

### A Silent Soliloquy

### L.G. Keltner

A Silent Soliloquy

### Copyright 2015 by L.G. Keltner

Smashwords Edition

### All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by L.G. Keltner. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to any institutions, businesses, or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover Art by Devross

This book is dedicated to my husband and children. Thank you for not only putting up with me, but for also encouraging me.

Table of Contents

I. Violations

II. Anything For Love

III. The Burden of the Unspoken

IV. Reflections of Regret

V. The Final Act

I.Violations

### Present Day (2095 C.E.)

Goose bumps form on our skin thanks to the thin material of the jacket we wear, but I don't dwell on it. My mind is preoccupied with other things. The streets are bathed in shadow, only the faintest hint of moonlight reflecting off the damp pavement. It's well past curfew, so there are no pedestrians in sight. No vehicles other than official transport are allowed on the road at this time of night. Should an enforcement vehicle happen by, I know we will look suspicious. Not that I'm concerned about getting in trouble. We have all the proper documentation. It would simply be a minor inconvenience. Well, it would be to _her_ anyway. I have no role in the task at hand, but as usual, I'm left with no choice but to go along with the ride.

I can't say that I'm living the life I want. In fact, it seems to be the exact opposite most of the time. Being barely eighteen is confusing enough for normal people as far as I can tell. My so-called peers are graduating high school, preparing to enter into the adult world of either state-mandated college training courses or lower-tier jobs. Their lives may not be ideal in their eyes, but they could certainly have it a lot worse.

Yeah, yeah. Lots of people say crap like that. I know what you're thinking. "She's just another kid who feels like she shouldn't have to earn her way in the world. She doesn't want to take responsibility for the problems in her life." Don't deny it. You may never hear a word I say, but I can read you. What else do I have to do but study how normal people operate?

My future, being nonexistent as it is, has left me outside the normal track. I am who I am now because, at some point in my hazy past, this body I inhabit landed outside the established two-track system and got stuck in the invisible place below.

I may sound morbid, but I think you'll soon understand why.

Our code name is TIPPIE, though I don't identify with it. TIPPIE stands for Transmutable Independent Personality Performer and Interactive Entity. Sometimes I wonder how long it took that room full of smart people to come up with an acronym to make a suitable female name. It feels forced, in my opinion. However, its basic meaning is important. It means that this body can mimic any personality type as needed and use those skills to manipulate others. If TIPPIE needs to be confident, she can become the most confident person you've ever encountered. She can be the most charming. She can appear vulnerable. Or seductive. Meanwhile, I have no choice in the matter. TIPPIE is the personality people see, and she adapts automatically to any given situation. She's an all-in-one master manipulator masquerading as a normal human being. I am only a passenger in this body. I have no voice. I have no control.

Sometimes I wish I could remember my birth name, or what my parents looked like, or even if I had a family at all. Who would I have grown up to be? I'm an orphan from a lower-tier family. That's the most TIPPIE has been told about our history. The government accepting me into their program was an act of supreme mercy and generosity.

At least, that's what our keepers would have us believe. It could all be a lie.

For all I know, I might not even exist if it weren't for my keepers. Am I the personality that would have been had I not become a ward of the state at a young age? I assume so, if only because I take some small comfort in believing that I have a right to exist, but I could also be an accident, a sub-personality that's never been able to emerge. Maybe the real girl who was born into this body was wiped out during the programming process. Or maybe I'm simply TIPPIE's conscience, and I've been chipped away and submerged so she can be what they need her to be. In any case, it makes no real difference. I can't talk to anyone. I can't ask questions. I can't tell anyone how I feel. No one will ever have a chance to know me.

More than anything, I wish someone could actually hear me. So for now, if you don't mind, I'll act as if someone is listening. I'll address you, my imaginary audience, and I'll imagine that you're intelligent and sympathetic people. The kind who might care about my plight once you get to know me.

You can call me Tips. Most people have. I prefer it that way, though my personal preference has nothing to do with it. Most people would rather use a one syllable name rather than two. Why? Laziness, I suppose. Brevity may be desirable from time to time, but more often than not, it's the result of a desire to do or say as little as possible.

I apologize in advance for my cynicism. It's difficult not to be cynical when you live in my shoes.

As I reach the familiar alleyway that's marinated in darkness by the lack of streetlights in this neighborhood (can't be wasting money on lower-tier neighborhoods, after all), a fuzziness overtakes my thoughts. This otherwise odd occurrence has been coming to me a lot lately. Luckily for my keepers, TIPPIE was built to be immune to such trivial reactions, especially where they could endanger the mission at hand. She doesn't have time for such things, while these little distractions make me feel almost human.

We've been meeting David in this alley once a week for the past month. He isn't here yet, so TIPPIE sits down to wait on the broken marble bench. It clearly doesn't belong here, the smooth black surface a memory of better times. The legs have been broken away, the bulk of it discarded here in the shadows, out of sight of any vehicles that may happen by. Whatever the story of the bench may be, it makes for a good place to meet. It's private, but it's also open enough to allow for a quick escape.

The chill of the stone seeps through our jeans as I let my thoughts wander. TIPPIE's gaze remains, as always, vigilant. I can trust that if anything alarm-worthy were to happen, she would catch it immediately.

You may be curious about why we're meeting David in a secluded alley in the middle of the night. Our keepers assigned TIPPIE to an important mission. David is a verified member of a resistance movement that's been causing the government all kinds of trouble. The hope is that by meeting with him, we will gain access to the group's leader.

We've been able to determine the identity of their leader through our intelligence-gathering efforts, but we haven't been able to catch her. Her name is Lassandra Rourke. She supposedly knows the identity and location of other leaders in other rebel groups around the country. If we can catch her, we can effectively dismantle the resistance.

Of course, our keepers have known disappointment before. Gabriel Pilkington, the leader of a group that runs an underground railroad, didn't provide as much vital information as our keepers had hoped he would when we captured him a couple months ago, but he led us to David. That's got to be worth something. Not every brick removed from the wall of the resistance will be catastrophic, but remove enough, or the right one, and it will all come toppling down.

Do I want to dismantle the resistance? I didn't know at first. I have no love for the government that did this to me, but it isn't as if a revolution would do anything for me either. Most likely, TIPPIE would be destroyed or institutionalized so she can't hurt anyone, and that process would also destroy me. I wouldn't suddenly have a life to look forward to.

Now, though, things are different. My perspective has been shifting over the last four weeks, because now I feel like there's actually something at stake for me. But I'll get to that later.

The story of Lassandra Rourke is fascinating, and well worth sharing, in my opinion. I've already retained a lot of information about her from the case files. There is little about her past the powers-that-be don't know. She was from an upper-tier family, after all, and was on a path to be one of the best and brightest that segment of society had to offer.

I know what you're wondering. Why would someone with such a bright future get involved with the resistance? Why risk it all?

This is the question that prompted me to ponder her situation, to try to reason through her thought processes based on what I know of her. I _want_ to understand her motivations, her feelings, and her weaknesses, so I've constructed a story using the tidbits of information we found in The Facility's files. I've gone over the narrative multiple times, trying to place myself in Lassandra's shoes, and each time I feel like I know her a little better.

I figure that relating the story of her fall from privilege to you, my imaginary audience, is as good a way to pass the time as any.

### * * *

### (2074 C.E.)

Lassandra Rourke knew it was going to be a long day before she even opened her eyes. The stress headache had returned full force. It felt like a giant hand gripped the back of her neck, its long fingers curling all the way over her head and ending just above her eyes. The invisible hand squeezed rhythmically, sending pulses of pain out to the rest of her tired body.

She forced herself into a sitting position and reluctantly peeled back her eyelids. The contents of her dorm room came into focus a little at a time. Her finance book rested on top of her stack of political science books in the corner of the desk. Her tablet was still on, the tropical island screensaver mercifully blocking out the twenty page paper on world economics that kept her bonded to the chair for several mind-numbing hours. The debate team had demanded much of her time up to that point, so she'd been putting that paper off out of necessity.

With finals looming, Lassandra needed to prepare. _I cannot fail_ , she kept telling herself. _I will not fail._ This was the mantra she used to push herself well past exhaustion. If she slipped below the minimum GPA, she'd lose her student status. That would bump her down to the lower-tier, and she couldn't stand the thought of working at a dead end, manual labor job for the rest of her life, spending what little disposable income she might have on Bliss-X tablets to have a moment of peace. Those tablets were, in the end, just as hard on the body as any other drug, but they were at least legal and easily obtained.

Lassandra's feet finally hit the floor, and she made her way to the bathroom for a shower, artfully ducking every attempt made at engaging her in morning small talk. Her headache made any kind of interaction utterly unacceptable. She instead focused on her shower, purposely getting the water as hot as it would go. Willing the heat to permeate her tense muscles, she could feel some of the tension dripping from her back and shoulders.

Yet, as she wrapped a soft towel around her body, she knew it wasn't enough. The pressure of everything was too high for the shower to have any lasting effect. There was only one thing that would.

After returning to her room, Lassandra slipped into a pair of jeans and faded gray t-shirt. She groaned, knowing that her bank account balance could barely accommodate a trip to The Dream Factory, but she couldn't afford to let the stress overcome her. One trip would be enough to get her through another day of studying. She would just have to worry about the money later.

An hour later, Lassandra was in the parking lot of The Dream Factory. The plain white walls of the building's exterior unrelentingly reflected the harsh sunlight of late morning, forcing her to shield her eyes with one hand. She hurried across the lot toward the front doors, still amazed she was able to get an appointment so quickly. If it hadn't been for a last minute cancellation, she would've had to wait for several hours for a spot with her favorite dreamer.

The white marble floor in the front lobby was spotless. A large screen dominated one wall. It played a promotional video in a perpetual loop, the same video Lassandra saw every time she came here.

A pleasant female voice narrated over shots of homeless people and patients lying in hospital beds. "Our government went bankrupt paying to care for people who couldn't care for themselves. The mentally ill were turned out into the streets, many of them too sick to work and unable to afford the treatments that would allow them to work. The charity that provided food and shelter dried up as the country as a whole fell on dire economic times. Donald Roemer saw the pain this inflicted on the world, and he decided to find a way to help those who suffered."

The screen showed an image of a building under construction. "The Dream Factory was conceived as a way to provide services for both dreamers and dreamees. In a gesture of unparalleled compassion, Roemer adopted a number of the mentally ill who had no way to pursue treatment. As dreamers, they share their delusions with paying customers who yearn for a means of escape without the potentially harmful side effects of popular drugs. In the process, our dreamers earn their way to treatment. The Dream Factory offers a perfect solution for an unfortunate problem."

The rest of the video consisted of pictures of the facility and testimonials from satisfied customers. Lassandra had seen it all the way through at least a dozen times. She remembered the final line of the video, which was also printed on all their promotional literature. "Take a stroll through another's dreams to wash away your own nightmares."

She headed straight to the registration desk, eager to get settled in as soon as possible. The receptionist confirmed her appointment and swiped her frequent customer card. After paying, she walked across to the back of the lobby, and a white-uniformed attendant met her at the door.

The rest of the building had the same sterile white décor, though the high ceiling of the lobby was replaced with low tiled ceilings. This back area was filled with row after row of chairs, many of them already filled with dreamees. Other than the headsets that linked them to their dreamers, they looked as if they were doing nothing more than getting a good night's rest.

Lassandra sat in the padded white chair, immediately sinking into its embrace. The seat was built for comfort, though she would only be aware of that comfort for a couple of minutes. A delicate silver mesh headset was perched on top of the triangular headrest. It looked fragile enough that one might think a single touch could break it, but Lassandra knew better. Those little headsets contained a remarkable power. They were the gateway to another world.

The attendant, whose neatly groomed brown hair and brown eyes felt familiar, started by strapping Lassandra's wrists to the armrests. Standard safety procedure. Sometimes the images could be quite intense, and The Dream Factory couldn't risk anyone harming themselves.

When the headset rested on her hair, the two sensors making contact with her temples, the attendant stepped back to the control panel. The entire set-up was so light that she scarcely felt its weight. After flipping a switch and turning a couple dials, the attendant crossed the room to check up on the other dreamees.

The effects began immediately. A blissful haze started to permeate her brain as the little synaptic connectors pierced her skull with electric fingers. Blinking a couple of times, she noted that each time she peeled her heavy eyelids back again, the lights of the room seemed to be dimmer than before.

Then there was darkness.

Yet it was more than that. The best word she could use to describe it was "nothingness," though it was hard to hold on to the moment in order to define it at all. This phase was also known as The Threshold: the point just after the brain of the dreamee stops processing sensory input and the time where the input from the dreamer crosses through the neural connection. During this phase, conscious thoughts, the only thing that remained for a dreamee to hold on to, seemed to move like molasses.

Pinpoints of light began to appear in Lassandra's consciousness like stars twinkling into view at dusk. She watched passively as the pinpoints of light grew, eating away at the darkness. Each light represented a vibrant color, and as they continued to spread, the different colors bled together, painting the picture that lived in the mind of Dreamer #18765. The blurry lines of the painting soon hardened to form a more concrete image, though something about the color scheme made it feel surreal. Too vivid for reality.

Lassandra was lying on a bed. She immediately recognized the face hovering over her. It was always the same man. His smile revealed startlingly white teeth, and his eyes glimmered with some thought to which she would never gain access. His blonde hair was perfectly slicked back, the only hairdo she ever saw on him. A glance down revealed that she wore a red silk camisole with a lace V down the front and skimpy red lace panties. This certainly wasn't the kind of thing she ever wore in the real world. She spent far too much time focused on her future to even entertain doing something like this.

The wall behind him was adorned with flowered wallpaper. The individual flowers seemed to pulsate with their own energy, spinning about the stigma like psychedelic pinwheels. Her gaze drifted between the man and the bizarre wall, drinking in the ridiculous contrast between the two. The disjointed nature of it all forced her mind to let go. The stress of exams and papers and endless reading assignments dissipated as all thoughts of the real world faded.

Still hovering above her, the man opened his mouth to speak. The words blurred, subdued as if the volume were turned down, nullifying their content. This was the work of the perception filter, put in place to keep the dreamee from experiencing anything that might disrupt the desired ambiance of the dreaming. In all her visits to this dreamer, this man had rarely said more than a couple of words before the filter kicked in to censor him. Of course, Lassandra didn't come for the conversation. She never particularly cared why he was censored.

He reached down, his long fingers sliding beneath the thin fabric of her underwear. With one quick tug, the garment exploded into brilliant red fireworks that engulfed the lower half of her body. The fiery illusion shimmered, absorbing her thoughts entirely as she felt the heat descending on her. Whatever illness this dreamer had, it provided the most spectacular visual stimulation.

When the fireworks faded, they revealed that the man had ducked down and was nibbling on the inside of her thigh. Her legs, which were far thinner and more attractive than her own in real life, flailed beneath his ministrations.

Her gaze floated to the ceiling as the heat and pressure drove her thoughts into a feral frenzy. Little radiant starbursts of varying colors exploded above her, filling the room with their light. The miniature explosions grew in intensity each time the man bit down on the sensitive skin. Her heart pounded like a fist against her ribcage.

Lassandra knew from experience that this man liked things a bit rough. In past dreams, she'd been handcuffed, whipped, and basically anything else that she couldn't imagine doing for real. It was exciting, liberating. She felt more invigorated in the skin of another than she ever felt in her own. This living costume gave her a way to let go.

