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Chapter 2

Rueka

    The pale moon illuminates the ruins around me as the wind whispers through them, weaving, whirling, and stirring up the caustic dust. I shake off the strands of my raggedy hair that have caught across my face, and then whip my head around. For once, I am in peace and can relax. My footsteps echo between the buildings, the sound fading off into the distance with the wind. My sandals are falling to shreds: I would have to salvage some more soon. As I break into a run, the echo of my footsteps reverberates wildly through the devastated village. The thrill of the wind in my face urges me on. The hunt is upon me.
    I am Rueka. You may call me a huntress. That is why it is such an insult to be hunted by those half-lives. Galaden has lovingly named them Bioanim, which means "against life." They are indeed against life, for they are no more human. Galaden says that in old writings, the characters like this were called "cyborg." But these are much worse than cyborg. The robot completely obliterated the human. But that is a thought to explain to you later.
    I am just out for a run, which I rarely get on my own terms. Galaden ahs slept in, for once, this morning, so I figure I should explore and in the meantime work on my endurance and agility. If I can build a few makeshift "statues," I can work on my weaponry as well. This is my daily training, usually not self-inflicted, though. We can keep a few days ahead of the Bioanim hoard, but a few stragglers or scopers are at choice villages. This means almost everyday is a fight for our lives and, more importantly, freedom. This I tend to like.
    As I near the building of choice, a pile of rubble looms in my path. I gather up the strength then gracefully soar over it. As I land and keep going, I figure I will keep an eye out for a bigger pile: that one was nothing. Plus, I'll work on a different jump with a bigger one.
    I know I am not exactly exuding stealth, clambering noisily like this where any enemy could see or hear me, but that is what makes it fun. I live for the fight. The hunt is my game and I play it well. The best strategy is to give your enemy a false sense of security or let them feel as if you are within their grasp. The factor of surprise has never failed. So let them see me. Though I do not have my reliable bow and arrows, I still have a makeshift short-spear under my clothes, the arrow head wrapped in leather so I do not accidentally kill myself. Speaking of my clothes, I feel it fair to describe to you the style of the era.
    I, for one, am clothed in an outfit of dingy brown color. (Galaden calls it "sienna.") I also have a hooded cloak that I don't usually wear, for it often impedes my movement. It is currently stored in the pack the two of us share. In stealth, it is usually an ideal object, and in frigid temperatures, which often occur now. It can also hide a multitude of weapons, but my clothing is good enough for that. Galaden and I both have altered our clothing with other rags to hide daggers, spears, "swords," throwing weapons, and many other things. It is simple enough --- just a slit here and there and minimal stitching. You can even use pieces of old, tattered clothing. Anything can be used to stash weapons; you just need to know how.
    And now that I have given you sufficient background, I may return to my story.
    I slip around the corner and sprint toward the only tall building in the village --- at least the only one still partly standing. It looms before me like a beacon. Lovingly, over the past two days, I have come to call it my home.
    Another pile of rubble, a bigger one, rises up before me. This is my chance to show off a bit --- at least to you reader. Increasing my speed and powering myself forward, I launch into the air, glide over it with a bit of finesse, land on my toes, and transfer to a barrel roll. The roll was executed very nicely, and, popping up, I tremble in satisfaction at the fact that my skills have not deflated in these two days' peace. It has been an annoyance, actually, and not a relaxation. I feel the urge for a fight and itch with anticipation on days like this. However, training keeps me on my toes. As the wind picks up, I covertly slip out my dagger and scan the area. This is basically just a precaution, since the wind makes it harder to hear an approach. The tall building is still before me, and, with an extra perusal of my surroundings, I slip inside.
    The wooden door creaks loudly, making me cringe. So much for a stealthy appraisal… The light from the cracked-open door bathes one-fourth of the room in a grey light. Nevertheless, in a few seconds the room is blanketed in complete darkness. The only windows are on higher levels of the building. I deftly switch my grip on the dagger to a battle hold. Better to be safe than sorry --- and I can feel a battle coming on. With the slam of the door, dust and dirt fall in specks and rivers, falling in my hair and irritating my eyes. My hair I care nothing for: it is already filthy and stringy. My eyes are useless tools right now. I rely on my ears. Slowly, I take small steps forward. Because I have memorized almost every inch of this building, I know which direction the door is, so I creep toward it. As soon as my hand finds the wall, I cautiously press my back against it and slide along one step at a time. The only sounds are my almost-concealed breathing and the now-howling wind outside. Slowly, I edge along the wall, feeling my way and figuring how much more wall there is until the door. It shouldn't be very long until I reach it. My hands glide along the wall and my feet shuffle quietly along the dirt floor. I control my breathing so that I barely make any sound. The door is now right beside me. However, before I reach out, a trickle of dirt falls from the rafters, revealing a pinhole to the next story. This light is just enough to brighten the room a bit, and unveil two grey eyes I knew were targeting me from the corner.
    Scoper.
    The best element of a fight is surprise. I do my very best to preserve that element. Therefore, I reach for the door; but before he can even advance, the scoper falls to the ground with my dagger in his throat.
    I saunter over and pull the dagger out then finish the grisly task, satisfying myself with the spoils afterward. This Bioanim was just a scout: he has barely any weapons, and few even remotely harmful. Nevertheless, the discovery of poison darts and a few AI scraps appeases me.
    This one is a warning to me. There are many on the other levels, no doubt. He was probably sent down after the door slammed to find out and kill whoever had come in. I laugh at his failure. Pushing open the door, I slide out my short sword, unwrap the leather, and, with my dagger in my right hand, assume a defensive position. With a worthy perusal I ascertain the room is clear but do on relinquish my battle stance. Stealthily and quietly, I make my way to the room where I know the stairs are. However, when I try the door, it is barred. There are quiet ways of breaking down a door; but then again, I prefer a grand entrance. With a deep breath, I back up then let loose a powerful kick to the door, easily knocking it over. There is a Bioanim beneath it. I pick him up, and with a twitch of my wrist, I break his neck.
    One watchdog down.
    With my back to the wall, I skulk up the stairs, using the body as a shield. This way I am vulnerable nowhere. One foot crossing over the other, I ascend the stairs swiftly. My steps echo up the narrow hall.
    Hours, it seems; but it is only moments that I slink up the staircase, trying to muffle my steps and mask my breathing. I have become accustomed to the stench of death during this last nomadic year, so I am not affected by the wafting odour of the body shielding me. No doubt the others have smelled it already though, and are preparing to ambush. The dagger is secure and sure in my hand and the short sword ready to dash through any opponent. I ascend to the top and discover a door partly cracked open. For a few moments I contemplate whether to push the body in as a disguise or break in, weapons flashing. I do not know what is right on the other side of that door.
