Young Writers Society

The story:

For the past 100 years the world has been preserved in a prison of ice and snow. The winter apocalypse is here. Only it is not at all what the world could have seen coming, or could have prepared for. In a matter of decades the human population cut itself in one fourth of what it was, technology pretty much disappeared altogether, and the world became almost impossible to sustain life. Crops could not grow, cities became ruins, and the countries of the world split apart unable to save even there own.

In the beginning, war broke out throughout the world as everyone began to fight for supplies, land, and power. Panic spread like wildfire. All these efforts however, were wasted as civilizations died, and resources ran out. Hidden amongst all the fighting were 8 leaders who predicted the events of the winter apocalypse. Along with support, and time they were able to quickly prepare for the world to come under the radar of the powers trying to fight for an impossible cause. Around the world 8 bases were created to survive the everlasting winter. And with each base over hundreds of people were chosen to survive the apocalypse, and continue on the legacy of humanity.

These bases survived many decades through the impossible war. They surpassed the genocide of most of the human race. They were able to sustain life, resources, and technology. Life was quiet when the war ended, and the winter world continued to ravage around them. It was simple and easy, and somehow these bases had avoided the inevitable wipe out of the world. Or so they thought.

As the decades continued on a new threat appeared, and the world began to evolve past the ice age people had come to know. Deadly creatures now roamed the earth, and hunted for the blood of any creature that could breathe. A new terrifying war had begun. A war with an unknown threat. Suddenly armies were set out to be made. But through all the efforts the bases began to shut down. Humanity was dying once again.

The fight for humanity was not over yet though. As long as the humans still breathe, the world still belongs to them.

3 bases remain in the fight for humanity. After all these years thousands of people inhabit each. Old and young alike. All people fighting for the future they deserve.

Questions you may have:

The cause of the winter?: The cause is simple, but still complicated. These include changes in ocean and atmosphere circulation patterns, varying concentrations of atmospheric carbon dioxide, and even volcanic eruptions. The main significant factor is the movement of the continents, and the distance of earth from the sun. Scientists believe all these reasons are to blame, but some believe there may be something bigger going on.

Is there life outside of the bases?: Yes. There are most likely to be settlements apart from the bases. These would include more savage lifestyles I assume. These would also be another outside threat along with the snow creatures.

How did tech disappear?: The continuation of technology disappeared because there was no way to manufacture it. There is still tech but it's just limited. It is usually only used by higher class citizens, or those in an occupation that requires it.

What are the goals of the base?: The overall goal is survive, and grow. Create a life for themselves. Many civilizations and politics will come to play in how the bases work. It is under an elected system.

What does this base look like?: The base is basically an underground city. Think City of Ember if you want to compare it to something. Just a little more advanced.

What's the purpose of this storybook? Action or Emotion?: Both of course! I’ve decided to focus more on the younger generation of people 16-20. This is the training period where soldiers are made, and bonds are built. The setting will take place in the weakest of the remaining bases, therefore an elite group could be constructed to take care of supply runs, whereas the older soldiers would take on the fight against the outside of the base. So the younger elites are like agents, and soldiers. Young stealth vs. old strength.

How are the armies assembled? And ages?: It depends on your abilities as a child, and your class rank. Although being a soldier is a good job. It pays well, and it's a form of entertainment in some ways to the naive children. Some grow up training for this, and others are thrown into it without choice. Official training begins at 16 or 17. Elite groups are chosen in ceremonies, and enlisting for the regular armies have a separate “lesser” ceremony. And ages would range up to as old as you would see in our society today.

What's the starting plan?: Supplies are running out. Suddenly all the resources that once could be grown or made are slowing production. And as the populations grow larger the need becomes greater. Since all the continents are now linked together by ice, trips to other bases can take weeks. The story could start out with intros, enlisting, ceremonies and training, and then eventually it leads to the mission to go get supplies


Your Job:

Create a young new member for this elite group. Difference is good so find some way to make your character unique.

*Note* This is an SB where your character can join in later. So if life becomes crazy you can drop it, or not so crazy anymore feel free to join in!

Character Template: (It’s a lot, but I want you to really think about your characters. Also most of them can be one word answers.)

Home.

Throughout my life I’ve heard the word many times, and I’ve also heard it defined in many ways. To some, home is where your loved ones are. To others, home is where you feel safe and comfortable.

Growing up in the San Francisco base life was stable. Sometimes it feels like too much stability can feel like a cage constricting every feeling of wanting to move. On the other hand, moving in the world we live is not easy. I’ve been here all my life, but there are times when I feel the shiver of freezing cold rush down my back. It feels like the outside world is calling me, but at the same time it scares the shit out of me.

I’ve seen so many families torn apart, wives widowed, children orphaned, parents heartbroken in just my short life. The outside world is a dangerous place, but I’ve always known that one day it would become my world. For as long as I can remember, my parents have prepared me for the world outside. Constant hours of training in education, survival tactics, fighting, and athletics. No stopping, no choice, and no sympathy.

I have no place to be selfish, or to complain. This is the life I’ve been given, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no place in it to complain.

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“Lara this is not a good idea. What if someone finds us in here?”

“I swear Lydia, if you keep talking someone will find us.” I peer over the edge of the dark corridor. “Okay the archives are down at the end of the hall. Coast is clear. Let's go.” I turn around the corner, and quietly rush down the hallway.

“Lara why are we doing this? We can get in so much trouble.”

“You know you didn't have to come right?” I kneel down by the lock, and start working away with some pins. Lydia and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. We are the most opposite you can get in this world. We both had privileged childhoods and powerful parents, but I went into training, and she went into technology. I hear the click of the lock and smile. “Got it.” The door swings open with a creak.

“Whoa. It's huge.” Her eyes widen at the sight of hallways of shelves.

“I know.” I smile, and step in heading for the back.

“How many times have you come here exactly?” She asks curiously.

“Enough times to know when I can come here.” I grab a box off the shelf and remove the top. Inside are old pictures worn to the touch. I smile as I sift through them. “This is what the world looked like before the winter.”

“What is your deal with pictures?” She asks. I look up at her.

“I guess it's the thought of capturing a moment forever that's exciting to me. I would do anything for a camera…just for a chance to see what I could capture.”

“I'm sorry Lara...okay this place gives me the creeps, and your training starts in ten minutes.”

“True. If I'm late again, my father might not let me get nominated for the elite.” I sigh, and close the box. “Let's go.” We leave the archives, and disperse on our separate ways. For once I make it to training on time, and my father smiles. He turns to the other trainees.

“Let's begin.”

"Good morning," I say as I walk into the kitchen, shivering slightly.

"Good morning, Jenna," my parents chorus. Though my mom is occupied with the stove--she always makes breakfast for us, which I suppose is rare for most of the base's people--and my dad is seated at the table, intently studying a map of the base and its surroundings, both of them look up to smile at me as I enter. My brother Peter, one year my junior, is already seated, but he still looks half asleep, slouched down and with some of his hair still sticking up.

My breath stops for a moment as I spy the chair at the table closest to the wall. It is empty, pushed back at an angle, as though someone had just sat there recently.

"Did Kris leave yet?" I ask uncertainly, feeling a chilly sensation crawling over my limbs. "Without eating breakfast?" Without saying goodbye to me?

"No," replies Mom as she stirs what is probably gruel mixed with a bit of meat and vegetables for more nutrition and thickness. "She went back to her room for a little while. That mission she went on yesterday must have been really tiring."

I release the breath I hadn't known I was holding, and I feel my shoulders relaxing. For some reason, ever since my sister had joined an elite team two years ago, I always can't stop shivering unless I see her off for the day. Nothing seems right for me if I don't. It's as though my mind believes that she won't make it back safely unless I see her leaving in the morning.

"Food's ready," announces Mom, turning the stove off and ladling the gruel into five bowls. I can feel my stomach growling in anticipation, but it's a family custom of ours to wait until everyone is seated at the table before any of us begin to eat, unless, of course, it is a special exception.

Dad puts away his map and notes. The four of us wait. And wait. I start to wonder if Mom was mistaken after all, that Kris had already left without any of us knowing. I can feel my shivers increasing as I keep glancing back at the kitchen threshold.

"Maybe I should go check on her," I offer, shifting uncomfortably.

As though she knew I was talking about her, Kris strides into the kitchen in her special outdoor gear, except for her goggles, mask, and hats, which hang from a knob by the door, and she sinks into her chair, rubbing her face a little.

I eat in silence. Mostly, Kris and Dad do the talking, with Mom interjecting questions and reminding Kris to eat every now and then. They discuss things happening around the base and Kris' group's mission, which is to investigate the sighting of a snow beast's tracks.

Another shiver runs through me at the thought of a snow beast. I shut my eyes, willing the image of a bloodthirsty, horrendous beast that all of the base's children's minds are ingrained with from primary school to go away.

"Jenna."

I glance up. My family is staring at me. "What?"

"What are you doing today?" Dad asks.

"Oh." I spoon some food into my mouth. Swallowing, I continue, "I think that they want me to do something at the combat training arena today."

My parents exchange glances. It's not that I can't fight decently, but my height is a definite disadvantage against nearly every opponent I could face. I'm sure that they're both worrying that I'll come home tonight battered and bruised.

"Don't worry," I say, smiling a little. "It's obstacle course day. And maybe I'll do just a little personal training afterwards."

As I grew older, I had found myself to be quite an exception to the norm. It seemed that I had an aptitude for a lot of different areas. The leaders had no idea at first what to do with me, so they decided to test my abilities and rotate me between different areas of the base, such as combat, technology, engineering, and strategy until I was old enough to be placed somewhere permanently. And at some of these places I trained at, the instructor actually had me do something completely different from the other kids.

We finish our breakfast soon after that, and we all put our bowls away. We gather at the door, where Kris grabs her headgear from the knob and Mom hands her a small thermal bag with her lunch in it. Then, we all embrace her at once, murmuring "Be careful," "Be safe," "Good luck," and things like that, as we always do every morning.

"You too," Kris answers, giving us all a smile. She raises her right hand in a salute, as many elites do before they leave on a mission. Then, with a touch to the door, which slides open on command, she is gone.

I stop shivering.



I stroll into the combat arena. Usually, I would have headed back to my room after breakfast to catch an hour or two more of sleep, to study something, or read a book, but today is an exception.

As I eye some of the things the workers are dragging to the obstacle course side, I can tell that I will be asked to put in loads of traps and puzzles today. Obstacle course days, as well as being some of the only days that the poorer kids come in contact with real, expensive tech (some of which are designed by my mom), are a means of preparing the trainees for any situations in which they may find themselves in need of strategy, such as in avalanches, or confrontations with wild beasts, for that matter. The instructors sit me inside a little room by the arena and I design a course based on whatever loose guidelines they give me. Of course, I have to arrive a few hours earlier so that the walls, trampolines, tech screens, or whatever else they want in the course can be completely set up before anyone arrives, but it's a fun time for me as well, as I get to manipulate the course however I want--given the other kids can handle it.