She glanced down as the man made his way up her body, and her arms reached out to grasp the man's shirt, fingers hooking through the black material, scraping harshly against the flesh beneath. The man's face contorted, and he grabbed her by the shoulders, forcefully pulling her up to meet him. He kissed her, his mouth firm and demanding as his tongue burrowed past her lips. Then he abruptly pushed her away and pinned her to the bed. Concentric circles of blue radiated from the places where his hands held her.

Euphoria flooded Lassandra's awareness.

When the man removed a hand from her left shoulder and shoved it beneath the hem of the camisole, a shiver raced up her spine. Lassandra, being merely a passenger inside this delusion, couldn't reach out and touch him. Not of her own accord. Part of her yearned to run her fingers through his hair, or maybe pin him to the bed for a change, but it was only a small part. This was the only time when she could completely surrender her control, and it felt good to not worry about anything.

Lassandra focused on the intensity of his golden eyes. This shade, the same as a rare gold coin her father owned, hardly seemed possible in nature. Red flames licked at the dark circumference of his pupils, igniting in her an insatiable curiosity about just how far he could take her. Her entire body squirmed in anticipation.

As if in response to her silent question, he wrapped his fist in the thin garment and tore it away like it was made of tissue paper. The fragments twisted and fluttered like smoldering fire tendrils. Gravity failed as they floated, obscuring the movements of the man's hands, though Lassandra still felt them as they traveled along the soft skin of her stomach. She trembled.

Finally, her delicate hand moved through the cloud of red to touch his face. The tendrils scattered. Lassandra waited eagerly, drinking in the sensations as she felt the stubble on his face and his hot breath on her palm.

Then the man grasped her wrist, and she held her breath. Time slowed to a near stop. This happened often enough during the dreaming, typically during the most intense moments. It heightened her anticipation, making the payoff that much sweeter. She waited eagerly for what was to come.

And waited.

And waited some more.

The pause continued long past its normal duration. Lassandra remained there, frozen, for several long moments before a worried thought wormed its way through the excitement. _Is this a glitch? If something's wrong with the system, how long will it take them to get me out?_

Then the swarm of fabric scraps flickered, and the man faded from view entirely.

Help me!

Lassandra would've jumped had she been capable of movement. The sudden feeling of panic felt foreign to her. A voice in her mind had certainly called out, but it didn't belong to her. She was certain of it. The worry about being stuck in this dream didn't even begin to compare to the extreme fear that had leaked into her consciousness.

Let me go!

Then the images flickered back into existence, and the man was there in her face, all his weight resting on her hips. Even if Lassandra had any control over this body, she knew she'd still never be able to move.

It didn't take her long to guess what happened, though she was no closer to understanding why. For some unknown reason, the perception filter was gone, its disappearance unearthing a horror Lassandra had never known was there. The intruding sense of dread tightened its grip on her thoughts, flushing away the last of the exhilaration.

"Stop it, you whore!" The man leaned even closer, and the strong stench of alcohol and cigarettes invaded her nostrils. "You'll screw anything with a pulse, so why are you fighting me?"

"Please, just let me go. I'll do anything. Please." Lassandra felt the pathetic plea leave her throat, formed on lips that were both foreign yet familiar, though the voice behind it sounded meek, desperate, and nothing like herself.

"Did I let you off that easy last time? Or the time before that?" He laughed. "You don't make me enough money, and as your employer, I get to decide how you make up for that. Now get on your hands and knees, or I'll paint this room red with your blood."

Lassandra panicked as an unseen object was pressed against the inside of her thigh. A chill ran through her as she realized that this object felt cold, sharp, and deadly.

A knife.

There'd never been a knife before.

Or had there? With the perception filter in place, how could she know what she'd missed before that moment?

Confused thoughts intermingled with the sobbing that now wracked her body. "Don't hurt me, please. I'll do whatever you want, okay? I need to live."

This triggered laughter so hard and so cold she feared he might accidentally cut her. "Are you serious? What could a tramp like you possibly have to live for? Honestly, if I cut your throat right now, I'd probably be doing you and the rest of the world a favor."

He grabbed her with his free hand and flipped her over. With the blade firmly pressed against her skin, he repeated his demand. "Hands and knees. Now!"

Her trembling limbs couldn't comply with his demands. She ended up on her side instead, and a flare of desperation rushed through her. Before she realized what was happening, a foot was connecting with her soft flesh.

Lassandra wanted desperately to run, to hide, to fight back, but she had no control. She found herself crawling over the edge of the bed, but the motion seemed far too slow.

_Run! Why aren't you trying to get away?_ Lassandra cried out in her mind.

Then a sharp pain, far more intense than anything she'd ever felt before, flared outward from her lower back. The slow crawl ended abruptly as she crashed to the floor in a heap. Inhuman screams tore from her throat, and she screamed along on the inside.

Help me! Get me out of here now! Help! Help! Help me!

The man was above her again, and he flipped her onto her back, covering her with the rose petals that were pooling around her on the hardwood floor. But now she knew what the rose petals represented. Blood. The thin veneer that once covered the illusion had been torn away.

"Why are you doing this?" she whimpered as the room began to blur.

"You're not worth anything to me anymore. If you don't pull your weight, why should I keep you?"

"Just let me live. _Please."_

"I'll do whatever I want with you, and you'll like it."

Though she couldn't see the knife anymore, she felt the deep sting of the blade as he opened up another laceration across her abdomen.

_You have to get out of this alive_ , Lassandra reminded herself. _She obviously did._ Yet even as she thought this, she honestly couldn't see how. No one else could hear her pleas, and this man had no trouble overpowering her. And all the while, the blood continued to flow . . .

Then, as suddenly as the nightmare started, the blurry image froze, and a moment later, blacked out entirely.

A split second later, Lassandra opened her eyes, and the frantic face of an attendant greeted her. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

Her skin was damp with sweat, and her breaths came quick and shallow. In her panic, she must have thrashed plenty, because her wrists were rubbed raw and bleeding where the straps restrained her.

"I . . . I think so," she stammered. Yet, even as she said this, the image of the man remained vivid in her mind. He'd certainly be visiting her in her dreams.

Over the course of the next hour, Lassandra and the other dreamees were assessed by an on-staff doctor. It seemed that all of the perceptual filters had failed simultaneously. She was also subjected to an abrupt reminder of the waivers she signed before immersion. When they finally told her she was free to go, she stumbled out of the building, still uncertain of her own legs.

Lassandra felt numb and hollow, as if she still inhabited a shell of a body that didn't truly belong to her. She couldn't imagine interacting with anyone at the moment, so she weaved her way behind a cluster of traumatized dreamees who'd huddled together beside the walkway.

As she made her way back to her car, she wondered where she would go. She knew only that she couldn't go home and pretend nothing had changed.

### * * *

I'll never know exactly what happened to Lassandra that day. After all, I only have third-hand reports and some limited testimony that came from her appearances at protest rallies over the following years. Still, I'm somewhat satisfied with my version of events.

I've never met Lassandra, but I feel like I can make sense of her. At least a little. I may never understand the appeal that The Dream Factory held for her in the beginning. Why would anyone want to surrender all their control and be a passenger in someone else's reality? I live that way every moment of every day. However, the horror of being trapped inside a nightmare is something I know all too well. In my narrative, we share a similar pain, the kind that would easily bond two people for life.

What I do know for certain is that she's now the leader of the same rebel group that hacked into The Dream Factory's system and caused the perception filters to fail that day. They were the ones who set Lassandra's life on its current path. Now she strives to do the same for others. It takes a lot to motivate someone to give up such a promising future, but she knows from experience the kind of motivation it takes. The kind of horror Lassandra experienced was clearly enough for her, and probably would be for many others. This knowledge is what makes her so dangerous to the powers-that-be.

My mind wanders to David as I consider what might have made him join the cause. David was also the child of an upper-tier family. He too had a promising future that he abandoned. Maybe that's why Lassandra trusts David to be her liaison. They both experienced a deep personal trauma, something that shifted their perspectives on the world forever. There are some things you never recover from.

Not that I know David's story in any real detail. Not yet. I can simply read the pain in his face. Whatever the traumatic event was, it ate away at him for a long time before he made the decision to leave his life of relative comfort behind. Medical records confirm that he underwent treatments for depression for three years. Those treatments ceased only when he left school and went underground.

His story, while interesting to me, is not in itself essential to my mission. However, it _is_ essential that TIPPIE gain his absolute trust, and that means we may well discover the truth along the way. And maybe a part of me wants to know, to see the darkest parts of his soul. I already feel like I know a fair bit about the darkest parts of Lassandra's soul, and I've never even seen her in person.

When TIPPIE turns toward the street again, a familiar figure is approaching. There's no mistaking who it is.

David has a slight, but reasonably tall, frame. He's not just slender like you might expect from someone with a high metabolism. The muscle and fat have atrophied, erased over time due to a persistent lack of proper nutrition. This sort of appearance gives him away for what he is. An outlier. Only children from the poorest of the low tier families, orphans, and people who've dodged their obligations to their government look quite like this. He probably hasn't had access to even the most basic medical care in years.

The closer he gets, the more distinctly we can see his features. He is slumped over slightly, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy, nearly shredded jeans. His black hair is unkempt, and it hangs lifelessly near his shoulders. The bones in his face are far too prominent, his pallor further enhancing his sickly appearance, but there's no mistaking that he was once quite handsome. Even if I hadn't seen confirmation through the pictures in his file, it would be obvious. His green eyes seem to leap out at us, sparking with life as he meets TIPPIE's gaze. A small, shy smile follows suit.

Warmth fills my thoughts as I watch him. Of all the people TIPPIE has interacted with, he is easily the most kind. The most gentle. I look forward to these meetings, because he is living proof of how good people can be.

At the same time, I dread these meetings, because as much as I hate it, we're destined to betray him.
II. Anything For Love

"Hey, Tips," David says softly as he slides into place on the bench beside us. His shoulder bumps ours, and I savor that innocent moment of contact. I try to imagine that, in this moment, I am merely a girl who's meeting with a boy. No hidden agendas attached.

The fantasy is quickly ruined when he leans in to kiss me.

I can't help but note the flavor of the lip balm that's been liberally applied. Cherry. An extremely artificial, almost medicinal, cherry flavor. I know that ours isn't any better. The grape flavor is just as medicinal, just as artificial. It's a constant reminder of the utility of the kiss that I'm expected to perform.

Though, I must admit, if I ignore the odd taste, the other aspects of the kiss are kind of nice. His lips are soft, and his body emits a surprising amount of warmth considering his size. I'm glad when our hands move to rest on his shoulders, increasing the amount of physical contact between us. It feels grounding, so even though I can't fully ignore the reason why we're kissing him, I can momentarily push the knowledge from the forefront of my thoughts.

To anyone who might see us, we look like two lovers stealing a private moment after curfew. Such activity carries penalties, but being arrested for having a public romantic encounter after hours would be much better than being busted for what's really going on.

When he pulls back, I feel our lips turn up in a smile. "Hey, David."

He smiles back, and I notice the way the expression translates to his eyes, lighting them from within. It's such a rare thing that I'm taken aback by it, though I know TIPPIE's face remains entirely unaffected.

Part of me grows cold as I recall that TIPPIE is working to put that light out.

"How are you?" David asks casually, leaning in close enough that we can keep up the charade.

Even though it's all supposed to be an act, I can't rid myself of the suspicion that he actually cares about TIPPIE. While some become activists to support an ideology or to feel good about themselves, David seems like the type who does what he does because he actually cares about others. Or maybe I only think so because he differs so much from the people TIPPIE generally interacts with.

It's too bad I can't answer his question. TIPPIE is in charge of that. "I'm doing all right. It helps that I had something to look forward to." The smile on our face becomes shy, and as TIPPIE leans forward slightly, our hair falls forward to obscure our eyes.

Damn, TIPPIE knows what she's doing.

David reaches out to brush it to the side. Then he pauses, his cheeks reddening as he catches himself in the act. As if he'd unexpectedly meant more by the action than his role required. He tries to school his features before completing the intended action and withdrawing his hand. "I enjoy our meetings too," he admits, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "You're easy to talk to."

That's exactly what TIPPIE wants to hear, too.

"You can talk to me about anything," she says in a gentle tone.

These are the kind of words I wish I could offer up, and it's certainly something that I would mean. _I want to know everything about you, including the things you would never tell anyone else._ I ache to vocalize this, and the inability to do so casts a shadow I can't escape.

He pauses to study our features, and I see just how exhausted he is. After a few moments, he says, "I want to believe that, and I almost do. It's just . . . life's too hard to give my trust away for free. Careless words can have dire consequences."

The passion with which he's said this, and the darkness that clouds his expression, alludes to something terrible. TIPPIE isn't discouraged, though. "I hope I can earn your trust, and I understand your hesitation. If I had a credit for every time I've been burned by someone . . . well, I'd probably be upper-tier by now. I just try to remember that if I give up, I'll be letting all those people win."

The calculation behind these words is clear to me, but David obviously hears something quite different. A shy but real smile appears. "I appreciate that. Thank you. Maybe I could come to trust you. I just need a little more time."

A tendril of fear winds its way through my thoughts. This means TIPPIE is on her way to accomplishing the mission. This is the kind of thing that makes most people happy, but I feel . . . unsettled. Uncertain.

Something that TIPPIE never feels.

Our hand is gripping his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Until next time."

"Until next time," David agrees. Then he stands and goes back the way he came, his hands once again buried in his pockets.

_Good-bye._ Such a simple, frequently uttered nicety. It would be nice to say it of my own volition.

Once he's out of sight, we're off the bench and on our way back to The Facility. As TIPPIE walks, I ponder the name. The Facility. It's a monolithic name to accompany a monolithic organization. There are installations all over the country, but they all operate under the same moniker. Under the same governmental oversight.

Rest assured, no matter where you are, you are within reach of The Facility. They've made sure of that.

The darkness swallows me as our feet descend the disused steps that lead into one of the city's many abandoned subway tunnels. Traveling underground makes it more difficult for anyone to follow, and that's the whole point. The integrity of the mission must be protected at all costs.

This particular tunnel will spit us out within a couple of blocks of our destination. Though our feet move at a steady pace through the darkness, I feel in no particular hurry to return.

### * * *

The Facility looks intimidating, as it was surely intended to be. It's a windowless, solid black structure, perfectly square in its construction. There is no entrance visible from the street. A cleverly disguised set of stairs leads to an underground entrance. This layout adds to the sense of impenetrability. My thoughts are so entwined with the meeting with David that, before I know it, TIPPIE is stepping into the basement of The Facility where a couple of lab techs are waiting. It's times like this when I wish I had the ability to roll our eyes. It isn't as if the escort is necessary. TIPPIE knows where she needs to go, and she isn't about to deviate from the plan. She _can't_ deviate from the plan.

The laboratory is so perfectly white and brightly lit that it hurts to look around after roaming the streets at night. We're soon seated in a hard plastic chair, and a young woman with a pristine lab coat and black hair pinned up in a bun approaches. She deftly runs a swab along our bottom lip, and it comes away with a large sample of the lip balm. Cherry and grape intermingled.

