Rose –

Blood continues to trickle down my cheeks as I shove past my fellow soldiers on the station platform. I feel my elbow connect with some one's shoulder and I hear a cry of pain, but I don't bother turning around to apologize. In this moment, I have only one purpose – find Dimitri. The crowd is suffocating, their shouts deafening. Night has fallen, and the searchlights that sit on top of the guard towers of the holding facility cast beams that dance among the sea of shifting bodies. I crane my neck as I weave in and out of the crowd; Dimitri is nowhere to be seen.

I narrow my eyes, and notice a building off to my left that looks exactly like the administrative building at the academy I had grown up in, complete with an ornate entrance, a flag, and armed guards. There is a chance that someone in that building can tell me what happened to Dimitri, I also run the risk of being told to go screw myself. The latter seems more likely, if my head wound is any indication of the kind of courtesy I will be shown here.

My tongue runs over my bottom lip as I contemplate my next move and the taste is bitter and metallic. My face is streaked with blood and I feel a little dizzy. I realize that I don't have a choice; I will never find Dimitri this way. I turn sharply and cut through the throng of soldiers, making my way toward what I hope is the administrative building. With any luck, I'll find where Dimitri is being held, and I'll be able to study its layout before I attempt to break back into it later tonight.

I feel like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over my head as I recall what my true purpose for coming here is: stealing information from the military. I force those thoughts to the back of my mind, I have tunnel vision and Dimitri is the light at the end of it.

Once free of the horde, I stride purposefully toward the guards who stand on either side of the metal doors that serve as the entrance to the building. They stiffen at my approach; each of them is wearing a silver belt and brandishes a standard issue assault rifle. One of them is gaping at me. I keep my head held high and avoid their gazes. The red stains on my face probably match the red of my belt, but I walk as if nothing is wrong. One of the guards steps in front of me just as I extend my hand to grip the handle of the door.

"This area is restricted," he tells me sternly.

He is taller than me, but I fix him with a glare that makes him shrink back. I'm not sure what he finds more intimidating, my face or the blood. "Excuse me?" I ask icily.

He looks down at my waist and then back up at me. I hope that my status as an investigator is enough to get me by.

"State your business," he stammers. His frightened demeanor makes me doubt the quality of training. I find myself hoping that the Lone Star Facility is full of soldiers like him.

I keep my face perfectly blank, "The business of an investigator does not concern you," I tell him, a hint of superiority in my voice.

He looks down at his own belt, "I'm just doing my job," he tells me apologetically. He glances over his shoulder at his partner, who shrugs and then steps away from where we both stand.

"You won't have a job when your superiors find out that you refused to let me pass."

His face reflects the hesitation he must be feeling, but he eventually apologizes and lets me through.

I let out a steady breath as the doors close behind me, and I find myself standing in a brightly lit room. The floors are a polished marble, and the walls are blindingly white. In the center of the room is a circular desk made of the same smooth stone as the floor, and at the center of it sits a woman. She glances up at me, and then back down at the knife she is rubbing against a whetstone, sharpening it to deadly perfection. I approach her with the same confidence that I has used on the guards outside of the building. She still doesn't look up at me, even as I stand with my elbows perched on the counter, my fingers drumming on its surface impatiently. I clear my throat.

The woman tenses up and raises her head deliberately, her charcoal eyes boring holes into my own. "What?" She doesn't put down her knife as she glares at me.

"My name is Rose Hathaway, I'm an investigator with the Risk Prevention Department," I start off, hoping that my title will intimidate her the way it had earlier. "I arrived at this facility with a prisoner. We were separated on the platform, and when I tried to go after him, I was accosted by a guard."

The sides of her mouth quirk up in amusement, "So that explains what happened to your face."

"Is it standard protocol here at the Lone Star Facility for soldiers to assault their superiors?" I ask her icily.

She shrugs, "I wouldn't know, I'm not technically a soldier." I hadn't noticed until she mentioned it, but she is not wearing a black jumpsuit. Hers is a ruddy brown color, which is reserved for trainees. "But I'll tell you what is protocol; rounding up the prisoners like cattle as soon as they step onto the platform. We like to rough 'em up a bit before we get them into the cells."

"Wonderful," I mutter under my breath.

