The lights are dancing, back and forth, and back and forth; shadow-patterns on the wall, glowing with light, growing with it, and then shrinking back again into darkness: an erotic dance, a fusing of light and shadow. Somewhere in the room, in the places where light never plunges quite far enough to reach, humans are mirroring the shadow dance. Yin and yang meeting in a soft clash of flesh and shadow, ignored except by each other.

People are laughing, strange laughs, dark ones, brought one by drink and pala. They talk, drunkenly or intelligently, but their talk is always obscured by that of those near them, until no one can hear because everyone is trying to hear themselves. Identity is lost in the fog of everyone else's voices.

The lights are dancing (back and forth) and the people are laughing (strange laughs, dark ones) and she is watching, letting her identity be swallowed up by the talk, though not the drink, and feeling in her gut that something is not right. She needs air; she needs escape; she's just not sure whether or not she wants it. Would it not be better to sit here, captured, and suffocate amongst all these Friends, than be all alone in the dark of the night, and breathe solitary air? She doesn't think so, but she's not sure whether she really doesn't think so or not. Her head spins. Maybe she should try some of that drink after all, or at least some pala. "A pinch of pala a day means your mind will not stray." But it's straying now, and she very nearly likes it, though not quite.

She feels asphyxiated and dizzy, looks for something to hold onto and finds nothing except her table, and she thinks that that's too dirty to touch. Or is it she that's too dirty to touch the table?

"My name is Mouse." There. Something to keep hold of. She says it again, softly. Her name. But perhaps she should leave off the 'her' part? After all, every two-hundred and thirty-eighth child is named Mouse. It's nothing to be proud of. Names don't mean anything anyway; right?

She coughs, long and hard, trying to clear the smoky air from her lungs, and then looks up, eyes bleary. He's walking in the entrance, and people turn to look. People can't help but look, the way he walks. Long strides, purposeful. And the way he holds himself! Straight up and down, defiant; he's like an arrow drawn in a bow, about to be released.

If it wasn't for that, he wouldn't be anything. Another voice, obscured by the rest. Another face, seen, registered, forgotten. If it wasn't for that. It's not as if he's much to look at. Scrawny: long arms, long legs, but small despite it. Plain face balanced precariously on a thin neck. Hair dyed the required black, cut to the required length (she finds herself running a hand through her own customary locks). The issued clothes hang off of his body in a way that suggests he may be even scrawnier than he looks.

But the way he carries himself! And there's a look in his eyes too, (strange eyes they are, an odd, pale shade of grey) a look that she can't quite put words to...

"Path!" His name is whispered, escaping her lips before she can think to call it back. She stares at him for a moment, pleading with him to look at her, catch her gaze, but then she looks down again, afraid of attracting attention. Despite her prior reservations, she finds herself clutching the edge of the table, so tightly that her knuckles have turned white.

A tingle runs down her spine.

She releases her grip, slowly, and glances up again, to find him looking at her. He finds her eyes (mud brown, common) and gives her one of his smiles. His smiles are always strange things, as if he's found something, some mysterious truth that she doesn't know or doesn't know she knows. This time there's an air of sadness behind that smile, behind his pale eyes. She feels a sudden wave of nausea run through her body. The feeling in her gut is back.

Still, she gives him a half-hearted smile of her own, and tilts her head slightly. (Come over here.)

He bites his lip (the mysterious, sad smile still lying across his face) and looks down at the floor, imperceptibly shaking his head. He walks away.

She feels bile rising in her throat; her stomach muscles clench and relax. She feels...well...she can't quite put words to it. She supposes she feels afraid.

Path is walking over to the bar, keeping that swagger in his step, but she can see that his shoulders are taught. There is a muscle working in his jaw beneath that confident, strong smile. She struggles to breathe. He's afraid too, though of what, she doesn't know.

