Now, this plot bunny's been driving me crazy for a while . . . Decided it was best to get it written down before I forgot it and started lying. So to get to the story quicker, here's everything I need to say in one: DISCLAIMER, enjoy, this is what I feel was left out of the books (mainly UnSouled), this is my first Unwind story so try to bear with me, and I'm not Neal Shusterman or the publisher!

(Er . . . That might've been in the wrong order . . .)

Unwritten

Sonia

". . . So hurry up and write."

"But what'm I supposed to tell them? That I'm sorry I ended up here and it's not their fault they signed the order?" The AWOL glares at her. "Because I'm not, and for all I care they can—"

Something in Sonia snaps at that, and maybe the Unwind sees it too because he falls silent, suddenly cowed by the fire that's lit in her. She knows it's because she knows how he feels, raging within but keeping it barely contained, wanting to lash out at everything and everyone who brought this misery upon him. She, however, has the advantage of experience and knows how to keep her anger in check.

"You—will—write—this," she says, slowly and forcefully, her mind still racing as she tries to put into words why she's making him do this. "You'll write them a letter because, whether your tiny brain can process it or not, you won't feel the same in ten or twenty years."

The Unwind isn't backing down. "Do you really think I'll be alive in ten or twenty years?"

Sonia decides she's not going to let this kid—a refugee from the authorities, no less!—beat her at her own game. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm no fortuneteller, but I can tell you that this isn't something you'll regret." When he doesn't budge, she adds, "I don't think you heard me very clearly. I'm not going to read it. I don't care if you spill your hate all over that letter. What do you think I am, some movie-rating association? Just tell them what you feel you have to, and I'll stop getting all over your case. Got it?"

She emphasizes her words with a pointed, narrow-eyed glare, and the AWOL finally gives in. He looks down at the paper and, to Sonia's half amusement, half relief, actually starts writing.

She huffs and leaves the room, everything about her radiating irritation and exasperation—but if anyone figures out what really goes on behind her toughness, they'll find that she's thinking, I did it. I won.

It is her first real victory since she and Janson brought unwinding into the world. And for the first time in years, Sonia smiles as she heads for the trapdoor.

That was— Well, Sonia doesn't even bother trying to remember how long ago that was.

The first letter had simply been an experiment, a trial to see just how angry these Unwinds are at the world. But it led to a roaring cascade of letters, every one of them eventually mailed off (without a return address, of course) or awaiting such departure.

And all of them written by Unwinds.

But the world had the final laugh, as always. Unwinding had been abolished, a poorly covered stain on the face of history. It did take much longer than she'd thought it would, and the change far less monumental. Yet Sonia knows by now she should just be grateful that the horrifying practice hadn't gone on longer.

She had finally begun to feel as though she were doing something right, hiding those Unwinds away, but now it's as if she's back to square one. She has nothing but a case full of letters written by people so much of the world just wants to forget about. A collection of papers that document an era that the majority of the population shoves into a drawer of denial, doing anything to keep it out of sight. Hiding from the shame they should feel.

Should. Should.

It is almost as if unwinding had never existed. The irony of it all annoys Sonia—hadn't they just fought a fight equal, or greater than, the Heartland War to bring down unwinding once and for all and yet no one even acknowledges it? The struggle they endured and won, and no one even decides to take the lesson history's waving in front of their faces?

Ridiculous.

It's Proactive Citizenry all over again, except this time they're the ones defeated and covered up. How ironic that those who erased Sonia and Janson from all the records they could were smothered into nonexistence themselves.

Maybe it's time to stop all that "covering," Sonia finds herself thinking. Maybe this is my true purpose in all I've done: to teach the world that what goes around, comes around. . . . And that trying to forget will never work, because it'll just come back with a bite that's even worse than before.

The thought makes her nod to no one in particular, and she feels as though it has somehow sealed a vow.

She has.

She will.

