A Messenger is forthcoming and diligent. They are the hand so that your god may reach out.

A Messenger is brave. Their fate rests in your ability to protect them by any means deemed necessary.

Most importantly, a Messenger does not lie. Her mouth is now yours.

-Four months eariler-

Familiar miracles played out in front of the Messenger hopeful some months ago. Only, this cityscape was very much alive, rebuilt in the wake of Orbital Bombardment. A dirty Figi monitor surged, paused halfway past a blond achorwoman at Illian's halt. The Messenger hopeful was far from ground zero: where he said he was that day. Though, the less the Courtship knew of his lie, the better.

“No, really,” Illian insisted, his tank top and baggy cargo shorts pressed against a shabby maroon couch. “Rewind it!”

He shared the space in a dark apartment with his roommate, far from Earth, in the belly of Boros. A humanoid named Zerc-si. “Again? What the hell’re you looking for?” Zerc asked.

His arm instinctively reached for another Earth import of Red Trolley. As if to strike up a bet, the aged Zerc-si wagered. “I swear ta’ god, Illian, if the fortieth time is dead air, you owe me more’a this!”

He rose the bottle up to produce his demands, then made it law by leaning back with a swig, chugging it whole. They had been doing the stop-rewind tango for half an hour, but Illian was sure he heard something … off. Zerc didn’t mind if it meant more booze. At this point, his second liver had kicked in; Illian didn’t buy it, but he wasn’t here to study Gryph anatomy. He was here to work.

Illian turned back, observed the spines bumping up from the Gryph’s jumper suit. It was crusted patchily with a shimmering dust. “Yeah, yeah, just do it.”

Zerc rolled the two downturned gems he called eyes. They sunk into their sockets and emitted a nocturnal glow, especially around 02-02461-32: Graveyard shift. Their night sight was perfect for the Commonwealth’s single-hour day spans; a muddy and dim morning, if him and Illian could get to bed before the drills strike at 03-02461-00. Not looking likely. He fumed his tooth-bridged nose and hit the rewind key.

The TV flickered to a still of Mechaís city in jubilee. The anchor entailed what Illian could—and did—mouth off, verbatim. Of course, in the most sterile, poppy broadcaster sting.

“Today marks the five-year anniversary of when the entire Sol system was saved by the hands of an actual god.” Illian checked a navy-blue gradient side bar to confirm the date: “March 24th, 3179.”

“Woo.” Zerc kicked back, exhausted of ranting.

“To celebrate this occasion, Mechaís is in line to hold their—yearly celebration—to honor-“ The voice fell quiet, a high-pitched ringing soon invading the boy as he approached the screen. Pained, he turned to Zerc.

“Y’see?” He cringed, holding his weight on a nearby coffee table.

Zerc’s face lumped into a stupor: “No.”

“Serious? You don’t hear anything?”

“Nothin’.”

Illian groaned. Suddenly, the pain subsided. In its place, an unfamiliar thrum attempted to garner his attention. Now, something else was speaking. “Augh. What?

“Go where?” His face went pale. “No …”

The entity then snapped from Illian’s conscious mind, caused him to buckle under a phantom weight. Zerc rose up from his chair, cautiously approached his source of income with worry he’d lose his fellow site employee to madness.

“Are you alright, IJ?” said Zerc.

“The Rayvine,” Illian uttered.

“What about it?”

“I’m … not sure. But I think I heard Gaia?” with a second-guess stammer. Zerc found himself in the midst of a lunatic. The boy then mouthed something else, but failed to get it out. Zerc-si sprang off the couch, stared at the screen.

“There’s no way in fuck they’d take you in! You’ve been watching too much TV-”

“I know what I heard!” exclaimed Illian.

“Calm down.” Zerc peered through the glacial rains blotching that sinful glow invading their apartment. For a moment, he confided in those drops. “You’re crafty. Figure yerself out, Illian. They’re not gonna buy you talkin’ to a tube, so what’re you gonna do?”

Hypnotized by the prospect, the boy joined him in carving their way out of this industry-choked slum. Finally.

“You still owe me some’a this Earth shit.”