And then he's sitting down, calmly, beside one of the Rank. The man's big (big enough to appear monstrous next to Path's small frame) though there's a softness to his bulk. His skin is slightly red, and a glistening sheen of sweat hovers over his face; his eyes are unfocused in the manner of those who have had too much drink. She struggles to remember his name...Gap, perhaps? (Every two-hundred and thirty-eighth child...)

And now her stomach is tightening again, as Path leans over and mutters something to the Rank.

Gap (is that his name?) has a strange, unfocused expression on his face and replies, lips moving slowly and deliberately. She struggles to hear, but his voice is swallowed up (identity lost in the fog).

Path is talking again, quickly, as if reciting a speech practiced again and again. He's looking down, respectful, but she can see his face. The smile is gone, thin features sneering. (The smile is gone).

Gap is starting to get up, spitting out words as if they are not worth keeping in his mouth. His dull eyes have grown angry. Path reaches up, as if to keep him in his seat, aggressively. He says a few more words, nimble hand not quite grabbing Gap's collar. His pale eyes are wild, triumphant. (The smile is gone).

Now Gap brings his hand into a fist, and her eyes grow wide, and she's screaming, a quiet little drowning scream, swallowed up by everyone else's drowning voices. She's screaming, as Path's head jerks back on his thin neck from the impact. She's screaming as he falls out of his seat, a limp thing on the floor, and then gets up, and swings at Gap.

People are coming, pairs falling out of dark nooks, pulling things back on, rushing over to see what's going on. People are laughing (strange laughs, dark ones), and flickering lights throw their shadows onto the wall.

They're crowding over, seeing what crazy bastard would seek a fight with a Rank. She stays where she is, screaming a quiet little scream.

Gap punches him; he shakes his head to clear it and starts forward again, gets rewarded with another blow. He staggers backwards, into the crowd, which hisses, and (as one, identity lost in the fog) pushes him back. He stands there, alone, in front of the bigger man, trying hard to hold himself up straight (an arrow), defiant. He sways, though, and seems dazed, and with good reason. His mouth bleeds freely, poinsettia-red dripping down his chin onto his shirt. He curls his hand into a fist and tries again. The blow glances off Gap's shoulder, and soon Path is lying on the floor again, struggling to his feet.

He tries to get up, blinking dizzily in the flickering lights (back and forth). A foot kicks his stomach, and he's bent over, coughing in a pathetic way that makes Mouse want to vomit. She can't see him anymore, the many shadows of the crowd cover her view, but she can hear the sounds of the fight.

He pulls himself up, somehow, again, and stands there, hands by his sides, waiting for the blows that he knows will come. Instead there is a hand at his throat, lifting him up bodily and shoving him against a wall. His head cracks against it, sickeningly, and he stops clawing (in vain) at the hands, instead staring dumbly about the room.

Mouse stands up, walks forward as if in a daze, into the crowd of people, until she comes across a Guard. She feels small next to him, his uniformed bulk. She taps on his elbow.

"Won't you stop them?"

"That fellow probably started it. He's getting what he deserves. Must be an idiot to pick a fight with a Rank anyway."

“Yes.” Her voice is quiet. “Yes, I suppose he must be.”

One of the hands pinning Path to the wall is taken away, and the blows begin to fall. Raining down on his upraised face, two punches to the head, one to the stomach, two to the head...Mouse sees a boot connect with his knee and looks away, whimpering. She hears another smack of fist hitting flesh, and then a low moan that she knows is Path. Despite herself, she looks. He's limp, standing up only because of the hand at his throat keeping him there. Gap is standing over him, disgust and sweat mingling over his face. He hits him again (for good measure, perhaps?) and then tosses him away from him, like a limp toy that he has grown tired of playing with. Path crashes into a group of tables, sending drinks flying in a shower of broken glass. Fireflies glinting in the flickering light (back and forth) before falling to the floor, tinkling softly in a chorus of broken wind chimes. Gap stands there, breathing heavily, before heading over to the bar again.

The crowd begins to disperse, their lust for violence satisfied. They know the ending to a fight when they see it.

