In the rare occurrence of a Rogue Citizen,
the people of the Community are encouraged
to stay inside. If one should find themselves
in the troubling situation of deciding to
assist someone, the answer is always to
leave them behind. Self-preservation is
an important ideal for survival.

-Emergency Procedures in the Community Manual, page 7

~~~~~

"We need to break into the Community Headquarters."

Peter and I stare at Calum, dumbfounded by his sudden burst of confidence.

Earlier, when Peter had suggested the idea, we had been all for it, rhapsodic about the prospect of leaving this horrid place, stricken with worry from Chess' death just previously that day.

Now, Calum and Peter have learned to manage their symptoms well enough to get through the ordeal of daily life, so the idea of escaping is merely an unreachable whim. The Community won't include the bonus of a departure along with the current dormancy of their syndromes. I'll admit, it isn't perfect, but it's all we've got, and that's enough for all three of us "rapscallions", as Mrs. Curtis would put it.

"Slow down," Peter says, blinking indifferently and folding his arms across his chest, signaling Calum to defend his case.

"Look, this could be essential to figuring out why we're here, why this is happening," Calum voices, using exaggerated hand gestures; obviously, he's fairly new to fervor.

"Even if we could get answers," Peter begins, exchanging authoritative glances with me, "which we can't, how are we supposed to escape this bloody dome?"

"Shouldn't use metal. That would hurt if the electricity decided to plot a rebellion against us." Calum looks so hopeful, so I shouldn't shut him down.

"Florence, what do you think?" Peter inquires absently, partially forgetting that he shouldn't care about my opinion.

"Honestly, I think we need to understand why all of this is happening to us. You both are dying, Snow's already gone, we only got four limited days with Chess, which wasn't enough, I might add, and I have no idea what's going on with me, or what's not going on with me. If we can get out of the Dome, we can figure it out."

Clearly, this expedition will not be effortless. It's going to require hours of planning, strategizing, and rubbing the tiredness from our eyes as we work late into the night. I'm not even sure we can accomplish it, but we have to try.

"This is all you, Calum," Peter warns. "If something goes wrong, you're to blame."

"I expected nothing less." Calum clasps his hands together, ready for an adventure, though mostly just the formulating part.

"Aight, leggo," Peter howls. Calum cringes, forcing Peter to add, "What?"

"I reject colloquial speech."

"Okay, whatever that means." Peter gives a nervous smile, patting Calum on the back as he scoots outside to mull things over, devise a plan to break out.

Beholding the area around my shoes, Giuseppe's angered face leers at me from the corner of my eye. He looks particularly off today, like the effect of Chess' death had consumed him, too, but I then remember that Giuseppe is an insensitive meatloaf who probably never met her — Peter didn't need him once he acquired a new acquaintance, which is wonderful, but now, Giuseppe is soon to plot his malicious revenge.

"What're you looking at?" I hiss, kicking the bean-shaped figure aside and stomping out the door, occasionally throwing glances back at the doll to make sure he doesn't have a knife tucked somewhere in his purple sack that Peter calls his suit.

~~~~~

I find Calum absently resting on our traditional boulder, legs crossed as he pants heavily, attempting to locate his breath.

It's become a daily routine to meet each other on the rock and talk about whatever it is we're interested in at the current moment. So far, we've discussed a plethora of ideas, some serious, some so far-fetched that we have no idea where it came from afterwards. I find it quite the perfect way to channel our energy through storytelling and speech.

In my hand, I excitedly clutch a ragged piece of paper that I sneakily stole from Peter's book while he was asleep, a task that required a lot of planning beforehand. I knew Peter wouldn't let me off the hook after I had snooped in his journal again.

Using my glorious spare time, I scrawled a poem upon the sheet, rushing to finish before Peter woke up.

Honestly, I confess that it's nothing much, but it's the best I could do. I just really hope it surprises Calum and that he enjoys it.

"Hello, Florence," Calum greets as I near, fear blooming in my stomach as I hold the paper in both hands like a devout fan meeting her celebrity crush and asking for an autograph — though that's an old practice, before the Community came around, but I've always found it oddly interesting.

"I, um, I wrote a poem and I'd like you to read it."

"I'm not so much a critic as I am an author, but sure, I'll read it," he replies, gently taking the poem from my hand.

Is that a good thing? A bad thing? What does he mean?

His eyes scan the page, studying it, and he begins to read.

It's okay, I'm okay.

But I already told you that.

But I think I'm holding on too tightly

To those things I think about nightly.

But I already told you that.

I should've told you that before I wasn't alive.

Before I close my eyes.

Before I say goodbyes.

Before the warmth in my heart shrivels up and dies.

But I already told you that.

Calum pauses after finishing the script, contemplating the complexity of it, evaluating every aspect, causing my heart to hammer violently against my ribcage.

"So....do you like it?" I wonder timidly. I begin to fiddle with my hands as I anxiously wait for his reply.

"Yeah, it's really well written," Calum comments, skimming the document briefly before handing it back to me.

He's lying, isn't he? I happen to know it's very bad, not at all well written. He's definitely faking it. I just know it.

"You think I'm joking," Calum says finally, a small smile playing on his lips, though I can tell he's secretly smirking at me, just hiding it.

"Well yeah," I admit, nodding my head. "It's a really unsophisticated poem."

"If you truly believe that I draw every piece of elegance from something and present it to the world, then you should understand that your poem is no exception."

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have told him that. He probably would've figured it out anyway, though...

"I quite like the repetition of 'but I already told you that' every few lines. It's what I would best describe as contradictory, like the narrator is battling internally through the pronoun, 'you', coming across as arguing with another person, when, in fact, they are arguing with themselves. This could reveal a mysterious, conflicted persona, someone who is ashamed to admit their own flaws, rather push them onto others.

"I expressly appreciated the second to last line, 'before the warmth in my heart shrivels and dies'. It is my belief that the narrator was so full of hope, but now, as the war raging inside comes to an end, they find themselves becoming more like a rock — hard and inhuman, inanimate, indifferent to everything around them.

"The first line was rather interesting. 'It's okay, I'm okay.' It resembles the fact that underneath, the narrator really isn't okay, but has to put on a smiling face in order to keep people from being sucked into the turbulent storm of their life, because they know just how terrifying it is down there.

"I'm sure I've been rambling on far too long about the hidden meaning. After all, you say it's just a simple poem. A poem's never really simple, though."

"Um, I'm glad you like it?" I say hesitantly, folding the paper back up unevenly and tucking it into my pocket, all in a rapid motion as to not draw more attention to myself and to keep Calum's prying eyes away from it, where he would further dissect the thing.

"It's really refined, polished," Calum adds. "I like to think that the buried meaning is somewhat pertinent to the author's personal experience, however."

"What about the person who is astute enough to uncover the covert connotation within it?" I counter, attempting to finally decode something about Calum for once, instead of having him pick at every detail of my life like the scientist he aspires to be.

Calum always directs the attention away from himself, enjoying the fact that he forces it onto others to keep them out of his personal life, like it's somehow precarious for them to know, much like my supposed narrator does.

"I'm not keen on introspective awakening."

"I'm not keen on introspective awakening." No, you're just not keen on sharing your introspective findings with anyone but yourself.

"You're just hiding something," I challenge, nudging his foot as he swings it around my face.

Please don't you dare hit me with your size nine shoes. I'm only a size eight; you're intimidating.

I decide to pull myself onto the boulder to gain a more equal approach to him ("Eye contact is important!" Mrs. Curtis had told me — probably the one thing I listened to that came out of her mouth, heavy with dark red lipstick that she probably gets from the black market; I knew there was something up with her).

"I'm hiding a lot of things, but that doesn't make a difference," Calum counters without fear.

