'I made mom angry today, and I feel so bad. I don't blame her. I hurt Sam today, and hurting people is bad. Even if they should be hurt. Mom told me that bad people would only end up like the unseen people and I don't want that. Mom's right. I don't hate her.

She wasn't too angry at me today. She only locked me in the busy room for an hour, and didn't tie me up. That means I'll have more time to memorize the dance moves with Joey. I want him to try to be almost as good as me. Mom would like that. Why wouldn't she? She's not a bad person, and I'm not either.

I will talk to Farah tomorrow. I like her. She's cute and quiet and so sweet. She's new, but people will like her if I do. I don't like when she gets made fun of for being too stupid and ugly, because she isn't. I know, I've talked to her. Sam's an idiot, but at least he won't want to talk to Farah again. I hope he won't end up like the unseen people, because no one deserves to be lost, forgotten.

Or dead.'

***

She plummeted weightlessly through the void, a distinct feeling of emptiness clutching her consciousness. The ethereal voice reached out to her, almost leering in its tone.

To liken this place to emptiness would be an act of paramount ignorance. To consider it eternity would be to call the Rocky Mountains a mere snowflake. To disregard my advice would be to blind oneself to the infinite possibilities of this plane.

Save the sales pitch for losers. I'm here for Alma.

The void tremored unpleasantly, making her feel like a clam in someone's mouth. Was this laughter?

Such hubris! It never ceases to amuse me when one utters that name with nonchalance.

You've seen her handiwork, no doubt? She is such a disappointment. All that potential wasted in such a pure being. A woman only marginally bound by the limitations of her human predecessor. Yet she discards all that in her blind tantrum!

You created her, Harlan Wade. You know exactly why she's shitting all over your dreams.

A red vertex snaked itself around her, intangibly binding her limbs.

Out of hatred, my sweet child. A human failure I regrettably passed down to her.

Show me. I came here to understand.

The voice ceased to offend her synapses, and she smashed into a grated concrete hubcap. Peeling her unharmed body away from the unreal construct, she quickly processed the vivid vision she had now plunged into.

Crusty, deadened mud squelched beneath her boots and musty dust flakes fell continuously from the overcast sky. The grey skeleton of a nuclear power station hung over the little sewage heap she had found herself in, and indecipherable little murals covered the nauseatingly hued walls of the dump. At the heart of the hideous clump was a gnarled old tree, from which a swing hung.

Sitting on the swing, back turned and bloody feet kicking away carelessly, was the enigmatic girl.

Alma.

She must have been in her forties, yet she looked so undeveloped. Her bare feet were calloused and cut, her conservative red dress was frayed, and her wild black hair clashed with skin so translucent it was a wonder that the sunlight did not harm her.

This was the best place in her life. She never stops dreaming about the peace and emptiness she found here. She hates how I took her away from here.

The child's head smoothly swung around like an owl's and glared with the deadest black eyes that the Tracker had ever seen. Shrugging off the insistent voice, she knelt down to Alma's level, hoping desperately that her appearance wouldn't somehow trigger the volatile woman-child. She spoke as smoothly as she could.

"Don't be afraid, Alma. I just want to know."

A maliciously wide grin cracked across the child's face, and she gestured at a suddenly growing mound of crimson, moaning faces that now ringed the tree. The message was clear. Many people had foolishly tried to terrorize her after telling her there was nothing to fear.

She hated that so much.

Everyone was so cruel, stupid and fearful. She hated that.

If she could scribble the word HATE a billion trillion times on the tiniest part of the tiniest atom of everything everywhere, it wouldn't be a quintillionth of the sheer hate she kept amassing every instant. For everyone.

Hate, hate, hate!

She was suddenly pinned to a cold metal table. Her legs were bare, spread wide open, and strapped in place. A septic rag clogged her tongue, painfully strapped in between her lips by a choking leather strap that reduced her voice to animalistic grunts. Men stood all around her, digging hungrily into her body and wrenching out her babies - her beautiful, innocent, helpless, frightened, crying boys - and she saw daddy take them away. He had eyes only for them.

All men were like this with women, and if they weren't then Alma would correct that. Any woman who wasn't her deserved it anyway because they weren't special. If they dared to be mothers, then she would steal their lives and children right back. They all deserved to be hurt.

Especially an evil, ugly black monster. A horribly weak woman whose pathetic body refused to bow down to her. She couldn't read that woman's mind and it was horrible. It was alien and terrifying, and it reminded her far too much of the emptiness where father had finally left her to die. That woman made Alma feel alive, so she had to die. It was the only way to keep her baby and her man safe. If her sons loved her like she'd asked, if ANYONE had listened, none of this would have happened.

"So you're a mother," stated the mercenary to the little girl. "Then you must have had one too. Like me, Alma." She sincerely hoped her voice hadn't quavered. The child's whispered response echoed in the assassin's mind.

You kill people because they deserve it.

"Not everyone, Alma." That sounded rather lame. The child giggled again and began swinging, getting closer to the contract killer with each thrust.

Like Farah?

"Farah was a good person," she spoke hurriedly, not wanting to dwell on the memory. "Sweet and quiet. I missed her, and I killed because of her."

They had to die.

"She didn't. You...didn't. Your mother didn't."

Alma stopped swinging. She was really sensitive about that. Wordlessly, she pointed thin white fingers at the sky. The Tracker followed the girl's gaze to see a familiar mushroom cloud in the faraway horizon.

I dare you to go there. It scares me. If you go there, I will talk to you again.

Before the mercenary could respond, the blackened roots of the gnarled tree suddenly slashed at her face.

***

She woke up to find herself digging a knife out of a dead man's throat.

She had not expected that as well.