She strides immediately over to a computer and swipes it across a reader. The chemical signature of the lip balm we've been wearing is stored in the computer, and using that information, the computer can determine the exact composition of David's balm. Within the lip balm is a chemically encoded message. Thanks to Gabriel Pilkington, the powers-that-be already knew the code Lassandra's group was using when the mission began. Apparently he had it because the two organizations were hoping to forge some kind of alliance. This was a tricky idea, though. Sure, the various resistance groups would be stronger if they were to band together, but trust is a delicate thing, especially when your life is constantly in danger. TIPPIE is a living example as to why these people are justified in their fear. So the messages were first dropped in the form of chemical signatures left on abandoned items distributed in strategic locations. A used envelope. A lipstick tube. A napkin. Whatever items might seem innocuous enough to go unnoticed.

Having face-to-face meetings between group representatives was the next tentative step, and TIPPIE arrived on the scene in time to fill that role. A lucky break for the government. A tragically unfortunate turn of events for the resistance fighters, though they don't yet know it.

After each encounter, David walks away with false information that makes it truly look like TIPPIE is a member of the resistance. TPPIE also walks away with a message about the activities of Lassandra's group and others like them. I, the silent third party, depart with a deepening sense of apprehension.

I'm sure the information we're gathering is invaluable. It's probably going to enable our keepers to strike a devastating blow to the resistance. I, of course, will never be privy to the content of these messages. Not unless it's absolutely necessary.

TIPPIE's part for the evening done, she stands, and I'm perfectly content to be along for the ride this time. Leaving this room means it's time for bed. My dreams often allow me the kind of freedom I can scarcely begin to imagine. I love the dreams where I'm free of TIPPIE. Where I can actually control my own limbs. Where I can speak.

Sometimes I wonder if TIPPIE has her own dreams. I can't share in her thoughts, so I have no way to know for certain. Sure, I've lived in the same head with her all my life, so I can predict and interpret her actions quite well. That means I know her better than I can hope to know anyone else, but I still have a relative stranger sharing cranial space with me. Or, as seems to be more accurate most days, _I'm_ the one sharing with a stranger.

Does she feel the same way about my existence? Is she even aware of my existence at all?

This line of questioning is doing nothing to improve my mood, so I try to divert my attention to other things. This is made easier as we enter the courtyard. TIPPIE takes this route merely as a shortcut to get from one side of the building to the other. Were it up to me, I'd spend more time here.

You may be wondering why there's a courtyard here. After all, this place is sterile, bleak, and imposing. Why allow a glimpse of nature inside the heart of such a monstrosity? Well, it's simple. There's precious little of nature available here. The section of sky visible directly overhead is all we really get. Most of the courtyard is smooth concrete, except for the central garden, and the plants contained within, which are known as bleeding lilies, are not naturally occurring. Small lights run around the perimeter of the garden, bathing the horrid little plants in an artificial glow.

Our eyes pass over the still form of Kali, who is in her usual place beside the bleeding lilies. Almost everyone else who isn't working is in bed, but I have no doubt she'll be here until one of the keepers physically moves her to her room. When she wakes in the morning, she'll move to take her place once more beside the lilies.

At this moment, the lilies are at the end of their life cycle, and are lying in a red heap on the ground. The image seems fitting when compared with the lifeless look in Kali's eyes. Her wrinkled face attests to a long life filled with nothing but cruelty and hopelessness.

I know a bit of Kali's story. I know something of how the events that took place decades ago took a toll on her. At least, I know as much as I'll ever know. I've overheard her mumblings from time to time, and I've also heard snippets of conversation between keepers who were discussing her case.

Since we live in The Facility together, she knows the truth about TIPPIE. She knows quite well that TIPPIE has no interest in holding a genuine conversation with her. What she doesn't know is that I wish I could talk to her. I want to know so much more about what goes on inside her head.

Does she even know about the part of me that lies buried beneath the layers of deceit? Most likely not. Would she even care?

I'd like to think she'd sympathize, even if she's too lost within the confines of her grief to adequately express it. I'll never be certain, but I pretend that I know her all the same. I imagine that the pain we've both felt is similar and in some way links us beyond the fact that we're trapped inside these walls.

### * * *

### (2059 C.E.)

Kali approached the central garden, though she was so numb with shock, she could barely feel her legs moving. The genetically engineered bleeding lilies oozed as they neared the end of their life cycle, the red liquid standing out in stark contrast to the delicate white petals. The blood would accumulate until the weight of it flattened the flowers. By the looks of them, they'd last only to the end of the week. The blood would then act as a fertilizer, nourishing the next generation of lilies until they too met their demise.

The bleeding lilies made her uneasy, but the courtyard was the refuge that her body intuitively sought when she needed a reprieve from The Facility. She could visit this place unsupervised, and it was the only exposure to the outdoors she'd ever known.

On this particular day, the sun was high overhead, the warmth washing over her face. There was only a brief window of time where she could dwell in the fiery bliss before the walls of the building blotted it out. Sometimes she imagined that the heat of the sun could purify her by burning away the poison within.

Today, however, it felt as though nothing could ever be powerful enough to do that.

She sat on the low stone wall that formed the perimeter of the garden. The metallic scent took root in the back of her throat, drowning out the natural floral aroma that was noticeable only during the first few days of the cycle. Her stomach turned at first, but after closing her eyes and taking a few deep breaths, the nausea passed.

Then a pair of empty brown eyes flashed across the backs of her eyelids, and the nausea returned.

In spite of the ill feeling, Kali peeled back the black gloves that ended just above her elbows. Between the gloves and the long sleeves that made up her uniform, there was no chance of any skin showing during the course of a normal day.

She let the gloves fall to the ground, savoring the way the cool air felt on her pasty skin. The rubber left her fingers perpetually wrinkled by accumulated sweat. She smiled slightly as she thought of how her keepers would go pale with fear if they saw her like that. She didn't like the looks of fear she saw from others, but when it came to the people who were responsible for her pain, she'd learned to relish in it.

As her mind lingered on those unpleasant memories, and particularly on those haunting brown eyes, her fingers ghosted over her clavicle. She easily located the lump nestled beneath her skin. It was the medical port that her keepers used on a weekly basis. The device that enabled them to use her for their own purposes, just as they used all the others.

Kali dropped her hand and plucked one of the lilies. Turning her hands palm up, she let the flower rest there and watched in somber silence as the change began. The petals slowly shriveled, white turning to brown. She wouldn't normally remind herself of her poisonous nature, though it was never far from her mind. Kali's mother died of poisoning during childbirth, and she knew nothing of her father. That's how she became a ward of the state. From the beginning, she was locked away to ensure the safety of the general public. That's what her keepers claimed, anyway. The reality of it was enough to drive her mad without going out of her way to dwell on it.

However, this day was a particularly bitter one.

She'd just finished a month-long sentence in solitary confinement. She spent that entire month locked away in a cell so small she had to sleep sitting upright, except for the weekly visits to the laboratory so the techs could access the medical port and take from her the valuable poison that kept them from killing her for her disobedience. The stint in solitary was the only kind of punishment they could inflict, because that meant she was deprived of her daily visits to the courtyard. However, she hadn't actually cared, and it was all thanks to the boy with the brown eyes. His name was Henry, and he too was born to be a weapon.

Kali and Henry grew up with several others, all of them dangerous kids with no families to care for them. They all interacted on a daily basis, though most weren't anything to one another other than fellow prisoners. Everyone had their own deadly skills, and trust didn't come easy when you knew all the ways the people you lived with could kill or deceive you.

Cassie had an amazing mind. She could absorb practically any detail from any given situation, which she used to make astonishingly accurate predictions about the future. More accurate than most computers, which was good for any wartime situation. Their keepers frequently sent her away from The Facility for secret missions, during which she could be gone for weeks at a time.

John could telepathically make anyone see what he wanted them to see. Another useful skill for the keepers to exploit. He too was often deployed to perform special tasks.

Sebastian had the power of pyrokinesis. He was made to wear an amulet that kept him from using his power outside of specialized training sessions, but no safeguard made anyone feel entirely secure.

As for Kali, being the poisonous girl didn't make her a good candidate for friendship either. The rest of the kids weren't willing to risk going anywhere near her, regardless of how much skin she covered.

Henry was the exception to the rule. His skill was telekinesis, and he was transferred to The Facility when Kali was five. He'd spent the first few years of his life in a government lab, having been a ward of the state since birth. From day one, it was apparent just how strong his skills already were for someone so young. He kept to himself at first, but Kali often saw him levitating whatever objects happened to be within his reach: a spoon during mealtimes, a book during mandatory study sessions. He was young enough that their keepers weren't yet concerned about any danger he might pose.

He wasn't like Kali, who'd been fatal her whole life.

During one of her solo excursions into the courtyard, she was playing with a ragdoll she'd fashioned from an old uniform and a couple of threadbare dishrags that had been thrown out. The doll traversed the jungle of lilies in the central garden. The shoots were young and green, and the bleeding was still weeks away. Kali's doll was an explorer on a wild adventure somewhere far beyond The Facility's walls. Far beyond the reach of her keepers.

A shadow fell across the garden, plunging the doll into darkness. Startled, she whipped her head around. Henry stood there, his brown eyes curious as they observed Kali. Shocked by the unsolicited attention, she stared back for several long moments. "What do you want?" she finally asked.

He shrugged. "You looked lonely."

"I'm dangerous," she replied, raising a gloved hand. "No one can touch me, so they won't play with me."

Henry blinked, his expression calm as he considered that statement. Then, without a word of warning, he lifted her. Fully supported by some invisible hand, she rose higher and higher until he had to look up to meet her astonished gaze. "I can touch you," he said simply.

Though this wasn't the same as physical contact, it was far more than Kali had ever dared to hope for. After that first meeting, Henry and Kali were inseparable.

Around the time Henry turned thirteen, he was barred from using telekinesis outside his training sessions, so he couldn't do anything as noticeable as picking her up off the ground. Even so, Kali was stunned by some of the little gestures he managed to sneak in when no one was looking. Sometimes he'd brush her hair from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear. Other times he'd smooth the wrinkles in her shirt. Though the gestures were small, they meant far more to her than she could ever put into words. Even with the harsh reality of her captivity, those times they spent together made it feel almost tolerable. Henry was her link to something normal, the one person who made her feel like she was something resembling human.

Kali almost convinced herself that things would be fine as long as no one saw him behaving this way.

Unfortunately, their keepers saw a lot of potential in Henry, and they worked to increase his powers. He could move large objects without strain, but he could move much smaller objects too. He learned to manipulate nerves and neurons. He learned to disarm delicate components in bombs from a distance. Yet it wasn't enough. They wanted him to do more. They wanted to increase his range and boost his endurance, to see how far he could go. Henry was placed on a variety of drugs that were supposed to take his abilities to the next level. They doubled the length of time Henry spent training, and each day he returned to his bedroom utterly exhausted. The strain was visible to everyone. Dark circles formed around his eyes, and he spent much of the free time that remained him sitting in silence. The new regimen seemed to be draining the life right out of him.

Inevitably, something went wrong.

The regimen of narcotics greatly increased his potency, but it was all at the expense of control. Kali learned only a few details of what transpired, and that only came to her via whispered rumors. Three training officers were killed, and Henry suffered a wide array of injuries. Their keepers kept him isolated in the infirmary after that, and Kali immediately knew what that meant.

It wasn't easy, but Kali convinced John to help her sneak in to see Henry. There were guards posted outside his room, but John made sure they saw only an empty corridor and an undisturbed door. Kali knew that John didn't do this for her sake, as he didn't trust her any better than he would anyone else. The difference was that John felt sorry for Henry, because he knew what his fate would be. He also knew how Henry felt about Kali, and though this was an act of kindness performed for Henry's sake, Kali would forever feel a debt to him.

As she approached Henry's bed, moonlight streamed through the barred window, revealing that his eyes were open. They stared straight ahead, distant and unfocused. It didn't take a genius to see that he was heavily medicated. Kali was hovering over his bed before his gaze latched on to her face.

"Kali?" His voice sounded soft, but hopeful. He turned his head to look in her direction, though it was a slow movement.

She sat on the edge of the bed and touched his hand with her gloved one. "Yes. I'm here."

"The meds are killing me," he whispered. "I can feel it."

Her heart clenched painfully as she recognized the terrible truth in his words. If they couldn't control Henry, they would get rid of him. Tempest died the same way. She was a genetically modified fighting machine. Her physical prowess was unparalleled. She moved so fast that all you could see was a blur of red hair and pale limbs. She also had a warrior's personality. That too had been enhanced through behavioral conditioning. Unfortunately for the keepers, they'd created such a fighting spirit in Tempest that she was all but impossible to control. After she killed one of her trainers, they decided to put her down.

Henry would endure the same fate. Their keepers would hold him like this, gathering all the information they could while he died bit by bit. They'd monitor dosage, take readings, and run any other tests they could dream up. This research would help them develop a better, more effective weapon. One they hoped would be more stable, more easily manipulated.

Kali squeezed his hand, silently damning the gloves that still separated them, their keepers, and everyone else she could think of. Any words would have been inadequate, so she didn't bother with empty platitudes.

"Will you do me a favor?" he asked after a quiet moment.

"Anything." And she meant it. There would never be any justice for people like them, but she'd risk anything to give him whatever peace she could. She owed him that. He was, after all, the boy who'd first touched her. The boy who had never been afraid of what she was.

"Kiss me."

Those two simple words stunned Kali. No one would ever dare ask for such a thing. It was a fact of life as she knew it. Yet there it was. Those fateful words hung in the air between them, demanding an impossible response. "You know what that would do."

He squeezed her hand in return. "I'm going to die anyway. At least this way I'll get something I've always wanted out of the deal."

Maybe Kali should have hesitated more than she did, but she couldn't stand the thought of him dying slowly and alone. Not for _their_ benefit. She loved him too much to let that happen.

She leaned over and he embraced her, the pressure of his arms granting her a temporary reprieve from the pain. He trembled, and Kali knew he was struggling with all his might against the drugs so he could enjoy these last few moments. If she hadn't seen how difficult it was for him to get through this, she might have hesitated before she met his lips. As it was, she didn't.

She'd dreamed of kissing Henry many times, but it felt like a childish fantasy. Something she indulged in when she needed to find a bright spot in the darkness. Yet here she was, that fantasy turned to terrifying reality, and she had no idea what to do. The warmth of his lips surprised her, as well as his eagerness. Though the poison from her saliva diffused rapidly through his pores, moving relentlessly toward his heart, he kissed her back with conviction. Even with the inevitable outcome looming, he enjoyed everything he could get before the end.

The strength soon began to drain from his muscles. When his arms went slack, Kali pulled back, and his final breath caressed her face. Pressing her forehead against his, she let the loss overwhelm her. It boiled in her chest, threatening to explode. Poisonous tears landed on his cheek. She remained that way for a long time, unable to move as she sobbed quietly. Her best and only friend was gone.

There would be no more meetings by the flowers. No more conversations about how beautiful life might be if things were different. No more glimpses of light in the midst of her darkest days.

When the nurses came to check Henry in the morning, Kali was lying beside him. The light of day showed that his skin was riddled with pockmarks where her tears had eaten away at the outer layers. The tears had even wreaked havoc on Kali's tear ducts, causing them to bleed. At some point in the night, she'd discarded her gloves on the floor and taken his hands in her own. She fell asleep that way, unaware when the cold skin began to degrade beneath her touch.

In killing Henry, Kali deprived them of a valued research opportunity, but she was still useful to them in spite of her transgression. The punishment she received, which would have been torture at any other time, didn't hurt nearly as much as losing her friend.

