"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, we apologize for the unavoidable delay."

The subway rumbles before starting up again, squealing as it glides roughly across the metallic tracks. A gust of warm air bursts throughout the underground station.

"Welcome to our Raven hideaway." Rayah gleams as she stands before us in the abandoned subway station, hair wild and wrapped across her face and shoulders. White and green tiles line the back walls behind where the subway stops, spelling the words "Utica"--the name of the station--with the small antique squares.

"I still don't understand how you were able to get these ancient things running again, especially without anyone realizing it." Titus paces around the station, studying the aged wooden benches, the thick steel braces, the faded floors--worn from years of public use. "This is fucking crazy." His voice is horse.

"Our methods of deception are kept highly confidential." Rayah winks. Her uplifting energy brightens the dreary situation, but only slightly.

I imagine the generations of life that once filled this underground station. I see a man, dressed in professional attire, standing in perfect posture with a briefcase in hand; a woman with a stroller, a crying infant inside, soothing it with toys when the loud train frightens it to tears again; children carefully peaking down the tracks into the darkness, gripping the vertical steel bars so they do not fall in the path of the train. I see their footprints like spirits floating across the white tiles--brown with age--their long forgotten presence still remaining in the atmosphere of this untouched memory of the past. It is an eerie feeling.

Sommer shutters, walking to Titus and pulling his arms around her shoulders. He leans his chin against the top of her head, closing his eyes briefly and squeezing her hands.

"Where are the other crows?" Titus questions Rayah, yawning.

"Ravens," she corrects him. "Follow me."

Rayah steps down onto the tracks, looking in both directions before doing so. She gestures for us to come with her as she crawls beneath the floor. With little consideration for caution, we follow, fatigue clouding our attentiveness.

Beneath the tiled floor of the station, there is a gap leading to a large open area. I am surprised at the cleanliness, compared to that of the station, and the desks and tables and many faces that peer at me as I enter. Couches, mattresses, and chairs are scattered across the space, surrounded by steel walls and floors; even a small kitchenette in the far corner. Titus glances at me, shocked as I, and shakes his head. Sommer lifts her face for the first time and takes in the atmosphere.

"Ravens," Rayah announces to the crowd of a few dozen individuals. "I introduce to you, Sommer, Titus, and Metro. They are here to rest, so if you would kindly allow them to take the mattresses and cushioned couches, your consideration would be much appreciated."

The men and women make no objection to her request, rising from their seats as we approach them.

The crowd consists of individuals of all ages and nationalities. An elderly man with long gray locks sits alone by the kitchenette. A young woman with short blue hair holds an infant to her breast. A teenaged girl braids her male companion's hair, a light shade of lilac.

I take a seat on the nearest free mattress, removing my footwear. Although I wish to further study the area, I cannot set aside my fatigue any longer. I mutter a few words of thanks before pulling the sheets over my head and drifting into a delicate slumber.

***

When I awake the lights have been dimmed and many of the others have gone to sleep. I sit up and rub my slumber-fogged eyes, stretching my arm muscles. I am startled at the sound of a small grunt. The elderly man that I saw seated across the room now sits in the chair beside me, his thick silver hair framing the deep wrinkles in his skin.

"Metro," he says, his eyes looking to the floor.

"Hello?" I respond, slightly alarmed by his mysterious qualities.

"In my youth, this station was very active. I used it often. " He looks at me, face expressionless. Only one of his eyes appears functional, the other pupil drifting to the side slowly.

"Really?" I question softly. "How long ago was this?"

"In my youth, we called it the Metro," he says.

I turn away from his glance, his dysfunctional eye and expressionless face creating discomfort within my abdomen. He continues speaking.

"The Metro--it was the ideal way to get around the city if you could not afford your own transportation. Everyday people used it; business men and women, parents, children, students. It took us places--got us where we needed to go. All you needed was your Metro card, and you could go anywhere you desired."