"We send the newly instated guards out to escort the prisoners; they're a bunch of trigger-happy morons, eager to prove themselves, that's probably why one of them sucker-punched you when you tried to intervene," her tone is casual, like getting punched in the face is just a part of the charm here at the Lone Star facility.

"Where are the prisoners now?" I ask her impatiently.

She glances down at the watch on her wrist. "Right now? Probably gettin' sorted, they'll be assigned to cells after that."

I grip the edge of the counter tightly, my knuckles turning white as I do. "Where are the cells? How will I know which one he is assigned to?"

She raises one eyebrow. "Why do you care so much?" she asks suspiciously. "You've done your job. You should be getting on that train so that it can carry you back to your fancy RPD headquarters."

I release the counter and try to eradicate the emotion from my posture and expression. "This prisoner is dangerous, and it took me months to track him down. He was my assignment from the beginning, and I want to see it through to the end."

The girl's suspicions melt away and a wicked grin takes over. "I get it," she says. "You want to be here when he meets the firing squad."

My stomach ties itself in knots as I picture Dimitri, blindfolded and gagged, standing in front of a battalion of sharp shooters. I swallow hard. "Yes," I say deadpan.

"I have no way of knowing what cell they'll assign him to," she tells me as she starts rifling through one of the drawers behind her desk. "But I can tell you where the cells are." She hands me a laminated sheet of paper. "You can find out more there."

I glance down at the sheet and see that it is a map of the facility.

"You're here" she says, leaning over the counter to point to a building on the map. "This is intelligence and records, but you need to go here." She points to another building on the western side of the facility. "But it probably won't do you any good to go there now; the sorting process is a nightmare. You can stay in the housing units until tomorrow morning. They're right here," she says, pointing one final time to a building not far from the one we are in now.

I nod at her as way of thanks. She resumes her sharpening and I turn on my heel, fighting the urge to break out into a run in the direction of the holding cells. I recall what the girl had said, about this being where the records are stored; this is where the information I need will most likely be. I walk as slowly as I can, my eyes dart around as I try to get a feel for the layout. To my right and left are sealed doors and there are tiny electrical panels next to the handles. I will probably need to swipe some kind of keycard or access code to get through them.

The door in front of me opens and a soldier wearing a blue belt enters the building, blue is for intelligence. I bend down, pretending to re-lace one of my combat boots. He walks right past me and turns toward the door to my right. I peer at him out of the corner of my eye and watch as he swipes a plastic card over the metal panel. I hear a loud beep, a clicking sound, and then the man pulls the door open. I try to see past him and into the hallway, but the heavy door shuts too quickly. I have a feeling that breaking back into this building will not be as simple as the time I had broken into the administrative building at my academy, and that I will need more than just my pajamas and my combat boots.

…

The bottom floor of the building where the soldiers are housed is composed of a common area, a mess hall, and a training room. On the way over here, I had concocted a plan, one that involved a fresh face, not one covered in dried blood. I find the showers on the second floor and begin peeling off my jumpsuit. My entire body aches as I slide my arms out of the sleeves, and I wince as I pull my tank top over my head. I can't recall the last time I had slept through the night, and the exhaustion is beginning to take its toll.

I step into the shower stall and turn the knob all the way to the right; I want the water to be scalding. The showerhead sputters to life and the water beats down on my aching muscles. I glance down and see blood mixing with water as the liquids rush together and spiral down the drain. I can't let myself linger though, and I force myself to leave the comfort and the warmth as soon as I have scrubbed myself clean.

I run the parts of my jumpsuit that are covered in filth or blood under the faucet of the sink, trying my best to return it to its original state. I pull it on, but leave my tank top on the floor. I zip up the jumpsuit only halfway, exposing a little more of my breasts than any decent soldier would. My hair is mostly dry and I run my fingers through it, doing my best to tame the wild dark strands that tumble down my shoulders. I glance at my reflection and see that I look pretty good, considering.

I make my way to the mess hall on the first floor and grab a tray full of food. I scan the tables, and start walking towards a group of soldiers, all wearing blue belts.

"Is this seat taken?" I ask one of them.

The soldier sitting at the end of the table looks up at me with grey-blue eyes. At first he seems annoyed at having his meal interrupted, but his expression transforms as he takes in my appearance. His eyes wash over me, and even though there is tray of mostly eaten food in front of him, he looks ravenously hungry.

"I'm afraid so," he tells, his lips forming a sort of mock pouty face. "I'm afraid the only available seat is on my lap."

