Singer likes to think she's doing well here.

It's been about six months since she arrived at Mullins. She's gotten better-much better at sign language and Morse Code. It's like a second nature to her, almost. She no longer has days where she opens her mouth to speak only to remember with crushing disappointment that she cannot and never will speak again, so this is a win in her book.

She doesn't have many wins, unfortunately.

Anna is still kind to her, and Josh seems to care in his own way. Other than that, she has yet to make any friends. She doesn't want to. She really sees no need to.

While she is pushing through here, her thoughts are constantly on America. It's so different here-well, sort of. The rules are just as strict as they were at the A.M.T.B., but the weather is colder than she is used to, even by D.C. standards. But what she misses most about home is her family, her friends, loved ones.

She thinks of Wesley. Just a few more months and he'll have been dead a year, and the rest of her group will have been dead for two.

Has the apocalypse really been going on for that long? Has this really been going on for a year and a half?

It has. Singer was twelve and a half when the apocalypse started, and she just turned fourteen.

She grimaces, wondering how much longer it will be before a cure is found, or if a cure will be found at all. There must be someone who knows something about this virus, right? Someone smart enough to find a way to stop it?

There's always a hero that comes in to save the world in the books, in the movies.

Where is that hero now? Why aren't they here? Why aren't they doing something?

Singer shakes her head. This isn't a movie. This isn't a book. No one is coming to save her. No one saved her in America, and no one is going to save her here in England. That's not how this works.

If she wants to survive, then she has to save herself, just like she's been doing.

She jumps when a hand rests on her shoulder.

"Everything okay, half-pint?" Anna asks, offering the girl a smile. Her face is soft, despite the intimidating look her makeup gives off, with razor sharp eyeliner and black lipstick.

Singer frowns at the nickname. Since she only has her ID number, and she is too afraid to give her real name, Anna has taken it upon herself to give Singer nicknames. She says she  doesn't enjoy calling her by her runner designation. Singer doesn't understand why, since everyone else does. To her her number is just as much of a nickname as the ones others come up with.

But Anna can be just as stubborn as her, so arguing would be pointless.

'Fine,' She replies, blinking owlishly. 'Just thinking.'

"About?"

'Home.'

It's a simple enough answer, something Anna already knows she won't go into detail about. Even though she likes Anna, because she does, truly, she won't risk her life for this punk-rock radio operator that she's only known for a few months.

Plus, it could put her life in danger too. The higher-ups who know about Singer's identity are already watching Anna a little too closer, curious as to why she's taken interest in the younger girl. Singer knows telling her would buy them both permanent tickets to heaven.

"Ah. Yeah, I feel that. I miss my home too. I'm lucky though. Even though some things are lost, I still have Josh."  She looks at Singer, as if debating what to say next. "And you have us."

Singer doesn't reply, and Anna pouts, which causes her lipstick to feather out a bit onto the skin around her mouth.

"Look, I know we're not the same as whatever it was you had before, but we're better than nothing. I know Josh is a pain in the arse sometimes. Believe me, I really know. The amount of times he took my good chair and swapped it with his old, broken one-ugh.

"But I think we're pretty decent people to have around. And if you don't like us for our personality, then you can at least like us for talking to a friend in the kitchens and managing to get you a few tablespoons of peanut butter."

She laughs when Singer's eyes light up, her lips parting in shock. Singer doesn't even have to ask before she nods.

"Yep. That's a perk when you're friends with one of the most popular operators on base. You get the good stuff."

Singer cringes, pulling away at the use of the word 'friend'. She doesn't want friends. She doesn't need friends. All the friends she had are dead, and her sister, someone she thought was her closest friend, betrayed her, stole her voice!

She tries to quell the anger that suddenly roars within her, but apparently she isn't able to keep the fury from showing on her face. The memory of a burning throat and ragged screams hit her like a bus, and Singer's skin grows hot.

Anna's dark brows crease with concern. "Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Singer shakes her head, wrapping her arms around herself. Anna reaches a hand out to her, but she flinches away.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's alright. Just tell me what's wrong."

Singer looks at her, her eyes searching for any hint of malice, of hidden deceit. She finds none.