I knock on the door to the special room, and it opens.

"Good morning, Sir Jones." I smile politely at the leader inside.

"Jenna," he replies, nodding slightly. "Come in. Have a seat."

I walk in and sit in the chair in front of the tech screens, while Sir Jones takes the one opposite me.

"Do you know what today is?" he asks, watching me with a neutral expression.

A sudden nervousness grips me. I don't know the answer. What if he's testing me? What if the whole rest of my life depends on this moment?

"Um . . . are you and the rest of the leaders starting to pick out elite candidates?" I guess, figuring that that was the only thing that actually happened around this time of year. Of course, the leaders never really told anyone the exact day the choosing would start. One only ever knew on the day itself.

"That is correct," he replies, "though I assume your father and mother didn't tell you, seeing that you sounded unsure of yourself."

"They didn't," I say, feeling defensive, "but I'm sure they just wanted me to perform well without any pressure beforehand."

"I'm sure they did," he answers. "I'm merely telling you this because I want you to go beyond any obstacle course you've designed so far. This time, make it as hard as you wish."

I narrow my eyes slightly as I study him. "Why are you asking this today?" I question suspiciously, though not without caution and a good deal of nervousness.

A corner of Sir Jones' mouth curves up slightly. "Did you really think I'd ask you to go easy today because I want my daughter to be part of an elite group?"

Um . . . yeah? I think as I picture how he's treated his daughter, Lara, during practices. Sure, he seemed to be pretty hard on her all the time, but still . . . I know my own parents would never cheat the system, even for my siblings and I, but I have no idea what other leaders would do for their children.

"Well, I want you to design the hardest obstacle course you have ever done. I want each and every person out in that arena to be challenged. Only the best deserve to be in an elite group." He stands, looking out the window at the arena. "And that goes for you, too."

I swallow. So it's my turn, too. "Yes, sir."



A few hours later, the "Monster Course," as I've dubbed it, is ready. After nearly frying my brain from trying to find the best way possible to stop the trainees in their tracks, and fighting the urge to argue with Sir Jones as he ordered me to change things if he deemed them to be not challenging enough, it is finally done. I sit back and watch from the window of the room as some of the trainees file in, lining up before Sir Jones, who is standing outside. Lara isn't here yet. Though I don't really know her very well, I sincerely hope for her own sake that she is on time for once. Despite the fact that he seems to check the time every few minutes, her father definitely won't play favorites.

At the very last moment, she bursts through the door, barely on time. She falls in line with the others.

"Let's begin," Sir Jones says. I am disappointed to see that after their warm up, he doesn't tell them to line up to do the obstacle course, but instead, they begin sparring with each other. They probably won't be done for a good amount of time.

Well, I suppose I could wait. The more patient I am, the sweeter my accomplishments will be.

Marcus Matt|In the Middle of Nowhere

Little Matt wasn't so little anymore.

Marcus looked over at his Eurasian Eagle Owl as it methodically preened itself on a branch near his head.

He hunched forwards and warmed himself by the fire. Night had fallen about two hours ago and the temperature had dropped well below freezing. Marcus could tell by the icicles that slowly lengthening under Little Matt.

He let his head rest against a log behind him. He had been living under the stars for as long as he could remember. Little Matt had been with him the entire time, keeping him fed and clothed, or at least he had killed small animals and Marcus had skinned them in order to keep warm.

He couldn't remember having any parents but he supposed he had some. Marcus just didn't care to find them. He lived his own way and that was all he needed.

In the distance, a wolf howled. Marcus looked over to his left, towards the lonely noise. Little Matt cooed softly then glanced down at Marcus.

"Don't worry about him. He's far away."

Little Matt blinked twice, then settled back into his usual position, watching the surrounding area for any intruders. Marcus set about making his bed. Stretching out his furs and brushing the snow off of him.

"Goodnight Little Matt."

Little Matt blinked at him, then cooed again.

Marcus closed his eyes, covering himself with a thick layer of blankets. He lay for a while, thinking of his life so far as he always did before falling asleep.

He had lived in the cold for as long as he could remember. The cold held his memories: his hardships and sorrow but also his joy and happiness. Marcus remembered when he killed his first deer, without Little Matt's help. He remembered when Little Matt had been injured by a bear, how his wing had been so bloody. Marcus remembered when he had met his first person.

His first person.

Marcus had stared at the man for so long he was shooed away. Marcus didn't realize there were others like him until that moment.

He had been eight.

"Hey Little Matt?"

The owl cocked it's head downwards and blinked.

"What do we do when there's no more snow? When all the humans come back together again?"

Little Matt hummed sadly, then hopped down from his branch, spreading his massive wings just a little to soften his fall. The owl then proceeded to clamber up Marcus's torso until he stood directly above Marcus's head. Little Matt puffed up his chest then drowned out the rest of the world with a long deep sound that vibrated Marcus's bones.

"Ok! Ok, you can stop now. I understand."

Little Matt nodded, then lept back up to his branch.

Marcus smiled. The owl had taken dominion over him and the night, daring anyone and anything to take Marcus from him.

With that, he fell asleep, dreaming of green grass and warm hands that caressed him even though he knew not their owner. Marcus liked to think they were his mother's hands.

The meat squished between my fingers, a bit of juice spilling onto the cutting board. Humming a pre-winter tune, I diced up the rest of the seal corpse, scraping the bits into a pan.

The kitchen was austere and dim, the only light emanating from the meager fire in the brick stove. The flame’s bland tongues were the result of keeping the fire burning at all times, so as not to waste heat. I found it a waste, as it robbed the meat of its better qualities.

Still, I had to make do in the fortress kitchen. Spacing the meat out with chopsticks, I placed the pan onto the rack above the fire. The fat morsels sizzled a bit as I parsed them around, darkening as the juices were sealed into the meat. Still humming the song melody, I eventually mumbled into the lyrics. “Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down…”

After a while, I lifted the pan from the stove, dancing to the nonexistent music. Plucking a pinch of herbs from the bowl on the counter, I garnished the meal with emerald zest. Tossing the pan a few times for artistic appeal, I then scooped the seal nuggets from the bowl, dumping them onto a plate.

As the herbs’ flavor seeped into the rest of the meal, I drizzled pepper over the meat, flailing my arms like a hellish gourmet cook. Throwing the dirty pan over my shoulder, I grinned and lifted the completed meal from the counter. The succulent meat had been cooked to perfection, dusted neatly with pepper, and herbs placed tastefully along the side to cleanse the palate.

I took so much pride in it, that I did not, in fact, notice the man prowling in the shadows, sneaking up on me with a broken knife.

I yelped as he slashed forward, bringing the chipped blade down on one of the nuggets. “Thinner pieces, Wendell,” the head chef growled as the meat bled its taste. “Seal meat’s tougher than fish.”

The head chef was a heavyset man, though fortress life had thinned him out like the rest of us. Deep, heavy bags sank beneath his eyes, and a deflated toque hat nested atop a mess of dark hair. Walking around me, he picked up the pan from the floor, wiping it off. “Be a little cleaner with these, too. A little food poisoning goes a long way in here.”

“R-right,” I said, still a little shaken from the murder of my seal nugget.

The head chef sighed, plucking a morsel from the plate, popping it into his mouth. He worked it around in his cheeks for a while before swallowing. He nodded, touching his throat. “Other than that, good job.”

“Thank you!” I bowed and smiled, though the latter action was concealed by the white mask over the lower half of my face. A precaution to prevent gluttony, it was a self-imposed measure of culinary insurance.

Rubbing the grizzle on his chin, the head chef squinted as he considered his grade. Eventually, he gave up, scratching his head. He drawled apathetically, “For lack of any better cooks, you’re officially a certified chef of the fortress. Whoop-dee-doo.”

To me, that was the greatest thing since harpoon fishing. “Yahoo!” I shouted, stepping up and backflipping off of the table, much to the chef’s dismay. “Seal of approval! Seal of approval!”

I shook his hand giddily, bouncing with excitement. The head chef shook his head and grabbed my exam food. “I’ll take this to the combat trainers,” he muttered beneath my choreographed dance celebration. “God knows, they deserve a decent meal every once in a while.”

I held the door for him, then followed, skipping merrily from the desolate kitchen. This was the fortress of San Francisco, and as of now, I was one of the most important people in the world. The survivors were hungry, and sometimes our rations failed to sate their appetites. They burned with an appetite for something beyond survival, for life in this frozen universe.

Personally, I was fine with seal nuggets.

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“Indigo!” Sir Jones called, causing me to jump in surprise. My opponent’s elbow found my chin, and I spiralled across the sparring room, landing in a heap between two other trainees.

“Owie,” I moaned, sitting up. “Um, yes, Sir Jones?”

The leader stood at the head of the class, gripping his forearms tightly behind his back. His empyreal glare bored through me as he walked forward. “Here, we teach my way of fighting, not yours.”

“Sorry, sir!” I bubbled, popping to my feet. “Force of habit.”

“Your habits have no force; that’s the problem.” Sir Jones cleared a mat space, beckoning me with a stiff gesture. I obliged, sweating a little beneath my black training uniform. The other students dispersed, some snickering at the prospect of my inevitable punishment.

Sir Jones wiped his hands on his pants before assuming a battle stance, one of the many he’d taught to us. Here, sparring was split into two roles: beast and human. The instructor tightened his fists, stamping into a wide pose.

A raging polar bear now stood before me. I obliged, raising my hands delicately in a dance-like position. Sir Jones made no move to correct me.

He charged with linear force; I sidestepped him, ducking as he lashed out with another fist. He then turned on me, swiping viciously with his hands. I dodged each blow, looking for a way to escape the salvo.

As he put his weight forward to attack, I dropped to the ground, sweeping my legs out in a break-dance move.

They struck his leg; it didn’t budge. I stared at them for a moment before chuckling nervously up at my teacher. “U-um...heh…”

His paw reached down to hoist me up by the collar. “Sure, you’re fast, Indigo,” he said, setting me upright where I stood like a tin soldier, “but you can’t just dodge everything that comes your way. Throw a punch now and then!”

“Yes sir!” I shouted, intending to catch him off-guard. My dynamically dynamic dynamo punch rocketed from my shoulder, only to putter out immediately once it met Sir Jones’ muscular chest. I drew back a hand with blue, aching knuckles.

He sighed. “Have you been eating, Wendell? You seem weaker than usual.”

“Eating?” I touched a hand to the slit of my mask, which was carved in a wide smirk. “Of course I’ve been eating, sir! I can fit food through the mask, after all!”

