Chess is a game of strategy, and that is the most
important aspect to recognize while playing.
Chess is tricky. You will need to be absolutely
focused in order to stand a sliver of a chance
against your opponent. While you may think
you have won, your adversary could have a
well-thought out move up his sleeve. Don't
underestimate their power.

-Guide to Chess, page 1

~~~~~

Peter screams at night.

I don't know how long it's been going on, and I don't think I would be able to hold my lunch if I found out, but I just started noticing it now that I lie awake every night, just looking at the sky, when sleep is a faster runner than I am.

It must hurt his throat tremendously, like someone stuck duct tape to the back of his mouth and ripped it off over and over again. I suppose that explains why his voice has been raspier than it was when I first met him. I had thought it sounded nice, even with the minuscule pinch of concern circling around my head, but now, it's the mark of a lack of sleep, of an unhealthy beginning to something destructive.

Peter loses so much from whatever it is that he's doing, whether it's screaming, not eating, or something entirely apart from that. Whenever I look at him, it's as if I'm witnessing a ghost, and it's not just any ghost. It's his, and it's even more harrowing than an anonymous soul, because Peter is my friend, or at least he used to be, though he won't ever admit it.

There's something different about the relationship between Peter and me, something that is entirely opposite to what I have with Calum. With Calum, I always retain the firm belief that he will get better, that there is always another day for him to change, for him to find something that makes his time worthwhile. But with Peter...there's something off, something that I hate, but I cannot fix. With him, I don't tend to care as much. Well, that's not exactly how I'd put it, but it sure seems that way. I do care, but the empathy only lives inside my mind.

When he cannot sleep, I do not come over to him and stay until he falls into a resting state. When he does not eat, I do not offer him food, some of which is my own. When he sits in the corner to rock back and forth like he does often, presumably to escape his hallucinations, I do not walk over and ask if he is okay. I don't do anything. I just stand there and hope he's all right, like someone poking their distraught friend with a stick from afar to comfort them. The point being it doesn't fix their problems.

So, instead of doing something, instead of marching right over to Peter and assisting him, I sit there and listen to his wails, even if they strain my ears with the fury of a thousand rhinoceroses, because I know it hurts him more, yet I have nothing for him. I only possess my indifference.

I lose as much sleep as Peter does, but I don't seem to react any differently; I never do, apparently. My eyes aren't as dark as his, but the toll his yelling took on us is about the same, if I'm allowed to say so.

But then again, my throat doesn't take well to duct tape.

~~~~~

"How long do you think it would take to churn butter?"

I whip around to face a teenage girl posing inquisitively as she twirls a strand of her jet black hair around her long, bony finger, so, of course, I gasp in surprise.

According to the rules of the Evaluation, only the four Candidates of the current year are allowed inside the Dome. That does not warrant substitutions when one of them dies. Technically, this person shouldn't be here under any circumstances.

"A couple years ago, Snow told me it would take a few hours, but I know for a fact that the people on the cartoon station of the television state otherwise."

If the girl hadn't had my full attention before, she does now, pulling me into her grasp by simply speaking one name, a name that haunts me in my dreams.

"Who are you?"

"Chesslyn Arwen Ryker," the mysterious figure replies, smiling at her own inflection. "You might need to know that in case you'll be the one digging my grave pretty soon."

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

"But you can call me Chess," she finishes to break the silence.

"How did you get in here?"

"I asked a question first. You're lucky I even told you my name. Mostly, it was because I couldn't pass up the opportunity to remind you of the fact that I'll probably be dead in a few days, judging from where I am, but you're still in my debt, Florence Mayfield."

My stomach spikes, though I shouldn't be that concerned; everyone I've met in the past week has known everything about me, down to the last detail. They probably even know what cereal I last ate.

"How do you know my name?" I choose to ignore her previous demand for an answer to advance my own motives.

I already have a guess as to how she obtained the information, but I decide to test her anyway. She could prove or disprove my theory and lend me more knowledge about the Community's schemes.

"Oh, hush." Chess rolls her eyes and I watch as her tongue moves over her teeth in an act of frustration with my abundance of inquiries. "I thought you'd want to know exactly how I got into this place, but if you want to know things that have already been proclaimed, so be it."

"Then tell me," I demand, locking my hands onto my hips in anticipation.

"I was just getting to that." Chess scowls, growing more and more impatient by the second, though I don't see what I've done wrong.

"Stop being so rude." Finally, I'm taking control.

Chess glares at me, clearing her through before continuing. "Anyway, word on the street is that I was supposed to be the fourth Candidate if Snow hadn't been chosen. It's called a Subordinate.

"You know the Community — they have everything mapped out on pounds upon pounds of paper stacks. It's all perfect, too. They concluded that I would prove useful once 'the third fatality had been administered', whatever that means. I assume that would be Snow, seeing as there are only supposed to be four people here, and, well..."

This year must be a fluke. The Evaluation experiment is either very unimportant or crucial to the Community's advances in the scientific field. Why else would they replace Snow with someone else?

Completely interrupting our conversation with something irrelevant, I exclaim, "I think I know you from somewhere!"

Chess lifts an eyebrow, challenging me. "That was probably my brother, Ezra," she clarifies. "I think he told me about you. He was drunk when you two met, but I think he left an impact on you." She chuckles, recalling his story of me. "He really shouldn't have been intoxicated, though. He's only seventeen."

Suddenly, it clicks into place. They have the same black hair, the same grey eyes, the same small nose that curls to the sky at the end (relatively similar to mine), and the same sharp jawline. Chess' cheekbones are a bit more accentuated (if I didn't know better, I would say they could cut granite), but the familiarity is uncanny — shocking, really. I can't believe I didn't recognize it earlier.

"If it's only you here, they would've sent two more Subordinates, so you must have friends somewhere," Chess proclaims.

Friends. I wouldn't describe them quite the way Chess did. I think of Calum and Peter as essentials, though mutually. I need Calum, and Calum needs me. I need Peter, and Peter needs me. We all need each other. We are each other's lifelines. We breathe when all of us breathe. But sure, I'll call them friends.

"I'd like to meet them. See whom I'm up against to become the alpha. It's always nice to scout out your enemies, wouldn't you agree?"

