Glasshouse


    Growing up in Noxhold, where the earth swallowed the sun, its touch had been a distant concept. Victoria remembered those rare, golden excursions to the surface, each one stolen from the monotony below. Now, as the pale winter sunlight brushed her back, she couldn’t help but think of those left behind. Dwellers who would never feel its warmth. Never know how it gilded the world.


    She’d learned to live without it, like everyone else in the lower levels. During her apprenticeship — a rigorous study in survival skills — she had mastered close combat, the art of foraging or starting a fire. But fear? True fear, the kind she had just experienced, the confrontation with your own fragility, had been left off the syllabus. So had caring. For the world and its simple joys.


    Her knack for learning quickly had singled her out, a coveted asset in Noxhold’s intricate workings. She’d become a “Swiss army knife”, sent wherever her aid was needed. Fixing a pipe, rewiring the dim glow of their artificial lights, or planting experimental seeds in the soil above. She had grown fond of it, not of the tasks themselves, but of how gratitude lit up the faces of those she helped. It made her feel necessary — a purpose in an aimless realm.


    “Hold still,” she said, dabbing gauze against the gash splitting Alek’s eyebrow. He flinched, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth.


    “Come on,” Victoria mused. “I’m sure you’ve lived through worse.”


    No clever retort came from him. He sat in silence, his shoulders rigid. She couldn’t blame him. The prospect of losing sight in one eye — especially out here — was a blow no amount of resolve could soften. Once the last streak of blood had been cleaned and the torn skin on his brow sutured, she realised the cornea hadn’t been spared.


    Alek would have to face his new reality just as much as she would.


    He raised his remaining eye to her. The searching look caught her off guard, she had no mask to hide behind. Her lips pressed together, and Victoria met his gaze with a sullen sadness. “I’m sorry” was the only thing she managed to whisper before Alek pushed her hand aside and got to his feet.


    “No need to be,” he said, his tone a poor imitation of indifference. “Now that we’re out, we can go our separate ways.”


    Her heart dropped. “What?”


    The reality of their surroundings hit her all at once: the abandoned street, the silhouettes of nameless buildings, the vast unknown stretching in every direction. Panic coiled tightly in her chest. “What am I supposed to do—“


    “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He didn’t look back, his steps deliberate as though he’d already made up his mind. “But I do things alone.”


    “I won’t survive a day on my own!” The tremor in her voice betrayed her growing fear. She didn’t care if it made her seem weak.


    “Let me come with you. At least until I’m healed… Please.” The words became softer, almost desperate, the last card she could play.


    Alek stopped in his tracks. He turned, his expression guarded. A fleeting beam of light fell across his face before clouds above stole it away.


    “I have a safe house close by. You can stay there for a few days.” His voice was flat, almost rehearsed. “And then you’ll be on your own.”


    “Fine.” Victoria swallowed. That would at least leave her some time to think. To be prepared.


    Alek resumed his measure pace, his steps carving a path she had no choice but to follow. They had escaped the underground, but the weight of her powerlessness lingered around her like the shadows of Noxhold. That same bitter feeling she had experienced when she’d realised everything they were promised was merely the rotten carrot on a stick.


    Her steps struck the pavement, swallowed by the street’s emptiness. Snowflakes began to drift lazily. One landed on her cheek, melting into a cold trace as her gaze lifted skyward. How small her worries seemed beneath this quiet sky. The flakes tumbled chaotically through the ruins, and for a moment, it reminded her of the snow globe in her childhood bedroom, alive with the shake of a hand. The thought appeared unbidden — droplets of reminiscence crystallising in the haze of her mind.


    <hr>


    The storm had come and gone, leaving the city’s blanket to melt into the cracks. Yet Victoria remained, dreading the moment Alek would appear to announce the inevitable.


    Days had passed. Her wound fared better, but the one between them festered. They had not exchanged a word since escaping. Victoria had given many excuses for Alek’s silence: the darkness of the tunnels, the weight of his injury. But even now, as the light of day spilt inside freely, his voice could barely be heard.


    It wasn’t for lack of trying. Alek disappeared, sometimes for hours, into the fractured land. And when he returned, he slipped past her with indifference, tending to his business with a determination that bordered on contempt.


    The hideout itself was sparse, perched in the crumbling heights of a tower that time had torn apart. Not so much an apartment as the skeleton of one — raw concrete floors stretched to bare walls, tarps fluttering in the air. Stairs wound higher still, but they lead to the hollow whistle of the open sky and precarious piles of rubble. Thus, the view was better admired from the safety of their refuge.