But Singer can't find it in her to tell her. She can't risk it. And the pain of it all is too much. It all comes flooding back to her-her failures, her stupidity. She hears their screams, her screams. She smells blood in the air.

"Hey," Anna says again, more firmly this time. "What's going on? Why the sudden switch?"

'There is no switch,' Singer replies, her face morphing into a deep scowl as she straightens. 'I don't like thinking about home. I don't like thinking about anything.'

"Well, you can't just not think. And what's so bad about remembering home?" Anna tries to keep the conversation airy, but Singer's having none of it.

'Everything. I don't want to talk about it.'

"But maybe if you did..."

She shakes her head. 'No! I won't talk about them! Not now, not ever! Just leave it!'

While the words are portrayed through her hands, the anger and bite in the words are still there, shown in her expression, her posture. Anna looks utterly baffled at the sudden burst of anger, but doesn't say anything. She just watches, not screaming, not arguing, and Signer can't figure out if that would be better.

Because she wants to scream, to fight. She wants to find a way to stop this sudden pain that comes with remembering. Why does it have to hit her so randomly like this? Why does it have to hurt so bad? Why can't she redeem herself and get better?

Because she's replaceable.

She can't forget that. She can't forget that she is worthless, and her life is only worth what she can give towards this base. Losing the best radio operator's graces will only lower her value, she realizes. If Anna doesn't see her as special anymore, she won't watch out for her as much, and her life will become as meaningless as before.

And when she dies, no one will remember her.

'I'm sorry,' She signs quickly, which seems to confuse the older girl even more. 'I shouldn't snap. I just don't want to talk about it.'

"Okay..." She draws out the word, her eyes still searching for a clue as to what might be going on in the young runner's mind. She never does find out. "Well, would you like to-"

'I have to go on a run in twenty minutes,' She interrupts. 'We can do something later.'

"Yeah, alright." By now Singer's already walking off to get her backpack and weapon. She hears Anna call out a hastily. "Be safe."

Those two words make her stomach twists. She has to be safe. She has to take all the necessary precautions...

If she wants to survive.

•

The lights burn my eyes when they flutter open. I run a hand through my frizzy hair, my fingers getting caught in the tangled knots. That isn't the reason for the grimace on my face.

I hate remembering her-Anna. I hate myself for how I treated her, so closed off and angry, taking out my hurt and bitterness on the one person who truly cared about me at Mullins. It hurts even more to remember that she died because of me, because Sigrid wanted her to take my place when my helicopter was shot down.

If only she could see me now...

But she can't. She's dead.

Shaking my head, I stand, carefully stepping across the coms shack to keep from waking Sam. He'll have to be up soon, but he could probably use the few extra minutes. I could too, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep after that dream.

Stretching my arms up over my head, I wince when my shoulder pops loudly, painfully. Serves me right for not stretching after that supply run yesterday. I change out of my nightgown into my casual clothes, pinning my hair up into a high bun. The lack of effort is noticeable, but I don't feel like brushing through the random curls or the knots in the bits of straight hair.

That is one of the problems with the apocalypse. Lack of hair care products means mine has gone from slightly curly to wavy to think weird kinky-type hair with waves, curls and chunks of straight hair. It's one of the reasons I never let it get too long. It's more noticeable that way and I don't want that.

I plop down in the swivel chair, tensing at the loud creak that comes from it. I make a mental note to go find a new one on my next supply run because it's past the point of return and no amount of duct tape will salvage it if it falls apart. I think it's only lasted this long because of spite, since we've been saying it's reached the end of its days for years, and it still held on. It's quite impressive, if I'm honest.

I open one of the desk drawers, and I wipe off the sticky marmite that gets on my hand from grabbing the handle. Then I grab Dr. Cassandra Feive's file. I've been studying it whenever I get the chance. While it doesn't look like it will help me find mortality-and Veronica hasn't said much about it since my debacle with her about two weeks ago-I do think that maybe learning more about the woman who helped create me would aid in knowing why I am the way that I am.

