This is a smaller prologue to a larger novel I'm writing. I submitted it once and it was rejected, with good reason. It's not particularly well written and I don't have much of a desire to send it out again (writing it was just an exercise in character development for the novel) but I figured I'd upload it anyway and see what you all think. Brutal comments encouraged.
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'Over seven billion total deaths, the almost complete annihilation of the atmosphere, and the worldwide collapse of all major and minor nation states. With that, successions of genocides on an almost unimaginable scale were successful in eliminating most marginal ethnic groups. Muslims, all of Sub-Saharan Africa, significant portions of Southeast Asia and Central America. A stunning collapse of every major philosophical, technological, and institutional legacy garnered from over fourteen thousand years of human civilization. So, with everything we've learned thus far, class, what conclusions can we draw about the conditions that lead to the fall of First Earth?'�

The lot of us were boxed in an outsized and overcrowded span resembling what some, many years apart and degrees away, would call a classroom. I called it prison, with syllabi. Our instructor, Ms. Smith, a frail looking brunette who shared the demeanor and intellectual dexterity of a rabid dog, was pacing up and down the rows of seats eyeing each one of us in an attempt to flush out her next victim.

Children everywhere feared that look, and the possibility of humiliation and degradation that followed. I took a chance at making counting the tiles on the floor look like an important matter, and felt like I could get away with it, when those vulture eyes locked on to me. It was at that moment that I knew what a doomed cruiser pilot felt like.

'Strife? What are your thoughts on the matter?'�

And there it was, the shot had been fired and I could see each excruciating second tick by as my brain and mouth scrambled for the answer. To my credit, I did try to give one.

'Well, there was the fall of the North American union, the Quarter Century of Hate, environmental um'� deg ' degra ' '�

'Degradation,'� she finished for me, her voice curt.

My face felt hot and I could see me and my space cruiser plunging furiously into the black. And yes, I'm aware that technically you can't plunge anywhere in space. Besides, it wasn't that I didn't know the word, I just couldn't find it. Words are slippery like that, you have to be very quiet when hunting them and pounce at the last minute. If they know you're coming you won't be able to catch them. 'Yeah, degradation.'�

She stepped over to me, pinning her curly brown hair behind her ears. A lot of my classmates thought she was hot and I suppose she was, but dragons can be beautiful too, right up until they torch you with their breath. Smiling helpfully, and in a way that made me think of buildings ablaze, she knelt in front of my desk and placed her hand in my own. I shifted uncomfortably, blushing at the sounds of the children behind me snickering, mostly at me but also in celebration that it wasn't them.

'Strife, honey. You didn't read the textbook did you?'�

I hadn't. My weekend was nothing but sugar and twentieth century cinema with friends, most of which was illegal for children. Other parents, in their ever self assured way, thought that consuming any media from First Earth would lead to brain rot and possibly an end of days like collapse of the entire social landscape. My parents loved it, and provided me the wherewithal to get it, preaching to me about the inaccuracies of my government issued textbooks. This lead to my friends thinking my parents were minor gods.

I shook my head, 'No ma'am.'�

She nodded, ruffled my hair, and beseeched the class on my behalf, 'Can anyone help Strife out? Why did the First Earth experiment fail?'�

Kelsey shot her hand up so fast it could have ripped open the air. She splayed her palms out, wiggled her fingers, and stretched forward in her seat in an attempt to appear larger than she was. She would have looked like a highly agitated alley cat, if they still existed. Ms. Smith smiled at her, 'Kelsey?'�

'Lack of unity.'�

Ms. Smith grinned, 'Very good Kelsey. As you all know, before we migrated to New Earth, human beings were very fragmented. We had different languages, cultures, states, and this made it very difficult for one man to connect with another. We were isolated; more loyal to arbitrary and meaningless words like religion, and culture, and race, and class and not to the one we should have been focusing on: us.'�

Lack of unity. Of course. Lack of unity. I had no idea what it meant, but I took some solace in the idea that she probably didn't either.

She stepped to the front of the room and splayed out her hands, reminding me of a First Earth televangelist. Do you know what I'm talking about? They were guys in the white suits that would yell and wave their arms to distract their audience from the fact that they weren't saying anything? That's what she reminded me of. That's what school reminded me of.

'Next question class, and I have cookies for anyone who answers correctly.'� She brought them forth, presenting them like the Holy Grail and my mates responded in kind, staring each other down like bulls preparing to lock horns. Then again, they were chocolate chip, and they looked fresh.