    Victoria spent hours of her convalescence gazing out at the world beyond, watching the birds fly free between the fields of stone. Thankfully, the windows were mostly intact, shielding her from the wind’s bite; otherwise, the chill would have been unbearable. Even now, wrapped in layers, the cold gnawed at her.


    While, at first, most of her days were spent resting — her body too weak to do much else — she had quickly found new ways to stay warm and busy.


    The space revealed its wonders slowly, each discovery catching her off guard. For all its stark, utilitarian nature, one of the rooms held unexpected marvels. Along one wall, a series of large glass vivariums were connected through tunnels; their interiors alive with the chirping of a thousand crickets. They darted over vegetation and wooden platforms, and occasionally, one of them leapt against the glass with a knock.


    Victoria found herself mesmerised, her fingers brushing the edge of a tank as she leaned closer. It made perfect sense. A steady source of protein in a world where everything was scarce. For all his gruffness, Alek’s survival was precise, almost ingenious.


    Her curiosity carried her towards a strange apparatus in a corner. A dented basin, fixed precariously to the ceiling, was rigged with an intricate network of pipes. The sound stirred unwelcome memories as droplets fell rhythmically into a bucket below. It filled the room with the meditative percussion of water. A rain collector…


    The setup felt strangely intimate, a glimpse at Alek’s life, born of patience and necessity.


    She turned her attention to a desk near the makeshift bed. Notebooks lay scattered across in a chaotic sprawl. Sketches of monstrous shapes riddled the pages — anatomical diagrams, hurried observations, dense writing. A faint smile appeared on her face. How typical of you.


    Victoria found herself returning to those notebooks in the days that followed, wrapped tightly in a sleeping bag. It gave her something to occupy her mind and brace her for the outside world, even if the content dredged up a sinking feeling she preferred to ignore.


    Nightmares still haunted her sleep, and she often woke up from them in sweat. But she had to face the abyss if she was to survive in this world. Plus, it allowed her to avoid confronting another harsh truth: her place in all of this.


    Not all of the notes made sense, and the hurried handwriting certainly didn’t help, but she had learned a few things about the shadows of this world. Some passages stuck, snippets of fascination despite the circumstances:


    “After studying the infection for years with the means available — which are limited, to say the least — I have a few theories as to its origin.


    Although early studies conducted when the world still held on suspected it to be Ophiocordyceps, I believe it is another genus entirely. Sarcocordyceps necrosporidium, as I’ve come to call it, isn’t just a pathogen — it is a sculptor, creating symbiomorphs from its infected hosts.


    A partnership, really. Thus why I wouldn’t be so quick to deem this a parasite. Indeed, necrosporidium seems to extend the activity of the host to an absurd length even after what could be considered a clinical death. Some specimens encountered have been roaming the city for years, infected at the very beginning, and their physiognomy directly reflects it (as described in Part II).The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The host’s body becomes a vessel as much as a prison. Until all brain activity ceases one way or another, which then marks the beginning of an exponential increase in the mycelium’s development and the ‘blooming’; a crucial phase in the pathogen’s widespread transmission.”


    There seemed to be different types of infected — stages, perhaps, or cycles. But Victoria couldn’t distinguish speculations from facts. The sketches wildly differed from what she’d seen underground, so she wasn’t even sure if anything was remotely close to reality or a figment of Alek’s imagination.


    What unsettled her more was the tone of his notes. The utter fascination and wonder in the way it had been written felt jarring, as though written by a man she hadn’t met. How long ago did Alek pen these observations?


    Eventually, the dense prose wore her patience thin. Bored with the scientific jargon and the swamp of details she couldn’t untangle. She snapped the notebook shut one afternoon. Whatever awe Alek had unearthed could stay buried for all she cared.


    It was during one of her restless searches for distraction that she found it — a wooden bow and a single arrow. She turned the bow over in her hands, testing its weight. It had been years since she’d trained with one, but it stirred something inside her, and she decided to try her hand. Her wound had healed enough to manage, and her skill would return just as quickly.


    The confidence didn’t last.


    The first attempt was a disaster. The strain tugged painfully at her side, and the arrow clattered uselessly to the ground, meters away from the makeshift target. Frustration deepened with each failed shot. Her arms shook, her aim wavered, and the burn was relentless, forcing her to pause more often than she’d like.