Her mind returned to the present moment, and as she looked down at the lily again, she saw that the life in it was gone. She closed her fingers, and the petals turned to dust.

Everything Kali had ever touched died as a result. The flower. Her mother. Henry. The poison was even killing her as it built up in her system. If the excess weren't removed regularly through the port in her chest, she too would perish.

She'd always tried not to think about what her keepers did with the poison they withdrew each week. There were too many nightmares as it was.

Kali finally let the floral corpse fall to the ground. Her hands were painted red.

### * * *

We're lying in bed, and I have nothing but the darkness of closed eyelids to look upon. TIPPIE has fallen asleep before me, or is at least content to wait for sleep to come. This is not an uncommon occurrence. It's all but impossible for me to sleep until TIPPIE is done for the day. So while I wait for my own mind to wind down, my thoughts linger with Kali awhile longer.

I picture the younger Kali, the one that must have existed before the full weight of hopelessness descended upon her. She is decades older now, but I have the feeling she's been old her whole life. Her skin is wrinkled, her hair gray, her eyes sunken, but when I see her, I know her thoughts are all with Henry. She doesn't live in my time, but in the time that she shared with him. Only her body remains here most days.

I can't blame her for giving herself over to the madness. It must be easier that way.

If I could ask her one question, I think it would be this. _What does madness feel like?_

### * * *

The field is filled with blooming flowers, all brightly colored and untarnished. There are no walls, no buildings in sight. In all directions, my vision is limited only by the boundary where earth and sky meet.

" _It's beautiful here." The words come from my mouth at my command. I relish in that simple act as though it were the most precious thing in the world. Perhaps because it is._

" _Not as beautiful as you."_

I turn to acknowledge the voice, and I am greeted by the sight of David sitting beneath a tree. This isn't the David I know. This David has full cheeks and well-groomed hair. His eyes are bright. Unburdened.

" _What are we doing here?" I don't want to spoil the moment, but I need to understand. None of this makes any sense to me._

" _We came here for a picnic," he replies simply. "Doesn't that sound like a good way to spend the day?"_

For the first time, I notice a pale blue blanket spread out beside him, and a large wicker basket rests atop it.

David is right. A picnic does sound good. I can't deny that. Yet something feels odd.

After a moment of thought, I dismiss the weird feeling. Despite my reservations, I don't want to miss out on this. I settle beside him, my mouth turning up in a smile.

" _I missed you," he says, and it sounds like the most natural thing in the world._

Warmth washes over me. His words make me feel wanted, and I automatically lean in to wrap my arms around him. He returns the gesture, burying his face against my shoulder. His hair smells like apples, and I inhale deeply, allowing the scent to overwhelm me.

When he finally draws back, he opens the picnic basket, revealing an array of fresh fruits, vegetables, and sandwiches. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

I nod.

He dips his hand into the basket and plucks out a bright red ripe strawberry. I reach out to take it from him, but David has other plans. Instead, he brings it to my lips, and I barely have to lean forward to reach it. I bite into the tender flesh of the strawberry. I can scarcely recall the last time I got to taste anything that fresh, that succulent. The juice drips from the corner of my mouth, and my tongue moves to catch it.

David is faster.

The caress of his tongue is fleeting, but it's swiftly replaced by a soft kiss. He draws back only for a moment before kissing me again, this time capturing my lips. The contact makes me gasp. My eyes flutter closed, allowing me to focus on my other senses. The faintest hint of mint mingles with strawberry. There is no medicinal tang, none of the stickiness associated with lip balm. There's just bare, unadorned flesh pressed against my own.

Something powerful sweeps through my body, and I press my palms firmly against his cheeks, feeling as though I can never pull him close enough. I need to be closer, to wrap myself in this feeling. It simultaneously feels both alien and intuitive. A deep hunger is driving me. I need to fill the void inside me, the dark emptiness that has always been there, threatening to consume me until there's nothing left.

He leans away again. A silence follows that neither of us attempts to shatter. My eyes are still closed as I linger in the sensations. I want to hold on to the moment forever, but like all things, I know I have to let it go.

When I finally open my eyes, David is nowhere to be seen. The picnic basket and blanket are gone. The tree is now gnarled and dead, devoid of foliage. I scan the field, and the flowers are all wilted. They've been crushed beneath the blood that now coats everything in sight.

A strong metallic odor hangs in the air.

### * * *

TIPPIE is sitting in the cafeteria eating breakfast. The image of the blood soaked field is gone, and I know that it was all a dream. The transition to reality is too harsh to think otherwise. Not that I haven't grown accustomed to it. TIPPIE occasionally wakes up before I do. On those occasions, it takes me several moments to catch up to what's going on. And most of the time, it doesn't help that I don't want to.
III. The Burden of the Unspoken

Days of absolute tedium have passed. There's been some research to pass the time, combing over files that don't seem to contain any useful leads. I've periodically wondered about the message that the lab techs extracted from the lip balm. I've wondered about David. What is he doing right now? What does he think about?

I've also tried to forget about the horrific ending to that dream, but seeing as I've had multiple variations of that same dream over the last several days, it's been all but impossible. And given that my next meeting with David is tomorrow night, the events of my dreams are more prominent in my mind than ever before.

At the present moment, I am surrounded by blackness. It's another one of those nights where my restless thoughts won't allow me to descend into sleep. There have been far more of them lately than I care to think about. TIPPIE, unburdened by the same restlessness, seems to have been asleep since the moment she climbed into bed.

When I have nights like this, I pass the time by utilizing my overactive imagination. Granted, indulging in elaborate storytelling will not calm my thoughts, but the blackness will be overwhelming without it.

Some nights I try to visualize the lives of people I passed on the street while traveling to carry out a mission. Ordinary people leading ordinary lives. People in suits traveling to important meetings. Factory workers in dirty coveralls heading home after a long day. One young woman in particular, who walked through the street with a broken, bloodied nose, but still held her head high. I want to know how she was hurt and what gave her the strength to carry on.

On other nights I try to picture what life would have been like for Kali and Henry if The Facility never existed. I know it's a pointless exercise, and my imaginings will change nothing, but it's a nice reprieve from the bloodier parts of my existence.

David also intrudes upon my fantasies these days. Sometimes I picture him and me walking down the street in broad daylight, laughing over something trivial. Other times, I see him in a shop, or waiting for a train, and someone I do not know is there with him. There is love in his eyes when David looks at this unknown other, providing evidence of a rich life in which I play no role.

Tonight, however, is a different sort of night. While I have speculated many times on my origins, it's difficult to come up with a narrative. Maybe it's just too personal. Too painful. This time, however, my thoughts are caught up in a memory, one that I know is all too real.

We were eye-level with a wrought iron circular table outside a coffee house. A blue balloon was floating serenely beside us, anchored to the world by our tiny fist. An old man approached, concern evident in his features. He knew TIPPIE was far too young to be wandering the streets by herself, and it was almost dusk.

This mission took place years ago. TIPPIE as a young child made for the perfect bait when it came to capturing certain kinds of criminals. A large number of upper-tier children had reported being stalked by an unknown male and female. Police suspected they were from the lower-tier, but then again, the police always assumed that to be the case. The moment one of the children went missing altogether, TIPPIE was sent out in the hope of luring the pair in.

The old man that approached first didn't fit any of the descriptions authorities had been given. It's possible that he too was a predator looking for an easy target. However, it's far more likely that he was simply a kind man who was trying to help a lost little girl find her way home again.

Either way, TIPPIE decided he needed to be dealt with.

The toxin she administered acted quickly. Within moments the old man was on the ground, dead of an apparent heart attack. TIPPIE screamed and cried, giving every appearance of a distraught child who just witnessed something terrible happen to her grandfather. A man and woman quickly arrived on the scene, more than eager to look after the little girl until someone could come and get her.

I bet you can guess how things went from there. TIPPIE returned to The Facility that night and reported that the job had been done.

Tonight, I see the old man standing before me once again, alive and well and concerned for me. And yes, it's truly me that he's concerned for, because TIPPIE isn't here. I won't let her in here.

"Where do you live? Maybe I can take you home," he says.

Unlike the last time we met, I have an actual home. It's a little white house with blue shutters and a picket fence that surrounds the nicely manicured lawn. It looks like a picture in one of those government promos. The kind old man takes me back, and my parents come running out of the house. They're overjoyed to see that I made it home safe.

For some reason, though, my parents in this dream have the same faces as the man and woman TIPPIE killed on that mission. The fact that I have no clue what my birth parents looked like has left my imagination with a gap that is all too easily filled by nightmares.

Regardless of the kind of people they might have been in real life, they're good people here. They wrap their arms around me and assure me that everything is going to be all right. And here, in a home like this, that's easy enough to believe.

### * * *

I'm sitting in the laboratory. Kali is lying in a bed on the other side of the room, her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. It's time for her weekly extraction. Clear tubes reveal a pale green fluid as it drips from her and into the receptacle. The equipment used for Kali's extractions is made from special materials. Standard issue medical equipment corrodes too quickly with her.

I doubt Kali knows to this day all the ways in which the poison they extract from her flesh has been used. Not that it would make much difference for her to know at this point. It probably wouldn't help or hurt anything for her to know that TIPPIE personally infiltrated a gathering of high government officials from around the world and used that poison to assassinate the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Nor would it be purposeful to tell her that the poison has been used to execute those deemed traitors, and in some cases, the families of those alleged traitors. It all depended upon whether The Facility was currently in need of warm bodies or not.

I think of David, and I wonder what method might be used to eliminate him.

The tech standing before me begins to apply the lip balm with gloved hands, and as that awful medicinal grape coats our mouth, I can think only of one terrifying fact. I may not know how David will die, but I will without a doubt be a part of it.

### * * *

There's a heavy fog tonight, lending a damp feeling to the air, and the cool wind helps the chill settle into our bones that much faster. We're wearing a ratty black coat. There are areas where the material is too thin and the damp cold seeps through, but TIPPIE can hardly be seen walking around in a brand new coat. She is supposed to be a resistance fighter, the poorest of the poor, after all.

As TIPPIE approaches the alley, I see that David is already there. His shoulders are slumped, his head hanging low. The weight of life has settled upon him. A part of me, a surprisingly large part in fact, wishes that I could lift that burden from his shoulders.

He must hear our footsteps, because he looks up and his eyes lock with ours. _Who do you see when you look into these eyes, David? Me, or the monster?_

I think I know the answer to that question, but I wish I didn't.

Whatever he sees, he must like it, because a small but genuine smile graces his features. "Hi Tips. It's good to see you again."

I long for the field, for the picnic. For the part of it that was good before it too turned to dust.

TIPPIE reaches down to take his hand, gently pulling him to his feet. "Seeing you is the highlight of my week," she says, and the tone sounds heartfelt enough. TIPPIE is certainly a talented actress, and she seems to be taking the performance to a whole new level this evening. She pulls David in for a hug, and the way her arms easily encircle him gives me a chance to feel how physically fragile he is. If she were to squeeze him too hard, he would surely break. "You looked like you needed a hug," she whispers in his ear.

He returns the embrace, his arms providing the kind of solid contact that I've needed after a week of dreams. I want to curse TIPPIE for her manipulation, but in this instance, I can't find it in me to complain. He's real, and he's warm, and for a moment, I can almost imagine what it would be like to have someone to hold every day.

"Thank you," he whispers before letting go. He leans back, analyzing TIPPIE's expression before moving in.

Of course there was going to be a kiss. That's the main obligation. Without this, there's no exchange of information. The intermingling of medicinal flavors is still there to remind me of this fact, but something about this feels different. His hands tremble slightly as they rest against the small of our back.

_You shouldn't thank me. You should fear me._ I don't know how that thought is able to declare itself so boldly in that moment, but the truth in it is too painful. Instead of lingering on the thought, I attempt to banish it so I can lose myself in something else.

Though I can't recreate the feeling of unadorned lips that I imagined in my dreams, I can relish in the good that is undeniably here. This is made easier by the fact that TIPPIE is putting her all into this, so much so that I almost don't notice that I have no control over how our lips are moving. She's running our hands up and down his back in a decidedly seductive manner. His ribs are shockingly prominent against sensitive palms, but when his shirt slides up, the thrilling feeling of fingers ghosting over warm flesh trumps all else.

David gasps at the touch, and as his mouth opens, I get a taste of something other than lip balm. The moment is so brief that I can't even say for certain what the taste is, but I regret that it ends so abruptly.

He leans back and disentangles himself to take a seat on the bench. Technically he could be calling it a night. He's collected the data he needs. He's staying because he wants to. I'd feel touched by this gesture if I didn't understand that it's TIPPIE's manipulative tactics that have gotten us to this point. That he is not doing this for me.

TIPPIE moves to sit beside him, and she weaves our thin arm around his shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"About whatever it is that's bothering you. Your eyes look troubled," TIPPIE replies.

_How is that different from normal?_ She's not making a groundbreaking observation. Anyone could look at this emaciated young man and catch a glimpse of the broken boy hiding behind those eyes. She's just using a line that makes her sound thoughtful and intuitive, and it shouldn't bother me as much as it does. I'm accustomed to her tactics. What I'm not yet accustomed to is seeing them employed on someone like David. Someone on the bottom rung of society, and who, in spite of all that's working against him, has refused to give up.

You deserve so much better than this, David.

David finally breaks his silence with a sigh. "I don't think there's ever a time when something isn't bothering me. Right now, though, I feel like I'm betraying someone." His cheeks redden slightly, and I know he's embarrassed that he admitted this aloud.

"Who? Who could you possibly be betraying?" TIPPIE asks.

For a brief moment, I hope that maybe he's a double agent too, that he's setting TIPPIE up in the same way that she's doing to him. Though I would have to suffer through the same fate, I can't help but think it would be preferable that way.

David's shoulders are trembling, and he struggles to make eye contact, as if looking someone in the eye will give away too much. "I had this friend. He's the reason I'm doing all of this. I owe him more of a debt than I can ever repay. Any time I begin to find some kind of happiness, it ends up feeling like a betrayal."

TIPPIE clearly doesn't miss the darkness in his tone, and though I can't be certain how much she's discerned from these words, I have the feeling that there's something sheltered within them, a truth that he would do anything to protect. "What happened to him?"

Looking down at his shoes, he shakes his head adamantly. "I can't talk about that. It's too much. It's enough that I have to live with it every day. To say it out loud . . ." As he trails off, his eyes become distant, returning to a time and place that he doesn't want anyone else to see.

I try to imagine what's going through TIPPIE's twisted mind right now. She can surely smell the blood in the water. If she can get a painful personal story out of him, he'll be wrapped around her finger, and I shudder to think how she will use that power.

TIPPIE allows a moment of silence to pass before asking, "You're really doing all of this for your friend?" She sounds hesitant, almost shy.

David nods. "My best friend."

"You may not feel comfortable talking about this, but I can guess that something bad happened to him."

He nods again, quickly swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I can understand why you aren't ready to talk about the details. It's hard to talk about someone you cared for when . . . well, I think you know what I mean," TIPPIE continues in a tentative tone.

"I don't know if I ever will be ready to talk about it," he whispers. "I still have nightmares about what happened. All the time. Knowing what I did, I wonder how I can sleep at all."

An even longer silence passes between us.

