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Description
Imagine the colour of mud. Now imagine the colour of dark smoke. Paint the sky those colours. That is our sky. Now breathe it deep. Doesn't it choke you? Imagine the hottest day you have ever felt in your life; the waves of heat from everything, the burning ground you made the mistake of walking on. This is our day. This is what it feels like to live here.
Have you ever been watched? Or had that insane, annoying feeling that you are being watched that wouldn't go away? Have you ever feared for your life because of this feeling? Had the urge to keep running, to escape as soon as possible? Or --- this one is rich…--- have you ever had the knowledge that you're one of the last, the very last, of your kind?
It's called Industry…

My feet are bloody and swollen. We've traveled such a long way, just to end up at more ruins. Staring up at them, my hope falls. Can there be more Survivors out there? We can't be the only two.
Cyeran drops to the ground beside me, and so do I. "Ruins…" he moans, hanging his head, and runs his hands through his long black hair.
I look at the bare hills in front of us, holding nothing but destruction. Gulyen had been destroyed just the same. Time after time on our journey, we'd passed through cities, towns, and villages just like this one. Piles of rubble, stony graves, a raven that had survived here and there, and the stench of death all around --- these are what we have seen repeatedly. Pale, staring faces control my dreams now and I don't know any other smell but theirs. Our world is like a desert, with patches of blackened cities and piles of ruins. The Purging has destroyed everything. Nothing but Industry seems to live now.
You probably want to know how this happened. You'll figure it out soon enough. But for now, I'll tell you my story.
Cyeran sighs beside me, muffled by his dirty sleeve. After a few moments, he raises his head. We both stare at the ruins, trying to figure out our next move.
Cyeran is the right name for my brother, (he's always said that he is) because, like sirens I've heard stories of in a place that used to be the sea, he can easily convince me into following him no matter what. He sighs again, resting his head on his crossed forearms. "C'mon Mar." he demands, not looking up.
Now, my name is really Samara, but he's always called me that. All the years that he'd raised me, I have never once heard him call me Samara. I only know that's my name because I remember being called that once...by someone else... Mar is his special nickname for me.
We both stand up, filled with just a little bit of hope. We can't be the only two, like Cyeran thinks we are, or our future is only a life in the Holes, just for company, human or not. But that's if we don't fight. I'll never go down without fighting.
The Holes are a wicked place. They're where thousands of the Purging survivors and dehumanized creatures --- they don't deserve to be called humans, or at least most of them --- are forced to work for the Industry. That is, unless they join the movement themselves. And all that do are still dehumanized anyway. You're probably shocked at all of this. But this is our world. Industry has taken over. There are no humans anymore...
That is, besides the Survivors.
We start forward slowly, our feet refusing. Mine leave behind a trail of blood in the hardened sand, and they are caked in pebbles and crimson-stained dirt. I want my shoes, but mine are only shreds now. We'd both dumped our shoes miles back and are now regretting it. Yes, it was a stupid idea. I have no idea what made us do it. At least those had given my feet some cover, but now my feet have no shelter from the hot solid sand and rubble we pass through. Glass shards from the blasted windows and various other things from the explosion stab into my heels, making me wince as I try to ignore the pain. Weakness is not an option. Cyeran doesn't stop. He pushes forward, wincing as his feet refuse the rubble below them. Soon, we make it into the blackened city.
My fingers trail across the sooty houses, memories coming back to me.
Gulyen had been my only home. I have never had an easy life, but at least life in Gulyen had been better than this. To leave it, even after it had been destroyed, had been hard for me. My parents had disappeared when I was young --- too young to remember them really. I only remember a warm smile from the man I guess was my dad and a touch from the woman I guess was my mom. Cyeran has described his parents to me a little, not caring, and I wish I could describe mine; but that's all I remember, nothing more. He'd been a runaway. Cyeran has no idea what happened to his parents, and, according to him, he doesn't really care. He'd found me as an orphan, left behind and curled into a ball (He also tells me I was smart enough to find food and was clutching the crumbs in a death grip.) and, ever since then, he's taken care of me. He's been my guardian my whole life, and always will be --- and I have to admit, I'm a loyal dog.  We both guess our parents have been taken to the Holes; and if they have, they might as well be dead. A life in the Holes is worse than any death.
"There's a sturdy-looking house over there." Cyeran's hard voice brings me back to reality. He's staring at me skeptically, his green eyes shining with a tiny bit of laughter --- something he really rarely does, even around me.  I snap out of my not-so-pretty memories and trudge after him. The house we come to looks like it's only been burned and not blasted like the others. There are ruins all around it and the windows are exploded, but other than that, it's only blackened. It seems like there's been a fight inside. Objects all over the floor are shattered: glass, pottery, plates, and mugs. There's blood splattered on the walls and soaking the dirt floor. It's everywhere. I wonder what's happened here. The dirt is scattered a bit, proving what I'd thought: there had been a fight --- maybe to the death. I wonder which side won. I sincerely hope it was the humans, because, if not, that's another bit of our hopes crushed. We've been searching for survivors, but every town is empty. I won't give up; but after today, I'm not so sure about Cyeran. Looking into another part of the house, I don't see any bodies or AI scraps anywhere. My heart sinks. They were probably brought to the Holes or were tortured and dehumanized. The human AIs are the most dangerous --- they know about emotions…
Glinkos are scattered all over the floor. Glinkos are our money. They're small and round with a crystal in the middle, smooth, and all different colors. The colors represent different amounts --- red for five, blue for ten, green for fifty, and orange for one hundred; but the valuable ones have designs and are worth millions. Lately all the Glinkos have our new leader, Vespin's, face printed on them.  It's a scarred, ugly face (his mind isn't much better either). Most of the Glinkos scattered on the floor are red and blue, and no oranges to be seen: this was a poor family.
I slowly make walk into the next room, avoiding the blood and , I think, body parts that are strewn everywhere. The next room's bigger --- more blood, too --- and seems to be the family's living place. A broken table is in one corner, smashed until only the legs show it had once been a table. All along the wall is splattered blood and more broken pottery. I fight my sense of smell and hold my nose, for the stink is painful --- it reminds me too much of home.
Gulyen had always been peaceful. I have no idea why they destroyed it: we did nothing. It had been a big city, though. Maybe that's why they came. Cyeran had been lucky enough to think of escaping. We're lucky to have made it out alive. There may be a few survivors out there, but none of them are probably from Gulyen. Except for those taken to the Holes, that is.
But, they aren't like us anymore…
I take another look around the room. Broken glass coats the floor, making it sparkle in the sunlight. The blood gleams on it, like rubies in the midst of diamonds. Some blood is already dried and caked onto the pieces, leaving them soaked in black. The rest of the room is a foul-smelling black, darkened by the fire and the result of smoke. Soot smothers almost everything, but where the wall actually shows are golden clay and the stains of a killing. The sunlight coming through the window is only a little: the soot covers it, too. As I slowly make my way into the next room, avoiding the bloody walls, I find what I had been hoping I wouldn't.
