Education is an important concept. It starts with
one mind, spreads to another, and soon fertilizes
a whole community. Growth is essential to learning,
for mistakes are common enough to be respected.

-Handbook for the Incipiens Province School, page 1

~~~~~

Crunching leaves.

Fear.

My body being thrashed around.

Pain.

The grinding of metal.

Anger.

Sunlight blinds me, and I scrunch my face into a squinting mess, blocking the rays with my clammy hand, though it still shines through like water pouring through a broken dam.

What is this place?

I look around, attempting to collect sensory clues by sniffling to the point where I'm crazily snorting, the process burning the back of my throat.

Why are people just so much better at snorting than I am? Why can't I have a talent for it, so it at least won't hurt? Why am I even thinking about this?

There is no sign of life anywhere, not even plants. Remnants of leaves are strewn about the tan sand, though that's pretty much it, aside from pebbles, rocks, and the occasional boulder stuck in my path — and, as I squint tighter, a structure in the distance.

I slowly rise, knees shaking, and my head swims with pain, a pounding feeling erupting inside. A throbbing sensation stampedes through my whole body, throwing me off kilter.

Clang, clang, clang, clang.

Soon realizing that there's no one here, I shudder and start walking with desperation for the prospect of finding someone, or at least something. The monotonous landscape flashes through my vision, passing the same image over and over again, when in reality, the sight is always changing.

I'm insane, aren't I? That must be why I'm here.

Minutes turn to hours, and I watch as the sunlight slowly fades away from the sky, the heatwaves diminishing from view. I collapse to the ground, burying my face in the chilling sand, trying to fall into the haze of unconsciousness like I did the night before, blissful and sweet — merciful.

~~~~~

As I wander through the desolate expanse of dry, crunchy leaves and blowing sand that attacks my eyes, I start to question if there really are more Candidates around, or if this is an individual testing for a greater whole. In fact, I have no idea why I'm here in the first place, besides the oblique mention of the Evaluation.

Are they trying to kill me?

The blurred thoughts jumble through my head, electrified by the boredom that kicking stray rocks erupts.

The wind shifts slightly, leaving a cold presence in its wake. It creates a terror that could only seem childish, yet I know it left the area cooler. Eerie, sickening, suspicious.

Whatever.

I try to step forward, but cold metal presses against my neck, stopping me in my tracks. "Found you," a chilling voice whispers in my ear, making me shudder like doors through a storm.

My knees start to wobble, and my vision becomes hazy, all out of fear. It seems I do everything out of fear.

"Why the scared countenance?" he purrs, drawing the blade nearer when I flinch. "We're a team."

I can hardly concentrate with the sharp item so close to my neck. I feel my consciousness fading, about to faint. Black dots surround my view, flashing in and out in every direction.

"Then let me go," I finally demand, quite surprised at my progress.

With a second of hesitation, the boy removes the knife, and my heart-rate returns to a steady beat, though still somewhat quickened from my close encounter.

"Who are you anyway?" My forehead scrunches.

"The name's Sparrow. Peter Sparrow."

I look him up and down, taking in his figure dressed in black pants, black suspenders, and a loose white shirt. "Well I'm—"

"Florence," he deadpans.

"How'd you know?" Cocking my head, I draw in my breath.

"I know everything about you," he laughs, slipping his knife into the leather holster on his skinny right forearm — left-handed most likely — where he stores quite the array of daggers. "We all do."

What does this peasant mean? Greeting someone with a knife to the neck isn't customary, but I can dig it. If, of course, that means I can get answers, some leverage to overthrow him.

"We? What do you mean? Frankly, I'm surprised there's anyone here beside me."

Until a few minutes ago, my thoughts were that the Community placed me here alone, because I'm not adequate for their experiments. This boy can't hold me accountable for my lack of information on the subjects he's bringing up.

"Come on, the Director must've mentioned the other bloody Candidates."

"Well, yes."

Before I can clarify the circumstances, why I don't know anything, Peter concludes, "Then there you go."

"But she didn't describe them at all, not even names," I counter desperately.

Peter's condescending attitude seems to dig into me, to the part where I want to punch him in the smug face. It, of course, doesn't help with his eyebrows constantly lunging upward.

"Staring, are you?" Peter inquires, ignoring my last phrase for a chance to glorify his appearance once again for his new acquaintance.

"You're a pig." I can tell I'll be using that term fairly often.

He just laughs. "Ah, you've caught on already. Well I've been told I'm pretty handsome, on the contrary."