Well that did not go as well as I expected. I was hoping he'd reveal something, or at least get nervous enough for me to beckon it out of him gradually.

"Ain't that the truth?" I laugh nervously, recalling a phrase Pan had repeated all the time in fifth grade, annoying every single teacher and parent out there, including his favorite: the principal.

"I know you're trying to figure me out, Florence, but trust me when I say you don't want to know the things that go on in my mind. You can keep asking away, but I won't tell you anything unless you find out yourself."

Calum's beginning to terrify me, the way he always covers his tracks and refuses to disclose anything relevant to his personal life.

"Can you at least tell me a weird habit that you have? I want to know something about you — you're not just a huge enigma; you have interests, pets, structure to your life."

"Well this isn't really a weird habit, more like a compulsive courtesy, but I always tidy up the table on the rare occasion that I go out to restaurants with my family," Calum offers, hoping the information will please me enough to put my urge for knowledge to rest.

It's my turn to share. "Personally, my internal monologue is more reflecting of whom I am, but I suppose I don't like drinking out of glass cups, making straws my best friends, and I hate ice in my beverages; I don't know why."

Mrs. Curtis was enraged when I shared this with her, considering she views glass cups and ice as her savior and children — she really values inanimate objects. She tried her best to accommodate my irrational needs, but sometimes, she can become lazy and merely shoves a glass with ice in my hands unintentionally and I stand there while the condensation fogs it up like a little kid in a car, breathing on the window, fascinated.

"Yeah, I tend to like things at room temperature. My mouth is pretty sensitive to hot things — they taste like the scalding sand of the desert, or pretty much the Dome — and my teeth are sensitive to cold things — I don't get brain freezes; I get tooth freezes, if that makes any sense. They seem to hurt a lot more," Calum laughs, running his tongue over his "sensitive teeth".

"What's your biggest pet peeve?" I inquire, itching to find a weapon against him, though he'll probably investigate mine as well.

"You'll be able to employ this one rapidly, Florence, but I can't stand when people mispronounce things, in particular, when it's on accident, a natural speech mistake that has been burnt into their minds. I'm just picky. What about you?"

Whut aboot meh, yew esk?

"I really detest those trivial students who prolong class by asking inappropriate, irrelevant, and ineffective questions. They're stealing time from the people who actually want to absorb the information the teacher is teaching us — which is her job; she gets payed to assist us in our intellectual growth, but those kind of students damage the somber concept of school."

"I was always the student who anxiously glanced at the small, round, intimidating wall clock every five seconds, glancing at my watch for the other time, yet still payed eager attention to the class' discussion."

I imagine Calum staring intently at the clock, jaw dropping absently as he types furiously on the computer in front of him, jotting down online notes as the teacher spiels about the ancient and barbarous times before the Community with no idea that the Community brought the downfall of society masquerading as a new, fresh start, a second chance for every Citizen devastated by war.

"What are your aspirations?" Calum interjects before I can interrogate him further, though my questions are fine — they're not as disgruntling as he fears.

"At first, it was to be in the Evaluation, but you can see where that got me. But I think I've always wanted to have a blood contract — like a covenant, but sealed by pricking your finger and letting it fall onto something; sometimes, it even swirls with the other peoples' blood. It's pretty cool."

Of course I'm lying, but I don't want to share with him that my greatest dream is to be a writer, because it sounds so dismal in the presence of a true artist who captures the world so beautifully.

"Oh, I happen to know a guy that can help you out with that."

Why does he know a guy who performs the sacred ritual of creating a blood contract? It seems pretty sketchy to me.

"Calum, no."

I got myself in too deep.

"Yeah, he's pretty wacky. I don't think it's very safe for you to do that anyway. Before the Community, some royalty used to marry their close family, so their children often had blood diseases called hemophilia that strengthened when each parents' genes merged, causing the kids to bleed excessively if they were ever unfortunately injured — sometimes the wounds never heal and can be fatal if targeted in a specific place such as the brain or inside joints. If that's the case, you pricking your finger could be cataclysmic."

Thanks for your concern, Calum, but I'm quite resolved on the entelechy that I do not, in fact, have hemophilia. With all of my tree climbing expeditions, I never bleed for more than five minutes, tops.

There used to be around seven billion people in the world before the Community, some of which were royalty from other countries, or even a bit farther away from family, yet they chose to remain within the secret compound of their kinship. I don't understand why, and now they have hemophilia to remind themselves of it.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what happened with my family, Calum."

My parents look alike, chiefly eyes and hair, but not enough to resemble family — their bone structure is way off. My mother has a bit larger light brown eyes, a nose that curls upward at the end, and paler skin, while my father has medium dark brown eyes, an average nose, and tan skin. Everyone tells me I look exactly like my mom, though my eyes are like my dad's.

"The Community probably looked into your medical records before enlisting you in the Evaluation, so that seems like a false possibility," Calum spectates, retracting his previous allegation.

"What's your favorite food?" I ask, laboring to form an environment where he feels protected and secure — he's had enough anxiety to last a lifetime — and withdraw from our conversation about life-threatening blood clotting issues.

"It's sounds so bland, but salad, primarily with dressing poured in globs over the top, where I can mix it around to cover every surface of the lettuce, for the green leaf clump of a vegetable is disgusting alone."

Excuse me, did you just bring shame to Mrs. Endo's cabbage stand? I'm pretty sure I saw some lettuce over there, too. I'll tell Mrs. Endo to rally her vegetable forces and take down Calum Zabel for his treacherous accusations.

"I like macaroni and cheese. My mother used to make it for me every Friday night in the anticipation of me bringing a friend over to have a slumber party." My head falls, remembering the good times filled with excessive amounts of cheese powder splattering my face, how sometimes it would create intricate patterns upon my cheeks and generate the highlights I've always wanted in my hair.

When my parents died, Mrs. Curtis refused to cook the small tubes of pasta ever again, even through hours of my hostile pleading and screaming. She said it was polluting my mind with remnants of what has been and what can never be again — ironic, considering how much she revels in the Community's history and upbringing.

"My father loved that stuff," Calum chuckles. "He had boxes upon boxes of it, filling up the cabinets — not the Community kind, but the brand from England; he thought it was somehow better, but I couldn't prove that, because he hoarded it and wouldn't even let me touch it. My mother got so angry with him, saying that she could've filled the space with cookbooks and kitchenware, even though she's a terrible cook and only presented them at dinner parties so other adults would perceive her to be some sort of master chef.

"When he left, she raided the cabinets, throwing the boxes into the trashcan in a mad frenzy. I stood there and watched as her tears mixed with the powder, how the noodles flew everywhere, creating a tornado around her face.

"My mother told me that I should never have to think about that 'treacherous man' ever again, that I would be disobeying her if I did so. My father was a kind person, and I, of course, didn't want to let go. That's when it started." His voice breaks, falling as the color drains from his already pale face.

Calum, you don't have to do this. Please don't strain yourself. Please, Calum, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I try to say, but nothing makes it past my lips.

"It was just verbal, but it was still horrifying. She said the cruelest things, her voice laced with the most umbrage I had ever heard from everyone combined. She blamed me for everything.

"She forced me into the scariest situations I had ever been in, toying with my anxiety like it was some kind of joke for her. She made sure I never made friends by scaring them off whenever they came over, or even tormenting them when she picked me up when it was too stormy to ride home on my bike.

"School became my best friend, a time when I could be away from my mother, athirst for trouble of the most traumatizing type.

"Every time she moved, I worried that her words would turn to a fist. That's why being touched is so troubling for me. Certain people are worse than others, some people are all right. It's hard to explain.

"You just... You look so much like her. The eyes are different; hers are dark green, like Peter's. The resemblance is uncanny other than that. Yet there's something about you that makes you so simple to trust.