Now it's my turn to raise an eyebrow accusingly. "Sure, yeah, I'll take you to them, but be warned; Peter's the biggest jerk you'll ever meet, while Calum is a precious creature who won't place a finger on you, but that's mostly because he's scared to."

Chess licks her lips in satisfaction, clapping her hands to signify her readiness to proceed. "I'm game for that."

~~~~~

I envy Chess' bountiful energy. While I'm dragging my feet along with the last ounce of energy I contain, she's skipping. Skipping. Who the heck skips in sand, or in the clutch of these dangerous times? Not me, that's for sure.

I had only begun my walk beyond the campsite, so the building flashes into view fairly soon after we start our journey back.

Calum hobbles over to me as quickly as he can — though I constantly advise him not to (it's tiresome) — but halts, confused at the new face smirking before him. "Who's this?"

"She's—"

"I'm Chess," the newbie interjects, extending a soft hand for Calum to shake. Her eyes twinkle, obviously intrigued. "Well aren't you a fine specimen of what I'd call...my next bestie?" I had expected something different.

Calum's face reddens with embarrassment, at a loss for words. He gulps, throwing me pleading eye signals. "Florence..." he whispers.

"How about I introduce you to Peter?"

"I'm up for that," Chess replies, showcasing a winning smile against her pale skin.

I take her by the hand, pulling her away from a tomato-faced Calum. She winks at him from over her shoulder, causing him to turn an even brighter shade of red.

"The Community did a good job with that one," Chess comments, eyes widening in excitement.

I block her from moving any farther by cementing my body in front. "Can you shut up for just one minute, or would that be too much to ask?"

The way she's flirting with Calum isn't the problem as much as the fact that she's making him surpassingly uncomfortable. I've spent my time here working with all of my power to ease Calum of his debilitating anxiety, but Chess is waltzing right in and ruining it all. She doesn't have the authority to toy with his insecurities. He's had enough of that already.

After a few seconds of unnerving silence, Chess finally speaks, uncertainty adhering to her tone. "So...you said I could meet Peter?"

"I know your attitude is a bit...full," I start, my voice wavering. "but I need to remind you to be careful around Peter. His head's battling with him right now and he can be dangerous." I gesture to my scar below my right eye, my contact sparking the unforgettable memories. "He gave me this."

Chess draws in her breath, imagining the pain, as humans feel the urge to do. "I'll be fine." She sounds so confident, but I can tell she's exploding with fear.

Giving her a steady nod, we venture into the building to face the worst. Surprisingly, Peter merely rests upon the couch, an apple gripped tightly in his hand.

He stops when he sees us, his fruit half way to his mouth with his lips parted. "So I see you brought a friend."

Chess looks at me, confused. "I thought he was supposed to be ruthless," she mouths, but I shake my head to call her off.

"Peter, this is Chess. Chess, this is Peter. She's, uh, what's it called?"

"A Subordinate," she resolves, wiping her sweaty palms on her pants and hoping the moisture dissolves before she has to shake any hands.

"Ah, yes... Those people. I've heard about them, so I don't need to be reminded of all those pointless things that you constantly drone on about, Florence. You can skip the boring speech about love and loss while meeting this 'Subordinate'. I'm tired."

Chess glances at me, not fully comprehending Peter's caustic behavior until now, but I counter with a slight sneer, muttering, "I told you so."

Suddenly, an epiphany strikes me right in the head. Chess' aura of jurisdiction was ever present until she met Peter. Now, his sarcasm has silenced her. I can get used to this Sparrow kid, but I'm not ready for Chess. However, the problem is now solved.

"Florence, go bring Calum in here. I think I have some crackers to feast upon for dinner. I probably have enough for Chess if she doesn't have any."

Only a minute ago, Peter met Chess, but he's now acting kinder to her than he does to me, and I've known him for longer. I've wept in his arms, he's quivered in mine, and yet, his food is offered to a complete stranger before his concerns for me reach even farther.

I storm off to find Calum and bring him inside for supper, knowing he'll appease me and protect me against Peter Sparrow's words with his own, leaving Chess helpless in the doorway with her new acquaintance.

~~~~~

"So how do you like Chess?"

At the moment, Peter and Chess are playing a board game they managed to pull out of one of the cupboards of the lobby — I have no idea why it was there. Peter rolls the dice, ending up with a four, but he moves his marker an extra two spaces. Chess punches Peter on the shoulder once realizing his cheating move, then proceeding to throw the pieces at him in response to his infidelity.

"She's quite flirtatious," Calum confesses, blushing as he glances down at his shoes to hide the burning of his cheeks.

"If she's making you uneasy, please tell me. I'll get her to stop." I undertake the task of looking him in the eyes, but he averts his gaze.

"It's fine, Florence."

"I know it's not, Calum. You're my responsibility."

"It's not your job to take care of me!" Calum shouts, a little too loudly.

Chess and Peter look up from their game, but turn their attention back to finishing once they see Calum's lachrymose composure.

My face falls at his comment. I've worked so hard to keep him together, pulling him back to reality when he was slipping, always making sure he has enough food, calming him when he cries. I think of myself as his constant. I'll always be there for him. Calum is my responsibility, without a doubt.

"I'm not a child," Calum breathes, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes water, tears filling them like a pool of melting candle wax.

"I know." I take his hand, rubbing my thumb across it, studying the texture of every vein, every line, every wrinkle creasing his fingers. "In fact, I know too much. I know how you shake when you're scared, when the world is too broken to fix. I know how you never scream when you're lost; you contain it and hope the aching feeling goes away. I know how you never ask for things, because you were raised to accept what you were given. Trust me, I know."

Instead of breaking down and sobbing like I suspected, Calum only stands there, a blank expression crossing his face. It isn't crumpled, nor jubilant in manner. He appears dull, like all of the emotion has been sucked out of his life.

"But how could you know?" The shivering of Calum's voice climaxes, perpetuating the oscillation of his visage. "I don't want you to know, Florence."

I can't take it back. I can't act as though I'm oblivious to the fact that my best friend is slowly rotting from the inside out. I have to face the reality, however brutal. It's what's best for Calum. I won't back away from that.

"Knowledge is terrifying, in truth," I admit, squeezing down on Calum's hand, flourishing my words with an ordinary nod, "but I just can't stay away."