With his messy brown hair and tall form, I sort of agree, but I definitely don't tell him that. His otherworldly accent is cute, too, I admit inside, feeling my cheeks burn like fire; I try to hide it.

"So what have you been doing out here, Ms. Mayfield?"

I cringe at his expanse of knowledge pertaining to my life.

"I do hope dying wasn't on your agenda."

I glance all around to locate the two other Candidates, though it's improbable that they're just waiting around for us to finish our conversation.

Peter pulls a shiny green apple from his messenger bag and lifts it partway to his lips before tossing it to me. "Figured you needed it," he states plainly before prompting his question further.

"Yeah, thanks. Aside from starving, I've held myself together with quotes."

He lifts a skinny eyebrow. Once again, the eyebrows. "Quotes?"

"Yeah, from various people. I keep them stored in a mental library. You do know what a library is, right? You don't seem very book-bound." I cross my arms in satisfaction.

"Everything I say is a quote," Peter muses, a smile playing on his lips, completely ignoring my last comment like before. "You might want to write that down."

"Noted."

A pause.

"Should we find the other people?" Peter finally inquires, his mouth moving spontaneously in a mechanism of boredom.

"There are more of you?" I gasp, staring at him in shock, willing it not to be so.

"Not more of me, Florence, dear," he answers, chuckling, "though wouldn't that be great?"

One Peter Sparrow is enough, especially when they all have a plentiful amount of knifes at the ready. My neck still tickles from our last contact. Hopefully, the other Candidates aren't remotely similar to him, but I suppose we all have to be in order to be chosen.

My head slashes horizontally. "Not likely."

"So snappy you are. I don't suppose we should waste time, love." Peter takes my sweaty hand, dragging me hurriedly — he doesn't seem to care about its moist state, or maybe he just didn't notice it at all, though unlikely. Each crunch of the brown leaves that I snap as I trail behind him bursts fear in my stomach.

There used to be trees here — distantly.

"Cat's got your tongue?"

My vision snaps back to reality as Peter waves a hand in front of my face. "I'm allergic, sorry," I lie. I don't suppose it's a good idea to provide him with ammunition.
"Boo-hoo, you're no fun," he mutters, curling his lip upward distastefully. "I quite enjoy cats. Especially black ones. They remind me of outer space. And death."

I desperately want to gush about how much I, too, adore the fuzzy lumps on four legs, but I set myself up so that it'll never be an option. On the flip side, Peter's interest in cats doesn't seem so genuine, or maybe his choppy way of speaking renders him immediately fallacious.

Gazing ahead, I spot a figure, hopelessly wandering around in confusion. They don't look very oriented, like they experienced the same trauma I did when I came, just at a later time. Maybe they're just delaying. "Another Candidate?"

Perhaps this is an unfair accusation, but she doesn't have the appearance of someone I'd consider suitable for these conditions. She's small (she has noticeably nice brown skin, perhaps a descendent of an outlying continent named Africa), and her dark hair looks too neat to be roughing it out in these conditions. But who knows; she could possibly be the next warrior queen of the land.

"Yes, Florence, there are four of them." He rolls his eyes. "Let's get her, shall we?" Peter suggests, running his tongue over his lips in pleasure and ambition.

"Please don't use your knife this time." I put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Is that what you think of me?" He puts on a fake pout. "That I'd stab someone?"

I rub my neck where Peter had pressed his weapon against me, still feeling the cold mark on my skin.

Um, yeah, actually. You seem very likely to stab someone. In fact, I still feel the place where you almost slit my throat. Thanks for that, by the way.

"Hey, brunette lady, yeah, you!" Peter calls out, jogging over to the dazed girl, snapping me back to reality. It seems I have no choice to follow.

To be honest, I had wished our encounter with another human being would be more eventful — like something from a science fiction book; they're always the type that pack so much intrigue within their pages.

"How nice it is to finally meet someone," she says, excitedly shaking my moist hand. "This place is a drag. You've held up well, Peter." Her eyes flicker across her friend.

"Can't say that's exactly true."

Why is it that they know each other, but I was never told anything except for the fact that there are three other Candidates? That's implied, included in the Evaluation pamphlet. The others also know more about me than I do.

"What?" I ask.

"The weather's been having a go at me."

While it's completely accurate that the sun is plotting a revolt against our weak skin (I probably have a sunburn somewhere on me), that's not what I'm digging at.

"Not that. You guys know each other?" My eyes dart back and forth between Peter and the girl, looking for answers. They seem rather indifferent, however, only shrugging and giving me judgmental stares.

