EVERY TIME HE is being assigned a protégé, he feels nauseous.

Milo Angiotti sits in the office of his boss feeling like he's eleven again and he was caught out of bounds after curfew. Laurynas Bakhuizen isn't even looking at him but at the files, scrummaging through them with a crease between his eyebrows and lips pursed just a tiny bit – not that Milo would ever point it out.

He lets out a small huff when he finds the file he's looking for and leans forward to give it to Milo. "Here you go. You should've asked for it sooner."

"Yes, sir." Milo takes the file; it's unremarkably thin for what he deemed an unremarkable boy. "Is this all?"

"No," Bakhuizen says. His face darkens and Milo once again feels like he's done something wrong. "A line has two sides, Angiotti, and you better make sure you don't cross it again. And neither does he."

"Yes, sir."

"Look after him. Don't let him out of your sight and if you must, assign someone to watch over him. If something happens, you're fully responsible and will suffer the consequences this time."

"Yes, sir."

Bakhuizen pauses for a minute; enough to give him a judgemental look. "Now get out. It's nearly fourteen o'clock."

"Yes, sir."

As soon as he's out of the office, he releases a shaky breath. Meetings with the Bakhuizen—specifically one-on-one—would be draining for anyone without him mentioning their weaknesses. The director is a beast in the Skóroi and Milo's trying really hard to be in his favour; it may not be evident from their meeting, but he's much softer to him than he is to others.

Exhibit A: Milo gets the second chance.

On his way to the room, he sees no one. Most of the people are currently working; brunch time was at noon and lunch time is at sixteen. He's glad for that, in a way, seeing as he must be at least a little green in the face.

He partly expects to see either Kristýna or Karel when he opens the door. But the room is empty, so Milo staggers over to the small bathroom and splashes cold water on his face.

The Milo in the mirror looks just like the real Milo feels – like he's a minute short from passing out.

"C'mon," he tells himself. "The kid has been under surveillance for nearly two weeks. They've checked out his backstory, his academic results, everything. Stop being a wuss. Stop worrying."

He splashes his face one more time, then sits on his bed with the file in his hands.

The letters written in ink read EZEKIEL ASA BROSSEAU, 2210, 15018202.

15 for his age. 01 for the month he's being recruited in. 82 for the generation of recruits he belongs to. 02 for the base he belongs to.

At times like these, it amazes Milo how easy it is for him to make sense of numbers. When the new recruits come and every year for the past twenty he's been here, they get confused. They get assigned a number when they arrive, a number when they join a working group, a number when they become a part of the faction and a number when they retire. It takes a while to get used to it. Sometimes, they think they have been reduced to just numbers – but that's what Milo and the other mentors are here for.

'You're not just numbers,' he said three years ago, to the first generation of recruits he was amenable for. 'Think of it as another ID – this is how we put you in our system to easily recognize you. Say this number at any Scraffet base in the Nations and they'll know exactly where you come from. But you're still you. Nobody can take that from you.'

From us, he should've said. He was a newcomer at some point, even if he doesn't remember.

The clock on his wall ticks, once. Fifteen minutes past fourteen.

Milo opens the first page. There's a rough sketch of Ezekiel and it's not the best for distinguishing his features—the routine check of all who apply is done in secrecy—but he looks different than to what Milo expected. He looks just like a boy.

He reads through the rest of the file. Mother, father and a sister, all born and raised in Scraffet. Lived in Upper Scraffet most his life, only moved to Southern Scraffet when his father lost his job as a teacher and needed to work as a factory worker. His mother has been periodically employed since 2202, when his sister was born. He excelled in school, especially mathematics and logic. He's shown interest in the organization and the history of the Nations since several years ago.

What Milo has gathered by the time the clock ticks two times is that Ezekiel Brosseau is a boy who was going to be taken by the government if he remained in school until the end of this year.

Extraordinary boy with an ordinarily long file, Milo thinks.

He puts away the papers and tries to remember the number. 15018202.

Every time he needs to remember a number, he's reminded of his own – 02076202. He barely uses it as he hardly ever leaves the base, and he's been here long enough for everyone to know his full name.

