A/N: Hey everyone, thank you so much for checking out this fic! My aim is to provide weekly updates, but for the best experience, please consider following the story on Tumblr, where you can find character profiles, playlists, artwork and lots of extras - the username is 100emptyskies. Hope to see you there, and as always, any reviews or favourites right here would be very much appreciated. Enjoy!


'18'

The day had arrived. There were no methods of keeping time within the confines of the cells, but he needed no clock or calendar to tell him what today was. He could feel it in his very bones, and it resonated through him like the most universal of truths. Every muscle, fibre and molecule in his body was celebrating their victory of another year survived, another year turned older, all the while fighting against the inevitability of human mortality.

It was his birthday. His eighteenth birthday. And though the number meant nothing to his eager body, it meant everything to him. Today was the day of his trial, the day that his fate was decided for him. The very notion of that fact made his blood curdle with undiluted rage; only one person was fit to decide his fate, and that was him.

He dressed as smartly as he could from his meagre supply of pre-issued clothes. For lack of a comb, he tugged his fingers through his sandy hair and swept it into his usual messy style. He had no mirror to see himself, but he knew how he would look being hustled into that courtroom. The fallen son of two prominent councillors, wearing clothes that were just a little too small for him, the sleeves hitched back just enough to show the bruises that littered his sallow skin, his knuckles cracked and bloody, a black bruise blossoming around one darkened eye. They expected him to stand before them as a criminal, a delinquent, and that was exactly how he appeared.

As he was dragged from his cell by four armed guards, he thought of how his appearance reflected what he felt inside. In short, it didn't, but there was no way for him to bare his soul to those who were to judge him, no way to project the myriad feelings he had towards life and society and injustice. If only they could see that, they might not do what they were inevitably going to decide to do: float him.

With a guard on each arm, one at his back and one at his front, he couldn't help but feel the extra security was unnecessary. He wasn't going to fight, not this time. He relaxed just enough to make it difficult for them to pull him along, but this, he would not resist. He would have walked, if only they'd asked. That was the problem with people, always leaping to conclusions.

The metal hallways of the Ark looked strange now he had been locked away for so long. He had walked and ran and played in these same hallways for all of his short childhood. As a privileged kid, he had been known and loved by many, but these days, he was not so well-received. People he used to know had gathered in doorways and corridors to watch him dragged to the courtroom. He soon became tired of the guards' tugging and began to walk, leading the way himself. He wouldn't give these bloodthirsty animals the satisfaction of seeing him struggle. He would go out with good grace, as he had always meant to. Let them watch his body float lifelessly past their tiny windows. Maybe the pressure would pop his skull and plaster his brains all over their window panes for one final, sweet revenge. He smiled to himself, imagining how it would feel for all the oxygen to rush out of his lungs in one, swift moment. He shook the bony hand of the Reaper, drifting ethereally at his side. His time was near, and he was ready.

He saw among the gathering crowd the mother and father of the classmate he had beaten and they followed him all the way down the hallway with their venomous glares. The father shouted as he was led away, calling him names and broadcasting the details of his crime for all to hear. Coward, he thought. Let's see you say that while I'm not cuffed and guarded.

But there would be no more of that. No more fighting. No more need to prove his point to anyone, for any reason. The struggle was over.

He dropped his gaze and tried his best to look apologetic as he was bustled into the courtroom. It was a small space, low-lit. At the other side, facing him as he entered, were the council. Among their ranks were the people he once called his parents, though their cold, indifferent expressions told nothing of familial concern. The guards remained by his side even as he was sat in the cold metal chair in the centre of the room. The Death Throne, the prisoners had taken to calling it. Barely anyone who sat there got to walk away with their life.

"Alfie Seabrooke," began one of the council, a severe man he remembered as Luther Conway. "As today you have reached the age of majority, you have been brought here for the trial allowed to you by the laws of the Ark. Your sentence will be decided here and now. You are brought before us for the charge of assault in the second degree. First I must ask you: how do you plead to your charges?"

Alfie grinned coldly, looking his aging father right in the eye as he said, "Guilty." His father turned away. A small victory.

"Then I'm afraid this trial will be a short one," Luther said, with a shake of his head. "We are all aware of the severity of your crime – some of us more than others – and the lack of remorse you have shown for such brutal actions. In addition, there are reports from your detention supervisors that you have elicited a reign of tyranny within the cells. Do you refute these claims?"