I mean, it's been made known that my self-sacrificing and heroic nature is because I was supposed to be a part of that team of with the other doppelgangers, or I guess we're clones, in a way. I shudder. It's easier to think of them as doppelgangers. It feels less terrifying, makes me feel the slightest bit more human.

But what's interesting is how I was supposed to be their leader, when I've always had a problem with being one. I don't mind working or running. But I'm usually not the decision maker. I'm just the person who does what I have to, what I'm told to. It's... odd.

I can lead. I can make the tough decisions and all that, but the problem is is that I don't like to.

Although I guess even if I was the leader, I'd still have to answer to Dr. Feive. I think I'm pretty good when it comes to being Head of Runners, my 'team', but I still allow Janine to decide the plans. This could be why.

I stare at Feive's picture, lips pursed. When Kefilwe, Tom and I were helping Bailey run from that mob, he said Sigrid had scientists torture people. I wonder if Feive was one of those scientists. It wouldn't surprise me. It seemed she had no trouble with hurting people, seeing that she created people even when the chances of them surviving or having any normal cognitive functions were slim. And she did it more than once!

My eyes leave the file when I hear the faint whisper of fabric shuffling. I look over my shoulder, smiling softly at the sight of a groggy Sam rubbing his eyes. He looks around, a slight frown on his face until he spots me in the chair.

"Good morning," I say, and he rubs his face and yawns, still trying to wake up.

"Good morning. Glad to see you didn't leave without me."

"I'd never," I reply, and he chuckles.

"Sure... What are you doing?"

"Just looking at this." I hold the file up. "There's not much that's useful, but anything about her could turn out to be important. It's best not to ignore the details."

He nods, still trying to shake off the remnants of sleep as he stands. His walk is slightly unstable as he heads over to me. I scoot over a bit so he can squeeze in the chair, but it's a bit too small for two people to sit side by side, so I end up having to sit in his lap. He doesn't mind.

"Have you found anything new?" He asks, and I shake my head with a sigh.

"Nope. Unfortunately, I haven't found anything different than last time, even though I keep hoping something will pop out, like those files on myself did in my dreams."

Sam hums. "Yeah. Probably would have been helpful if you had read more on that file, eh?"

"Probably."

"Do you think anyone in your family knew?"

"Couldn't have, which is something I don't understand, especially for my mom, because-because how can a doctor implant an egg into you without you finding out? If my parents had known, they definitely would have brought that up in the custody battle when they got divorced."  I look away, my eyes downcast. "Sometimes I wonder how they would react if they did know. Like how am I going to tell my mom that even though she went through like, sixteen hours of labor, I'm technically not her kid?

"Our DNA is close, close enough that if my DNA was found at a crime scene they'd think we'd be related, but that's because Feive really wanted everyone to believe that I was my parents' biological child, but I'm not. Not really... I always wonder how she would... will react."

"Well, you don't have to tell her."

I look at him as if he's lost his mind. "Are you nuts? She's my mom! I can't-I mean, there's still a chance I may never even see her again, but if I do, I can't just not tell her."

"You're telling me you've never lied to your mum?"

"I was a good kid before the apocalypse. I thought you were too." I smirk at the way his eyes widen. "Sometimes you really just don't know a person."

"I was a teenager who got into uni early. Of course I kept things from my parents," He says with a scoff, and I raise a curious brow.

"Oh? And what exactly did you do that made you have to lie to them?"

He freezes, and my Cheshire Cat grin only grows. "Uh... what happened to us talking about you? Let's get back to that. I mean, you haven't said anything to Nicole and she's been here for almost two years."

My smile drops. "Because I'm afraid how she'll react. I mean, the only reason she hasn't killed me is because we're blood. We may not be at each other's throats anymore, but she's still a Torrencer. She still works for them, although I think they've forgotten she exists."

"But wasn't she the one who sent the cure recipe to them?"

"Yeah, and now that's what their focus is on. Haven't heard much word on how it's going, but I'm sure they're sharing the cure with other countries."

"How do you know?" He asks, and I scoff as if it's obvious.