“My concern is whether or not you do, though.” Sir Jones shook his head in exasperation, turning away. “Do what you want to. Your survival in here is up to you.”

“But I don’t want to survive.”

The words were cold and calculated, floating almost mechanically from the airhole of my mask. Sir Jones turned around, a bit unsettled. “What do you mean?”

“I want to live!” I spun into a wild pirouette, leaping acrobatically across the mat. I skidded to a stop at the instructor’s feet, grinning upwards. The mask made it seem a bit more sinister.

Sir Jones almost gulped, eyes twitching. “As I said, do what you want.” He turned away hurriedly, no doubt off to correct some other students.

Staring at the ceiling for a long moment, I eased into a balmy laugh. Yep, a starving chef. A dancing brawler. That was me, Wendell Indigo, the gustatory gale, culinary combatant, and resident ditz of the class.

Gabe Alleway

‘‘Gabriel?’’

I roll over on the sofa and bury my head in the cushion. I must have dozed again during my lunch break. ‘‘He’s not in yet, Mary. You’da know by now…’’

‘‘Gabriel… Gabriel! Good lord, boy, you’re dreaming again.’’ A woman snaps. It’s not Mary.

I jolt wide awake and sit up. My hand instinctively reaches for one of the metal rods that should be strapped to my back, but it’s not there.

‘‘Calm down now, Gabriel, you’re safe. Just take a deep breath.’’

“Wha?’’ I look around frantically, trying to remember where I am. My hands are able to relax first. Though the room isn’t from my home, I’m inside- no longer stranded in the Outlands.

Everything clicks as soon as I place the woman before me. Madan Davis. Her red hair was pulled into a tight bun. Today she was clad in a black uniform instead of her hospital whites, and for some reason she carried a bulging knapsack.

I fully relax and sink back down in my cot. Home had been a dream, and the outlands had been a bad memory. This was a new base, with too many rules and formalities and procedures to even bother remembering them all.

“There you are, Gabriel,” Madam Davis says. “How are you feeling?”

“Groggy?”

“Clearly.” The woman rolls her eyes, but pulls up a chair and reaches for the clipboard dangling from my cot. She’s got a strange sense of bedside manner, for a nurse. “How’s the foot?”

“It feels the same as it did yesterday, and the day before, and as I’ve told you it felt for this entire bloody week,” I say, pulling the sheets away so she could see for herself. Three long, jagged, lines of new scar tissue wrap around my left foot, all the way around my outer ankle, across the top, and down to the ball and base of the arch. When I had first come here, my foot had been little more than a mangled mess of flesh bound together by crude stitches and strips of fabric. It’s still somewhat misshapen- and I’m told it always will be- but the skin is finally pink and healthy.

“Albeit I can’t last too long, but I’m well enough to walk around even outside that blasted therapy you require be supervised. And yes,” I continue before Madam Davis asks her question, “I still sleep far more than normal, but there’s nothing better to do while stuck in a bed! I’m itching to get back to work- even if it’s scraping out the bloody chicken coup- and get out of here before I go off my head!”

She tsks me. “You’re barely understandable when you get agitated. You might want to work on curbing that accent before you meet Sir Jones.”

“Sorry, Ma’am- Madam.” I sit back up again. “I’m meeting Sir Jones today?”
Madam Davis lets the clipboard drop and none-too-gently heaves the bag she brought onto my lap. “After you’ve changed and been situated into your room. And I’ve spoken with him about your experience- he’ll introduce you to our Weapons Master if all goes well.”

I open up the canvas bag and rifle through it. It’s filled with clothes- shirts and sweaters and pants, some as many as two sizes too large. They don’t appear to be in any sort of order- more like someone had gone around asking for any hand-me-downs. Well, they’re all bound to fit, I think. I pull out one of the shirts and hold the sleeve up to my wiry army. I’m going to be swimming in these, but at least I’ll finally get out of this hospital gown.

***

Madam Davis swiftly leads me through the winding base. I barely have time to take in my surroundings, and my foot is already throbbing even though we’ve only been walking for twenty minutes. I had removed the seal and extended one of my rods to its full length- just shy of six feet- so that I could use it as a walking staff. I meant it to be a precaution- I didn’t think I’d already be leaning so heavily on it for support. Still, Madam Davis doesn’t even turn around to check that I’m following her, and there was no way in hell I’d ask for a rest. This is probably some sort of bloody test.

After maybe another 15 minutes of her racing along, she finally stops in front of a new building. Her eyebrows shoot up as she sees me struggling along a couple paces away, and silently she opens the door for me.

“I’m fine,” I say as I push past her.

“If you say so.”

A little more slowly than before, she leads me down the hall, up a flight of stairs, and to a small room on the right. For a moment the room reminded me of what Colin and I used to share. A simple, lofted bed took up most of one wall. A small desk with a couple drawers fit snugly underneath, and a chair was partially tucked away. The rest of the wall was taken up by a shallow closet with shelf space. The other wall had a closet to match, but in place of a second bed stood a large workbench with two small bundles resting on top. The only other fixtures in the room was a tall lamp and a waste basket.

“This is the Armoury; you are not considered a threat, but keep in mind security is a little tighter here. Unless a notice explicitly explains otherwise, no one enters or leaves after 11:00.” Madam Davis explains. “This floor houses all living quarters- bathrooms are down the hall. The first floor holds all the offices, while basement access is a granted privilege. And again, it will all depend on how your talks go, but as of now it appears you will be able to continue working as an explosives manufacturer.”

“Ma’am.” I murmur, I barely listening. My eyes had drifted back to the small bundles on the workbench, and now I can’t seem to get myself to stop and look up at her.

Madam Davis is quiet for a minute, but then she finally says something about sending a guide to take me to Sir Jones in a bit and lets herself out. Once I hear the door close behind me I sling my new bang onto the desk. I grab the chair and drag it over to the workbench while hopping on my good foot. No one’s here; I can afford to look like some dunderhead.

I can feel the small twinge of panic well up inside me as I unwrap the bundles. They were our things- everything that had survived after the months we spent in the Outlands. The first bundle held all of my stuff: a dented canteen, a pair of sturdy worker’s gloves, my work belt, the wind-up watch Colin had put together for my sixteenth birthday, and the scrap of cloth Shona had embroidered for me. Colin’s watch was scuffed and had stopped ticking a while ago, but it looked in-tact. I would have to ask for some oil to get it working again- if I could ever work up to that kind of privilege. And Shona’s handkerchief. The fabric was covered with stains and smudges, and the colors had long-since faded, but I could still make out the image she called a rose. I hold it up to my face and breathe in deep. For a split second I can smell Shona, I can see her smiling, but the image is gone as quick as it came. I probably just imagined it anyway.

The lump that had been building inside of me creeps into my throat as I move onto what had to be Bram’s possessions. He had a matching canteen and gloves stored away. I never once considered how well those blasted gloves had been made for them to have been the only clothes to survive. There were a couple of other gadgets- his pocket knife, the small scrap of wood that he had managed to find in the Outlands… Bram had been in the middle of carving something, but he never finished, and I couldn’t make out the design.

And then I see the chain. I gently tug on it and pull a cross pendent up from the small pile of things. The cross was made from metal treads of gold woven together in a Celtic knot: our family heirloom. It had come from above, back when our area of the Outlands was still simply London. Bram had inherited it when he turned eighteen.
The horrible realization sets in- this is everything. These little-knick knacks are all that remain of my old life. Bram’s gone, Colin’s gone, and everybody I ever knew. There isn’t even a London to go back to. For the first time since Bram’s death, I allow myself to feel the depth of my loss, and can’t do anything but cry.

Everything is white. I can't see in front of me. I can barely breathe, barely feel my body as I sink down into the cold, cold white. . .

My eyes snapped open and I gasped, shivering instantly. Then I breathed in relief.

I was safe. I was in my bed near a warm fire, and it was still dark. I wouldn't have to get up for a little while longer.

I glanced down. Sighing, I pulled the thick blankets back over my body, curling up underneath them to get as much warmth from them as possible. I must have kicked them off in my sleep.

I pulled my thick, long scarf down from where it hung on a peg by my bed and hugged it in my arms. I breathed in its scent and tried to imagine that I could still smell the food that my mother always made, or the sharp leather of my father's jacket. I smiled ruefully as I thought of these things.

But those were the only things I could remember about my parents. My memories of them were gone, lost in a swirling snowstorm eight years ago.

"What about Madam Davis?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Won't you get in trouble with her for leaving while you're on duty?"

"She's gone right now," Danny said. "Besides, she has her hands full with the new guy. She's taking him somewhere, and she'll probably leave him there, from what little she told me. And good riddance! He was such a pain, and you couldn't even understand what he was saying half the time!"

Gabriel, I thought. His name is Gabriel. No one deserves to just be called 'that guy' when they've been staying here for quite a while. He should be called by his name. Besides, I felt a twinge of defensiveness for him, despite the fact that I had not interacted with him much--Madam Davis had taken his recovery into her own hands--because we both did not originally belong to this base.

But at least he had belonged in another base before. That made him less of an outsider that I was.

"It's been such a long time since there were no hurt or sick people in here and Davis was gone too," Danny continued, "So I'm not going to let this opportunity go by. Now you stay with Emery and clean the place up, you hear? Erin and me are going to get something to eat. If you do your work well, we might save a few scraps for you." He and Erin traipsed out the door. They obviously would be gone for a while.

"But what about training?" I yelled after them, but Danny only turned and smirked as he walked away.

I stared after them, feeling my jaw stiffen. Sometimes, I wondered how they even survived as medics for this long when they were so eager to find every chance to be lazy.

I flinched when Emery reached up suddenly to smack the side of my head.

"Ow!" I rubbed my head, glaring down at him.

"Don't look at me like that! And get to work, squirt!" he barked, grabbing the collar of my white hospital uniform.

"Aren't you going work too?" I asked, pulling myself out of his grasp and scowling.

"Of course not! I'm just going to relax in the other room. Call me when you're done!"

My back ached as I squatted on the ground, vigorously scrubbing a dirty spot on the floor that wouldn't go away.

Thanks a lot, Emery, I thought irritably. I sighed and attacked the spot even harder.

"What is the difference? What is the difference?" I sang really loud in Korean, knowing that Emery disliked when I sang--probably because I did it so often--especially this song, even though he couldn't understand a word that was coming out of my mouth. "I'm asking the world, deciding on life and death. Is there any difference between politics and swords?"

"Seung!"

I glanced up at the sound of Emery's voice, feeling a grin tug at the corners of my mouth. But it quickly vanished.

"You've got to hide!" the medic hissed, dashing into the medical center. "Madam Davis is--"

The red-haired woman, strangely in black instead of her usual white outfit, swept into the room before I could even move a muscle. Immediately, her eyes latched on me, crouched awkwardly on the ground with a sponge and a bucket of soapy water. Emery shot me a panicked look.