This man was arrogant. Alfie hated that. "I refute what you call my 'tyranny', if that's what you mean. If you'd thought to check the records properly, you'll see that every one of the people I 'assaulted' was in the process of hurting another person. There are some terrible people in that place, and you should be ashamed that you-"

"Mr Seabrooke!" Luther interrupted. "May I remind you that you have pled guilty to your charges. There is nothing you can say at this point that will affect the outcome of your trial."

Alfie felt a rage rip through him, white-hot, and he bit back, despite his better judgement. "There are kids in that prison! Harmless, defenceless kids! The worst thing they've ever done is scratch their name into a school desk or look at a guard the wrong way, and BAM, there they are, locked up in prison alongside bullies, murderers, rapists! You think this is an acceptable way to discipline your young? Because I'm here to tell you that you've fucked up, and you've fucked up badly. Your kids are suffering in there, and you should be grovelling at my feet for saving their worthless asses so many times."

He could feel himself rising up from the Death Throne, caught up in his rage. A guard put a firm hand on his shoulder and forced him back to his seat.

The council looked at him in a united silent regard. Disappointment was written across all of their faces. He was an intelligent, sweet little boy, he had so much potential, he could see them all thinking. But none of their pitying looks hurt more than that of his mother's. Julia Seabrooke was barely visible over the high podium at which the council sat. Like most of the equipment on the Ark, it hadn't been built with anyone else in mind but healthy, able-bodied people. In her wheeled chair, Julia looked small next to her counterparts, but Alfie knew she was as fierce as any of them. He kept reminding himself of that even as he saw the shimmer of tears pass briefly over her eyes. Her forehead wrinkled like it used to whenever he returned home to their quarters with a write-up for truancy, or a new curse word he had learned and was eager to yell out in polite company. The sight of her disappointment was too familiar, a wound still too fresh, and he tried instead to stare out the man who was obviously both his judge and his jury.

"Mr Sea-… Alfie," Luther continued, a little more sympathetically this time. "You have considerable anger issues, and a perverse illusion of grandeur that may have reached the point of psychotic delusion. You are a danger to society, and you will not be permitted to walk the halls of the Ark again."

The rage was ebbing and flowing, like waves. With no outlet, no way to punch and kick and spit, he had to sit there, subject to it. He pushed his wrists as far apart as he could in his cuffs, until it hurt, and imagined smashing his fist through that man's obnoxious face.

"If you're going to float me, just do it already," he said, through gritted teeth.

A look passed between the council, along with a few grave nods, and murmurs of approval. The man faced him with an infuriating new smile. "I'm afraid we have other plans for you. Call it a 'revised' sentence. Seeing as you obviously have such an insatiable messiah complex, perhaps you'll be pleased to know that your purpose now will be to save the lives of the many right here on the Ark that you obviously care for so deeply. We thank you for your sacrifice. Guards, please continue."

The guards that flanked him turned suddenly, and Alfie saw the flash of a needle in the sharp light. He had half a second to frown at it in confusion, before one of the bastards stepped behind him and pressed him bodily to the Throne. His wrists were clamped to the metal armrests. The needle lingered somewhere by his ear. Alfie thrashed, trying to kick his captor away, before his legs were pinned down too. He tried to move his head, to pull away to safety, but all he saw was a clear, glistening liquid that oozed down the needle's point. Rather than watch it penetrate the taut skin of his neck, he fixed his gaze, for the last time, upon his parents.

"I was arrested for protecting you," he said to his mother. The tears in her eyes looked just like that serum – despair in liquid form. "I told myself I'd die to defend you. Looks like I got my wish."

The needle broke the skin. His blood was so hot with adrenaline he could almost feel the chill of the serum creeping into his veins. His vision throbbed, his head suddenly felt too heavy to hold up. While he still could, he shot his father a pointed glance, and spoke with a voice that didn't sound like his own. "Thanks for your support, Dad."

His body surrendered then. A haze overcame him, quiet and intoxicating. The pain radiating from the pinprick in his neck dissolved into a blissful nothing. The last thing his mind saw was a flash of a smile and long, yellow hair. Marlow, he called into the darkness. But he was the only one there.