'Now that we have progressed beyond that barbarism, and settled onto our new home, why would the aliens still want to attack us?'�

It was some time after landing on New Earth that we made first contact. Our ancestors stumbled blindly around for a century or so, hoping for a lightening strike of inspiration to tell them how to proceed. Eventually they settled on forming a democratic government and once they began to reclaim the powers of science and research they noticed something resembling a signal resonating from within deep space. Our textbooks told us that the First Parliament conducted a vote asking whether or not we should try to contact them, to offer friendship. It's my suspicion that we were begging for help, but I got that question wrong once too. In either case, the message was received and returned promptly in the form of a military assault on our first real city. Thousands were killed, and the war has been going on ever since.

'Maybe they were afraid of us.'� That was my friend, Danielle. And yes, I have a crush on her. A huge, tummy feels all funny, can't eat, sleep or generate a working vocabulary type crush on her. I met her on my first day here, and impressed her by refusing a credit note that she had found floating near me in the quad. It wasn't mine but I guess honesty is rare and she told me she liked that particular quirk. I told her I liked her teeth. I'm not very bright.

Ms. Smith stalked toward her, smile downshifting from genuine to façade, 'Now, Danielle, what would they have to be afraid of?'�

She shrugged her shoulders and focused on her computer, 'Well, we almost wiped ourselves out didn't we? Lots of wars, and most of the non-human species on First Earth were dead by the time we escaped. I mean, wouldn't you be afraid of us?'�

Kelsey piped up, 'But we aren't like that anymore, are we Ms. Smith?'�

The teacher nodded, 'No we aren't. We're a peaceful people now, quite different from the Neanderthals of First Earth. In fact,'� she turned to face the rest of the class, but spoke more to herself than to the us. Our attention had drifted to the clock hung tauntingly on the wall, 'A number of well known researchers contend that we aren't even the same species. The aliens have nothing to fear from us.'�

She offered the basket of cookies to Kelsey, who devoured one faster than I thought humanly possible.

'The aliens,'� she continued, 'Are monsters with a totalitarian government, completely bent on the domination of our species. They want to enslave us or wipe us out and there is no room for compromise with animals like that.'�

I couldn't let nonsense like that stand so I called attention to myself with a wave of my hand.

'Strife?'� she queried.

'I read that the aliens have a democratic government.'�

Her laugh was sharp and short, but enough to prompt my classmates into a fit of pseudo-maniacal giggles. Most of them didn't know why they were laughing and kept glancing at each other for permission to keep their awkward grimaces in place.

'I don't know what nonsense you've been reading Strife, but the aliens most certainly do not have a democratic government. That's a human invention, our greatest of accomplishments. I suggest you pay more attention to your schoolwork than to whatever conspiracy theories you've been reading in your spare time. Your marks will get much better.'�

She turned around and walked back toward the center of the classroom, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Danielle stick her tongue out and give me the thumbs up.

I flushed again.

***

Lunchtime found me on my own in the schoolyard, watching most of my classmates frolicking on the school ground's artificial but still vast and beautiful front lawn. Overhead, grey clouds watched us menacingly and at any moment the sky looked like it would break open, sending us scurrying back into class. I was perched against the heated bench, just outside the entrance to the school, reading an old book from the twentieth century. Images from the story had branded themselves in my head, and although I'd read it before, the story of a young girl spending her life hidden from a monstrous First Earth government was compelling every single time. Although it took the form of a diary, I was certain it was fiction. I mean, if any word of it were true, the aliens would have more than enough reason to be afraid of us.

I'd be afraid of us.

A hand on my shoulder startled me and I turned to see Danielle trying in vain to smother a giggle, 'Did I scare you?'�

'No!'� I protested. She didn't either, it was just a reflex. Honest. 'I was just reading my book.'�

'What book?'� she leaned over to see. Her soft hair brushed against my face and I felt increasingly awkward. A part of me felt nervous enough to search out an escape but the bench wasn't cooperative and each move sideways simply dragged her closer. She recognized the text almost immediately and looked up at me, her sparkling eyes preventing my brain from focusing on anything else. 'Ooh, that's illegal.'�

I glared at her, 'It is not!'�

'Uh-huh.'� She leaned in much closer than necessary, 'I read it a couple of months ago. Have you finished it?'�

'Yeah, a couple of times. I like to re-read it though.'�

'It's not fiction you know,'� her eyes focused and took a darker, conspiratorial shape. She leaned in close to whisper. My face was burning. 'It actually happened.'�

I stared at her a moment and then laughed, 'Oh come on. It's just like the metaphors we were talking about in class. It's about how brutal twentieth century life was, how scary. The attic is supposed to represent how the Neanderthals wanted to escape everyday life.'�

She shook her head, 'No, it actually happened. I mean, yeah, the little girl probably did want to escape that type of life, but it's a true story. Her actual diary.'�

I shook my head, reading the 'historical'� notes provided in order to give background to the story. I pointed at one line, 'Look at this. 'Work shall set you free'? That's obviously dramatic irony.'�

She sighed and leaned back against the bench, clearly miffed, 'Whatever, Strife.'�

Fearing she would stop talking to me, I tried some damage control, 'Okay, so suppose it's real. That was back when First Earth had multiple states. I mean, wouldn't one of them have found out. It's not like you could hide an operation that big. I mean, destroying an entire ethnic group? How do you hide that?'�

'Maybe they didn't have to. Maybe no one cared.'�

I didn't believe that. I couldn't believe that and I grew up in a household where cynicism was a way a life, a pseudo religion. Still, the more I reflected on First Earth's history, it's real history, the more weight her observation had. Humans, at least the humans that came to life in books and history and illegal downloads had long passed paradoxical and seemed to have waltzed right into Insanity-Ville. I tried to imagine what it had been like for the poor girl, living as a shadow would. Not being known. Not being seen. Not being caught. The more I thought about it, the Neanderthal's problems appeared obvious and decipherable. They had spent their entire existence identifying with what they were not.

Maybe lack of unity wasn't such a stupid answer after all. At least, not when I said it.

I checked my watch and caught time doing that annoying thing it does; moving forward. Danielle glanced at my wrist and frowned, clearly trying to figure out a way squeeze another half hour out of the two minutes that remained of lunch. She looked at me and admitted defeat, 'We should get back.'�

I nodded. 'Yeah, we should.'�

The clouds let loose their burden and rain tumbled down, splashing softly and peacefully around us, providing relief from the unusually warm afternoon. Yet, as with all things enjoyable, excess reared its head and soon our clothes and shoes found themselves soaked through.

Still, I didn't want to move away from her, didn't want to go back to that small intellectual reformatory and watch myself feed on that drivel, so I did what we all do when we can't beat time. I ignored it, opting instead to be entertained by the traffic snaking blissfully over the highway just ahead of the school. I don't remember how she kissed me or what started it. All I know is one minute I was pulling out a colorful yet still believable explanation of my tardiness and the next I felt Danielle's mouth on mine and for a moment it seemed like the world had screeched to a halt to watch. It was in that moment, the one in which I finally noticed how soft her lips were, that I figured out how to make time stop. Simply make it do a spit take. She pulled away, smiling and setting her sights on the traffic ahead. Seconds masqueraded as hours as we sat together, saying nothing yet feeling everything. Reality returned to her first, prompting her to rise and, still blushing, walk swiftly back to class. I sat on the bench, blinking away the water that was collecting underneath my eyelashes and staring ahead at the playground. I wasn't frozen exactly; I just couldn't get up the courage to follow her. So I waited a moment, as the rainwater collected at my feet, thinking about what she had said. Maybe she was right. Maybe the aliens really did have a reason to feel threatened. I mean my stomach was in knots, and my feet wouldn't work, and I was shaky all over.

And all she did was kiss me.

***

The rain continued to follow me home. As I sat on the hover train, watching the neon lit buildings race past me, I noticed the clouds sitting comfortably by the horizon. They were white and fluffy and welcoming, obliging the sun, and seemed to be beckoning those of us sitting in our seats. Droplets were splashing hard against my window, whipping toward the back in streaks, looking like a small water army in retreat.

Stepping off the train, I protected my schoolbag as best I could while the water tried desperately to get inside and the wind demanded I be swept off my feet. I landed on my front step with a hop and pushed the door open. It was never closed properly. I entered the dimly lit front porch and shook myself off, the rain whipping in all directions, leaving miniature Jackson Pollocks on the floor. I sat on the step that lead into the kitchen and pulled my shoes off, which had dried themselves almost instantly. My coat didn't do that, we could only afford one kind of self cleaners. I chose the shoes.

'Hey Strife, supper's on.'� That was my dad, hovering over the stove as usual, playing nursemaid to almost half a dozen bubbling, steaming pots. A multitude of different odors guided me to the dining area. Dad was the chef of the house, and gave almost as much attention to food preparation as he did his job. He called it an art. I think he just liked to eat. Both are probably true.

He stepped up to me and kissed the top of my head, something I'd been telling him to stop doing since I was eight. Still, there was a warmth and tenderness in it that not even Danielle could match, so I played along, making a face and tearing away from him dramatically when he was finished. The kitchen was neat and orderly, home to a number of small, colorful plants, perfectly positioned, that seemed to wave to you when you entered. As I passed through the kitchen, I spotted my mother, nursing a coffee and frowning at the view screen. The local news was playing and she was gripping her mug so tightly it looked like it would pass out. If mugs could breathe.