"Cyeran…" I call breathlessly, my eyes stuck on what's in front of me. No tears well up, no fear shoots through me, no hopes crash to the ground. I'm only facing what I already knew.
Before me lays a heap of blistered bloody bodies and AI scraps. All around them are ashes and some bones of others. But what weakens me the most is one of the small blistered and cooked hands clasped tightly around the tattered remains of a rag doll.
And a single tear is allowed to fall from my eyelid and down my cheek.
It's obviously homemade with sewn in eyes and a mouth, but the way the hand curls around it… The tiny fingers clutching at it for dear life… This breaks me and I kneel beside what's left of her. I could touch her hair, cry next to her body, mourn over this innocent life --- but that's not who I am. I could be angry at the Purging for this killing --- but that's not me. No, I only stare at the hand, frozen by something I rarely feel.
…Weakness.
Cyeran charges in and is also frozen by the sight. He doesn't fall to his knees, he doesn't cry. He's stronger than I am this time. I only hear his hands clap his sides in anger and his outburst following.
"Well that's just great! Another family taken at the hand of the Core." He begins to sulk. "Are you happy?" he screams at the ceiling, obviously symbolizing an enemy to him. "All this slaughter? Does this make you stronger!" Suddenly, he drops down and bangs his fist on the ground. "I'm tired of it!" I sigh and only listen as he goes off again. "Why?!" he screams again. "This doesn't make them more powerful. Life is worthless to those of us left. Why take it? It means nothing!" he shouts at the ceiling once more. He ends his speech with a groan, and that's about all the sympathy he'll give this family.
"Cyeran?" I whisper, my eyes still on the hand, and gently feel for his arm. His hand grabs mine and he roughly helps me to my feet. We leave the room slowly, and, with that, my weakness is gone.
As we walk back to the first room we entered, the bloodshed splattered everywhere means nothing to me. The hand is just another picture I'll have to add to my dozens of nightmares. When we enter the room, Cyeran's eyes land on the Glinkos and he greedily stuffs them into any opening of his clothes he can find. Now is another one of the times I'm reminded Cyeran grew up this way. Glinkos must have meant everything to him --- they probably meant food. The street life has never left either of us. That instinct for survival and protection of each other is always there. Maybe that's where I got my motto of 'Weakness is not an option.' You may think I'm heartless, but that's how I survive. Nothing's going to change it.
My legs move on their own, almost like a machine. I'm nothing more than a filthy cyborg --- or at least my heart is. But I don't feel guilty for my lack of emotions. It's natural: and it's how we live in this world.

A few hours later, Cyeran and I are both settled in one of the houses --- far from the one we already found. That hand would still haunt me in sleep, and I could never erase it from my mind. Nothing will ever erase it --- but that's just another way of living in this "war."
The house that Cyeran and I are now in could hardly be called one. We'd put together the ruins --- or at least what was left of them --- to form a dome-like shape. It barely has a ceiling, and the sick, brown sky seeps through. I stare up into it, thinking about what we should do next as the night comes through. I hear Cyeran shift near me and realize he's asleep, fighting off a nightmare. Though, I know I definitely thrash more than that in my sleep.
The thoughts that must go through his mind… The dreams he must have… I've only scratched the surface of the kind of past he has had. Living on the streets, sacrificing health just to help me, having many scars just because he wanted a bit of food --- my life can't compare. Mine was never an easy life, but it definitely wasn't as hard a Cyeran's. My life was easy because of him. I owe him for everything.
Looking back at him, his face hardened and twitching in the heat of a nightmare, I whisper a quiet thank-you that I'd never let out in person. After, I feel the sudden urge to be outside, in the fresh air, where weakness couldn't suffocate me again. Quickly, I stand up and brush the filthy clumps of sand off of my faded yellow dress and olive leggings, then escape what's now a dungeon of emotion as quickly as I can. The crisp air outside is enough to awake my old self again. I swallow a deep breath and wash away the memories that had tightened my throat and soaked my eyes. I haven't cried one time for Gulyen, and I won't tonight. A slight breeze blows through the ruins, blowing up strands of my hair. I figure I'll take a walk to explore the village a bit and stall before I return to my "sleep," but as I step forward, something or someone holds me back. After catching myself from stumbling, my mind switches to survival mode and I brace for attack. Whipping around, I am ready to take on anything. But when nothing is there, I step back, confused. My heart is beating faster and faster as I try to figure out what's going on.  All survivors feel this way, I believe. And I, of all people, after running all my life, will never get over it. It's in our blood --- all of us.
By this time, I think it's another trick of a raider or rival scavenger, another trap. So, stepping back, I glance around for any telltale signs. The wind whistles eerily through the ruins, stirring up dust that blinds me. It's quiet.
Thoughts race through my mind. Why am I out in the dark? Why did I come? Why did I go by myself? They've found me!
Those three words erase everything else in my mind. They've found me… Even though I refuse to be weak, no survivor can stand those words. Especially for us Survivors, the strength of those three words is huge. Those three words can tear you down or build you up, as they do now. I'll not go down without a fight --- especially since Cyeran's in that house over there. I'll fight for Cyeran. I'll fight for all survivors we haven't found and all the dead ones we have. I'll fight to --- Cyeran…
Suddenly, my heart falls and the spirit is drained out of me. What if they've already caught him? I'll be too numb with shock to get revenge. They'll take us both away. But they'll drag us. We'll both fight back. We won't back down. We'll go down fighting. But maybe they won't kill us right away. I'm afraid to find out what they do to those they don't slaughter. I've heard stories… Cold fear fills me, but I put it down.
So, what now?
Last minute actions play out in my mind. If they have already found Cyeran, they have already seen me or will soon. I have seconds to act. There's no escape. As an old street strategy forms in my mind, I turn to run. However, as I propel myself forward, my dress hem is yanked back by something. I scream in the terror of the moment, falling to the ground. My face plants itself in the gravel, the sharp rocks and shards sticking into my face. Frantically, I try to gain ground, clawing at the gravel and crawling forward. Blood spills down my face from the impact and debris. I push forward. Still, whoever or whatever it is has a hold of me. I flip on my stomach, kicking at it and propelling myself with my hands. When I finally gain ground, I am yanked back once more, crying out in frustration. …But there's nothing to be seen.
