We retraced our earlier path through the tunnels. Before every turn, I expected to find Constantine waiting for us. But each time we rounded a corner, the corridor was empty. Where the hell is he? Did he leave us? Memory only carried us so far. The shafts blended in the darkness, and soon, we were retreading old ground.

Peter’s weight grew heavier around my neck. His legs slowed, scuffing and fumbling along the slick concrete as he tried to support himself. We veered into an offshoot, but the tunnel looked the same as the last and the one before that. We were lost, but I didn’t have the heart to admit it. My chest pounded. Somewhere above us, the food supply for nearly a billion people was engulfed in flames. The entire capital guard was likely searching for the culprits, and there we were, turned around in an underground alley, fighting against time until Peter inevitably bled out.

Needing a moment, I gingerly unwrapped Peter’s arm and let him slide down the wall. “We could really use that map your brother had,” I said.

“Yeah,” Peter said, coughing with a slight gurgle. “That would be nice.”

“How far do these tunnels go?”

“They extend all throughout the city.”

“So, theoretically, we could already be inside the walls?”

“Theoretically, we could be under the toilet of the capital,” Peter said, letting out a small chuckle that induced another wet cough.

“Well, the secretary general pissing on us would be par for the course,” I replied, trying to keep him talking. Peter groaned between light laughter.

“What’s par for the course?”

“Like in golf,” I said, straining my eyes to see further down the shaft.

“I’m not familiar.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, not a clue. Something from your time?”

“I guess so. It was a… well, it wasn’t exactly a sport. More of a hobby, I suppose.”

“Tell me about it,” Peter said.

“You swing a club - a stick that thickens at the base, at a ball on the ground and try to get the ball in a small hole far away.”

Peter chuckled again, pulling himself up. “Why?”

That’s a great question. “It was a pretty common hobby.”

“Well, if I make it back to the tower, maybe you can show me.”

“When we make it back,” I replied. In the distance, the smooth tunnel ceiling broke, giving way to a shadowed disk. I squinted, tracing a line extending from the center to the ground. “Come on, I think there’s a ladder up ahead.”

Peter struggled with every rung but managed to make the climb. I went first, pushing a manhole cover up and to the side. Beyond it was a tight alley, not more than a dumpster width wide. The first glancing rays of the dawning sun fought their way down through the forest of buildings. We had made it to the other side of the wall, but I didn’t know where. I pulled Peter up, asking, “Does any of this look familiar to you?”

His drooping skin turned a blue-hued white around a set of dark sunken eyes. “Everything looks familiar, Jack. Because everything looks the same.”

A grin pulled at the corners of my mouth. “You know what I meant.”

The alley extended around a slight bend before opening into a bustling street. Brown blouses flowed aimlessly, catching us like a riptide. Peter tried to keep up, but soon the pace was too quick. He pushed through the torrent into another alley. I just barely caught a glimpse of the top of his head moving away and weaved through the crowd to catch up.

Drops of blood pebbled the ground as I followed Peter into the alley. “We have to get you to a hospital,” I called after him.

His blood-slicked hand against the wall, Peter looked back and said, “I can’t. I have to—” he winced, dropping to the ground. I rushed over to help. All color had drained from his face. His breathing was rapid but shallow.

“You have to get to a doctor. You need a hospital. We’ll just tell them you were hit trying to escape a riot. They won’t know the difference.”

“No, I mean I can’t go to a hospital because I’m unpermitted.”

“So? What does that matter? Don’t they have to help? How would they even know?” I asked, helping him apply more pressure to the wound.

“I don’t have a chip. They’ll turn me away, because they have to.”

Images of huddled vagrants standing around burning barrels came flooding back. It made sense. If the government didn’t build housing for them, why would they let them into the hospitals?

“Well…” I stammered.

“We need to get to a safe house,” Peter finally said.

“Can’t we go back to the tower?”

“No. If they follow us, we’ll just get everyone killed.”

“OK, safe house then. Where’s the closest one?”

Peter let out a guttural grunt as he stood. I took the base of my shirt and wiped the red handprint off the wall.

“I almost made it,” Peter said, coughing up a slight laugh as he gestured toward a door further down the alley.

The door opened without a key or secret knock. Inside, a grease-stained flattened cardboard box lay on the floor, and little else was there. Peter flicked a switch, turning on a lone bulb in the center of the room.