'Would you look at that nonsense,'� she shook her head,
'It's like the government's just puppeting those so called journalists around. Where's the context? The history? God forbid you might make the aliens look rational and coherent. Government propaganda, that's all it is.'� She waved her hand dismissively, spilling some of her drink in the process.

My dad smiled, dropping a huge chunk of artificial steak on my plate, then onto my mother's. I let the smell waft up toward me and as the steaming mashed potatoes followed I could feel myself warming up.

Glancing over his shoulder at Mom he said, 'The government doesn't need to pump out propaganda. A scared public will do that for them.'�

'I find it hard to believe that educated people would spout nonsense like that.'�

'We were almost wiped out by a bunch of educated people. It's never the ignorant that bring forth the plagues, they aren't ambitious enough.'�

My mother smiled out of the corner of her mouth, conceding the point with another swig of coffee.

I listened to the newscaster, who was ranting into the camera, while a studio audience watched on, accenting his vociferous musings with an occasional spattering of applause.

'Two hundred and fifty more of us today. Countless lives since this war began. And where are our leaders? Sitting in a mock parliament, shaking their fists and chanting at each other, banging on the desks like a bunch of self aggrandizing apes. 'Trying to put forth a long-term solution' they say. What nonsense! There is only one solution friends: us. Only us! Our military understands this. Our men and women in the field know this. Parliament must as well. It's time to treat these animals like a disease. We must inoculate ourselves from this menace. And we will do it with fire!'�

The studio audience exploded, a standing ovation of screaming and yelling, and fist pumping. So vociferous was the crowd, I found myself wondering if at any moment the well dressed, clean cut man in front of the camera would try crowd surfing. My parents despised the news. Me, I always had a grim fascination with it, the same kind one would have watching an impending train wreck.

'Turn it off,'� my mother was seething at the screen, and my father took the hint, practically diving for the power button. The room was filled with a silence that conveyed more truth than what we had just been witness to. My father looked at me, 'Eat up, Strife.'�

The three of us munched quietly for a moment before the obligatory after school question was asked, 'What did you learn today?'�

I shrugged, like we all did when asked these questions, 'Nothing really.'�

'You went to school for six hours and didn't do anything? Maybe I should keep you home so you can clean.'� It was mother, grinning sweetly at her own wit.

'We just talked about First Earth, and the aliens,'� I mumbled between shovelfuls of steamed vegetables, hoping in vain that the answer was enough.

'Oh?'� My father leaned in, 'And what did you learn?'�

This was an eggshell question. There was one way you could handle it and anything deviating from that would result in sticky hands and a messy floor. My parents were definitely on the fringe when it came to public opinion about the war. They believed that we had our chance at life, failed, and should have perished with the rest of the animals on New Earth, that the alien's were simply defending themselves against what they saw as an imminent threat. I didn't like taking that side either, but I was a child, and my opinions as such were not going to be valid. Luckily I learned how to deal with such extremes at school, so I spoke diplomatically. I agreed with them.

'Just nonsense about how we need to be more unified to prevent another First Earth.'� I glanced at my father, fork hovering in front of his mouth, considering my answer.

'And the war?'�

'That the aliens are a vile, murderous, totalitarian species.'�

My mother placed her mug carefully on the table, tensing at the description. She looked at me and smiled, 'They're nothing like that. And they have a democratic government.'�

I nodded, 'I know that.'�

There was silence again, and I poked at my steak no longer feeling as famished as I was when I walked through the door. My dad looked over at me, cleared his throat and said, 'I saw you talking with that little red haired girl on my way to work.'�

'Danielle,'� I said.

He smiled, 'Have you told her you like her yet?'�

My father was perceptive, and he had sensed my feelings for Danielle from the moment her name first graced my lips. I wanted to punch him. Instead I let my face grow hotter, trying to devise a way of disappearing into my
mashed potatoes, 'No. I guess I'm weak.'� Weakness. What other word would you use to diagnose the inability to express love?

My mother put her hand on mine, 'You're not weak honey. It's a tough thing to do. Your father never worked up the courage to ask me out. A friend had to do it for him.'�

He slapped her hand playfully and then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and looking very serious, 'Well, I happen to work with her parents. Maybe we could all invite them over for dinner.'�

I agreed. Granted, spending an evening with a group of overly-political and somewhat stuffy and pretentious grownups wasn't exactly on the top of my to do list but I came up with two defenses for it. One, an evening with Danielle was worth losing your hand over, and two; there really wasn't any other type of grownup.