I smile at my terror and slowly calm as my fingers grasp my hem caught in blunt metal wires. A giggle makes its way across my lips and turns into a laugh of utter relief. My stupidity had been huge. This is why weakness is off-limits. It makes you believe anything. I begin to laugh harder at my gullible ways and rip my hem from the wires. "Silly Mar," I tell myself, "you'll believe anything!" My laugh turns from relief to utter joy as I inspect the hem and knock off the wires with a nearby rock. Hearing a crack beneath me, I pay it no mind, for my fear is gone and I'm too focused on the joy flowing from this discovery. Cyeran's safe, and so am I. There's nothing to worry about --- just a little wire. I can travel safely back to the house and calm down, perhaps get some sleep, and---
Suddenly the ground caves beneath me. All I hear is the roar of the rubble. The blackness envelopes the roaring as my eyes snap shut…

I couldn't have been out more than a minute or so, for the dust is still clearing around me. I cough up a cloud of it, and the rest falls deep into my wounds. A hole of night sky dances wildly above me; and when I try to stand, the weight of all that rubble seems to pound me down. My eyes won't focus on any one thing, but I climb to my feet anyway and feel for any kind of wall. My right arm's useless, so I feel for the wall with my left, slowly stumbling forward. My hair's almost soaked with blood and the dizziness seems to get worse with every step. As I stumble along, the only sound is the pad of my feet and the faint whistle of wind. My best guess would be that I'm in some sort of tunnel. When my hand finally finds the rough wall, I lean against it, sighing with relief. The hole above me slows its movement and the world comes into focus once more. Memory and common sense kick in and I slowly back away, curious but hesitant about this tunnel. The smell is wet and moldy and the wall is slimy here and there. My common sense finally wins over my curiosity and I slowly back under the exit above me. Alert, I scan my surroundings for a grip to climb with, trying to figure out the distance. This is another of those times I'm thankful to have been raised by Cyeran; otherwise, I wouldn't think this way. Backing up, I get a short running start, my feet pounding on the ground, my breathing ragged. But my leap comes just feet within and too short. My feet strike the ground with a vengeance and my knees buckle, making me cry out in pain as I am thrown into the other wall. My right arm's now throbbing and more blood pools around my head, blurring my vision and fogging my mind. I can just barely heave myself up with my good arm and sit back against the wall. The tattered hem of my dress makes a good bandage to stem the blood while I wait for my mind to resettle. Even though, I still consider this tunnel, wondering where it could lead; my curiosity grabbing a hold of me once more. But I'm determined to get out, and who knows where this tunnel exits? The muddiness in my brain makes it hard to stay awake, but some instinct tells me not even to blink.
For hours, it seems, I sit there --- fighting off grogginess and growing my resolve to get back to Cyeran and rest. I toss and turn to keep myself awake and shift my arm occasionally to check it. It is still useless and now swollen, but I can't feel any sign of a break (at least in my small knowledge, of course).
Looking up at the night sky, I determine to fight. I slowly ease my myself up inch by inch. This time I measure my running distance carefully before taking off with a higher leap. My heart fills with joy when I am able to curl my fingers around part of the edge. However, when I swing myself up into the hole, my force breaks the shallow edge; causing me to land on top of the rubble once more. Screaming in pain, I wrench myself from the sharp chunks of the cement-like sand. I'm sure that time ripped my back. Sitting up is painful, but I need to slow the blood that's already seeping into the back of my dress. How will I explain this to Cyeran?  A few answers audition in my mind. But then something clicks…
If the edge is shallow and the rubble is that sharp, won't I be able to chip it away? Immediately, I hurl one of the clumps of rubble at the edge. A piece crumbles and falls inches from me. A smile slithers across my face.
Chipping it's a bit harder, but minutes later I'm halfway to the edge of the tunnel. Balancing on the unstable rubble is half the battle, but as soon as I get my footing the labour goes by quickly. I can't tell how much time's passed when I finally reach edge, but it's already getting light outside.
Climbing out tears at my damaged arm and screaming back, but when I finally make it all the way up, relief floods through me and numbs me. I roll on my back and stare up at the ugly sky, letting the victory of escape course through me. But, soon enough, the fog chokes me again, which forces me to turn my face to the ground. The wind whistles louder through the many ruins, stirring up even more dust. Closing my eyes, I reluctantly roll onto my stomach and vomit dust, mucus, and remnants of blood. But I'm forced to pull myself through my own filth as I stretch my arm forward. Eventually, the pain replaces my temporary numbness; and the impossibility of getting home becomes a barrier not to be bargained with. But I fight it. I won't let pain overtake me. Weakness is not an option. I must get home. So I press forward, no matter the pain. Dust seeps into my wounds and burns like acid, pouring into my squinted eyes and layering itself on my already-dirtied face. The rubble's harsh and only my feet are used to the rough scorching ground. So, dragging my whole body across it is a new feat that rips every inch of me.
The whole way there, all I can think is, "My arms will be awfully strong after this." I can't imagine what a sight I was when I finally pulled myself into the house and curled up in a corner. There, I collapsed from joy, exhaustion, and pain.

I woke up to nothing, suddenly shocked awake by a glimpse of a previous dream. There was no sound around me but the howl of the wind. As I move my arm to rub my eyes, I realize I'm not in my same clothes. The rough material is unfamiliar, yet soothing. As soon as the material ruffles, I know. Cyeran. He must have taken care of me through the morning. As I turn on my side to get up, pain shoots through my body. I stifle a whimper of agony before discovering a bunch of fabric bandages tied around me. The thought rushes through my mind that must have tortured Cyeran: If I got this injured without a fight, how would I survive against a fight itself? But I can only keep the strongest hope. I struggle to get up again, but my wounds seem to be complaining. A bit irritated, I lay back down. A little more rest might be good anyway.
However, right before I close my eyes, the stink of rotten soup reaches me. I inhale the familiar aroma that never seems quite nasty to me. I turn my head to look and find that the bowl is crawling distance away. Ah, a test from Cyeran.  My back and arm scream in protest and the world seems a bit murky, but eventually I inch myself onto my forearms and knees. I crawl slowly --- arm, arm, leg; arm, arm, other leg; arm, arm, first leg. The movements are sluggish and my brain has trouble with anything at the moment. All muscle strength seems to have drained out with the blood, but I force them forward, disturbing them. My arms are numb and throbbing by the time I reach the bowl, but it's worth it. The cool liquid soothes my nerves as it runs down my throat. I relax and savour the taste before pouring the rest of the it down my throat. Even though it's colder than usual and a bit grainy, it seems to warm me somehow. Then something clicks: Cyeran must have brought more stolen provisions than I thought. His special care for me never ceased. Where was he though? My sitting up causes me to let out a scream which I hope he doesn't hear. But my curiosity gets the best of me. I inch myself toward the door on my forearms and knees again. The sound of footsteps across the dirt alert my mind, and I scoot back, only to find a dirty foot in front of me.
My eyes scan up the figure to meet the disappointed face of Cyeran. Even though I am not weak, that face never ceases to scare me. As a street child in Gulyen, I saw a few parents scolding their child. I always thought fire would burst from their eyes any second. And when they would raise their hand to punish them, I would shrink in fear myself. Cyeran had never raised a hand to me, but it always feels as if his looks and scolding are slaps and punches. So of course when I see that face I inch back. I never like disappointing Cyeran; it gives me a sick feeling inside.