"Well yeah. We met in the Community office when we were held captive."

"As guests, Peter. As guests."

"What's the difference? They're treated the same."

The way Peter refers to the Community shocks me. Most of the people I've encountered praise it for all they think it's worth. They dismiss any ill feelings towards their government by warning them, saying they'll report them for treason. But not him. There's something different about this one.

"Peter—"

"You know it's true, Snow! The Director is your bloody mother!"

Snow.

The name brings back vivid memories of my mother — her darting across the frosty lawn, frozen water filling her shoes until she stumbles onto the ground, proceeding to take me inside to warm our toes by the sparkling fire, sipping hot cocoa and snuggling together, just watching the soft snow come down.

"She's the only one I have left," Snow says softly.

Peter's face contorts, grimacing from the hidden pain that he will no doubt keep contained. "Yeah, I've heard."

Peter sure doesn't value the government as much as I do, even though it's minimal, judging by his annoyed behavior when presented with the subject. Even when Snow tries to display a sensitive side, he shoots it down mirthlessly. Already, this Peter Sparrow fellow is turning out to be quite the character, and not the good kind.

"My dad is fighting in the war over in a rebellious outlying country," Snow tells me. "I hope every day that he will come back. But, as you can see, fate has not been very kind to me..." she trails off, leaving us to ponder her troubling matter, while Peter turns his back and continues walking.

For a couple years, there has been a grotesque war being fought in one of the dead cities left from the war almost seven decades ago. The Citizens have no idea what they're fighting for, only that it's essential they win. Men and women are being drafted by the hundreds to be slaughtered, with no one to dote on their survival, especially not the Community.

Snow and I exchanged worried looks, dashing after him. I place a hand on his shoulder as I slow, but he flicks it off with annoyance.

"Shall we explore? You know, find shelter before the evil, dark creatures come out to play and—"

"Peter, that's enough," Snow warns.

She strikes me as a mother figure, keeping Peter's foul mouth closed with a stern admonition. I can't decide whether it's because of her nature, or the fact that her actual mother is the ruler of the country, thus not paying careful attention to her daughter, but it's nevertheless conducive.

He just smirks and replies, "Then stop chatting, and maybe we can get somewhere."

"To be fair, we were all talking, including you," I offer, which earns a winning grin from Snow, but a scowl from Peter that soon molds into a smile.

In the future, I'm prepared to expect Peter tossing the blame onto other people, but the truth is I can take it. They're just words, and I can deal with bullies such as him.