The clock ticks three times. It's quarter to fifteen and Milo better bet going, if he doesn't want to be late.

When the wave of nervousness and flashbacks of how confident he was this time last year hit, he feels like he's going to faint. But he pushes himself to his feet, repeating Ezekiel's number in his mind. Step by step is how he gets to the entrance, and step by step is how he's been getting over what happened last time.

One of the guards greets him when he sees him approaching and Milo returns the wave. Ognen is a big guy, even taller than Milo, and he doesn't think he's ever seen him smile. But Ognen greets him every time they see each other in the passing, so Milo figures he can't be that emotionless.

Milo stops next to him. "Mind opening the gate? We're having a new recruit coming today."

"Yes, sir," Ognen says. He doesn't smile, but Milo feels like he would if he does.

Ognen moves to stand in front of the big gate and talks to the other guards; one of them moves to open the gate, but Ognen doesn't come back. He seems to be arguing with at least two others; his arms are tense and shoulders hunched, his lips moving at an alarming rate.

The gate opens with a creak. It's big—over ten feet tall—and it's a feat opening them during winter, but every time they do, Milo is a little fascinated by the wonders humans have found ways to preserve after the Great War.

And just outside the door stands a little boy with a backpack and a face of stone.

Before Milo gets to say anything, Ognen scrunches his face and eyes the boy, up and down. "How long you been here for?"

The boy—who's also sporting an old-fashioned beret—clears his throat. He's looking straight at Ognen without fear in his eyes – and Milo knows, that's rare.

"An hour or two."

Ognen mumbles something about mice everywhere, but Milo's not focused on him anymore. This is the Ezekiel Brosseau he expected to see. He's a little shorter—at about five feet and six or seven inches—but his shoulders are straight, face undeceiving and eyes sharp. When he looks at Milo, there's no recognition – Milo scolds himself for being disappointed.

He puts a bright smile on his face and takes a deep breath. He's ready.

"Hello," Milo says. "You must be Ezekiel Brosseau."

The boy nods. "Zeke."

"Zeke," Milo agrees. He gives him a hand—his handshake is firm, Milo notes—and shakes it. "Welcome to the Skóroi. I'm Milo Angiotti and I'm going to be your mentor until you go through the initiation in May. Ognen here will take care of your bag – it looks heavy."

Zeke nods again. He takes the bag off his shoulders, handing it to Ognen and Milo partially expects to see him return a smile. He doesn't; his face remains still as a stone and Milo can't read it. In a way, that's not what he expected from Ezekiel Brosseau, but it might be that Zeke on the paper is a little different from the Zeke they'll get to know.

The nervousness is in his heels now and Milo finds it difficult to walk past the guards.

"So, Zeke." They enter the complex and the boy next to him inhales sharply. "Liking it so far?"

It takes Zeke some time to think it over, or to soak in the sight. It's understandable, Milo thinks, because the Skóroi had the knack for creating pretty impressive objects.

"This is one of the first Skóroi bases ever built," Milo tells him. A little bit of awe creeps into his voice, too, and he can't suppress the smile when Zeke's face doesn't falter the least. "It's based on what used to be Greek architecture, millennia ago. If you ask me, I'd say the Scraffet base is nicer than the headquarters in Elinburn. I like to think theirs was the prototype and ours is the first real thing."

Zeke nods, what appears to be his automatic response. He says nothing, but his eyes glance around the hall they've found themselves in – and it's only the entrance hall. The stone walls are nearly ten feet high, with carvings in the ceiling depicting the values of the faction – bravery, utilitarianism, loyalty and intelligence. Men and women shown on the carvings look proud and strong and when he was younger, Milo always hoped one day he could have the same look on his face.

The entirety of the hall is clad in stone. Beneath their feet, the very last of marble on this area spread through the entire area and every step they take clicks from the metal underneath their shoes clicks and echoes. Pale grey walls create the illusion of an ethereal passage, one that could possibly lead to another world.

And in a way, it does.

"Come on," Milo says. Zeke's still staring – he doesn't think he's breathing. "It's nearly lunchtime and I want to show you the basics before the place gets crowded."