"Because if other countries find out they've been hiding it, then it could start an all-out war. The American government has some good tech. I'm sure the President has talked to many other leaders across the globe, sharing information and such. I mean, if I could be sold to a base across the ocean by a base that was mostly used to train kids, imagine how much access the President and Vice President have." I shrug. "Of course, it's probably hard to do certain things since many members of Congress and the House of Representatives died at the start of apocalypse, but still."

Sam looks at me, perplexed. "You've... thought a lot about this, haven't you?"

"It's easy to think about that kind of stuff when I remember how it was back then."

"Are you remembering how it was back then now?" He asks with a frown, and I wave my hand in a 'so-so' way.

"I just had a dream about when I was at Mullins, how I treated Anna." Regret buzzes in my mind like an angry hornets' nest. "I was horrible to her for a long time. It took her about a year before I even slightly began to accept her, and then only a bit later, she was gone..."

"You were hurt," Sam says. "I mean, that's no excuse to act rudely to others, but you were scared of getting hurt again. And you weren't the most open person when you first came to Abel either."

"I didn't try to bite your fingers off when you tried to touch my face though, which happened with me and Anna more than once."

"Well, you shouldn't try to bite in a zombie apocalypse. You were just asking to get shot. And why did she touch your face? I never did that. You've got to respect one's personal space."

I wrap my arms around his neck and grin. "Yeah, the exact opposite of what I'm right now, huh?"

He scoffs. "If I'm perfectly honest, I don't think you're close enough. My personal bubble in very small."

There's a teasing gleam in his dark eyes, and my smile broadens as I lean in a bit closer.

"Am I in your personal space now?"

"Nope."

I move a bit closer. "And how about now?"

"Still no."

A bit more. "Now?"

"Nuh-uh."

I lean in the slightest bit more, where my face is less than an inch from his. I can feel the ghost of his breath on my lips. I look at him straight in the eye when I whisper, "And how about now?"

"Almost," He replies just as softly. "Just need to come in a bit farther."

He's practically daring me to do it, and I fight off the laugh that bubbles in my throat before leaning in and closing that last bit of distance. Because who am I to back down a dare?

The kiss, despite the build-up and teasing, is mostly just light presses-sweet, not desperate. Our smiles and laughter make it a bit too hard to make it deeper or more passionate, but we enjoy it nonetheless. I like the sweetness, how it's so innocent and loving and it again reminds me of how much I changed.

But this reminder is a good one.

"I hope no one else knows how small your personal bubble is," I mumble between kisses, and he laughs as he pulls away, eyes alight with a certain charm that makes my breath catch in my throat.

"No, only you."

"Good, or else I might have to beat you with this." I grab the folder from off the desk, giving him a light tap on the head with it, far too gentle to hurt.

"Well, you'll never have to worry about that. I promise. Now, let's put this away and focus on something else." Sam grabs the folder and places it back in the desk drawer, closing it with his foot. My nose scrunches up, mostly because I was hoping he'd grab the handle and have to deal with the same amount of grossness I had to endure when I got his marmite all over my hand.

"Something else, huh?" I ask, cocking my head to the side. "Have you got anything in mind?"

"I've got a few ideas actually," He replies, resting his forehead against mine.

His hand rubs at my lower back, almost soothingly. He kisses my lips once more, a little less gentle and sweet than how it was a few moments ago. The moment is broken rather quickly when I open my eyes at the clock and notice the time.

"Does one of those ideas include breakfast? The mess hall will be open soon."

"Soon. It's not open yet," He hums, kissing my cheeks, my chin, my jaw.

"But there's probably already a line," I whine, his lips only distracting me for a moment.

"I think we'll be okay if we're a little late for breakfast."

"But I'm hungry, and-" My words cut off when his lips move from my jaw to my neck.

"And?" He prompts, and I can both hear and feel his grin.

"Okay," I sigh, closing my eyes. "Yeah, okay, I think we're fine being a little late for breakfast."

•

We were, in fact, fine with being late for breakfast.

The food's not as hot as I'd like it and the water not as cold, but it's fine. I'm just happy some of the cooks took my advice and actually added some seasoning to the scrambled eggs. It was just dill, so the flavor is more on the subtle side, but it's better than just salt and pepper.