I'm glad you have a choice. It may be dangerous to share too much, but you still have the option to do the stupid thing.

"Maybe it would make you feel better if you told me his name. If you're going through all this for him, you don't want his name to be forgotten."

When David lifts his head, I see tears glistening in his eyes. This last request has definitely struck a nerve deep within him. "Mitchell," he says softly, and there's tenderness in the words that I haven't heard from him before. "His name was Mitchell."

_Mitchell._ The name has a pleasant ring to it, but I'm sure the story behind that name is anything but that.

I feel our mouth opening, and I dread what TIPPIE is planning to say. However, before any words pass our lips, David is hurriedly standing up. He yanks a hand roughly through his disheveled hair, barely glancing in TIPPIE's direction before looking back at the ground.

"I'll see you later," he mumbles, and then he's walking briskly through the alley and into the street.

We watch him go. I can't know what TIPPIE is thinking. As for me, though I know it would not be good for him, I selfishly wish I could make him stay.

### * * *

We have a name. Mitchell. No last name, but TIPPIE doesn't need that much. We know David's history. From that, we know where Mitchell likely went to school. All TIPPIE needs to do is look into the records to locate a student with that name whose enrollment suddenly ended ten years ago. Simple enough.

Sitting at a small table, the surface glowing softly, our fingers deftly ghost across the keypad to access the required information. I feel a pang of guilt. There are times when I feel like I'm intruding on other people's lives. Whenever TIPPIE has to research anyone, it means that they've suffered greatly, or will soon suffer at our hands. It seems heartless to peer into the depths of that suffering, and even more so to use it against someone.

I benefit from the snooping, of course. I can feel like I know the person. I can even imagine that we're old friends who have trusted one another with our deepest, darkest secrets. I've always wanted a friend like that. One with whom I could share a bond of trust. Not one from whom TIPPIE coerced information through trickery. This desire, however, has not washed away the knowledge that these people would be horrified to know that someone like TIPPIE has access to these details about their lives.

After a few moments of sifting through files, TIPPIE locates the information concerning David's educational history. The name of his old high school leads TIPPIE to pull up an old yearbook from the public archives. I watch as the names and faces roll across the tabletop. Most of them mean nothing to me, but a sense of familiarity blooms when I recognize David's photograph.

This one is from his freshman year, which means he would have been about fifteen years old. His face is fuller, the bones covered by a healthy layer of flesh, and his hair is nicely groomed. He resembles the boy from my dreams. When this photo was taken, there was no way for anyone to guess the turn his life would take.

Who would you have been?

Records show that he started therapy not long after this photo was taken, and the traumatic event that all but tore him apart clearly hasn't happened yet. His eyes stare back at me from the screen, and they are unburdened. Hopeful. Filled with the kind of youthful optimism I have seen in others but never known myself.

I don't have much longer to think about it, because TIPPIE doesn't linger on David's image like I do. The pictures continue to slide by, until the caption beneath one of them leaps off the screen.

Mitchell Wilson.

The boy is also well groomed with perfectly trimmed brown hair, but his brown eyes certainly aren't as carefree as David's were. Sadness lurks in them. And fear. Most people who looked at this picture likely never saw beyond the controlled smile, but I see it as the veneer that it is. Something already haunted this boy, and I know TIPPIE is as drawn to this fact as I am. It holds a clue that is in some way tied to David.

Armed with a first and last name, TIPPIE sets out on a new search through The Facility's records. It doesn't take long to turn up something significant. An admissions file.

One tap of a finger, and the file is open. According to the first document we see, Mitchell became a ward of the state at age fifteen. Which means the picture I saw was taken mere weeks before he went into state custody. I'm willing to bet that David's private therapy sessions began at that same exact time.

What did you have to do with all of this, David? Did you just miss your friend, or did you play a role in his fall off the upper-tier track?

The burden of guilt David carries must have some basis in reality. He feels responsible for what happened. Whether or not he actually holds any responsibility, I cannot say.

The admission date is not the only noteworthy part of the file. The line at the bottom of the form hints at a multitude of possibilities.

" **Reason for being remanded by the state: Parental abandonment. Subject's parents officially signed away all rights as of 04/27/2085."**

Plenty of kids have ended up as a ward of the state due to parental abandonment. That's nothing new. In lower-tier families, parents may lose their jobs, and subsequently their housing. Once kids are living on the street, regardless of whether their parents are with them, they are considered abandoned and taken into custody. Or they'll occasionally sign their kids over, assuming the children will have a more stable life being raised by the government. What's strange is that it doesn't typically happen all that often with upper-tier families. Without the threat of poverty as a motivator, it makes less sense that Mitchell's family would have turned him away.

The remainder of the file fails to shed any light on the reasoning. The powers-that-be don't much care about motivation, only acquiring warm bodies. When Mitchell was admitted into state custody, they transferred him to the medical sector, and I immediately know what that means. The Facility is part of the medical sector. That's where all the experimentation happens. That's where they test cures for diseases. That's where biological weapons are tested. It's the sector responsible for creating people like TIPPIE.

Poor Mitchell. That's one of the worst places to wind up. He would have been better off being drafted directly into the military. At least he would have had a chance at a life afterwards. Not a guarantee, but a chance.

The next form documents his transfer to the Disease Research Lab a month later. If I could cringe, I would have. No one ever makes it out of there intact. Those who don't die at some point during experimentation are typically too damaged afterwards to be allowed back into society. Some of them are so brain damaged that The Dream Factory is the best they can hope for. Others are sent to labor camps, where they perform whatever menial tasks they're capable of until they drop of exhaustion. As you may guess, my imaginary audience, the government promos don't ever mention this part.

Skimming over the physician's notes, we get a fairly detailed account of Mitchell's time there. In fact, the details about his time in the Disease Research Lab make up the majority of his file. The experiments were terrible, and the medical records list every horrific side effect Mitchell endured until the end. Part of me wishes I could skip this part. There's enough horror in my life without it. My curiosity, however, will not allow me to tune out as TIPPIE continues to read.

When all is said and done, I pity Mitchell. Though I still know nothing of him as a person, I can honestly say that no one deserves what happened to him.

As TIPPIE exits out of the files, I know she's turning over the information she's gathered, quickly outlining the ways she can use it to manipulate David.

As for me, I see nothing but tragedy. Not only did Mitchell die less than a year after he became a ward of the state, his death rivaled many others in its level of gruesomeness. He was used as a test subject for a new medical treatment that hadn't yet been approved for human trials. The treatment was for an ailment he didn't originally have, but he was infected easily enough. Using wards of the state has been declared the sensible way of speeding along the process so safe cures can be made available to the general population, after all. Not that the general public knows about this. It might be a PR headache if that info were to get out.

The disease in question, a particularly virulent strain of flu that sprung up in the lower-tier sectors, had spread and become a real public concern. Meaning, of course, that they feared it would soon spread to the upper-tier sectors if it wasn't contained. People had been flooding the hospitals, dozens dying each day. Their lungs were filling with fluid, drowning them faster than the doctors could get to them. The cure tested on Mitchell had an unfortunate side effect that hadn't been anticipated. Severe hemorrhaging. It must have looked dramatic when the blood started pouring out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. He didn't die of exsanguination, though. Instead, he drowned when blood filled his lungs. Surely a nasty way to go, and not all that different than the way others were dying in the end, but a cure was perfected using the data gathered from Mitchell's case.

_At least some good came from his suffering._ I wish I could say this aloud, if only to convince myself that I should feel reassured by this. The thought alone certainly isn't enough. I can't take my mind off of Mitchell and what he might have been feeling at the end.

By that point, he was probably relieved that it was finally over.

TIPPIE stands to leave the room. It's almost time for the next meal of the day. It's dinnertime, to be specific. Not that it matters anyway. It will consist of the same fortified oatmeal that constitutes every single other meal served to us by The Facility.

The only upside of leaving The Facility for missions is getting a break from the bland food. Sometimes missions keep us away from The Facility for days. TIPPIE and I have known better food than any lower-tier person could even dream of, but those missions always end the same way. The stench of death tends to taint the culinary experience. Swedish meatballs with a side of blood just doesn't do it for me.

As we move through the food line, the plain walls of the cafeteria create a blank canvas for my thoughts. I once again see the photos of David and Mitchell. I try to imagine them standing side by side, laughing together over something silly as I've been led to believe all friends do.

### * * *

The field is the same as it was when I last left it. Drenched in blood, devoid of life. The sky above me is one solid, dark cloud that absorbs almost all of the sun's light.

I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, "David! Where are you?"

My cry echoes across the desolate landscape. The only answer I receive to my query is my own disembodied voice as it propagates through the emptiness.

" _David! Are you there?" My voice has grown even more frantic. I need to find him. Maybe if I find him, I can save him._

" _He's not here." The response sounds all too familiar. The voice is mine, but the levelness of it doesn't belong to me. Those words belong to TIPPIE, and she isn't interested in putting on an act. This is her as she truly is. Cold. Harsh. Uncaring._

" _Where did he go?" I ask, though my voice is so soft even I can scarcely hear it._

" _You know where he went," TIPPIE replies. "The same place they all go after making the mistake of trusting us." There is a brief pause, as if she's waiting for me to make the connection myself. And I do. I know her answer before she says it. "Into the ground."_

### * * *

When I wake, I'm greeted by blackness. The heart that sustains us both maintains a steady rhythm, unaffected by my nightmare.
IV. Reflections of Regret

There's a cool drizzle tonight, so TIPPIE is wearing a heavy coat. This one too is covered in holes, a few of which have been patched with faded flannel material. Frayed, faded black gloves add to the ensemble. The battered fabric shoes on our feet, which I'm guessing were red at some point in time, have soaked through completely. I try to block out the chill by focusing on the hypnotic splish-splash of our feet on the wet pavement. Strands of hair that have gone unwashed for days to maintain an appearance of homelessness are now plastered to our cold cheeks.

David is already waiting at the designated meeting place. He's leaning against the filthy brick wall, and when his eyes dart up to see TIPPIE, a surge of affection warms me. I pretend that the gentle smile gracing his features is meant only for me. It's a nice illusion, fleeting though it is.

"It's good to see you again." The tone TIPPIE uses perfectly imitates that of a nervous teenage girl.

As we draw closer, I notice the tension lines in David's expression. His hands are once again buried in his pockets, and his left foot is tapping the ground in a staccato rhythm. I doubt he's even aware he's doing it.

"It's good to see you too." The words sound conflicted, as if part of him is genuinely happy, while the other is apprehensive. That undercurrent of uncertainty matches his posture. This is the point where he would normally lean in to get the kiss out of the way. I'm waiting for him to make the move, and it seems that TIPPIE is as well. We stand there, mere inches apart, for several moments. David's eyes spend most of that time studying the pavement at our feet.

"Someone should know about him," he says at last. "He deserves that much." David looks up and meets TIPPIE's gaze. His eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "You were right when you said that I don't want his name to be forgotten. I don't want any part of him to be forgotten, but it's hard to face the truth. Mitchell suffered the way he did because I trusted the wrong people. Do you have any idea what it's like to know that you caused something terrible to happen to someone?"

Oh David, if only you knew the weight of my conscience. You wouldn't be here right now.

"I've made my share of mistakes," TIPPIE says, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Everyone has."

Mistakes? Sure, if that's what you want to call them.

"Not everyone makes mistakes that destroy lives," David replies.

There's a painful truth there. Even in this cruel world, a lucky few make it through relatively unscathed. I wish I was one of them, and for David's sake, I wish he was too.

He sits down, placing his trembling hands on his knees. "I remember the first day he didn't show up for school. I assumed he was sick or something. Or maybe . . . I didn't really worry until the third day he didn't show up. That's when I noticed that his locker had been cleaned out, and all the worst possibilities began to run through my mind. I knew for sure what I'd done when I called Mitchell's house and his mom answered the phone. The way her voice sounded when she realized who I was . . . and the things she said about Mitchell . . . her own son . . ." David shudders at the memory. "Almost no one says things like that these days. It was shocking."

I realize now just how uncomfortable he is with revealing this piece of his past. After all, he's skirting around the event, touching upon the aftermath first, which can't be easy on him either. I assume he's trying to work his way up to it, and I can only hope TIPPIE will give him the time he needs to get there.

The silence hangs over us both for a short while. It's shattered by a soft sigh. "It all started in a chemistry classroom. I wasn't even there. It's funny to think that the moment that set this whole mess in motion was one that I didn't actually see."

### * * *

The thin sheet of water covering the street is turning to ice as TIPPIE makes the journey back to The Facility. The tale that David told has ensnared me. The facial expressions, the words he emphasized, all of it paints a perfect picture of the pain he's kept locked away all this time. Never before have I been so attentive with anyone, and I'm certain I'll be able to accurately play out the details of that encounter for the rest of my life. TIPPIE is undoubtedly using them to calculate the best way to burrow even further past his defenses. She has to know she has his absolute trust by now, and that is a frightening thing.

No. I cannot afford to think like this. Worrying will fix nothing.

I too want to use this experience to know David better, though certainly not for the same purpose. At the same time, Mitchell's story intrigues me. I want to get inside his head, to understand how he felt. He's dead, so David's perspective is all I have. I picture the haunted boy I saw in the photo and I wonder how he fit into the events David recounted.

### * * *

### (2085 C.E.)

Mitchell Wilson kept to a small circle of friends. He trusted the few people he allowed to be close to him, but even then, he carefully monitored what he said and how he said it. That's because Mitchell had a secret, and it was the sort of secret his Traditionalist family would never accept. Life felt tenuous, as if his everyday existence could be snatched away at any moment. If he lost his familial support, he'd lose everything else. Mitchell might have been young, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe the government promos that touted all of the opportunities available for wards of the state. He'd do whatever it took to avoid that kind of fate.

So when his work on a series of chemistry problems was interrupted by the tell-tale click clack of high heels, he tensed slightly, prepared to go into defensive mode.

"Hi Mitch." The melodic voice belonged to none other than Celia Prendergast. She'd been making a point to talk to him a lot more often over the last couple of months.

Mitchell looked up from his open book, only briefly considering correcting her on the unwelcome shortening of his name. That might come across as rude, and he was not in the mood for a confrontation. "Hi."

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at lunch?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry. Mrs. Blackwell said I could stay to work on my assignment." Mitchell knew how that sounded, but coming across as a bookworm was the least of his concerns.

"You're so smart." When Celia said it, her words didn't sound like a thinly veiled insult. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought she sounded impressed.

"I do all right," he replied dismissively. "I have to put in a lot of time to keep my grades up." It didn't hurt that constant studying helped him keep his mind off of _other_ things.

"And you're modest too." She said it as if she were ticking off a list of desirable attributes. That thought alone froze Mitchell on the spot. Something about the way she looked at him as she spoke, the words that she chose . . .

Mitchell jumped out of the desk as his flight response kicked in. Yet Celia blocked the direct route out of the room, and zigzagging between desks would only look suspicious. Or, at the very least, downright ridiculous.

_Whatever you do, make sure she doesn't suspect anything_ , he silently instructed himself.

The end effect left Mitchell standing rigid in front of her, his hands trembling. Standard nervousness by all appearances. He could justify this response easily enough.

She didn't wait for him to say anything before she took a step forward, which suited him just fine, because his voice wasn't cooperating anyway. There was confidence in her movement, though he thought he saw signs of uncertainty flickering around the edges of her calm expression. As she closed the gap between them, she offered him a smile. "I never told you this before, but I think you're cute."