    I finally decide on my favourite entrance and discard the body --- it has burnt out its use to me. After a deep breath and some mental planning, I slam the door open. An indifferent face greets me; but that marble countenance soon freezes into one of sadistic glee.
    I slash across his chest in one full swoop. He falls, but manages to grab my ankle and pull me down. My grip is still secure on the dagger, but my grip loosens on the short sword. By the time I hit the ground, it is already skittering across the room. Eh, I always liked my trusty dagger better anyway. The thrill of a fight pumps adrenaline through my veins as we grapple over the dagger. Soon, I am victorious. However, my strength is matched, for a new battle strategy programs in his brain.
    "Die!" he screams, wrenching my wrist to the side and kicking me multiple times in the legs and gut. His metal counterparts leave nasty marks, but that is the least of my problems --- pain is nothing. I roll over and snatch my arm from his in a burst of adrenaline, swiping across his face in the process. The long gash renders one of his eyes useless and covers his face in blood
    Now you may be wondering, "Why aren't you pulling out other weapons?" And I know what your logical self-answer would be: "The adrenaline is blinding you." Friend, I will have you know that the adrenaline increases my abilities and renders me even more strategic. A good huntress uses adrenaline to her advantage and does not let it scale over her judgment.
    And now I can continue with my tale.
    A scream erupts from his lips, with a blind swipe at me. I dodge his furious assault and spring to my feet, seizing my short sword from the floor. The next opponent has advanced, another with him. I grin at the challenge and twirl my weapons.
    "Alright boys." I taunt. "Have at it."
    Both charge at me as I stand defenseless, lulling them in. Their charge seems to occur slowly, as if Time begins to rest his weary head. I examine both.
    The one on the left --- my left, reader --- is a burly one. He will rely on brute strength and foolish blows. Most likely, he will go for either my head or specifically my jaw instead of my weapon. His strikes will possibly be easy to beat; but I'll let him think he is winning at first.
    The one to my right is thin and limber. By the look of his legs, agility and endurance are most likely his strong suits. Ah, now a challenger. He has a wild look to his eye --- uncultured, feral. He will go either for my throat or my weapon. His weapon is his skill.
    As I finish assessing him, Time resumes his wanderings and motion continues as normal. As predicted, Muscles charges at me and places a swift upper cut to my jaw. Blocking his blow, I twist his right arm until I hear the snap --- but what is a broken bone to a Bioanim? I swipe his legs out from under him (It is not very hard --- his mass makes him top-heavy.) and he falls. Meanwhile, I have been struggling with Crazy Eyes.
    If you will excuse me, friend, I mentally tend to name my opponents as I fight: Muscles, obviously for his muscles; Crazy Eyes, for the look in his eye. That one over there --- yes, the one I just slashed --- that is Scar. It is a bit of a neurosis. That's what Galaden calls it. However, it helps me keep track and possibly helps your understanding.
    And now that I have explained myself, I can resume.
    Crazy Eyes was a fighter. He did indeed go for my throat first. As I was dealing with the muscle man, he made an excellent grab for my neck and clenched down. I will never forget his laugh. It was a cackle --- pure evil and laced with malice. He lifted me up with the hand on my throat, and made snatches for my weapons with the other. I gave him maybe five seconds head start --- until I could see the triumph in his stormy eyes --- then slit his throat.
    It had been an easy maneuver. The programmed strategies of Bioanim are against "weaklings." They do not plan for a surprise attack or an opposing strategy. Plus, with my assessment, I had predicted that Crazy Eyes would be so consumed with the triumph that his focus would be on nothing else. His snatches at my weapons had been fast but clumsy --- easy to evade. Then, blocking with my short sword, I had slashed at his throat. Granted, all this was done as my mind clouded over with pain and lack of oxygen, but I had dealt with the same situation before. I had learned to work through the fog.
    Nevertheless, Bioanim do not have enough human left for a slit throat to kill them. Just as breaking the watchdog's neck or lodging a dagger in the scout's throat did not kill them. I lodged the dagger in a weak wiring point, severing the bodily network that kept the scout alive. Same with the watch --- if I broke the bone, obviously any wiring and metal counterparts snapped. Therefore, in conclusion, a slit throat is merely a distraction.
    He staggers in surprise and loosens his grip on my neck --- giving me just the second I needed to land a rib-breaking kick to his abdomen, sending him flying backwards.
    By this time, Scar and Muscles have struggled to their feet. My mind goes into full battle mode, strategies implanting themselves. Adrenaline bubbles up within me, and, grinning, I flip upright. Cracking my neck, I slip out my spear, put away my other weapons, and begin to laugh. "Just the odds I like." I announce before they come at me from all sides.
    I swing my spear out, yet they are unfazed. All right, I tell myself, Show them why they should be scared. (Pardon me. My ego gets a bit inflated.) I crouch and target Scar. Poor Scar: he never had a chance. Beginning my charge, I let out a battle cry. The spear sinks into his chest with an awful sound. I mentally mourn his defeat. However, I am not finished with him. Swinging around just in time, I launch the bloody corpse right off the spear into Crazy Eyes. They both fall in a gory mess. Muscles, on the other hand, is now right on me. With a spin of my spear, I knock him in the temple with the arrowhead. This slows him a bit, but he still gets in a few good punches to my face and abdomen. The pain partially seeps through, but I push that to the back of my mind. As adrenaline increases strength, it also dulls the effect of pain: you don't feel it until later. Dropping my spear, I take this fight into hand-to-hand combat. He is feral and has learned my movements. Every blow is blocked and every counter disabled. Yet I am still able to overtake him. I won't go into detail for the battle would probably be too hard to follow. I can tell you that in only a few seconds he was down. As said before, he was easy to take down; his foolish strategy and pride did most of that.
    Wasn't anyone a nice challenge these days?
    Wiping the blood from my face, I pick up my spear and stand over my gasping opponent. The only sneering words I find to say are these: "Pride cometh before a fall…" They are from a book Galaden found. With that, I put the muscle man out of his misery.
    Crazy Eyes has already climbed to his feet, blood-drenched. However, he has waited patiently behind me. He is a more tranquil kind of feral. It only registers in his eyes and his stance, as it paces and plans before breaking out of its cage. He paces himself, his lips parted in a snarl. This is what man has become --- robotic, instinctive, animal. Only the survivors are human. Not even that tyrant that sits at the Core and claims to be human is human: he has lost humanity long ago. And some day, I intend to take what little he has left.
    We eye each other from across the room; circling, ready to pounce. He is a challenge; though, not quite enough. I seem to be the same to him as he seems to read my mind.