When they've more or less trickled away, Mouse creeps over to the group of tables, bending down tenderly to see Path, lying on the floor. He's breathing quickly, she thinks at first, but then she realizes that no, he's laughing. Quick, quiet animal laughs (strange laughs, dark ones) that are wild and panicked.

"Shh..." She leans over him, turning him gingerly onto his back. She seems afraid that he might break, like a china doll; just shatter into a million pieces, and never be put back together. On his back, looking up at her, he looks a bit like one. His face is pale, almost white, but the blood around his mouth is red-red, standing out against the bloodless skin. His eyes (pale eyes) focus after a second, onto her face.

"Mouse." He says her name as if it's a fact, dignified as anything. There's not a tremor in his voice. Then he laughs again. The lights are flickering (back and forth), shadows couple in dance over his prone body.

In that second, she feels calm; not nauseous or dizzy, just...calm, lucid. Everything seems to be in focus (the blood around his mouth is red-red). His smile is back, that mysterious smile, out of place on his beaten face.

"Excuse me, Friend." The Guard pushes her gently out of the way, bending down businesslike over Path. "You are hereby in the captivity of the State, for instigating violence in a public setting. You will be taken to the offices of..."

"Wait." Mouse is speaking. She can't believe she's speaking to one of the Guard, like this. Everything in her goes against it. She feels the muscles in her stomach clenching. "He's hurt. You can't take him like this."

The Guard raises his eyebrow. "Friend, do you know this man?"

"No...I just...I mean..." She's foundering; searching for a handhold (my name is mouse.). Where has that clearness of a minute ago gone? She looks down. "We're not supposed to pass by a Friend in need. He may be a criminal, but he's still a part of the Community, isn't he?" She thinks she's playing the part of a confused, naive Friend well. Then she looks up and sees that both Path and the Guard look vaguely amused.

"Mmm-hmm. Well then. What do you propose we do?"

"Umm...I suppose I could take him to my quarters and clean him up a bit?"

"And I suppose I come and get this villain in a couple of hours?" She shrugs, nodding in the tiniest way.

"Well then," he says again. "And what if I write you up for obstructing justice?"

"Oh Friend..." she begins, "Surely you wouldn't..."

He holds up a hand, silently silencing her. "I might not, if you give me something I want." She looks up, expectantly, and suddenly finds his hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, another on her side, further up. His face is close to hers, and then their lips meet, suddenly, firmly, before she has a chance to react. She stays stiff, frightened, feeling her lips part of their own will for him. She feels sick. He stays there for a long minute before pulling away, leaving her breathless and panicked. He straightens.

"So where should I come to pick him up?" She's gaping at him, breathless. Her throat doesn't seem to be working. Path supplies the words for her.

"Southeast coumpound. 625." Path's voice is hoarse, and the Guard gives him a look before replying.

"The fellow's yours for two hours. Maybe he'll get you to loosen up more than I could." And before she has the chance to protest, he is walking away. She can still taste him on her lips, smoke and something metallic and traces of pala.

She turns around on her haunches. Path's looking at her with an amused look in his eye.

"Shut up. I got you an extra couple of hours out of prison, didn't I?"

"Against your will, perhaps. That was funny. You should do that again sometime."

If he wasn't already bleeding, she would have hit him. As it is, she just sighs and pulls him up into a sitting position. She looks around, but the fight is already forgotten. Other entertainment has been found. "Can you walk?"

He winces. "Maybe."

"Well, let's get you out of here, then."



The streets are ablaze with light, colorful signs garishly chasing away the darkness of the outside. They are funny lights, though, almost dark themselves; bright enough to outshine the moon, but not quite so bright as to...replace it. Not quite bright enough to look innocent. Shadowlights, she calls them, for the shadowpeople; the Friends of the day who do everything for the community turn into these men and women of darkness who do as much as they can for themselves. They litter the streets and pala-bars, unrecognizable in the shadowlight, all with the same black hair and issued clothes, all drowning in pala and drink and sex. Then, back to the people of the day, model Friends. Something about it makes a strange feeling in her chest, an itch that she can't scratch without tearing herself apart.