We devoured our meal and milled around the table for a moment before my parents collected the plates and went about cleaning them. Our dish washer had crashed and needed a software update, but of course we didn't have the cash, so they washed the plates by hand. I think they enjoyed the hands on approach anyway, they didn't like letting technology do their work for them if they could help it.

Mom looked back at me as she wiped down one of the plates, soap dripping from her arm and spattering against the floor, 'Your father and I have to work tonight, so you'll be in charge of the house. Do your homework before you have any friends over and don't blow anything up. And take the garbage out to the recycler, it's starting to pile up.'�

I nodded, 'Do we need anything made?'�

They looked at each other, 'No I think we'll just donate the raw material. We've got enough stuff in the house.'�

A soft beeping sound spread through the house alerting us to an impending phone call. My dad finished drying a dish, dropped it on the rack and accepted it on the earpiece lying near the counter. It was a private call.

'Hey. Really? Already? Okay, we'll head out now. Wait up for us, we'll be there soon.'� He turned to my mom and she was already grabbing her coat. She threw it on, letting it flow down her shoulders, straighten out on its own and picked up a briefcase. Dad waved to me, hurrying out, with Mom in tow. Realizing she had almost forgot me she circled back, kissed me and then bolted out.

I was alone.

I looked back at the dishes, and the water that was still running. I commanded the sink to turn off and, figuring that my homework was more inviting than a bunch of crusty plates and cutlery, I picked up my bag and hurried upstairs, telling the house computer to turn on my room's screen and load up my play list. I planned to have twentieth century cartoons in the background while I muddled through the shallow history questions Ms. Smith had assigned us.

A door had been left open and curiosity inducing light spilled into the hallway. My parent's office, which was usually locked, had been left ajar. I thought of just closing it and going to my room, I should have just closed it and then none of this would have happened, but I was nosy. I stepped inside.

There was nothing out of the ordinary at first, just piles of papers and maps tacked up. It was a mess. Folders were scattered everywhere, while a few screens hung against the wall and stood precariously on desks. I'm surprised I didn't lose interest right there; it looked like more homework than I had to do. But then, probably because they were motion sensitive, the screens lit up and the images that appeared atrophied every muscle in my body. My computer jumped out of my hand, shattering against the floor and sending little glass shards tinkling at my feet.

Not feeling the glass embed itself in my feet, I sauntered around the room examining each monitor. There were lists of people. Some of the names I recognized as government officials, others I had no knowledge of. Some were highlighted in red. I pushed my finger forward, tapping the name of the New Earth defense minister. A movie played out before me in high definition, showing the minister stepping out of his car and walking toward a woman in a dark coat. I recognized the coat.

My mother's coat.

He was meeting my mother.

The two of them exchanged pleasantries and moments later the speakers emitted a pop. On screen, simultaneously, the minister's skull blew open, sending blood and grey matter onto the pavement. He staggered once, as if he didn't realize he was dead, before falling to the pavement and going still.

My mother, and I could see it was clearly my mother, leaned into her coat and spoke quietly, 'Nice shot Kevin.'�

Kevin was my father's name.

I felt my stomach lurch, and before I could even think about making it to the bathroom I vomited. The floor rose to meet me as I fell, the glass now cutting my hands and knees and I retched until my stomach muscles were aching and my throat felt like it was on fire.

I don't know how long it took me to recover, but eventually I managed to get to my feet and, with sudden masochism, rifled through the stacks of paper. They were all blueprints and minutes from meetings and random photographs that meant nothing. A name kept repeating in the documents; Angels of Penance.

I pored over them for hours, not really comprehending any of the meaning behind it. All the dates, and names, and plans flew past me in a blur. I could read them, they were written in Common, but I couldn't make sense of them. They presented themselves like an obscure math problem; all letters and numbers that should have made sense but didn't. The videos were the same. Some of them documented pitched battles between the aliens and us, others were clearly murders of the type I saw my mother and father involved in, and others were completely mundane. People partying, eating, studying, living.

I was sitting on the floor at that point, not caring about the glass around me. There were chairs in the room, more then there should have been for a two person office, but I didn't want to touch them. They seemed toxic somehow and every time I approached them I feared I would somehow be infected by them.

What my mother and father were doing was wrong. That much was clear to me. There was no need for thought or hesitation, I knew it instinctively, it was something that needed no decoding or analysis. It was just wrong. Killing another human being was never palatable.

At least, not like this.

I walked back downstairs, my fingers trailing absently down the railing. My eyes were blurring and I found myself pawing for the sofa. Tears forced themselves past my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks, pitter pattering beside my feet. God knows why I was crying ' it just seemed like the proper thing to do.