    "A worthy opponent," he hisses. What I think is a laugh escapes his mouth, but it is different from the cackle. This is a mockery, a spit in my face; he intends to intimidate me. He has failed, though. I know exactly how to fight him, as he does me. I never take my eyes off of his. "It's been a while since I've been able to say that." His face takes on a contemplative look. "They all died like animals --- defenseless, scared, and squealing." At this, a grin lights up his face.
    "You're quite an animal yourself." This appears a compliment to him. "And you'll die like one." It seems a reflex for my hand to fly up and make contact with his face. But in another swift movement, the spear is firm in my hands. I resume my battle stance. My backhand appears ineffective as he straightens his head and leans a bit forward.
    "I'll humour you." he snarls. "I like to play with my prey first." He proceeds this with an assault to my face, which I skillfully deflect with my spear. Rubbing his hands together, he surveys me with interest. "You fascinate me… Persistence," He grins. "and pride. Don't you know that you're no match for our kind? Though, I have to give you credit," he chuckles. "You're much more sensible." This is followed by another assessment of my weapon, stance, and potential.
    I ready myself for his next assault. The feral look sweeps over his eye. He is longing for a fight --- quite a creature after my own heart.
    There are two types of spear-fighting. Generally, they are offensive and defensive. Offensive requires two main moves: stab and slash. It is disorderly and savage unless you are practiced in that type. Defensive happens to be my favourite, and because of this I am more comfortable using it. I feel as if I'm battling instead of slaughtering an animal. Defensive spear-fighting provides an array of moves: spinning, blocking, immobilizing, etc. Vaulting can be used for both methods. So, as you've probably guessed, I take to preparing my defensive strategy and predicting his first strikes. A lunge is inevitably his first approach. I ready myself for this attack.
    When he lunges, I make a swift blow to his head and a fatal jab to his ribs. There is a weakness in his metal chest counterpart, and it is revealed in his next assault. Launching himself at me, he screeches --- a sickening noise that reminds me of the prey I used to hunt. The adrenaline improves my focus and speed. A battle plan splays before my eyes, running in my mind. Not only is his chest plate vulnerable, but a pound to the knee will disable him somewhat. Of course, he won't feel any detectable pain, but it will slow him down. I time his flight and predict his direction and descent, side-stepping. Time has once again been just to me and ceased his race, resting on the sidelines as my plans organize. My mind lays out a strategy. With a lunge, I try to follow it perfectly.
    However, he had seemed to know what move I would make next. As soon as I  slip the arrowhead under his chest plate, he knocks me with a vicious backhand which flips me back a few feet. Before I know it, he has me by the throat. He clutches me in a death grip, almost breaking my spine as he raises me a foot off the ground; then two feet; then three. My legs are starting to go numb as my hands grab clumsily at his hold on my throat. Just as my strength begins to slow and my eyes to close, he throws me against the back wall. The impact has minimal effect except that I can hear the snap of my arm breaking. The pain will register later. I focus myself on more important things. Awakening from my stupor and coughing, I begin to raise myself. But before I can hardly move, he is on top of me, seething hatred. I had been able to put up a guard with my spear using my good arm. This is the only think keeping him from stabbing one of my poison darts in my throat. . (He must have extracted them while I was suffocating.) Pushing down on my spear, he snarls. I can see the emptiness in his eyes. Galaden often tells me an old phrase, "The eyes are the window to the soul." This creature has no soul. It was taken from him. I would have pity, but these abominations must be wiped clean from this land. Pity would keep me from my duty.
    More and more pressure he heaps onto the spear, pushing the dart closer to my neck. This pressure puts enormous strain on my broken arm, forcing bone through muscle and consequently skin. At this I let out a cry of pain, for no one can block out that kind of pain. That laugh he shrieks out is blood-curdling. I push back as best as I can, but he has me pinned. The dart nears---
    I hear footsteps bound up the stairs then see a form launch itself at us. This is followed by and unearthly cry from Crazy Eyes as he dashes up to face his challenger. Landing on his foot and knee, Galaden gives me a subtle greeting wink, which I'm guessing was his sign for "Gratitude is absolutely necessarily." In the language we speak that would mean "You had better thank me. I saved your butt."
    I'm not so much in shock. I regain mental control as I watch the battle ensue. Galaden has a gleaming sabre in his hand, which Crazy Eyes challenges with my spear. Galaden fights like he's been born to swordfight. I could often find him poring over old fencing and swordplay books or studies of ancient fighting styles; then the next minute he'd be outside with his sabre, practicing every single move. He had picked up the blade at an abandoned smithy in one of the villages we passed through a few days ago. Four days, had it been? His practice has paid off. Friend, I would give you a description and background of the kind of person my companion is, but I believe just hearing him speak will give you a fairly good idea.
    Watching this battle was enough. I was hypnotized by the beauty of both their swings and parries and by the deftness with which they moved. Nevertheless, the hunt was in my blood --- we were about to take down the best. So I joined in. With my good arm I slashed and stabbed with my dagger. Eventually, through some manner, we corner him. Yet his face does not take on fear. It's as if he knows something we do not: and he does. Somewhere along the way, we had displayed a weak spot, a chink in the armour of our offense. Needless to say, he escapes through such and sprints toward the window. Spinning around, I launch a poison dart at him. The dart strikes the wall only a centimeter from his foot as he leaps from the window. Galaden rushes to the window only to find Crazy Eyes is on the run. With a shrug, he turns back to me.
    I would be a fool to ignore his warning, so begrudgingly I accept dependence. "You saved my life. Don't expect it often." I utter disparagingly, offering my hand. He gives it a brusque shake. This seems satisfactory enough for him. I can tell by the slight lightening of his features.
    "We best be on our journey. No doubt that fiend has bounded off to raise an alarm and procure a deluge upon us." He looks contemplative, and for a few moments I try to guess the contents of that spacious mind. I couldn't even imagine.. Just then, his face brightens. In the name of science!" he exclaims, sprinting off; no doubt to scalp the dead and extract that dehumanizing chip from their brain. This is for studies, of course. It is often entertaining to watch him at work. My not-so-ordinary traveling companion frequently amuses me. Though, I am far from ordinary myself --- so who am I to say what's normal?
    However, after a minute or so, I begin to worry. I am still a bit angry about my escaped kill, and I know what he is probably doing right now. Nearby camps will be upon us immediately --- and possibly some raiders, too.
    "Galaden, come with me." I urge, one eyes still looking out the window.
    "Another moment, I request." he answers absentmindedly, holding one of his fingers up. He lifts the chip from the brain, and, using his pliers, stuffs it in a tiny pelt bag. This is from a creature I killed before I met him. He'd seen the pelt, so I had offered to make him a small string bag for his findings. I know that another moment for Galaden means until he finds all he is looking for, so I take hold of the back of his collar.
