My mother used to say that being good or evil was a choice we make a thousand times throughout our lives. Even when the world conspired against her, she chose kindness. I rarely saw her angry, though she had every reason to be. Her spirit remained a fortress for us, right up until the day she died.

I was there the night she was murdered. I can still feel her hands lifting me, hurling me out of the house to safety. I fell from the window, and the sudden, sharp agony in my limb eclipsed everything else. My ankle twisted uselessly, each step more excruciating than the last. I remember crawling into the brush, clawing through the dirt and thorns with my ankle burning like fire. I screamed for my father until my voice broke. Then came the explosion. When I turned back, the fire was clawing at the sky, towering over the trees. After that, there was only a void.

My father chose to be evil after that night. His rage wasn’t reserved for my mother’s killers; it bled out onto everyone around him. In his eyes, we were all accomplices to his grief. My brother bore the brunt of it. He took every blow my father had saved for the world—and for me. It was as if by shattering my brother’s face, my father thought he could piece my mother back together. She never received justice, so my father became our executioner. His heart blinded his mind, and in his twisted logic, the violence made sense. My brother was just like her: protective, joyful, a constant light by my side. Until the day they killed him, too. Sometimes I wonder if death hunts the good ones first.

Thirteen years have passed since my mother died; ten since my brother followed. But I carry them everywhere. From her, I kept a necklace—an imitation scallatin piece. She claimed it was her favorite, though I suspect she only wore it because it was a birthday gift from us. From my brother, I kept a childhood drawing. He was talented, though the tattoo artist wasn't impressed by his sketch of a great bird with outstretched wings. I had it inked across my chest regardless. On the left wing, Nelrick; on the right, Damala.

I haven’t seen my father in nine years. The last I heard, he’d been in a brawl in a Sector 23 dive bar. No one looking for a good life goes there, but I went anyway, searching for him. I drifted from bar to bar, asking questions and dodging trouble, but he was a ghost. Eventually, the need to find him simply evaporated. I kept nothing of his; the memory of the good man he once was had been permanently stained by my brother’s blood.

Small fingers fluttered in front of my face.

"Why are you eating it?"

"Mmm? No, I’m not eating it," I said, pulling the cold metal of the necklace from between my lips. "Chewing on it helps me focus."

"I thought it was chocolate."

I smiled sadly. "No. Just an old necklace. It belonged to my mother."

"Oh... my mama died. My papa, too."

"I’m so sorry." I rummaged through my pack and pulled out a few crushed pieces of chocolate. "Here, would you like some? Who are you traveling with?"

"Miss Emma. She watches us."

A booming voice suddenly tore through the speakers, drowning out the hum of the cabin. "We land in fifteen minutes. Initiate security protocols." The little girl’s eyes went wide, as if she’d seen a specter. She stumbled back toward the inner lounge, her gait uneven—she’d clearly lost a leg in a military strike. The chocolate fell from her hand, scattering across the floor. I lunged to pick it up.

"Hey! Sit down!" a soldier barked from across the deck.

I found myself staring down the barrel of a rifle. My heart hammered against my ribs; a cold shiver raced down my spine. The ship's guards moved with practiced precision, flanking the refugees and sealing the exits. One soldier for every ten of us. The gravity engines groaned, vibrating through the floor as we adjusted altitude.

"The chocolate belongs to the girl," I said, my voice tight. "I’m just picking it up for her."

"Sit!"

I obeyed, locking my hands behind my head. The soldier snatched the chocolate from the floor without breaking eye contact. With a brutal squeeze, he crushed the sweets into dust, shoved the mess into his pocket, and kept his weapon leveled at my chest. Rage turned my blood to ice. My mind flooded with a dozen ways to lunge at him, to take the gun, to...

"For the safety of all, cooperate with authorities," the intercom droned. "Remain calm. Children and the elderly will be processed first."

I am from Sector 17, though I lived in 18 for a time. Life was quieter there before the war erupted. Technically, only Sectors 21, 22, and 23 are at war with the government, but the rest of us still catch the stray bombs and the mounting body counts. My mother’s family fled Sector 23 when the fighting began; she was only fifteen when they reached the safety of 17. My grandfather didn't want his daughters raised in a slaughterhouse. My father used to tell us she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

I watched the refugees shuffle through a portal of blue light one by one. They moved in a silent, bowed line—ghosts in tattered clothes, hoping only for a moment's rest. The light scanned them, and then they vanished onto the bridge beyond. I couldn't see what lay past the exit, only the silhouettes of more steel and more rifles. I should have felt safe, but the air felt heavy. I put the necklace back in my mouth, the metallic tang of scallatin coating my tongue.

As my turn neared, an irrational guilt gnawed at me. I felt like a criminal, though I had done nothing. I stood up and was guided toward the light.

"Watch this one," a voice muttered from behind. "He’s a troublemaker."

Two soldiers flanked me immediately. Troublemaker? All because I reached for a piece of chocolate on the floor. Their mistrust was a physical weight. The blue light washed over me, and the ship was gone.

The bridge led to a massive hall filled with rows of chairs, piles of luggage, and the low roar of a thousand voices. Ancient, ornate lamps hung from the ceiling. Children played on the floor while government officials conducted interviews at semi-circular kiosks. I heard a dozen dialects, but eventually, I caught the familiar lilt of my own people.

A hand settled on my shoulder. "Hand here, please. You need to register."

I pressed my palm against the scanner.

"District 17," the clerk said, not looking up. "It’ll be a few hours. Districts 19 through 24 have priority. Take the elevator to the lower levels; you can find food and wash up there. Your ID will flash red when it’s your turn."

"Thank you," I replied, stepping into the unknown.

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