There were fish in our fish tank. Not the most stunning observation, I know, but one of them had stilled. Artificial intelligence drove them, so it wasn't dead in the strictest sense, just burned out. He was still my favorite though.

It's the little things you notice at a time like that.

The rain had calmed to an occasional spattering against the windows and I continued to sit, finally working up the courage to look back at the documents sitting threateningly in my lap. Then it hit me. My mother and father weren't going to work. I had no idea what they were doing, but they weren't going to work. Questions filled my head. What were they doing? Who was on the phone?

Was anyone going to die?

***

'And that's when I called you.'� I was sitting in a brightly lit office space, surrounded by unfeeling beige walls. My feet wiggled uncomfortably against the dusty, unkempt carpet. When the authorities arrived at my home they called my attention to the bloody footprints leading from the office to the sofa. I hadn't even felt myself get cut. Once I arrived at the station they bandaged up my heel and toes and pulled out any lingering pieces of glass. As I sipped on the soda I had been given, and wondered absent mindedly where they had put my shoes, the man at the desk in front of me prepared to speak. He was tall, dark skinned, bald and looked at me as if I was a piece of artwork he couldn't quite decipher. He kicked his feet up on the desk, forcing me to jerk my head sideways to avoid a concussion. A smile forming on his face indicated an apology. Beside him, another man, shorter and somewhat thicker around the middle. He looked mean, like my principal.

'It should only be an hour or two before the warrant comes in. Then we can access the traffic cameras and trace their root. We should have them in custody by the end of the day.'� The thicker man was ignoring me, talking over my head to the bald guy.

Nicholas, the bald guy had introduced himself, turned to me, 'We've been trying to find the Angels for a long time.'� He twisted the word 'angels'�. Like it was something slimy he was trying to force down. 'They've hurt a lot of people, and thanks to you every life they've selfishly snuffed out will be able to rest in peace. Their families will have justice. All because of you.'�

Nothing in his words gave me any comfort. The food that had tasted so wonderful a few hours before was threatening to show itself again and, frankly, that would have felt better than the guilt. Not to mention I didn't have my shoes, and they were my favorite.

It's the little things.

Noticing my discomfort Nicholas placed his hand on mine, 'You did the right thing, son.'�

I caught a subtle roll of the eyes from Thick Man before he turned to fully face Nicholas, apparently not aware that sound travels both forwards and backwards, 'The tribunal will seek the death penalty for them.'�

'David!'� Nicholas tried to hush him, but it really didn't matter. I had all the trauma I could take for the day, everything else was white noise.

David folded his arms, leaning against the wall. Why wasn't there anything on the walls? 'All I'm saying is that courts rarely give the maximum sentence to parents, it's considered too traumatic for the children. But,'� he stepped over and leaned into the other's ear, oblivious to the fact that I could still hear him, 'if the child testifies they just might consider it. I mean, the kid already turned his parents in.'�

Nicholas glared at him, 'That's a new low, even for you.'�

The man looked incredulous, 'You're the one that wants to use him as bait.'�

'He's not bait. His parents obviously care for him, he's not malnourished, there are no signs of abuse, they'll be less likely to resort to violence if they see him with us. It'll be safer for both them and our men.'�

'I'm still here,'� I thought it best to announce my corporealness, in case they had forgotten. The two of them looked at each other sheepishly, but Nicholas took the initiative.

'Son, would you like to help us capture your mom and dad?'�

***

I don't know why I said yes. I still don't know why I said yes. They were my parents. They'd given birth to me, raised me, and made every effort to teach me to see the world behind the curtain, to notice the unseen, the ignored. I can still hear my mother's cautionary advice, 'There are an infinite number of sides to every story, the two you know about are just there to give the illusion of debate.'� They were everything I had, and in less than four hours I had gone from being their loyal son to sitting in an unmarked security car with a man I didn't know, involved in a plan to have them arrested and possibly killed.

But I wasn't wrong. I couldn't have been wrong. We all grow up knowing that there are things beyond us, beyond our loved ones, beyond our world. There are lines that are clear and can't be crossed, and once those lines have been breached the rules change. I didn't think my parents politics were wrong, I respected most of them. But what I saw in that room, the killing, the plotting, the injustice of it all swept any choice I had out from under me. The possibility wave had collapsed and I was left with one decision only. I had to do the right thing.

Right?

Nicholas patted my knee as we drove, his eyes darting from the windshield to the screen on the dash, which was set to follow and spotlight my parents. I watched as our little green arrow closed in on the stationary red one. They had stopped, and although a little part of me willed them to keep moving, most of me was concerned with the question, 'Why?'�

Why were they doing this?