"But you don't want to hear about that," Calum concludes, barely noticing my jaw, agape with surprise and horror.

How did his mother not go to jail? That's something a person would be imprisoned for in the Community — we're all about prosperity.

"Calum..."

Calum's pouring out his soul to me, free of exceptions, free of the walls that enclose his thoughts. They're grim, the things he's seen. This is what I asked for. Shouldn't I be glad? Shouldn't I be grateful that he's finally opening up? But he never blocked me out. He only wanted to protect me. And now I know why.

"It's okay, Florence. Really, it is. I'll either die in here, or the Community will have plans for us afterwards, plans that will take me away from my mother."

Why is it that the prospect of the Evaluation suddenly death?

I came into the Dome with so much hope, not a trace of ambivalence staining my demeanor, but this wasn't what I predicted. I didn't foresee the tragic pasts of my fellow Candidates seeping their way into their mindset, poisoning them.

"I won't let you die," I state boldly, raising my eyebrows triumphantly as I place my hands on my hips and turn towards him.

"If only it were that simple," Calum sighs, looking down at his hands like they're the love of his life.

"I find it my duty to save your life."

False hope is better than no hope at all. That's what Director Damon had said when confronted about the ongoing war. I only wish Calum were gullible enough to believe that I can actually do something worthwhile for him — but he isn't and I can't.

He adjusts his position to face me, his light eyes digging deep into my soul, penetrating its secrets; it makes me rather uncomfortable when he does it. "This? This isn't life. This is a plague. And it's terrifying.

"Plagues spread, Florence. That's why I don't like you asking questions about me, because it's dangerous. I don't want you wrapped up in trying to solve my problems, because you can't, and it will hurt you.

"The worst part about it is that you're so ambitious. I told you that the first time we met. Your ambition will destroy you. You won't relent. You can't do anything about me, but you'll tear yourself apart trying."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Please don't apologize. It's not your fault," Calum amends, taking my cold hands in his own. They fit together perfectly like a pair of puzzle pieces, the same size, locking to create a bigger picture. "I quite like your ambition." Calum smiles, untangling our hands and jumping off the boulder zealously, his hands flying in the air. "It's just that sometimes, it's misplaced."

He's going to hurt himself. He's sick and weak.

However, by some miracle, he escaped the solid force of the ground and landed unscathed, somewhat like a ballerina.

The sight of Calum in a leotard and a tutu makes me shudder, uniquely because I took ballet classes when I was in first grade — every six year-old wanted to be a ballerina princess at that time; every girl goes through that phase, but those who never escape that nightmare usually become vigorous athletes who could whoop me in a dance battle any day.

I got sick of the classes very soon, with the teacher so full of contempt that it seemed hard for her to breathe. They occurred on Saturdays as well, so I would scream as my mother stuffed me into my tights right after breakfast.

"Florence, are you coming?" Calum calls from below, unaware that I'm only about a foot above his head.

I jump off of the boulder, flapping my arms to pretend like I'm an eagle as I soar into the air and soon plummet to the ground, my stomach dropping in the process.

As we venture back to the building, I anxiously hope he won't bring up the topics we discussed a few minutes earlier. My chest tightens in anticipation, but the startling words never come.

That night, I rip the poem to shreds.

~~~~~

"10:27," Peter comments. "We've been drawing things in the sand for nearly four hours!"

"We're not just drawing things," Calum corrects him, his face leaning on his hand, pushing his glasses into an odd angle.

"Oh, right, we're drawing weird lines and such."

In order to break into the Community headquarters, Calum devised a genius plan to come crashing through the Dome's curved walls and make our way on foot to the tallest building in the Epistylium Province.

Peter doesn't concur with it, but how could anyone trust him to like anything Calum puts on the table? He's intensely self-absorbed, and that's excluding the fact that he despises Calum with "a burning passion", as he described it himself.

"They're only weird because your handwriting is trash."

Truth be told, Peter's handwriting looks like a kindergartener wrote it, yet worse. It's like they wrote it in a hurry to catch up to the ice cream man, drafting a brief note to their mother on the way out, telling her to excuse them for removing some cash from her wallet.

"Can you please stop bickering like an old married couple?" I shout, earning a horrified and offended expression from Peter.

"Married?" he whispers, narrowing his eyes in denial.

I can dig it.

"Give me a kiss, baby," Calum pleads, chasing Peter around our plans with haste, utilizing the last heap of strength that he has, a smile flashing on his lips for what seems like the first time in forever.

I sigh, imagining a world where he smiles more — I was never one for smiling, but I find it beautiful when others do so, especially those people who keep a straight face often.

"Florence!" Peter shrieks, shaking my shoulders with a wild look in his eyes, returning me to the harsh reality.

"I think you'd be cute together," I tease, a toothy grin spreading across my lips.

"Florence, help."

"Okay, okay, that's enough of your quixotic gestures."

Calum merely cachinnates even louder than before, sliding his glasses off his nose and polishing them with the hem of his shirt, then placing them back just as carefully.

He reveals a small grin, causing me to realize how beautifully candid he appears in this moment. His glasses carelessly placed atop his face, his raven hair messy, sticking up in every direction, addition to his clothes clinging loosely to his frame. Although he is about two inches taller than me, I always feel like we're standing at eye level as equals. His pupils, though usually medium sized, are wide with excitement, acting as a centerpiece among his light blue irises.

I can see why Snow liked him.

My chest suddenly grows hollow, recalling how much Snow truly did adore Calum and how much she wanted him to make it through this treacherous existence and how much Calum fought to keep her out of danger, primarily from Peter.

I direct my attention to the other one then, watching as Peter dusts off his clothes, his bantering suddenly falling to the ground in a halo to be forgotten.

And then there's Peter, with his shaggy dark brown hair, sweeping in his face at every possible moment. His paranoia seems to elect to have him push it back constantly as well. His bright green eyes are always so brilliant, no matter how hard he tries to dull them, casting them to the ground when anyone looks at him.

These are my friends. And they are exquisite.

I just wish Snow could've been here to see this moment. She would've reveled in the sight of her best friends running around with the last scraps of their spirit just to have a good time. She would've been so proud of Peter for coming to terms with himself. She would've been so proud of Calum for pursuing a normal life in spite of his condition. And she would've been so proud of me for being there to guide them along the way, regardless of how peevish and immature they can be.

As much fun as I'm having with Calum and Peter, Snow would've made a perfect addition to our trio. She would've lit up the world with her smile and told the boys that they're beautiful just the way they are — something they need now that their physical strength is at its worst, along with their mental strength.

Calum and Peter would've wished for it to be true as well. Calum's opinion is absolute. Even Peter liked her, underneath all of his sarcasm and spleen — it isn't so pretentious of me to say so. How could anyone not adore Snow?

I continue to observe them, though they've refrained from starting up their wild chase again, but they're still so unmediated that it's uncommonly difficult to avert my gaze from their shadowy figures.

There's always been something about relationships with friends that makes it so troublesome to let go of their faces. But at least I have a mental image for later, for when their faces aren't readily accessible, though I hope that day never comes to pass.

~~~~~

"Calum's getting worse," Peter sighs, burying his face in his hands, fingertips slipping through his hairline. "He can barely walk."

Every time I see Calum, he's either catching his breath on the ground or attempting to defeat his lethargy by running around the building. It's quite disheartening, to be honest. He tries so hard, but he knows he doesn't have much longer.

"Well what about you? You're spiraling into insanity."

"It comes and goes," he murmurs without removing his body from the position he's currently in, straddling his legs lazily. "The Community's sick, you know that?" He lifts his head to give me a glare. "Completely mental."

I grimace, but I don't have enough power to do even that correctly and fully. "There's nothing we can do about it."