Mitchell watched in bewilderment as Celia closed her eyes and leaned in. Her blonde eyelashes fluttered rapidly against the pale skin of her cheeks, and he wondered if it was due to nervousness. He hoped so, because his own fifteen-year-old heart was threatening to hammer out of his chest and slam into the far wall.

Her nerves, of course, bore little resemblance to his own.

Clamping his eyelids shut, he waited. Moments later, the warm, slightly chapped skin of her lips made contact. When she moved her mouth against his, he awkwardly attempted to mimic her, his hands held rigidly against his sides. Her tongue darted out and trailed along his bottom lip, leaving a line of moisture behind.

First kisses were supposed to trigger butterflies. Sparks were supposed to fly. Yet he felt nothing but mechanical and out of place.

Most of the boys in school would have endured any humiliation to get a chance to kiss Celia Prendergast. His best friend David numbered among them.

_David._ Thinking of him triggered an ache deep in Mitchell's chest. Raven hair, sparkling emerald eyes, and the way the corner of his mouth quirked up when he smiled . . .

But David couldn't know. Mitchell couldn't imagine facing the world if anyone knew, particularly his parents, so he went through with the kiss he didn't want in the hope that no one would suspect the truth.

When Celia pulled away, he opened his eyes, hoping he wouldn't see the burgeoning knowledge of his secret scrawled across her face.

Her eyes didn't shine with a newfound discovery. Instead, she looked confused. "Is it supposed to feel like that?" she asked quietly, almost as if this was a private question that she didn't intend for him to answer. Apparently she hadn't felt any sparks either.

Mitchell answered anyway. "I have no idea." Then, he thought the words that he would never dream of uttering aloud. _I almost wish it was. Then that would mean there was nothing wrong with me._

Celia stared at him a few moments longer. It seemed she was grappling with a matter of dire importance. And perhaps she thought it was, though Mitchell couldn't picture any scenario in which her concerns were more pressing than his. If she thought about it hard enough, she might begin to see through him, and he had everything to lose.

She finally shrugged. "It was worth a try, anyway. I'd better get back to the cafeteria." And with that, she departed without so much as casting a parting glance in his direction.

Mitchell, still too stunned for words, simply collapsed back into his desk, the homework he'd been so focused on mere minutes before utterly forgotten.

He moved through the rest of the day in a daze. His brain simply couldn't process it. Mitchell hoped the rest of his day would be uneventful so he could begin to figure out how he would deal with Celia.

Of course, it didn't work out that way.

Perhaps having his first kiss in front of an open classroom door wasn't the smartest move. Though the hall had seemed empty enough, it would only have taken one stray student to spread the message. Or maybe Celia had told someone what happened.

Not that it mattered. The effect was the same.

The confrontation took place after school, just outside the main doors. Mitchell didn't relish in the idea of hashing this out where anyone could walk by, but his friend didn't seem to give a damn about being overheard.

"How could you? You know how I feel about her! You're supposed to be my best friend!" David buried a hand in his black hair, tugging it by the roots. In the afternoon light, his hair shone, revealing subtle shades of other colors.

Mitchell took note of that little detail to avoid looking him in the eye. He couldn't stand to face the sense of betrayal he knew he would see there. "I am . . ." he muttered lamely. His eyes were glued to the ground before his feet. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry."

"That's it?" David demanded incredulously. "Do you think that makes it feel better? You never showed any interest in her before. Everyone else drools over her, but I never imagined I would have to worry about you stabbing me in the back!"

Mitchell's heart quickened again, his gaze snapping back to David's face. His friend was too close to the truth. _Can he possibly know? Or even suspect? I've been so careful . . ._

The inspection of David's features did nothing to reveal how much he may or may not know about Mitchell's motivations. All he could see was the anger.

In his quest to protect himself, he'd ruined everything.

"I never meant to hurt you," Mitchell whispered.

"Well, you did. I hope it was worth it," David muttered. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off.

Mitchell stared at his retreating back, his pathetic reply playing over and over again in his mind. _But it wasn't. It really wasn't._

Nothing was the same after that. Suddenly, the only person with whom Mitchell entrusted his secrets, minus the one he kept from _everyone_ , wouldn't even look at him when they passed in the hall. His world felt that much less secure.

_What was I supposed to do? What could I have done differently?_ Though he already knew the answer all too well. _I shouldn't have kissed her. I should have found some other way out of it, but it's too late now._

Futile as it seemed, Mitchell tried to make peace. He called David every day for a week, only to be ignored. He tried to approach David at school when he was alone by his locker, but his former friend walked away each time.

After a few weeks, Mitchell had no choice but to accept that David was done with him. The betrayal had simply been too much. This disheartened him more than he could say. How do you properly put into words what it means to lose your best friend? However, one good thing came from the separation. The longing to touch the boy sitting beside him, that aching desire for closeness, didn't have the chance to plague him as it once did.

Then, one morning, there was a knock on the door. Mitchell, who was still in his pajamas, went to answer it. He didn't know who to expect, but he certainly didn't anticipate that familiar black hair and those piercing emerald eyes to greet him.

Mitchell stood frozen for several long moments, and David stared back silently, his hands fidgeting awkwardly. How many times had Mitchell longed to hold those hands?

_Why is he even here? He doesn't want to be here. He can't possibly want to see me._ That thought caused the ache in his chest to intensify.

When Mitchell finally managed to shatter the silence, it was with anything but eloquence. "I . . . I wasn't . . . I didn't think you'd ever come over here again. You were so angry with me."

"I think I overreacted," David admitted begrudgingly. "It may be stupid. I mean, it's obvious she never liked me. I just . . . for some reason it really bothers me that you kissed her."

Mitchell's thoughts stumbled immediately over a possible double meaning in that statement. Of course, the logical part of his mind knew what David must've meant. Even though David knew she didn't feel that way about him, it couldn't feel good to know that she was kissing someone else.

The image of David kissing some random, faceless girl made Mitchell's stomach clench in an agonizing knot. "I shouldn't have done it. I knew it wasn't . . . I didn't even . . ." Try as he might, he couldn't manage to string together a coherent response. That's because, as impossible as he knew it was, his mind was still trying to find evidence that maybe, just maybe, David was upset for an altogether different reason.

"We both made mistakes," David allowed. "My friendship with you is more important than some girl I barely know."

"I could say the same thing," Mitchell began, "but there's more to it than that." He immediately wanted to kick himself for letting that near confession slip out. Now it hung in the air between them, begging to be resolved.

David's eyebrows knitted together, illustrating his confusion. If only Mitchell could feel so confident in displaying his emotions. "What do you mean?"

The cool breeze stirred Mitchell's hair as they stood in the doorway, though the shiver that wracked his body in that moment had little to do with the temperature. He'd said too much, and there was no going back. David would never let it go.

That knowledge shifted the entire foundation of Mitchell's life in one instant. _If everything has already unraveled . . ._

Suddenly, for one blazing moment, he felt free. Before the rational part of his brain could kick in, Mitchell leaned forward and pressed his lips to his friend's.

It took Mitchell's stunned brain a few moments to catch up with his body, but as soon as it did, he was overwhelmed with sensations. Long black strands of hair were tickling his forehead. Stiff hands gripped his shoulders tightly. Though the touch indicated a number of negative things, such as shock, tension, and uncertainty, one thing stood out above all else.

David wasn't pushing him away.

Though everything about this kiss was awkward, it felt worlds different from the kiss with Celia. A bolt of excitement shot through him, his skin tingling at every point where they came into contact. Something about this kiss felt . . . _right._

Then David's grip began to relax, though the tension was still evident in every other way. Lips began to move slightly, varying pressures adding a new layer to the experience. It was still awkward, unsure, but there was also an openness. A willingness to see where this might go.

Mitchell's hands shook at his sides while a repressed urge struggled for expression. Soon they could take it no longer and found their way to David's hips. Part of him expected his friend to pull away immediately after that, but he still didn't.

Even so, the moment had to eventually come to an end.

It took a lot out of him to lean back, but Mitchell finally did it. He was terrified to open his eyes, to confront the consequences of what he'd just done, but he did.

What he saw certainly wasn't disgust, but the emotion conveyed by David's eyes wasn't encouraging either. Confusion stood out above all else. The real feelings, the genuine reaction, wouldn't come until later.

"Um . . ." David mumbled. "I need to . . . go now. There's a lot that I have to . . . think about."

"Okay," Mitchell whispered, his gaze automatically going to the floor. He tried to ignore the heat that was creeping past his cheeks to the tips of his ears as David spun away and ran out the door.

### * * *

I know nothing of the way Mitchell was taken from what had once been his home. David said he knew nothing of those events, and I saw no reason to doubt him. Mitchell's files also had nothing to say of them either. For all intents and purposes, Mitchell simply vanished, only to rematerialize in the pits of hell. Or, as they are otherwise known, state custody.

Did he cry when they took him? Did his parents, the people who delivered him into state hands, ever have a flicker of doubt about the choice they made? Did they believe the promos put out by the government where they claimed they could adequately care for wayward children? Or did they believe the horror stories that float around the world as unconfirmed rumor and decide to wash their hands of him anyway?

I am unlikely to ever know the answers to these questions. TIPPIE won't look into anything that doesn't offer her a tangible payoff in regards to the mission at hand. At least I know which questions plague David, but I don't know the answers to them any better than he does.

Thinking back on our meeting, I recall the sadness in David's eyes as he concluded the story. Tears streaked his face, and he made no attempt to hide them or wipe them away.

"The last time I ever spoke to him, I ran away from him," David had said, his voice so soft I scarcely heard it. "I spent the next couple of days wondering what I would say to him when I saw him again, but that turned out to be a waste of time."

TIPPIE peered at him, and it felt as if I could see through to his soul. The guilt had eaten away at him until only the bare bones were left. He sat, hunched over, the curve of his spine visible where his vertebrae strained against the skin. The thin material of his overly worn jacket and t-shirt did little to conceal it.

You must be cold all the time.

David wrenched his hands together. "I didn't mean for any of it to happen. I wasn't thinking about the consequences. I was young, and I didn't realize how bad things would get for him."

_You don't actually know how bad they got._ This thought was oddly bittersweet. Not for Mitchell, of course, but for David. Part of me wished I could tell him, because he deserves to know the truth. A larger part of me, however, was grateful that he doesn't know everything, and I hoped he'd never find out. It would break him. How could it not?

"How was I supposed to react to my best friend kissing me? To essentially declaring that he was willing to risk everything to know what it was like?" He shrugged. "I didn't handle it in the best way. How was I supposed to know? I only went to my mother for advice. I never dreamed that she would tell Mitchell's parents about what happened. I never thought . . . I mean, they tossed him aside as if he were less than nothing! They discarded him like trash! I'd never seen anyone do something like that before. I didn't . . . I didn't even think of that as a possibility. I knew his parents were Traditionalists and had some rigid ideas about how things should be, but I thought love went further than that."

It should, but sometimes love doesn't guarantee anything.

He laughed. It was a joyless, hollow sound. "I guess that just shows how sheltered and clueless I was."

"You were a kid," TIPPIE said. "Don't blame yourself. You never would have purposely hurt him, and you shouldn't accept blame for what others did. His parents turned him away. Not you." I eagerly awaited his response. There was a truth in those words that's seldom present in TIPPIE's speech.

"I should have known," he replied, anger seeping into his tone. "I'd heard stories about wards of the state and how they never came back. Those stories were always about people in the lower-tiers. And I knew there were bound to be a few people who wouldn't understand about Mitchell . . . I just never . . ." His voice trailed off before he continued in a whisper. "He deserved better. He deserved everything."

_Did you love him?_ I tried to discern the answer from his body language, and from the actions he'd taken thus far. He gave up everything he might have otherwise had, but perhaps he simply felt the guilt that strongly. The knowledge of the pain he inadvertently caused brought him pain in return. What was that called? Having a conscience? Having empathy?

The world could use more empathy. It needs more people like David. Yes, he made mistakes, but he's paying for them. He wants to pay for them. In that moment, I admired him for that quality, but a piece of me also despised him for it. That part of me wanted to shout. _What are you doing to yourself? You could have had such a good life! Why would you throw that away?_

"Of course he did." Though I took no part in selecting these words either, I echoed the sentiment.

David let out a long, shuddering sigh that wracked his frail body. "I took him for granted. Growing up together . . . I assumed he would always be there. He was a constant, the one I could count on when everything else was changing. I learned the hard way that nothing is constant. Nothing is safe. Not in this world of ours."

That statement is more accurate than you can even begin to imagine. You shouldn't trust me. Why in the world do you have to trust me? I'll only hurt you, just like you accidentally hurt your best friend.

Of course, I couldn't avoid the fact that it wasn't me he trusted. It was TIPPIE that he trusted, and she would be the one to hurt him. And in being forced to endure that betrayal, I will be hurt. Unfortunately, I have empathy, but it's the useless kind that will never do anybody a single ounce of good.

TIPPIE moved our hand to cover his. The warmth of his slender, gloved fingers saturated the skin as he squeezed our fingers in return. I connected with his sorrow, and with the comfort I found in the tenderness of his touch, while he connected with the façade that will use everything he's divulged against him.

"Sometimes I find myself thinking that he should have kept everything hidden," he admitted. "If Mitchell had just kept it all to himself . . . But that's the problem, isn't it? Living as a person you aren't, never being genuine, would be torture. Can you imagine it?"

_A little too well, I'm afraid._ I ached to say this aloud. I needed to explain why I understood what he said.

"I don't think it's anything you can grasp without living it." Frustration built as I listened to the engineered words coming from our mouth. There's an entire lifetime's worth of things I wish I could share with _someone_ , and right now, David is that person. If I were to ever trust anyone, it would be him.

I want him to know _me_.

"I hope you never have to live with the kind of guilt I feel," David said earnestly.

That's another hope of yours that will have to go unfulfilled.

"I could keep telling you that it wasn't your fault, but somehow I doubt you'll take it to heart," TIPPIE replied.

David hung his head. "I know what I've done. It's what I _don't_ know that kills me."

TIPPIE drew soft, soothing circles on the back of his hand with our thumb. "What is it?"

He swallowed, as if the pain were a tangible thing he could banish to the deepest recesses of his being. "I can't help but wonder what he was thinking when they took him. Did he . . . did he think I turned him in, that I purposely hurt him? Did he hate me for it? I have no idea what happened to him, but I have this nagging fear that he went to his grave thinking I betrayed him." He shook his head. "The weight of that fear is always with me. Sometimes it feels so heavy I can hardly breathe."

"I wish I could lighten your burden." TIPPIE had utilized the most sincere voice she could muster, and I was horrified to discover the prickling sensation of tears forming in our eyes.

You monster, you're pulling out all the stops this time.

David smiled through the tears. The smile was small, but it was also real. "You've lightened it more than you realize." Then he leaned in, and I prepared for the kiss I knew was coming.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the kiss that happened. David's hand cradled the back of our neck, and goose bumps formed on the skin. Soft lips, skin brushing against skin, the gentle tickle of a sigh breathed out against a receptive mouth.

For the first time in my life, TIPPIE disappeared. Though she controlled the motions, the sensations had ensnared me, shrouding me in a world of warmth and light. I was part of the kiss, and a spark of connection ignited in me. A tentative tongue brushed against my lips, seeking out my own and finding it. His hands snaked around my waist and stopped to rest on my lower back. He pulled my body into a tight embrace, and I wanted to linger there forever.