"Good thing I'm not fair then, yes?" Peter's speech makes no sense — so contradictory to itself, yet no one questions it.

~~~~~

My eyes sag with tiredness as we pull along to find shelter, but Peter marches ahead, not a wrinkle in his visage. It would seem he's my superior in strength.

After walking for what seems like an eternity, a torn down city towers above us and ends the prolonged landscape we're used to.

Very few plants are scattered around, resting on the sand like a grave of someone that everyone hated, and besides that, it's almost like oblivion.

"How's this?" Peter suggests, striding over to the second skyscraper we encounter.

"Looks great!" Snow replies enthusiastically, prancing over and skimming her eyes over the messy place.

Optimism is so strange to me — realism is much more useful. Snow sees a hopeful building, while I see it how it is: an agrestic, dirty rubbish heap.

In school, the kids would argue that optimism is the most important quality of a friend, but I could tell very few of us disagreed with that statement; it's not always easy to find happiness where it does not exist.

"I'll scope it out," Snow affirms.

Rubble pours out in heaps, creating a puddle by the doorway, with planks falling loose from the sides of the walls. The furniture has been destroyed, clumps of fluff falling out from every open patch, and splintered wood threatens to stab me.

"What do you see in this place? Why couldn't you have picked the next building with better living conditions?" I complain, plopping down by the door nonetheless.

"I thought you were completely knackered," Peter snaps, raising an accusing eyebrow that makes me shift in discomfort. "The next building is probably too far for your weak knees."

Honestly, I have no idea if my clumsiness resulted in my unstable knees, or if my unstable knees resulted in my clumsiness, but either way, I'm a mess.

"How did you—" My hands fly to my knee. "Never mind."

A loud bang rings out, bouncing off the walls. Snow looks up from the woodpile with a sheepish grin. A piece falls to the ground, hitting her hand as her grand finale of destructiveness.

"I cleared out spots for you guys on the couch. I'll take the floor."

I glance at the faded, chartreuse specimen disdainfully.

"Besides, you guys can snuggle." Snow gives a suggestive wink, and Peter chokes on the air, croaking out, "I am not doing that with her."

"Will you sleep on the floor now?"

"No, the couch is mine."

By now, I've settled on the furniture, carefully avoiding getting my fingers hitched in the holes.

"Get off," Peter demands.

With a sad smile, I slowly slide off onto the floor, like a falling mass of gelatin. "I'll clear a spot for myself. Don't worry, Princess."

"Yeah." Peter brushes his clothes and tilts his chin up. "That's right."

After finding blankets in the lobby and a huge debate on sleeping arrangements, though I doubt I'll be able to get any shut-eye, Peter attempts to light a fire with the few leaves we've come across and a stray rock, bright with lichens.

"It's not bloody working!" he shrieks, pounding the ground with his fist that I notice is filled with cuts.

"Do you need—" I stop when I hear the lone bush in this barren place rattle; we had all hoped it would give fruit somehow, but it only sits there and mocks us with its perfect — but fruitless — leaves.

Getting up slowly, Peter makes his way to the leafy clump, narrowing his eyes at the vast possibilities of what could lurk behind it. A head pops out, smiling meekly, and is soon joined by the rest of the body, clad in white shorts, and a black jacket cut just low enough to reveal a t-shirt underneath, along with a pair of glasses adorning his nose and a stray scarf for accessory.

"Blimey! What are you doing?"

"This is my bush," the person states plainly.

"It's the only bush, so share."

The boy pauses, eyeing us up and down, evaluating our priorities in whatever way he can. "So you're hoping for fruit, huh?"

"Maybe," Peter replies. "How'd you know?"

"I've met people like you." The kid steps farther out from his hiding spot to join the three of us, preparing to engage in a conversation — though, the whole thing would most likely just include Peter shouting and everyone else spending their time processing his baffling words.

"Like us?" Snow pipes up, regaining her composure from the surprise. I had seen her flinch when the new visitor appeared; it apparently doesn't take much to frighten Snow.

"Yeah, ambitious people, with their ambition set in the wrong area. But that's okay; I don't expect you to know things about plants."

I raise my eyebrow at him, just like I had seen Peter do countless times in an hour, but he doesn't notice. I happen to have been the best in my division when it came to botany. I parted from that to pursue other aspirations, but the facts remained in the back of my head, as they should.

Peter scans him from head to toe, upset that he'd been outdone, and he scours the sight to arm himself with ammunition. "Who are you anyway?"

"I am called Calum Zabel." The way he says his name, his diction, suggests he's a person of science and factual knowledge, yet he likely indulges in fiction every once in a while — I find that a healthy balance.

"Ah, right. You never presented yourself much at the Banquet. You were off reading." Peter scoffs.

"Yes, that was my Encyclopedia of—"

"Great. You're sleeping on the floor."

Calum cocks his neck to the side quizzically. "But I already have a place—"

"Do you want to be left behind?"

For someone who Peter definitely regards as annoying, he sure is going to long measures to make sure Calum stays with us. He could just throw his hands in the air and declare, "Every man for himself!" but he seems insistent that we compile the most densely populated group we can find if we're going to survive this.

Calum shakes his head and sits down in the sand.

Suddenly, the tables have turned. Calum came into this fight with determination, but ended by resting in the sand, defeated and speechless.

"You kind of remind me of Florence," Peter says after a long silence of playing with our shoelaces and wishing the fire would start. "Always reading, using big words, and oh, being a complete div."

"Give me a moment to assess how paradoxical that is, will you?" Calum asks.

How does Calum know what div means? No one ever understands Peter, especially his words. Even his word placement is all right.