"Florence..." he says, his lips parting. "Thank you."

A few hours later, Calum starts coughing up blood.

~~~~~

The air is still, with the sun having dipped below the horizon a while earlier. The clouds have retreated from the sky, leaving a calm aura around our campsite. There are no animals to be seen, as usual, no birds to wake us from our sleep. But that isn't the origin of my fear.

Calum lies still, if only for a moment. He's finally found peace with his current position, but soon, he is discontent.

Sleep is hard to come by for the boy, requiring him to toss and turn for hours on end until he matches his body's demands. Dreaming is pricey, costing hundreds of minutes to simply settle down and close his eyes.

Something tickles the back of Calum's throat and he shifts to accommodate its needs, clicking on his flashlight to obtain a more adequate view of his work. He coughs quite severely, causing Peter to stir beside him.

I'm off with Chess, acting as a guard to prevent anything fishy from occurring. So far, that's going swimmingly, with Chess masquerading as a loyal Subordinate. However, I know nothing of what's transpiring, as I had dozed off many hours before.

Curling his hand around his jacket sleeve to resume his activities of laboring to fall into the trance of sleep, Calum notices a sticky, wet feeling left behind. Lifting his weight from the ground, he directs the bright beam of his flashlight to his arm to find something he never considered.

"Florence!" Calum shrieks, his body rewarding him with more of the dark red liquid spurting from his mouth. "Florence, wake up!"

My eyes snap open upon granting Calum's agonized wails access to flow into my ears. I throw back my blanket, grab my bag in a hurry, and rush to where I last left him, just inside the building.

"Calum, what is it?" I gasp, my feet skidding on the slippery floors of the building and clogging the grooves of my shoe with stray sand.

In response, Calum solely lifts his hand to reveal blood spotting his skin, the action drowning us in an unwanted grim ambience. "Hemoptysis."

I'm no science or medical expert, but, from what I can tell, I surmise it means the victim coughs up blood, which can be fatal if the intensity escalates.

By some miracle, Peter is still sleeping soundly. I caught a glimpse of Chess moving beside me, but she must've not cared about the pressing matter at hand. Calum called for me, not her, after all.

Shadowy circles border Calum's eyes from a lack of rest, making the rest of his face appear hollow. His cheekbones are sharpened from the absence of proper nutrition, cutting sharply in a line from his ear to next to his nose. He looks like something of my worst dreams, a creature that pursues me to the ends of the earth without pausing.

"Do you need a tissue?" I offer, sorting through the contents of my messenger bag and procuring one, though it's not very helpful to Calum; the mere thin sheet of papery material won't end his cruel suffering, only absorb it and mock him.

Calum nods, leisurely accepting the tissue from my hand, coughing once into it and wiping his lips to be devoid of stray blood. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem," I reply calmly, rubbing his back. I notice he's shaking, but it's not like the usual way.

Most of the time, Calum's whole body quakes, but it's not as severe, almost like a chilling vibration. But now, it's like a shiver running throughout all of him, every nerve, every patch of skin, every bone clacking against each other. He's tremendously cold, but even a blanket can't solve his issue. All we can do is wait.

"You should lie down," I suggest, assisting him in his endeavor of gradually lowering himself to the ground.

Calum resembles a doll, an immobilized figure stimulated by tackling the task of keeping its bright eyes open and pointed towards the sky. It's clear he doesn't wish to relax, and I can't blame him. His nightmares are haunting and his reality is dark, but blood pollutes his will to choose anything. His consciousness is forfeited to a plague — sleep and awareness are unimportant, nonexistent even.

"Florence, will you stay until I stop shaking? The coughing might return, too," Calum inquires, almost like he's frightened to ask anything of me, like I've done enough, when, in fact, I can never fix even a fraction of him.

"Of course." I prop my head up on his chest, listening to the rhythmic pulse of Calum's heartbeat as it thumps rapidly, filling my ear with an avid march, however hebetudinous.

I stay with him until the trembling of his body ceases and his chest flutters like the wings of a bird flying to the sky to be free, to be safe.

~~~~~

Chess is gone.

The blanket usually mounted upon the sand is thrown back in a hurry, appearing as though Chess was in a state of euphoric readiness when she tossed it out of her path.

Whipping my head around, I find Calum and Peter still in sleeping mode, Peter snoring heavily, while Calum rests peacefully, his arm tucked to his chest.

If everyone was asleep, then no one could've seen Chess leave. She could be long gone by now, feeding the Community information about our lives — information that I had presumed the Community didn't know until now, rendering them omnipotent against us.

I rise, my eyes scouring the campsite to track down the runaway Subordinate. No trace of her is present, her footprints washed away by a gust of infiltrating wind that scattered the grains of sand across the area.

Growing nearer and nearer to the building, my hands fly to the inside of my jacket, reaching steadily towards the knife tucked away inside. I remove it carefully, lifting it to my face and observing as my breath clouds it like a gloomy day in April, packed with the watchful fog.

The dagger feels peculiar in my grasp, with the condensed handle curving unevenly to the dips, plains, and mountains of my hand. The blade portion of it is adorned with asymmetrical, protruding edges to slice through materials more efficiently.

Perhaps it's the general texture of the knife that blankets me in uneasiness, or maybe it's the owner from which it came. Peter awarded me the contraption to use if I ever found myself in danger, but this occasion seems unfit for justification. It's the same object he wielded when we first met, when he pressed it against my neck in an attempt to commit me to a submissive nature. It doesn't seem right.

I lower the knife to my side, traipsing along until I halt in front of the illuminated doorway of the building, unsure of what I will find.

However, what is presented before me isn't scandalous, nor backbiting, not even a shocking betrayal. It's simply Chess, crouched down so that her head is tipped over the floor, her back arched to more properly complete her task in which she is wholly occupied.

Dispersed in front of her is a routine container of medicine, seven boxes labeled with each day of the week. Stowed away inside, a pill is placed between the clear plastic walls of the pod.

A pile of candy is stacked in Chess' hands, ranging from gumdrops to jawbreakers, and everything in between. Some are wrapped, while some are left to be promptly consumed without any effort. Sugar attaches itself to some of the sweets, creating the most pleasant aura of joy in one's mouth.