That straight line of a mouth finally moves. I close my eyes, preparing for the worst. I can't stop the cringe that travels through my body as I wait for his beating with words. I should have known he would know I'd been outside and that apparently that adventure had been too close to killing me.
But when sound finally comes from his mouth, it's a compassionate yet stern tone.
"You got awfully beat up last night." he states, trailing off, apparently searching for words. "I'm glad you made it." he says in a way that makes it sound like the exact opposite. "So…" he begins, stepping closer. I sit up, still expecting an attack. But this movement sends me screaming in pain. By impulse, Cyeran steps forward; but, unsure of what to do, he steps back again. Once I'm okay again, I inch myself backward. "May I ask why?" He cocks his head, then makes himself clear. "What exactly were you doing last night to make you look like…this?" He indicates the blood dried on my head and narrows his eyes a little.
I'm about to answer. It's on the tip of my toungue. But something grips my throat. Maybe fear? I've always told Cyeran everything. I've never kept a secret from Cyeran, but something about that tunnel makes me rethink this. I purposely close my mouth tightly and glance down, refusing to tell. This is an awful feeling. I've never lied to Cyeran. Although, I'm only keeping a secret, right? But that's another first for me. I'm scared to meet his eyes. They'll be angry, intruding and begging me to answer. He shifts from one foot to the other, showing impatience. Patience is an idea neither of us understand, but Cyeran used to always use the words "Be patient!" when I would want to rush into a theft. I figure he had picked that up from his parents whenever he had lived with them.
I guess I should say I'm sorry. I forgot I'm speaking to others. I've tended to narrate instead of talk lately, and because of that, you don't even know what our "house" looks like. Like every building, the ground's caked with blood. The good thing about this place is that it does not reek with killing or burning because apparently there was only a small amount of both. It does reek with common air --- choking, polluted, difficult to breathe, heated, low quality. The list could go on. From what I can tell, the ground's earth instead of sand. But I still can't figure out why they didn't turn this place into a pile of rubble like many of the others. The walls are golden clay, just like the others and our makeshift roof is made up of pieces of rubble, minimal rope, and a few boards. It isn't really all that impressive, and, looking up at it, I'm always afraid it'll fall on me. The light from the huge gap stings my eyes. I blink them a few times to see clearly again. This room contains much debris from the destruction, but still holds a dangling shelf and a small table with one drawer and formerly ornate legs. ("Ornate," that's what Cyeran says the word is. A word from the past…) I can see in the corner a makeshift chair, or what was supposed to be a chair, that Cyeran probably made this morning.
He saunters over to it and flops down, sending the chair into a horrifying squeal with a multitude of cracks. Once he realizes I'm not going to tell him, he sighs and runs a hand through his pony-tailed hair, making more strands fall in his face than already are. The bad feeling deepens. For a painful second I wonder whether I should tell him. He glares me down then apparently decides I'm not worth it, sighing.
A wave of hurt hits me --- the first secret: a wall between Cyeran and me.
Was I making the right decision? That voice inside me annoys me. I don't understand it, though. I never do. But I must be strong. I am firm. I have no weakness.
I settle myself with a switch to my better side, only wincing a bit. Before I can blink, Cyeran drops a pile of bags, boxes, and multitudes of packages. Immediately, I recognize some as food and lunge for the pile. Cyeran's stern voice halts me, "Not now!" he growls. "Rations," he says offhandedly as if I'm an idiot. That's another word he probably picked up somewhere else; because when he says it, it just means that he wants more for himself. From what I know, rations is supposed to mean equal shares, but I don't mind Cyeran's having his own interpretation. I stare down at the food hungrily, but Cyeran's eyes shoo me away. "Get me the bag." he orders not too gently. I stand up, ignoring the shooting pain and saunter over to the corner where our stash is located. To try out my damaged arm, I quickly toss the bag over to him. It was a bad idea. When Cyeran begins to stuff the bag with the new spoils, I clutch my arm and close my eyes, wishing the pain away. But, when I open them, I spot a food I've only dreamed of. Cyeran and I had never had chicken, yet there it is in the pile. My mouth waters. In the next seconds, somehow I got over to Cyeran quickly. I don't really remember how, I just know that it definitely wasn't good for my wounds. Before he can stop me, the chicken is stolen right from under his nose. I flop back on my haunches and enjoy my victory as he slowly looks up. Apparently he realizes the same thing. "You're obviously better," he points out with just the ghost of a smirk. I give him a wicked look and bite into my feast.
It's amazing… It's probably nothing like the chicken that everyone else has, but it's just as amazing. It's chewy and absolutely delicious: like nothing I've ever tasted… Even cold, the aroma's delightful. Many children in Gulyen got to go home to this very same smell; but it would only waft outside to me as I would stand near the window, wishing chicken was as easy to steal as bread. Cyeran often fussed at me for that. He was just cranky about it, too, then. I know for a fact Cyeran wished the same thing. I want the taste to last forever, but in my excitement, I gobble the whole thing down then nibble on the bone before throwing it to the side.
"So." Cyeran mumbles through his own meal. Crumbs of it tumble down his shirt and layer the floor to be swept up and eaten later. He's probably jealous, because I think he is eating a type of bread. "Where from here?" he garbles, accidentally spitting some food. I am used to this. He usually cleans up later. Nothing's wasted with us, no matter how dirty. I hate the thought of the people who actually get food every day wasting it. But, if it weren't for their throwing it away, we wouldn't have the scraps we do.
Something strikes me. This town had already been destroyed. Gulyen had just been destroyed. Would they keep working in that direction? I tell this idea to Cyeran, who agrees. "So they're working…" He glances up at the sun through the gap, getting a better view and shielding his eyes. "…working…uh… East!" he finally hollers. "You can figure out which way you're going by the sun. We learned it in school." He smiles dryly. "See, I did pay attention in class. Sometimes."
School is a place Cyeran has told me forces you to learn things that are important. And if you don't, you get in trouble. Cyeran had tried once to get me into school, but we had both decided we didn't want anything to do with that place.
So, if we knew which way they were heading, we could figure out where to go. "Maybe we're going the wrong way!" The words burst from my mouth right as the idea comes.
"That makes sense…" mumbles Cyeran.
I pieced it together. "If this town was already destroyed and Gulyen has just been, civilization and more survivors are along that path." At that time, that logic made sense. I would only realize later that either way would have been fine.

By the next morning, we're ready to leave. I could've drawn out the events before, but nothing worth telling happened then. More pain, more deceit, more thought… These are things you wouldn't care about. They're also things I won't tell.
I never get a peak at the rest of Cyeran's provisions just to see how much else he brought, but I sneak a few provisions of my own into a makeshift bag I create from curtains, along with other little finds of mine. Walking back through the town, I am reminded of the little hand, the bloodstains, and all the things I have gathered from this place. But, most of all, I think of the tunnel. I can swear that when we pass the hole I can just hear the faint sounds of…happiness.