"Why hello, Seung," Madam Davis said calmly. "I haven't seen you in a few weeks. You look . . . well."

"Uh . . . thank you, madam." Standing, wiping my wet hands hastily on my pants, I bowed, avoiding her eyes. Instantly after, I berated myself inwardly. How could I have been so stupid to let my old habit show up again? No one in the base bowed to each other. Suddenly, my eyes shifted to my white pants, stained brown by my dirty, wet hands. How had I let myself be seen like this by her?

She didn't seem to notice my mistake; if she did, she ignored it. Instead, she questioned with a suspicious expression, "Aren't you supposed to be training with Danny right now? Where is he, anyways? And where's Erin?"

"Ah . . . well," I stammered, at a loss for words for once. I suddenly began to wish I had my scarf, but I had taken it off so it wouldn't get wet while I was doing the laundry.

"What he means to say, madam, is that he offered to help out with our chores instead of training today," Emery interrupted.

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Yes, madam." Emery smiled, trying to look casual. "It's very kind of him." He laughed, his voice pitched a little higher than normal.

"Hm," she said, sitting in a chair. "So Seung has been helping out around here instead of training?"

"Yes, just doing minor tasks and running errands," the man told her airily. "He know how chaotic things can get sometimes for us, so he wanted to give us a hand."

"Well that's very . . . good of you, Seung." Madam Davis turned to Emery, saying pointedly, "But why haven't any of you told me about this? And you still haven't told me where Danny and Erin went."

Emery glanced about nervously. "Um . . . well, er . . ."

Madam Davis shifted her hard gaze back to me. "Would you care to tell me the truth?"

My breath caught in my throat, and I swallowed hard, studying my shoes.

After a few moments' silence, Madam Davis snapped, "Emery, get out of here!" The medic flees, an mixed expression of fear and anger evident on his face.

"Now, tell me exactly how this happened," she ordered, walking over to me. "Why are you working instead of training? And where did the other two medics go?"

"Danny and Erin went to get lunch," I mumbled, still looking down.

"So they decided to go early? It's not even twelve o'clock yet." The woman's mouth turned into a thin line of disapproval.

"Yes, madam."

"And what about you? What kind of things have you been doing instead of learning how to be a medic?"

"Me? I--I did all sorts of things, like getting water or herbs, cleaning up the center, doing laundry, things like that."

"Why didn't you tell me? Seung, look at me when I'm talking to you." When I complied, Madam Davis stared into my eyes. I could feel an overwhelming urge to look away, but she wouldn't let me. "Why did you just throw away opportunities that would help you to do well in life?"

"I . . ." Why had I not said anything this whole time? Why had I allowed myself to be pushed down and walked all over, time and time again?

Keeping eye contact with my former caretaker became almost painful. I ripped my gaze away and focused on the dirty spot on the floor that I had just been trying to erase.

"You . . . please don't worry about me anymore, madam," I murmured, saying the only words I could think of that I truly meant. "It didn't happen that often. It's not a big deal. I'm not important enough for a person like you to concern yourself with. I . . . I don't deserve it."

She struck me across the face. My head was thrown to the side. My cheek stung like a thousand needles had pierced it at once, but that couldn't compare to the shock and hurt within me. Timidly, I peered at her from under my lashes, fighting the tears that had sprung to my eyes and blurred my vision. Why?

"Seung Min." Madam Davis' voice was low, nearly inaudible. Her face was set with a deadly seriousness, and her eyes seemed to burn with anger and . . . indignation. "Never say that again. This is a big deal. You are just as important as a chef in the community kitchen, Gabriel Alleway, or even the Chang siblings."

My bottom lip trembled, and suddenly, I couldn't stop my tears from spilling down my cheeks. I couldn't stifle a sob that I hadn't realized welled up from deep inside.

Her expression softening, Madam Davis wrapped her arms around me and patted my back gently, comforting me like a child even though I towered over her. I hugged her back, shoulders shaking, and found myself imagining that she was my mother. I never knew why she always seemed to bring out the best and the worst in me at the same time.

"You were my first patient from outside the base, as I was newly made the head of the medical center," she began after a minute's silence, pulling back to look at me. "You were so different than everyone I had treated before. None of them had been as scared as you, or tried to fight me as hard as you did. And certainly none of them spoke only Korean." She chuckled. "You definitely frustrated me for the first few weeks or so, and I asked myself why you had come to me. But you know what? As I spent more time with you, I started to understand, and things changed for me. I learned the most important lesson for a medic because of you. Do you know that that is?"

I shook my head, not trusting my voice. I didn't understand what she was trying to get at by talking about what happened eight years ago.

"When it comes to life itself, everyone is the same. Though we may not all come from the same backgrounds, have the same situations, or live to be a hundred years old, we are equal in the fact that we all get hurt and sick sometimes, and we will all have to face death one day. And even if someone is completely different than you, they still deserve the right to be treated with the utmost respect until they lose it themselves." She paused, reaching up to wipe away the wetness from my cheek that she had just slapped earlier.

"Seung, I love you like my own son, even though I don't have a real family of my own," she continued softly. "I want you to succeed, and you have learned so much. From what I have seen, you have nearly surpassed Emery in medical skills, or maybe you already have. I believe you are worthy of being a real medic, and so now you are."

"What?" I had finally found my voice. I stared down her, feeling my jaw drop. "Just like that? I'm--I'm a medic?"

"I became a full medic around your age," she answered, a smile spreading over her face. "So why not? You are more than competent for this position." She walked over to a shelf and reached into a box. She pulled out a small item and dug a hand into a pocket for a pen. When she had written on it, she came back, handing the thing to me.

"It's not the real thing, but I suppose it'll do for now until I can get one made for you," she told me, eyes bright.

I glanced down at the small, flat object in my palm. It was a card with the medical center's symbol on it and at the center, in Madam Davis' neat handwriting, it read 'Seung Min--Medic.'

A strange feeling of warmth grew within me, and my grin spread from ear to ear. "Wow," I breathed. Meeting her eyes, I whispered, "Thank you."

"I know this is rather late, as you are already seventeen," she continued, somewhat hesitantly, "I wish I had done this sooner, but I would honored to adopt you as my son. Would you allow me to be your mother?"

Tears threatened to spill again, but I smiled down at her. "You're going to make me cry again . . . Mom."

"What?" the three medics exclaimed, eyes nearly popping out of their faces.

"That's right," Madam Davis replied, her face impassive. "Seung is now a medic, and you and the rest of the medics who participated in this are receiving a pay cut. No arguments. Now I'm going to go fill out all that tedious paperwork that comes with adoptions. Do not bother my son again." She walked out, calling over her shoulder, "Come along when you're ready, Seung."

When she was gone, Erin sank into a chair and she groaned, "She has such a soft spot for you. She never treats anyone half as nicely as that! How did you even manage to get her to adopt you?"

"Does this mean that we have to stop forcing him to do our chores?" Emery asked Danny, glaring at me.

"Of course we do!" the older man snapped, placing his face in his hand. "You don't want us to get into even more trouble with Davis, do you?"

"Well, no, but--"

I tuned them out, feeling a smile grow on my face as I went around them and out the door. I was a medic, and I would have a mother at long last.

I couldn't wait.

Takeda

Breath. Draw. Breathe again. And release. I released the pent up sigh as I let go of the string, causing the arrow to shoot forward, the barbed head whistling as it darted its way through the air, a faint whistling detectable if only one were listening carefully. These Survivalists weren't listening. My man fell to the ground, gurgling as he desperately tried to hold in the blood pouring out of his throat, coating his hands as his blood fell to the white snow, staining it Crimson.

His comrades leaped to their feet in surprise, reaching for their weapons. I had two more arrows on their way by the time they reached their weapons, felling two more of their hunting party. I stabbed my bow into the snow, dropping my quiver next to it. I took off my pack, quickly pulling out a long package wrapped in a white pelt. Unrolling it, I revealed the decorated handle of my father's samurai sword.

I unsheathed it, the blade, bright and sharp, as I stood up and ran towards my opponents, the last three looking around warily. They saw me when it was too late. I slid to the ground, releasing a throwing knife at the same time, piercing one in the throat. Coming up from my slide I thrust my blade into another, pinning them to the ground. I turned as the last person, dropped their weapon, and began to beat a hasty retreat. I pulled the sword out of my opponent with a grunt, turning towards the fleeing figure.

I pulled a knife out of my boot, and quickly threw it, watching the figure drop with a squeal. My eyes widened in surprise. It was a female. I walked towards the prone figure, pulling my knife out of her shoulder. She yelped in pain and turned towards me. Only my eyes were visible as she let out a scream, realizing who I was. My katana swept down, turning her scream into a strangled gurgle. With a sigh, I turned back to the Survivalist camp, quickly gathering what I needed, and retrieved my bow and other gear, walking towards where I had left my dog sled.

The wolves yipped at me excitedly, wagging their tails excitedly as I approached, the smell of blood fresh on my skin. I dropped a piece of bloody meat at each of their feet, and began to stow my gear as they chomped happily at the unexpected gift. As soon as they had their fill, I wrapped myself in my white cloak, before urging them forward, back towards the Fortress.

I came to a stop in front of the frozen billboard. The original words had been covered by graffiti long ago, now only covered in messages of fear. I took a left, and watched as a light appeared, than many. I began to slow down as I came face to face with the entrance to the Hong Kong Fortress. Several armed guards approached me.

"Find anything good this time Henry?" One of the guards asked, a mature man by the name of William. I rummaged in my pack before pulling out a package and tossed it at him. He let out a whoop as he read the label." Whoo boy! Hot Chocolate! Thank ya kindly Henry." He said excitedly as he turned back towards the hidden guards outpost. I smiled as with a screech, a pair of doors spread apart, revealing a room.

I led my dogs inside as the doors closed behind. I began to take off my clothing as there were three loud beeps than a message in English, followed by several other languages, simply stating I was entering the Hong Kong Center. I tossed my gloves onto the sled as there was a large whistle, than the elevator began to descend. I waited for the 5 minutes it took to reach the bottom floor, where I lived with my uncle, a Counselor, in his house. The doors opened, revealing a busy street. Two guards approached me.

"Greetings Mr. Arashakige. Please hand over any weapons and outside gear for decontamination." I smiled as I began handing them all the stuff I needed to, than unhooked the wolves from the sled, and began to walk towards my Uncle's house. The street spread wide open after leaving the elevator, and pedestrians made room for me and my silent guardians as I made my way to my Uncle's gated home. I entered it, leaving the wolves outside. His house maid, Rachel, bowed politely. I returned it, heading to my room.