I've only tasted candy a few times. It's expensive, especially where I come from. Every now and then, such as birthdays and holidays, I would get a share of the delicious treats, but I usually only received one piece, much to my dismay.

The fact that Chess has a stockpile so easily accessible, with loads of variety dotting the stash, is amazing to me. Yes, the Lumen Province is very wealthy, but the Citizens' decadence does not stretch to candy as much as it does other items.

Chess cautiously snaps open the lids for each day, dropping a confectionary inside after close deliberation. After doing so, she happily shuts the top with her pointer finger, moving on to the next section.

I wait for her to decide the treat for Saturday, her finger poised on her lips as she stares down at the remaining pieces, before speaking. "That's a nice thing you're doing there."

Chess looks up, perplexed. "Florence!" She scrambles to adjust her body in front of her work so that I cannot see it.

"I'm not mad!" I laugh, moving to obtain a better view of her progress.

Shimmering treats line the box in an orderly fashion, differing between size, shape, color, and other factors that make each and every one so unique. I'm sure Calum will love them, if, of course, the medicine is his.

"I was just looking through Calum's bag, trying to figure out if he had anything useful to help any of us, but I figured it'd be considerate to do something swell for him for a change."

My suspicions have been confirmed. The meds are for Calum, probably to alleviate his anxiety that I've only heard briefly about through our conversations perched atop the boulder while Peter is losing his wits.

During my thorough research of anxiety disorder, I came across an article on antidepressants that informed me of their use for anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and obsessive compulsive disorder, just to name a few.

"May I help?" I offer sheepishly, sliding the dagger back into my jacket slowly.

Chess' eyes gleam, only faltering when she notices the knife gradually returning to my clothing. "I've already finished putting in the candy, but if you have any other ideas, sure; I'd be glad to have you assist."

"I was thinking I could write notes for him to find, but place them under the candy and pills so that he'll have to be properly taken care of before he can continue with his day."

Chess springs to her feet, her face injected with fervor. "That's a fantastic idea! I've always loved brief — but sincere — notes when I'm feeling down."

Her words strike me as jubilant, though containing a darker undertone. Chess always seems so...full of energy, but she might have struggled with something much more serious than her jocular personality. Did any of her friends casually slip her notes in her antidepressants in the past? Is that why she's doing it for Calum now?

I realize that I should never ask someone about their illnesses, so I refrain from doing so, but Chess catches the curiosity swimming in my eyes, tilting her lips halfway upward.

"Depression, if that's what you were wondering," Chess finally says, breaking the silence. "I choose not to reflect on it. It's really hard to tell people on most occasions."

I draw in my breath, sympathy filling the entirety of my body and turning it to a free-moving liquid.

I am aware of the effects of depression: lack of interest in previously enjoyable activities, a chronic feeling of sadness that cannot be resolved, a casting away of all excitement, even when it's something like Halloween, which I prepare for in September. It's extremely dangerous and self-destructive, and not worth anyone's time.

"I can tell you're not going to rest until you find answers, Florence," Chess cuts in. "I think I'll make an exception for you."

Was I really that obvious? Oh no...I should not have done that.

"I'm not quite sure how I beat it... These kinds of things are tricky to manage and track. I think something just finally snapped, though. I just looked at myself in the mirror, my skin only thinly layering my bones from loss of appetite and an unusual decrease in weight (which is also a side effect), and thought, 'I'm beautiful just the way I am. No one can take my light away. Not the people at school, not society, and definitely not me.'"

Hearing Chess' burdensome words fill my ears is like hearing a sweet-sounding melody suddenly struck by an automobile. Her tone is always so mellifluous, complementing the world around her as it dances through her hair, but now, it's screeching as she raises her previous memories from the dead.

"It helped." Chess' voice breaks off, her eyes chasing the lines on the floor so she won't have to meet my helpless gaze. "But it's not that simple anyway. It can be indomitable, so..."

Silence fills the empty space in the room, circling around us and toying with our mental cohesion. I don't like it at all.

"So about those notes..." Chess finally reminds me, lifting us from our prior trance of anxious waiting.

"Right, yeah." I sort through the contents of my bag, pulling out a single sheet of paper, wrinkled from intemperate folding and unfolding. I smooth it out across the floor, miniscule bits of sand pressing into the material.

Chess fervidly seizes the paper, tearing it into small chunks to fit inside the medicine container. She loots her messenger bag, procuring a dulled, yellow pencil to mark upon it and make Calum's day a bit brighter, unlike the writing utensil she possesses in her hand.

Once seven pieces have been ripped to the adequate size, I detect an instrument of my own, this time a pen, practically leaking with dark blue ink.

While I may have sent my head fleeing from the exploding ideas plundering my orderly thought process, when I lift my pen to the paper, my designs drip out of my mindset like a broken test tube leaning on its side.

My face contorts in frustration, shifting slightly as if it will provide me with a fresher approach, instead of one hazy with trite.

On the tiny scrap of paper, I scribe the day of the week at random, slashing a line directly under an enlarged form of the word, Friday, though it happens to be today's date. I write hastily so as to not lose track of my thought.

Suddenly, my back straightens as an image emerges from the deepest part of my mind, almost striking me in the face with its brilliance.

To be quite fair, the concept itself isn't so extraordinary, but the fact that I could formulate something, at least, is a major achievement to me.

"Take pride not in the fact that you have succeeded in life, but the fact that you have succeeded in perpetuating life," I write, a quote I know to be from Calum's favorite author, Elikai Amin, after he burbled about his literary works one day.

Chess peers over at my quotes, raising her eyebrows, clearly impressed — or merely satisfied. "That's a nice one, Florence."

My face grows red with Chess' flattery, glancing down at my eminent quote scrawled across the page. "What does yours look like?"

I avert my vision towards Chess' paper, hers regarding Monday. "Hey, you! I know life can get really hard, but you can make it through this. We love you!" hers says.

I smile at the encouraging words. Even if they're meant for Calum, they leave a noticeable mark on me, as well.

"It's the day of the moon, so I thought it would be intriguing to start with Monday," Chess comments. It seems of no importance whatsoever that she orders them — we'll get through all the days one way or another — but it appeases her.

"How about I take Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and you can take Saturday and Sunday?" Chess suggests, dividing the remaining paper scraps between us.