I look at him again, curious at the meaning behind his deep reflection.

"I was a young boy once, Metro Riverton." He sighs and shakes the hair off his shoulders. "I thought I was smart and brave. Thought I could take this subway anywhere I wanted to go, for the rest of my life." He shakes his head. "Remember, Metro, you are not immortal. But your ideas can be."

He takes his hand, layered with loose wrinkles and dotted with liverspots, grasping my forearm tightly.

"Look at me!" he speaks, his pale lips curving upwards slightly. "I'm still here, 70 years later, using the Metro, even though it's been long forgotten now. But it's not dead."

Letting go of my arm, he rises. His legs tremble and I fear he will stumble. He remains upright as he hobbles away from me, clutching nearby objects for support.

"This subway is history, Metro," he mutters as he slips away slowly. "We can try to forget about our history, but it never dies."

He stops, turning to face me.

"Sometimes, even after years of suppression," he whispers. "It gets revived again."

He turns and continues to stumble into the dim light.

"Batshit-crazy old man," a feminine voice from behind startles me. "How you feeling, Metro?"

I turn to face the speaker. It is the woman with short blue hair who was breastfeeding an infant earlier.

"I have felt better," I respond quietly, an aching sensation expanding across my chest. "But the rest has done me well."

"I'm Wren. It's an honor to meet you." Her voice is crisp and light, eyes vivid and full of life. 

"You're the talk of the town." She smiles softly.

Although I admire her cordial attitude, I am in no mood to be friendly. I can feel the many emotions that stir inside of me--panic, fear, desperation, and the worst sadness I have ever felt in my life--expanding and stretching across my body, suffocating me. I wish to cry out, release this pressure from my system, but hold myself from doing so. This emotional pain makes me optimistic for eternal slumber. I shutter, turning away from Wren, this strange woman who seems to admire my tortured soul.

"I have killed a man," I say to her.

"But you've brought life to thousands." Emotion causes Wren's vocals to quiver.

"My friend is dead," I mutter.

"He's not, Metro."

"He is in a vegetative state." We speak over each other's words.

"You couldn't have done anything."

"I am responsible for putting my companions in danger."

"Sommer and Titus understand. It was Rupert who--"

"But it is as if I were the one who pulled the trigger."

"Metro." She grips my shoulders.

I am breathing heavily now, body shaking, eyes overflowing with angry tears. My breaths are thick and deep, oxygen the viscosity of syrup, breathing sharply through my teeth. All I see are blurred figures and I feel faint.

"Can't you see the mess I've made!" I yell, my voice echoing across the underground room.

"Metro!" Wren silences me.

I blink my tears away and see her bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked face.

"Look around you," she speaks in a softer tone. "Look at everyone here. Just look at them." I glance across the room, filled with concerned faces. She grips my arms tightly.

"We were all here before you," she says. "You think you're alone in this? Do you really think you started this mess?"

Her lips quiver as she attempts to smile. She gives a short laugh as tears drip from her eyes.

"For years, we've been searching for the fuel we needed to set this spark into flame. Years, Metro." She softens her grip. "You were never alone, Metro. Not you or Titus or Sommer or Jagger. You were never alone."

She lets go of me, wiping her face and taking a moment to glance away. She shakes her head and laughs quietly.

"You know what a group of ravens are called, Metro?"

Wren looks to me. I shake my head.

"A murder. They're called a murder. Isn't that weird?"

I do not respond.

"For years we've been this murder of ravens, pecking at small seeds on the ground, not doing anything to anyone. We've been here all along." She faces me again, her voice nearly a whisper. 

"But you, Metro--Sommer, Titus, and Jagger, too--you ran up behind us, and pushed us into flight." She smiles. "We're flying now, Metro. And the whole world can see..." she hesitates, trembling.

"The whole world can finally see," she yells proudly across the room. "the feathers under our 

wings!"

And the ravens, we cheer.