    By the second afternoon, her hands were steadier, and the arrow began finding its mark — every other time. By the third, an old rhythm crept back, and her shots grew truer, bringing the faintest flicker of pride.


    Until it didn’t.


    One careless release sent the arrow careening into a concrete pillar. The sharp crack echoed through the space, her embarrassment even louder, and when she inspected the damage, the arrow had splintered.


    That ended her practice for good.


    Thus, her current predicament: she had depleted every source of entertainment. There was no new notebook left to skim, no target to aim for, no distraction to quiet the thoughts. And she wasn’t about to step out and give Alek exactly what he wished for.


    Instead, she was left with nothing but silence. And herself.


    What would she become now?


    Her thoughts churned, circling back to Noxhold, its walls and the faces she’d left behind. Familiar guilt rose to the surface, coiling in her chest. She had told herself she’d made the right choice, that there were no other options. And she had been right — at least, in a way; the circumstances had been dire.


    But now, she wasn’t so sure anymore. What had she expected she would find out here? Salvation? Purpose? Likely, she’d just become another body swallowed by the dark. An observation in Alek’s notebook.


    The door creaked in answer.


    Footsteps echoed, and Alek’s silhouette filled the doorway. His presence pressed against the room, heavier than the silence he had broken.


    “You’re still here,” he remarked with something strange in his tone, almost reluctant.


    “I didn’t know you were done with me already,” she shot back, rising from her resting place with careful defiance.


    Alek let the quiet stretch between them, heavy as always. Then, he nodded to the door behind him. “Come on,” he said.


    Her heart tightened as a wave of disbelief hit her. She couldn’t believe how cruel he could be. How coldly he would simply get rid of her. He didn’t owe her anything, not really, but still. She had expected better. How stupid you are, Victoria. Tears swelled, shame mixing with anger. She stood frozen, waiting for something — anything — to change.


    Alek tossed a bag at her feet. It hit the floor with a thud and spilt open, revealing a dozen wooden sticks jutting out.


    “What are you waiting for?” His tone had shifted. “Get your coat, we’re going for a walk.”


    <hr>


    Victoria curled her fingers tightly around the frame of her bow resting on a shoulder. For the first time in days, she felt alive again, her breath clouding in the crisp air.


    Alek moved ahead with the surety of someone who had walked these streets a thousand times before. The sunlight played tricks on the city, casting rays over puddles and icicles. Each shimmer painted the world in fleeting hues of gold and orange. But his gaze swept past it all, scanning the horizon like a sentinel on duty. Oblivious to the beauty.


    It was hard to imagine this was the world Alek had talked about. That it could be filled with such horrors.


    Victoria picked up her pace, her legs finally responding almost as they once had. Her eyes snagged on the strap running across Alek’s face. She blinked, caught off guard by how the sun lit the faint curve of leather.


    “Is that…?”


    Alek looked away, body stiffening slightly. “What?”


    She stopped mid-step, a grin tugging at her lips despite herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, barely stifling a chuckle. “But you look like a pirate.”


    He sighed, a hand brushing against the strap of his eye patch as if to check it hadn’t shifted. “It’s practical.”


    “It’s hilarious,” she shot back, the words bubbling out before she could stop them.


    He cast her a sidelong glance. “Laugh it up. At least I don’t look like I’ve been dragged out of a gutter.”


    She gasped at first. But then, she thought about it. “Well, technically… I was.”


    Alek scoffed softly at the notion. He looked less grim now, the tension between them melting as surely as the ruins around.


    Ahead, the street sloped downward, vanishing into a misty haze where grey snow and light blurred together. For the first time since they’d stepped outside, Victoria didn’t feel entirely out of place.


    “Alright, Captain”, she said, stepping ahead of him with a dramatic flourish. “So, where are we headed?”


    Alek shook his head. “You’ll see.”


    They walked on in lightened silence, but as the minutes stretched, Victoria felt the itch to speak again.


    “You’ve been distant,” she ventured, glancing sideways at him. “Not that you’ve ever been not distant. But still.”


    “I needed some time,” Alek admitted, his eye still examining the horizon. “It’s not every day I stumble across a stray.”


    Victoria rolled her eyes, yet she couldn’t help but smile a little. Before she could retort, the street widened into a massive plaza. Her breath caught in wonder.


    Towering buildings loomed around, their facades cracked and overgrown but still regal, standing as proud as the statues of kings long forgotten. Vines twisted their way through windows, cascading down in frosted waves.