"Nothing we can do about it? Florence, a day ago, you were so insistent about everything. Don't give us hope to rip it away from us with your obstinate hypocrisy." His words are laced with malevolence, stinging as he draws out the sentence.

Yet, I continue on with my point. "You know it, too. Besides, I didn't take you as someone so full of ambition," I amend, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Florence, I'm tired and I'm dying, but if I can help you and Calum, then I will."

Peter Sparrow, previously so volatile, now is a shell of what he used to be. It's somewhat depressing, how much he's changed. On a fleeting chance, I hope he survives, but I can't be sure, with the lack of power he possesses.

"I just, you're so perfect at everything you do and I'm just a mess up. I'm trying, but I can't seem to do anything and I just want to leave. I want to get out of here and I'm willing to give it a shot — break into the headquarters." Peter's given up all of his energy, tussling his hair to discard any dust stuck in between the locks — the only thing he wishes to do.

Sometimes I have to help him stand up, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, making him force all of his weight onto my body so he can reserve his fuel.

"You always criticize me and you're so insensitive towards Calum. With all this going on, you could be a little more kind. Calum's already been through enough. And Snow! You pestered her until the moment she died and you know it. Literally the moment she died. You could've shown her some kindness. Sometimes, I wish it were you who had died instead of Snow."

"Don't you think I wish the same thing?" Peter confesses in a screeching tone, tears making their way down his cheeks.

My face falls and I try to apologize, but he only hides behind his hands.

"I know you hate me and I can't change, but you won't have to deal with me much longer." He extends his legs and shuffles out the door.

What does he mean by that?

Guilt twists in my stomach and my joints tense with apprehension. If Peter is going to do something reckless, I want to know what.

~~~~~

Calum stands in front of the plans drawn in the sand, a perturbed expression stuck on his face, something original for the mastermind I know.

"Hey, are you all right?" I ask calmly, rubbing his back soothingly, attempting to calm his nerves.

"Yeah, it's just... I'm distressed about this whole thing."

"It's okay. You are so brilliant, Calum. Your plan is flawless, and we can do this." I give him a smile, causing the corners of his lips to curl slightly. I laugh with all of my body, as Calum would phrase it so elegantly.

Calum draws me into an embrace, like it's the best hug he's ever given. I sigh in his arms, letting myself bury my face in his shoulder, as we breathe in each other for the last time.

He smells of fresh parchment and cinnamon, swirling together as one, a smell that I desperately desire to create into candle form, though I can foresee no one ever purchasing it. As I clutch him, I grow fond of the scent, allowing myself to inhale and exhale what is purely Calum.

My limbs relax as I melt into him, our personalities colliding as if they are one in this state. Tears pull at my eyes, falling softly onto the fabric of his shirt.

"Florence..."

"You don't have to say anything." I reach up to run my hand through his dark mane to focus on that, instead of something dangerous, running my fingers over every curve I encounter, on his head, down the nape of his neck. I abruptly release Calum, staring deep into his eyes, my eyes swelling with twitterpation. Sliding my finger across his eyebrow in absent fascination, I whisper, "You're going to make it."

He merely nods solemnly. "Florence, I'm scared," Calum admits, shaking, beginning to cry.

Stifling a sob, I throw my arms around Calum's neck once more, maintaining his position in my arms. I squeeze even tighter, completely liquefying to the point where I have to rely on him to keep me upright, but I can't force my legs to work. "You know what? You're a survivor, Calum."

"Dying is so much easier. I'm surprised I made it this far. I really am. It's some sort of miracle or something."

I knit my brows. "Don't think like that. You've had enough of that mentality."

"You're so kind to me, Florence," Calum acknowledges, sinking into me, green to being loose.

"I'm just doing what a decent person would do."

"Those people back home," he starts, worrying his mouth with his tongue, "they call themselves decent people, throw the term around carelessly. A decent person doesn't shame people who are different from them."

"I know; I'm sorry," I apologize for Calum's classmates. "But that's how it is with extraordinary people: everyone around them refuses to accept that they are radiant, truly radiant, causing the light to be stomped out."

Calum wraps his arms tighter around my waist.

"And the kids at your school," I continue, "well, their foot wasn't big enough."

He half laughs, half cries against me and I feel the warmth return to his scrawny frame. "I don't suppose I've said enough about you," Calum remarks. "I think I need to make amends.

"First off, I realize you don't think much about yourself, notably your appearance. Your eyes, you hate them, calling them the color of dirt. But they are also the color of skin kissed by the sun, an object of heliolatry.

"Your hair, you also hate that, constantly messing with it, tying it up into a knot, or letting it cling messily to your neck, or in any case, flagrantly endeavoring to hide it. But it is like a river cascading down your back, light streaks accenting it so perfectly.

"And your smile. Oh God, your smile. Though I never see it often, it shines through any of the darkness that you encounter. It compliments your face so well, flourishing with every admiring glance from a stranger.

"Your generosity, always present when someone needs it. You see the good in people, even when it is so desperately lacking from their own views.

"You find beauty in each and every thing you come across, taking note of how it looks, what impact it has on the world. You pick out its details, its best features, making it a public spectacle of gorgeousness. You say I do that, but I humbly decline. It's you who completes those actions.

"You tell people that they matter every day, because you've seen what it's like to be self-conscious, and believe me, I know its horrors; I'm best friends with my insecurity.

"You are so remarkable in every way imaginable and I can't picture a life without you in it, because you're always here, no matter how hard I wish you weren't.

"So what I'm trying to say is... You're the best person I've ever had the experience of knowing. I've never had a friend quite like you."

I collapse in Calum's embrace, nothing making sense anymore, my mind having gone numb from a lack of understanding. But right now, the words he spoke are more than enough to lift my spirits.

"Was it something I said?" he asks sheepishly.

"Shut up, you dingus."

Our breaths are shallow from the trepidation of the task that we are about to complete. Nothing I have ever faced has been this challenging, this nerve-wracking. This means probable death not only for me, but for my closest friends, which makes the adventure all the more rattling.

My fingers weave through his hair as a distraction from the matter at hand, tugging gently at the strands located on his neck, making him smile against my shoulder. "Do you know how scared I am right now?"

Calum shifts slightly, appalled by my question. "A word of advice from my fathre — pick your battles and pick them well. You only have one chance."

A rattling noise erupts from the door frame of the building, making me jump.

I pull apart from Calum to find Peter staring, Giuseppe and his journal clutched tightly in his hands. He merely continues walking after a slight pause, shrugging the sight off indifferently, but I can tell he cared about it.

"Um, hi, Peter," I start meekly. "Are you...um, are" — I clear my throat — "Are you getting ready to go?"

"Yeah, with no help from you," he snaps, stuffing the items in his messenger bag.

"Sorry, I was just helping Calum alleviate his anxiety."

Peter looks back and forth between our faces, a quizzical expression present. "Obviously."

"What, are you jealous?" I tease, a goofy grin sliding onto my otherwise nervous visage.

"Honestly, no. It's just a hug — grabbing each other and acting like a sandwich, just without any of the exciting middle ingredients." Peter turns, hands on his hips, exasperated. "You can hug whomever you please, but just don't assume the world revolves around you."

Did he just call me wheat?

I keep messing it up for Peter and I can't stop myself. I'm always trying to make things right, but I eventually do something careless, getting us back to square one.

I'm reminded of the first time we met, when he pressed his knife to my neck in a threatening way, attempting to assert dominance over me, so determined to be in charge for once.

I rub the spot where he held that shining dagger to me, nostalgia filling my fingertips as I walk them across my skin in a sumptuous way, prolonging the dragging motions.

Calum rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to fill the aroma of silence in the air. "We should get going," he suggests, stopping when he returns to the middle.

"Good idea," I agree, collecting my thoughts and pushing them aside like a mind ninja.

Shifting his messenger bag to near his left hip, Peter begins walking towards the direction of the Dome's outside, Calum and me trailing at his feet hurriedly.