Either things happen for a reason, or they happen for no reason at all. Either one's life is a thread in a glorious tapestry or humanity is just a hopelessly tangled knot. . . .

—UnWholly; Neal Shusterman

Miracolina

And, finally, Miracolina truly believes in the tapestry.

Not that she didn't before. Only this time, she feels she's really part of it, that it's there, for real, in all its beauty and intricacy. This time, she doesn't see it as a tapestry associated with the temporary relief and resources unwinding brought to the world—she sees it the way it probably is meant to be seen, with the brightness of joy and mercy and . . . truth.

"It's weird, isn't it," she says, turning to face him, knowing he's listening even though his eyes seem elsewhere. "I spent the beginning of my life always thinking about how wonderful unwinding was and then spent the rest of it doing everything I could to stop it."

Lev's eyes return and he nods. "Yeah, well, you finally got some sense knocked into you when I appeared in your life."

Miracolina shoves him in response but says, "Maybe I did. But to see everything come together like this . . . It's almost surreal."

"Pretty much." He shifts in his chair, his gaze going back to whatever divine inspiration he sees out Miracolina's window.

"That's all you have to say?" demands Miracolina incredulously. "After everything we went through to, you know, kind of destroy the biggest global industry in history, you just say 'pretty much'? Where'd all that speech talk you got during the whole revolution go?"

Lev grins and meets her eyes. "That was all for show and trying to get people to help us. Almost propaganda-sort stuff, if you think about it. But it's still here, just on dormant." Miracolina snorts in disbelief but she knows what he means. The Humanity Movement, as they're calling it, had also brought out some things in her she never knew existed.

They've all come a long way.

"Do you ever regret it?" asks Miracolina suddenly, as the possibility occurs to her in a flash from some unknown depth of her mind. When Lev gives her an odd look, she adds hastily, "I mean, changing. Not being who you were before. . . . Like—are there parts of you you'll miss?"

Lev considers it carefully; Miracolina can almost see the gears turning in his head, through his thoughtful eyes. "Maybe," he says slowly, "the fact that I felt I knew what was right all the time. How I always felt so . . . confident." He shakes his head. "That's gone now."

Miracolina's surprised to hear that, but she decides not to let on. "What, you're not confident anymore? Because it took a bit of confidence to find me."

"It wasn't finding you that was the hard part," he replies, flashing her that lopsided smile. She flushes at what he's implying but regains her composure quickly, as she's done her whole life. The Movement hadn't changed that, at least. "Well, maybe not. But . . . It's surprising how quickly morality can shift and how the whole world can change their minds about ethics in a day or so, or even less."

"Shows you just how 'stable' humanity is, right?"

"Right."

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Miracolina knows it is right.

Ex-worker for the Juvenile Authority

They're still out there.

He knows it. All the countries on the planet may have rejected unwinding by now, but he knows there are still people out there who think it is, has always been, the right answer.

He also knows that people have always fallen prey to fear and suspicions and popular opinion, in the end. So many of them pride on being so very apart from peer pressure and the kind of paranoia that could sweep through a country in moments, but they are only smoke and mirrors.

And speaking of smoke and mirrors . . .

Magic. Just another term for what humanity couldn't grasp, another word that stood for the unknowable. Looking back, it must have been easy for Proactive Citizenry to fool the entire world. The mirrors that reflected the horrors of the Teen Uprising. The calming smoke that came in the form of unwinding, which obscured the mirrors just so much that the general public would put the Uprising behind them and yet fear a second one.

Magic . . . or simply persuasive propaganda.

He was, in fact, one of the government's "magicians." Was. He had given it up because it left him sleepless and filled with something he couldn't quite describe. Remorse? Misery? Pity? Something like all three, or on a higher level, increased in intensity.

The ex-worker blinks as the word comes to him. Inhuman.

Inhuman . . .

. . . If I already feel so torn apart, then how on earth do those unwinding surgeons live with themselves?