Soon I was called to dinner, after I had changed to more comfortable clothing. My uncle Simon Fuller, was highly placed on the hierarchy of this Center. Taking a seat, he smiled at me." Well Henry, I hear you finally caught up with those bandits." I nodded as a soup was placed before me." They weren't any trouble I said, taking a sip from the bowl." Of course we didn't think so. The council was wise to trust you with this task. Our Elites are still to return from their mission. And I also have some good news." With a smile he made a gesture to Rachel, who approached the table with a package. I watched curiously as my uncle began to unwrap it, revealing a small tablet.

"The council has seen fit to name you the First Ranger for the Hong Kong Center. Mr. Bu-Yong has been getting old, and it's he's decided to retire this year." I dropped my spoon. The First Rangers were the Prelude to the original Elites, but they were usually older. They served as backup Elites, and were usually military advisors to Councillors. My father had been the First Ranger before Ranger Bu-Yong.

"But, I'm only 17. I thought you had to be in your 20's to be even considered for the position, and an Elite retiree." I said, taking a look at the tablet, which held all the digital information a Ranger would ever need. It contained all the information about the surrounding area, including known settlements, supply caches, and notes from older Rangers. My uncle laughed." I know that, but I helped them realize how useful you are. With all our Elite positions filled, you'd make a welcome addition to the ranks of our military. Especially with the Red Baron's growing ever increasingly more aggressive, we could use your... Expertise in dealing with Survivalists. You're swearing in will be tonight. And your first mission is already uploaded to your tablet."

2 Days Later

I glanced down at the tablet as I took cover from yet another snowstorm. I had been given orders to travel to the San Francisco Center to share notes with their First Ranger. And basically to introduce myself to them. The Ranger Corps were the only real team players amongst the Fortresses. Everyone else has some sort of rivalry between the other bases. Especially the Elites

I glanced at my wolves as the huddled together for warmth. The dark cave I had found cover in would offer ample protection until the storm blew over. I retrieved some wood from my sled, and lit a fire, the wolves huddled closer to the fire I had going. I opened my tablet once more, settling in for a long night, opening to where my father's notes began.

The machine whirred, kicked, snarled, shook, screamed, and snapped at her fingers with tendons of fabric and fur at a speed that could tear her hands off without a hiccup in its operation, and integrate the meat and bone into the jagged fibers of its teeth. Yet she stood in front of its violent display of power and mechanical brutality with a mindless disinterest, with only a vague sense of awareness that kept her fingers light and flighty on the strings of roughly-hewed fabric and on the wooden blocks that she moved in a semi-sensible pattern to twist the hairy twine into larger strands.

The noise was deafening. Her bare hands, callused, cut, and bloody from adjusting the threads that went awry before the machine could crack down on itself and fold the twine over, ached with an increasing pain and desire for the thick gloves that pressed gently on her hip. But she reminded them, tiredly, that her fifteen minute break was just in another hour, another hour. One more hour.

Bleed for one more hour, just one more hour, she told them. When her fingers flicked onto a strand to adjust it, the strand turned dark and bloody. She took a quick moment to swipe her hands on her pants before returning to the snarling machine. The gloves just get in the way, she reminded them. Just one more hour.

She recalled briefly the moment that she had been informed that she was being transferred to the textile factory, half way across the industrial sector, which added an extra half hour to her already tiring commute. And she had thought it a good sign. Textiles, she had thought, must be so much better than working the assembly line.

She missed the smell of metal and smoke.

Crack. The machine snapped at her fingers, nearly crushing her knuckles. When its maw opened once more, Solo clopped the wooden bricks over one another, weaving the freshly entwined strings together again. The factory echoed with similar snapping noises - or, then again, maybe her ears were just ringing with the noise of the one in front of her.

One more hour, she reminded her tired arms, aching muscles, and shaking feet. Just another more.



She stretched onto the cool, cement floor in the back room, tucked behind a metal shelf with her feet propped against its cutting legs, nearly shaking from the relief that she felt. She pressed the small of her back into the wall. For a blessed moment, that was all that she could feel, the utter solace.

Then she placed her hands on the rough fabric of her pants, and was reminded of the cuts, the slices, the burns. Her eyes opened slowly. She stared in front of her blindly.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Solo instinctively nudged further into her corner. The overweight and angry figure of her adviser and the unfamiliar shadow of another man strode inside, with all of the intensity and aggressiveness of a thunderstorm. She watched them warily behind the shelves.

"I don't care what you want me to do, I'm telling you that I can't do it!" Her adviser exclaimed, his sweaty face red and agitated. He threw up his arms, and something shiny and metal flashed in his hands.

"You have no other choice," the stranger responded, smooth and frigid. Solo noted his black, too-neat hair and the pristine cleanliness of his clothes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, but his expression was stiff with annoyance.

"How do you expect me to do that? Now? Of all times?"

"That's not my concern."

Her adviser stared at him for a moment, and then his shoulders shagged, despondent. He threw his hands up one more time and threw the metal object against the table, where it banged off and skidded across the floor. He ran his hands through his thinning, rust colored hair and rested his palms on his temple.

"Okay. Fine, fine, I'll get it done."

"Good." the stranger clipped, "I'll inform them."

The man strode out, still maintaining the same annoyance as he had in the argument, and Solo watched as her adviser crumpled in upon himself and sighed. He walked out of the back room after a moment to himself.

The metal object winked at her, forgotten.

She glanced at the door and waited, but no one came. Quietly, slowly, she unfolded herself from behind the shelf, staying low to the ground with her eyes focused on the door. She crawled on her hands and knees across the room to avoid her shadow from being visible through the opaque window. When she reached the table, she got off of her hands and darted to where the object shined against the wall.

She picked it up and allowed herself a moment to inspect it. It was unbelievably polished, almost white, and through it she could see the color of her hair, the stain on her cheek, the position of her eyebrows. She turned it over and trailed her index finger over a small hatch, barely larger than her fingernail.

The door opened.

Solo bolted straight, the object disappearing in the split second it took for her hands to pass her pockets and in the pretense that she was wiping them. Solo was blindsided for a moment with her inability to recognize who was standing in the doorway - her adviser? - but then she identified the blonde bun and the severe cheekbones of her coworker, and the frown that marred her purple lips.

"Your break was over twenty minutes ago."

"Yes, sorry. Lost track of time." Solo did not look at her as she passed.



The wounds on her hands had reopened, closed, and reopened again by the time she could go home. She shut the machine off quickly, and ignored the weight in her pocket. Act normal, she told herself, you are not guilty of anything.

You are just taking back what they have stolen.

She melded into the clustered crowd of workers heading out. Few talked, and those that did talked quietly among themselves, barely above a whisper. The sudden emptiness of the clanking of the machines left her head feeling light and dizzy. For a terrifying instant she stumbled, but she managed to right herself and straighten her pants, and the bulge of the object pressed against her leg. She subtly rumpled her pants again.

The exit of the warehouse came into view, and she stared at the graying sky, fragmented through the multiple bobbing, downcast heads. She sped up, and cut through the crowd as politely and unsuspectingly as she could manage. Hope surged in her chest and it felt undeniably sweet.

She saw the unusual shifting in the crowd too late. She turned around and began to work her way back and mumbled to herself about forgetting something. She smiled apologetically to the faces passing her.

"You, wait."

She sped up.

"You girl, stop."

She broke into a dead sprint.

Shouting, shoving, outcries. But Sol was not a runner, not a sprinter, did not have the physical endurance to outpace the base's trained and well fed enforcers. She hit the ground hard, her cheekbone glancing across the ground and her knee exploding in pain, with the full weight of someone much larger than her pressing her down. The man wrapped his meaty arms around her torso, and a second one stood over her as he patted her down. The object was discovered almost instantly.

"That's the thief," a familiar female voice said. Solo did not need to look up at her buzzard-like face to recognize her coworker.

From her viewpoint on the ground, Solo saw the shuffling feet around her: new boots mixed with the ones that were hand-me-downs. She saw the bits of dirt, loose threads, and dust mites that coated the floor. And she saw her arms, thin and freckled. She rotated her fingers, feeling how the stretch of her skin opened the slices on her hands. She watched as one of the deeper cuts began to ooze.

She liked her hands. Her hands were like her father's.

She was never going to see him ever again.

Gabriel Alleway


Once again I’m moving too fast through the base to put together any sort of mental map. The bloke Madam Davis sent for me didn’t have the sense to walk at a normal pace, but where she had been testing me, this nurse seems to be doing everything he can to lose me without running. I shouldn’t have expected much, it’s not like he was a fan of me while I was in the hospital ward. And he certainly didn’t take a liking to being called ‘Nurse.’ In my defense, it was only this last week that he bothered to tell me his name was Danny.

We finally come to a stop in a new building, in front of what I suppose is Sir Jones’ office. Danny turns away and quickly shoves past me. I doubt he’s going to anything other than pout about whatever’s upset him so much. Don’t worry, Danny, you won’t be missed either.

The door to the office was left open ajar. I hesitantly knock on it, but no one answers.

“Right behind you!” a man calls. I look back down the hall and see Sir Jones heading my way. Even from here I can tell that his clothes are still slightly damp. “Our training ran a bit over today,” he explains. “Otherwise I would have already cleaned up. You must be Gabriel.”

Sir Jones sticks out a hand. It takes me a second to realize that I’m supposed to shake it. “Yes, sorry sir!” I say as I clasp his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” I add on.

“Please, come in.” Sir Jones swings his office door open. He picks out a folder from a stack on his desk before sinking into his own chair. “Have a seat.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. While I knew better than to try to make it to his office without my staff, I had been doing my best to put my full weight on my bum foot while inside. I ease myself down into the chair across his desk and lock the rod back in its normal size before fastening it to my tool belt.

“Are those standard issue?” Sir Jones asks.

I nod, then remember to speak. “For the most part. Runners and construction workers got first priority, but most people can find a way to put them to use.”

“Even outside of work,” he commented. I’m not entirely sure he approved of my current use of them. Sir Jones looks back to the notes in his folder. “So. Madam Davis has cleared you and moved your from the hospital ward. She’s written that you ready for more standard training and strength exercises, and that you’re a demolitions expert?”

“Yes, Sir- well no, Sir.” Great. I keep my accent under control, and still don’t make a lick of sense. I try again. “Well, those are her words, not mine. I wouldn’t label myself an expert- I know what I’m doing when handling explosives, but I was still a student when we… left. But um, I do think I’m ready for more advanced training. At least, I’m ready to get out of a bed- that’s for sure.” You blockhead! I scold myself.

Sir Jones glances at me for a moment. Again, I can’t quite tell if I’ve already failed some sort of test I didn’t know about. “Well, if you’re not an expert, then how would you characterize your skills?” he asks as he clicks a pen.