    "Come with me." I demand more than request, jerking him up and pulling him along behind.
    "My studies!" he cries, reaching out toward the doorway of the room as we swiftly descend the stairs. I only chuckle, for I know this is another of his childish phases. As soon as we get outside, he'll be better. I quicken my pace, Galaden tripping along behind me. "You realize that's going to have to be set correctly, and soon." Galaden informs me out of nowhere, his voice tinged with concern. One glance is enough to show me he is scrutinizing my arm mercilessly. Sighing, I give in. I had hoped he wouldn't notice. Now, the pain is kicking in. I can feel the compound fracture that racks my arm with agonizing torture. The open wounds burns more and more with every movement. "I'm guessing you're my doctor, then?" I ask hesitantly, trying to ignore the pain and dreading the inevitable answer.
    One look is quite satisfactory. Though, I already knew the answer anyway. A note: book smarts is never the same as real smarts; reading a novel of horror does not make you horrifying. Although, I have to allow Galaden this much; reading about fencing did make him quite the fighter; but practice paid that one off. No, common sense, my friend, is not very common.
    "That will need to be treated and bandaged as soon as ably possible. Infection, my dear Rueka; infection." His clear voice breaks me from my thoughts and ushers in new ones. No doubt my face looks drawn, for Galaden manages a look of slight curiosity.
    "What I don't get, " I finally voiced, "is the fact that… Bioanim usually travel in groups of six or seven. I killed four in the building; and you witnessed the fifth escape. That leaves room for two more."
    Galaden's face brightens as he breaks from my grip and halts upright on the last stair. "I defeated them." he states, rather prideful. "Two against one --- oh, it was quite a fight. I'll regale you with the details later." I don't mention the fact that I had gone one-on-three. It will be much more fun to wait to ruin his ego. "I figured you would be ambushed and be in need of assistance, so I rushed in and assumed the role of hero. Quite amazing, don't you think?"
    I sniff. "I think I handled myself pretty well." I blanch at the audacity of his comment. Me, needing saving… The idea!
    "Yes, but you suffered what could have been a fatal wound. And I, you see," He stands up straight and tall as he delivers his blow. "am utterly unscathed." The smile that stretches across his face is purely wicked. This is the Galaden I cannot stand. He has won.
    "Very well." I stalk on, admitting my defeat, and allowing a little flourish of triumph to creep up his spine. The rest of the walk home is filled with his abstract ramblings and reminders that I owe him. The rambling is nice. I love extracting that little piece of his mind. It is amazing.
    When Galaden lets me into his mind, if is like another world. That world is full of knowledge --- filled to capacity with information. Remarkable. At least, I think it is.
    Suddenly, he runs forward as if in a revelation. "We must evacuate immediately!" he yells behind as he sprints. "The wave is at hand!" I already knew this, of course, but it takes Galaden's common sense a little time to kick in. After giving him a head start, I race forward. As I pass, I flash him a competitive grin.
    I can't help having a memory of Hasíla…

    "You con't catch may!" N'shi yells over her shoulder in her slurred toungue. Back then, we both still had our distinct Hasíla accent. I felt the words slide over my own lips.
    "Oh, I whel!" I retort, speeding up. Her name meant "beautiful." I had never questioned our parents accuracy in naming her. Her black hair flew out behind her like a silk curtain. We stirred up dust in our wake, but even a mud slide would still leave my sister looking perfect. Our bare feet pounded harder and harder, gaining speed. My breathing turned hard: I was gasping for breath. I had never had good endurance as a child. The run never affected N'shi. Her endurance had grown tremendously, even though she'd always been a perfect runner. I was about to collapse, but, fortunately, we were almost to the meadow. Just because she could, N'shi sped up, calling back, "Yous slahpik!" Of course, she was laughing the whole time. I gathered my strength and dashed after her up the hill, heaving shallow breaths. It was hard not to laugh at her lisping way and her drawing out of sounds.
    Surprisingly, the slope helped me gain ground. As soon as we reached the top, I used my last reserve of energy to tackle her down, giggling uncontrollably. The tall blades of grass engulfed us --- the golden ground our soft landing place. She giggled along with me, each small sound like a symphony. She was just too perfect. However, when her eyes meet mine, the memory muddles, quickly washing away. I look down to find myself clutching around my stomach in sheer panic, my face soaked with tears. I hardly notice the physical pain in my arms compared to the emotional pain. Grief drives the happiness from my mind. She had been one of the first subtle waves to "disappear." But I know what happened: she is dead. My perfect sister; cold, pale, hap hardly thrown somewhere, a disfigured mess. She is gone…
    I feel a hand on my shoulder and snap my head up, alert. Galaden's thin face meets mine. With a look, he conveys condolence, slowly unclenching my fists.
    One thing I have to say about Galaden: he may not be able to shut up sometimes, but he know when silence will be the best medicine.
    We are almost to the house. Already I feel the past drifting away, contorting itself into the farthest corner of my mind. Now, even the memory is erased: cold bravery replaces it. But grief carves another hole in my meager organ of a heart.
    The rest of the walk is silent, but hurried. Galaden ushers me into the house with a nervous air, as if even the air around him could strike any second. As soon as I am in, he begins his flight about the room, busying himself and gathering items. I cautiously sit down, still halfway in a trance of unreality. Time bids me no mercy this time, flying by around me and torturing me with the imminent danger at hand.
    Suddenly, the pain in my arm increases drastically. I whip my head toward the source and find Galaden wrenching my arm in inconceivable directions. Then, with a crack, he snaps it back into place. I scream out in frustration, tearing my arm away from his grip.
    "Now I must restrain it." he explains, reaching for my arm. I hold it away, shrinking back in more pain.
    "You're not going to restrain it. I can use my arm perfectly fine," I growl. To prove it, I roll my shoulder, trying to hide the pain it causes me.
    In response, he grabs it back quite urgently and retorts, "At least let me care to the wound and immobilize the break." He dips a nearby cloth in his bowl of water and deftly begins his work, ignoring my wincing and swatting. After he finishes, he wraps my arm in a few layers of burlap. This irritates me a bit, for it will hamper my movement, but I will have to get used to it. At that point, I venture to look around. The place is strewn with books and scientific instruments. The floor is littered with paper and spilled contents.
    "Galaden!" I exclaim, "How are we going to get out of here quickly with this mess?"
    "You forget, my dear," he smiles, "I was attacked." A smug look of triumph crosses his face again. "And, to quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes," He heaves up a pile of books. "'My mind stagnates with the wait. Give me problems; give me work.'" Galaden dumps them in his pack. Then, with a chuckle, he adds. "The game's afoot."
    With that, he raises our packs and leads me out on our journey.