    Victoria paused in the centre; her steps slowed and turned in a circle, tilting her head up to take it all in. Mirroring her movement, a flock of birds flew far above, their silhouettes cutting through the thin veil of clouds bathed in the afternoon light.


    She had never seen something so breathtaking.


    Memories inside her suddenly burst like roots through concrete, settling there with refound imagery. She remembered the city of her childhood, long before she had buried it with the fear. In Noxhold, they used to talk about a broken world. A graveyard of old. And yet, here it was, almost twenty years later. Not dead so much as reborn. Alive in ways she could have never imagined.


    Her boots crunched softly against the frost-kissed stone, and she slipped slightly, catching herself just in time. A surprised laugh escaped her.


    “You okay?”


    “I’m fine,” she said lazily, her eyes already locked on something else.


    Beyond the plaza, nestled under the arch of a bridge between two ruined buildings, stood a glasshouse. Its iron frame, though marred by rust, sparkled in the sun. The panes of glass were fractured in places, but most had somehow survived — pieces of a transparent mosaic.


    She turned to Alek, her voice quieter than she intended. “What’s that?”


    He followed her gaze, his expression harbouring confusion. “Some sort of garden. We can take a look if you want.”


    Alek stepped forward and paused when they arrived at the threshold. His hand brushed over a twisted metal beam. “Used to be places like this everywhere,” he said almost to himself. “You must have been too young then, but people came here to see what couldn’t grow where they lived. Tropical plants, orchids… even mushrooms. All in one place, behind glass walls.”


    Victoria studied him for a moment. “Didn’t you?”


    He let out a short sigh. “Sure I did. Curiosity brought us all. Or maybe it was pride. People thought they could cage nature. Keep it beautiful but manageable. It made us feel bigger.”


    “Doesn’t look very manageable now.”


    “No.” A wistful smile appeared. “We were wrong about a lot of things.”


    Victoria frowned and followed him inside. The air changed just as soon — heavier, warmer and thick with the scent of damp earth. It reminded her of the crops growing in the undergrounds of Noxhold, but here the plants were vibrant. Wild.


    She followed him deeper into the glasshouse, her eyes drawn to the centrepiece of the garden: a statue. Alek stopped beside it, arms crossed in study.


    Victoria tilted her head, her eyes tracing the statue’s delicate features. “She’s beautiful.” The words left her quietly, almost an afterthought.


    A sadness pooled in her chest. Memories surfaced with the sight, and without realising, she spoke. “Do you remember your parents’ faces?”


    Alek looked at her with surprise — unsure how to respond.


    “I don’t,” she added quickly, her voice wavering. “I’ve tried. But all I remember is how they made me feel.” The words came out heavier than expected, spilling into the space. She had cracked open a vault that had been closed for so many years.


    Alek’s gaze dropped.


    “I remember…” his expression tightened as if an old wound had reopened. “The sound of my father’s boots when he came home. They were heavy. Like he carried the whole world on his back.” He paused a second to let the memories wash over him. “I remember the way he smelled of sawdust after a long day.”


    His brow furrowed at the effort, and then his voice, resounding with the years, surfaced again. “I remember my mother’s hands. Always busy; mending clothes, fixing the smallest things, braiding my sister’s hair.”


    Victoria watched as his expression shifted at the thought — a flicker of something raw bringing a pause in his tale.


    “Laughter,” he said finally, softer still. “Not often. But when it came… it could fill the whole room.” His voice cracked, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “Like sunlight.”


    He fell silent, his gaze distant; the memory had taken him somewhere she couldn’t follow.


    “I remember the sirens,” she continued, joining Alek in support. “The blades in the sky. The screams. The explosions. They’ve drowned… most other sounds.”


    Alek lifted his gaze to her, a quiet understanding softening his expression. For a moment, he looked as if he might say something, but instead, he simply nodded.


    “Come on,” he finally said, his voice gentle. “There’s more to see.”


    Victoria followed him on the path winding around the statue. They stepped onto a narrow bridge where stagnant water pooled below. Algae clung to the edges, painting the banks in streaks of green and brown. It felt less like a river than the memory of one.


    “What happened in the end?” she asked softly. “No one ever told me.”


    Alek slowed down and turned around with a shy smile. He seemed to carry the weight of someone who had seen too much.


    “Sure… I could tell you a story.”


    ***