The other soldiers sitting near him chuckle, but I pretend not to notice them. I set my tray down gingerly on the table, bending over slightly as I do.

"Are you sure?" I ask him. "That seat looks empty." I nod my chin in the direction of the vacant seat across from him.

He continues to stare at me, only it isn't at my face. "I suppose it is," he says reluctantly.

I sit down, never taking my eyes off of him. He has short blonde hair and a face that could only be described as beautiful. Something about his smug demeanor makes me think that this guy probably doesn't hear the word "no" very often.

"What's your name?" he asks me.

"You first," I say, sliding my tray in front of me.

"Jesse," he purrs.

"Well Jesse, what do the blue boys do for fun around here?"

This earns me a grin, "Why would an investigator like you want to know something like that? I didn't think you guys knew how to have fun."

"We don't," I tell him with a sigh. "That's why I'm asking, I think I would like to learn."

His eyes darken with interest. "Today is your lucky day, I just so happen to be an excellent teacher."

…

After dinner, I let Jesse lead me to his living quarters. It became clear halfway through the meal that Jesse is an arrogant bastard. Had I known him back in the academy, I probably would have looked for any excuse to kick his ass, but for now, he suits my needs.

"Not bad," I tell him as I glance around his small apartment. "You must be pretty important."

He saunters over to the kitchenette and begins rifling through his cabinets. "I am," he calls over his shoulder.

I make myself at home, sitting on a worn out sofa and propping my feet up on the table in front of me. Jesse sets down a jar of something on the table and two small glasses, and then sits down next to me.

I eye the jar warily, "What is that?"

"Hooch," he tells me with a wicked grin. "The Intelligence boys make the best stuff." He pours the clear liquid into the glasses and hands me one. "Cheers," he says, and then downs the drink in one gulp.

I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip, the liquid burns as it slides down my throat. "You're right," I tell him, trying not to choke. "It's good."

He pours himself another and polishes it off. "You never told me your name," he says, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform.

"I didn't?" I ask, taking my feet off of the coffee table and leaning forward so that our faces are only a few inches apart. "I could have sworn I told you."

He shakes his head, his grey eyes glossing over with desire. "No," he breathes. "You didn't"

I can smell the alcohol on his breath as I let my lips brush over his, teasingly at first. He mashes his mouth onto mine, his lips are parted and the kiss is aggressive. He wraps two strong arms around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. I let him take control, let his hands wander over the fabric of my uniform. One of his hands snakes up my neck and entwines itself in my hair, he pulls back on it and brings his lips down to kiss my throat, making a wet trail down across my collarbone.

"Your name," he whispers between kisses. "What is your name?"

I pull away and offer him a smoldering look; one that I hope will distract him. It works and he moves in on me, forcing me to lie back on the couch as he positions himself on top of me. He kisses me again, a little more desperately than he had before.

He pauses to look down at me, "Having fun yet?"

I nod enthusiastically, and bring my hands up to frame his face, "I am, but…"

"But?" he asks.

"I think I would like it better like this."

I let my fingers slide down the sides of his face, grazing his neck. I bring my knee up hard, nailing him in the groin as I simultaneously close my hands around his throat. The blow to his manhood catches him off guard and knocks the breath from his lungs. I squeeze, hard enough to cut off his air flow, but not hard enough to permanently damage his trachea. His eyes are bulging and his hands claw at me, but his movements are sluggish thanks to the alcohol.

A few moments later, I see his eyelids flutter shut and he goes limp in my grasp. The full weight of his body collapses onto me, and I shove him off, letting him roll face-first onto the floor. I leap off of the couch, bending down to dig through Jesse's pockets. I find his keycard and slip it into the pocket of my jumpsuit. I reach around his waist to undo his belt. I stand up and yank my own belt through the loops and replace it with his.

I glance down at where Jesse lays sprawled out on the floor. I grab the jar of hooch and pour it on the floor around him. I grab one of the glasses and return it to the cabinet, not wanting to leave any evidence that a second person had been in the apartment.

I leave his apartment, shutting the door softly behind me. I glance down at my watch and realize that midnight is fast approaching. I slink down the stairs, careful to avoid the gazes of anyone I meet. When I reach the exit, I freeze. My lips are swollen, and I try to shake off the feel of Jesse's hands sliding over my body. I feel dirty, and I find myself wondering what Dimitri would think of what I had done.