"How do you know so much about me?" I interject as Calum tries to explain how 'div' doesn't match up with his prior explanation of how he was always reading and using 'big words'.

Something about this doesn't add up. How does he know every bit of my life, when I didn't even acknowledge his existence until he showed up and threatened my life? And what is the Banquet? I assume it's when all the Candidates except me met, conversed, and, well, stalked my life, poring over the private information.

Wondering about if the Candidates know this much about each other, my vision averts to Calum, who is heavily concentrating on starting the fire. He seems to be on the right track, though he occasionally shakes his head in frustration. I see that he noticed me staring, and his cheeks flush slightly, he but continues his endeavor nonetheless.

Eventually, the fire bursts to life in a big, orange explosion. Calum flies back in shock, hands skidding through the sand. Smoke wafts upwards, creating flowing forms in the darkening sky.

Snow covers her mouth with a dirtied hand, stained from dust from her work with the rubble. "I've always done this around smoke, or people with cigars and cigarettes." After a hesitant smile, she continues, "I don't do it out of disrespect! No, my father taught me to always be kind. He'd say, 'Snow Leclerc, there will always be wretched people in this world, but you must show them love. It can shape the destiny of mankind."

With confusion permeating his words, Peter quips, "We really didn't need a blast from the past, Snow."

Ah, yes, the charming, young Peter Sparrow, always present to grace the world with his kind and encouraging words.

"Ugh, shut up, Peter," I bark, and for some reason, Peter is taken aback.

"I think that's very lovely," Calum chimes in innocently. "I mean, of course I prefer cold, hard facts, but..."

Snow just giggles, making Calum blush as he looks down at his lap. "Thank you, Calum," she says sweetly, which triggers an urge to pair them together and squeal about it with Peter — he's probably not a squealer though.

Calum catches that special gleam in my eye, and he shakes his head frantically, earning a playful smirk.

Peter spies the strange connection and says, "Wow, I am literally the most normal person here." He gets up from the log, blinking a couple times in surprise. "Wow."

"I really doubt that," I retort in a weak attempt to counter him, reaching my hands towards the fire to gain back the warmth snuffed out by my icy heart.

"Your accent, it's..." Calum trails off. "Where are you from?"

My stomach blooms with excitement. I've never heard anyone speak the same way Peter does — the accents from the Community are thick with boring inflection (or lack thereof) and deep tones. The sudden desire to know where he's from overwhelms me.

"Under a bridge," Peter deadpans.

I can imagine.

"Really?" Calum pries, raising an eyebrow to dig out the information that he craves; I wish I could do that with Peter. Things would be so much more elementary between us. I wouldn't have to grapple with the wall of sarcasm to get to what I need.

"Cambridge," Peter whispers hoarsely.

"What is Cambridge?" I inquire unknowingly. "Is that a dead city from the war?"

68 years ago, there was a huge world war, explosions causing mass destruction. Many lives were lost, all because an outside country desired great power; they were ruthless about it, or at least that's what school taught us. Citizens were in constant fear of being bombed, of losing their loved ones. With the bombs came absolute terror. The war wreaked havoc on everything and everyone, but then came the Community.

They rehabilitated the buildings, gave treatment for the unhealthy and injured, whether it be physical, emotional, or mental, and they made the environment beautiful, lush, green grass bordering the sidewalks and extravagantly luscious trees were planted everywhere. Overall, our quality of life drastically changed.

However, with it came great sacrifices. Most of the previous technology was lost, mostly the fairly new contraptions from the last half century. The majority of the bombs struck the government's labs, not the museums, thus losing precious information. Since then, not many inventions have been conceived.

"Don't be ridiculous, Florence. It's in England."

"England?"

I've only heard of the place once, overheard in a conversation between my parents when I was six, when I had no idea about the world around me, or absence of a world around me.

"Never mind," Peter says. "Calum understands, and he was the one to ask me."

I glance over at Calum, pleading with eye signals. He seems like the kind of person to assist people in need, though phrase it to be something that they couldn't fathom.

"England is a place in Europe. We've been blocked from all other countries, so I guess you wouldn't know."

"Impossible," I reply, furrowing my brows. "The Community is the only place. That's what we've been taught. I realize there are still some survivors, but no one is directly from there anymore...right?" At least not that I know of, besides Kalila or Pan.

It's one of the most fundamental ideals that we were educated since as early as I can remember, pounded into our minds like hammers and nails — repetitious, though nevertheless imperative.

Calum bursts out laughing, and I instantly feel ashamed. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, so I throw my eyes to the ground in dismay.

"What we were taught?" He continues to chuckle hysterically. "Those are lies, Florence — meant to keep you innocent, to stop a rebellion against our precious society. Haven't you ever seen a globe?"

"Well, yes, but it only had Community grounds..."

"The Community isn't spherical," Calum cachinnates.

"Well now she knows," Snow concludes. "Let's focus on the important things, instead of bantering like old ladies stuck to their rocking chairs."

I sigh in relief, thankful for Snow's sudden interjection.

Calum and Peter's eyes switch from me to Snow, taking a massive weight with them.

"Taking charge, eh? Impressive," Peter comments.

I've only just met this fellow, but Peter Sparrow is the rudest person I have ever had the misfortune of finding. Snow seems like the sweetest girl ever, yet he insists on tormenting her with coarse insults.

"Why don't you just shut up and get some sleep?" I suggest harshly. After a long day of walking, sleep is my main priority — besides, it provides an area where I no longer am required to listen to Peter's annoying buzzing noises that he calls words.

"Fine."