And what.

What were they doing?

And who.

Who the hell was I to decide their fates? Of course, I had to entertain the question, who the hell were they to decide someone else's?

My head ached, my stomach wobbled, and I was shaking in my seat, like someone had flipped a little 'vibrate'� switch on me and forgot to turn it off. We were getting closer to the red arrow, my parents car, and the directions switched from the dashboard to the windshield, little neon arrows perching themselves on the front of the car, guiding us, loyally and without question.

I knew how they felt.

We pulled up beside Dad's car, sitting idle in a front of a warehouse parking lot. It had been a present from Mom for his birthday. I felt ill. As we circled them, while Nicholas eyed the surroundings for anything suspicious, I noticed the doors slightly ajar. He spotted it too, then spotted me spotting it. I bet he was proud of me.

'You noticed that too huh? Probably left open in case they need to make a quick getaway. You'd be surprised by how much time you lose trying to open a car door.'�

He rolled down the window and whistled, flicking his wrist in the direction of the car. A group of heavily armed, darkly clad, and very serious looking men sprang from the van behind us, perching themselves in the bush, behind buildings, and out of sight. I watched them check their gear, and my stomach lurched a bit as I heard the faint clicking of their weapon's safety mechanisms.

They were ready.

I sure as hell wasn't.

They swept forward in perfect formation, one at the center and a few others in lines that circled around him as they ran. It looked to me like a dance, like they were all giving some macabre ballet performance, with their black dress and lethal arsenal. As they stepped closer to the warehouse, sections broke off, pulling smaller teams into different locations. The man at the center scuttled to the entrance, knelt down and peered around the corner. He looked at me. At me, not Nicholas, and I felt fear suddenly grab hold. He beckoned and Nicholas nodded reassuringly. Popping open the car door made a click so loud I expected half the city to come running in our direction. I stepped out and instinctively dropped low to the ground, years of bad cop movies telling me that was the right thing to do.

The officer whipped his hand back a couple of times, hurrying me as I scampered to his location and knelt beside him. His gear was dark and sinister looking, and the material wrapping tightly around his face gave him the appearance of a spider. Sensors jutted from the mask and all eight of them now focused intently on me. I could see his mouth though and he managed to show me a kind smile as he placed a small oval item in my hand. Gracing it were two separate and distinctly colored buttons.

'Go in and look around for your parents. Don't sneak, you might scare someone into shooting. They probably know who you are, this group may be dangerous but it's small, and it sounds like your parents are high up. If you see them, press the green button, if you get in trouble press the red button and we'll come guns blazing. Got all that?'�

I nodded and Spider patted me on the head.

'You're a good kid.'�

I held the communicator in my hand like it was a holy book of some kind, clutching it against my side and drawing warmth from it. I knew then what it must have been like for the Muslims of First Earth, during what we had learned to call the Cleansing. It was a dramatic term only, we didn't actually believe it was a wiping clean of the slate. We weren't those monsters anymore. Still, the horror must have been overwhelming, baring witness to all those people being slowly butchered to death, and having only scripture as their comfort.

I tipped toed into the warehouse, knowing I shouldn't have been sneaking but being too afraid to help it. The whole place looked like a giant black hole, empty and dark with loud echoes following each of my footsteps. My hands were shaking violently and my sweaty palms so slick the device in my hand kept slipping.

I splayed myself up against the concrete wall the moment I saw it. In front of me, a figure, small and at a distance, but moving closer. I realized that my clever idea of disguising myself as a wall wasn't working and I stepped out into view, my finger held aloft over one of the buttons. I walked forward holding my free hand up in a gesture of peace and she, I could see it was a she now, returned it in kind. One of the few lights in the building was trying to blind me and I couldn't make out her face. Finally she stepped out from the light and I almost let out a cry at the sight of her.

Danielle ran toward me and threw her arms around me in a tight embrace. She pulled back a moment, her cheeks turning a soft pink, and straightened herself out. Her eyes traveled over me, grinning widely. 'I can't believe you're here! I didn't even know your parents told you about us all. I'd be bursting in class wanting to tell you, and you seemed to be the right type of person to join, but they always told me not to.'� She was yammering a mile a minute and the only thing my brain wanted to focus on was the fact that she had hugged me. After a long battle with my own cognition I managed to make the obvious observation.

'You're a member?'�

She laughed and then covered her mouth, 'Well not really. I can't be an official member yet. But my parents let me sit in sometimes. Oh Strife, you're going to be amazed at all the work they do here. They're going to stop the war. There's going to be peace between the aliens and us.'�

My mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. And gravel. And glue.

