Umm, well, hello! Bayman has brown hair. At least that's what it looks like on the DOA blobs, it's hard to tell, but it is supposed to be brown. What is with everyone and brown hair, anyway? Never mind. Hahaha… just to totally kill off the serious mood, the next 'chapter' is a special bit specially for Razzbairee. And my own amusement, too. Speaking of Razzie… if there's one thing you like?! How can you narrow it down to one thing? There are like, one MILLION things you can like about Hayabusa! Ack! –Falls over-

He couldn't afford to show anybody weakness. The outward façade was the same as the majority of the children. Cold and emotionless. According to the moustache-man, who turned out to be a general of some description, that was what you needed to succeed in being a loyal supporter to Russia. An emotionless attack regardless of the circumstances and the honour to fight for your country.

I have that. I have to have that. I will show everybody.

Most of the weaker children had been killed or left to die. Some were even killed by their more brutal peers in attempts to gain the general's attention. However, there was still a handful that had miraculously managed to survive thus far, against all the odds. In fact, one was crouched in the corner nearby him. A young boy, light dusty auburn hair veiling a blanched face as he sobbed bitterly.

Finally, the sobbing grew to be too much. He quietly walked over. The boy started, hazel eyes staring wildly at him. Probably expecting me to pull out a gun or something and murder him, he thought bitterly.

"What's your problem?" he asked in as kind a voice as he could muster.

Hazel eyes stared at him for a moment before disappearing again under a veil of auburn hair.

He remained silent for a minute, simply watching and observing, before impatience got the better of him and he dug the boy in the ribs. "I asked you a question. What's your problem?"

The boy raised pained hazel eyes to look squarely at him. "I had to kill my sister. They killed my parents, and then forced me to kill my sister, the only family I had left,"

"Why?" he blurted out before he could stop himself from actually becoming involved with this young boy's affairs.

"You'll have to do it soon. Kill someone you've become friends with here, someone they consider disposable. That is, if you have," the 'look' that the young boy shot him was pointed. "Even if you haven't. That's how they are going to keep the worthy people in and weed the feeble ones out,"

Oh. So I just have to go up and kill someone they consider weak? "Any suggestions?"

"Yes. Me,"

"What are you talking about?"

The boy's expression was determined. "I want to join my family again, no matter what. Anything rather then be roped into their domination plan. Anything rather then be turned into a robot, manipulated by the power you could get but never will. Shoot me,"

"You must be-"

From nowhere, the boy pulled out a pistol, throwing it to him. "I must be nothing. Shoot me,"

He shook his head. "You are insane,"

The boy smirked, pulling out another pistol, wiping his eyes. "Shoot me or I will shoot you,"

Shit. The boy raised the gun, cocked it. Pulled the trigger…

A loud bang sounded. Another and another. The boy slumped to the floor, bullet wounds to his chest, neck and stomach oozing crimson red blood.

And strangely enough, he felt nothing. Nothing as he watched the boy still in his own blood, his soul rejoining those of the family which Russia had stolen. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all towards the boy, anyway.

"Mother? Mother! Father!"

As a young boy's distant voice desperately called out to his lost parents, his eyes narrowed. Anger shining through the pain.

"Well done, kid," a soldier's voice made him start. "Good work. You survive this eviction round, at least. Keep it up so you won't be the next… statistic,"

That's all we are. Numbers to go into their army. Killing each other to save our own wretched skin, that's it.

The soldier walked off. Not once was he ever expecting the bang. Not until it was too late.

A small grin from behind the child, holding the gun.

The next statistic indeed.