Vyn and Von were always the horniest of the lot ... always. Given the latter, you were bound to wind up finding traces of their uncontrollable lust scattered about their mundane space. Today, they found much of it.

In boxes and on shelves and desks and even on their computers, tablets, and phones--some otherwise sexually suggestive content remained conspicuous. Something else that remained conspicuous: their livelihood.

The room they shared was virtually confinement. Solitary. Five steps would get them to a wall. Cramped. And the paint of the walls began to peel and creep downward toward the floor of broken marble tiles; lingering uncleaned for months.

The two usually spent their time playing video games or reading books. And while it entertained them both for some time, it succumbed to entertain their lusts. What's more, they couldn't afford to buy more games and books once they were finished with the lot they had.

Vyn passed the heel of his palm along a brow, wiping away a bothersome bead of sweat. "That should be the bulk of it."

Von jammed a few books down a parcel, and stood with a partially hunched back. "Took us much longer than I expected."

"I mean," Vyn folded his arms, "we do own a lot for poor men."

"We're barely men," Von said, "not even twenty yet."

Vyn scoffed. "Name a single nineteen-year-old who lives by himself and pays his own bills."

"I'd be here for days," Von said, picking up the parcel from the floor.

"You're stuck in this delusion that tells you we're the poorest of the poorest." He carefully stacked the parcel atop a piled few. "We're actually far from it."

Vyn picked up a parcel, and carried it over to the stack. "Well, we're the poorest I know," he dropped the parcel, "and y'see that there? That's my problem. Aren't you tired of always being stepped on, always settling for the apples on the lowest branches, Von?"

"Don't drop the parcels please. And yes," Von said, looking at him, "I'm tired of living like this too. But there's nothing we can do about it."

Vyn dropped another parcel atop the stack. "Maybe we can get a job to help Mom pay off the debt Dad left us with."

"C'mon, Vyn, stop dropping the parcels."

"Why? It's not like there's glass in there. Wait ..." he trailed off, "what are these anyway? The packaging looks too fancy for trash."

Von looked down at the parcels. "Not trash. Remember that website I told you about? Well, yeah, I got an interested customer who's willing to pay for all this junk."

Incredulous, Vyn raised a brow. "Wait, really?"

"Yes," he adjusted his glasses. "since he already paid me online, I'm shipping these out to him. And guess what?" A smile trickled. "The website had this brand new feature where you could--"

"Chat with your customer?" Vyn asked, interjecting.

"Yeah," Von cocked his head, "how'd you know?"

"Yesterday I sold stuff to a stranger, didn't I tell you?"

"What, the stuff you stole from our neighbors?"

"Yeah," he scratched his head, smiling, "but I wouldn't exactly call it 'stealing'. It's .... borrowing," he smirked, "since I'd come back to New York one day and give them a hundred times the item's worth."

Von folded his arms. "Your point?"

He perked up. "I sold the stuff to a man under the name 'Arnold Clarke'."

"Wait ..." Von grimaced, "that's my customer."

"Exactly!" Vyn snapped. "I'm not sure why he'd want appliances and tools but he bought everything from me. When we used the chat to talk to each other, I gave him a morsel of my life story and he told me that he was a pilot, willing to help us move to Asia--for free!"

"He told me the same thing," Von said, mulling, "and I turned him down. You didn't agree to take the flight, did you?" He looked up at Vyn.

Vyn smirked. "C'mon, Vyn. You know your big brother."

"What the fuck were you thinking, Vyn!" Von snapped. "Haven't mom taught you about taking things from strangers."

Vyn scoffed. Their mother was a prostitute in Korea and while it bothered him excessively, he always remembered it. "You know what mom does for a living, Vyn, and how she plans to repay the debt. She takes from strangers all the time!"

Von knitted his brows. "You can't be serious. Call the poor man and tell him we're canceling the flight. Make sure you apologize too."

"No," Vyn said. "You're failing to understand the opportunity here. Our things are packed--we were already moving. Why not move to Korea where mom lives while we're at it?"

"Four months," Von said, "that's how long she hasn't called us."

"She's been busy."

Von frowned. "She's not expecting us, Vyn. She's not. For all we know, she doesn't want us anymore."

"We don't know that for sure and there's only one way to find out," Vyn said. "Let's take the damn flight."

"I'm not taking a plane piloted by a stranger. Besides, with all these things sold and a little bit of money in the bank, we can afford a real flight."

Vyn narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a line. "To what, be dead poor afterward? We can't take that chance. I say we save our money and take the free flight."

***

Von had no idea how Vyn truly managed to persuade, or rather, tempt him into taking the plunge. Taking the flight. Was it Vyn's solace? That strong confidence in his eyes? Whatever it was, it worked indubitably.

Unbidden, they loitered on an abandoned football field, awaiting the arrival of their pilot. It had been three hours and it looked like to them as though it would soon be four.

Their legs—legs they barely used on a daily basis—began to succumb. They were weaker than they thought. Even Vyn, who considered himself athletic, got a taste of this bitter reality.

Von, on the other hand, had his mind fixated elsewhere. Although he'd decided to take the flight, he was still outright skeptical. It seemed that the longer he waited, the more his apprehension grew.

"Three fucking hours," Von drawled.

"What's takin' him so long?" Vyn asked.

"You're not supposed to be asking that question. It's your fault we're here in the first place."

"He'll come. Good man."

Von scoffed. "That's it. I'm going home." He turned around. "We're even supposed to be here. We were fucked. That man never planned to come for us. I'm sure he was just talking shit on the internet. Come home when you find your brain, Vy—"

A powerful whooshing came from overhead. It was the sound of an helicopter's rotors.

As the helicopter deliberately drew downward toward the grassy surface of the football field, Vyn and Von's eyes met. From the time Vyn realized this, he flashed a smirk. One that, in turn, made Von avert his eyes and mumble to himself.

The whooshing crescendoed as the helicopter reached the surface. It thundered in both Von and Vyn's ears. The rotors soaring through the surrounding air, sending gusts toward them that buffeted their jet black hair and already rumpled clothes.

With a black and gold design, an exaggerated tail boom, large landing skids, six seats and a massive tinted cockpit, the helicopter was undeniably outlandish.

"Let's go, Von!" Vyn shouted, loud.

Von then followed Vyn to the helicopter.

***

"Geez, Arnold, I thought you forgot about us," Vyn said as he slid the helicopter door shut.

"Had a quick pickup to make before I came here," the pilot said, comms around his; mic directed at his mouth.

"Ready to take off." Arnold finally took off into the air again.

Von scrutinized the interior of the helicopter. Gold painted seats with black accents and the pilot's controls closer up the cockpit.

When Von glimpsed behind him, he recognized another passenger. A male around their age with hair dyed blue, brown brows and quite a chiseled jawline.

"I'm the pickup Arnold was talking about," he said. "First time too?"

Von nodded. "Yes."

Vyn looked back. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothing at all," Arnold said. "But I do hope that changes once I get to Italy again."

"Cool. We're going to Korea," Vyn said.

Von roved at the helicopter's interior again. "That's why I was expecting a plane."

Vyn sighed. "Yeah, but I'm pretty sure a helicopter's capable of traveling from country to country, yeah?"

"The questions is," Von looked at him, "how long would that take?"

***

Surprisingly, they had made it to their destination fast. They looked out through their closed windows and observed the island in stage distance.

The mountains stood tall. The lands spread wide. The infrastructure lingered monolithic. From one look at it—even for a second—they knew this wasn't Italy … and it certainly wasn't Korea either.

"Welcome to Arkern," said the pilot, "the lands to which you are now bound."