Description
Chapter 2

Rueka

    The pale moon illuminates the ruins around me as the wind whispers through them, weaving, whirling, and stirring up the caustic dust. I shake off the strands of my raggedy hair that have caught across my face, and then whip my head around. For once, I am in peace and can relax. My footsteps echo between the buildings, the sound fading off into the distance with the wind. My sandals are falling to shreds: I would have to salvage some more soon. As I break into a run, the echo of my footsteps reverberates wildly through the devastated village. The thrill of the wind in my face urges me on. The hunt is upon me.
    I am Rueka. You may call me a huntress. That is why it is such an insult to be hunted by those half-lives. Galaden has lovingly named them Bioanim, which means "against life." They are indeed against life, for they are no more human. Galaden says that in old writings, the characters like this were called "cyborg." But these are much worse than cyborg. The robot completely obliterated the human. But that is a thought to explain to you later.
    I am just out for a run, which I rarely get on my own terms. Galaden ahs slept in, for once, this morning, so I figure I should explore and in the meantime work on my endurance and agility. If I can build a few makeshift "statues," I can work on my weaponry as well. This is my daily training, usually not self-inflicted, though. We can keep a few days ahead of the Bioanim hoard, but a few stragglers or scopers are at choice villages. This means almost everyday is a fight for our lives and, more importantly, freedom. This I tend to like.
    As I near the building of choice, a pile of rubble looms in my path. I gather up the strength then gracefully soar over it. As I land and keep going, I figure I will keep an eye out for a bigger pile: that one was nothing. Plus, I'll work on a different jump with a bigger one.
    I know I am not exactly exuding stealth, clambering noisily like this where any enemy could see or hear me, but that is what makes it fun. I live for the fight. The hunt is my game and I play it well. The best strategy is to give your enemy a false sense of security or let them feel as if you are within their grasp. The factor of surprise has never failed. So let them see me. Though I do not have my reliable bow and arrows, I still have a makeshift short-spear under my clothes, the arrow head wrapped in leather so I do not accidentally kill myself. Speaking of my clothes, I feel it fair to describe to you the style of the era.
    I, for one, am clothed in an outfit of dingy brown color. (Galaden calls it "sienna.") I also have a hooded cloak that I don't usually wear, for it often impedes my movement. It is currently stored in the pack the two of us share. In stealth, it is usually an ideal object, and in frigid temperatures, which often occur now. It can also hide a multitude of weapons, but my clothing is good enough for that. Galaden and I both have altered our clothing with other rags to hide daggers, spears, "swords," throwing weapons, and many other things. It is simple enough --- just a slit here and there and minimal stitching. You can even use pieces of old, tattered clothing. Anything can be used to stash weapons; you just need to know how.
    And now that I have given you sufficient background, I may return to my story.
    I slip around the corner and sprint toward the only tall building in the village --- at least the only one still partly standing. It looms before me like a beacon. Lovingly, over the past two days, I have come to call it my home.
    Another pile of rubble, a bigger one, rises up before me. This is my chance to show off a bit --- at least to you reader. Increasing my speed and powering myself forward, I launch into the air, glide over it with a bit of finesse, land on my toes, and transfer to a barrel roll. The roll was executed very nicely, and, popping up, I tremble in satisfaction at the fact that my skills have not deflated in these two days' peace. It has been an annoyance, actually, and not a relaxation. I feel the urge for a fight and itch with anticipation on days like this. However, training keeps me on my toes. As the wind picks up, I covertly slip out my dagger and scan the area. This is basically just a precaution, since the wind makes it harder to hear an approach. The tall building is still before me, and, with an extra perusal of my surroundings, I slip inside.
    The wooden door creaks loudly, making me cringe. So much for a stealthy appraisal… The light from the cracked-open door bathes one-fourth of the room in a grey light. Nevertheless, in a few seconds the room is blanketed in complete darkness. The only windows are on higher levels of the building. I deftly switch my grip on the dagger to a battle hold. Better to be safe than sorry --- and I can feel a battle coming on. With the slam of the door, dust and dirt fall in specks and rivers, falling in my hair and irritating my eyes. My hair I care nothing for: it is already filthy and stringy. My eyes are useless tools right now. I rely on my ears. Slowly, I take small steps forward. Because I have memorized almost every inch of this building, I know which direction the door is, so I creep toward it. As soon as my hand finds the wall, I cautiously press my back against it and slide along one step at a time. The only sounds are my almost-concealed breathing and the now-howling wind outside. Slowly, I edge along the wall, feeling my way and figuring how much more wall there is until the door. It shouldn't be very long until I reach it. My hands glide along the wall and my feet shuffle quietly along the dirt floor. I control my breathing so that I barely make any sound. The door is now right beside me. However, before I reach out, a trickle of dirt falls from the rafters, revealing a pinhole to the next story. This light is just enough to brighten the room a bit, and unveil two grey eyes I knew were targeting me from the corner.
    Scoper.
    The best element of a fight is surprise. I do my very best to preserve that element. Therefore, I reach for the door; but before he can even advance, the scoper falls to the ground with my dagger in his throat.
    I saunter over and pull the dagger out then finish the grisly task, satisfying myself with the spoils afterward. This Bioanim was just a scout: he has barely any weapons, and few even remotely harmful. Nevertheless, the discovery of poison darts and a few AI scraps appeases me.
    This one is a warning to me. There are many on the other levels, no doubt. He was probably sent down after the door slammed to find out and kill whoever had come in. I laugh at his failure. Pushing open the door, I slide out my short sword, unwrap the leather, and, with my dagger in my right hand, assume a defensive position. With a worthy perusal I ascertain the room is clear but do on relinquish my battle stance. Stealthily and quietly, I make my way to the room where I know the stairs are. However, when I try the door, it is barred. There are quiet ways of breaking down a door; but then again, I prefer a grand entrance. With a deep breath, I back up then let loose a powerful kick to the door, easily knocking it over. There is a Bioanim beneath it. I pick him up, and with a twitch of my wrist, I break his neck.
    One watchdog down.
    With my back to the wall, I skulk up the stairs, using the body as a shield. This way I am vulnerable nowhere. One foot crossing over the other, I ascend the stairs swiftly. My steps echo up the narrow hall.
    Hours, it seems; but it is only moments that I slink up the staircase, trying to muffle my steps and mask my breathing. I have become accustomed to the stench of death during this last nomadic year, so I am not affected by the wafting odour of the body shielding me. No doubt the others have smelled it already though, and are preparing to ambush. The dagger is secure and sure in my hand and the short sword ready to dash through any opponent. I ascend to the top and discover a door partly cracked open. For a few moments I contemplate whether to push the body in as a disguise or break in, weapons flashing. I do not know what is right on the other side of that door.
