All structures of the Colony were built into a tunnel wall. Even Lydia's home was carved out of an actual tunnel. The System was also used for the purpose of expanding or shrinking any structure. Rooms could be closed, collapsed, or extended out. It all depended on the amount of money one was willing to spend.

Most walls were soundproof and as Lydia lay in bed that night, she wondered just how much money it would take to make every damn wall in her house sound proof.

She didn't want to hear her mother's shrill cries. It wasn't so bad when her father would argue back. It was when he ignored her that she'd try to strike him and he'd take it out on her.

Everything seemed on full blast and Lydia watched the ceiling as she lay in bed. She was angry with herself for inviting Milton back. She was angry with Milton for bringing Stella back with him. She was angry with Stella for coming back and she was angry with her mother for caring so much.

Everything stopped suddenly and that should have made her suspicious, but she didn't care. She was just glad that it had ended. When her door zipped open, she sat up in bed to see the outline of her father. Her mother wasn't far behind.

Face scratched and bloodied, Milton's lumbered in.

"Get your shit. We're leaving," He growled.

"You're not leaving!" The bony woman flung herself in the path of the door before it had time to close. Standing there would keep it open. Her outline looked ghoulish in the darkness, contrasting against the light, a diskette clenched in her right hand. "Set one foot out of this house with her and you'll find I'm not as weak as I look."

"Fuck you." Milton spun around to face her. "When she turns twenty, bitch, she's out. And so the fuck am I. You can stay here and rot."

Lydia watched them with a numbness that had taken nineteen years to form. Till now the war had ebbed at her door because she'd heard one of them approach more than once and then the other would surrender and they'd walk away. Now it spilled over into her room, into her world, and she was at the center of the shit they were flinging.

"She's not going!" her mother wailed. "And if you know what's good for you, you'd find a lawyer because I'm invoking my rights on you, you classless filth."

Her words caused a stifled snort from Lydia who couldn't believe Dizzy's inability to swear. The best she could come up with was 'filth'? After all Dizzy'd gone through, after all Milton'd done?

"With what credits? All that's left is her tuition, and I'll see you dead first." Milton approached Dizzy, his chest pushed out. "You wanna try me? You wanna try me on for size, you gaw-ro nut-case? Come gaw-ro try me." Face to face with her, he growled, "You listen to me, you piece of imp-shit, you try it, even dare to try it and I'll bury you. I'll come back here, take one of your fancy frocks, tie it around your scrawny little neck and strangle you. So you try it! You just gaw-ro try touching her tuition."

Dizzy raised the diskette. Milton slapped it out of her hand and shoved her to the ground.

He marched past her, his voice carrying from the hall. "She better not get so much as a gaw-ro scratch on her before her birthday or by the Colony, you'll regret the day you ever met me."

Stella watched the floor as she waited, mirroring Lydia's stupid silence like always. She stood by the kitchen around the corner. Lydia could hear Milton and Stella argue. Judging from the sound of the slap that, Stella'd hit her father again and the man didn't even fight back. The son-of-a-bitch imp might have actually apologized. Lydia wondered if Stella did it to show her power over Milton, a direct contrast to Dizzy's lack thereof.

Lydia wasn't sure when they left or in what manner but she'd seen it before. She'd seen Stella's anger make her face turn cold and Milton reach out hesitantly to touch her, only for her to shove him back. Usually by the third of fourth try she'd give in and he'd hold her waist and guide her to the door. This time was probably no different.

Dizzy had fallen to the floor, but she didn't get up for a while. She watched the ground.

When she stood, she muttered, "You think I'm weak, you...you awful b—bastard." She lumbered toward the kitchen. Glass broke as she grumbled, "You'll see. I'll show you. You...b...you bastard. You horrid bastard, I'll show you."

As her voice rose then fell, Lydia was quiet as she slipped from the bed and put her hand against the marker on the wall, prompting the door to slide shut. When she finally sat on the bed again, she looked at her legs, then her hands. She was trembling.

She should have said something. Tell Dizzy to shut her judgmental ass up; tell Milton to act like a human being; tell the both of them to stop dragging her into their gaw-ro madness. Each time she'd open her mouth to even practice those words she felt nauseous. She feared that one day they might turn, perhaps in unison, to remind her that she was the cause.

Without Lydia there, Milton would have run, consequences be damned. Without Lydia there, Dizzy would have gone back to the theater and died a gloriously overworked and uncared for life as a legend. So Lydia could say nothing. She could barely breathe.

More than ever, she wanted to leave—anywhere would be better. When her nerves finally calmed, she reached under the bed for a data diskette, and tapped on it.

The view screen of the diskette was blank at first then after a moment, a young man's face appeared, happy to see her.

"Lydia... Haven't had the pleasure of your company for a while. Was starting to think you don't like me."

"Hello, Mr. Abraham." Lydia swallowed hard.

The young man's smile was instantaneous and wicked. "Lars is throwing one of his strange bashes, I assume I'll meet you there."

Each word was smooth and rich, pressing Lydia down with a familiar cover. She only managed to get to her bedroom wall before she felt as though those words would suffocate her.

She yearned to go.

She longed to stay away.

A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she looked down at the diskette again to see that smug expression.

