Master Red is who I am. You best be gettin’ used to that. Otherwise, when the time come to fly outta this hell, I just might shove you off the side of yo big bird friend and laugh when you hit the ground.

My chest and throat burn from my wheezing breath booming in my ears. But my hands—they’re ice cold. My shoulders heave as my fingers dig into my palms. They’re desperate for Max’s signal, but it doesn’t come.

My breath grows louder and high pitched as I scan the green darkness for Fuges. What I see instead makes me almost choke on the rotten air. It’s not the Fuges. It’s soldiers. Seven of them lower their weapons, obviously as confused as we are.

How do you know? How can you prove it’s them and not—”

“Us? Because we haven’t had bombs in ages. Records show your kind stole them from us. They say at first we thought you were doing us a favor. Ya know, saving humankind and all, ending the world wars once and for all. That was until the bombs were aimed at us. Our enemies and our allies. That’s what Project Second Earth is all about, ya know. Surviving the bombings. So, when you got here, everyone was convinced your government either finally ran out or were tired of torturing us and just wanted to end it so you all could move in and take over and do what you do with fixing the Earth.

He extends his hand, cupping it in a loose fist to conceal whatever is in it. He swings it toward my arm, and before the sensation of a prick registers in my brain, he returns his hand to his side.

My body feels weak. Light. Arms grab me around my waist and drag me away from the general. My lids flutter, my ears ring, but I can still hear the words from his muffled voice. “Go to sleep kid. Hopefully when you wake up, you’ll get I’m only doing this ’cause we’re so desperate.

The coldness coats my senses. I envision it turning into a stone wall as thick as the depths of their lies. I picture it towering before me, barring the portion of my brain which controls emotions.

I conjure a small box and plant it in front of the stone wall of my mind. I open it and imagine three words fluttering into it like tufts of cotton on a gentle breeze. As my eyes burrow into the depths of her own, I seal the box and send it floating to a place where her subconscious will find it.

It is the way of evolution,” Elias says, his words getting lost in the roar of the wind. “Two species of human cannot coexist. To believe so is to be naïve.