"Sure, sounds good."

I'm quite thankful that she took the extra piece; I'm not sure how much longer I can go spewing out quotes that don't come to me very easily.

I start off by labeling both of my scraps with the days I was assigned by Chess, who is now working rapidly to complete her job, but after that, my mind goes blank, devoid of all cognition.

While it is simpler to go for the mainstream approach of encouraging words to no one in particular, used for a neutral advance, Calum doesn't deserve something so careless, especially not from me.

Feeling the last shreds of hope vanish from my mind, I stare at the sheet of paper, completely and utterly lost. Nothing works its way inside to assist in my laboring task.

Until a few seconds later.

Connecting my pen to the already faded piece of paper, I write, in my neatest handwriting, "No matter how hard it gets, remember that you're still alive, and that's the only thing you can ask of yourself."

I push the completed note aside, stacking it on top of Chess' already finished pile, containing phrases such as, "You only fail when you decide trying isn't worthwhile," and, "This is only one battle. You might lose one, but a fresh opportunity still awaits," along with, "It's okay if no one believes in you. It only makes it ten times better when you tell them that you believe in yourself."

Gathering bits of information from Chess' quotes, I formulate one of my own in my head, marking the paper with a tiny dot before beginning. "I want you to redeem yourself in the only way you can: show the world that you are not worthless. You do not require their approval, only their envy," I draft, sighing as I slam the last piece of the puzzle down on the stack.

"I'm done," I announce, opening each separate box and distributing the notes among them accordingly, shutting them with a click when the task has been ended.

Squealing marginally, Chess returns Calum's medicine container to his messenger bag, taking particular notice to its original place — in between a package of bandages and a disinfecting spray bottle and next to the rest of his antidepressants.

"Let's hide behind the couch and wait for Calum to find his presents," Chess advocates, anticipation lighting up her whole face as she scurries to fling herself behind the furniture item, disappearing from sight.

I follow, maneuvering my feet to avoid the remnants of shattered glass and dust covering the floor. Using the back of the couch for support, I lower myself down to the ground, peeking out from the side to gain a view of the doorway.

Peter wanders by, though not taking the time to inquire about our whereabouts. He seems particularly unbalanced today, his legs punching furiously into the ground to keep him stabilized. I suppose it's for the better that we don't render assistance; if we help Peter, Calum could overhear and throw off our whole plan.

Chess fishes out a conveniently placed package of cards from her messenger bag, opening the box and dumping each piece out onto the floor.

The cards lie scattered in a fan formation, ranging from clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades, red, and black, with only one of a kind to be played.

"What do you want to play?" Chess inquires, holding up the empty box for me to examine while I conclude.

"I don't know many card games," I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks as I throw my vision to the floor, where the cards still lie.

"That's okay." Chess smiles, cupping her hand around the pile of cards to gather them, then proceeding to smack their edges to form quite a perfect, procrustean shape. "I can teach you some. My favorite is called Garbage."

I cock my eyebrow in confusion. What kind of name is Garbage for a game that's supposed to intrigue the players?

Chess passes out ten cards for me and ten cards for her, face down, arranging them in an array of two rows, with five per row, restoring the leftover objects to the middle. "Basically, you take a card from the stockpile and match it with the corresponding spot on your board. Say I drew a three; I would find the third place and flip it over, putting the earlier card down, facing upward, thus beginning my adventure on finding the spot of the number on the card.

"Then I continue to do that for the cards until I reach a dead end. If I do so without completely turning over my pieces, I put the last card in the middle, next to the deck, and proclaim, 'Garbage!'"

It seems simple enough, though repetitious. Something about it, however, is slightly fascinating. Maybe it's the low-key gaiety for Calum's daily trek through the area, or maybe I'm excited for the ebullience of turning over the cards and not knowing what to expect.

Just as I nod, drawing a paper rectangle of fun from the deck, a rustling noise echoes against the walls, signaling a halt to our game. Chess and I exchange jubilant glances as she hurries to collect her package to clean up our mess.

Calum leans a hand on the doorframe, steadying himself as he rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, then sliding on his glasses to fit the bridge of his nose. Yawning, he slaps his phalanges to his mouth to cover it, though he should feel comfortable in the belief that no one is around to spy on him, that he can do whatever he pleases, yet he doesn't.

"It's working," I mouth to Chess, who responds with a curt smile, baring her shiny, white teeth.

Calum pulls his feet along, crouching down to pull back the flap of his messenger bag and find whatever it is he's searching for — hopefully, it's his medicine container. His hand fumbles around a bit inside, but he eventually produces the desired object. Squinting, he examines the specimen clutched in his fingers, confused by the sudden shift in its features.

Agitation blooms in my stomach, and all I want is for Calum to open to today's date, 12 March, and find my hidden note and yellow gumdrop. I grow more and more anxious by the second as times seems to slow. The only two things in the world are me and Calum, maybe even his medicine.

Taking a deep breath, Calum conscientiously pries open the lid to the Friday box, not sure what to discover. What he does uncover, however, isn't appalling in the slightest, with no ill-will and no mischievous intentions. Calum furrows his brow at the image waiting before him — the candy and note are just sitting to be received with a joyful demeanor — but he doesn't relax at first.

"What's he doing?" Chess asks, squinting her eyes.

"I think he's crying..."

Signs of tears are marked upon Calum's face as he removes the candy from the box to read the note. A sad smile brings color to his face, though his cheeks tell a different story, one of embarrassment and delight swirling together to create red. His fingers probe the paper, smoothing it over to be free of the plaguing wrinkles. Calum then slips it into the pocket of his pants, patting it gently as if to keep it safe.

Chess and I exchange ebullient looks, our eyes reflecting the same emotion as one another. "He's saving it for later!" Chess clarifies, and I nod, delighted.

Finally, after staring at the daunting pill in front of him for a few seconds, hesitation clouding his visage, Calum tosses the pill down his throat, cringing at the bitter taste. He quickly pops the treat through his lips to coat the walls of his mouth with sour and sweet textures and flavors, forgetting the putrid threats of his antidepressants.

In my own opinion, however jaded my judgement is, it always warms my heart to see people taking their medication. It shows that they overcame the biggest obstacle of their day: getting out of bed.