Description
Imagine the colour of mud. Now imagine the colour of dark smoke. Paint the sky those colours. That is our sky. Now breathe it deep. Doesn't it choke you? Imagine the hottest day you have ever felt in your life; the waves of heat from everything, the burning ground you made the mistake of walking on. This is our day. This is what it feels like to live here.
Have you ever been watched? Or had that insane, annoying feeling that you are being watched that wouldn't go away? Have you ever feared for your life because of this feeling? Had the urge to keep running, to escape as soon as possible? Or --- this one is rich…--- have you ever had the knowledge that you're one of the last, the very last, of your kind?
It's called Industry…

My feet are bloody and swollen. We've traveled such a long way, just to end up at more ruins. Staring up at them, my hope falls. Can there be more Survivors out there? We can't be the only two.
Cyeran drops to the ground beside me, and so do I. "Ruins…" he moans, hanging his head, and runs his hands through his long black hair.
I look at the bare hills in front of us, holding nothing but destruction. Gulyen had been destroyed just the same. Time after time on our journey, we'd passed through cities, towns, and villages just like this one. Piles of rubble, stony graves, a raven that had survived here and there, and the stench of death all around --- these are what we have seen repeatedly. Pale, staring faces control my dreams now and I don't know any other smell but theirs. Our world is like a desert, with patches of blackened cities and piles of ruins. The Purging has destroyed everything. Nothing but Industry seems to live now.
You probably want to know how this happened. You'll figure it out soon enough. But for now, I'll tell you my story.
Cyeran sighs beside me, muffled by his dirty sleeve. After a few moments, he raises his head. We both stare at the ruins, trying to figure out our next move.
Cyeran is the right name for my brother, (he's always said that he is) because, like sirens I've heard stories of in a place that used to be the sea, he can easily convince me into following him no matter what. He sighs again, resting his head on his crossed forearms. "C'mon Mar." he demands, not looking up.
Now, my name is really Samara, but he's always called me that. All the years that he'd raised me, I have never once heard him call me Samara. I only know that's my name because I remember being called that once...by someone else... Mar is his special nickname for me.
We both stand up, filled with just a little bit of hope. We can't be the only two, like Cyeran thinks we are, or our future is only a life in the Holes, just for company, human or not. But that's if we don't fight. I'll never go down without fighting.
The Holes are a wicked place. They're where thousands of the Purging survivors and dehumanized creatures --- they don't deserve to be called humans, or at least most of them --- are forced to work for the Industry. That is, unless they join the movement themselves. And all that do are still dehumanized anyway. You're probably shocked at all of this. But this is our world. Industry has taken over. There are no humans anymore...
That is, besides the Survivors.
We start forward slowly, our feet refusing. Mine leave behind a trail of blood in the hardened sand, and they are caked in pebbles and crimson-stained dirt. I want my shoes, but mine are only shreds now. We'd both dumped our shoes miles back and are now regretting it. Yes, it was a stupid idea. I have no idea what made us do it. At least those had given my feet some cover, but now my feet have no shelter from the hot solid sand and rubble we pass through. Glass shards from the blasted windows and various other things from the explosion stab into my heels, making me wince as I try to ignore the pain. Weakness is not an option. Cyeran doesn't stop. He pushes forward, wincing as his feet refuse the rubble below them. Soon, we make it into the blackened city.
My fingers trail across the sooty houses, memories coming back to me.
Gulyen had been my only home. I have never had an easy life, but at least life in Gulyen had been better than this. To leave it, even after it had been destroyed, had been hard for me. My parents had disappeared when I was young --- too young to remember them really. I only remember a warm smile from the man I guess was my dad and a touch from the woman I guess was my mom. Cyeran has described his parents to me a little, not caring, and I wish I could describe mine; but that's all I remember, nothing more. He'd been a runaway. Cyeran has no idea what happened to his parents, and, according to him, he doesn't really care. He'd found me as an orphan, left behind and curled into a ball (He also tells me I was smart enough to find food and was clutching the crumbs in a death grip.) and, ever since then, he's taken care of me. He's been my guardian my whole life, and always will be --- and I have to admit, I'm a loyal dog.  We both guess our parents have been taken to the Holes; and if they have, they might as well be dead. A life in the Holes is worse than any death.
"There's a sturdy-looking house over there." Cyeran's hard voice brings me back to reality. He's staring at me skeptically, his green eyes shining with a tiny bit of laughter --- something he really rarely does, even around me.  I snap out of my not-so-pretty memories and trudge after him. The house we come to looks like it's only been burned and not blasted like the others. There are ruins all around it and the windows are exploded, but other than that, it's only blackened. It seems like there's been a fight inside. Objects all over the floor are shattered: glass, pottery, plates, and mugs. There's blood splattered on the walls and soaking the dirt floor. It's everywhere. I wonder what's happened here. The dirt is scattered a bit, proving what I'd thought: there had been a fight --- maybe to the death. I wonder which side won. I sincerely hope it was the humans, because, if not, that's another bit of our hopes crushed. We've been searching for survivors, but every town is empty. I won't give up; but after today, I'm not so sure about Cyeran. Looking into another part of the house, I don't see any bodies or AI scraps anywhere. My heart sinks. They were probably brought to the Holes or were tortured and dehumanized. The human AIs are the most dangerous --- they know about emotions…
Glinkos are scattered all over the floor. Glinkos are our money. They're small and round with a crystal in the middle, smooth, and all different colors. The colors represent different amounts --- red for five, blue for ten, green for fifty, and orange for one hundred; but the valuable ones have designs and are worth millions. Lately all the Glinkos have our new leader, Vespin's, face printed on them.  It's a scarred, ugly face (his mind isn't much better either). Most of the Glinkos scattered on the floor are red and blue, and no oranges to be seen: this was a poor family.
I slowly make walk into the next room, avoiding the blood and , I think, body parts that are strewn everywhere. The next room's bigger --- more blood, too --- and seems to be the family's living place. A broken table is in one corner, smashed until only the legs show it had once been a table. All along the wall is splattered blood and more broken pottery. I fight my sense of smell and hold my nose, for the stink is painful --- it reminds me too much of home.
Gulyen had always been peaceful. I have no idea why they destroyed it: we did nothing. It had been a big city, though. Maybe that's why they came. Cyeran had been lucky enough to think of escaping. We're lucky to have made it out alive. There may be a few survivors out there, but none of them are probably from Gulyen. Except for those taken to the Holes, that is.
But, they aren't like us anymore…
I take another look around the room. Broken glass coats the floor, making it sparkle in the sunlight. The blood gleams on it, like rubies in the midst of diamonds. Some blood is already dried and caked onto the pieces, leaving them soaked in black. The rest of the room is a foul-smelling black, darkened by the fire and the result of smoke. Soot smothers almost everything, but where the wall actually shows are golden clay and the stains of a killing. The sunlight coming through the window is only a little: the soot covers it, too. As I slowly make my way into the next room, avoiding the bloody walls, I find what I had been hoping I wouldn't.