This time, Zeke doesn't nod. When he looks at Milo, he notices the stoic look on his face has been replaced with a softer one, but Milo still can't decipher it. Reading people has never been his specialty – sometimes he needs to be reminded of that.

They walk through the hall and Milo notices his protégé's face fall when they enter the yard, where all the buildings connect. It's a big yard, stretching as far as he can see and until the end of the eastern part of the complex, nearly five miles away. They're not going there—he has the route planned already—but a part of him longs for the open fields they'd find.

"It's not very impressive out here," Milo says. "The entrance is one of the rare buildings preserved as it was meant to look. Most of it has been modernised, anyway, after the attack in '82. We had to rebuild nearly the entire complex."

"You know a lot about the history of this place," Zeke notes. It might be just Milo, but he feels there's an underlying tone to it that signifies the sentence means something different on a deeper basis.

Or maybe he's just overreacting. This is a kid, not an adult. He hasn't even finished school yet.

Milo needs to get a hold of himself if he doesn't plan on going insane by the end of the week.

He places hands into the pockets of his woollen coat, hoping it would relax him a little. "I wasn't born here, but that's another story. But I was new – I didn't have the privilege of being introduced to this by my family, so I had to do it myself. I just did it better than most people would."

Zeke's quiet for a while; a thoughtful look replaces the stoic. "Are there records about all of this?"

"Yes, in the archives, mostly. Those available to you can be found in the library – but they don't really say much about the Skóroi, if that's what you want. You'd better ask me for that."

No reply comes and Milo is a little nauseous again. He's not telling too much, is he? Zeke is looking around and he appears to be taking in the view, or perhaps soaking all the information he can – but it's what would be expected of someone like him. Older than his age, Milo would say.

They better hope he's loyal to the Skóroi.

When they reach the first building—always named after the current director—the door closes and Milo lets his eyes flutter for a moment; his fingers don't hurt anymore. "It's warm in here."

"Hang your coat on the rack, we're coming back this way," Milo instructs. He takes off his coat and puts it away. He waits until Zeke does the same. "We have a great heating system. I'd tell you more about it, if you're interested, but I'm not that good at it. You could ask the engineers in the Géroux compound. They didn't build it, but they understand it better than me."

"Is every building this warm?"

"That's how we try to have it, yeah."

The tour of the Bakhuizen building is about five minutes long and Zeke says maybe two words during it. Milo talks mostly about the history of the building and the naming system, with a word or two about the director. When he tells Zeke he's going to meet him first thing tomorrow morning, Zeke nods as if he's been expecting it all along.

The next are the Conti building, where they have the cafeteria on three floors—yours depends on your role in the faction—and the Aresit residence, where some of the sleeping dorms are. It currently houses seven recruits and one hundred fifty-three members, including Milo. "It's for the singles," Milo explains. "When you decide you want to start a family, you can pick an apartment in some other buildings. But that won't be of importance to you for a while."

After that, he points to him some of the building they won't be going to today. There are twenty in total, with five additional mini-complexes that are designed as empty areas where some choose to build houses. One is a firing range, where the guards are taught how to use guns and pistols and another is where they keep the animals.

By the end of the tour, Milo can't tell if Zeke is amazed or completely indifferent to everything – the look on his face has been the same ever after the entrance hall. He thought the director's building would bring some awe to the surface, as it's the second most beautiful and skilfully crafted building in the complex, but it didn't. Of course, it wasn't the original – that one was ruined in the attack, too.

They have some time left until fifteen o'clock, according to Milo's clock, so he brings him to the stadium. It was a little further north and a five minutes' walk, but he figured if anything can get a reaction from a fifteen year-old boy, it's a football field.

He's wrong.

But they sit on the bleachers and the cold wind blows, and all Milo can think of is the last game they played, sometime in December.

"We used to have weekly games," Milo says, "when I was younger. I couldn't participate in them yet, but I loved to watch. We'd sit on these bleachers during the summer heat and cheer for a team – we used to have a professional team, going to the championships and all that. But the director changed and truth be told, Bakhuizen isn't very fond of football. So the team was off and now we play few times a year."