~~~~~

After hiking for an eternity, we finally reach the dome, marked by Peter falling, once again, with a spirited smack to the face.

Picking Peter up from the ground without a single word, without a single gesture or expression of amusement, Calum moves towards the dome's edge and places his hands on it. The electricity swims all around him like art, like something I've only seen in an ancient museum from the pre-Community days; in these times, no one has the energy to create anything.

"Put your hands on it," Calum instructs, earning a confused look from Peter, still dizzy.

"Whatever floats your boat," Peter groans, slamming his hands on the dome.

"You, too, Florence."

Calum gives me a hopeful smile and I willingly oblige, softly putting my hands on the exterior.

Suddenly, the structure crumbles with a loud bang, electricity going haywire. I remove my hands quickly, dragging Calum and Peter's hands off as well.

A gaping hole is now present, obliterating the separation from the outside world. Rubble pours in front of our feet, with the remaining bits stuck in the dome at odd angles.

I step closer, peering into the gap, expecting something wild.

The dome had only made it look as though there was an expanse ahead of us, but, in fact, there is a city, teeming with people on their day-to-day activities.

I clear away some material, stepping through the hole with immense discretion, looking around myself to not get myself caught on anything poking out.

Tall buildings loom over our heads, Citizens of the Community slipping in and out through the doors. Magnificent greenery lines the streets, with all the same pattern on each — a boring square — but nonetheless alluring.

However grand it seems, with graceful appearances and amiable people, I realize it to be a delusion. An air of fright fills the town, something that would be unnoticed by newcomers. But as I spend more time here, I see that it should be truly alarming, not to be trusted.

"Epistylium," Calum whispers. "This is my Province."

"It's so beautiful," I comment. "So full of life."

"I hated it," Calum admits, much to my surprise.

My eyes fix on Peter, stepping out into the city, a fairly new placard stuck in the dirt next to him. Its rust red color makes me cringe — I've always hated that hue, ducking my head at stop signs.

Do not cross this line, it reads.

Even the civilians of the city had no idea what was happening behind the wall, only that they were instructed not to step beyond the sign. They're so wrapped up in their own lives that their curiosity was purged by instinct. Things must be stricter here.

A woman carrying a bright blue parasol comes scuttling over, an affrighted aspect displayed on her heavily powdered face.

"Is everything all right, dears?" she exclaims, adjusting her hair from her haste. Her voice is thick with worry, but mellifluous nonetheless. "I was on my way to a meeting, but then I saw this and, well, I figured I could be a little late."

"No, ma'am, everything's fine," Peter amends, beaming sweetly.

Ma'am? I get the feeling that Peter used fake charm to weasel his way out of perilous situations — a survival tactic. He's a lot smarter than I give him credit for. Even Calum appears bewildered.

"Okay, yeah, that's wonderful."

"Have a great time at your meeting," Peter wishes, giving the woman a pleasant simper.

She scurries off, briefcase in hand, smoothing her skirt down in the back, trying her best to look formal.

"Sweet lady," Calum notes, nodding his head as he watches her dart inside the smallest building.

"This place is creepy."

I slide my hands up and down my arms; the aura of the Province alone is enough to send chills up my spine.

"Glad I'm not alone on that one. No one ever believed me when I told them." He furrows his brow. "They're weird."

"They're so formal."

"No, I mean all of the old ladies knitted me holiday sweaters." Calum stares at me with a dead serious look in his eyes. "Every holiday."

"Sounds great," Peter interjects. "Have you got any to show us? I'd love to see you in one."

"I'll model for you if we make it out alive." Calum's voice falls, a dark ambience settling over our heads, consuming the glee of just a few moments before.

The sight of Calum in a pastel Christmas sweater, with elderly women circling him like vultures, poking him with their long, bony fingers almost makes me crack up, if it not for the rancor filling the area.

"We have to go," I implore, seizing Calum's arm and pulling him closer to the street.

The pedestrian's faces seem to eclipse as we pass, staring us down with disapproving glares. Suddenly, the notion that these people are compassionate flies farther out the window with each second.

"Hooligans," an old woman says.

"Weren't those the Evaluation Candidates?" a little boy points out, gesturing to us. He tugs his mother's arm to get her to listen.

"What are they doing?" a middle-aged man sputters.

"Take a picture; it'll last longer," Peter quips.

Calum hides his face, his all too real anxiety making a special guest appearance. He draws his arms closer to his sides, despondently pleading for the attention to fade.

"Headquarters are this way," Calum whispers, leaning close to my face and signaling to the tallest and sleekest building of the Province.

Eventually, we reach the end of the clump that has so inconveniently gathered to spectate.

The Community headquarters is a towering building, a huge shaft poking into the sky. It is a gleaming silver color, reflecting the sun perfectly. The panels are relatively small, only a few feet wide, but they are nevertheless abundant. Their texture seems to dip and elevate sporadically, casting shadows in unreachable places.

"What's our plan?" I ask, bouncing on my feet to confirm my readiness.

"I'll distract that spunky young woman at the desk there" — Peter nods to the work-enslaved clerk — "and you guys go in through the back. Calum, sneak into the laboratory. You can take a lab coat from an absent worker.

"Florence, you look around the facility, finding what you can.

"When I'm done, I'll try to find Director Damon and smite that peasant."

"Should we meet up by the entrance to the Dome, where we burst out like superheroes?" Calum advocates — we all nod in agreement.

I imagine Calum waiting by the entrance, without Peter and me if something goes wrong, anticipating our return all day and through the night, observing as the auroral presence of morning comes around and brings problematic hope with it.

"What if you die?" I ask Peter.

"Then I'm trusting you to raise me from the dead."

Peter swings open the door conspicuously, his arms outstretched with a welcoming smile cemented to his dirt-stained face. He sighs, clapping his hands together, as he glances at the miffed secretary.

Oh no, what's he doing now? Hopefully not something strange like he usually does.

Peter's been making decisions that were clearly not thoroughly planned out, but sheepishly hides behind his hands when confronted about them later, acting like they weren't his fault — he usually blames me, but as far as I'm concerned, I didn't light the only bush we have on fire with only a twig.

"Janice!" Peter asserts, taking a quick look at her name tag.

"Can I help you?" she drawls, lackadaisically setting her pen down on her pad of paper.

"Janice," Peter repeats, stepping closer to her desk and peering in her eyes. "As a matter of fact, you can.

"I was just wondering" — Peter places a finger to his lips — "why everyone in this town is so very strange.

"On my way over here, they kept asking for my autograph, but they didn't say anything, of course. They were so in awe of me that they all stood in a big group to observe."

"Um, sir..."

"Now, Janice—"

"Sir, aren't you supposed to be inside the Dome? You're Peter Sparrow, right?"

"Janice, do you even know how presumptuous that sounds?"

"Sir, I'm not being funny."

"Janice, I am done with your crap."

Peter swings his fist directly into Janice's face, shattering one lens of her glasses. She lies there, paralyzed by the sudden impact.