The illusion shattered as I found myself moving away from David against my will. TIPPIE. Her presence was firmly established once more, and our lips tasted strongly of cherries.

Much as I would love to linger in the memory of that moment, I must refocus my attention on the present. TIPPIE is now making her way into The Facility, heading toward the lab so she can go through the normal procedures. This time, we are alone with the lab tech who carefully scrapes David's residue from our lips.

I can't help thinking of David and Mitchell. In my personal dramatization of Mitchell's story, I never answered David's most pressing question. Did Mitchell blame him? Did he die hating the person he once loved?

My mind shies away from the question once again. It feels too raw, too personal. It feels real to me in a way I don't want to understand.

The lab tech is done with us soon enough, and TIPPIE makes her way through sterile white corridors. The fluorescent lighting here seems particularly harsh tonight, though TIPPIE does nothing to shield our eyes.

Once again, TIPPIE takes the shortcut through the courtyard. The moonlight is beginning to filter through the clouds as the icy drizzle comes to an end. Fresh green shoots mark the beginning of a new life cycle for the bleeding lilies. The blood from the last cycle has been fully absorbed into the dirt, so it looks like little more than a typical flower garden.

The moonlight illuminates a familiar figure. Kali is sprawled on the ground, her graying hair fanned out around her. Her wrinkled skin is unusually pale, the color having been leeched out of it. At a glance, she looks like a corpse, but the slight rhythmic movements of her chest indicate that her vital systems are still functioning. The question as to whether there's any life left in her is far more difficult to answer.

I wonder what Henry would have thought if he could see her now. Knowing how the guilt would plague her, would he have decided against asking her to end his life?

A surge of envy bubbles beneath the surface of my thoughts as I consider the fact that Henry was able to make such a choice. I know it isn't entirely fair of me to feel this way. It isn't as if Henry ever had a chance. Since TIPPIE never had reason to research Henry's past, I cannot be certain of the details. I only know what little I've overheard others sharing when Kali's presence puts them in the mood to gossip about her tragic story.

If the rumors are true, Henry was the result of a violent rape. His mother, being mentally unstable and unable to hold a job, submitted herself to state custody so she could have medical care. That medical care, of course, included an array of experiments that resulted in Henry's telekinetic abilities.

Yes, Henry lived his entire life under the control of The State, and he suffered plenty because of that fact. Yet even taking into account all that he could never have had, he did have something good. He loved Kali, and she loved him in return. That kind of connection can make even the most miserable of circumstances bearable.

Henry also had the freedom to seek a quick exit when the pain became too great. That option will forever elude me.
V. The Final Act

A few days have passed, and they were not entirely uneventful. During that time, TIPPIE was ordered to deliver a vial of poison into the food of Oliver Bixby. I have no clue who he was or why the powers-that-be wanted him dead. Going into this mission, we knew only that he was going to be at a particular restaurant having lunch at a particular time. The disguise TIPPIE donned included the kind of clothes that only the richest of the upper-tier could afford. Fancy burgundy pantsuit, designer high heels, and a handbag that three women and one man commented on while en route to the restaurant. Golden bracelets and rings completed the ensemble.

Getting into the restaurant proved simple enough (you can go anywhere when you look like you belong), and a quick trip past Bixby's table on the way to the restroom allowed TIPPIE to deliver the poison into his drink.

By the time we reemerged from the restroom, the job was done. Oliver Bixby was on the floor, surrounded by people, his face blue and frozen in an expression of horror. TIPPIE skirted gracefully around the action and made a smooth exit without drawing unwanted attention.

As it is with any mission, I reflexively cringe from the haunting images. I've been surrounded by death for as long as I can remember, and I still haven't become completely desensitized to it. Still, it would be a lie if I told you, my imaginary audience, that Bixby's death remains at the forefront of my thoughts. Like I said, I've seen a lot of death, and his was far from being the most gruesome.

I also didn't know him. Not even in the limited way that I can be said to know anyone. TIPPIE didn't have to do any research on him beforehand. I can tell myself that he was a violent criminal and that the world is better off without him. This may not be the case at all, but I have no evidence to the contrary. At the end of the day, I can tell myself whatever I want to about his life, and it won't change the fact that it's now over.

I linger instead on David. Though he may never know me, I know him. I can't harbor any delusions about who he is. When the time comes to finish this mission . . .

I cannot bring myself to finish that thought.

### * * *

It's been a slow day so far, so TIPPIE has spent most of the afternoon sitting in a chair staring blankly at a wall in our bedroom. You might think a day like this would be terribly dull, and it is, but at least TIPPIE isn't hurting anyone.

Uniformed guards are waiting outside our door when TIPPIE steps out to go to dinner. One of them, a young woman with short hair and a tight-lipped expression, steps out ahead of us, beckoning with a brief wave of her hand. I immediately have a bad feeling about this. This is atypical behavior, and in The Facility, atypical behavior is never a good thing. I can only conclude that an important mission is in store.

I often hear people describe the physical sensations that accompany terror, though I've never experienced them myself. TIPPIE controls this body through and through, and as far as I can tell, she's never been afraid. I suspect they programmed her without fear. If you're going to engineer the perfect living weapon, why not make sure it cares nothing for its own survival? Even so, what I do feel in my mind can hardly be anything else.

The briefing room TIPPIE enters is a black hole for the imagination. The people who designed The Facility must have had the artistic aptitude of a cactus. The solid gray walls, reminiscent of the sky on a dreary day, match the floor and ceiling. The lighting in this room seems more subdued than it does in other rooms, as if the walls absorb the light put out by the fluorescent bulbs.

I understand why this room looks the way it does. It's the same reason why the interrogation rooms look identical to the briefing rooms. People are more easily manipulated when they're emotionally drained.

TIPPIE takes a seat in one of the metallic chairs and calmly surveys our surroundings. This gives me the opportunity to take note of a few important details. First of all, Ms. Grayson is standing in the corner, arms crossed in front of her chest, utterly unmoving. She rather reminds me of a statue each time I see her. She even has a slightly grayish tinge to her complexion that suits her name well. We don't see her all that often, because as far as I can gather, she's high up in the chain of command. Lower level missions are typically delegated to her subordinates.

There are also two stacks of neatly folded clothes on the table occupying the center of the room. The clothes are clean, but definitely well-worn. One of the piles must be for TIPPIE. As for the other, I have no idea, but it can't be good.

The door opens again. Two guards step through, the naked form of a man suspended by his arms between them. His dark hair hangs in clumps around his face. I think his skin would normally be the color of caramel, but his time in custody has left him pale. He has a few light scratches on his face. Certainly not anything a casual observer would be concerned about. The rest of his body, on the other hand, is littered with welts, contusions, and deep cuts. The edges of the cuts are a raw, angry red that indicates infection. It's not surprising that those who inflicted them would be unconcerned about properly treating them afterwards.

"Mr. Pilkington, how good of you to join us." Ms. Grayson's voice adds to the chill in the room.

_Yeah, how considerate of him to come so willingly._ I wish I could speak these words, if only to have the satisfaction of infusing them with the scathing sarcasm they require.

I cannot remain with that thought for long though, because the significance of seeing Gabriel Pilkington here isn't lost on me. The time has come. This change in routine can only mean we're finishing the mission. It's the day I've been dreading most, and it angers me that I am incapable of feeling physically ill about it.

Once the door is secured, Ms. Grayson steps up to the table. "TIPPIE, as I am sure you are already aware, this is Gabriel Pilkington. He will be accompanying you tonight."

Our head moves up and down as TIPPIE scrutinizes the man in question. "Can he walk?"

Ah TIPPIE, you think in such pragmatic terms.

"We just injected him with a few stimulants," Ms. Grayson replies. "He's still too sore to perform any impressive physical feats, but they will keep him on his feet."

TIPPIE nods our head.

"The message you brought back last time proposed an important meeting. Provided the information we gave them regarding safe houses checked out, and we have no reason to doubt that it did, they want to arrange a meeting between Lassandra and Gabriel. The plan is for Gabriel to go along with you and confirm that he's ready to meet with Lassandra. You'll follow David to their preferred meeting place, and we'll track you using your locator chip. You need to keep them occupied long enough for our agents to get there. Once the rest of our people arrive, they will detain Lassandra Rourke for questioning. David has been deemed nonessential, so you'll have to eliminate him. We don't anticipate anyone else of importance being there, but even if they are, I am confident you and the rest can handle them."

My mind is stuck. While TIPPIE is surely running through tactical scenarios, I cannot move past the part where Ms. Grayson called David 'nonessential.' The very thought that such a word could apply to him is ludicrous. It's also chilling in a way that no other word has ever been. That word enables them to utilize the euphemism 'eliminate.' That word empowers the government to treat people in whatever manner it chooses. That word means I am about to be part of an atrocity that will forever haunt me in a way I've never known before.

TIPPIE moves to change into the clothes provided. She feels no embarrassment about this as others might. She strips away one layer of clothing carelessly, because for her, shedding and adding layers is equivalent to breathing. Gabriel, on the other hand, is actively covering strategic parts of his anatomy as he dresses.

Why do you feel shame about being naked? With everything else that's happened to you, it seems silly to focus on that.

That tidbit of information dangles tantalizingly in front of me, offering a clue as to who Gabriel Pilkington is as a person. However, I can't take the time to puzzle him out. Not now. Not with what's about to happen.

As TIPPIE lifts the final article of clothing from the table (a pair of faded jeans with sizable holes in the knees), a large knife is revealed. The blade is serrated, perfect for tearing flesh to inflict maximum damage.

"We wanted to give you a weapon that could be easily concealed while also playing to your strengths," Ms. Grayson says. "Given that your combat training heavily involved a wide array of knife skills, we doubt this choice will present a problem. Don't bother with the bodies of any you dispatch. We have agents assigned to disposal." She may as well be discussing the weather with a casual acquaintance for all the feeling she's imparting in her instructions.

Looking at the knife as TIPPIE wraps our slender fingers around the hilt, I know it will present no problem for her at all. Three years ago, she demonstrated her prowess by burying a knife in the heart of a woman trying to escape a raid. An illegal operation had been helping the homeless avoid becoming wards of the state through hiding them in various safe houses until they could get them new identities and travel papers so they could be smuggled across the border. The woman was clearly one of the homeless. Her clothes were in tatters, and her skeletal frame showed that she'd been on the streets for a long while. Even though she had less than nothing to call her own, I admired her. She kept going in spite of the odds against her. I don't know how she eluded authorities for so long, and if it weren't for TIPPIE's wickedly accurate throw, she may have stood a chance of finding something better for herself.

I'll never forget the crunch of fracturing bones and the sickening gurgle of bloody gasps as she clung to life.

Another victim whose name I'll never know.

Within moments, TIPPIE has tucked the weapon against our right thigh, the worn denim holding the blade flush against our skin. The hilt sticks out over the top, but the overcoat will conceal that part easily. No one would know it was there.

The chill of the metal, however, won't let me forget its presence.

Ms. Grayson gestures to the guards that brought Gabriel in. "Take him outside and wait with him until TIPPIE joins you."

The guards comply, and we look on as Gabriel is removed from the room.

As soon as he is gone, TIPPIE asks a crucial question. "How do we know he'll cooperate? He could do something stupid and try to tip someone off about what's going on."

Ms. Grayson smiles. "He'll cooperate because we have his daughter in a holding cell. He told us that he joined with the traitor scum to ensure a bright future for her. Fortunately for all involved, he recognized that, in order for that to happen, she has to _have_ a future first." She opens her palm, revealing a small black box. "It also doesn't hurt that we inserted an implant in him capable of stopping his heart, and he knows you'll activate it if he steps out of line."

TIPPIE takes the box, flipping the lid to reveal a little switch. A kill switch.

"What he _doesn't_ know," Ms. Grayson adds, "is that your orders are to dispose of him after he's served his purpose."

_What's going to happen to his daughter then?_ This is another matter I cannot afford to linger on, and it isn't as if I have no clue as to what they may do with her. Is it bad that not knowing the name or age of this faceless girl makes it easier to push her to the back of my mind?

The kill switch goes into a pocket, and within minutes, TIPPIE is rejoining Gabriel. The man is staring at his feet, his shoulders sagging as he leans against the wall for support.

"You need to look optimistic," TIPPIE orders firmly. "If you walk into the meeting like that, they'll suspect something. You know what happens then."

Of course I understand why she's being so harsh about this. It's a matter of necessity for her. Still, it feels like too much. To demand that a man on the verge of losing everything pretend to be not only unaffected, but happy . . .

At least no one can demand that I put on a cheerful face.

### * * *

The night air is actually somewhat warm this time. David waits by the bench as Gabriel and TIPPIE approach. Gabriel has been silent since leaving The Facility, but he's looking straight ahead instead of at the ground. When he sees David, he manages to offer a smile. Though the smile appears somewhat strained, it could easily be attributed to general stress or nervousness. Much to my dismay, it shouldn't be enough to alert David to a problem.

Not that David is paying all that much attention to Gabriel. His eyes only briefly acknowledge the other man before coming to rest on TIPPIE. I take advantage of the opportunity to gaze into his eyes, trying to memorize every detail, like the way flecks of brown contrast with vibrant green. "Hey, Tips. How are you doing?"

It's a simple question, one of those throwaway queries that are often made out of social obligation. Except I know he's genuinely curious about the answer. He _cares_. TIPPIE must know this as well.

"I'm feeling great now," she replies. She uses a soft but sweet tone, the kind that will make David feel special without revealing anything too personal in front of Gabriel.

The lack of medicinal balm on our lips reminds me that certain obligations have been put behind us. Yet David continues to look at TIPPIE as if she is his lifeline.

"Perhaps we should get down to business." Regardless of whatever doubts TIPPIE and I might have had, Gabriel's voice sounds calm and authoritative. Like a leader.

He won't sound that way for much longer.

David laughs. It conveys mild amusement. "You sound sure of yourself."

Gabriel quirks an eyebrow. "Is there any reason I shouldn't?"

This prompts another small laugh. "No. None at all." His eyes meet with ours once again, and I recognize a dangerous emotion brewing in their depths.

Hope.

_David, you need to run now! Get as far away from us as you can! Never look back!_ I wish I could scream at him. I'd do anything to make him go. Yet there's that selfish little part that also wants him to stay. Regrettably, that selfish part will have its wish fulfilled for at least a few more minutes.

David moves to stand beside TIPPIE and, in a decidedly bold fashion, reaches out to grasp her hand. I feel the heat from his skin, and I focus on it as if it's the most important thing in the world as our little group departs. The walk is silent. We stick to the alleyways and shadows cast by buildings. At last, we come to a stop outside a warehouse.

I recognize this warehouse. We're in Intrepid District. The name of this district is amusing to me in a dark, not-really-funny kind of way. Intrepid means to feel no fear, to be bold. Believe me, you can't be anything but bold, or desperate to the point of outright insanity, to enter this part of the city.

You see, you can buy anything here, and I'm not exaggerating about that. If you're lonely and looking for a little company, you can find it here for a decent price. Of course, some kinds of company will set you back more than others. If you're the type who'd rather keep to themselves, you can buy drugs that promise to make you feel as good as any living, breathing person can. The drugs distributed by the government to the lower-tier neighborhoods keep people docile for the most part, but the illegal stuff can actually make people feel alive for a few shining moments.