Calum flicks his eyes across the room in a desperate hope for someone to be there, someone for him to thank. Chess and I are hidden from view. So he smooths the writing on his medication box, preserving his happiness with a small smile.

And that's all I need.

~~~~~

"I already told you, Florence! I don't know anything!" Chess informs me, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

"You were inside the Community building for longer than I was, considering you arrived here only yesterday, and I know for a fact that you're not from the Incipiens Province. If you really are Snow's friend, you're from Lumen."

Calum and Peter are gradually getting worse, and after the excursion of last night, I thought it an appropriate time to interrogate Ms. Chesslyn Arwen Ryker. She's been living inside the Community building in Incipiens for over two weeks now, so she must be useful to the Community, meaning she most likely has intelligence to assist us.

"How dare I travel? What an abomination I am!" Chess quips.

"Please, Chess," I plead. "It's okay if you don't know anything, but if you do, it's of utmost importance that you share with me. As you can see" — I nod to signal her to take a quick look at Peter, who's clawing his wrists with his fingernails — "my friends aren't doing so well. This could save their life."

Silence fills the room, curling into every nook and cranny of the furniture, walls, and windows.

Finally, I receive a reply. "I don't have anything that they told me literally, but I might have a guess at their motives. It might ease your worry." Chess shrugs. "I'm quite the investigator, as you can see."

Scenarios fly through my head of what Chess is about to tell me. Are Calum and Peter's lives in danger, or is it the exact opposite? My fellow Candidates might be gravely ill, but maybe it's just that; maybe I won't have to be alone.

"It's my belief that you're perfectly fine, yes? Peter and Calum are wacked up in the head, and Snow is dead as a doornail, but you seem to be braving it." Remorse is absent from Chess' words. She professes to be Snow's old friend from Lumen, but she describes Snow's death with a commonplace simile. Is she as close to my deceased comrade as she says she is?

"I honestly don't know why I'm not already dead or injured," I confess, scratching a few hairs out of my tight bun.

"But that wasn't what I was asking, now was it? Your friends may be survivors of the Evaluation."

My heart skips a beat when Chess mentions the word "survivor". All of my progress up to this point has been keeping Calum and Peter comfortable, though fighting with all of my strength to preserve their lives.

"Calum's body is failing, and Peter's mind is failing, but the whole point of the Evaluation is to experiment, not murder. It isn't penance for our war; it's a constant reminder that the Community is making advancements in technology to reintroduce our old inventions once again. Therefore, killing off their assets is pointless, a rookie mistake. Besides, if the Citizens found out about that, they would not be so well-wishing."

Chess' theory makes sense. If Calum and Peter's symptoms ended in their demise, then they would have contracted two parts of something, therefore rendering Snow's death redundant. If they wanted to see how death, sickness, and insanity worked, they could've spared Snow, because the other two Candidates would die anyway.

But maybe that's what the Community wants me to think. They could've planted Chess here with the hypothesis not of a Subordinate, but an inside worker. Her appearance here is unordinary; there's something going on, something that isn't as visible as I once thought. The Community is testing our responses to diseases, not playing with variables aligned with my decisions. They don't want me to interfere with their trials.

Part of me feels that I can trust Chess with my life, but another part is suspicious about her ambiguity. The smallest part of me thinks that she is a double agent, playing the part of a Subordinate, but reporting the information back to the Community. The idea seems plausible, but the world is so binary-oriented that the thought flees from my mind.

"So what do you think?" Chess waits for my opinion, but I had zoned out, considering the possibility of everything. "Do you support it?"

I nod, worrying my cheek with the tip of my tongue. "Yeah, it really helped calm my nerves." I laugh anxiously.

Chess shifts her weight from the doorframe to her feet, smoothing down her pants to say, "Well, we're done here."

"Thanks so much, Chess."

"Sure, you bet," she acknowledges, grinning slightly. "I hope to relax you." She winks, scuffing her shoe in the sand. "On every possible entendre," she adds.

Chess turns away, sauntering over to Peter and shaking her hand through his already wild hair, leaving me to stare at her with wide eyes. "What does that even mean?" I call back, but she only doubles over laughing for a few seconds.

"Don't get your knee-socks in a twist! It's nothing!"

~~~~~

Apparently, Chess has a nickname for Peter. I only noticed it recently when they were laughing together for the first time in a while, bantering about whatever they wanted to banter about as they laced in playful punches on the arm.

Now, I wouldn't be as ambivalent about it as I am at the moment if the nickname were complimentary, but...Chess seems to go for the more...different ones.

She calls him the Bird Lord, because, for whatever reason, his last name is intriguing for her. I don't see how, but I'll roll with it.

On one hand, I have no idea how and why Peter is choosing to deal with Chess, considering she's almost as sarcastic as he is. On the other hand, I find it healthy for him to have a friend who will engage in the most intimate of acts in a relationship: giving each other nicknames.

I think it's more than healthy, to be quite honest. Chess gives him a smile from her jokes, something that I haven't seen in such a long time, something that's like the sun appearing from behind the clouds after a day of rain. She gives him a reason to laugh, a sound that swirls in the air and makes the mood lighter. She gives him a companion with which to enjoy his time, someone outside of the disfigured doll that we call Giuseppe. She gives him hope. Hope for his past, hope for his present, and hope for his future. Hope that he will survive.

And if some lousy nickname provides all of that for him, then I'm all for it, even if it is completely strange.

I feel that I should thank Chess for the things she's done for Peter, but I'm not sure she'd understand. I'm not sure she'd grasp the idea that she saved him from nausea striking from worry and emptiness, or that he stopped screaming in his sleep when she was around, or even that I can tell his lively appearance has returned, a sign that he's been eating more.

The part that always confuses me about it is that Chess is just a person. She didn't have to make Peter happy. She didn't have to make him actually consume a dinner. She didn't have to stick around him for as long as she did. It was Peter's choice to take care of himself, but the energy was channeled through Chess. There's just something about her that makes Peter trust her, and I'm not complaining about that.

I never really understood, however, how Peter "fancies" Chess, but not me. We're both the same age, around the same height (she's a bit taller), have a joking nature, are both Candidates, and so much more. Yet, somehow, Chess is essential to him.