"Cyeran…" I call breathlessly, my eyes stuck on what's in front of me. No tears well up, no fear shoots through me, no hopes crash to the ground. I'm only facing what I already knew.
Before me lays a heap of blistered bloody bodies and AI scraps. All around them are ashes and some bones of others. But what weakens me the most is one of the small blistered and cooked hands clasped tightly around the tattered remains of a rag doll.
And a single tear is allowed to fall from my eyelid and down my cheek.
It's obviously homemade with sewn in eyes and a mouth, but the way the hand curls around it… The tiny fingers clutching at it for dear life… This breaks me and I kneel beside what's left of her. I could touch her hair, cry next to her body, mourn over this innocent life --- but that's not who I am. I could be angry at the Purging for this killing --- but that's not me. No, I only stare at the hand, frozen by something I rarely feel.
…Weakness.
Cyeran charges in and is also frozen by the sight. He doesn't fall to his knees, he doesn't cry. He's stronger than I am this time. I only hear his hands clap his sides in anger and his outburst following.
"Well that's just great! Another family taken at the hand of the Core." He begins to sulk. "Are you happy?" he screams at the ceiling, obviously symbolizing an enemy to him. "All this slaughter? Does this make you stronger!" Suddenly, he drops down and bangs his fist on the ground. "I'm tired of it!" I sigh and only listen as he goes off again. "Why?!" he screams again. "This doesn't make them more powerful. Life is worthless to those of us left. Why take it? It means nothing!" he shouts at the ceiling once more. He ends his speech with a groan, and that's about all the sympathy he'll give this family.
"Cyeran?" I whisper, my eyes still on the hand, and gently feel for his arm. His hand grabs mine and he roughly helps me to my feet. We leave the room slowly, and, with that, my weakness is gone.
As we walk back to the first room we entered, the bloodshed splattered everywhere means nothing to me. The hand is just another picture I'll have to add to my dozens of nightmares. When we enter the room, Cyeran's eyes land on the Glinkos and he greedily stuffs them into any opening of his clothes he can find. Now is another one of the times I'm reminded Cyeran grew up this way. Glinkos must have meant everything to him --- they probably meant food. The street life has never left either of us. That instinct for survival and protection of each other is always there. Maybe that's where I got my motto of 'Weakness is not an option.' You may think I'm heartless, but that's how I survive. Nothing's going to change it.
My legs move on their own, almost like a machine. I'm nothing more than a filthy cyborg --- or at least my heart is. But I don't feel guilty for my lack of emotions. It's natural: and it's how we live in this world.

A few hours later, Cyeran and I are both settled in one of the houses --- far from the one we already found. That hand would still haunt me in sleep, and I could never erase it from my mind. Nothing will ever erase it --- but that's just another way of living in this "war."
The house that Cyeran and I are now in could hardly be called one. We'd put together the ruins --- or at least what was left of them --- to form a dome-like shape. It barely has a ceiling, and the sick, brown sky seeps through. I stare up into it, thinking about what we should do next as the night comes through. I hear Cyeran shift near me and realize he's asleep, fighting off a nightmare. Though, I know I definitely thrash more than that in my sleep.
The thoughts that must go through his mind… The dreams he must have… I've only scratched the surface of the kind of past he has had. Living on the streets, sacrificing health just to help me, having many scars just because he wanted a bit of food --- my life can't compare. Mine was never an easy life, but it definitely wasn't as hard a Cyeran's. My life was easy because of him. I owe him for everything.
Looking back at him, his face hardened and twitching in the heat of a nightmare, I whisper a quiet thank-you that I'd never let out in person. After, I feel the sudden urge to be outside, in the fresh air, where weakness couldn't suffocate me again. Quickly, I stand up and brush the filthy clumps of sand off of my faded yellow dress and olive leggings, then escape what's now a dungeon of emotion as quickly as I can. The crisp air outside is enough to awake my old self again. I swallow a deep breath and wash away the memories that had tightened my throat and soaked my eyes. I haven't cried one time for Gulyen, and I won't tonight. A slight breeze blows through the ruins, blowing up strands of my hair. I figure I'll take a walk to explore the village a bit and stall before I return to my "sleep," but as I step forward, something or someone holds me back. After catching myself from stumbling, my mind switches to survival mode and I brace for attack. Whipping around, I am ready to take on anything. But when nothing is there, I step back, confused. My heart is beating faster and faster as I try to figure out what's going on.  All survivors feel this way, I believe. And I, of all people, after running all my life, will never get over it. It's in our blood --- all of us.
By this time, I think it's another trick of a raider or rival scavenger, another trap. So, stepping back, I glance around for any telltale signs. The wind whistles eerily through the ruins, stirring up dust that blinds me. It's quiet.
Thoughts race through my mind. Why am I out in the dark? Why did I come? Why did I go by myself? They've found me!
Those three words erase everything else in my mind. They've found me… Even though I refuse to be weak, no survivor can stand those words. Especially for us Survivors, the strength of those three words is huge. Those three words can tear you down or build you up, as they do now. I'll not go down without a fight --- especially since Cyeran's in that house over there. I'll fight for Cyeran. I'll fight for all survivors we haven't found and all the dead ones we have. I'll fight to --- Cyeran…
Suddenly, my heart falls and the spirit is drained out of me. What if they've already caught him? I'll be too numb with shock to get revenge. They'll take us both away. But they'll drag us. We'll both fight back. We won't back down. We'll go down fighting. But maybe they won't kill us right away. I'm afraid to find out what they do to those they don't slaughter. I've heard stories… Cold fear fills me, but I put it down.
So, what now?
Last minute actions play out in my mind. If they have already found Cyeran, they have already seen me or will soon. I have seconds to act. There's no escape. As an old street strategy forms in my mind, I turn to run. However, as I propel myself forward, my dress hem is yanked back by something. I scream in the terror of the moment, falling to the ground. My face plants itself in the gravel, the sharp rocks and shards sticking into my face. Frantically, I try to gain ground, clawing at the gravel and crawling forward. Blood spills down my face from the impact and debris. I push forward. Still, whoever or whatever it is has a hold of me. I flip on my stomach, kicking at it and propelling myself with my hands. When I finally gain ground, I am yanked back once more, crying out in frustration. …But there's nothing to be seen.
