My first memory is waking up. I've no knowledge of myself, but I know that I know how to make a killer pancake and that there's just enough breeze for me to have to aim a little to the left with my recurve if I wanted the arrow on dead target. I have no idea how I know, but I do.

I look at myself. It feels rather like meeting a familiar stranger, someone you might've known when you were too young to remember and haven't seen since, but you can still recognize... Ish.

The - my - hair is too short for me to see the color of, and it seems to be very knotted all about my ears and head. My hands, when I lift them to observe, are rather light in the skin tone chart, and adorned with thick callouses across my middle three fingers on both sides, the product of rapidly firing many arrows without gloves to keep the string from cutting the skin. I was almost obscenely thin (from lack of food, my subconcious piped up), my pelvis with a thin layer of skin stretched tight across peeping from where my black shirt seems to have rode up. Black jeans sheathed a very long, lean legs, ones good for running like heck, which were tucked into a set of worn combat boots.

Sitting up, I found a bow, quiver, and many a knife spread around the sleeping bag I was laying on. There was a metal framed pack behind me, and absolute silence stretching on from... Where ever I was. Nothing moved, nothing breathed. Weak sunlight illuminated what seemed to be a storage area.

And then there was a scream. Long, high pitched, ending in a sickening gurgle.

Time to leave.

My body packed everything with out my knowledge, tucking knives into every possible nook or cranny, rolling and securing my sleeping bag, shouldering the pack and quiver in just such a way I knew I'd be able to draw and nock my weapon before anyone could blink. The recurve, a good fifty-five-ish pound draw and with a spot to lay an arrow on each side (meaning you - we - can shoot both ways, my subconcious noted), was in my hand and I was running. Hard and fast.

While I fled, I thought on what I knew. After all, runing doesn't take much thought.

Aliens, which I seemed inclined to call 'twitchies', and their mechanical counterparts ('da Mobbies') had invaded. Bad, bad things had happened. I don't know my part in any of these things, other than the fact that I was the lucky one-out-of-every-ten that managed to live and the even luckier one-out-of-those-survivers-every-twenty who wasn't 'brainwashified in the spine ('BITS')'.

The sound of a twitchie's many legs scabbled behind me. I cursed under my breath and sped up, simultaniously letting my hands nock an arrow on the right since they seemed to know how to do so without any real thinking on my part. A deadly, razor-ified tip gleamed in the watery morning light as I pounded down the street as fast as I could.

Twitchie started pushing his legs faster. I cursed even louder, switching into a very colorful assortment of different languages which I knew no words but bad ones in. I ducked into an alley, nearly buffing it on an overturned truck at the corner. My pursuer seemed to be getting the slightest bit farther behind, which was a relief.

Then I heard the heavy thunk, thunk of one of da Mobbies and a highly imposing chainlink fence came into view. Crap.

Seeing no other choice, I readied myself to vault over it and made my steps as light and speedy as I could. 5... 4... 3...

The twitchie and his Mob buddy made very angry sounds at my back. 2... 1...

A screech, a hiss, the rattle of the fence as I grabbed the top and swung, the rush of air as I flew through it, the dizzing whirl as I hit the ground and rolled, and then I sprang to my feet, recurve still loaded. I'd think on these sensations later, let myself get shocked dumb after I saved my skin, 'cause there would be no later otherwise.

Warm lazerbeams from da Mobbie's gun aimed in on the back of my head. I dug deeper and threw myself out of the mouth of the alley before he could shoot. Safety... For a half second at least.

That half second wasn't wasted. I barreled a ways down the block, and after a sufficient amount I spun to the twitchie who'd apparently said ta-ta to da Mobbie, and aimed. Chest heaving and knees quivering from exertion, but arms steady and bow at the ready, I carefully (but quickly) calculated what I needed... And let go.

I missed by the slightest bit, catching it in the throat. It dropped anyways, so no matter.

Honestly, I just wanted to leave the thing to a long, drawn out death like its kind was imposing on this world, but I didn't. Walking was a little odd, what with the quaking in my legs, and I had an arrow at the ready the whole time, but I made sure the thing was fully dead before pulling out my arrow. Sickly black blood was all over it - I grabbed a nearby abandoned shirt to clean it before replacing it into the quiver with the others.