“Er, well…” I think back to all I had done at our own base, and a smile starts to creep onto my face. Master Galliger, our own Weapons Master, had started me on an apprenticeship. He had been sure I would eventually take over his post.

“I was good, Sir. With whatever I was taught. I had the hands, and the patience for it, I guess,” I say. I hold up my hands to, more to myself than anything else. Nervous as I was talking to Sir Jones, they didn’t tremble or sweat in the slightest. “Our Weapons Master took a rather old-fashioned approach to things. We harvested, ground, and mixed our gunpowder by hand, and that powder went into most all of our explosives. I could put absolutely anything together, but, em, my experience is limited to gunpowder. Never had the chance to learn about our other reserves, before…”

“I see,” Sir Jones says, allowing me to trail off. He changes the subject. “Madam Davis has also written that you have excellent aim. Would you mind elaborating on this as well?”

I laugh out loud at that. “I’ve got a good throwing arm, and I don’t tend to miss my target.” I don’t fully remember it, but apparently Danny and the other medics’ dislike towards me was well-founded. If they caught me in a daze, I had a tendency to fling some sort of projectile towards their heads. They learned to duck rather quickly, and either remove or tie down the things near my bed.

Sir Jones writes something down again. “I’d like to talk about London, if you don’t mind. We lost contact with that base long before it, shut down, based on what you’re describing. How was the base structured?”

“Well, the buildings look mostly the same, though we we expanded quite a bit from our initial layout- our population never went to the extremes-I think we just started smaller than here- but we have stories worth of rooms carved straight into the cavern walls- I was helping to determine if we could expand into a secondary location in another chamber we came across.”

“I should have specified- what was the political and civic structure of London?”

“Oh.” I tug on Bram’s pendent. He would have been much better with this kind of question. “The royal family of Old was never part of our base, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t follow our politics very well. But, um, we had two Houses- upper and lower- and every founding family had a seat for each. The upper house positions were pretty set in stone, most people held them for life. The lower house had a constant rotation. Each family to find a new representative every trimester. We’d form emergency counsels upon occasion, that only happened once or twice during my life. And don’t get the wrong idea- all Council members, even those in the Upper House, held some sort of other duty on base. So if there ever was an issue in your own profession, you could talk to both the representative working the same job or the one from your family.

“The only other thing I really paid attention to was the expansion of seats. I think the last time we did anything of the likes was to account for the Dublin survivors-

“When exactly did Dublin fall?”

“I dunno. Maybe ten years ago? I was just a boy. We had Runners, you see. Even if we did lose our connections here, we had constant correspondence with Dublin. We were even able to send help to the people fleeing their base. Sir?” I ask as he writes some more notes.

Sir Jones looks up at me. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“Why do you ask? This really doesn’t help you determine what I can do here. What exactly is this interview for?”

“It’ll make sense in a little bit, Gabriel.” Sir Jones finishes up one more scribble before closing the folder. “But we can stop, for now. You can head back to your room, but I’ll get back to you fairly soon.”

“Sir?” He starts to stand, and I scramble to my feet as well. “I, I don’t exactly know where that is.”

|Lara Jones| San Fransisco apartments for government officials.

I fitfully toss and turn as the night progresses. My joints ache from training, and my mind swirls with questions. The maze today was different. Much more complicated, and physically strenuous than usual. I expected this though with the upcoming Elite choosing. Things are changing, and not necessarily for the better.

I lay still watching the ceiling until my mind screams against the constant static filled silence of night time in the base. I stand up groggily, and make my way towards the kitchen for a glass of water. On the way to the kitchen I pass my father's office, where voices echo quietly from its cracks. Usually it would be my protocol to ignore this, but the hour of night and number of voices sparks my interest. I lean my ear gently against the door and listen.

“Sir Jones. Are you sure about your decision? The group is so...unexpected. Picking candidates from different parts of the base? It's mad. Time is of the essence , and we can't waste our resources on a project that might not work. They’re young, inexperienced, and they’ve never worked together as a team. Also some of them are outsiders, and criminals. Are you so sure that a month is long enough to train them to be a team, and a civilized respected group?” A man's voice explains. He seems older, and worn down.

“Each of these candidates was chosen for a specific reason. We looked all over. Not just from the higher classes, or the students in training. We looked everywhere. It is imperative this group be different than others. More groups are failing, and we cannot afford that in these times.” My father answers confidently. His voices staggers a little. He is tired.

“I dont understand why we dont just choose an older, more, experienced group.” A woman's voice pipes up this time. She seems snobby. She might never have experienced the outside world a day in her life.

“I don’t need to explain myself. It is my job to protect this base. We have three left, and if you haven’t noticed our old ways are failing us.” My father answers angrily.

“Samson, I don’t want to send our daughter for this. Its never been done, and we dont know what’s going to happen.” My eyes widen when I hear my mother's voice.

“Lillian. I am sending our daughter, because I know she won't let them fail, and she won't leave anyone behind...My decision is final. The letters will go out in three days, and the chosen candidates will be moved to secluded training camp in four. Are we in agreement?” I hear silence, and I know that my father has gotten his way. I remove my ear from the door, and rush back to my room. A sinking feeling spreads through my stomach. For the first time in a while...I am actually scared.

----------------------------------------------------

The next morning my father approaches me in the kitchen. Usually he is long gone before I wake up, so this must be important.
“Lara. I have a job for you.” I stand in position. He looks down at me. “You don’t have to stand in position when I address you at home Lara.” I nod and awkwardly relax my stance.

“Yes father?” He grabs his coffee from the counter, and sits.

“Today we should be having a visitor from the Hong Kong base join us. A young Takeda Henry Arashikage. I want you to greet him at the entrance, and bring him here to drop off his things. He will have animals as his company, and he requested that they be taken to a comfortable well kept setting. We have good caretakers waiting at the entrance to retrieve them. After he drops off his things I request that you take him around the base. I can trust you with this correct?”

“Yes sir.” I say nodding. “So he will be staying with us?”

“Correct. He will be arriving mid-day today. I expect you to treat our guest with respect, and make his stay feel welcome. Thank you Lara. You are dismissed.” He stands, and pats me on the back. “By the way. You will also be his host for the next couple of days. I will not accept any interjection, so I hope you maintain a positive attitude.” He steps away towards his office, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I grab my bag by the door and rush from the apartment. I have exactly five hours until I have to pick up our visitor, so I decide to run to the markets. Anything is better than spending time in the same apartment as my father.

--------------------------

I arrive at the base’s entrance early, and I sit waiting for our guest to arrive. I looked around with curious eyes at all the armed guards waiting for the “impending attack.” I wonder what their lives are like? Do they have families? Significant others? Hobbies? Desires? Why is it that nobody asks those questions anymore? You'd think the end of the world would make those things more important...not less.

My daydream is quickly interrupted at the announcement of a young male traveling through the several passageways leading to the main city. After a few moments the guards announce the arrival of our guest, and the doors hiss to life. They open to reveal a tall figure covered head to toe in winter clothing. Behind him sit many well trained wolves resting in a straight line. As the caretakers come to retrieve the beautiful animals, the young man seems to whisper something to them making their faces go pale. A threat perhaps. These wolves must be very important to him. The caretakers nod, and do their best to smile as they lead the animals away. I watch as the stranger begins to remove his winter clothing.

It takes me a moment to realize that I am staring once he has finished the removal. My brows furrow at the sight of him. I didn’t expect him to be so young, or good looking for that matter. He was dressed casually, and he seemed to be fairly respectful at a glance.

It’s strange they would send a teenager for what seemed like such an important arrival.

I take a deep breath, and approach him slowly. He eyes me for a moment, and I introduce myself.

“Hello Ranger Arashikage. Welcome to the San Francisco base. My name is Lara Jones, daughter of Sir Samson Jones, and I will be at your service during your stay with us. I understand that you have had a long journey, and feel free to ask for anything. We hope you enjoy your stay.” I smile.

God I can feel this fake ass speech sliding out of my mouth like vinegar. I continue though, because it's what my father would want.

“If you would like, you are allowed to take some time to rest, or we can begin your tour of San Francisco. Whichever you choose.” I can see him observing me. He looks at me a moment longer before replying. I smile at his answer, and nod. “Well, alright.”

Jenna Chang

"So what's up, Dad?" I ask as we stroll down the street away from our apartment. "Is something going on?"

"Does there have to be a reason for me to be able to spend quality time with my daughter?" Dad replies, eyes twinkling. He wraps an arm around my shoulders affectionately.

"Don't you still have to work?"

"I finished early today. I'm not going to miss out on a chance to have a father-daughter date."

I can feel a smile on my face as I look up to meet his eyes, and I find myself thinking that I'm the luckiest girl in the world to have a father like Dad.

"Well, actually, there is something I wanted to tell you," he admits after we stop and sit on a bench at a secluded area. He turns to face me, placing his hands on my shoulders. He looks squarely into my eyes with a grim expression. "Jenna, this is really important, and I want you to listen carefully, okay?"

I nod, feeling a sliver of nervousness.

"You know how Elite testing has been going on, right? Well, this time, it's a little different. I need you to know--"

He breaks off as a ringing noise pierces the air between us. "I'm sorry, I should answer this," he says apologetically, and pulls out a phone--only the rich people like us or the important facilities are allowed to have them--which is the source of the noise. He taps the small screen a few times, then places it to his ear.

"Hello? Yes, this is Sir Jeremy Chang. Yes. Yes. What?"

His shocked voice at his last word strikes a knife of fear into my heart. I flick my gaze up to his face, and shrink at the sight of the terror in his eyes.

"I understand," he continues, his voice under control now. His eyes still bear the same frozen look, though. "I'll be there right away."

As he shoves the device back into his pocket, he tells me, "I'm really sorry Jenna, I have to go right now." He stands to leave, but I grab his hand.

"Daddy, what's happening?" I ask, trembling. I hadn't called him "Daddy" for years.

"Jenna, honey, I want you to run home and bring your mom and Peter to the medical center."

"Wait, why? Tell me what's going on."

Dad's eyes seem to be getting shiny, and as he swipes at them, I realize that he's crying. He has never cried before, at least not in front of me.

"Kris' elite team was ambushed by people outside of the base. And Kris is hurt badly."

He breaks free of my grip and runs like I've never seen before.

"Daddy!" I yell, feeling lost. I can't think I can't think I can't think--

He shouts over his shoulder, "Jenna! Go now!"

Then he is gone.

Suddenly, I can move again. I feel tears springing to my own eyes as I stand and sprint blindly back towards our home. I can barely feel my legs moving as I push myself forward. All I can hear is my roaring heartbeat and my hurried breathing, as I think the same things over and over in my mind.

Don't die, Kris.

Please don't die.