Surgeon from Heaven-Lit Hills Harvest Camp

It doesn't feel right—not in the least sense.

It never felt right to her, and never will.

But she copes. She deals with the pleas and cries, the anger and the horror, the struggling and the blank accusation.

She does it because she has to.

It wasn't that the Juvenile Authority, or whoever really pulled the strings, forces her to. It wasn't that anyone else makes her. It was just that there is simply no other way to support her family, herself, those she cared about.

And yes, there is that pull. As if a string attached to her and the authorities had been, for longer than she knew, slowly but surely dragging her to the camp. It makes her stay, day after day, blindly rushing through the hours that were stuffed chock-full of these miserable Unwinds. Maybe it is a sense of duty, or the appealing concept of living in the luxuries the camp offered, or the high pay. No; she knows the high pay was definitely one of the reasons she had applied for the job. That isn't it, then.

But what is? What keeps me here—really?

She stares outside the window. Well, she would rather be here in Heaven-Lit Hills than Happy Jack, or whatever the name was of that harvest camp that had just been stampeded down by the force of the teenagers confined there. Horrific. Absolutely horrific: Clappers, on the camp grounds? She shakes her head slightly. Unbelievable. How did they not catch them earlier?

She pushes the thought of Happy Jack aside. Right now she needs to focus, find an answer to her question. So. Why am I still here?

The logical answers come to her, as usual, but she knows better by now than to think they offer any solace, or satisfaction. They were answers, yes; just not the right ones.

She says nothing, does nothing, as another surgeon, one of her co-workers, pushes her way into the room and fills a cup to the brim with steaming something. She couldn't turn to look. She hears the co-worker sit down beside her, in the other chair at the other side of the table.

"Pondering deep things?" the surgeon asks her, sounding amused and lighthearted. She fights the urge to shudder. There's nothing amusing or lighthearted or anything like that in this place. Or am I just delusional? Hysterical? Stressful? Overly—

"Hey, Moira." There's a hand waving in front of her face now, and she blinks: she can't ignore that. "Oh, good, I thought you'd blanked out for a second there. You had that look on your face again."

She tries to smile back. Fails. But she answers as cheerfully as she can, knowing they would suspect something otherwise: "Really? Sorry, it's a habit. I'm afraid I simply can't help going elsewhere . . . Escaping . . . But back to Earth, I suppose. When's my shift starting? The clock in here is dead."

Her co-worker grins. Moira can feel it without having to turn around. "What, it needs rewinding? Don't worry, they're fixing that too. But right now"—a pause as she checks her own watch—"you have fifteen minutes. Didn't you just walk in here a few minutes ago, anyway?"

The joke is harsh and cruel. To Moira, at least. To some of the others, the irony and inhumanity behind it is unfelt and unseen.

And that is when the answer comes, in a rush of storm that hits her in the face. She almost falls back onto the chair, slumped with shock, but she catches herself, as she has always done.

You are still here because you enjoy it.

It leaves her drained and pale, empty but heavy. Do I really? she wonders, fixing her gaze on the window again. A false view, she knows: the hills are there, but the perpetual dappled sunlight that seems to preside here is not. Do I really enjoy tearing these teenagers' bodies apart, as part of some organ-harvesting process?

No. It's not that aspect of the job. That much she knows, for certain. . . .

Then what is it?!

"Moira? Mooooooiiiirrrraaaa. Hello? MOIRA!" She jerks in her seat, started by the voice, only to find it belongs to her fellow co-worker. She smiles apologetically, unable to speak for the time being. The question is presiding, overriding her voice.

"Oh, good. They just called you over the wavey, didn't you hear?"

I didn't, in fact. But she's still mute, and all she can do is laugh softly, shake her head, and stand, pulling on her gloves and mask and glasses. And besides, the wave-com never really reached me that well . . . But no one needs to know that.