It might have to do with the fact that I was forced into this mess in the beginning. I know how he acted when we found Calum and Snow, when he even met me — something I obviously won't forget. Chess, however, wasn't present to see any of it. Her appearance was specifically staged to interact with our plans. Perhaps Peter is more comfortable because he didn't have time to practice his veneer of whatever he would choose it to be. Maybe he likes to live in the moment instead of stressing about what may or may not happen in the future; I can tell he already does enough of that. Having Chess here gives him a break from it, from everything malicious.

Even Chess' relationship with Calum is unique. While she "entrances" him by constantly flirting, there's something pleasant to come out of her antics. When she keeps Peter busy, Calum no longer has to worry about having him under lockdown. She also supplements the ambience with cheer, something that he has never had much of. In addition, Chess sought to relinquish her stash of candy to him to brighten his day, or, in this case, his week. That's something Calum will never forget.

And then there's me. We bonded over assisting Calum in transforming another bleak morning into one teeming with opportunities and jubilance. I was the first to find her in the Dome, though I never answered her question about the time it would take to churn milk into butter; I wish I had, but it's too late now.

But, as much as I wish it had been us, it all started with Snow. I have no clue as to how long they've known each other, just that they were friends back home. Something tells me they cared a lot for each other, despite Chess referring to Snow as someone who was "dead as a doornail". Overall, what they had was special, unbreakable.