Seung Min

I glanced at my surroundings, and rubbed my hand over the bed I was lying on, marveling at its texture. It's a really nice room. Is it really mine?

Even though it had already been a day since I had been adopted, my mind still has a hard time wrapping around the idea that I now have a family. I have a mother.

"Umma, Appa, I'm doing well," I murmured in Korean to the empty air, fingering my scarf. "Are you watching over me?

"But you know, for some reason, I feel so tired. Really tired . . ."

It seemed that I had just drifted off when a loud ringing noise jolted me awake. It was that strange device Mom gave me earlier today, something she called a phone, which was meant for talking to people who were not there. I didn't really understand how it worked, but it had when I tried it and Mom asked me to keep it with me so I could call her if I needed anything, so I did.

Cautiously, I scooped it up in my hand and tapped the screen like Mom had taught me. Placing it to my ear, I uttered a "Hello?"

"Seung, I know you're probably tired and you've finished your training for today, but I need you to get back to the medical center," Mom said.

"What--what's happening?" I asked.

"This is an emergency! The Alpha elite team was attacked outside the base, and some of its members are in bad condition! We need every medic on hand!"

"I'm coming. I'll be right there," I replied tersely. I slid off the bed and dashed out the door. I barely even remembered to grab my outer coat before I went. Thankfully, the door to the apartment locked on its own.

The run to the medical center seemed to only last a heartbeat. I burst through the sliding doors of the emergency room, and stopped cold as I surveyed the scene.

Several people, about my age, lay on hospital beds around the large room. A few were only injured slightly and winced as medics tentatively pressed on their ankles, but some were yelling in pain as other medics wrapped their broken arms or tried to stitch up large, bleeding cuts.

But what made my breath catch in my throat were two beds on the far end of the room. One had a still body on it . . . covered in a white sheet. The person was dead.

The other had a tall, lithe girl upon it. Instantly I recognized her as Kris Chang, oldest daughter of Sir and Madam Chang, as she had visited us quite often before. I was shocked, however, to see her condition this time.

There was blood everywhere, staining the white sheets and her clothes. A broken arrow shaft and its sharp, large head lay on the wheeling tray beside her. Her right leg was had been wrapped tightly with a splint on it, while her ribs were also bandaged tightly by Erin, her expression surprisingly serious. Kris' face was marred with cuts, but they were the least of her concern.

Mom stood by her side, pressing her hands on a wound in the girl's shoulder, mostly likely where the arrow had been. She glanced up briefly and caught sight of me.

"Seung! Good timing," she called. "Get some gloves on and take over for me. I have to see to the other patients."

I tossed my scarf and jacket into a chair and grabbed some surgical gloves, yanking them on as fast as I could. I hurried to my mom's side.

"Press your hands here," she ordered. "We need to stop the bleeding."

I complied, horrified at how the blood was gushing out while I traded places with Mom.

"What happened?" I questioned.

"The unit got attacked by an outside settlement," said Mom, sighing. "Kris got hurt while trying to get her team out of there. As the leader of the group, I suppose she put their safety before her own. She has a broken leg, several of her ribs are broken, and she got shot with a really nasty arrow, not to mention how many cuts she has."

"Cora? How is she?"

My eyes found a weary, gray and black-haired man sitting by the bedside, his hands clasped together before him. I hadn't noticed him before. Sir Chang.

"She's better than before," Mom replied, sighing again, "but she's not out of danger yet. Is Karen and the family coming?"

"Yes, they should be here at any minute," he said quietly. He looked up pleadingly at my mother. "Cora, please do anything you can to save my girl."

Something stirred from deep within me, and some unknown force made me look away. Perhaps I was reminded of how much I still longed to have a father's love.

"I promise that we'll do our best, Jeremy," Mom murmured. "I won't let her go without a fight. I have to go check on the others now, but my son, Seung, will look after her for now."

Sir Chang glanced up at me. "So this is the boy you adopted," he said, a hint of friendliness in his eyes behind the tiredness and fear. "He's quite . . . young to be a medic already."

"He is young, yes, but he is well qualified and worthy to be among our ranks," Mom answered, walking away. "I trust him, so please don't worry. He will do his job well."

Those next minutes seemed to last hours, with me checking every now and then if the bleeding had stopped. But no progress yet.

Suddenly, a moan escaped Kris' lips. Her eyelids fluttered open slightly.

Sir Chang straightened. "Kris, can you hear me? Can you see me?"

The girl struggled to smile, though it obviously pained her to do so. "Dad, it hurts," she whispered.

Sir Chang blinked back tears and smiled back. "I know, honey, but it's going to be okay. I'm here with you." He slid a hand into hers, and squeezed it gently.

"How are the others?" she asked, still almost inaudibly. "How's my team?"

"Later, later," her dad replied, obviously unwilling to tell her the fate of the one elite just yet while she was still so unstable. "Just focus on getting better, and you can see them when you are stable, okay?"

"Is Mom coming?"

"I'm here, Kris." Madam Chang and the two other Chang children hurried over, crowding around the bed. All of them were in tears, but seemed to be doing their best to look strong for her. "Jenna and Peter are here, too."

Though I hated to break up their reunion, I knew that Kris was having a hard time hiding how much she was really in pain. "I'm sorry," I said, causing all of their heads to snap up in surprise, "but she needs to rest. One of you may stay, but would the rest of you please sit in the other room, please?"

"You stay with her, Karen," Sir Chang told his wife. "I'll sit with the kids." He turned back to Kris. "Rest, okay? Just focus on getting better." Putting his arms around his younger two children, he walked them out of the emergency room. I thought I could hear the girl finally start to sob as she buried her face in her father's shoulder, but I couldn't be sure.

As soon as they'd left, Kris drifted off into unconsciousness again. I checked the wound.

"Oh! It stopped bleeding!" I exclaimed, more to myself than to anyone else, feeling a rush of relief. "I can stitch it up now."

"Thank you."

I glanced back down at Madam Chang. "Oh, you're--you're welcome, madam," I stammered. No one had really thanked me before, much less one of the leaders of the base. "I'm just doing my duty. It's nothing, really."

"No, you're doing a wonderful thing," she said. She turned her head back to Kris. "Our children mean everything to us. It's a really noble thing to save lives like you do. Your mother must be proud of you."

I ducked my head, feeling myself flush with embarrassment at her compliments. "Yes, I . . . I suppose she is."

"You're meant to do great things for this base, you know."

I looked up again, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Madam Chang blinked. "Oh, well, I can't tell you what I mean, but I know that you and many others of your generation are this base's hope." She fell into silence, tenderly holding her eldest daughter's hand.

I didn't press her for details, but just stood sewing up the wound in silence, hoping for her beloved daughter's recovery.

“Woooooot,” I howled, trying to empathize with my guests. “Wooooot.”

The wolves didn’t howl back, instead cocking their heads in bemusement. Apparently, my calls were inferior to their lupine standards.

I shook my head, sliding the slightly scorched meat into five separate bowls. With a flourish, I scooped them all up at once, balancing them up my arm. Flinging them deftly towards the wolves, I attempted one last communication. “Bon appetit!”

The dishes landed cleanly in front of the wolves, who immediately started eating. Food seemed to be a universal language. Watching their grey muzzles devour my cooking, I leaned back against the counter and sighed.

The Ranger’s wolves had been VIPs from the moment he’d opened his mouth. They now lounged in the middle of the community dining hall, while the other caretakers scrambled to conjure even better lodging. They didn’t want to take any chances or paycuts because of any mishap.

Leaning so far back that my head went through the stone kitchen window, I stretched until I burned, before deflating dramatically back onto the counter. A wry smirk on my lips, I plunked down in front of the wolves, waiting for the furry gourmets to finish.

“Is it good?” I asked once they’d licked the dishes spotless. The wolves exchanged glances, deliberating in silence. Eventually, one of them gave an awkward, bowing nod, almost smiling with its canine teeth. My seal nuggets were a hit.

“Well, that’s a relief.” I sat back, wrists propped against the ground. “So, your master came all the way here from Hong Kong, huh?”

They didn’t bother to respond; they didn’t need to. I smiled, making small talk from thin air. “An elegant swordsman from the far east, accompanied by his trusty wolves. He’s a genius ninja master at seventeen, but still so modest and kind. What an amazing person! Then again, a lot of people here are like that. The teenagers, that is.”

I laid on my stomach, kicking my legs up as I talked. “You probably haven’t heard about them, but everyone in the Elite class is supposed to be really smart, held back only by self-esteem issues and hormones.

“Well, everyone,” I said, bopping my head with my knuckles, “except yours truly. Hence why I’m stuck here feeding you. You guys aren’t that bad though; you’re really great listeners.”

The wolves gave me a dry look. I shrugged and rolled over, gazing up at the stone ceiling. I ran a hand over the slit of my mask, smiling imperceptibly. These beasts were nice, in their own quiet way.

“Do you know?” I asked, clasping my hands behind my head. “How the world got like this?”

Silence from the gallery. “Neither do I,” I quipped, “but my parents did. The scientists, the climate. The winter.”

My finger traced lazy circles in the air as I relaxed into creamy memories. “They’d tell me about it sometimes - while we were out hunting, usually - about how everyone was terrified of death, so terrified that they fought and stole to survive. They’d tell me how humans were forced to huddle together in fortresses, hoping to outlast the winter.”

I leaned back crookedly, balancing on my head to stare at my audience. “Of course, this was a hundred years ago, and there’re only three fortresses left. Hong Kong, where you’re from, and our home sweet home in San Fran.

“There’s another base near Chicago.” Shifting back uncomfortably, I stared back up at the ceiling. “That’s where I lived. Not in the base, though; around it. Closer to Canada, aboot.”

One of the wolves made a quizzical noise, leaning closer. I grinned beneath my mask. “Yep, I’m one of those ‘survivalists’ people get so afraid of. Me and my whole clan, roughing it out in the snowy wilds. But even we couldn’t outrun the winter’s fury.” A note of sorrow dropped in my voice.

“You’ve heard about them too, right?” I closed my eyes, letting darkness fill my mind. “Maybe even seen them. Those...monsters outside of the bases. Like demons in the snow, shadows in the blizzard. They prowl at the edges of the mountains, lurking in wait for their prey, so they can - pounce!”

Eyes shocking open, I leaped at one of the wolves, arms wide. He barked in surprise as I hugged his neck, burying myself in glossy white fur. “Dead!” I whispered ferociously in his ear. “All of them, dead, dead, dead!”

Another, calmer voice spoke. “I suggest you let go of him. For your own safety.” I glanced up from the hug to find an asian boy standing in the doorway, arms lightly crossed. “They can be a bit defensive at times. It’s more or less the best way to survive in the wild.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, not quite hearing my little jibe.

