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Shiloh’s eyes drifted from Caelius’ face, down to his outstretched hand, then back up to his face again.

“I was thinking, sir,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Maybe I should hold onto it. Whoever was in the car thinks that I have it, and if they were to say, make a surprise checkup, and,” he paused a minute, trying to remember. “They said something about cameras, if they do have ‘eyes’ on Deus and they see you with it it might wreck whatever things you guys have going on, you know?”

He forced a smile again.

Glad though he was that the awkward silence had ended, Shiloh gave Mark a look that suggested he'd been taking glaring lessons from the Death lead.

But said Death lead's voice brought him back to attention, however, and he answered just as calmly, staring right back. It would do him no good to waver in his stance now, even though he was likely screwed either way.

"Life."

"Understood, sir, but it's kind of internal information now, isn't it, now that it's here? It could be analyzed in the labs, in case it might be hiding any clues or pertinent information, right? It's not like you can ask a medallion questions."

Shiloh Parish, eternal optimist, and very soon to be dead man.

It only took a second, not nearly long enough for him to even open his mouth let alone argue, before Shiloh’s world tipped horizontally, sent crashing to the floor, the tile cold against his face as the weight of Caelius’ boot bore down on it. A distinctly growing ache tormented his side, but there was nothing he could do, struggling was likely an action that didn’t result in him surviving this altercation.

Shiloh wasn’t a stranger to pain, or humiliation. The wasn’t the first time someone stronger had pushed him down, although he had to admit, it was an easier pill to swallow knowing that his bully was practically a stranger, rather than kin. He gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists, biting back the urge to yell at Caelius that it was his trinket and as such, belonged to him.

But he knew better than to give bullies the satisfaction.

“If I have it,” he said quietly, calmly. He paused at the strange sound, trying to crane his head to see. It was no use, however. He was immobile. It was worrisome, but he maintained his composure, pulling his arm, and the medallion, beneath himself. “Then I can make sure no one’s going to die because of it.”

“It means nothing to me,” he gasped out, feeling as though every nerve was still screaming. Breathing was difficult, and speaking was harder still, but he gathered, quite clearly now, that Caelius’ patience had run out, and he struggled as best he could to be clear and succinct. “It’s a useless piece of metal, and I didn’t take it or want it. The hooded guy offered it to me and I was just about to refuse when your assistant pulled me out of the car, and pocketed it for herself.”

He shifted his body as much as he could, a groan of pain echoing against the lighthouse walls. The medallion rolled across the floor, falling on its side with a soft clink as it met the toe of Caelius’ boot.

“Take it sir, if you are doubting my loyalty to you.” His own voice hurt his ears, the noise only adding to the painful ringing in his head. “It means nothing to me. But it apparently means something to your assistant, and to them. I made no move to hide the medallion from you, I only asked for the responsibility of keeping tabs on it. If you knew I had it, killing someone with it would haven been awfully stupid wouldn’t it? They wanted me to use it as a sign, to kill someone and leave that as a message, an initiation right. I had and will never have, any intention of doing so, or of betraying Deus. Sir, I meant no disrespect earlier, and I apologize for forgetting my rank and the seriousness of the situation. It won't happen again.”

His eyes drooped tiredly as he fought to stay awake, his body slumped against the floor as his circuits already threatened to short out.

“They also said they hoped that I would make their meeting next month," he continued, his voice low as he tried to keep it steady. "No matter what excuse Sam might think of to give them, my absence will likely be taken as suspicious.”

If Shiloh had been nervous before, he was desperate now, wracking his sluggish brain for a suitable answer to Caelius’ question. Simply handing over intelligence wasn’t enough. He had to convince the Death lead he was worth keeping around, and it had to be something that would assure Caelius of his loyalty to Deus, and to him. It had to be big, and shocking. He had to make Caelius need him. The idea came to him as suddenly as the electricity zapped had into his body. It wasn’t something Shiloh had ever considered before this moment, as he lay there shaking and unable to move, the static crackling in the background. No matter how out of place he felt in his work in the Life Labs, he hadn’t given thought to it, but he knew it wasn’t impossible.

“I’m more useful to you alive, than dead. Give me the chance to be a valuable asset to your team. Let me join your division. Let me work for you. I can go to the meeting, for you, and report back to you. Let me prove how loyal I am to you.”

Deus was supposed to have been different. It had promised everything, escape, a new start, a chance at freedom from the tyranny he’d endured his entire life.