She supports him down the street (his knee is starting to swell) letting him lean on her, using her as a crutch. She is afraid of being seen, of being questioned; of having to kiss another Guard with the taste of pala on his lips. None of the shadowpeople pay any attention to them though. Sometimes she can't help but look at them, at two respected people with most of their clothes off on top of each other at the mouth of an alley. Path rolls his eyes and winces (his knee is starting to swell), but she can't help but look.

They stop at the main plaza, in front of the Ranks' Offices. He tries to turn, face her, but he can't support himself and ends up just leaning slightly away from her, looking at her face. She keeps an arm under him, still afraid that he'll shatter. She's never been very strong, but he's light, not difficult to support.

"We can talk here."

"And what's wrong with my quarters?"

"They'll be listening. Everyone knows they love to listen where you think you're safe."

"The Guard?"

"Naturally, and the Rank."

"And what makes you think they won't be listening here?"

He smiles. "They will. They'll listen, they just won't be able to hear anything. Everyone's talking here. Our voices will just be another part of the crowd." (Identitiy lost in the fog)

She nods in understanding, then bits her lip and shakes her head. "No."

His smile is still there, but inside, she knows he's gaping, perhaps even a little angry. "Don't you want to know? Don't you want to know why I did it?"

"You need to get cleaned up first."

"But we might not have another chance--"

"I don't care why you did it!" She feels like crying all of a sudden. "I don't care. You did it, and now you need medical attention, and the Guard won't give you that when they take you. We're going to my quarters."

He shakes his head, but now his smile is genuine. He shifts on his good leg, and they start off again.

Through the shadowmaze they go, through the shadowlights. This foil to their orderly daytime world. Still, the chaos here seems to be controlled chaos somehow, in a way she can't put her finger on.

Now they're there, at her compound, and she's helping him stumble up the stairs. He's silent, but the pain is evident on his face (his knee is starting to swell). Up the stairs, past other pairs, shrouded in the darkness, connecting. Up to her quarters, where he leans, quiet, against a wall as she finds her key, and opens the door to her room.

Then they're in, and she rushes off to get some soap and cloth and water, and something for the pain, and something to wrap his knee in. He has collapsed onto her bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply. His face is starting to swell, eyes sealing up, the skin around them turning a mottled purple. His hair, on the back of his head is matted with blood, sticky with it. He's getting it on her bedspread. His mouth is still red, flowing with the stuff. Red-red.

He always had liked the color red.



She stole out of her guardians' quarters, quiet and watchful, eyes (mud-brown, common) wide in her small face. Children never minded their guardians much, but she still felt dirty, somehow, sneaking out like that.

The sky was dark, the shining dark of dawn. It was one of those in-between times, where the world seems to hover between light and darkness, not able to make up its mind. In the not-quite  light of the early morning, everything was bleached of color; she found herself feeling as if she was seeing everything through a haze, a haze of nothingness. No light, no darkness, and it was the absence of both that made everything seem dreamlike and empty.

She felt at home in the emptiness, in the obscurity. She had never been anything special; a face easily forgotten. Cautious, downcast eyes beneath straight brows; an unremarkable nose; lips that were never quite smiling, but not frowning either. Another pale face beneath short, dark hair.

She crept out of the compound, out onto the empty streets (no light, no darkness). Only a solitary Guard prowled, catlike, along the avenue. His eyes were wary, but she was small-framed, and an expert at not being noticed. Not moving too fast, or too slow, she walked quietly along the side of the street, beside the mirrored walls of office compounds. Her head was held up, for once, eyes focused straight ahead of her as if she had a clear destination.

The Guard's eyes skipped over her, noticing her for a second, and then moving on. She was probably a child sent out by her guardian to ask for more rations, though the chance of her getting them was unlikely. For a second he entertained the thought that she was nervous in the early morning emptiness (he thought he had seen her quivering a bit), and felt safer because he was standing there, an emblem of the Community, a Friend watching over Friends.