"Do you play?" Zeke asks.

"I used to." A memory flashes beneath his eyelids; he holds in the shudder, but the wind feels like its protruding his many layers. "You could play. You look like you're good at it."

"I've never played football."

"You've never played football? I thought they do it in physical education classes," Milo says. "At least that's what the recruits usually say. Most of them are the best players we have, when we team up."

Zeke looks at him as if he's scanning his reaction – Milo feels like all his freckles are being examined and memorised, and every line on his face mapped into that boy's mind. Zeke's face is tense and jaw clenched, and this is the first time Milo can see that Ezekiel Brosseau, as ethereal as his name, is a child and an adult at the same time. His face has soft lines and his eyes are a caramel brown, but the way he clenches his jaw and hardens his face give away a different impression.

Milo turns away.

A feet from him, Zeke shifts on the bleachers. Out of the corner of his eye, Milo sees him looking at the field and his face is thoughtful, again. "I had an excuse for not playing."

No elaboration. Fine, Milo thinks. If that's how it's going to be done, then be it.

"We better get going." He gets to his feet, pulling the scarf tighter around his neck. Zeke doesn't follow up immediately. "You must be hungry, right? We're going to the cafeteria and then I'm taking you to your room. Your bag will be there already, along with some new clothes. You're a size fifteen, right?"

"Seventeen," Zeke says. "Or, sixteen."

He doesn't look so sure.

"Okay, you try them on and if they don't fit, I'm going to make them get you something else. But we really need to get going now."

His protégé listens to him without a word.

They walk for about ten minutes and Milo's throat is sore and painful, and the cough he lets escape don't sound particularly good. Zeke looks at him when they get bad, but doesn't say anything. At one point, Milo's at the verge of asking why he's so quiet all the damn time, but refrains at the last moment.

Kid's probably freaked out.

It's nearly thirty past fifteen when they finally arrive to the cafeteria and most of the people are done eating already, having gotten up and left, whether back to work or their homes. Zeke and he sit at an empty table and upon through questioning, Milo goes to get him 'anything, I have no preferences' and a bit of spinach and mashed potato for himself.

He gets Zeke the same thing. When he comes back, the kid scrunches his nose a little but says nothing.

"What, not a fan of spinach?"

"Not really." Carefully, he takes off his gloves. The beret is next.

Staring at his own plate, Milo tries not to make a shift in his demeanour. His eyes go back to the blue, red and purple circles on Zeke's knuckles—he's not sure, but there might be a nasty-looking scab or two—and right above his left ear there is a several inches long, recent cut, sewn together with stitches. The skin around it is red and bloated and the cut itself is slowly turning into a scab; it must've hurt.

A question sits in his mouth. No, scratch that – a dozen questions does.

Milo tries to eat his spinach, he really does, but all he can think about are the bruises and the cut. His eyes flicker there and to his plate, and he tries to figure out what's Zeke's deal. He may not be an expert in wounds and injuries but even he can see that both of these are relatively fresh.

There's no need to be blunt, Milo thinks. He just needs to find a way to ask the question without making it too intrusive, or too obvious.

He knows that's the only kind of question he could stand being asked if he were in Zeke's place.

Milo studies him for a while. The reservation in his body language is different now; he's more stiff, with a straight posture and rough movements, and his face is as indecipherable as ever. The time he takes for each bite is about five seconds every single time. He eats without munching or open mouth and drinks without gulping. If Milo doesn't know he's there, he's as silent as if he weren't.

Just this once, he can't resist asking.

"Hope this isn't too intrusive," he begins and Zeke looks up at him, "but what happened to your hands and head?"

Zeke swallows the bite. He stares at Milo just like he stared at him at the playground, and Ognen before that, and a terrible thought comes into Milo's mind – what if this is some sort of mind-trickery, manipulation, magic?

But Milo doesn't believe in magic. He's not afraid of a fifteen year-old boy.

"I fell," Zeke says, "that's for the head. And I punched the wall when I got up."

