I woke up covered in blood.

Dried blood, and a lot more than what a simple punch to the nose could manage without bleeding out entirely.

And - oh, my head. One would think that I was used to the headaches by now, but I felt like I was getting over a nasty hangover - as if I'd decided to down an entire bottle of whisky on an empty stomach with no water to back me up.

I was lying on my stomach, so it took me a long, uncomfortable minute to open my eyes, which were dry and achy without the insane headache to add to it. It took a while longer for my eyes to adjust to the terrible lighting and for the dull static sound in my ears to ease up enough for me to regain my balance. I flinched when they eventually popped, and for a split second, I wondered what kind of party I'd gone to in order to dream up what I did, and if someone had managed to drug me somehow when I wasn't looking.

I pulled myself up to my knees, struggling to take in full, deep breaths when strands of my hair fell in front of my face - strands that were normally stark white, but were now encrusted in a dark, reddish brown substance that I recognized as a mixture of blood and dirt. I closed my eyes, and I probably would have cried if I'd had the energy left to do so. Another dark room, although this one looked like it had been made of cement rather than stone.

There was a voice whispering frantically somewhere behind me. I didn't recognize the language at first, and I was about to look over my shoulder when the voice switched to Standard Buation. The voice sounded young - a child's voice, and I felt my body stiffen with cold, snaking chills sliding down my back.

". . . let me find favor in your eyes. Lure me to sleep unto your slumber of empty night . . ." The voice broke off into a miserable, desperate sob, and I raised my eyes up to the gloomy, dark ceiling in an attempt to shove off the rush of emotion clawing at my already chaotic mind. Bracing myself, I slowly turned around to face the voice, knowing with a sinking, never-ending dread who I was going to see.

A bare-chested boy in dirty, neon-orange shorts, holding his knees to his chest with his back turned to me. He had a long, nasty scar straight down the middle of his back, with two others that followed alongside the bottom of his ribcage. My hands flew straight to my mouth to stifle a gasp, but the boy's battered body stiffened, nonetheless.

"Please don't turn around," I whispered scarcely, unable to take my eyes away from his back. "Please don't."

"You're not Kya," the boy responded hesitantly, his voice heavy with barely-restrained tears.

"No," I agreed. "No, that's not my name."

"They threw you in here. I thought you were Kya."

I shook my head, knowing that he wouldn't see the gesture even if he was facing me.

"No, my name is Tria."

"Tria?" the boy repeated. Clumsily, the boy staggered to his feet. "Your name is 'Tria'?" He sounded angry, now. "I know who you are. I won't fall for it - not this time."

"I - I'm sorry?" I stammered, hauling myself up to my own feet. The boy spat something in the same foreign language he had been speaking in moments ago. Before I could turn away or brace myself, the boy whipped around.

Such an angry, furious expression on a face without eyes.

"What have you done with Kya?" he demanded.

I stumbled back, opening my mouth to speak, but no words would come out. The boy stomped his foot, his dark eyebrows furrowed. The boy didn't have eyes, but he didn't need them to look angry.

"Where is she?"

He couldn't be older than six, seven years old. His lips trembled when I couldn't respond.

"What have you done with her?" he shouted the last two words, then raised his hands to dig his thin fingers into his dirty, matted hair. Much like the other little boy currently hiding in Jaxon's underground layer.

"I - I don't know," I breathed. "I don't know who you're talking about."

The boy's thin chest began rising and falling rapidly with quick, rapid breaths.

"She knew my name," he insisted. "I told her my name. She promised she would kill me if I told her my name."

I stared at him, repeating his words in my head. Did I hear him correctly? This boy was upset because some chick didn't kill him? He's been stuck down here for months, I recalled. Tortured and starved by psychopaths wearing childrens' masks.

Of course. That little prayer he was saying when I woke up . . . he was praying for death. The boy curled his bare toes into the ground. He looked like he wanted to run, but was unsure of himself.

"Please," he eventually said. "Please, if you're not with them, then you can do it."

"Oh, hell no-" I began, retreating a few steps back. "Fuck that. I'm not - I'm not-"

"I can't do it myself," the boy sobbed. Apparently you could still cry if you were missing your eyes. The boy tilted his head forward, and I could see the tears trailing down his cheeks. My stomach churned at the sight, and I had to cover my mouth once more to choke down the impulse to gag. "Please, I can't do it myself."

I shook my head, keeping my gaze averted before closing my eyes altogether when the boy all but screamed,

"Look at what they did to me! They took my eyes from me . . ." he flopped down on the ground, his body convulsing with vengeful sobs as he hugged his knees to his chest. "I should have stayed inside. Pa said to stay inside. I should have stayed inside."