The day was just making up its mind when she reached the Wall. There was a little more light, a little less darkness; not much, but enough to tip the scales, to get out of the fuzzy emptiness of dawn. The Wall itself was the same as always, a huge expanse of white stone, stretching up until it seemed to blend with the brightening sky. It also stretched out, along the sides of the compounds, seemingly going on forever. She knew, from looking at maps of their town, that in a way, it did. It circled them, thicker than she was tall, taller than twenty of her, forming an endless ring that protected them from the outside.

She felt a twinge in her stomach, looking at it. The whiteness winked at her, in the gathering light, in a way that seemed almost malevolent.

She heard a sound, a low whistle coming from one of the government buildings. She balled her small hands into fists to stop them from trembling, and walked over, slowly and purposefully.

He peeked out at her from the shadows, grinning in that way that only he could grin. His pale face was flushed, eyes wide and excited. He was breathing hard, but in a happy, exhilarated way that made her nervous.

"Mouse! I knew you'd come. Hurry on, or we'll be late."

She opened her mouth, to voice reservations or fears or questions, but then thought better of it and followed him through the quiet streets.

He led her along the Wall, staying quiet and close to her, protectively. She felt a thrill run through her body, not because they were sneaking about, avoiding guards, but because of something else. Something she couldn't quite name. He glanced back at her, making sure that she was following behind, making sure that she was safe, pale eyes actually holding a trace of worry. She felt the thrill run through her body again.

He took her to the tallest building in town. A group of laborers had been cleaning windows on the upper stories, and the scaffolding was still there, awkward and spindly (an out of place spider). It looked like some giant, skinny monster trying to hide in the early morning darkness, hugging up against the side of the building as if it could blend into it and not be seen in a hide-and-seek game of enormous proportions.

"Ready?" He was grinning again, one of his funny smiles that made him look like he was on the verge of laughing at a joke that she wouldn't understand, and was only holding back because it was the polite thing to do. She looked at him questioningly, and then her eyes widened as he nimbly started crawling up the scaffolding.

"Path!" She scream-whispered his name, afraid that the Guard would hear. He turned, winked, and motioned for her to follow, then continued climbing upwards, mounting the monster. He was fast, rapidly shrinking in the growing light.

"Path..." She felt herself beginning to giggle at him, a tiny, nervous laugh. Little daredevil. For some reason, she suddenly felt like crying.

She looked upwards again; he'd stopped, looking down at her expectantly, and still grinning. Taking a deep breath, she put a hand on the scaffolding, and let it lie there a moment, before hoisting herself up and beginning to climb (little daredevil).

It was still dark, and there was a morning chill in the air, making her fingers stiff as she grabbed the rungs of the ladder that the laborers used. Hand over hand over hand. Hand over hand over hand. Don't look down, at the empty streets far below. Don't look straight, at the empty air behind the solid ladder. Don't look up...at what? Path? For some reason she couldn't bring herself to look at him, at his small body, suspended above her. (a thrill) So where to look? How to get up?

She tried not looking at all, closing her eyes, but that made her even more scared. So, terrified, she climbed mechanically (little daredevil. hand over hand over hand), concentrating on her own hands. Small things they were, pudgy still with the remains of baby fat. The only two things that kept her from falling down to the street that she was refusing to look at.

"Mouse." The ladder had ended. Nothing more to climb (hand over hand over hand). There was a platform there, holding the laborers cleaning supplies. Path stood on it; his head cocked and mouth smiling. "C'mon." She got off the ladder, onto the platform, almost afraid that it would be too flimsy to hold their weight. The monster held firm though, for all its awkward appearance. Path sat down, his back against the window, and motioned her over.

"Look."

The sky was red, through the always-gray of the sky, burning it a deep scarlett. She was seeing over the wall for the first time, but she ignored the earth outside. She had eyes only for the sky.