In the end, it had delivered nothing of its promises, only more of the same, multiplied tenfold and concentrated in the man standing over him. But the bruises, the broken bones, the very crumpling of his spirit day after day of home, was nothing compared to the power the Death lead wielded over him. Caelius could end him completely, in one fell and electrifying swoop, and no one would ask questions, and those that did would only be silenced. Of course he begged for mercy; there were no other options left.

There was only survival, and the only pawn he could control in the game of life or death was himself, and the only way to survive was to bow before the king, and Shiloh would have to dip low, his belly on the ground, to sink far enough to be below the pathetic excuse for a human being that the king was. Shiloh resented the boots that stood in his vision, and the hunter that stood in them, more than he had anyone in his life. But something had snapped, had broken, a part of his hope had been fried and sizzled out of existence.

Perhaps Caelius was right. He’d been playing a fool’s game, thinking he could help anyone. He’d been a fool to think he’d find a well-oiled machine in Deus, instead of one crumbling to pieces, being eaten away at its very core. There was no room for heroes; there was no room for anything but becoming a subservient ******** dog to the system, crawling along his belly to lap at his master’s shoes.

Shiloh knew better than to bite the hand that feeds.

He knew better than to hold onto his hope that he could changes things by mere positive thinking, by the power of something as stupid as a smile. There was neither truth nor justice to be found on the island, and there was certainly no happiness, aside from the small vestiges of it he could gather, and hide away before anyone found out it was precious to him, before they could use it against him, and take it away. He’d be a good boy, in hopes the inevitable beatings from that hand would be less severe.

Picked up, the pain in his side burned and his head swam, and Shiloh was thrown like a rag-doll, as if it were nothing, next to Mark, next to the stupid assistant who had done nothing, who watched it all without comment, who was perfectly content to let it happen. There was no remote possibility that Shiloh could land on his feet, and remain upright, and the trainee crumpled next to the assistant’s chair, his face void and expressionless. Inwardly he screamed. If he had doubted Mark before, he hated him now. Shiloh, with his smiling face and sweet demeanor, hated Mark.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Mark had somehow managed to prove himself useful, a feat Shiloh was sure had to have been no less short than miraculous, and Shiloh had to do the same, and he needed the assistant to do so. There would be no change of heart for Shiloh, there could be no more doubt. There were no sides, because sides were for people who had the freedom to choose, for those not tethered on a leash so short it was practically redundant. There were no sides because each side was exactly the same, and the idea of choosing between them was utterly pointless.

No, truth and justice and freedom might exist somewhere, but they didn’t exist here. They didn’t exist with the group ‘O’. Nothing existed but obedience, as Shiloh tried to push himself up from the floor, his head nodding slowly,

“Yes, sir.”

Arguably the system sucked, and while Mark was not to blame for the position Shiloh had found himself in, he blamed him for it all the same.

But then Mark was helping Shiloh up, his voice and words both reassuring and kind, even if Shiloh knew better than to believe them. It caught him off-guard, and Shiloh exhaled softly, shakily, and nodded as he wobbled to his feet. He hadn’t expected sympathy, instead expecting snide remarks and gloating, or worse. It hadn’t been a proud moment for Shiloh, and it was likely those expectations of Mark were an extension of how he felt about himself.

The awkward silence that fell over them, as Mark guided him out of the lighthouse and along the beach, was palpable, but the ringing in Shiloh’s ears was only just beginning to fade, and the quiet pause, punctuated only by their footsteps and the distant rolling of waves, was pleasant. When it broke, it was Mark’s voice filling his ears, a normal volume but still too entirely too loud for him. Shiloh looked at him, not as cruelly as he had before, but questioning like Shiloh was an injured animal, and Mark was the kid trying to poke him with a stick.

“I… Followed you here,” he answered honestly. It seemed incredibly stupid to him now, the consequences far outweighing the harmlessness of his original venture to simply tail the Death assistant. At least the experience had opened his eyes, giving him knowledge far more useful than that of the hooded figure’s. He knew where he stood now, and it was at the bottom of the totem pole, beneath the lowliest of insects. He had no rights. He had no power. He was a tool to be used, and the sooner he accepted that, the better. He could survive as a tool, far longer than as an individual. He’d figure this out, when his head stopped spinning.

“You’d made some… Interesting comments about that body, on twitter. I thought it was a weird thing to joke about.”