    I finally decide on my favourite entrance and discard the body --- it has burnt out its use to me. After a deep breath and some mental planning, I slam the door open. An indifferent face greets me; but that marble countenance soon freezes into one of sadistic glee.
    I slash across his chest in one full swoop. He falls, but manages to grab my ankle and pull me down. My grip is still secure on the dagger, but my grip loosens on the short sword. By the time I hit the ground, it is already skittering across the room. Eh, I always liked my trusty dagger better anyway. The thrill of a fight pumps adrenaline through my veins as we grapple over the dagger. Soon, I am victorious. However, my strength is matched, for a new battle strategy programs in his brain.
    "Die!" he screams, wrenching my wrist to the side and kicking me multiple times in the legs and gut. His metal counterparts leave nasty marks, but that is the least of my problems --- pain is nothing. I roll over and snatch my arm from his in a burst of adrenaline, swiping across his face in the process. The long gash renders one of his eyes useless and covers his face in blood
    Now you may be wondering, "Why aren't you pulling out other weapons?" And I know what your logical self-answer would be: "The adrenaline is blinding you." Friend, I will have you know that the adrenaline increases my abilities and renders me even more strategic. A good huntress uses adrenaline to her advantage and does not let it scale over her judgment.
    And now I can continue with my tale.
    A scream erupts from his lips, with a blind swipe at me. I dodge his furious assault and spring to my feet, seizing my short sword from the floor. The next opponent has advanced, another with him. I grin at the challenge and twirl my weapons.
    "Alright boys." I taunt. "Have at it."
    Both charge at me as I stand defenseless, lulling them in. Their charge seems to occur slowly, as if Time begins to rest his weary head. I examine both.
    The one on the left --- my left, reader --- is a burly one. He will rely on brute strength and foolish blows. Most likely, he will go for either my head or specifically my jaw instead of my weapon. His strikes will possibly be easy to beat; but I'll let him think he is winning at first.
    The one to my right is thin and limber. By the look of his legs, agility and endurance are most likely his strong suits. Ah, now a challenger. He has a wild look to his eye --- uncultured, feral. He will go either for my throat or my weapon. His weapon is his skill.
    As I finish assessing him, Time resumes his wanderings and motion continues as normal. As predicted, Muscles charges at me and places a swift upper cut to my jaw. Blocking his blow, I twist his right arm until I hear the snap --- but what is a broken bone to a Bioanim? I swipe his legs out from under him (It is not very hard --- his mass makes him top-heavy.) and he falls. Meanwhile, I have been struggling with Crazy Eyes.
    If you will excuse me, friend, I mentally tend to name my opponents as I fight: Muscles, obviously for his muscles; Crazy Eyes, for the look in his eye. That one over there --- yes, the one I just slashed --- that is Scar. It is a bit of a neurosis. That's what Galaden calls it. However, it helps me keep track and possibly helps your understanding.
    And now that I have explained myself, I can resume.
    Crazy Eyes was a fighter. He did indeed go for my throat first. As I was dealing with the muscle man, he made an excellent grab for my neck and clenched down. I will never forget his laugh. It was a cackle --- pure evil and laced with malice. He lifted me up with the hand on my throat, and made snatches for my weapons with the other. I gave him maybe five seconds head start --- until I could see the triumph in his stormy eyes --- then slit his throat.
    It had been an easy maneuver. The programmed strategies of Bioanim are against "weaklings." They do not plan for a surprise attack or an opposing strategy. Plus, with my assessment, I had predicted that Crazy Eyes would be so consumed with the triumph that his focus would be on nothing else. His snatches at my weapons had been fast but clumsy --- easy to evade. Then, blocking with my short sword, I had slashed at his throat. Granted, all this was done as my mind clouded over with pain and lack of oxygen, but I had dealt with the same situation before. I had learned to work through the fog.
    Nevertheless, Bioanim do not have enough human left for a slit throat to kill them. Just as breaking the watchdog's neck or lodging a dagger in the scout's throat did not kill them. I lodged the dagger in a weak wiring point, severing the bodily network that kept the scout alive. Same with the watch --- if I broke the bone, obviously any wiring and metal counterparts snapped. Therefore, in conclusion, a slit throat is merely a distraction.
    He staggers in surprise and loosens his grip on my neck --- giving me just the second I needed to land a rib-breaking kick to his abdomen, sending him flying backwards.
    By this time, Scar and Muscles have struggled to their feet. My mind goes into full battle mode, strategies implanting themselves. Adrenaline bubbles up within me, and, grinning, I flip upright. Cracking my neck, I slip out my spear, put away my other weapons, and begin to laugh. "Just the odds I like." I announce before they come at me from all sides.
    I swing my spear out, yet they are unfazed. All right, I tell myself, Show them why they should be scared. (Pardon me. My ego gets a bit inflated.) I crouch and target Scar. Poor Scar: he never had a chance. Beginning my charge, I let out a battle cry. The spear sinks into his chest with an awful sound. I mentally mourn his defeat. However, I am not finished with him. Swinging around just in time, I launch the bloody corpse right off the spear into Crazy Eyes. They both fall in a gory mess. Muscles, on the other hand, is now right on me. With a spin of my spear, I knock him in the temple with the arrowhead. This slows him a bit, but he still gets in a few good punches to my face and abdomen. The pain partially seeps through, but I push that to the back of my mind. As adrenaline increases strength, it also dulls the effect of pain: you don't feel it until later. Dropping my spear, I take this fight into hand-to-hand combat. He is feral and has learned my movements. Every blow is blocked and every counter disabled. Yet I am still able to overtake him. I won't go into detail for the battle would probably be too hard to follow. I can tell you that in only a few seconds he was down. As said before, he was easy to take down; his foolish strategy and pride did most of that.
    Wasn't anyone a nice challenge these days?
    Wiping the blood from my face, I pick up my spear and stand over my gasping opponent. The only sneering words I find to say are these: "Pride cometh before a fall…" They are from a book Galaden found. With that, I put the muscle man out of his misery.
    Crazy Eyes has already climbed to his feet, blood-drenched. However, he has waited patiently behind me. He is a more tranquil kind of feral. It only registers in his eyes and his stance, as it paces and plans before breaking out of its cage. He paces himself, his lips parted in a snarl. This is what man has become --- robotic, instinctive, animal. Only the survivors are human. Not even that tyrant that sits at the Core and claims to be human is human: he has lost humanity long ago. And some day, I intend to take what little he has left.
    We eye each other from across the room; circling, ready to pounce. He is a challenge; though, not quite enough. I seem to be the same to him as he seems to read my mind.