She sank down next to Path, feeling the warmth of his small body rushing out to meet her. For a minute, even the sky was forgotten, as she allowed herself to relax beside his warmth. The sun rose higher, spreading the redness through the heavens, warm blood through silver bandages. It was such a pretty color, not the gray of buildings or clothing, nor the black of hair. It wasn't even the white of the Wall, the green of the carefully pruned trees outside of the Offices of the Rank. It was the red of blood, but somehow that didn't scare her as it should have. Instead it brought to mind something, more idea than object, which made her feel as if she had that sunrise all wrapped inside of her, trying to get out.

She glanced over at Path. His face was rosy from the sunlight, glowing and happy, and she knew what it was that the red made her think of. She allowed herself a small, secretive smile, feeling proud of herself, before remembering Path's face and realizing that he knew it too. (a thrill).

She snuggled closer to him; he tensed, and then relaxed again, moving closer as well. His breathing grew soft and deep, and she could hear his heartbeat in her ear, a slow, steady beat, keeping time to this place where time had slowed down. She let her eyes close, and found that the red still hovered there, beneath her closed lids. She smiled, and fell asleep against his warm body.



Now, she rolls up his trouser leg, looks at his swollen knee, and chokes back the feeling at the back of her throat. She glances up at his bloody face; his eyes are open, only barely through the swelling, looking up at nothing at all. His head's still bleeding, the warm blood seeping through bandages (the sun's redness through the always-gray of the sky.).

She wishes she had never heard of the color red. (She wishes she had stayed away from Path like they'd told her too.)

She gives a guilty start at that. Of course she doesn't wish that. But in her heart, she knows she does. It's what she's supposed to wish; it's what's expected. It would be better for the Community if Path didn't exist, if one day he just faded out, leaving nothing but a spot of bright color and a warm place in the back of her skull. It's a black mark on her, to be this close to him. He's only a step away from the villains in the picture shows that they watch once a week. Always, in the picture, there's someone undermining the spirit of the Community, starting fights and saying things he's not supposed to say. Always, there's some young, good, law-abiding Friend who tells the Guard about trouble-starter, and the handsome, selfless captain of the Guard who heads out with a small party to capture the evil-doer. There's always a tremendous fight, during which one of the good Friends dies, though everyone cheers anyway, because he's died a hero of the Community. And then they finally kill the bad person (no longer worth calling a friend) in a spectacular display of violence which drives the crowd into a frenzy, and leaves nothing but a crumpled body and a puddle of blood on the ground. And then the Guard Captain says, "What an ugly thing! We can't have a puddle of blood on the ground!" And gets down on his hands and knees and cleans it up like a good friend. And then he has sex with a beautiful woman and the crowd starts cheering and chanting and getting louder and louder, and then the picture's over, and everyone goes home, ready to die for the Community.

She looks over at Path again (a puddle of blood on the ground. She gags.). He's breathing quickly, teeth clenched, but he must feel her gaze on him, because he look over at her, meets her gaze.

"Thanks, Mouse." And he smiles his small, secret smile, and she feels guilty again. In the pictures, the villain is never polite. He never smiles. He's just bad and then he dies (a puddle of blood on the ground).

His smile is tearing her in two. She feels like sobbing.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," she manages. "Maybe I could give you something for the pain? I've got some pala around here somewhere..."

"NO." His voice is sudden and harsh -- cutting her off. "Don't give me any of that shit."

"Path!" The swearing catches her by off-guard. She feels as if she's been violated somehow.

"I'm sorry, Mouse. I'm not thinking straight. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You are forgiven." The customary response pops out of her mouth before she can think to call it back, and actually consider it before letting it out again. "Should I go get the pala--?"

"No." His voice isn't so sharp this time, but the tone is still hard. "No thank you, Mouse. Pain is something I can deal with, for now." He smiles again. (Bad people don't smile like that.)

She sits down beside him, on the bed, fixes the bandage on his head, and watches his face out of the corner of her eye. He looks pensive, thoughtful.

"Do you remember that day...when we watched the sun rise?"