When Peter assumes she's unconscious, he collects himself, brushing off his clothes. "Bye, Janice," he laughs, sashaying through the hall.

~~~~~

Calum slithers into the locker room and soon finds a pristine, white lab coat hanging on a hook among many lining the walls of the room.

Drawing it over his shoulders, he adjusts his glasses meticulously and slides out the door, breathing heavily from apprehension.

I love dry cleaned clothes, Calum says internally, attempting to calm himself down.

Doctors and scientists brush past him indifferently, minding their own business like the Community taught them to. These simple actions, however small, reduce Calum's heartbeat to a bit slower rate.

"Good morning, Doc," a lanky middle-aged man greets, flashing a toothy smile. His teeth are pointed in odd directions, his hair dense with grease, but Calum doesn't need to be thinking about that right now.

"Good morning," he replies shyly, keeping his head down and speed-walking by, his lab coat trailing behind him in a flurry.

A blue plaque nailed to the wall indicates the entrance to the main lab. Calum takes a look at it before peering through the small window on the door.

Doctors mill about, fiddling with tools, performing tests, some rookies spilling petri dishes on the floor and cowering from the advanced doctor's menacing glares.

Calum twists the doorknob warily, sucking in a deep breath before continuing inside.

The doctors address him casually, not bothering to look up from their work, only responding with a routine "good morning" and an impervious countenance.

"Hey, Doctor Furto, could you help me with something?" a lanky, young, blonde-haired scientist asks, correcting the crooked angle of Calum's name tag.

"Yeah, sure," Calum replies nonchalantly, though on the inside, he's burning with fear.

Calum follows the scientist over to a cramped table, on which various sizes of petri dishes, medical equipment, gloves, and other items.

"I need you to look into this new fungus we found."

He gestures to a dish with an odd-colored shape floating on the surface of the liquid inside.

"Fungus?"

Calum had never done so well in the fungus and bacteria unit of biology in freshman year, even though he spent all night studying for the assessments, but he's hoping for the best.

"Yeah, fungus." The boy draws out the syllables, indicating that he already has a low credited opinion on Calum.

"Okay, I'll get right on it."

Calum nods and the scientist leaves after giving him a pat on the back.

What a cheerful and splendid gem he was.

Calum picks at the small lumps with the tweezers he mindlessly grabbed. Much to his astonishment, none of the scientists glance over to see a helpless kid fidgeting with their new fungus, but he's definitely grateful for that.

After about fifteen minutes of poking and prodding the fungus hopelessly, Calum sighs, giving up. He decides to receive more intelligence on the Community's plans.

Placing the tweezers gently back on the pad they originated from, Calum strides over to the boy from before, apparently named Doctor Gayle, judging from the plastic plate pinned to his coat.

"So what do you think the fungus is?" Calum challenges inquisitively, sliding up next to Gayle.

Light flashes in his eyes, excitement taking hold of him.

"Well, no one's ever asked me this before," he starts, shaking from elation. "But I think it was an alien that brought it from space and put it everywhere it could reach, and get this" — he puts his hands up, ready to share this breathtaking piece of news — "they're planning to come to Earth and settle."

Is he an intern or something? The Community wouldn't pay someone with the scientific maturity of a pine cone.

"I was thinking it could be used for the Evaluation Candidates, or maybe even a new disease to, you know, keep those rowdy folks under control," Calum hints, prying the information out of Gayle slowly.

"Well that's what the head doctor says, but I find it terribly boring. I mean, come on! Where is the flavor?"

How much longer do I have to deal with this swine? I've had enough of them at school for eleven years.

For his freshman year science project that amounted for half of his grade, his prejudiced teacher, Mr. Charna, paired him with a boy who indulged in searching for things in his nose at every possible moment. Calum ended up completing all of the work, but he supposed that was a good thing — the kid most likely would've messed things up for both of them and left a little something behind on their report.

"Um... Yeah, I can see your point, but science isn't about taking something and mutilating it to fit your own personal aspirations."

Gayle merely looks blank, a malignant expression creeping onto his face after a few moments of silence between them. "Well I wouldn't call it mutilation..." he finally mutters, turning his back and returning to his work.

"I would," says a deep voice.

Another doctor has creeped up on them, looking like something out of a television program about drama in a hospital, with the main character being an attractive doctor that has no medical experience whatsoever.

"Oh, hello, Doctor Nabal."

He smiles at Calum, revealing sparkling, white teeth against tan skin. His dark hair sweeps down to his eyes in thick strands, having him flip it back like a supermodel.

"We were just discussing the purpose of that new fungus we found earlier this year. You know of it?"

"Yep, it's quite intriguing. Interesting points you have there, Doctor Furto," Doctor Nabal replies, winking at Calum suggestively. "I don't have any theories quite yet though."

Figured as much.

"I have to go to the restroom," Calum interjects, straightening his glasses and speed-walking out the door.

Once he gets outside of the lab, Calum leans on the wall, catching his breath. He had tried his best to keep his heart palpitations to a minimum, inhaling and exhaling as much as possible to circulate air. Being cornered by so much stress could've triggered a panic attack, but with all the sinister fate he's encountered, his body seems to have been numbed a bit.

Checking both ways for people, Calum turns right towards the bathrooms — at first he had told a lie, but he now finds them strikingly useful.

Pushing the door open the boys' restroom violently, muttering a comment about how it's 2173 and there still aren't gender neutral rooms anywhere, he hastily swings open the door to the second stall, locking himself inside.

Calum simply sits on the toilet seat, without doing anything, just to think and calm his nerves, though it's never worked in the past, when he had to present his projects at school. He begins to breathe rapidly, his heartbeat accelerating exorbitantly.

Stop it, please! Not now, not now, not now. We have to get through this. Please stop, please!

Tears rush to his eyes, pouring out onto his shirt mercilessly. A single drop lands on his name tag, clouding the engraved letters of his new-found alias.

Why am I crying? I didn't do anything, I'm just... Yeah, I'm stressed, but I can handle it. Please stop it.

When his body doesn't answer his silent plea, Calum kicks the stall door furiously, frustrated by the lack of sympathy that his tears possess.

I've always hated salt water.

When Calum was twelve, he took a trip to the beach with his family, but soon, he was swept away with the churlish waves, struggling to return to shore.

The water irritated his eyes and he was pretty content on the fact that he encountered a jellyfish who kindly greeted him with a sting to his left arm — no one believed him though.

After an hour of contending with the ocean, he finally caught a wave back to shore, where he found that his negligent parents had no idea he was gone.

"Are you all right?" a familiar voice asks worriedly, the sound echoing off the walls of the tiled bathroom.

Why do people always want to know how I'm feeling? I'm crying. How do you think I am?

Calum doesn't reply, only tucks his legs to his chest to wait it out, hoping the person will leave him alone soon. It doesn't take that long to ablute, or that's at least what he surmises.

He had become quite the professional at hiding in bathroom stalls, through agony-filled years at school and in public, where his mom forced him to be out in the open. She didn't think anxiety was a real thing, that he was just lazy.

"I know you're in here, Calum."

"Leave me alone, Peter."

"If that's what you want." Calum hears the lock click back and shoes scuffling towards his stall. "But that won't do any good."

Ever since Calum met Peter, he's always seemed so equivocal, leaving Calum to decipher the actuality of his phlegmatic phrases, but quickly, for Peter always moves on to something else in an instant.

"Please go away."

"I respect your manners, but no."

Why is he always so arrogant? I politely requested him to leave, but he's still here, tormenting me like he relentlessly does.

"As it happens, I ventured into the lavatory for the same reason you did: to recover from a close encounter. I'm not so different from you than you think."

Somehow, the thought of Peter Sparrow being remotely close to Calum terrifies him, judging from the things he says, the things he does, and specifically the things he has hidden inside his mind.

They're haunting, the mere thought of them, how they twist and turn, grinding his rationality to shreds, poisoning every bit of sanity he has, like it's antipathic in some way, like his brain tells him that he needs to be so mordant for survival.

"I don't suppose I should have worded it that way... The silence is torture."

Peter doesn't know torture like Calum does. He's the one who inflicts it on other people, but excludes himself. He doesn't understand how much his words affect everyone around him.

After everything he does, Peter then expects people to worship him, like his animosity somehow improved them. He is incredibly vain.

Calum doesn't respond, though he desperately craves to.

Anger suddenly surging through him, a virulent reply curls inside and Calum gets ready to spew it out. "Peter Sparrow, I hate you," Calum snarls. "You pretend to know what people are going through, but you don't. You never will. You're a fake and I hope I never have to hear your name at any point in my future." Words tumble out of his mouth, but he can't stop. His heart takes control of his mind, confessing the darkest opinions of Peter that he owns with no filter.

"You constantly bedevil everyone you meet, even when you should be mature enough to realize that they've already been through ample suffering at someone else's hands, or eminently their own.

"I'm confident in saying that I've never met a crueler person than you, Peter Sparrow. I'm glad that I'll be able to leave you once we get out of here. I never want to see you again."

"If that's what you choose to think," Peter acknowledges.

That's what I know.

He strides to the door, but doesn't push it open. He only stands there, waiting, collecting himself as if Calum had been wrong, which he was sure he wasn't.

I am not at fault, Peter Sparrow. Stop playing the victim.

"If you don't want any well wishes from me, at least tell Florence that she made a huge impact on my life, and that, if she really wants to, she can call us friends now. I think we both owe her closure."

