with so much broken and

Brody, just like every child in the world, had the statistics drilled into him at a young age: if your Soulmate doesn't respond to you within a month, there is a 95% chance that they're dead.Brody is ten years old, already used to the pain of forced labor, and he hasn’t been able to write to Preston in two years. Oil is the only thing that has been staining Brody’s skin, and oil doesn’t move through the Marks like ink does.He knows he has, in all likelihood, become that statistic to Preston.-“Preston?” Brody whispers, the word coming like a prayer to his lips.Preston- his Preston, the Soulmate he's been trying to get back to for ten years now- raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”The words nearly catch in Brody's throat. “I'm Brody. Brody Romero.”Preston's eyes go wide and he stumbles back slightly from Brody. “Brody? But- but you’re dead.” Preston’s eyes narrow, his fists go up, and he shifts into a fighting stance- one that has Brody flinching back from Preston, because he knows that stance, has been thrown into the Arena as pummeling material for fighters using that stance. “Brody’s dead. Who the fuck are you and why are you pretending to be him?”