"Yes. We were bad to have done that. We got in terrible trouble." She says the words briskly, as if speaking of something she'd rather not think of. They had gotten in trouble when they were found by the laborers who were cleaning the windows on the building, had to have a hearing and everything. "Path made me do it," she'd whispered again and again to the stern faces of the Rank. He'd looked at her with a sad expression on his face (the smile is gone), and agreed. It was all his fault. In the end, she'd gotten off easily, had to take a few citizenship classes to make sure whatever was wrong within her that had made her do it was stamped out. They were debating over Path's fate for another week, but in the end, the same corrective method was applied to him, since he was a child. However, the next time she saw Path, he had a black eye and his lip was swollen; Path's Guardian, the low-ranking Guardsman who had adopted Path as a son, took the laws of the Community very seriously.

"Stop lying to yourself." His words are harsh, but his tone is sad and pleading. "You enjoyed every minute of that morning."

She feels numb. "But we broke the law. You got in such trouble because of it..."

He meets her gaze, eyes still holding the same defiant smile they did when he was a child. "So I got beat up a bit. Who cares? It was worth it."

She sighs, biting back the next argument instinctively rising from her. "What about it?"

"I dunno. I was just thinking of it, lying here, watching you watch me. The color it made the sky turn. It reminds me of something, almost..."

"Blood? That's all it reminded me of: that ugly red color."

"Stop lying. I've told you already. You don't always have to say what they want you to say."

"Path..." Her stomach clenches, looking at his determined, defiant face.

"I'm sorry." He looks down, at the white sheets, now a dirty red with his drying blood.

"Your bandage has bleed through."

He reaches a hand back, to touch the back of his head where it met the wall of the pala bar. "So it has."

She fetches a new bandage and some soap and water. Takes the old bandage off, discards it, washes the bloody gash. Path winces, a little, as the soap touches the open wound, tightening his jaw and closing his eyes. Then she rinses it off, and puts the new bandage on. She goes over him again, making sure his face is free of blood, moving his leg to a new position. She feels as if there's some force weighting her down, making it harder for her to move. She feels as if her heart has sunk into her stomach; when she's still, she thinks she can feel it beating there. Her abdomen clenches with every "thu-thud."

"You're tired." For some reason, the concern in his eyes makes her angry. For a long minute, she says nothing at all, keeping her eyes down, on her hands. They seem older than she remembers, smaller and more delicate.

"A bit." She finally admits.

When the Guard comes and knocks on her door, she's asleep on the blood-soaked bed, curled up next to him like a child. He's sitting up, watching over her slumbering body. He answers the door, goes peacefully with the Guard, and leaves her sleeping on the bed by herself.

(a puddle of blood on the ground.)



The sky is bright, customary gray almost white. It makes the stark walls of the buildings shine blindingly, the perfect green of the trees even more verdent than usual.

And damned if she doesn't feel like dying.

She didn't drink last night, but she feels like she has the worst hang-over of her life. Her head pounds every time she takes a step, every noise seems like it echoes painfully inside her skull before rebounding and staying with an almost gentle ache behind her temples. She feels off-balance and slow, and is having trouble keeping her eyes open. Her black hair is uncombed, and sometimes she even forgets to paste that vapid, required smile onto her face. She had about a gram of pala straight this morning, and it hasn't helped her much at all. She only feels a little wonderfully fuzzy along the edges, and sometimes has trouble remembering why she feels this way.

Of course, then she remembers, and it leaves her feeling even worse.

Path.

She pushes him out of her head everytime she recalls him, letting the after-affects of all that pala drag her mind cheerfully back to her work. If she tries to go over everything that happened last night, she might break down, right here and now, and that won't do.

So she rubs her head and goes on with her work, trying to finger-comb her hair until it matches the black locks of the other editors, tries to straighten her gray uniform. The Editors' Office in the Free Writers' building is spacious and square, walls painted starch white and lacking windows. On most days she finds the absolute blankness of the room comforting, and tries to let her mind soak into all that white. Today, though it only makes her head hurt worse, and she can't help but wonder what those neat walls would look like if someone were to suddenly drench them with blood.