~~~~~

A still figure lies at the end of the dimly lit corridor, twitching slightly in their own bodily fluids. Rushing over, fear blooms in my stomach as I fear the imminent truth: the dark form is none other than Peter Sparrow.

Dread twists in my stomach and a cry escapes from my throat as I press a hand across my lips. "Peter?" I whisper, but I receive no response. How could I? There's nothing I can do to prevent the fact that his last words to me would be those of hatred. "Say something!"

"Found you," Peter manages to push out, hoarse and muffled by the liquid sprouting from him.

His gravelly voice brings back memories of the times when the world beatified him, when he swam in the light twirling around him and the earth praised him for his unmediated qualities, instead of shoving the opprobrious ones farther down his throat.

Peter never became weary, even from walking a shocking amount of distance in a terse time period. His step would never falter; his only appetite was for keeping himself upright and reaching his destination. I've always wondered how he did it, altering his plans for each occasion.

Peter always clutched the raggedy doll whom he named Giuseppe tight to his chest, never letting him out of his sight. He felt that he had a responsibility to take care of the thing, however mangy and torn.

Previously, Peter sang and cried with the same intensity for both. He occasionally hummed unfamiliar tunes under his breath while absently toying with his fingers, his dark hair falling into his eyes, but he never swept it away unless he was nervous. He wept in my arms when he was feeling damaged and I stayed with him until he was mollified. But I judged him for neither, because he is not broken. I told myself that a long time ago.

Peter used to laugh with his whole body, causing me to realize that healthy does not mean thin, smooth-skinned, and physically in shape. It means eyes glimmering, chuckling and intending it. It means being proud of the elements stored inside yourself. It means gigging so wildly that the creases near your eyes return when you smile. And he did all of those things. But they were taken away from him.

If someone had told me a year ago that I could possess the ability to love someone so insane so dearly, I would've chortled in their face and told them to get lost. But now, I've come to the conclusion that it isn't Peter's mental state that turns me away (in fact, it's not even something that sparks an aversion); it's the concept that he still grasps the remaining humanity he holds. He fights for it. He fights for his life.

Even when Peter fails to recognize reality, when the poverty of his speech is so limiting, so rapid and slurred, he marches through; he keeps on going. He doesn't take breaks, he doesn't reward his body with the rest it desires, and he doesn't ask for help, which concerns me most of all. He's a fighter, no matter what opposing ideas he introduces to others.

Seeing him wounded on the field of battle, when he, himself, pointed out that I am a warrior, as described in my name, is crushing to me. The worst part is that he appears placid, accepting his death as a feature of the natural order, however unfair. He's only sixteen — he's not supposed to die like this, let alone be joyous about the cruel circle of life.

Peter's life was snatched away because he was simply the smartest and strongest out of us all. If he hadn't been chosen for the Evaluation, he wouldn't be in this mess, and therefore alive. Circumstances would not be so pressing. He could be free from the turmoil of insanity, from turning into a monster he fears.

Right now, Peter could be enjoying a relaxing day at the beach of the Lumen Province, or making popsicles with his friends. He could be experiencing a healthy relationship with someone that will take care of him, despite all of his flaws, someone who will hold him close to their own frame, someone who will love him for each and every mark on his body. He deserves so much more...but I'm not sure how much of it he can obtain.

I am nothing, but Peter is whole. He lends me a fraction of his power, leaving a trail of aptitude in its wake, but it's never enough to leave a substantial remain, for Peter is rapidly growing and I am hastily diminishing.

Even as the light leaves his eyes, the last trace of humanity flowing through his skin and bursting through to the air around me, I know one simple fact: Peter Sparrow is free. I may not have considered it previously, and maybe the idea wasn't present before, but now I understand, and I am sure in saying he will prosper.

Yet I continue to yell. "No, no, Peter!" I scream. He takes a long breath and his eyes flutter closed. "I told you that we'd make it out of here and you believed me! You have to get out of here. With me."

Calum kept his promises. Peter kept his promises. But why can't I keep mine? We got out of the Dome safely, yet I failed at this simple task. I was supposed to keep Peter alive. I was supposed to return him to his home, wherever that may be. Why couldn't I just do that?

Tears blur my vision, pouring down like a huge waterfall that crashes forcefully at the ragged rocks below, pooling in the dips of my hollow face.

I shake Peter's shoulders frantically, as if I could kick-start his heartbeat again, bring him back to life, as if such things were possible, as if I were a child again, as if I were that igorant.

Well you're not a kid, Florence. You need to grow up.

I try for the fifth time, sixth, seventh. Pounding on his chest, forcing air into his lungs, with tears dropping onto his eyelids that will never be opened again. I take a moment to notice how delicate his lashes are, how they curl slightly, making him look like he's only resting; resting, however, in a stream of his own blood.

I notice a small piece of paper tucked in Peter's hand. A bit of blood splashed on one of the corners, but I pray that the message will still be salvageable.

Carefully, I unfold it so the damp material won't shred. Fear blooms in my stomach, apprehension clouding my judgement.

Did you hear the gunfire? it reads.

I clamp a moist hand over my mouth, my breath hitching on the overpowering sobs departing from my larynx.

Peter's Requiem. He warned me about this when he first revealed his stunning secrets to me almost a whole two weeks ago. He told me that soon, I would be able to hear the sporadic blasting noises firing through his head. I just didn't expect it to be this way.

Victory has always been a primary influence on Peter's goals. I thought he would finally be avenging all of the Citizens that have died at the hands of the Community. His highest ambition was to purge the land from the abhorrence it faces every single day.

The gunfire is supposed to be a symbol of terror, acting as an insignia for the evil that walks the earth. It never ceases until more lives have been lost, more blood spilled. It only ends in a massacre of innocent souls. And it isn't fair.

The gunfire ripped through the vast territories, searching for its next prey, until it settled onto a simple boy from Cambridge, England, with nothing left but his own two hands and his antipathic nature. Peter did nothing wrong to deserve the fate he received. Sure, he made a few mistakes, but that's human. Human is what matters to me. To Peter.

Human is what kills you from the inside out unless you can control it. Peter could keep it contained. Human is what turns you to tears when the demeanor of the world shifts too dramatically. Peter did cry. Human is what forfeits the killer instinct to a perception far more worthwhile. Peter left his old ways. Peter shone in all of these areas, proving that he is just as human as the rest of us. And that's why the gunfire chased him.

"Hey, Braniac." The familiar voice sends chills up my spine, turning the whole hall into a meat freezer, in which I am his bait. I wipe my eyes fiercely and turn around to face him.

It can't be him. He would never do something like this, especially when it's his friend he's after.

"That was really sweet of you to hold him while he died," Pan comments, clapping his hands slowly — rhythmically.

"You shot him." It comes out in a drawn out spit. "You shot Peter."