I saluted the twitchie, dipping a bit with the movement. "You almost had me there."

And then I meandered away to find a bench to settle down on and figure out why I didn't know a thing about myself, even if I knew a lot about everything else. And why I was far too used to nearly being killed first thing in the morning.

How'd I get here? I was in Boston, I knew, but how did I get here? Who brought me? How old am I? Did I have any family? Was anyone looking for me?

After a time, my head was hurting, and I had to give up. I was a nameless, faceless, lost little girl in a twitchie-kill-human world. I seemed to know a lot about bows, how to survive, and music. I tried to sing a few notes, found that they could probably kill a walrus, and silenced myself for my own sake.

Oh, and there was a set of dog tags around my neck. I somehow knew they weren't mine, but maybe they belonged to a family member. L. H. Flowers, they read, and a random assortment of numbers. I rubbed my finger across them, wondering what they meant, before my stomach chose to growl loudly.

"Hush, hush now," I told it. "I'll go to that store around the block and take something soon."

Yes, I was indeed pathetic enough to talk to my stomach. Don't comment on it.

There was a squeak and footsteps. They were bipedal, and far too soft to be one of da Mobbies'. Human. I gripped my bow but didn't load, turning slowly to where the sound had come from.

It was a little girl, dirty hair and skin, fraying clothes, and big brown eyes. Her lip was wobbling, and she was far too young to be a BITS.

"Come here, hon. I won't hurt you." I lowered the bow to reinforce that, holding out my arms to show I wasn't armed in any other way.

She surprised the carpal tunnel outta my abused fingers by throwing herself into my arms and sobbing hysterically onto my shoulder. Hesitantly, I hugged her and settled her onto my lap, disturbed to find that she was far too light for a six-to-seven year old. Some time later, I was rocking her back and forth, running a hand through her grimy locks, and soothing her out of crying.

Let's add 'good with kids' to the list of things I seemed to have knowledge in. Maybe I had littler siblings I used to setle into naps or something of the like. Maybe.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"My mommy said my daddy is going to be in Boston, but I can't find him and she's all gone," she sniffled. "My brother was taken a week ago, and he was the one taking care of me. Now I don't have any food, and I'm cold, and I'm scared, and I'm... All... Alone!" She wailed and buried her face in my chest.

"What's your name?" I urged, rubbing her back.

"Clairabel. Mommy called me Claire and Wes liked to say I was like a belle. Whatever that meant."

"Okay, Clairabel, who's your daddy?"

"I don't remember. I never met him. Wes says he was really stupid, though."

Well, here it goes. Maybe I'm retarded, maybe I'm just a sucker for tears... "I'll take care of you."

Her tears had carved through the dirt on her face, and revealed that she was rather pink cheeked. "Really?"

"Really." Hoisting myself upright, she stayed glued across my waist without me even needing to support her. I threw the bow over the shoulder not blocked by my new charge, and started off to the market. We're gonna get her a good meal, new clothes, and a backpack all her own.

"Where are we going? Who are you?" Apparently, the idea of not having to fend for herself had put her in an instantly curious and very good mood.

"We're going to the store, and I don't really have a name."

Her eyes were wide. "You don't have a name?"

"Nope."

"What's the thingie on your neck say? Flo..." She paused and scruitinized my dog tags. "Flowers. Is your name Flowers?"

"No, I don't think so." When she deflated, I quickly tried to amend it. "You can give me a name, though."

She perked right back up. "How about soemthin' to do with flowers?"

"Whatever you want, hon."

"Daisy? ... No. You don't look like a Daisy. Lily? Nah, Stacy had a frog named Lily and it attacked me and Jace kept teasing me about it... Um." She stared at me very hard, looking insanely concentrated for soemone her age. "You look like a Violet. All dark on the outside." She looked quite proud of herself.

"Okay. Violet I am. What's my last name?"

"Flowers. Duh."

"And what's your last name?"

"Richards."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Purple. Or green. Is this it?"

"Yep. I'm gonna have to put you down, though, so I can make sure no one bad is in there."