~~~~~

"I think this is the happiest moment of my life," I muse, Calum leaning on my back as I lean on his.

I've taken up the duty of introducing him to everyone, teaching him about the Dome, and even just getting to know him, but he's not unearthing much so far.

"How so?"

That's the thing about Calum: you feel like you can tell him anything and everything, because, even if he doesn't care, it looks as if he's fully invested.

"I've been working on that for two years. I better be good at it," he had told me when I cornered him about his abilities. "It's, uh, well... It's a thing I have that makes it hard for me to interact."

I smile, watching as the sunlight swims through his hair, the color of the void that he likes to cogitate in his spare time, in between sentences. Manifesting the words inside my mind before I speak them aloud, they float around in their last seconds of being intangible. "Well, ever since my parents died, I felt kind of...bored with my life, you know?"

Calum nods, though I can't tell if he actually relates, or if he's just playing the bilateral person I've discovered him to be.

"Now, I think I actually have friends that will care about me — excluding Peter, of course."

Calum laughs, pushing his glasses farther up his nose with one finger. Biting his lip, I can tell he's thinking about something else that doesn't pertain directly to our conversation, but I decide not to inquire about it — he doesn't ask questions, so I should respect his privacy as well.

"I don't suppose I appreciate that Peter fellow much, either," Calum admits shyly.

Even when Peter Sparrow, an ostentatious teenager, ridicules Snow, Calum, and me, Calum still has the courtesy to address him as a fellow and keep his true opinion hidden in case he damages Peter's precious ego.

"And what about you, Calum? What's your best moment?"

I suppose one exception to the rules won't hurt; asking questions is intriguing, primarily about Calum. Mrs. Curtis thinks it's good to think about happy memories to keep ourselves grateful — that's her exception; she doesn't like to reflect on the past usually ("It's worthless. What you need is to be hopeful for your future!")

Calum leaves me in the silence of his decisions, quietly pondering the memory he wishes to select. "The thing about saying something is the happiest moment of your life is that you're in constant fear of it changing, like you're somehow betraying your previous jovial memories. We never know when our life is going to end, when we can correctly evaluate when we truly felt the best. I'm just not ready to live in the denial that this experience wasn't truly spectacular if my opinion changes.

"It's like with choosing any favorite of yours. I tell people my favorite book is The Willow on Oak Lane, but I recently read a thrilling novel entitled The Disappearance of Agoraphobia, but I'm not sure if it's my favorite quite yet. I feel that I'm being held back by the concept that I've had so much history with The Willow on Oak Lane, so I'm torn. Maybe it's just me."

"Yeah, I suppose I understand," I chime in after he's finished.

The things Calum assesses are dazzling, breathtaking. He captures something so ordinary, then his mind morphs it to turn out as something brilliant, something no one's ever seen before, something no one can compare to.

"Obviously, you must've had a happier moment before you came here, because it's fairly recent, but you don't seem culpable about it."

"Why should I be ashamed for my ecstatic memories?"

The audacity of Calum's words is appalling, but I don't believe he intends it to sound that way. He can be oblivious to people's facial expressions as well.

"That's not what I meant," Calum amends hectically.

I've put him in an awkward position that I didn't endeavor to, but I presume I can't fix it just yet, but maybe...

"It's okay," I try. "You're completely fine." I smile in reassurance once he gives me a terrified look, like he feels that his actions haven't been fully resolved.

Calum worries so much about simple things. It must be tragically difficult to get through life inside his mind, in his perspective.

"I'm really sorry, Florence."

"It's okay. Really, you're good." I chuckle nonchalantly, though I know I shouldn't — whatever this is, it's not a joke, but I can't help myself not find his fright amusing.

That must be what it's like to have destructive anxiety — everything is horrifying, and no matter how hard you try to calm yourself down, your heart palpitations are at their peak.

"Sorry, I just make a big deal out of everything," Calum atones nervously.

"You don't need to apologize. I can understand how it is, how you are."

Fear burns in his eyes, something I hadn't meant to happen.

Did I say something? What was it?

"I sure hope you don't understand," Calum says plainly.