“Nevermind!” I sang, detaching myself from the wolf’s mane. Standing up, I dusted off my patched pants and offered a hand. “Wendell Indigo. Lowly soup jockey of the community kitchen.”

He nodded, returning his own lithe grip. “Takeda Arashikage, Ranger of Hong Kong.”

“Arashikage, hm?” I said, bouncing our wrists in handshake perfection. “Nice name. Probably means something cool, too…” I sighed, shrugging helplessly. “Me, I’m Indigo. The weird color in the rainbow, not even technically a color at all. Indigo. In-di-go. W. Indigo; it means nothing!”

“Ahem.” The fake cough came from a girl with hair the shade of cocoa, standing in the doorway. She walked in authoritatively, collecting herself. “As I was saying, Ranger, this is the community kitchen, where people can come for two free meals a day. It helps the unfortunate get back on their feet, and motivates them to keep fighting.”

Fighting for what, though? I gave her a questioning look. She responded with a courteous glance. “Chef Indigo,” she greeted.

“Hi!” I drew myself stock-straight, giving a stilted wave. “Lara, wasn’t it?”

She nodded coolly. I turned back to Takeda, flourishing to the wolves. “These animals are magnificent, Mr. Arashikage. Though I may have spoiled them a bit with my cooking.”

He smiled respectfully. “That’s good to hear,” he said. “Thank you for accommodating them.”

I traced the smiling slit on my mask, grinning. “Of course!” I replied. “Half of politics is pampering specific people, after all!”

Something flickered in Lara’s eyes at that, though I couldn’t tell what. “I’m sure Wendell will move your wolves when everything’s ready,” she said, measuring her words. “In the meantime, I can show you the hospital and training grounds.”

“Leaving so soon?” I asked, tilting my head. “Shame. I have another batch of seal nuggets on the oven, if you folks want some.”

At the mention of seal nuggets, all five wolves snapped to attention, eyes shimmering, tails wagging. Takeda glanced incredulously at his loyal companions before saying to me, “I think I’ll leave the heavy eating to them. They’ve earned it, certainly.” Waving a slight hand, he bade us farewell. The wolves didn’t so much as look at him, transfixed on my own masked visage.

Lara stared warily at me as she guided Takeda out the door, continuing the tour of our frosty little prison. I smiled and waved, though again, the mask concealed my true expression.

“Now then,” I said, clapping my hands together, “who’s ready for a second round of seal nuggets?”

“Woooooot,” the wolves howled happily, mimicking my earlier attempts.

“My thoughts exactly,” I replied, stealing back into the kitchen, fetching the nuggets from the roasting fire. A brushing of sauce, a pinch of pepper, and a little samba dance, and the meat was prepared.

Dropping it into the five dishes, I poked my head through the window. “Come get ‘em!” I called.

One by one, the wolves filed up to the serving window, standing on their hind legs to grab the food from the counter. Their tails wagged happily as they nabbed each dish with their jaws, dragging it down to feast on my meal.

Unfortunately, the last wolf was a little too enthusiastic; the youngest, no doubt. As I set the last dish out, it leaped forward, mouth open with its tongue lolling. As it flew towards me, I could see the tender flesh of its throat, the proud muscles rippling beneath velvety fur.

Meat.

My long fingers seized around the wolf’s muzzle, clamping it shut. My other hand shot upwards, holding the dish. With one blow, I could stun this beast long enough to grab a knife, maybe even get a cut in before it attacked again. The thought of luscious red blood darkening its pelt excited me, and I ran my tongue over the gap of my mask, eyes widening, dilating black.

The wolf’s whining sucked me back into reality, with my bare hands throttling my canine guest. Immediately, I released it, slamming the dish of seal nuggets loudly back onto the table.

My breathing had gotten ragged, shallow, and I forced it back to normal. Bracing myself, I clenched and unclenched my fingers, reaching around my head to finger the back of my mask. Locked, as it should be. As it would be, as long as it took.

I sighed, letting the tension flow out with my breath. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Leaning over the counter, I peered out at my customers.

The wolves were all staring at me, apprehension cast across their countenance. The air felt thick and heady as I looked back and forth, unsure what to do.

The wolf in particular I had grabbed was sitting in front of the serving window, ears drooping. Offering a small, invisible smile, I reached down, dispensing the seal nuggets at its feet.

We sat there in silence, myself awkwardly bent over the counter. Without thinking, I offered an amending palm, reaching forward to pat the wolf.

It jumped back, panic striking its entire body. The scene froze again, and I stared at the wolves; they stared back. Distrust began to ferment the air, making it acid as I breathed it in.

Without a word, I pulled myself upright, turning around. The mask felt loose, far too loose around my mouth. Vaguely, I had an idea to cook. Seal nuggets. Seal nuggets were good. Didn’t matter what psycho made them.

I walked back into the kitchen. I dragged the juicy slabs of meat from the cabinets, twirling knives in my fingers. Standing over my prey, I relaxed, letting a dull rhythm take over. Slice, cook, garnish, repeat. Slice, cook, garnish, repeat. This was Wendell Indigo, the stupid, violent chef. But his seal nuggets were to die for.

Marcus Matt | Still in the Middle of Nowhere

The sun had just risen, but Marcus had been up for hours already.

Every survivalist worth their salt knew that the hours just before dawn were the best times to hunt. The animals, or what was left of them, would either be still asleep or drowsy and easy to kill.

Sadly he hadn't found any yet.

Marcus trundled through the snow drifts shouldering his makeshift bow. He wasn't really a good shot but he was good enough to keep himself fed and clothed. He disliked the thing. it felt to much like stealing a life. The prey at least had a right to know what had killed it.

But Marcus wasn't quite that partial to honor. He used it nonetheless.

Through the canopy of pines above, Marcus could just make out the massive wingspan of Little Matt as he flew above on wings quieter than the snow falling slowly through the forest. His brown feathered wings never flapped. Instead he floated on-wards, letting the winds carry him.

A quiet chirp sounded from the owl. Marcus squinted into the distance, standing stock still. About a quarter mile off, a moose stood alone, slowly munching pines off of the lowest hanging branches. Marcus drew his bow with a practiced slowness, gauging the distance.

The moose was out of range.

Marcus moved forwards, softening his steps as he moved from tree to tree with ease, his brown furs blending perfectly with the steadfast trunks of the pines. He moved up an incline, staying out of the shadow of the sun. Slowly, he drew his again, then grumbled to himself. The moose was still out of range.

Suddenly the moose looked up, then tensed, it's head whipping around. Marcus heard it to, the unmistakable cocking of a gun.

The moose went down as a shot rang out. Marcus cursed to himself, ducking behind a large snowdrift. As he watched, a group men walked out of the woods, their footfalls heavy and untrained, their voices loud and raucous.

"This is to easy. I cant understand why the stronghold still needs to do this. Dont we have farms?"

The reply was simply a grumble of annoyance.

Marcus looked above, barely making out the silent wings of little Matt circling above. Could he whistle to his friend? Tell his owl that the hunt had to be postponed?

Marcus cupped his hands ever so slightly, glancing back at the men as they gathered around the moose, attempting to pull it through the snow. Then he let out a series of three short whistles. Instantly, the men were alert, eyes peering into the surrounding forest.

"Everyone heard that right?"

They began to spread out, guns at the ready. Marcus didn't dare peek over the snowdrift which concealed him. He looked up again, hoping to see that at least Matt had made it out.

The subtle flash of brown wings made Marcus want to cry.

With an ear piercing shriek, Little Matt rocketed down from the canopy in a nosedive. The men yelped and shot at him. The owl simply rolled sideways, then flared his wings, ripping into the throat of the first man. Marcus, letting out is own yell, jumped over his snowdrift and landed on the back of one of his opponents. His fists, armored with the bones of a grizzly, broke the man's skull, felling him.

Marcus glanced over at Matt. The owl had flown off in a wide arc, letting the tops of the trees cover his retreat, and was now diving in once more as the men turned to Marcus, thinking Matt had flown off.

Marcus hit the dirt as a gun discharged, the bullet flying over him. Matt shrieked again, making his opponent's heads swivel and giving Marcus enough time to get to his feet.

He closed the distance between him and the man with the gun in three quick steps, dodging a blow to the chest and letting his fist snap out and catch the poor soul on the face. Matt had already torn the throat out of the other two, his talons dripping with viscera.

The last man threw aside his gun, as the fight was no longer ranged. He pulled out a wicked looking knife and lunged at Matt. The owl attempted to escape, but received a gash on the tail which sent him plummeting. Marcus howled in rage, running low to the ground towards his adversary. The man was older and stronger than him, but Marcus had more practice.

This was his turf.

He rolled left as the man lunged at him, then ducked a second blow, wide and sweeping, that sent the man off balance. Marcus leaped into the opening in his opponent's guard, his fist smashing into the man's chest, colliding with a kevlar vest. The man stumbled back, but Marcus had only succeeded in making him feral.

His adversary pulled into a guarded stance, knife turned at an angle and held in front of him. Marcus danced around him, looking for another opening to strike.

Marcus moved first, aiming for the man's weapon, he threw a punch that just raced by his opponent's hand. Without waiting for a retaliatory strike, he threw himself into a forwards roll, dodging the knife as it whistled through the air above him.

He turned, just in time to duck again as the knife reached for his face. His fist lashed out again but hit nothing as the man spun away. Clearly he was trained with the weapon. Marcus dodged left, then sent an overhand strike his opponent's way, batting the knife aside with his fist. His opponent stabbed downwards, hoping to land a gut shot but Marcus's fist smashed into the man's wrist, breaking it.

He howled, clutching his shattered appendage, then leaped forwards, aiming a vicious yet sloppy punch at Marcus's head. He batted it away and stepped into the opening it created, his fists flying out in a pattern of deadly blows, pounding into the man's chest before bashing his head in with an overhand strike.

The fight was over. Marcus ran over to Matt, heaving yet not daring to stop lest his friend bled out. The owl had clambered to it's feet and was inspecting it's wound. Marcus did likewise. Thankfully, the cut wasn't to deep and the cold would keep out most infections but Marcus cut a piece of cloth from his own clothes and wiped away the blood. Then he packed the wound with snow. The owl squawked in pain once, then glared at Marcus.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm tired."

The owl nodded, then glanced over at the moose.

"I cant carry you and pull the sled at the same time."

Matt cocked his head, then jumped up, gliding down as best he could to land on the moose. He turned to Matt and blinked.

"Oh. Yes! Great idea. Ill go get the sled."

Marcus ran off, more happy that his friend wasn't to badly injured than anything else. He pulled the old sled over to where the moose was, then pulled the dead animal onto it. Matt sat atop the carcass, crowing triumphantly. Together, they set off for home.

The noonday sun saw them cooking moose for lunch.