Chess is so important to us all in many ways, in uncountable ways. It's a shame good things can't last forever.

~~~~~

I awake to the hushed sound of shuffling feet around my head, stopping at some points to collect something of theirs on the ground.

Opening one eye, I find the shadowed body of Chess fleeing from our campsite in a hurry, a bag slung over her shoulder — my bag.

I scurry out from under my blanket, tossing it to my feet carelessly. Jumping up to a standing position, I follow Chess, tiptoeing so I won't capture her attention and wake the others resting beside me.

Chess suddenly halts, having sensed a shift in the air, or perhaps a smell radiating off of me. She spins on her heel, finding my awkward figure lurking in the darkness. I simply stand there like a deer in the headlights, not moving, nor blinking. Her gaze seeps to captivate me; I cannot avert my vision.

"Florence, what are you doing?" Chess' voice is thick with nervousness. "Please go back to bed."

"Not until you tell me what you're doing out here." My words are thickened by the clarity of my tone, even in this irascible situation.

Chess looks down at her feet in hesitation, biting her dark pink lip. "Florence, I can't do that. Just go to sleep please."

"You know, I trusted you, Chess. Yeah, I had some vacillating thoughts about you, but they were only that: thoughts."

My suspicions are now valid, for she has proven them to be completely correct. Even the way she holds an aversion to my questions signals a deceitful nature.

"Florence—"

"No, Chess!"

I'm tired of Chess parading around, acting like she owns the place. She makes Calum's stomach plummet and she teases Peter about his mental state. She has no sense of diplomacy; she simply takes what she wants, leaving the scattered remains to fend for themselves.

A hand suddenly flies across my face, leaving a stinging sensation in its wake. My cheek simmers with red coloring in the remnants of fingerprints.

"I said you need to go." A trace of begging lingers in Chess' eyes, turning her normally gorgeous face to the appearance of a ragged, old woman. The state of her expression ages her drastically. Her pulchritude is no more.

My legs wobble, competing inordinately to keep me standing upright. My breathing turns shallow and my heartbeat quickens its already racing pulse.

Chess looks up at the sky, a worried look painted on her face. She then glances down at her watch, grimacing. "It's March fifteenth."

The importance of the date is unclear to me, but I know it must be past midnight, because the last time I checked, we were only on the fourteenth of March. What happens today that Chess is so fretful about? She knows more than she lets on. She always does.

All of the sudden, a long blade pierces through the air, wedging itself into Chess' back and poking out through her stomach. The first drops of blood fall from her lean figure to the ground, denting the soft sand with the marks of a nearing tragedy.

I scream, covering my mouth with my hand as she falls, revealing a hooded figure that I can only recognize to be her brother, Ezra.

"Hello, Florence," he greets, sliding his knife out from Chess' limp body. His eyes are cold, remorse absent like nothing I've ever seen.

"Ezra?" I croak. This can't be. No, it can't be. They're family. They're supposed to protect each other.

"Lucky guess." He smiles, disappearing into the dark night and leaving me to mourn my dying friend.

The abrupt nature of the attack startles me, gluing my feet to my place for a few seconds, attempting to digest the details.

I collapse to the ground, my knees hitting the landscape with a notable impact. Sand digs into my skin, but I ignore the pain to tend to Chess. It's the least I can do after spewing out insulting phrases in her face.

"Chess, are you okay?" I catechize her, propping her back onto my hands to act as a support for her failing figure.

"What does it look like?" Chess retorts, blood spilling from her mouth and trailing down her chin, eventually making its way into the dips of her neck.

Even in death, Chess retains her caustic attitude towards everything. A knife wound marked upon her flesh isn't enough to stop sarcastic words from tumbling out of her lips. Some part of me envies her resilience.

Something I've noticed about Chess is that she contains the innate ability to make people crack a smile, in particular when grinning is the last thing penned on their agenda. She's under no pressure to tell a joke and cause people to laugh, but she does so anyway.

And so I succumb to her pressure. "I don't know why I'm smiling. It's something about you that I just can't help but give in to."

"You're fine because you know I'll be."

"Chess, you're dying. I wouldn't call that fine."

"Well, I would."

My face falls at her notably low standards for wellbeing. In a state of absolute peril, the worst time a human could ever find themselves in, she brushes off her imminent doom. What made her so phlegmatic towards death? Why does she not seek help?

My stomach suddenly clenches with alarm. "I need to get you back to Calum and Peter!"

Chess shakes her head. "It's okay." Her hand finds its way into mine, pressing down as a sure reminder of her existence. Her body is turning pale with each stroke of pain slithering across her skin and daring her nervous system to fight back.

"It's not." My voice breaks as a tear falls onto the bloody mess of fabric, skin, and fluids mixing below me. "Why won't you do something for yourself, you coward?"

Chess ignores me, squinting her eyes to focus on the sight above her instead of on my face, pinched with a concoction of emotions. "Isn't the sky so beautiful tonight?"

As if fulfilling Chess' dying wish, even though she never asked anything of me, I glance up at the sky — grey, like her eyes that are slowly losing their light, with a mixture of the shadowy hue of her hair that flies around her head when she skips; when she's happy, an experience she'll never encounter again. "Absolutely radiant," I reply, choking on my words. I avert my gaze to the body slowly bleeding out in front of me to take my final judgments of her, but there's only one thing I have to say.

I'm not ready to let go.

Chess' eyes flutter like an animal trapped in a cage, slowly losing its strength, its determination. Her lips are parted, as if handing over her last kiss to the world before it takes her spirit, hushed with the tones of nature blending in her ears. Her cheeks are soft like the trickling water of a stream, and her eyelashes are placed so delicately on her gaunt face, as if a goddess had blessed her once more with the gentleness of the falling leaves in autumn. And as she takes her final breath, closing her fate to one of a mortal's, the clouds fall to dust to reveal a dim moon circling above her head and cast light upon her sheet-white face, begging for another act of true perfection before she goes, with the spotlight shining all around.

"She can't do anything for you!" I reprimand the sky, whose beauties had consumed her last words. "She's dead!" My pitch falls into a throaty sob, catching breath and manufacturing it into puffs of absolute loss. "She's dead," I repeat in a whisper form.

Chess never wanted me to follow her out here. Maybe if I hadn't, she wouldn't have been distracted by getting me to leave, therefore focusing on her assassin of a brother. She might not have been dead right now. Things would be different.

My hands shake as I reach two fingers forward to feel for the steady beat of Chess' pulse, to see if, somehow, she is still living. I discover nothing, no reassurance in any shape. With a discontented sigh, I slide my hands under her body to lift her up and find my way back to our building, where Peter and Calum still rest.

Each step is torture, and not because I am weak, but because I not only carry the weight of a human, I carry the weight of my burdens exhumed through Chess' death. I know my way back; that's not my problem. I have traveled through many times, including the occasion of Snow's passing, but this time, it's different. This time, the load of having Chess' blood on my hands, on my conscience, is enough to change every powerful footstep hollow.

Everything seems like slow motion. The way Calum and Peter rush towards me with worried faces, the way Peter's face droops when he sees Chess' dead body, the way the two have to support me so I won't collapse. It all seems so unreal.

I can barely hear Calum shouting my name, how tears cling to his face in his attempts to gain my attention. His eyes are red from grief, his shirt damp with the product of regret and bemoaning, yet I do not listen to his desperate pleas for assistance. The world is quiet, just how I like it. It makes room for pretending like death is not a force that haunts me every waking moment.

"Florence!" Calum restates. He shakes my shoulders to bring me back from a point of almost falling into the abyss of complete indifference.

My lip quivers, eyes tightening to suppress tears, and I fall into Calum's clutch. "It's my fault."

Now, the tables of time have reversed. In Calum's arms, time is constantly ticking away, though the sporadic noises of the clock make me want to claw my ears off, to forget it all. I don't want to waste more seconds.

"It's not, Florence."

"I've heard that far too many times. It's an automatic response, not a guarantee." I can feel Calum sigh against me, expeditiously scavenging for more ammunition to convince me why, somehow, I am not responsible.

"I know exactly how guilt weaves its way into everything you do. It's generally all that happens with me with...you know."

I look up at Calum with doe eyes, compassionate as the changing of seasons. "I don't ever note upon your tendencies, because your condition should not be your defining feature." I glance back at Peter, who is only staring at Chess, lying inert on the cold sand while the sun continues to glare down at her.

Peter, who never shows any emotion (except for umbrage) towards anyone, seems to be the most devastated out of all of us. He found someone he could hold onto, but she slipped through his fingers once again. He never deserves what he is handed.

The sky is still dark and hungering for the continuous reign of night. The sun is hours away from popping above the horizon, but, again, nothing can save Chess, not even the absence of the time that stole her features for its own display.

And so we wait. We wait for Peter to dig a hole the depth of six feet, through anguish and lamentation. We wait for Chess' body to be lowered into it, like the moon descending behind the ocean to make way for the light. We wait for all of the sand to be piled back on top of Chess, grains of denial slipping past her lips and through her fingers. We wait for the sorrow to turn into something else, something that doesn't hurt so much. But it never does. And we're still waiting.

I don't know how long we stay with Chess, staring and staring at the tombstone made from a meager piece of wood and one of Peter's knives. My hand is joined with Peter and Calum's, our fingers intertwined as a reminder that we're still together, that we're still alive and breathing, and that no matter how troublesome the Evaluation will get, we're still kicking.

My eyes devour every detail of the grave, through every line, every knot and mark etched on the surface. The wood from which it was made, I begin to understand, resembles my chest — empty and carved however nature likes it, never to be mine again.

Soon, when the first streaks of light paint the air above my head, Calum and Peter unhook their hands from mine to venture inside, leaving me to mourn my friend without prying eyes.

Already, I miss Chess. I miss the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, or how she was never ready to fall asleep, always wanting more of her surroundings. I miss how she daydreamed in between her words, imagining what could be when it seemed inappropriate to do so. I miss how she reveled in her self-induced amusement and took advice from no one, even at times when it would be incredibly helpful for her to change her ways.

Even when I met her only a couple days ago, Chess dazzled me with her fearlessness. Instead of approaching me with a witty remark — or, perhaps, a threatening one, like Peter — she inquired about the time it would take to churn milk into butter. And those things, those wondrous things thick with splendor, those are what made Chess more than Chesslyn Arwen Ryker, more than a Subordinate, more than a flirtatious girl from the Lumen Province. It made her truly gorgeous. And for that, I cannot compare her to anyone except the very existence of the dawn at the start of a new day and the dusk when it falls.

Yet, all she received in return was an earnest wooden slab on which her name is messily scrawled with the strokes of a blade with so much history. In apology, I leave all that I can: my shame and my guilt, my courage and my pride, my past and my future. Because she deserved so much more.

Chess once told me I'd be burying her soon. I just didn't realize she was serious. I suppose she loves literal meanings.

We agreed to never speak about her again.

~~~~~

A/N: this is the longest chapter so far (10.5k words) and the most feels-packed one, too

sorry about that

if you liek, please vote, comment, share, etc. thanks you, beans of hell

~Dakota