Chapter 56: Chosen One

Revealing himself from the hidden position Crow stationed him at, Ace took a moment to assess the sight below. The masked Crow who was eyeing him, Hazel and Violet's less-than-ideal circumstances, and the mixed flux of emotion pouring out of a weakened Sky, her eyes agitated with confusion while hope still faintly brimmed in her eyes.

After letting out a sharp gust of air through his nostrils, Ace carefully places his feet in the dirt along the steep fall-off beside him and slides down, joining Crow, Sky, Hazel, and Violet at the bottom.

"You can drop the act," says Ace, meeting Crow’s gaze.

Morphing back into his human form, Crow doesn't give Ace the slightest indication of his thinking as he responds, "If you say so."

The two stare at one another until a question is directed Ace’s way, the voice wavering above and below the narrow barrier, desperately trying to separate hope and despair.

"Ace… you're here?"

Transferring his gaze from Crow to Sky, Ace nearly looks away after seeing her miserable state.

If I drop my poker face for even a moment, Crow will pick up on it, and I can't afford to put Sky in danger. If Crow learns I care for Sky, who knows what he'll do to her? Yes… I find Sky attractive, and her personality brings light to others. She's somebody that I immediately felt comfortable speaking with, even though we've only talked to each other a few times.

She's not like the rest. Sky is special. If not to anybody else, she's special to me.

Which is why she must live. I must protect her. And for now, at least, she seems to be okay. There are minor scratches along her arms and legs, and the bright red hand prints on her throat stick out like a sore thumb, but the usual sparkle in her eyes hasn't simmered out yet.

Hearing two thuds, one after the other, Ace remembers what he must do.

"I prefer not to waste more time than necessary here, Ace. The time has come, and the choice is yours. And as I'm sure you're aware of already, the benefits or consequences of whatever you choose will be grave," advises Crow, cracking the knuckles in each of his fingers.

As he begins walking toward Ace, Ace watches him closely.

He's right. I can't afford to be careless. I'm replaceable; no convincing reason keeps me alive if I make the wrong move. If I can't fulfill his expressed and hidden demands, he'll just find somebody who will.

But also, it's not just about Crow's demands that should be considered in our… working relationship… my life is still valuable. There's leverage behind my decision. I might be replaceable, but who knows how long Crow will take to find somebody like me? To my knowledge, nobody else here besides us two has any sort of unusual powers or abilities.

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Bumping Ace’s shoulder as he passes him, a purple gleam stirs beneath his mask as Crow whispers, "To kill or be killed, only one can remain."

Ace’s eyes widened, and Crow snickered before he resumed walking.

In the face of real power, I'm weak. Crow has proven that to me not once, not twice, but three times now. However, compared to the rest here, I'm strong. Which means… if there were a matter of who deserves to live more, the choice would be obvious. Right?

Choice.

The choice… is mine.

To kill or be killed, what it means to live.

Life is simple; it always has been. Humanity has always killed and consumed to survive. The food that we consume was once the flesh of another being. That being also consumed to live, and so did the one before. Humans are at the top of the food chain because we are simply stronger than the rest. And because we can think, learn, and evolve, the world's species are merely at our mercy.

But that doesn't mean all human lives are worth the same value. Within the human race, a "food chain" also exists. Even at birth, some are given advantages that others could only long for. Athleticism, intelligence, beauty, wealth… such traits distinguish the haves from the have-nots. While those qualities of life can be attained through hard work and dedication, naturally gifted people hold the initial advantage. People could dedicate their entire lives to working toward a status that some attained through sheer luck.

And what if those who are lucky, those who are special… work toward improving their natural talents just as much as those who were born unlucky? Would that make the unlucky ones eternally weak?

Life is unfair, that much I know. Because of this power, I guess I've falsely achieved the status of being a 'chosen one'. I'm now no better than the lucky bastards who were born strong.

And because of that, I deserve to live more than Sky? Scar? Ember? Code? And the rest?

Ace gnashes his teeth. Not out of frustration, but because no matter how often he thinks that question over, he can only come up with one singular, callous answer.

Yes. Because that's just how the world is.

Unsure about how much time had passed during his daydreaming, it was long enough for Hazel to at least recover her breathing, as she hesitantly asked, "Ace… what are you doing with him?"

Clearing her throat, Sky grimaces before adding, "Didn't you say this guy… was the one responsible for Flora and Grace's deaths?"

"Yes, I did,” confirms Ace, feeling the warmth of his power igniting the tattoos on his arms, chest, and back while his hair sets ablaze.

Sky quietly asks, "I don't get it… why are you helping him now?"

Ace’s heart flutters, and the beats hasten, but Ace remains composed for Sky’s sake: "Things happen, people change."

Pressing Ace, Sky demands, "Then tell me what happened…!"

Ace’s mouth twitches.

No. I can't break character.

"After I was exiled, I ran into Crow the following morning, or rather… he was the one that found me. That's the short of it, anyway."

Sweat drips off her face as Sky goes silent. Her eyes weren't pincered into a fierce glare nor of frantic worry. Her gaze only softened into one of sympathy.

I see. So this is what Crow meant back then.

To be unlucky enough to be strong, to be unlucky enough to live.

And to think… that in a primal relationship between two beings, the weaker of the two can bear such a face of pity. Not for their impending demise but for the individual whose hands will soon be coated with a dreadful crimson.