“Not the coziest place,” I said.

“We won’t be here long. Can you shut that latch?”

I dropped a heavy metal rod across the face of the door, settling into a welded nest on the wall. Peter grabbed a corner of the cardboard sheet and pulled toward the center of the room, revealing a hastily dug hole in the concrete beneath.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Looks like a tight fit.”

“I’ll have to have a word with someone when we get back to the tower.”

“Are you going to be able to—”

“I’ll manage,” Peter insisted, raising the palm of his hand out.

Gingerly, he lowered himself in, dropping to the base with a thud and a muffled yelp. The tunnel looked half complete, and its roof was as low as the walls were narrow. We crawled through until it opened back up near a larger room with a ladder in the center.

“No, we need to get further away,” Peter said as I started for the ladder.

We passed another two rooms before he decided to head topside. The space we surfaced into was much like the others. Bright holograms projected gilded scenes onto the walls. Peter made a beeline for what was once a love seat, but with all of its padding torn out, it was little more than a serviceable frame. He clenched his side, swallowing hard as he said, “There should be some rations. Can you get me some water?”

I looked about the room, finding a little stash of food bars and metallic water canisters behind an old dresser. Peter took a bottle and quickly downed it. I took another, lifted his shirt, and poured half its contents onto the wound. He squirmed- biting the back of his hand and shrieking in agony.

“The bleeding hasn’t completely stopped, but its better.”

“It hurts like hell.”

“I bet it does, but you have to keep pressure on it.”

“Yes, doc.”

“Speaking of which, are there any doctors at the tower?”

“Wouldn’t matter if there were. We can’t go there.”

“I could go, bring someone back.”

“Can’t.”

“What other choice do we have? You aren’t going to get better without—”

“I know. I know. Just… let me rest for a bit. If we haven’t been killed or captured by morning, we should be clear to go back.”

“Can you hang in there that long?”

Peter smiled, faint but comforting. I couldn’t tell if he was sure he would make it or if he knew this conversation would be moot by morning.

I settled in, leaning against a wall adjacent to Peter’s couch, watching his every movement, never taking my eyes from his chest. Every time it rose and sank with breath, I felt a small sense of relief.

“You’re making me uncomfortable,” Peter said without opening his eyes.

“How so?”

“The way you’re staring. Its freaking me out. I’m not going to die, so you can get some rest without worrying about me.”

“I know you’re not…” But I didn’t know. The only thing I knew was that he needed medical attention, and the lame excuses he came up with were having less and less of an effect on my resolve to help him. Do I let him rest or keep him talking? I don’t think he’ll go into shock if he hasn’t already.

“I wonder if Constantine made it back,” Peter said.

“I’m sure he did. He had the map.”

“If that guard found us, though…”

“Could’ve been a routine patrol.”

“Doubt it after that explosion.”

I chuckled. I didn’t know why. It wasn’t funny. All the people who would starve because of us weren’t amusing, but I laughed. “Why did we… I—”

“For the revolution,” Peter said, emphasizing revolution with a hint of sarcasm.

“For the revolution,” I echoed. “Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.”

“Diseases fester and spread if left untreated.”

I knew what he was getting at. Still, I couldn’t let lit slide.

“And those that will starve? What’s a revolution… what’s freedom to the dead?”

“We’re giving them a choice—a chance at freedom.”

“Given the choice, I’m guessing most wouldn’t choose to starve.”

“I think you underestimate the shackles the lack of choice has on the soul.”

“What does it matter to them whether you’re making the choice or the GCS?”

Peter shifted to his side, deep wrinkles spreading up his face as he winced. He craned his neck to look at me.

“I wasn’t given a choice. Any semblance of agency has been taken from me my entire life.”

“Peter, I know you can see the evil in all this. What Constantine is doing—”

“He’s doing what he has to. What’s best for everyone.”

“That,” I said, pointing toward an imaginary field beyond an unseen wall, “Is just killing. I know what he’s trying to do. He’s—”

“How could you? You’ve been here for all of, what, a month? I’ve been by his side since the start.”

“He’s a terrorist, Peter,” I finally came out and said. It had been at the tip of my tongue since the bombing in the heights.