Reluctantly, she let me put her on the ground, but she made sure to keep a little finger through my belt loop. I loaded an arrow, led her in, and we did our shopping. A couple of hours later, we'd had a good filling dinner, she was washed and clean, all of the necessitiees were 'purchased', she'd been nicknamed 'Air' since I stumbled over her name one time, and I was settling her into a bed since there was one available.

"Violet?"

"Hm?"

"Do you know a lullaby?"

Cringing a little at the memory of my 'music', I shook my head. "Believe me, Air, you don't wanna hear my singing."

"Please?"

"No."

She gave me the puppy dog face, pouting so adorable-ly I could actually feel my will breaking. In a last ditch effort: "You need your sleep, hon."

"Fine. But you will one day."

"Sure, Air."

Now she sobered, looking at me with those big brown doe's eyes. "Will you stay next to me? Wes always did..."

"Of course. Scoot over."

Soon she was curled up to me, asleep, and all was silent. The hours passed slowly and it was dusk when the roar of a truck and... Was that a motorcycle? Maye two. A door opened, probably off at the loading dock, and the sound of people echoed through the empty space.

"Mommy?" Clair mumbled fuzzily as I scooped her up to begin leaving.

"Um..." I precariously loaded my bow. "Hush, honey. Everything fine." Where's the nearest exit?

"Who's that?" It was a male voice, obviously having heard my whisper. "Who's there?"

"Mommy? Why's somebody yelling?"

Crap, crap, crap. "Don't worry, honey." I tested my ability to pull back without injury to my charge, who'd clamped onto me again, and found it good enough. "Just go back to sleep."

"Show yourselves!"

"You guys do so too," I called back. Slowly, people stepped into the last dregs of light. I let them know of my position.

"Who's that, Mommy?"

Continuing on with this acting like her mom thing in hopes of getting her to sleep and therefore not freaked out, I soothed her as best I could without hugging. "Don't worry about it, honey. Mommy will take care of everything. She just needs you to go back to sleep."

"You're with child?" This voice was older.

I blinked a bit at the odd phrasing, but shrugged it off. "Yes." Not my own child, though...

"Weapons down," the same voice ordered to the others. "We are not shooting a mother."

Wow. This whole mother thing might've just saved my life and limb. Cautious, I unloaded and put the recurve over my shoulder before resituating Clair in hopes of getting her into a more sleep inducing position.

"Thanks. So... Who're you lot?"

"Second Mass, part of the Resistance."

"Violet Flowers, not quite sure what she's doing." There was a bit of a chuckle to my right, coming from a teen and the tween next to him. Both were armed, but niether were aiming for me. I feel so loved.

"Mommy," Clair whined, probably annoyed with the vibrations through my ribcage. "I'm tireeeeeed." About twenty seconds later, she was sleeping contentedly with her curly blonde head on my chest.

I snorted quietly to myself, hitching her up a bit when she slipped. "What're your names?"

"What is the girl's?"

"Clairabelle."

"I'm Tom, he's..." He listed more, but I wasn't quite listening.

I'd heard something and now I was hoping I was just plain crazy. Nope. No such luck. The sound of a twitchie in the rafters - er, the top of the store shelves. Crap. Did anyone else hear here? No one notices the eyes?

Settling Clair back onto the bed, I slowly shed my things and then drew my bow. Suddenly, the guns were back on me. No big surprise there. But I ignored the threats of being swiss-cheese-ified and aimed above the head of the brunette teen. His eyes widened, and he aimed back at me. Once more, not that I'd blame him.

Unfortunately, he twitchie noticed me and started moving faster, down so he was hiding in the area behind Mr. Teen's head. I sidestepped quickly and fired, grimancing when someone shot me twice, rapid fire. At least it was in the thigh, and no bones were damaged, though I don't know if it hit that big important atrery. That'd suck.

The twitchie hit the ground with a big ker-splat while I tumbled very ungracefully to the lineloium. Blood was already spilling, and it was going dark around the edges of my vision, which barely registered the shocked faces of the peoples as they turned to the twitchie and then back to bleedin' little ol' me.

Just before I passed out (hey, you try getting shot in the leg and then you can call me a wimp) I heard Clair begin wailing and the dude named Tom start shouting...

About... Mr. Teen's...

... Something...

And then all was black and cold and silent.