Calum never lets me inside himself, only locks me out with a million padlocks and a tiny peephole to sibilate small clues, only fragments. I don't understand because he won't let me. Calum doesn't recognize that I can help him, but assistance is only possible if he lends me a bit of his life.

One day, all of this will be too much. His spine will break from the weight, and there will be no turning back. But that's not my fault; it's his.

Calum needs someone to show him that he can make it through, that, even though he can't see it, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that it's not just there to render him lost. It's not there to conceal him in darkness and sing him a lullaby complimented by the ritualistic dripping noises of water leaking through the cracks. It's there to help. I'm there to help.

He stands, causing me to lean back from the lack of support. Stealing one glance at me, he walks back to our building to contemplate everything, alleviate his stress.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I suppose I have to mean it.

~~~~~

My dreams swirl around in my head after I finally fall asleep, and I'm sure I can be seen sweating or twitching if anyone's awake. Hopefully, Peter won't pester me about it in the morning, taunting me throughout the long day he has planned.

~~~~~

"I know you're upset about this."

"Why are we doing this to them? What good does it do?"

"We're helping them."

"We're taking their lives away!"

"One of them could be the best leader we've ever known."

"But what will be left of them?"

"I survived. Now she'll have to."

Florence, Florence.

The name echoes in my mind as I transport from image to image, bloody and dark, twisted by my brain.

Florence, Florence.

Stop it!