"Better go before some inspector realizes you're late. Oh, don't forget, there's a new batch of tithes waiting—"

Moira nods and the other surgeon quiets, taking a gulp from her cup. "Right then, go along."

And as she begins her walk into the chamber of the doomed, she wonders:

Will we ever know why?

Sometimes the words people don't say
are as powerful as the ones they do.

—All the Broken Pieces; Ann Burg (a novel in verse)

REBECCA STERLING

Recovered by Juvenile Authority: September 9th, 2109. Unwound: September 20th, 2109.

TESTIMONY FILED: July 17th, 2138.

I'm one of them.

I'm one of those big scary fugitive Unwinds everyone has been hearing so much about lately.

I'm an escapee. A survivor. A lone wolf. A runaway.

But above all, I am a silent protestor.

I know what they all say, because I can hear them. I know they say we are the weeds on the impeccable lawn of the country, the rats hiding in the kitchen, the roaches of the streets. We are the unwanted, the "wretched refuse" from the "huddled masses yearning to breathe free." (And if you don't know where that's from, too bad. I do. It's actually very ironic that I'm quoting that particular poem here.)

It's about time my silent voice is heard. It's about time our rebellion is seen as, in fact, not rebellion but righteousness.

I spent over twenty years in the "divided state."

Twenty years.

Do you have any idea how maddening it is, that I can't collect a single thought? How unnatural and wrong it feels to be taken apart, kept alive, and tortured by the fact that I am in no way myself? You try surviving without this part of your brain, or this limb, or this eye.

It doesn't even feel like you exist. You're aware, certainly. But you are in a deep half-sleep, twitching occasionally if something triggers a memory or if some muscle does something it used to do or if some body part comes in close range with its long-lost partner. You try to wake up, but you can't.

I woke up precisely once. I will never forget it.

It was almost like the horror story of Humphrey Dunfee we used to pass around, but not quite.

By the time my parts were united (and it wasn't even all of them, at that), I was royally annoyed. At that point, it had only been my six-year mark, and I found my voice. I spoke, or tried to, but it was still hard. Like all these things were flitting around in your brain, squawking and shrieking at each other, all trying to fight their way out into the World, into Existence, as your Voice. A bunch of crazed, insane birds flapping around, all with their own opinion on who should precede who and who should speak.

None of them ever took flight successfully. I spoke, surely: but they were so simple and ridiculously primitive that I wanted to die.

I wrote a poem when I was three. I remember.

I remember . . . It was about a rainbow.

I remember the first time I fought. I didn't want to.

But what else was I supposed to do?

I tried so hard, but I couldn't win . . .

I'm sorry that I didn't make the grade.

I know I'll always remember the disappointed looks on your faces . . .

I remember you screamed and you fought and I screamed and fought back.

I remember how I was in love with the stars.

I couldn't get out of the fighting: I remember.

THIS IS WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.

To us, the human race. To the young of that race. To this world.

Some treaty. It was the seed from the poison apple that gave us poison fruit, dried in a sun of malice, and packaged in hate, fed to us.

Of course we were going to rise up and rebel! Of course we would challenge the government if they thought unwinding was the right thing to do!

People can only stay under oppression for so long before they speak up and fight the chains of wrongdoing.

What did you expect?

A/N: DONE!

This was a personal project I felt I had to write, and it spanned over two months. . . . And it feels good. It's definitely one of my best pieces.

So now that Unwritten is written, my debt is paid. Creativity, I have let it out into the world: let's sit back, wait, and see what happens. :)

(Wow, am I in a metaphorical mood today . . .)

One thing before I start yelling at you to review: Credit for inspiration shall go to TensaiZuki25's What Was Left Unwritten, a Young Wizards fanfiction that was key in luring this particular plot bunny in. Thank you! :D

(Okay, you knew this was coming when you clicked on the link . . .) REVIEW! Review and make the author happy for a day!

(Which is, in fact, nothing compared to the time it took to write this! I'm supposed to be doing homework right now . . .)