I smile at my terror and slowly calm as my fingers grasp my hem caught in blunt metal wires. A giggle makes its way across my lips and turns into a laugh of utter relief. My stupidity had been huge. This is why weakness is off-limits. It makes you believe anything. I begin to laugh harder at my gullible ways and rip my hem from the wires. "Silly Mar," I tell myself, "you'll believe anything!" My laugh turns from relief to utter joy as I inspect the hem and knock off the wires with a nearby rock. Hearing a crack beneath me, I pay it no mind, for my fear is gone and I'm too focused on the joy flowing from this discovery. Cyeran's safe, and so am I. There's nothing to worry about --- just a little wire. I can travel safely back to the house and calm down, perhaps get some sleep, and---
Suddenly the ground caves beneath me. All I hear is the roar of the rubble. The blackness envelopes the roaring as my eyes snap shut…

I couldn't have been out more than a minute or so, for the dust is still clearing around me. I cough up a cloud of it, and the rest falls deep into my wounds. A hole of night sky dances wildly above me; and when I try to stand, the weight of all that rubble seems to pound me down. My eyes won't focus on any one thing, but I climb to my feet anyway and feel for any kind of wall. My right arm's useless, so I feel for the wall with my left, slowly stumbling forward. My hair's almost soaked with blood and the dizziness seems to get worse with every step. As I stumble along, the only sound is the pad of my feet and the faint whistle of wind. My best guess would be that I'm in some sort of tunnel. When my hand finally finds the rough wall, I lean against it, sighing with relief. The hole above me slows its movement and the world comes into focus once more. Memory and common sense kick in and I slowly back away, curious but hesitant about this tunnel. The smell is wet and moldy and the wall is slimy here and there. My common sense finally wins over my curiosity and I slowly back under the exit above me. Alert, I scan my surroundings for a grip to climb with, trying to figure out the distance. This is another of those times I'm thankful to have been raised by Cyeran; otherwise, I wouldn't think this way. Backing up, I get a short running start, my feet pounding on the ground, my breathing ragged. But my leap comes just feet within and too short. My feet strike the ground with a vengeance and my knees buckle, making me cry out in pain as I am thrown into the other wall. My right arm's now throbbing and more blood pools around my head, blurring my vision and fogging my mind. I can just barely heave myself up with my good arm and sit back against the wall. The tattered hem of my dress makes a good bandage to stem the blood while I wait for my mind to resettle. Even though, I still consider this tunnel, wondering where it could lead; my curiosity grabbing a hold of me once more. But I'm determined to get out, and who knows where this tunnel exits? The muddiness in my brain makes it hard to stay awake, but some instinct tells me not even to blink.
For hours, it seems, I sit there --- fighting off grogginess and growing my resolve to get back to Cyeran and rest. I toss and turn to keep myself awake and shift my arm occasionally to check it. It is still useless and now swollen, but I can't feel any sign of a break (at least in my small knowledge, of course).
Looking up at the night sky, I determine to fight. I slowly ease my myself up inch by inch. This time I measure my running distance carefully before taking off with a higher leap. My heart fills with joy when I am able to curl my fingers around part of the edge. However, when I swing myself up into the hole, my force breaks the shallow edge; causing me to land on top of the rubble once more. Screaming in pain, I wrench myself from the sharp chunks of the cement-like sand. I'm sure that time ripped my back. Sitting up is painful, but I need to slow the blood that's already seeping into the back of my dress. How will I explain this to Cyeran?  A few answers audition in my mind. But then something clicks…
If the edge is shallow and the rubble is that sharp, won't I be able to chip it away? Immediately, I hurl one of the clumps of rubble at the edge. A piece crumbles and falls inches from me. A smile slithers across my face.
Chipping it's a bit harder, but minutes later I'm halfway to the edge of the tunnel. Balancing on the unstable rubble is half the battle, but as soon as I get my footing the labour goes by quickly. I can't tell how much time's passed when I finally reach edge, but it's already getting light outside.
Climbing out tears at my damaged arm and screaming back, but when I finally make it all the way up, relief floods through me and numbs me. I roll on my back and stare up at the ugly sky, letting the victory of escape course through me. But, soon enough, the fog chokes me again, which forces me to turn my face to the ground. The wind whistles louder through the many ruins, stirring up even more dust. Closing my eyes, I reluctantly roll onto my stomach and vomit dust, mucus, and remnants of blood. But I'm forced to pull myself through my own filth as I stretch my arm forward. Eventually, the pain replaces my temporary numbness; and the impossibility of getting home becomes a barrier not to be bargained with. But I fight it. I won't let pain overtake me. Weakness is not an option. I must get home. So I press forward, no matter the pain. Dust seeps into my wounds and burns like acid, pouring into my squinted eyes and layering itself on my already-dirtied face. The rubble's harsh and only my feet are used to the rough scorching ground. So, dragging my whole body across it is a new feat that rips every inch of me.
The whole way there, all I can think is, "My arms will be awfully strong after this." I can't imagine what a sight I was when I finally pulled myself into the house and curled up in a corner. There, I collapsed from joy, exhaustion, and pain.

I woke up to nothing, suddenly shocked awake by a glimpse of a previous dream. There was no sound around me but the howl of the wind. As I move my arm to rub my eyes, I realize I'm not in my same clothes. The rough material is unfamiliar, yet soothing. As soon as the material ruffles, I know. Cyeran. He must have taken care of me through the morning. As I turn on my side to get up, pain shoots through my body. I stifle a whimper of agony before discovering a bunch of fabric bandages tied around me. The thought rushes through my mind that must have tortured Cyeran: If I got this injured without a fight, how would I survive against a fight itself? But I can only keep the strongest hope. I struggle to get up again, but my wounds seem to be complaining. A bit irritated, I lay back down. A little more rest might be good anyway.
However, right before I close my eyes, the stink of rotten soup reaches me. I inhale the familiar aroma that never seems quite nasty to me. I turn my head to look and find that the bowl is crawling distance away. Ah, a test from Cyeran.  My back and arm scream in protest and the world seems a bit murky, but eventually I inch myself onto my forearms and knees. I crawl slowly --- arm, arm, leg; arm, arm, other leg; arm, arm, first leg. The movements are sluggish and my brain has trouble with anything at the moment. All muscle strength seems to have drained out with the blood, but I force them forward, disturbing them. My arms are numb and throbbing by the time I reach the bowl, but it's worth it. The cool liquid soothes my nerves as it runs down my throat. I relax and savour the taste before pouring the rest of the it down my throat. Even though it's colder than usual and a bit grainy, it seems to warm me somehow. Then something clicks: Cyeran must have brought more stolen provisions than I thought. His special care for me never ceased. Where was he though? My sitting up causes me to let out a scream which I hope he doesn't hear. But my curiosity gets the best of me. I inch myself toward the door on my forearms and knees again. The sound of footsteps across the dirt alert my mind, and I scoot back, only to find a dirty foot in front of me.
My eyes scan up the figure to meet the disappointed face of Cyeran. Even though I am not weak, that face never ceases to scare me. As a street child in Gulyen, I saw a few parents scolding their child. I always thought fire would burst from their eyes any second. And when they would raise their hand to punish them, I would shrink in fear myself. Cyeran had never raised a hand to me, but it always feels as if his looks and scolding are slaps and punches. So of course when I see that face I inch back. I never like disappointing Cyeran; it gives me a sick feeling inside.