Hopefully I can convince them to allow me to make deviled eggs. It's more of a summery food, but August is still technically summer.

A plus side of being late is that there are more open tables, and most of the children have already headed off to school. It stinks that I wasn't able to see Phineas, but it also is good because I don't have to listen to the loud chatter of children who have yet to learn about inside voices.

It's easier to listen and to talk with Peter. I get the occasional comment from Tom or Jody, and sometimes what I say pikes the interest of Maxine or Paula or Sam from the other table, although they seem to be having their own  conversation.

"Yeah, you're going to have to show me how to knit socks again," I say. "I... don't want to show you how my last attempt at them went."

"I've already shown it to you three times," Jody replies, although her tone is more shocked than annoyed. "Maybe knittin' just isn't for you."

"Leave it to Callista to be able to be able to do things like grab a knife while it's being thrown at her, spin around and throw it back at an assassin pursuing us, but then not have enough coordination to knit properly," Peter jokes, and I try to keep a neutral face at the reminder whole thing with the fake Pit Viper assassin...

And how Peter nearly found out about me.

"I'm funny like that," I reply snidely.

"Is funny the right word for it?"

"Is smartass the right word for you?" I repeat mockingly. "And yes-funny, interesting, intriguing, amazing. All are words that suit me."

"Getting a bit cocky."

"I get it from you."

"Rude."

"Truth hurts, honey. But I've always been like this. I can recite the entire Tangled movie, but I can't remember what we discussed when we met up a few nights ago. I haven't seen Tangled in years. Again, I'm funny like that."

"Speaking of movies, maybe we can convince Jenny to let Abel have a movie night," He suggests, seeming pleased with himself over his sudden idea. "I'd personally like to see a story with a happy ending; one that doesn't end with someone getting eaten or blown up or violently murdered by cannibal anarchists."

"That would take quite a bit of power from the generators," Tom points out with a frown.

"So? It's not like we're constantly using up power. We sometimes use lanterns instead of just having the lights on in the dorms!"

"Maybe I can ask Sam about it, and we'll figure out a way to approach her and ask," I say. "The only problem is we'd have to agree on a movie, and we'd have to find out how many people would actually come and see it."

He shrugs. "That's true. Depending on what you pick, you could invite Milo to come as well."

I deadpan. I suppose it makes sense that word would get out about our fight. Abel residents live for drama to put in their fan fiction. I'm surprised it took a week, honestly.

"He wouldn't come either way," I reply. "He's still upset with me."

"Well, you did kind of yell at him," Jody says.

"Yeah, because he wants to leave Abel permanently. He's sixteen!"

"You were sixteen when you took down Van Ark."

I huff. "Why does everyone make that comparison? I was also sixteen when Van Ark experimented on me and when hot shot over here," I jab a thumb at Peter, "shot me. No offense."

Peter shakes his head. "None taken."

"But yeah, I don't want that happening to Milo, ever. I just..." I grab at my invisible backpack strap. "I know losing someone you had feelings for is hard. I do. I mean, losing friends is terrible, or family, but when it's someone you're in love with, it just-it hurts in a different way, one you're not used to.

"But running away from it isn't going to do anything, because no matter how much you run, the memories are still there. I just wish I knew how to make him feel better without letting him leave Abel for good."

"But you can't." Jody reaches across the table and lays her hand across mine. "You just have to be patient."

"I... know."

I really am trying to be patient with him, understanding. I know what it's like to lose people you love, to be there and hear them die while you're just there, unable to do anything about it. I know!

But it's hard. It's hard to look at him, hear him say he wants to leave and not panic because-well, because he wants to leave! He wants to leave, and I didn't think I would be this attached when I allowed them to start calling me Mum.

I didn't think I would lose two of my other kids.

You don't just get over that. Willis died three years ago, and Penelope only died a year ago. I can't just forget that. I can't just push that aside!

"Well, trying is all you can do," Peter says, his smile slightly forced as he tries to cheer me up. I return it. "So, back to the idea of a movie night..."

A/N: Here you go, guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please be sure to vote and comment! Thank you and have a blessed day!