He goes back to eating as if nothing as happened and Milo knows the conversation is over. The answer was as vague as it gets, but it's also as fair as it gets. Sure, Milo could play his mentor card, if he wants to know that badly. But he doesn't, because this would violate Zeke's privacy and undermine respect and trust he has in Milo and that's the last thing anyone wants.

The Skóroi is built on trust, after all.

"You need to relax, Zeke." He can still give him advice. "We're going to need you at your best and you being nervous prevents you from that. You got it?"

"Yes."

"And get your injuries sorted out at the medic's, I'll show you where it is after you make yourself at home."

"Yes, sir."

Something hitches in his throat. Milo doesn't know if Zeke's joking around or being serious – in the short time they've spent together so far, he hasn't joked once. The conversation dies again and for the rest of the meal, Milo doesn't try to start it again.

Few people pass and say hello; there's Kristýna and later Karel, Tycho who used to mentor with him in his first year, some of the new recruits and at the end of all, Ognen, who nods in Milo's direction. He greets all of them and Zeke looks up occasionally, but that's about where his interest ends. Milo tells him about some of the recruits he'll be working in and tries to tell a story about his last recruit, when he realizes Zeke's attention appears to be elsewhere.

Okay, Milo thinks, then we're doing this your way.

The only words they exchange on their trip to Zeke's room are Milo's further instructions on the structures of the complex. Zeke asks no questions and neither does Milo.

Zeke's room is on the third floor of the Aresit residence. It's a small, one-bed room but Milo assures him it's a temporary thing – he'll take two weeks to get used to the practices in the Skóroi and then he'll be placed with another recruit, whom he'll live with until the initiation.

Although banal, the feeling of entering a recruit's room for the first time awakens something in Milo. It's something he feels, at times – desire for going through this process himself. He was never a recruit, but he was never a 'regular' either. Somewhere in between.

He's always been somewhere in between, he thinks watching Zeke go through his bag that waits for him on the bed.

"All in there?"

"Yes."

"All right."

Zeke starts unpacking, as if Milo isn't there.

"Ezekiel," Milo says. His voice sounds different to what he's used to—grimier—and Zeke stops taking out his belongings to look at him. "Your number is 15018202. Remember it, write it down somewhere, but you need to know it at all times. If I wake you at three o'clock with fire at your feet, you need to be able to tell me this number."

Zeke nods. "What is it?"

"Your Skóroi identification. 15 is for your age, 01 for January, 82 for the year of recruiting and 02 for the base."

"All right."

He goes back to work.

Milo stands there for a couple more minutes, silent. Observing. Zeke's bed is in the very corner of the room, a single adult bed that all the recruits get. It's not particularly comfortable—the mattress is made of some odd material—and it looks hard. Right in front of it is a closet for whatever belongings they've brought along or gotten in the faction. Milo couldn't help but notice how empty Zeke's looks. And on the other side of the room is a desk and a wooden chair, with a kerosene lamp positioned so it lights up the entire room at least a little, when lit. Above the desk is a window but it looks to the east, so there's not much sunlight peering in.

That's the first room every new recruit is met with. It's scarce and some deem it poor, but Milo would give everything to be able to experience it.

"Right," he says. "I should be going, now."

Zeke says nothing.

Milo's out the door when he recalls something he should've mentioned earlier; both relief and guilt sting at the same time. "Zeke?"

"Yes?"

"I want to apologize for giving you the wrong time and place to meet in the first letter," Milo says. Zeke watches him, indecipherably, but Milo thinks he can see a shift somewhere beneath the stoic layers. "It was a – the postal office made a mistake when trying to read my handwriting. They realized a little too late and I feared the new time and place wouldn't get to you at all." He smiles. "It's good to know it has. You were just several hours early, but I can't blame you for being excited, even though Ognen didn't let you in."

Zeke nods but this time it's different. Milo can't wrap his head around it, but they agree to meet at nineteen o'clock at this room and he leaves.

He can't stop thinking about the look on his face even when he gets to his own room, even when he talks to Karel about the day.

As if he realized something.

And Milo has no idea what.