"You've said no before, and you always come. Let me take care of you, if only for a little while. I'll take care of everything. I always do—"

Lydia turned the diskette off. Eyes closed, she crouched down and covered her face. The diskette flashed so she slid it toward the wall with a shove.

"No. You're better than that, Lydia. You don't deserve that. To hell with them all."

She couldn't go back to that.

But she needed something.

She dug out her sphere-shaped inhaler from a panel by her bed and held it up. Six dots lit up, indicating she hadn't much Ivy left. She could make it last, though. Like tonight, she didn't need much.

Squeezing it, she sucked on the top and blinked. Her vision fogged, but she could make out the steady six dots. It took much less than she'd expected.

The world vanished. All life vanished with it. She squeezed her hand around that sphere—it was still there. Using her fingers, she traced the six dots.

Silence washed over her, then a ringing in her ears. This had never happened before. She hadn't had Ivy since the operation to restore her vision, but nothing like this had ever happened before. She felt both tired and on high alert at the same time.

Her eyes. They weren't working. Nothing worked. When she squeezed her hand next, securing the orb, there was nothing. Her body ached: first her head, then her face, finally her throat.

Throat?

Her throat hurt...because a hand was squeezing it. That's when she understood—she'd lost time, she'd blacked out.

Something pressed against her and she decided to remain limp; this was familiar enough.

And then it stopped when someone shuddered. She felt sick with herself but more hurt and concerned with her vision. Maybe it was all a dream—going home again was all a dream. Maybe she hadn't met Joshua again after so long only to find such a slug where her beloved friend should have been. Maybe she didn't have this caustic, burdensome estate at her feet. Maybe...maybe Dizzy was gone.

Pop.

Another small ball flickered out of the corner of her eye. And then another, and another still and she made out a blurred figure.

The man landed on top of her. Panic rushed through Lydia because of who she thought he was. And then she felt the wrinkled skin and she calmed with a shudder. This wasn't Abraham.

She wasn't sure who it was as she opened her eyes and shoved the exhausted stranger off her.

After the small room came into focus, she was both relieved and ashamed—she was in a restroom. Most of her clothing was torn but she was less concerned with that and more so with trying to get back whatever time she'd lost.

She stepped away from whoever it was on the floor but took the half-naked figure in. The man couldn't move. Once Lydia dragged down most of her skirt, a wave of emotion surged through her.

Whatever was wrong with the stranger, she barely cared—even as the bastard struggled to breathe. Instead of maybe going for help, Lydia took a step back and kicked the man in the face with all her might.

The shallow breathing after that meant she hadn't killed him though she was tempted to take another shot.

Not much was left of her underwear but she plucked it off the floor and made her way out. Loud music greeted her and a mass of people—she was in a club.

When or how she got here was less of a concern at this point; she had to get home.

A tingle in the back of her spine, she nodded to herself. That orb—that Ivy. She'd taken too much.

This was all her own doing. Bit by bit the night came back into focus. She remembered calling up the entertainment archive from her bedroom interface and she scanned through, looking for someplace out of the way—out of the section. Somewhere she'd be less likely to bump into anyone, be it a classmate or acquaintance.

She should have opted for a restaurant. That'd be harder to work and she'd no doubt end up rolling a few married men off her.

No. I don't need any more reminders of fucked up marriages.

That's how she'd gotten here. She'd made her selection and repeated the access code to herself. Getting the code before using the inhaler would have been a better option. She should have written it down just in case—before using the inhaler. Right now, there was no telling how her writing would look. It was memorization or nothing if she planned to make it home.

The disgust and anger she'd felt before coming back to herself faded by the time she reached the door. In the tunnel, she put her back against the wall and muttered the code for the System to take her home.

For a long while, nothing happened. Lydia was sure she'd memorized the code right. She needed to get home.

"System, please. Just let me go home. Please. I won't do anything stupid like this again. I swear."

This was the last place to get trapped in a wall; the last place she should possibly die and have Dizzy come and identify her body.

The wall softened and she fell through so fast she landed hard on her ass. As painful as that was, she was thankful to have made it home.

She lumbered to her feet and stumbled to her bedroom, more than happy for a shower.

With a new resolve, she staggered to the door of her private bathroom. Something laid in her path: Dizzy's diskette, the one her mother had been waving at Milton as if it was some sort of shield or weapon. Lydia picked it up, expecting to see a copy of their marriage contract. Instead, she saw something else entirely.

"Elizabeth of the Rein.... I was thirteen when our land began to die. That is to say, that I first noticed the erosion." She scoffed. "What the hell do you know about erosion...?"

Something else nagged at her, the feeling that she'd forgotten something important. When it dawned on her, she rushed to the interface and called the theater.

"Oh, my gosh, Mr. Bradley, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I haven't come."

Bradley folded his arms at the sight of her. "What do you want?"

His voice was unmistakable and warned of impatience.

"Honestly, you have a nerve calling here."

Easing into her chair, Lydia muttered, "Mr. Bradley, I hope you're not too angry. And...well, if I can't come down, then could you tell me about the E."

"What of it?"

Lydia eyed the man, dread making her body pulse. "Sir, has something happened?"

"With what?"

"W—with the E, of course."

"Ask your boyfriend. He came back and took the thing this afternoon," Bradley answered.