I shake my head, forcing Dimitri to the back of my mind. I need to focus on the mission at hand. I brace myself and then open the door, slipping into the night.

…

There are still guards posted outside of the intelligence building, but they aren't the same from earlier. I had been counting on a new rotation. They let me pass when they see the blue belt cinched around my waist. The circular desk is empty, and I veer off immediately in the direction I had seen the man pass earlier. I pull out Jesse's keycard, hoping against hope that it will get me through the security door. I swipe it over the panel and I hear the same beeping sound, followed by a click.

I find myself standing at the end of a long corridor lined with what seems like hundreds of doors, each baring its own security panel. I curse under my breath and begin walking toward the end of the hallway, reading the signs posted on the doors as I do. I try not to panic, realizing that the door I need to find probably won't be marked "PROOF OF HAVEN EXSISTENCE, RIGHT THIS WAY." The signs say things like "Personnel Records," and "Foreign Affairs."

I finally stop in front of a door marked "Restricted Access." I decide that if the Havens do exist, any record of them probably won't be accessible by just anyone. I swipe Jesse's card, and the door clicks open.

I guess Jesse is as important as he claimed to be.

A feeling of déjà vu sweeps over me as I take in my surroundings. The room looks just like the one I had broken into at the academy. The walls are lined with file cabinets, each carefully labeled. I don't waste any more time and I make a beeline for the nearest one. I yank open the top draw and begin sifting through its contents. Nothing jumps out at me and so I move onto the next drawer, and then onto the next cabinet.

I am unaware of the time as it passes; I don't know how long I have been in that room when I finally stumble across a folder with the word "Insurgencies" scrawled across the top. Many people think of the Havens as a place where everyone has electricity and sits in circles, but instead of singing Kumbayah, they discuss scientific theory. Dimitri had told me that Victor believes the Havens are not some mythical land untouched by the Pulse, but a refuge for rebels and for those who oppose NAAMA and Executor Ozera's rule.

My heart pounds in my chest as I open the folder. Inside are maps of NAAMA and hand-written notes. I flip through them and stop when I notice a list of places, most of them scratched out.

New Orleans, Portland, Sacramento, Boston…

I recognize a few of them, but I keep reading until I get to the bottom of the page.

Tallahassee.

I have no idea where Tallahassee is, but the name is circled multiple times. I flip the page over and begin reading:

August 2, 2030

Executor Ozera has called off the hunt for rebel encampments, she wants to refocus our attention on the Purge. I think she is making a mistake; we never made it to Florida – to Tallahassee. It was the last place on our list, and it was the most promising. All of our intelligence points to Tallahassee…

I look at the torn edges of the paper and realize that most of these pages had been torn out of a book, most likely a journal, and this entry is only a year old. I shove the note into one of my pockets, hoping that it's enough, hoping that Victor will tell me where my parents are after he's read it.

I have a gnawing feeling in my gut, one brought on by the thought of my parents. I think back to the night I had overheard my superiors discussing them.

"If Victor survived the Purge, is it possible that Ibrahim and Janine survived as well?"

The Purge.

I pull the note out of my pocket and read it through again.

"She wants to refocus our attention on the Purge."

I put the note away and began frantically searching through the cabinets, searching for any sign of the word "Purge." Whatever it is, it had nearly killed Victor, and it might have killed my parents. Could this be the information Victor was referring to?

I find a file that looks promising and begin rifling through it. My blood runs cold as I come across a familiar name, though it is not my own.

Dragomir.

The file contains a detailed report on how the Risk Prevention Department had been searching for Eric and Rhea Dragomir…and their daughter. The report describes how they had been tracked down and shot on sight, but the child had not been found. A horrible realization washes over me.

No wonder Vasilisa hates me.

Investigators killed her parents.

I swallow back the bile that had been rising in my throat and read the rest of it. I have to read the last line on the page over and over again because I can't believe the words:

Eric and Rhea reported to the RPD for spreading illegal content, initial report made by Victor Dashkov, current whereabouts – unknown.

Okay, I am so not done with this chapter, but it's already 4,000 words and I haven't even gotten to the best part. I'm going to break it up into two parts, so the next chapter will also be told from Rose's POV. It should be up sometime today, but I wanted to give you guys a little something. I really want to know what you guys think so please please please leave me a review!