'They're so forward thinking, Strife. They get that the aliens aren't monsters or evil. We've even met a few of them. They were so nice. And their food is amazing.'�

She spun on her heel, her red hair whipping back and falling against her shoulder. Waving her hand and almost bouncing, she shouted for someone that I assumed was beyond my vision. A small group emerged from behind a corner and started walking toward us. I spotted my mother and father before I could see their faces, recognizing their outlines and gait. Finally the light stopped covering them and my parents stepped forward, stopping dead in their tracks when they saw me. No one said a word and the time that drifted passed us seemed unending. We all just stood there staring stupidly at each other. The truth of the situation dawned on my father first. He took a step forward, his hands splayed out.

'Strife, no.'�

I pushed the button.

For a second nothing happened. No sirens, or yells or screams. We continued to stare at each other, our reactions comically underwhelming. I don't even think they realized what I had done, it was still in my pocket after all. But soon the warehouse was filled with heavy footsteps and yells. The group seemed panicked and Danielle immediately grabbed my hand holding it tight. I felt her jerk me to the side and the two of us took off running.

I tried to get her to stop, tried to plant my feet in the ground, but she was determined and strong. Mistaking my hesitation for fear, she spun me around, placing her soft, comforting hands on my face and connecting her eyes with mine in a way I could only have dreamed of a few days earlier.

'It's ok, Strife. I'll get you out of here. I won't let them hurt you.'� Her focused and fiery eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way out. She stood slightly in front me, shielding me from an enemy she thought was mine as well. She was going to save me.

We ran, with her practically carrying me as we launched ourselves through what was now a cavernous and dank battleground. My heart was hammering away and for a moment I honestly thought my ribcage would cave in. I should have said something, but I was lost. Confused. Terrified.

Her poise stunned me. I couldn't have imagined ever being that strong. Even amidst all the cries and gunfire ' why was there gunfire? ' she remained calm, driven only by her desire to keep me safe.

As we were about to round the last corner seconds from the exit, with almost cartoonish accuracy, we collided with a security team. We fell, dust cloud and all, and spent the next few moments feeling around for our balance.

'Let him go!'� I recognized the voice, it was Spider.

Danielle spun on her heel and pressed into me, using all her strength to propel my body down another corridor. I tried to shout, but my voice was lost amidst the screams and gunfire and swearing. I tried to tell him not to. I tried.

A thunderclap rose above the rest of the noise, louder and angrier. More vengeful than the other sounds. It stood out, in my mind, obnoxious and unwilling to let my eardrums rest. I saw Danielle stumble and then felt something wet and sticky against my face. Her grip tightened on my hand more than I thought possible and she kept running.

'Stay behind me,'� her voice was shallow and ragged and that's when I saw the hole in the back of her shirt, crimson rushing forth, dyeing her beautiful white sweater. Her arms were splayed out in front of me, still providing me cover.

I caught her when the second barrage of bullets hit her. One missed and tore through my shoulder, pushing the two of us to the ground. I sat semi cross-legged with her in my arms, already gone. She wasn't on my mind at that moment. She should have been. In her last moments I should have been holding her, mourning her. But it was the gunfire I was thinking about. Why was there gunfire?

I slipped my hand out of my pocket, attempting to clot the blood pouring from my shoulder and I noticed the communicator in my hand. I was still gripping it. Bile welled in my throat the instant I noticed the placement of my thumb.

I had pushed the red button.

***

My parents were the only two survivors of the ambush. They had snuck out a back exit into the waiting arms of Nicholas and a number of other security personnel. I don't know if they knew then that I had helped set up the ambush, but in the subsequent days and during the trial my role became clear.

They were executed a year later. The press called my testimony 'stirring'� and 'dramatic'� and 'a powerful example of this generations loyalty to his own.'� I never spoke to my parents, but they did hear me speak about them. My presence as a witness for the state was considered the single piece of testimony that gave the tribunal the go ahead to grant the death penalty. I was called a hero by most, a monster by a few. Personally I didn't feel big enough to be either.

I thought of Danielle, no older than I was, and gunned down by her own government. The media never questioned the official word, which spoke of her getting caught in the crossfire. Most of the news stations took it one step further, blaming her parents for mixing her up in all of it. Some even said that it was better she had been killed then before she could harm anyone else.

I hate journalists.

Nicholas came to me a few days after my parents had been 'brought to justice'� and said that I had done the right thing. He offered me a job with New Earth's security section, said they would train me and give me a good home. It was either that or foster care, so I said yes. He said that we needed more people like me. More people with an unfaltering loyalty to the cause. He called me strong. I called myself weak.

But at least I did the right thing. I answered correctly.

Ms. Smith would be proud.

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