Peter laid back, the tendons in his hand bulging as he clutched his side. A moment of silence fell between us. It felt like a chasm opened up, and there was no crossing it.

“Constantine was documented. When my parents applied for a permit for me, they were rejected. They hid me as long as they could. Fifteen years, I barely saw the light of day. Fifteen years. That apartment was as good as a prison. Still, my parents loved me just as much as they did him. For that, they paid a price,” Peter said, pausing before continuing, “There was a famine. We all made due, but the rations were barely enough to keep us going. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the food that gave us away. It was the water. Every household usage came under intense scrutiny. The capital needed something to blame for the food shortages, so they targeted the unpermitted.”

“They took you away?”

“They took everyone. My parents broke the law. Constantine was left alone but had a permit, so he was just shuffled to another home. By that point, he was old enough to live on his own. My parents were sent to a work camp, but I was just cast out onto the street. The irony of enslaving the permitted while releasing people like me… I could never wrap my head around it.”

“How did you end up with Constantine again?”

“Even after seeing what happened to our parents, he searched for me. Found me starving on the street and took me back in. He knew the risks, but he did it anyway.” Peter coughed. ”He’s a good man. I know what you’ve seen looks excessive, but he is not a terrorist.”

Peter’s voice had a flame in it, and yet, his words rang hollow. Perception has a funny way of obfuscating the brutality of our actions. I had seen it in my time, and I saw it there. Ideology has a nasty habit of running headlong into reality. And in reality, many would starve to placate a revolutionary they had never met.

I let the conversation die, leaning against the wall and watching Peter’s breathing. Soon, I didn’t have to watch his chest. His nose whistled with every exhale after falling asleep. I, too, found myself getting drowsy.

My pocket buzzed. I let it go to voicemail. As soon as it stopped, it rang again—and again. Sitting in a briefing room with the squadron commander, I didn’t have the luxury of stepping out and taking the call. My brain flooded with fear. There was only one person who would call me repeatedly. Tan shirts adorned with rows of colorful squares muddled into cinder block walls as my vision blurred at the edges. Sound drowned in my anxiety. All eyes became fixed on me. I helplessly looked around, unable to answer. The commander spoke, pointing in my direction, but I couldn’t hear him. A lump so large in my throat rose that I nearly choked. I pealed from my seat and bolted into the hall. It was her. A stack of notifications littered my screen. My eyes were fixated on a single word: hospital.

Nurses threw up fingers, pointing in this direction or that as I sprinted down pristine white halls. A glass case stood before me, guarded by a lab coat asking me my name. It escaped me. I couldn’t breathe, much less speak. I managed to gargle something out, and the doctor stepped aside.

She was bawling. I felt the world’s weight crash on me in those tears. Her gown lay flat where my love - my entire life once bulged. She reached her arms out, but I froze. In the moment she needed me most, I froze, unable to take my eyes off her empty belly. She cried out as I backpedaled, collapsing outside the sliding doors, choking, tears pooling in my hands pressed against my face.

I gasped, my head knocking against the wall, leaning forward, a dull headache set in. I need a drink. Where’s that water? I pulled myself up and walked to the stash. There wasn’t much left, and by the looks of the waning light seeping through the covered windows, it would be night soon, and we would need more supplies. I chugged half a canister before saying, “Hey, Peter, you should have some more water.”

The room stood silent.

“Peter,” I said, turning toward him.

His body was stiff, flattened against the cushion less frame. My stomach sank. “Peter,” I said again, slowly walking toward him.

Pale skin stretched across gaunt cheeks. His eyes stared at the ceiling. Only half of his face was visible - the other side obscured by shadow. His mouth hung slightly open above a sunken, slack jaw.

“Pe—” I tried to say again, but my tongue stuck on the back of my throat.

I stepped closer, placing two fingers on his neck. No pulse. He faded sometime during the day. I wondered if he saw it coming or if it happened suddenly. I swallowed hard, pulling my fingers away. I tried to think of something profound to say that would exemplify his life and forgive what we’d done. But words escaped me as I looked upon his stiff, lifeless body. His words from earlier echoed in my mind. He had made his choice. His sacrifice. But I couldn’t help but wonder if he would’ve picked the same path if he knew this was where it led. He made the choice; at least in life, he had that. There are no choices for the dead—just death.