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Lucius Abaddon was the President’s son. That was all he was and all he had ever been. From the moment his mother had died and his father had used her death as the base of his first Senate campaign—and every campaign after that—all hope of another life had been lost. So when Alec Abaddon had pushed the button to release the United States’s nukes and started a chain reaction of destruction as, in retaliation, other world leaders did the same, the fault had fallen on Lucius too. It didn’t matter that he was the one who had walked into his father’s bunker with a gun he’d taken off a Secret Service officer and shot Alec in the face with it, ending his tyrannical term. He was still the President’s son.

He took a deep breath, sucking the air in through his teeth. The air of New York City, like that of the rest of the country, was no longer as arid as it had been when he had first arrived after the bunkers had opened. Though, he supposed he should probably stop thinking of this land as the United States. It wasn’t and it never would be again. The world had already been dying from the intensity of extreme weather and pollution, and the bombs had rocked the world enough to send most of the land underwater. As far as they knew, this was the only land left. They had to assume everything else was gone because hoping anything else was true would make moving on that much harder.

The roar of the Atlantic tide was like static in his ears, as he stared out at the swirling blue-grey water. He was standing at the memorial site for the World Trade Center, the story of which had always felt like a faraway tale to him, as much history as the American Revolution was. Nearly a century and a half later, it couldn’t be much else.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” The voice coming from behind him was too familiar. It was a voice that did nothing more than remind him there was nothing he could do to stop the circle of societal destruction the world had so long been plagued with. It was and would always be one tyrant after another, regardless of intention. Callix was a fool to think otherwise.

“Yes, and I thought you had gotten the memo,” he said, turning to face Callix Martinez, leader of the New World. “It’s been years.”

Callix shrugged. “I’ve had people looking for you the entire time, Lucius, but apparently you’re good at keeping yourself hidden.” He sighed. “I want to talk. I have since the moment you left. You hardly gave me a chance to explain my plans for this country.”

Lucius stared at him. It was like looking at his father, though he and Callix looked nothing alike. Callix was young, a few years Lucius’s senior, with wild dark hair and skin a dark shade of taupe. His eyes were green as the grass was finally once again growing to be. Alec had looked much like Lucius, his hair silver and his complexion somewhere between white and brown, though the two did not share their eyes. Alec’s had been brown, but Lucius had his mother’s eyes, eyes like a glass of cognac. But it wasn’t literal appearance that made Alec and Callix mirror images of each other. Callix had noble intentions, but so had Alec, in the beginning. At least, Lucius thought so.

“Lucie—”

“Don’t call me that.” Lucius’s voice snapped like a whip, and he saw Callix’s shoulders tense. “You asked for my opinion, I gave it to you, and you ignored it. So I left. Because I won’t be associated with what you’re doing. Why can’t you just leave it at that?”

“I asked for your opinion because I value it, and yes, I didn’t agree with it but that didn’t mean I wanted you to leave,” Callix said. “I understand that you’re worried about the power dynamic, but you staying is exactly what could help keep it in check. Opposition is a good thing.”

“You say that now, but so did my father, at first,” Lucius said. “And then he started tearing down political institutions from the inside and talking about how what this country really needed was a king. He tried to create a kingdom for himself instead of doing his duty as a keeper of democracy, and your response to his failed coup is to turn what’s left of our home into an empire with you as its king. A king chosen by the people, sure, but a king all the same. Maybe it won’t be you, but someday down the line, one of your successors will become exactly the type of person that put us where we are today. I can’t support that. I won’t.”

Callix shook his head. “No, I’ll set it up in a way that won’t happen.” 

“You know you can’t do that. You know that it doesn’t matter what you do. You can’t control the future.”

“You’re still mad about Rowan,” Callix said, hesitancy in his voice. “I know that’s part of this.”

Rowan. Rowan with soft skin the color of black coffee. Rowan with a laugh so deep it was like it was coming from the core of the earth itself. Rowan who somehow managed to always keep himself composed, even in the face of a literal apocalypse. Rowan who tasted like joy and honey and smelled like eucalyptus leaves. Rowan who had died defending Callix’s empire.

He felt his eyes darken. “Stop it.”

Callix did not stop it. “He believed in it, Lucius. He helped me build it. You know Rowan—”

“He believed in you, Callix, not the plan. And see where that got him.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No? Because I seem to recall it being your ideas that got him killed. And not just him either.” Lucius’s chest was hot, the pit of feebly contained fire in his stomach breaking through his ribs. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t think about his father or the idea of returning to Callix’s side as he fortified his empire’s heart in the rubble of Chicago, and he certainly couldn’t think about Rowan or anyone else he had lost in the years since his father’s third inauguration. “Why don’t we talk about Carlos?”

He knew he was off base. Carlos had been Callix’s best friend, practically his brother, and his death was far from his fault, though he blamed himself for it. He didn’t need another reminder of it. But it was what he got for bringing up Rowan. 

“Fine.” Callix exhaled. “Just know you’re always welcome back at my court—my home.You’re right. Becoming your father is something I could do very easily. And nobody knows what he was like more than you. I could use your advice.”

When Lucius said nothing, Callix nodded and turned his back. Lucius wondered if he should call after him—continue their conversation or tell him he would return to Chicago with him—but he couldn’t bring himself to. To support Callix was to support empire-building, and to support empire-building was to support his father’s beliefs, something he could never allow himself to do.

But if there was one thing Callix was right about, it was that opposition was a good thing, and while he wouldn’t do it within the walls of the newly constructed Martinez Palace, opposition was something Lucius could create. He would hold the monarchy accountable. If they ever stepped out of line, he would be the atom bomb that destroyed them and took back the world. On the very ground where he stood, he would build the Abaddon Rebellion.