Be careful though, because while the services on sale come with their own perils, the peril of simply walking into Intrepid is almost as great. There are those who feel entitled to take what they want, regardless of any moral or ethical considerations. You may go there to satisfy a craving and end up being the one to satisfy someone else's depraved hunger pangs. And I can promise you this. Authorities will have no interest in helping you.

The powers-that-be know about this area and its reputation. They could shut it down if they cared to. People would, of course, set the entire operation up somewhere else, but that isn't even on the list of reasons for them leaving Intrepid alone. The State simply doesn't feel threatened. The people who do the kind of drugs you can get here are often dead within a couple of years, and even if they somehow hold on for longer than that, they're too broken to even believe they could improve their lives by fighting back. It's been described by many within the government as a voluntary culling. And the ones who sell their bodies . . . well, why should The State be threatened by that when they treat people with far more disregard?

Perhaps this is the perfect place for revolutionaries to gather. They're already willing to risk their lives by working against the government. Spending time in Intrepid can't be much more frightening than that.

The interior of the warehouse is dark. A fire burns in the far corner of the space. I imagine there's a handful of homeless that have made this place into a regular shelter, enduring the black market trade of sex and drugs that takes place here as a necessary evil.

Is it better to live life as a refugee in Intrepid, or would it be preferable to stop running and allow places like The Facility to control your destiny? Answer that question however you like, my dear imaginary audience, but be grateful if life never forces you to make that choice. Personally, though the dirty streets and dull, tired eyes of Intrepid are hardly appealing, these people are closer to freedom than I will ever be.

David escorts us through the musty interior to the east wall. There are several doors set into this wall at even intervals. They used to be offices, remnants of a time when this warehouse was simply a regular place of business. He opens one door to reveal a desk with a glowing electric lantern in the center, and a woman perched on the edge of a dusty chair.

The woman's features are bathed in the harsh light, which casts shadows in the wrinkles that mar her skin. Lassandra Rourke is not even all that old, but the strain of life has aged her considerably. The difference between the picture in her file and the woman before us is striking.

"Gabriel Pilkington, I presume." Her voice sounds determined. Nearly unshakeable.

"You presume correctly," he says with confidence. "I hear that you're ready to talk to me."

Lassandra nods curtly. Perhaps she has unwisely decided to let her guard down enough for a face-to-face meeting, but that by no means indicates that she's ready to be cordial.

"The two of you may wait outside," she continues, her eyes boring into David.

Does she suspect something? Or is she simply trying to get a feel for who Gabriel is?

A minute glimmer of hope reignites as I consider the possibility that Gabriel might take advantage of the opportunity and tell Lassandra the truth. Maybe they'll be able to come together and stop this whole thing. I want to believe this more than anything as David shuts the door and places a hand on our shoulder. TIPPIE returns the gesture, meeting his gaze with a soft smile. She is so good at maintaining the act that I can understand why he trusts her so much.

Is there any part of you that actually cares for him? Maybe you're just as trapped as I am. You were created to be the monster that you are, after all.

Maybe I'm grasping at straws. Maybe I want to cling to the hope that she won't go through with this. Either way, I know the answer doesn't actually matter. Even if TIPPIE has more complex feelings for David than I've been giving her credit for, she'll still complete the task as she was programmed to do. There's no reason to doubt this. The only hope I have hinges upon David running from us now, which I can't see happening, or Gabriel telling the truth. With his daughter's life on the line, that seems unlikely.

"Now that our meetings are done, do you think we could make time to see each other again?" he asks. He sounds nervous, but hopeful.

TIPPIE grasps his free hand and threads our fingers through his. "I would love that. It might not be easy . . ."

"Nothing worth doing is easy," he whispers before leaning in.

One way or another, this is the last kiss.

All I can taste is David. There's no lip balm. No medicinal tang. This must be what Mitchell got to experience for a few shining moments. I also think of Kali and Henry, both of whom knew how that kiss would end. Even as I try to savor this moment of closeness with David, I feel closer yet to Kali. She's been certifiably insane since long before I was born, but our burdens are similar.

My thoughts are waging a war. Part of me wants to direct all my attention to this final time together, to store the memory away as something to treasure. The other part wishes I had the strength to override TIPPIE. I would tell him anything, any truth or any lie, if I thought it would compel him to run.

When he pulls away, a radiant smile has overtaken his features. His eyes have a youthful spark in them, and I know the optimism he once had for life is resurging. It isn't enough to erase the pain of the last few years, but he's not broken. Beaten and bruised, yes, but not broken.

Not yet.

David opens his mouth to speak, but the sudden glare of floodlights cuts him off.

"Facilitators!" A panicked cry from the corner of the warehouse precedes the sounds of frantic footsteps. People are rushing to get outside, hands and elbows readily employed to break through the wave of human flesh in the hope of making it outside. A few of them may even make it. The Facilitators are, after all, looking specifically for Lassandra and her associates. They won't be terribly worried about a couple of drug addicts and prostitutes.

TIPPIE and David both remain frozen for a moment. He's immobilized by shock, whereas TIPPIE is searching for the right moment to make a move. His proximity is such that she can't reach for the blade without arousing suspicion, so she has to wait like a venomous snake coiled in the grass. In the meantime, she has morphed our features into a near perfect simulation of fear.

The exterior lie mirrors the fear I'm actually feeling.

David, you need to get out of here! Go!

Shadowed figures are now marching into the warehouse, and TIPPIE's superior eyes let me see that they're dressed in full riot gear. The scraping of metal on cement coming from the room behind us indicate that Gabriel and Lassandra are aware of the situation.

David throws a pained look at the door. His loyalty to Lassandra is telling him that he needs to make sure she gets to safety. Then he looks at TIPPIE, and his eyes harden with determination.

He isn't about to let TIPPIE become another Mitchell. Grabbing our arm, he yanks us into motion. "Come on! I know a way out!"

Whether it's right or wrong for David to choose her over Lassandra, it's a heart-breakingly human thing to do. It makes the urge to scream even more overwhelming. _Go! Get out of here! Why are you still looking after her?_

He's pulling TIPPIE along the wall and over to a staircase that leads to a second floor of offices. The distressed metal creaks beneath our feet, but that sound is nothing compared to the screams of those who are attempting to flee, or the sound of military boots pounding against the cement floor.

TIPPIE is keeping a vigilant eye on the action below, so we see Lassandra and Gabriel as they emerge from the meeting room. She's prepared to make a run for it, and Gabriel's expression looks conflicted. His instincts must be telling him to run, and he's torn about how to react. He thinks that he has a choice, even if he knows certain actions will lead to his death.

Our free hand moves to the pocket where the kill switch is hidden. Fingers deftly flip back the smooth lid, and a split second later, the switch is activated.

Gabriel immediately falls to his knees, his hands moving to clutch his chest. They never make it, though. His body crumples at Lassandra's feet, and she stares at him in bewilderment. Having seen no obvious reason for his sudden collapse, she's right to be stunned.

David, who is singularly focused on one goal, remains oblivious to all of this. The shouts of the Facilitators, if anything, only push him to go faster.

Perhaps TIPPIE is growing frustrated by now, being unable to complete her task as David is holding the hand she needs to reach the knife. Or perhaps she will never be anything other than calm and collected on the inside as her actions would indicate. Either way, I am grateful for every moment that stands between now and the final act.

We reach a broken window, and David starts to push us through. "I'll be right behind you," he says breathlessly.

_Why are you still looking after her? Why are you risking yourself for someone you barely know?_ I know the answer to this question, of course. David is _good_. He's everything that TIPPIE is not.

The fall through the window isn't bad. The warehouse is carved into the side of a hill, so though we're jumping from the second floor, the ground is only a couple of feet below us.

Like the trained fighter she is, TIPPIE tucks and rolls, making the brief descent without a single scratch. David, meanwhile, lands in a tangled heap. Regardless of the inelegant way he lands, he's back on his feet and pulling us behind him within seconds.

"We have to keep going," he insists. "I know a few good hiding places not far from here."

A short sprint across the grass ends in a tangle of limbs as TIPPIE stumbles. Given that she never stumbles, I know that she has done it on purpose.

Rolling into a narrow side street, we are momentarily disoriented. TIPPIE recovers first, and she's on her feet while David is struggling to get to his knees. His back is to us, and TIPPIE grasps the knife.

He's barely made it to his feet by the time our arm plunges forward. The motion is blindingly fast, and the reality of the moment hits me when I feel the resistance of flesh and bone. The blade overcomes it easily enough.

David turns now, stunned by the impact. His eyes are wide, questioning. Like he's begging for it not to be true.

When his knees give out a moment later, he falls forward, the knife handle standing prominently between his shoulder blades. David is sprawled on the concrete now, blood racing away from his limp form. Yet I know he's not dead yet, because his eyes are open, and though they look cloudy, they're locked on TIPPIE. As he lies dying, he's struggling for understanding. I can imagine the questions he must be asking himself. Why would you do this to me? How did it come to this? What did I miss?

It's not your fault, David. You didn't miss anything. We were programmed for the express purpose of deceiving people like you. And you'll never know this, but I hate what I am.

Now I fully grasp why David worried that Mitchell thought he purposely betrayed him. I can understand it, because David's eyes are boring though me with that same kind of accusation. I would do anything to be able to explain, or to apologize, or to even confess a truth that I've been shying away from this entire time.

I love him.

TIPPIE flashes him a cold grin and gives a little wave, proving in the process that this was her intention all along.

_Stop it! Just STOP IT!_ I burn to tear the flesh from my face, to strip down the exterior, so that a glimmer of me might shine though. _I'm sorry! I would have saved you if I could. But you'll never know that. The last thing you'll know of me is that I'm the one who killed you._

David blinks, the action resembling confusion, and I guess that the world is beginning to fade away from him. Or, more accurately, he's fading away from the world.

I wish I could hold his hand.

I wish I could run my fingers through his hair and whisper reassuring lies in his ear.

I wish I could take it back.

I wish I could tear The State down piece by piece and set it all ablaze.

Hell, I wish I could do something as simple as cry for him.

A last, rattling breath passes through his lips, and it's over. I can see that subtle shift as his eyes lose focus for the final time.

_Rest now, David. You did the best you could. I wish it had been enough._ The silent good-bye hangs uselessly in my mind. A red, raw hatred bubbles into my thoughts, and I wish I could explode. I suddenly hate everyone who can cast their innermost thoughts into the world, yet waste their time on empty platitudes and nasty remarks. I hate the people that made me this way. I hate everyone who has used me as a pawn in this twisted game. I want to scream at them until my throat is raw and bleeding. I want to grab them and shake them and do whatever it takes to make them ache as badly as I do.

My rage continues to bathe my world in shades of red as TIPPIE's feet carry me away from the scene. Blood. So much blood. I'm drowning in it while the rest of the world looks upon me and sees only a nonchalant grin.

Damn it all! Damn every last one of you! I hate you!

I wish that someone could at least hear me. Anyone. But no one ever will.

Something fundamental fractures within me, the anger slowly leaking out through the ruptures in my sanity. Only my brokenness can offer any kind of consolation now.

Finally engulfed in a resigned numbness, I notice a new weight settling on my shoulders. I know what it is without question. Guilt. I now carry with me the guilt that David once carried for Mitchell. That's the terrible truth of it all. The guilt never dies. It simply gets passed on. Compounded. Now the burden is mine to bear. It is a burden that I both fear and hope will crush me, like it did with Kali.

I don't think I can stand to exist for a moment longer. Not in a world like this.

TIPPIE is still walking at a measured but casual pace, making her way through the deserted streets. Meanwhile, the world seems to be spinning. I need to grab on to something, to clutch it for dear life. Everything is whirling about me so quickly that I feel like I'm going to be hurled over the edge.

The blood . . . the dirty pavement . . . the screams coming from the warehouse . . . David's pale face . . . his dead eyes staring into oblivion . . .

My tenuous grip on reality slips. I'm spinning.

The world is falling away . . .

### * * *

The blood-soaked field embraces me. It knows where I belong, and for the first time, I feel relieved to be here. I walk through it in a daze, uncertain about what I'm searching for, but my feet keep moving me inexplicably forward.

A white object, the sole clean surface in sight, catches my eye. It juts out of the ground like a fragment of bone peeking through torn flesh. I am drawn to it by a morbid curiosity. Part of me already knows what it is, but I still need to see it up close.

When I reach the object in question, I am not surprised by what I find. The tombstone is small, but it's a pure, dazzling white. There is not yet a name inscribed on its surface, but I know to whom it belongs. I sit down cross-legged, folding my hands in my lap. "I'm sorry, David." My voice comes out in a choked whisper.

" _Why are you sorry?"_

I look to my right, and David is sitting beside me. Except this time, he isn't the well-nourished, undamaged boy I've been dreaming about. He's the battered, starved young man I've been meeting with in a dirty alley. And he's covered in blood.

" _I killed you," I say simply._

He looks at me, his eyes wide as if what I've said is insane. "No, you didn't."

I shake my head adamantly. "I was there. I plunged a knife into your back. I felt it go in. I watched you die."

Now he's the one shaking his head. "It wasn't you, though. It was them. You," he says, poking my nose with his finger, "would never hurt me. We both know that."

He's right. If it were up to me, David would still be alive. I wish that meant something. "It doesn't make a difference. It doesn't change anything. You're still dead, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn't stop it."

" _It makes a difference to me," he says. He takes my clenched hands into his own and begins to stroke them._

The action should be soothing, but the remaining rational piece of my mind won't let anything go. "No it doesn't. I murdered you. You're dead, and I'm not actually talking to you right now. I'm talking to a hallucination."

David shrugs. "Does that knowledge make you feel any better?"

" _Of course not."_

" _Will hanging on to the guilt change anything?"_

" _No," I whisper. If only it would. I think I'd happily hold on to the guilt forever if I could undo it all._

" _Then what does it matter? What does it matter if I'm not the real David? You could be happier if you let all of that go."_

I look back at the tombstone, and I wonder how many more of them already litter this field. How many more will follow when all is said and done? TIPPIE will continue to do what she does best, but is it possible for me to opt out?

" _I want to let it go," I finally reply._

David smiles. "Then do it. Stay here with me."

He makes it sound so easy. Maybe it is.

I lie back, pressing my body into the bloody ground. The sky overhead is filled with wispy clouds, and I focus on them for a while. I can hear David mimic my action, and at some point, he reaches out to take my hand. I squeeze his fingers as I continue to watch the sky.

I'm not sure how long it's been when I look at David again, but everything is different. His face is full and healthy. His eyes are bright, and he's no longer covered in blood. A multitude of brightly colored flowers surround us both, standing tall and beautiful.

David is looking directly at me, and I think he has been the entire time. "Can you be happy here?" he asks.

I consider it for a moment. Maybe if I stay here long enough, I'll forget it all. Maybe if I cling to this place with everything I have, it will replace my reality.

" _I hope so."_

### # # #
About the Author

L.G. Keltner spends most of her time trying to write while also cleaning up after her crazy but wonderful kids and hanging out with her husband. Her favorite genre of all time is science fiction, and she's been trying to write novels since the age of six. Needless to say, those earliest attempts weren't all that good.

Her non-writing related hobbies include astronomy and playing Trivial Pursuit.

### Blog: http://www.lgkeltner.blogspot.com

