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Enjin opened his umbrella the moment the first raindrops began to fall. They landed with a dull patter against the canopy. Soon, the dry desert ground beneath his boots was speckled with dark, wet spots. This kind of weather wasn’t rare in the desert. Rain came often but never stayed long enough to coax anything green from the soil. Most of it was toxic anyway. Not dangerous to people, but plants stood little chance.
It was lucky the rain caught him here, right on the edge between No Man’s Land and Raider territory. Rain was a perfect lure for trash monsters, but raiders usually stayed indoors like everyone else.
Everyone except Enjin, who couldn’t sleep and had the terrible habit of never sitting still. He had to wander, had to meddle. For someone like him, home was wherever the garbage reached. As a kid, he used to help sort the trash, separating the salvageable from the broken. He’d gotten so absorbed in the task that he hadn’t noticed the weather turning. A natural storm had collided with a garbage storm from the Sphere. Left alone in the chaos, all he had was a broken umbrella shielding him from the medical waste that rained down—used needles, bloody bandages.
One jab could’ve done serious damage. In a land full of sand and no coins, that kind of wound could be fatal.
He still remembered standing there beside the trash heap, one shoulder soaked where the umbrella had split, the other side bristling with syringes. They stuck out like quills on an angry hedgehog.
The past hurt everyone, but for givers, it was like living with one foot always behind. Their instruments kept them tethered to memory while the rest of them tried to move forward. Sometimes the pull was too much, and they got stuck between what they wanted and what was possible.
For Enjin, it was even murkier. He lived in a kind of liminal space, a hidden line inside the line. Never quite where others were. His childhood had been both ordinary and brutal. One extreme to the next.
He sighed and shook his head, reaching for cigarettes in his coat pocket. Remembering only helped when the memories were kind. Otherwise, they only brought existential crises, or better, long, sleepless nights. For people with tragic lives, triggers were everywhere. They hung in the air, smelled like rain, and pricked like used needles.
From the crumpled pack, he pulled out the last cigarette and placed it between his lips. He crushed the box in his hand and slipped it back into his pocket, fishing out the lighter. One click brought the flame to life, and the tip of the cigarette flared red. Enjin took a deep drag, exhaling slowly just as a sudden gust of cold wind swept over him, making him shiver. The temperature had dropped fast. He might have been born to the desert, but he had never learned how to live with it.
“What weather, eh?”
Startled, he lifted the umbrella and turned toward the voice. A figure stood in the distance, hood drawn, cape soaked through. Enjin scanned them. One look at the boots and the coat’s edges told him who it was.
“Zody…” he muttered around the cigarette, then pulled it from his lips. “Should’ve guessed you’d be out in this.”
“It almost sounds like you were looking for me.”
Enjin clicked his tongue, golden eyes narrowing as he studied Zodyl’s silhouette. Raiders were known for their precision. They always knew where to be, even without forecasts. It was like they had their compass for the badlands. Enjin almost envied that. He was terrible at navigation, even with maps and markers. That’s why he made a good driver—he knew the shortcuts, even if they were rough.
“My job is to uncover mysteries,” he said, flicking ash from his cigarette. “And you happen to be one.”
“Strange,” Zodyl said, pulling a small pouch from his pocket. “From a distance, you looked like a flower.”
Enjin’s eyes widened. Heat crept up his ears. “Aren’t I a bit too big for that?”
“You’ve seen trash come to life, and a two-meter flower surprises you?” Zodyl snorted and stepped closer, still holding the pouch. Whatever was inside, he clearly meant to share it. Enjin should’ve been cautious. Raiders weren’t to be trusted. But he couldn’t help himself. He was a giver, a cleaner, and above all, a seeker.
Zodyl stopped just short of him and offered the pouch. “The soil around landfills is poisoned, but history says some plants can still grow in places like that.”
“Is that what’s inside?” Enjin asked, curiosity sharpening his voice. “Seeds from ancient flowers?”
“What happens when seeds become your instrument? Wouldn’t they resist the poison?” Zodyl lowered his hand, but his eyes stayed fixed on the pouch.
Enjin hadn’t expected that. He thought Zodyl would launch into one of his psychological rambles. If Rudo knew how many times Enjin had run into Zodyl and let him go, he’d probably explode. Literally.
But Zodyl wasn’t just his villain plans. Bringing down the Sphere so its creators would be forced to clean up their mess wasn’t the worst idea. The dying that would follow—that was the problem. No one would survive unless Zodyl built an army of flying trash beasts to catch the fall.
The more Enjin got to know him, the more he realized Zodyl wasn’t just the leader of the Raiders. His life wasn’t only about the Watchman series or the Sphere. He was observant. Peaceful, even. He didn’t fight unless he had to. His real weapon was language, which was probably why even someone as twitchy as Enjin could stay calm around him.
And now he stood there, offering a pouch of flower seeds.
Still, one problem remained. How could Zodyl have more than one instrument? Unless the coat itself allowed him that kind of versatility, just as Rudo’s gloves could transform three different objects. Maybe the Watchman series was really just a patch, something meant to fill the space left by a broken heart, like Amo’s boots and Rudo’s gloves. They didn’t need those items to use their powers. Not truly.
“What’s your true instrument, Zodyl?” Enjin asked, voice low.
Zodyl looked up. “You think I could grow these if they were loved enough?”
Enjin frowned. “I know someone who tried. Growing flowers takes a lifetime. You sure you’ve got time for that with your villain plans?”
“Villain plans…” Zodyl sighed and tucked the pouch away. His hands stayed in his pockets as he turned west, toward where the sun should’ve been setting.
“Do I want to hurt the people in the badlands? Do I want to hurt the Spherites?”
“There’s no way to bring the Sphere down without casualties,” Enjin said, gripping the umbrella tighter.
