outside to in. Yang Rong is the first to wake up a short five seconds after impact, quickly brushing aside the glass shards and turning to check on the young man next to him.
“—Noah,” he calls out in panic, reaching past the deflating air bags to check on Noah’s pulse – normal, not stuttered. He’d only blacked out. Some pieces of glass had sliced through his cheek. No other visible injuries. Yang Rong lets out a small sigh of relief, but he still reaches for the first aid kit immediately. His movements are unsteady, his fingers slightly shaking, and unbeknownst to himself, there is blood running from his scalp down to his temple.
Noah opens his eyes only a few seconds after. He’s groggy, disoriented and weak, but not in nearly as bad a state as Yang Rong, who’d hit his head upon collision. The man seems to be having problems focusing, his hand-eye coordination all sorts of unnatural. A concussion. Noah reaches to touch him, tentatively brushing against a forming, bloodied bruise on his scalp.
“…Yang Rong,” his voice comes out coarsely, “…are you alright?”
A bit of surprise, then Yang Rong takes his hand away and presses a light kiss on his palm – an affirmation, hinting of something more. The colonel leans forward with a relieved smile on his face. “…Never been better, little fox.”
Author’s rambling: 3.5k words…?! why do i do this to myself, i really want to keep my chapters shorter -sob sob-
Sheesh more trouble!!!! Gahh Rong ge you are bleeding from your head yet you are smiling and grinning like an idiot….this little fox will be the death of you!!!!!QAQ😩
THANK YOU
❤
Thanks for the chapter 🍆
OMG thanks for the update 💓
But YR please be safe or else how can Noah depend on youu
In what world are you, OKAY??
IM SURE IM NOT
BUT WHATEVS 😌
For both YR and author…. are you alright?
well, it’s YR we’re talking about about, so… I guess his clown is acting up again :V
and, author-san, what happened to ye? suddenly released 3 chapters in one go…
Thanks!!!!
3.5k of Yang Rong’s shamelessness!
thanks for the chapter <3
Noooo ~ 😱 ~ The 2064 model !!! 😱
AHHHHHHHHH CUTEEE!! Okay, but no, YR you are bleeding, and that’s is obviously alarming. But Noah’s reaction is cute regardless, and he is especially cute when he is being intelligent. In that sense, I relate to the dumdum YR hahahaha
Just long as the quality is good the quantity is acceptable. 🥰🥰
I know it is probably tuff but don’t feel chapter’s need to be shorter but look after yourself
As a dedicated and avid reader… I beg you NOT to make shorter chapters.
ƪ(‾.‾“)┐ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ(ノ^_^)ノ