    "A worthy opponent," he hisses. What I think is a laugh escapes his mouth, but it is different from the cackle. This is a mockery, a spit in my face; he intends to intimidate me. He has failed, though. I know exactly how to fight him, as he does me. I never take my eyes off of his. "It's been a while since I've been able to say that." His face takes on a contemplative look. "They all died like animals --- defenseless, scared, and squealing." At this, a grin lights up his face.
    "You're quite an animal yourself." This appears a compliment to him. "And you'll die like one." It seems a reflex for my hand to fly up and make contact with his face. But in another swift movement, the spear is firm in my hands. I resume my battle stance. My backhand appears ineffective as he straightens his head and leans a bit forward.
    "I'll humour you." he snarls. "I like to play with my prey first." He proceeds this with an assault to my face, which I skillfully deflect with my spear. Rubbing his hands together, he surveys me with interest. "You fascinate me… Persistence," He grins. "and pride. Don't you know that you're no match for our kind? Though, I have to give you credit," he chuckles. "You're much more sensible." This is followed by another assessment of my weapon, stance, and potential.
    I ready myself for his next assault. The feral look sweeps over his eye. He is longing for a fight --- quite a creature after my own heart.
    There are two types of spear-fighting. Generally, they are offensive and defensive. Offensive requires two main moves: stab and slash. It is disorderly and savage unless you are practiced in that type. Defensive happens to be my favourite, and because of this I am more comfortable using it. I feel as if I'm battling instead of slaughtering an animal. Defensive spear-fighting provides an array of moves: spinning, blocking, immobilizing, etc. Vaulting can be used for both methods. So, as you've probably guessed, I take to preparing my defensive strategy and predicting his first strikes. A lunge is inevitably his first approach. I ready myself for this attack.
    When he lunges, I make a swift blow to his head and a fatal jab to his ribs. There is a weakness in his metal chest counterpart, and it is revealed in his next assault. Launching himself at me, he screeches --- a sickening noise that reminds me of the prey I used to hunt. The adrenaline improves my focus and speed. A battle plan splays before my eyes, running in my mind. Not only is his chest plate vulnerable, but a pound to the knee will disable him somewhat. Of course, he won't feel any detectable pain, but it will slow him down. I time his flight and predict his direction and descent, side-stepping. Time has once again been just to me and ceased his race, resting on the sidelines as my plans organize. My mind lays out a strategy. With a lunge, I try to follow it perfectly.
    However, he had seemed to know what move I would make next. As soon as I  slip the arrowhead under his chest plate, he knocks me with a vicious backhand which flips me back a few feet. Before I know it, he has me by the throat. He clutches me in a death grip, almost breaking my spine as he raises me a foot off the ground; then two feet; then three. My legs are starting to go numb as my hands grab clumsily at his hold on my throat. Just as my strength begins to slow and my eyes to close, he throws me against the back wall. The impact has minimal effect except that I can hear the snap of my arm breaking. The pain will register later. I focus myself on more important things. Awakening from my stupor and coughing, I begin to raise myself. But before I can hardly move, he is on top of me, seething hatred. I had been able to put up a guard with my spear using my good arm. This is the only think keeping him from stabbing one of my poison darts in my throat. . (He must have extracted them while I was suffocating.) Pushing down on my spear, he snarls. I can see the emptiness in his eyes. Galaden often tells me an old phrase, "The eyes are the window to the soul." This creature has no soul. It was taken from him. I would have pity, but these abominations must be wiped clean from this land. Pity would keep me from my duty.
    More and more pressure he heaps onto the spear, pushing the dart closer to my neck. This pressure puts enormous strain on my broken arm, forcing bone through muscle and consequently skin. At this I let out a cry of pain, for no one can block out that kind of pain. That laugh he shrieks out is blood-curdling. I push back as best as I can, but he has me pinned. The dart nears---
    I hear footsteps bound up the stairs then see a form launch itself at us. This is followed by and unearthly cry from Crazy Eyes as he dashes up to face his challenger. Landing on his foot and knee, Galaden gives me a subtle greeting wink, which I'm guessing was his sign for "Gratitude is absolutely necessarily." In the language we speak that would mean "You had better thank me. I saved your butt."
    I'm not so much in shock. I regain mental control as I watch the battle ensue. Galaden has a gleaming sabre in his hand, which Crazy Eyes challenges with my spear. Galaden fights like he's been born to swordfight. I could often find him poring over old fencing and swordplay books or studies of ancient fighting styles; then the next minute he'd be outside with his sabre, practicing every single move. He had picked up the blade at an abandoned smithy in one of the villages we passed through a few days ago. Four days, had it been? His practice has paid off. Friend, I would give you a description and background of the kind of person my companion is, but I believe just hearing him speak will give you a fairly good idea.
    Watching this battle was enough. I was hypnotized by the beauty of both their swings and parries and by the deftness with which they moved. Nevertheless, the hunt was in my blood --- we were about to take down the best. So I joined in. With my good arm I slashed and stabbed with my dagger. Eventually, through some manner, we corner him. Yet his face does not take on fear. It's as if he knows something we do not: and he does. Somewhere along the way, we had displayed a weak spot, a chink in the armour of our offense. Needless to say, he escapes through such and sprints toward the window. Spinning around, I launch a poison dart at him. The dart strikes the wall only a centimeter from his foot as he leaps from the window. Galaden rushes to the window only to find Crazy Eyes is on the run. With a shrug, he turns back to me.
    I would be a fool to ignore his warning, so begrudgingly I accept dependence. "You saved my life. Don't expect it often." I utter disparagingly, offering my hand. He gives it a brusque shake. This seems satisfactory enough for him. I can tell by the slight lightening of his features.
    "We best be on our journey. No doubt that fiend has bounded off to raise an alarm and procure a deluge upon us." He looks contemplative, and for a few moments I try to guess the contents of that spacious mind. I couldn't even imagine.. Just then, his face brightens. In the name of science!" he exclaims, sprinting off; no doubt to scalp the dead and extract that dehumanizing chip from their brain. This is for studies, of course. It is often entertaining to watch him at work. My not-so-ordinary traveling companion frequently amuses me. Though, I am far from ordinary myself --- so who am I to say what's normal?
    However, after a minute or so, I begin to worry. I am still a bit angry about my escaped kill, and I know what he is probably doing right now. Nearby camps will be upon us immediately --- and possibly some raiders, too.
    "Galaden, come with me." I urge, one eyes still looking out the window.
    "Another moment, I request." he answers absentmindedly, holding one of his fingers up. He lifts the chip from the brain, and, using his pliers, stuffs it in a tiny pelt bag. This is from a creature I killed before I met him. He'd seen the pelt, so I had offered to make him a small string bag for his findings. I know that another moment for Galaden means until he finds all he is looking for, so I take hold of the back of his collar.