That straight line of a mouth finally moves. I close my eyes, preparing for the worst. I can't stop the cringe that travels through my body as I wait for his beating with words. I should have known he would know I'd been outside and that apparently that adventure had been too close to killing me.
But when sound finally comes from his mouth, it's a compassionate yet stern tone.
"You got awfully beat up last night." he states, trailing off, apparently searching for words. "I'm glad you made it." he says in a way that makes it sound like the exact opposite. "So…" he begins, stepping closer. I sit up, still expecting an attack. But this movement sends me screaming in pain. By impulse, Cyeran steps forward; but, unsure of what to do, he steps back again. Once I'm okay again, I inch myself backward. "May I ask why?" He cocks his head, then makes himself clear. "What exactly were you doing last night to make you look like…this?" He indicates the blood dried on my head and narrows his eyes a little.
I'm about to answer. It's on the tip of my toungue. But something grips my throat. Maybe fear? I've always told Cyeran everything. I've never kept a secret from Cyeran, but something about that tunnel makes me rethink this. I purposely close my mouth tightly and glance down, refusing to tell. This is an awful feeling. I've never lied to Cyeran. Although, I'm only keeping a secret, right? But that's another first for me. I'm scared to meet his eyes. They'll be angry, intruding and begging me to answer. He shifts from one foot to the other, showing impatience. Patience is an idea neither of us understand, but Cyeran used to always use the words "Be patient!" when I would want to rush into a theft. I figure he had picked that up from his parents whenever he had lived with them.
I guess I should say I'm sorry. I forgot I'm speaking to others. I've tended to narrate instead of talk lately, and because of that, you don't even know what our "house" looks like. Like every building, the ground's caked with blood. The good thing about this place is that it does not reek with killing or burning because apparently there was only a small amount of both. It does reek with common air --- choking, polluted, difficult to breathe, heated, low quality. The list could go on. From what I can tell, the ground's earth instead of sand. But I still can't figure out why they didn't turn this place into a pile of rubble like many of the others. The walls are golden clay, just like the others and our makeshift roof is made up of pieces of rubble, minimal rope, and a few boards. It isn't really all that impressive, and, looking up at it, I'm always afraid it'll fall on me. The light from the huge gap stings my eyes. I blink them a few times to see clearly again. This room contains much debris from the destruction, but still holds a dangling shelf and a small table with one drawer and formerly ornate legs. ("Ornate," that's what Cyeran says the word is. A word from the past…) I can see in the corner a makeshift chair, or what was supposed to be a chair, that Cyeran probably made this morning.
He saunters over to it and flops down, sending the chair into a horrifying squeal with a multitude of cracks. Once he realizes I'm not going to tell him, he sighs and runs a hand through his pony-tailed hair, making more strands fall in his face than already are. The bad feeling deepens. For a painful second I wonder whether I should tell him. He glares me down then apparently decides I'm not worth it, sighing.
A wave of hurt hits me --- the first secret: a wall between Cyeran and me.
Was I making the right decision? That voice inside me annoys me. I don't understand it, though. I never do. But I must be strong. I am firm. I have no weakness.
I settle myself with a switch to my better side, only wincing a bit. Before I can blink, Cyeran drops a pile of bags, boxes, and multitudes of packages. Immediately, I recognize some as food and lunge for the pile. Cyeran's stern voice halts me, "Not now!" he growls. "Rations," he says offhandedly as if I'm an idiot. That's another word he probably picked up somewhere else; because when he says it, it just means that he wants more for himself. From what I know, rations is supposed to mean equal shares, but I don't mind Cyeran's having his own interpretation. I stare down at the food hungrily, but Cyeran's eyes shoo me away. "Get me the bag." he orders not too gently. I stand up, ignoring the shooting pain and saunter over to the corner where our stash is located. To try out my damaged arm, I quickly toss the bag over to him. It was a bad idea. When Cyeran begins to stuff the bag with the new spoils, I clutch my arm and close my eyes, wishing the pain away. But, when I open them, I spot a food I've only dreamed of. Cyeran and I had never had chicken, yet there it is in the pile. My mouth waters. In the next seconds, somehow I got over to Cyeran quickly. I don't really remember how, I just know that it definitely wasn't good for my wounds. Before he can stop me, the chicken is stolen right from under his nose. I flop back on my haunches and enjoy my victory as he slowly looks up. Apparently he realizes the same thing. "You're obviously better," he points out with just the ghost of a smirk. I give him a wicked look and bite into my feast.
It's amazing… It's probably nothing like the chicken that everyone else has, but it's just as amazing. It's chewy and absolutely delicious: like nothing I've ever tasted… Even cold, the aroma's delightful. Many children in Gulyen got to go home to this very same smell; but it would only waft outside to me as I would stand near the window, wishing chicken was as easy to steal as bread. Cyeran often fussed at me for that. He was just cranky about it, too, then. I know for a fact Cyeran wished the same thing. I want the taste to last forever, but in my excitement, I gobble the whole thing down then nibble on the bone before throwing it to the side.
"So." Cyeran mumbles through his own meal. Crumbs of it tumble down his shirt and layer the floor to be swept up and eaten later. He's probably jealous, because I think he is eating a type of bread. "Where from here?" he garbles, accidentally spitting some food. I am used to this. He usually cleans up later. Nothing's wasted with us, no matter how dirty. I hate the thought of the people who actually get food every day wasting it. But, if it weren't for their throwing it away, we wouldn't have the scraps we do.
Something strikes me. This town had already been destroyed. Gulyen had just been destroyed. Would they keep working in that direction? I tell this idea to Cyeran, who agrees. "So they're working…" He glances up at the sun through the gap, getting a better view and shielding his eyes. "…working…uh… East!" he finally hollers. "You can figure out which way you're going by the sun. We learned it in school." He smiles dryly. "See, I did pay attention in class. Sometimes."
School is a place Cyeran has told me forces you to learn things that are important. And if you don't, you get in trouble. Cyeran had tried once to get me into school, but we had both decided we didn't want anything to do with that place.
So, if we knew which way they were heading, we could figure out where to go. "Maybe we're going the wrong way!" The words burst from my mouth right as the idea comes.
"That makes sense…" mumbles Cyeran.
I pieced it together. "If this town was already destroyed and Gulyen has just been, civilization and more survivors are along that path." At that time, that logic made sense. I would only realize later that either way would have been fine.

By the next morning, we're ready to leave. I could've drawn out the events before, but nothing worth telling happened then. More pain, more deceit, more thought… These are things you wouldn't care about. They're also things I won't tell.
I never get a peak at the rest of Cyeran's provisions just to see how much else he brought, but I sneak a few provisions of my own into a makeshift bag I create from curtains, along with other little finds of mine. Walking back through the town, I am reminded of the little hand, the bloodstains, and all the things I have gathered from this place. But, most of all, I think of the tunnel. I can swear that when we pass the hole I can just hear the faint sounds of…happiness.