Shaking, I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to regain a bit of composure in such a fucked-up situation. Eventually, I managed to cross my arms over my chest and steady my breathing.

"Do you have a brother?" I found myself asking, my voice dull and tired, even to my ears. The boy tensed.

"What about him?"

"I know where he is." Shut up, Tria. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Slowly, the boy raised his head in my direction.

"He's safe," I continued. "He's with a friend."

"A friend?" he repeated. Instinctively, I nodded.

"He's a pretty cool guy - my friend is, I mean. Your brother was playing with toy cars the last time I saw him."

He sat like that for a few more moments, pondering my words.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

I swallowed.

"He threw one of the cars at me."

A strangled, broken laugh erupted from the boy's lips.

"Why?"

"My stomach scared him. It grumbled pretty loud." I paused. "Scared me, too. Never heard it grumble that loud, before."

Again, this boy laughed, and he looked as if he wasn't sure how to take it. Hesitantly, I smiled and hugged myself tighter.

"He's safe?" he whispered scarcely, once he was done laughing and we were encumbered in silence. "My brother is still alive?"

"Yes."

"How'd they get you, if you were with him?"

I sighed, not really wanting to talk about this. And then I remembered that if what everyone's been telling me was true, then this boy was technically my brother.

"They took someone close to me. I tried to rescue her."

"But you failed."

Tears stabbed at the surface of my eyes. Then I thought: if I could give this boy a bit of hope about his brother, then why shouldn't I believe that Hadi was safe, too? That her supposed capture was just a ruse to draw me out?

"No," I shook my head. "No, it was just a trap. She's safe, too."

"A trap?" the boy tilted his head. "They just wanted you? Why?"

A bitter smile curled at my lips.

"They think I'm part giant. Crazy, huh?"

"Are you?"

"Don't know. Mother was a prostitute. Never met my dad, so I guess there's a possibility." I wasn't quite ready to reveal that his dad - our dad? - had tried to kill me before finding himself without a head.

I'm still covered in his blood, too.

"What's a prostitute?" the boy asked as a round of panic began to stir its way inside my chest.

Oh, shit. Of all the hell this boy was exposed to . . .

"How old are you?" I forced myself to ask.

He raised his head, as if he was sensing that I was about to tell him he was too young to know what humanity's oldest profession was.

"I'm seven years old," he said defiantly.

I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, then hesitated. This boy didn't have much innocence left for him to spare. I didn't want to be the one to take more away from him, even if we were both on death's row at the moment.

"I'm sorry, kid," I shook my head. "That's something I'll tell you when you're older."

Maybe I should convince these guys to take my tongue, first. Spare everyone else the trouble.

The boy scowled, but before he could snap something at me, I found myself spinning more tales for the guy.

"My friend isn't going to let me rot down here," I assured him. "He'll be here soon." I crawled over to him, tentatively reaching out to grab one of those twig-thin hands. He flinched, but I just raised my hands to grab his shoulders. "Hey, listen to me," I lowered my voice, trying not to scare the kid more than I was already. Hands shaking, the boy blindly reached out to me, grabbing a fistful of my shirt before reaching up to touch my face. He nearly poked my eye out (by the heavens, I was never going to use that saying ever again after this), but I refused to move away from him, even when his tiny hands curled my hair around in his fists.

"They never let me touch them before," he said softly to himself, then raised his head where he assumed my face was - which was pretty accurate, for a person who couldn't see. "You're not one of the bad guys?"

"No," I replied, keeping my voice just as soft. "No, I'm not."

The boy's lips trembled, his hands gripping my hair ever-more tighter.

"I should have stayed inside," he whispered scarcely, then threw himself at me. I froze, not quite sure what was happening when he wrapped his arms around me and buried his small face in the crook of my neck. For a brief second, I thought he was going to bite me, and then I realized: the kid was seven, and the last time he'd probably received any sort of comfort was the previous spring. I stared at the top of his matted head, my arms awkwardly outstretched before me. He was clinging to me like how his brother had clung onto Jaxon back at the bunker.

As if I was going to be the one to protect him from further harm. Would he still be hugging me if he knew that I was covered in his father's blood? Our father's blood?

Heart pounding in my throat, I gingerly wrapped my arms around his frail body, raising my eyes to stare at the wall.

"It's almost over," I found myself saying softly to him. "My friend will get you out of here."

I wondered how long I was going to get away with assuring him like this before he realized that help was never going to come.