    "Come with me." I demand more than request, jerking him up and pulling him along behind.
    "My studies!" he cries, reaching out toward the doorway of the room as we swiftly descend the stairs. I only chuckle, for I know this is another of his childish phases. As soon as we get outside, he'll be better. I quicken my pace, Galaden tripping along behind me. "You realize that's going to have to be set correctly, and soon." Galaden informs me out of nowhere, his voice tinged with concern. One glance is enough to show me he is scrutinizing my arm mercilessly. Sighing, I give in. I had hoped he wouldn't notice. Now, the pain is kicking in. I can feel the compound fracture that racks my arm with agonizing torture. The open wounds burns more and more with every movement. "I'm guessing you're my doctor, then?" I ask hesitantly, trying to ignore the pain and dreading the inevitable answer.
    One look is quite satisfactory. Though, I already knew the answer anyway. A note: book smarts is never the same as real smarts; reading a novel of horror does not make you horrifying. Although, I have to allow Galaden this much; reading about fencing did make him quite the fighter; but practice paid that one off. No, common sense, my friend, is not very common.
    "That will need to be treated and bandaged as soon as ably possible. Infection, my dear Rueka; infection." His clear voice breaks me from my thoughts and ushers in new ones. No doubt my face looks drawn, for Galaden manages a look of slight curiosity.
    "What I don't get, " I finally voiced, "is the fact that… Bioanim usually travel in groups of six or seven. I killed four in the building; and you witnessed the fifth escape. That leaves room for two more."
    Galaden's face brightens as he breaks from my grip and halts upright on the last stair. "I defeated them." he states, rather prideful. "Two against one --- oh, it was quite a fight. I'll regale you with the details later." I don't mention the fact that I had gone one-on-three. It will be much more fun to wait to ruin his ego. "I figured you would be ambushed and be in need of assistance, so I rushed in and assumed the role of hero. Quite amazing, don't you think?"
    I sniff. "I think I handled myself pretty well." I blanch at the audacity of his comment. Me, needing saving… The idea!
    "Yes, but you suffered what could have been a fatal wound. And I, you see," He stands up straight and tall as he delivers his blow. "am utterly unscathed." The smile that stretches across his face is purely wicked. This is the Galaden I cannot stand. He has won.
    "Very well." I stalk on, admitting my defeat, and allowing a little flourish of triumph to creep up his spine. The rest of the walk home is filled with his abstract ramblings and reminders that I owe him. The rambling is nice. I love extracting that little piece of his mind. It is amazing.
    When Galaden lets me into his mind, if is like another world. That world is full of knowledge --- filled to capacity with information. Remarkable. At least, I think it is.
    Suddenly, he runs forward as if in a revelation. "We must evacuate immediately!" he yells behind as he sprints. "The wave is at hand!" I already knew this, of course, but it takes Galaden's common sense a little time to kick in. After giving him a head start, I race forward. As I pass, I flash him a competitive grin.
    I can't help having a memory of Hasíla…

    "You con't catch may!" N'shi yells over her shoulder in her slurred toungue. Back then, we both still had our distinct Hasíla accent. I felt the words slide over my own lips.
    "Oh, I whel!" I retort, speeding up. Her name meant "beautiful." I had never questioned our parents accuracy in naming her. Her black hair flew out behind her like a silk curtain. We stirred up dust in our wake, but even a mud slide would still leave my sister looking perfect. Our bare feet pounded harder and harder, gaining speed. My breathing turned hard: I was gasping for breath. I had never had good endurance as a child. The run never affected N'shi. Her endurance had grown tremendously, even though she'd always been a perfect runner. I was about to collapse, but, fortunately, we were almost to the meadow. Just because she could, N'shi sped up, calling back, "Yous slahpik!" Of course, she was laughing the whole time. I gathered my strength and dashed after her up the hill, heaving shallow breaths. It was hard not to laugh at her lisping way and her drawing out of sounds.
    Surprisingly, the slope helped me gain ground. As soon as we reached the top, I used my last reserve of energy to tackle her down, giggling uncontrollably. The tall blades of grass engulfed us --- the golden ground our soft landing place. She giggled along with me, each small sound like a symphony. She was just too perfect. However, when her eyes meet mine, the memory muddles, quickly washing away. I look down to find myself clutching around my stomach in sheer panic, my face soaked with tears. I hardly notice the physical pain in my arms compared to the emotional pain. Grief drives the happiness from my mind. She had been one of the first subtle waves to "disappear." But I know what happened: she is dead. My perfect sister; cold, pale, hap hardly thrown somewhere, a disfigured mess. She is gone…
    I feel a hand on my shoulder and snap my head up, alert. Galaden's thin face meets mine. With a look, he conveys condolence, slowly unclenching my fists.
    One thing I have to say about Galaden: he may not be able to shut up sometimes, but he know when silence will be the best medicine.
    We are almost to the house. Already I feel the past drifting away, contorting itself into the farthest corner of my mind. Now, even the memory is erased: cold bravery replaces it. But grief carves another hole in my meager organ of a heart.
    The rest of the walk is silent, but hurried. Galaden ushers me into the house with a nervous air, as if even the air around him could strike any second. As soon as I am in, he begins his flight about the room, busying himself and gathering items. I cautiously sit down, still halfway in a trance of unreality. Time bids me no mercy this time, flying by around me and torturing me with the imminent danger at hand.
    Suddenly, the pain in my arm increases drastically. I whip my head toward the source and find Galaden wrenching my arm in inconceivable directions. Then, with a crack, he snaps it back into place. I scream out in frustration, tearing my arm away from his grip.
    "Now I must restrain it." he explains, reaching for my arm. I hold it away, shrinking back in more pain.
    "You're not going to restrain it. I can use my arm perfectly fine," I growl. To prove it, I roll my shoulder, trying to hide the pain it causes me.
    In response, he grabs it back quite urgently and retorts, "At least let me care to the wound and immobilize the break." He dips a nearby cloth in his bowl of water and deftly begins his work, ignoring my wincing and swatting. After he finishes, he wraps my arm in a few layers of burlap. This irritates me a bit, for it will hamper my movement, but I will have to get used to it. At that point, I venture to look around. The place is strewn with books and scientific instruments. The floor is littered with paper and spilled contents.
    "Galaden!" I exclaim, "How are we going to get out of here quickly with this mess?"
    "You forget, my dear," he smiles, "I was attacked." A smug look of triumph crosses his face again. "And, to quote Mr. Sherlock Holmes," He heaves up a pile of books. "'My mind stagnates with the wait. Give me problems; give me work.'" Galaden dumps them in his pack. Then, with a chuckle, he adds. "The game's afoot."
    With that, he raises our packs and leads me out on our journey.