Florence.

~~~~~

I snap awake, Peter looming above me. His messy hair hangs above, blowing about in the light breeze.

"Florence. You were thrashing."

My timid eyes meet his nonchalant ones, my gaze shaking like my body. "Bad dream," I whisper, hands struggling to push myself off the floor, scattered with broken glass and dust.

"Care to spill the juicy details?" Peter rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward as his pupils dilate, though I can't recognize whether he's adept at faking human expression, or if he has genuine interest.

"Sorry, I don't think your weak brain would be able to handle it."

Peter scowls, remembering his similar comment yesterday. "Doesn't matter anyway."

"Keep telling yourself that," I insist. "It's cute to see you in denial."

"Florence, you are quite the—" Peter is interrupted by a loud crash sounding from the edge of the room.

Calum looks up, eyes wide, the suspect of the crime, with rubble pressed to the other side of the wall from his plans.

"Thank goodness you're here, Calum; this evil troll was getting on my nerves."

"Why are you such a jerk all the time, Peter? For once, can you be nice?" Calum begs, sliding his glasses onto his pale face.

Peter narrows his eyes in confusion. "What does nice mean?"

Groaning in distaste, I storm out of the wrecked lobby, and I'm soon greeted by a blast of gusty wind, blowing my hair back from my face. A figure catches my eye beside the building, and I stroll over to investigate.

It seems to be a doll-like figure, but it lacks a full head of hair, and it possesses the body shape of that of a squash. He wears a blue, striped covering on a tan form, with square eyes that rest on white, diamond shaped backgrounds. The wind has beaten it up, and some stuffing falls out in clumps, though the whiteness has been dulled by the infiltrating sand. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen.

"Can we name it Giuseppe?" Peter suggests, now creeping up on me from behind. His warm breath lurks on the back of my neck, alerting my hair to stand straight.

"We are not keeping this thing."

"I don't think a work of art such as this should be wasted. We must bring it back to the Community for a museum display." Peter nods in agreement with himself. "We'd be helping everyone."

"To be honest, it's terrifying," I counter, collecting the doll and turning it around in my hands to examine it further.

It looks like something out of nightmares. Giuseppe, scaring children since...whenever it was made. What kind of deranged child would create such a monster? Was it deliberate, or were they terrible at art like most other small humans?

"You gave me more incentive to hoard it."

"But, I—"

"I thank you for your cooperation." Peter snatches the doll from me, cradling it in his arms. "Oh, my baby, let's go scare people."

Dread twists and turns in my stomach as I fear what he's about to do next. Will he slap people with it? Will he bury it under the couch? Will he stuff it up his shirt and retreat to a cave for nine months? Only time can tell.

With that, Peter saunters away to show Giuseppe to Snow and Calum, whatever his intentions may be. I watch him leave, a deranged expression plastered to my face.

A distorted cry fills the empty space, and I find myself chuckling at Peter's antics.

"His name is Giuseppe, guys!" is the loudest thing I've ever heard from a human being — should I expect more from Mr. Sparrow?

"Uh, yes, Peter, that's a very beautiful name." Snow, always so kind.

"I know," he replies, getting in Snow's face. "Come to the baby shower."

Isn't the baby shower for mothers celebrating their new children? Is Peter a mother now? I feel like I missed something.

"I have plans," she gulps, eyes expanding from the close contact. No one has plans here, though, only to rot away.

"Clear your calendar. I know you want to come." Peter winks and strays over to Calum for a moment, but he mostly alternates between the two other Candidates. "Giuseppe, our dark king!"

By now, I've made my way to the doorframe, leaning against it as I watch Peter's ideas unfold. In truth, his liveliness is refreshing, a reprieve from the sand that threatens to swallow us whole each time we walk outside.

"Is he okay?" Calum whispers to me, creeping away from Peter, who is now performing incredibly active dance moves with his newest friend.

"Not entirely sure."

"Snow, you shall be a servant to Giuseppe!" I hear from the back of the room, accompanied by a peculiar shrieking noise.

"It really didn't take him that long to let go of all of his rationality. In fact, about huit heur trente-et-un," Calum notes. It sounds like gibberish when it comes out of his mouth, so I automatically assume it's foreign, based off of the things Calum seems to be interested in.

"What language is that?" I decide to ask, however.

"French." After a blank expression from me, he adds, "From France. It's a European country. I took the liberty of exploring the culture of many different places."

"And you were allowed to do that?"

"Who said I originate from the Community?"

I've never seen anyone, besides Pan and Kalila, who's not from here... They're extremely rare to find, considering the war destroyed most places, and if not, the Community blocked them from us.

"Do you miss your home? Both of them?"

"Eh, not really," Calum replies. "It gets on my nerves that I'm forced to count the sidewalk tiles in public in the Community since I moved, but here, I don't have to do that, because we are swimming in a river of sand, though, truth be told, I hate the feeling of those over glorified specks of rocks."

Concern spreads across my face like the disgusting mayonnaise that Pan insists is supposed to be slathered across sandwiches. "What?"

After a shy smile, he clarifies, "Yeah, I hate sand."

"No, not that. The tile counting."

"It's, um," Calum starts, looking down at his fidgeting hands, "it's what you might call a nervous twitch, derived from — never mind."

"What were you going to say?"

Calum doesn't answer straight away, rather looking me straight in the eyes, fear dancing across his face.

I'm sorry, I try to say, but nothing comes out. I know I've offended him, though I don't clearly know how; I just do, which is more than most people can promise. I merely conclude that I should never ask him about his home again, rather wait for it to come up in conversation.

His fingers continue to move frantically around, perhaps out of habit. When they brush against each other, Calum flinches in surprise, even if it was evident that they would do such things.

Through my undeveloped skills (or lack thereof), I deduce weakly that he has some sort of imperfection in his body, mental most likely, because of the tile counting. I shouldn't be so judgmental, though. I won't assume anything quite yet.

Then why is he so adept at everything he encounters? He seems fine, but...that's how neglect is triggered. Stop thinking like that.

Calum proceeds to squish his fingers down by forcefully slipping them in his torn pockets. "I know what you're thinking."

My vision averts to Peter, where he's marching about in circles around Snow, who's giggling uncontrollably, yet not willing him to stop.

"I know you think I'm abnormal. The simple truth is that I'm not particularly equipped to handle social situations."

"You seem just fine."

"This was just lucky. First impressions are my forte. I'm set on the fact that I'll die in here, so I might as well become comfortable with you all anyway."

My stomach becomes uneasy, so I change the subject quickly. "So how have you been handling your life?" I say, attempting to create a safe environment through what Mrs. Curtis would call "a conversation starter".

He seems to be taken aback by my presumptuous comment, and I instantly regret uttering it, sucking in my breath. "Well I didn't think I was that reliant on people," he scoffs. "As you've no doubt discovered, people aren't all what they seem, and you can depend on yourself as much as possible; you're better off that way. Therefore, if there's any issue with me acting the way I do, I suggest you purge the thought."

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap. I screwed up. I screwed up so bad.

Quickly, I try to think of something to respond with, tapping my foot twice before an idea pops into my head, though not much of a quip, but I'll have to use whatever I can. "That took a lot of bravery. I guess you could say you're the next king of the jungle."

"Florence Victoria Mayfield—"

~~~~~

A/N: I was so tempted to make the war 69 years prior but this is supposed to be sophisticated this isn't fanfiction thsiisntfnfajfiction

also giuseppe is a real thing but I'm pretty sure my friend's mom is hoarding him in her bedroom bc she's the only one who thinks he's cute

but he's legit caused us to lose friends I kid u not

~Dakota