“I’m not looking for justice in death.” His voice rose slightly, wrapped in rain like a quiet funeral march. “I want them to see what they’ve done.”
Enjin had completely forgotten about the cigarette burning between his fingers. Only when he started fidgeting did he notice it had gone out. He slipped it back between his lips and reached for the lighter. The paper and tobacco caught, glowing red at the tip. He inhaled deeply, then released a thick cloud of smoke into the dome of his umbrella.
He glanced at Zodyl, who stood soaked in the rain, and let out a quiet, nostalgic chuckle. “When I was a kid, I spent my days buried in this trash, trying to find anything that could help me build a bridge big enough to reach the Sphere.”
Zodyl turned his head slowly. His single purple eye widened, curious. Enjin’s chuckle deepened. He took one last drag, flicked the cigarette to the wet ground, and tilted his head back. The smoke curled from his lips as he leaned on the umbrella.
“I was foolish,” he said, rolling the handle between his palms. “Just a stupid kid with a wrench, running around until he almost died.”
“You had a vision,” Zodyl replied. His voice was softer than usual, pitched just above his usual baritone.
“Our visions and dreams shouldn’t lead to death.” Enjin looked past the edge of his umbrella to the gray sky and the falling rain.
As a child, he had found a book among the trash the Spherites discarded. It was written in a language he couldn’t read until years later, when he met his first teacher. But the pictures had been vivid, drawn with such care that he thought they must have come from Canvas Town. When he finally learned it was a book of Nordic myths, he began to wonder who these Nordic people were and why their stories had been thrown away.
One image stayed with him: a rainbow bridge to another world. That was when his foolish journey began.
“You know,” Enjin said, his voice drifting as he stared at the sky, “if you gave me a chance, I’d show you things you’ve never seen.”
“I don’t want to join the cleaners,” came the quiet reply. “Not even for you. Not even for him.”
Enjin looked down but didn’t move. His amber eyes met the single violet one beneath the cape. Their gazes locked, heavy with unspoken confessions. Zodyl wasn’t just a Raider or a criminal. He was a spirit, a mystery that stood before Enjin yet always slipped away like a dream. The details never stayed. Only the feeling remained.
There were few animals left in this place, and all of them were twisted by the land. But Zodyl felt like an untouched spirit, a ghost of a bird. He appeared in places Enjin least expected, as if he could see the whole world from above. He moved quietly, watched everything, and protected what was his. The more he slipped away, the more it gnawed at Enjin. Maybe that was why they always met at such strange places as this border. They were more alike than Enjin was willing to admit.
He had grown attached to someone he should have ended.
That was always his place, caught in the in-between. Never fully anywhere.
He lowered the umbrella, his faint smile fading as he bowed his head. Gripping the handle, he stepped forward. Zodyl watched him from beneath the folds of his cape. When Enjin reached him, he lifted the umbrella and took the final step, sheltering them both.
“I really hate that you chose a different path,” Enjin said, his voice steady but touched with regret. “Whatever happened to you, whatever made you walk this road alone, I wish I’d been there.”
Zodyl turned to face him. Enjin watched as he pulled back the cape. His hair spilled out in damp waves, but what caught Enjin’s breath were those eyes—deep violet and searching. There was no hostility in them. Only a vulnerable glint.
“I’m not alone,” Zodyl said. “I’m surrounded by others who share my curiosity.”
“Is everything just an experiment to you?” Enjin asked, disappointment flickering in his voice. “We could have changed this world.”
“Every change demands sacrifice.” Zodyl tilted his head slightly, the gesture almost childlike. “We’re not so different, Enjin. To you, I’m one of the greatest mysteries. To me, the mystery is why you surrender to this fate of suffering?”
Enjin pressed his lips together and lowered his gaze. Every word Zodyl spoke today cut deep. Their world was built on secrets, and those secrets kept them chained. To the Spherites, they were criminals. Rats living off junk. Not even human. Down here was hell. The Sphere was heaven. But even Rudo had hinted that the rot had begun up there, too. No one could escape the curse.
The key was knowledge. And Enjin wanted to be the one to find it and slip it into the lock.
“I know about the trash worshipers,” he said carefully, lifting his gaze to meet Zodyl’s. “They live beyond the Badlands, near the Last River.”
“You don’t have to worry about the Last River anymore,” Zodyl said, voice low and unreadable. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pouch again, stretching his hand toward Enjin.
“Give these to the man who once grew flowers.”
Enjin’s eyes widened. For the first time in years, he was silent. He took the pouch without hesitation. There was no malice in Zodyl’s voice, no trick in the gesture. Only honesty. Enjin knew him well enough to recognize when he was calculating and when he was simply present.
“It would be nice,” Zodyl said, placing the pouch in Enjin’s open palm, “to turn these burial grounds into flower gardens.”
Then he stepped out from under the umbrella. Only in that moment did Enjin realize the rain had stopped. The clouds were beginning to unravel, and pale, sickly sunlight filtered through in narrow beams, casting long, fractured shadows across the land.
“Who knows,” Zodyl said, pausing with a slight turn of his head, his voice light and distant, “maybe the flowers will grow two meters tall. Wildflowers, blooming in strange places, just like you.”
Enjin tightened his grip around the pouch, his gaze fixed on Zodyl’s retreating figure. He held his breath as he watched him cross the valleys, shrinking with each step. When Zodyl had become no more than a speck against the backdrop of the setting sun, Enjin finally let his fingers relax and opened the pouch.
Inside was a fistful of small, round, brown seeds. Nothing unusual at first glance.
He sighed and began to retie the laces. Just as he was about to tuck the pouch away, he noticed something etched in small, elegant letters near the seam.
Wildflowers.