"Peter? What a nice name for a nice guy." Pan laughs. "And he was in my way, you see. Director Damon gave me direct orders and, well, I found it pleasurable to obey."

The impression that Pan isn't revealing the whole truth sneaks inside my thoughts, but why would he lie? The shaking feeling doesn't retreat however.

"I thought we were friends!" I start towards Pan, but he raises his blood-stained gun, stopping me in my tracks.

"We're friends, yes. Him, not so much. I suppose you should've thought about that before you put your life in the hands of the Community. I told you not to leave! I told you not to get your hopes up because this isn't what you want. Well look at where it got you!"

Pan's words sting as I recall the events, how I wished so fervently for my name to be called in the Gathering Square, for an envelope to be placed inside my Post Office Box.

The gun rattles relentlessly in his clammy hands.

"I just wanted to be special," I whisper, choking on sobs. "That's everything I told you before I left, but now you're ruining it. I wanted something to be proud of."

"You can be special."

That's all Pan's ever told me, that I could be special right there at home. I should've listened to him; I should've trusted him. But the impact that Peter, Snow, and Calum made on me is irreversible.

The gun clatters to the floor as he dashes towards me, arms outstretched. I shy away, slamming myself into the cold, metal wall. Excruciating pain sprints up my back, leaving a piercing effect that strikes every two seconds.

I've been shot. How could I have been shot? I didn't feel anything.

"Don't get near me."

"If you resist, I'll have to take you to Director Damon."

To be honest, that idea doesn't seem so horrible. It's why Calum made the decision to journey here after all.

I hold out my wrists and, with hesitation, Pan clamps handcuffs around them. Worry flashes in his eyes. Regret.

"I didn't want to do this," he says.

And yet...

"Pleasurable orders."

~~~~~

We meander down the dark hallways, shame filling Pan's mind, causing his shoulders to draw into a weary slump. I turn my head around to find that my shoes have been leaving distinct prints, dark red with dirt swirled together.

At least they'll remember me.

Director Damon greets us at the end of the corridor, a grim expression stretched over her sleep-deprived face. I stumble as Pan pushes me towards her, a tinge of remorse still present in his actions. I don't suppose he'll forget quite so soon.

"Glad you could come, Florence."

"You killed your daughter."

"That is beyond the point." Director Damon's lips form a tight line, a clear sign of discomfort. "But don't you think that's a little harsh to say of me? I prefer to think that her death was a sacrifice to science, don't you?"

I shake my head slowly, causing her to frown slightly, before clasping her hands together, signifying that we're going to proceed to business.

"Go ahead and shoot me. I know that's what you came here for."

"Shoot you? Haven't you already had enough of that?" the Director hoots. "Besides, we need you for our final experiment, silly."

In all of the pamphlets and information guides I pored over late at night the day they were published, I never read a single thing about experimenting, or at least in that phrasing. The words made it seem so charitable and 'our duty as Citizens'.

"Experiment?"

"Allow me to explain."

Okay, you know what? No, I'm done with your funky experiments. Stop being so vague. Just tell me what you mean without all of this careless, ostentatious coating.

A devious smile plays on her otherwise devious visage and her hand outstretches to invite me to her come along.

"It seems I have no choice, so yeah, let's do it."

I click my tongue, trying my hardest to be calm, with a tainted aura of rudeness — after all, she deserves much worse, but I can't deliver, at least not yet.

My feet set into motion to follow her, but all I can think is we were all a test.

~~~~~

Director Damon pulls open the doors to her heavily decorated office, matched with different antiques she no doubt pawned off of the remaining sellers from the outlying countries.

She must have taken them from fearful hands, begging not to be killed. Although, it was probably her faithful guards who carried out the mission — she obviously detests getting her hands dirty, judging by the state of this room.

One piece catches my eye, a sun dial from pre-Community times, tainted with rust spotting it. It's the only thing that doesn't match the color scheme.

Sea foam colored objects line the area, with piquant mango air freshener rapidly pumping into the gigantic chamber, delighting my senses; I've never smelled anything recently, except for Peter's acrid stink from hot days in the Dome.

I've never had a mango. They were restricted in 2155, a year before I was born, classed as luxuries that my family couldn't afford. The candles, soaps, lotions, etc. remained.

I cough, waving my hand in front of my nose to clear the scent from my general space.

Director Damon fumbles with the keys and locks on her desk, attempting weakly to pin my hands on the underside.

"The purpose of the Evaluation is to accommodate the Community's needs, administered in a safe environment, free of outside sources," she explains. "This year, our test was for something unique."

A hologram flashes beside me and I crane my neck to see it.

"The Outbreak, as we call it, is a new, lab-made disease used to keep the Citizens in line, per se." I cringe. "Some people are getting to many ideas that are...dangerous."

Her eyes gleam with worry.

"Anyway," the Director continues, "we needed to test it on people who display the desired characteristics of healthy academic and athletic proficiencies, or, in this case, you. You seem awfully quiet, Florence."

"I'm handcuffed to a table."

"I don't like your attitude."

"The feeling's mutual," I scoff. Director Damon scowls, taken aback by my blatantly inferior nature.

It's working.

Keeping the government in control of everything? Am I supposed to be happy about this? I've seen what insanity looks like — it is not pretty.

"Each Candidate was given one part of the disease.

"First, there is sickness, pain beyond compare. Ideally, it causes amplified results of the common stomach bug, which is already ruthless to those without the vaccine. Of course, our scientists added a few things in for kicks. I think you know how exciting those are.

"Then comes insanity, watching as you lose your mind. This is my personal favorite, though I wouldn't mind refraining from experiencing it. It mimics schizophrenia in a way. Hallucinations, anxiety, jumbled speech. You know, the works. You had the misfortune of seeing that in your special friend, Peter Sparrow."

My eyes widen with surprise. "You knew about that?"

"But of course!" Director Damon chuckles jovially, almost care free, like her fate wasn't chained down, like my hands at the present moment. "What do you take us for? We pinned microscopic cameras and audio recorders to your clothes and near your eyes."

I run my fingers over my eyebrows and the portion of my face that the shadow from my nose covers, but I cannot detect anything. The Director watches me with close precision, somehow amused.

"Enjoying this, are you?" I cock my eyebrow towards a smug-faced woman. "I bet."

"Finally, there's death, self-explanatory, though sudden, as you've witnessed already. And—"

"What about me?" I interject, giving up my search for the hidden software in my head.

"I was just getting to that."

Director Damon sends me an annoyed glare, accentuating the bags under her eyes.

"Continue then. But maybe you should hurry — you need sleep after spending all night thinking about me."

"You, Florence," she starts wearily, "are the most prime out of all of them. You will receive the entire disease."

Fear dances across my face and I gulp rather loudly, attracting the Director's probing eyes, lit with sick anticipation.

"It usually takes two weeks for the virus to develop inside you. Until then, you will be kept in a sterile compartment and given food every other day to keep you free of the germs that we are able to eliminate. This is all for better results, you'll understand."

"Wait, what?" I yell, startling her.

Guards emerge from the hallway and grab my arms.

I struggle wildly, but I'm overpowered by the two men's uniformed mass. Both of them are extremely tall and hairy, to the point where mistaking them for a moose would be the kind of occurrence where the nearest person would squint their eyes and respond, "Yeah, I can see how you would think that."

I feel myself go limp as a tranquilizer sinks into my cold skin. Dots form around my vision, blocking it almost entirely. My retinas fail to collect adequate information from the world around me, but it becomes more arduous as they struggle. It's too late. I slip into unconsciousness.

~~~~~

A/N: teehee unconscious once again

okay I lied this is the longest chapter so far (13k words get rekt)

if you enjoyed please vote, comment, share, etc. thanks, pie-eating creature

~Dakota