Ember Nickel: Good. Because if you did, not only would it be a scientific phenomenon that everyone in the world would hear about through AOL news (because honestly, who watches normal news when there's a lil button you can hit?), you would surely die of giantism. That being said, read da story! W00t. Thanks for reviewing.

SilverGryphin: Own me, will you? Well, bring it! I WILL conquer the puddle in the hotel sink--oh, crap, I'm home now. So THAT'S what the hours and hours of plane flight were for. But...but I thought we were going to Battle School...LIARS, ALL OF THEM... heehee. Yeah, I know Bean slept on the end of the bed, but I cut that out because I thought it would wake Ender up right as Bean was leaving. Then I had him wake up anyway, but by that time I had forgotten to change it. Lol. I am blonde, in case you haven't already guessed based on the slight insanity. Sure, you may say it's not an excuse, but we'll pretend it is so the doctors don't come and investigate my "condition." Mwaha. I just started Shadow of the Giant. I was like, "Rackham? WTF? Wasn't he, like, old school...?" He's gotta die at some point, man. Or else he's freakishly immortal. I feel like doing a parody on him, but I find so much more joy in writing heart wrenching tragedies, ya know? Lol. I am twisted. READ:D Thanks for reviewing.

Disclaimer: Do I look like a man with four children? I don't own Orson Scott Card's books...although I do firmly believe that BeanxPetra is an OTP! BeanandPetra4evr...

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Chapter Five

Trust

The game room was, predictably, empty. Not that he could be too sure—it was pitch black. He drifted mindlessly over to the game. The mouse danced innocently on the screen. It would only take one touch and that little rodent would be gone, replaced with his foe, his only fear. The guilt and shame more than the man himself. It was the terrible memories Achilles brought back. It reminded him that even though he would always be intelligent beyond any of the boys his age, he could still be fooled by something as simple as a kiss.

Was it love that he misunderstood so badly? But no, it wasn't love. It was Poke trying to save Bean.

He closed his eyes. Not that it made a difference—everything was still black. His hands glided blindly to the controls, bulky and large for his childish hands. Dry blood crusted on his fingers as he curled them into place. His eyes opened.

Now he was on the streets of Rotterdam. Everything was exactly the same: his dumpster, where he sat perched in observation as his body slowly ate itself alive; the alleyway where Poke and her band of little kids slept when the police weren't patrolling the streets; the broken lampposts, destroyed from random acts of violence from the teenagers roaming homeless. The sun was setting into mid-afternoon. He could feel its blazing heat beating his back; he looked down and saw himself four years old again, scrawny and helpless, in an oversized, shredded t-shirt.

He held up his hand. There wasn't blood on it anymore. It was fragile and skinny, looking like it would break. Hunger gnawed deep into his stomach, ringed in his head as a constant reminder.

It was as if Battle School had never happened, it was so real. Was Battle School only a dream? He was so hungry he wouldn't have been surprised. He wouldn't be the first kid to hallucinate.

But he was better than to hallucinate. What was he thinking? Two seconds into the game and already, this madness. To his credit, no one had ever played the fantasy game to this realistic of an extent, and he knew that for sure. He'd seen the other boys playing. They never came out beaten up and crying pathetically.

It didn't stop the agony, though. He felt weak. Defenseless. He hated it. Slowly, painstakingly, he forced his legs to cross the abandoned street into Poke's alley. "Hello?" he called out, his voice small. He grimaced. Four years old was not his best stage of life.

"Bean."

His name was called out, simple syllable as it was, filled with venom and remorse. He took a step back, peering into the shadows of the alleyway.

Kill him.

"What was that? What'd you say?"

"I—I didn't say anything," Bean stammered.

A boy stepped out of the shadows—Achilles, predictably. He'd been expecting him. Bean raised his fists in a defensive stance, anticipating any kind of attack.

Kill him.

"That's what I thought you said, fart brain," Achilles hissed, cockily walking in Bean's direction.

His heart pulsed in his temples painfully. His arms could barely stay raised, debility holding him back. "What do you want from me?" Bean asked in his loudest voice possible. It came out feeble and pitiful. Like a little kid's.

I am a little kid, he reminded himself spitefully. And even littler in this game.

"I don't know, Bean. It's your game. Why do you think I'm here?" Achilles moved so fast his outline didn't even blur; it was as if he'd snapped his fingers and traveled the ten feet separating the pair in less than a millisecond. He kicked Bean in the gut even faster, kicking him clear into the street.

Bean shuddered, trying to hoist himself to his feet. Instead he fell right back down again, unable to support himself. Everything ached, screaming for food.

"Because the people at Battle School want to see what makes me tick," he managed to say from his humiliating position on the hot, burning cement.

Another kick to the side. "Wrong."

Bean bit his lip, trying not to cry out. A low moan escaped him; he shut his eyes tight, willing himself out of the game. But at the same time, he knew he was going to stay. He wasn't finished. He needed to win before it would be finished.

Besides, he knew it was a lie. Battle School probably had nothing to do with it. This game, Dimack had explained to him, adapted to his "interests." Interests obviously meant weaknesses, too. There was a reason for Bean being here, in this horrid place with this cruel bully.

"So tell me, kid," Achilles taunted, grabbing Bean by the scruff of his tattered shirt. Bean slipped out of from underneath it, his frail frame hitting the pavement again. The older kid grabbed him by the neck and hurled him at the wall of the alley, into its shadowy depths. "Why are you here?"

Something cracked. He was sure it had to be a rib. He spat out blood, coughed for a moment. "Because," he whimpered in a strangled voice, "it was supposed to be me. I was supposed to die, not Poke." His voice rose until he was screaming. He struggled to his feet, finding a new strength. "You should have killed me, damn it! You were supposed to kill me!"

Kill him. Kill him.

His body wracked with raw, soundless sobs, looking away from Achilles. "Poke…tried…to save me. From you. And she died for it. What did she ever do to you? She spared you! I was the one…I said it…I told them…to kill you…" He coughed again, his ribs stinging torturously. "I saw it in your eyes. You were a killer, I knew it, I knew it, but she spared you…she saved both of us…she gave me a name, fed me when I was clearly going to die…"

He looked up. Achilles was gone.

He bowed his head again, sobs ended. He wasn't going to cry. Achilles was gone, but the war was far from over.

"So the kid can cry."

Bean gasped, not expecting the voice. It echoed through the darkness of the alley, a voice of the past. It was familiar.

It was a teacher.

"We thought he wasn't human."

They were talking about him and he knew it. He'd stumbled on a similar "secret" conversation only weeks ago. Inhuman, they'd said. Unable to love.

Was it true? Could he love? He didn't have any real friends, save Nikolai, but Nikolai was more like a brother than a friend. So was he really just some freak of nature without any emotions?

He shook his head. If only he didn't have any emotions…he wouldn't see Poke's bloodied face every night before he went to sleep, wouldn't live with the weight of the guilt with every step in the Battle School halls. Wouldn't care so much about helping humans defeat the buggers or the turmoil the Earth would inevitably face when civil war began. He had emotions.

"No, you thought he wasn't human. Graff, he's a kid, don't forget that. He's human. He's only had a gene altered."

So the game was revealing the teachers to him? It was Graff the voice was talking to? Bean shook his head. Graff always doubted him.

"Kid," Bean laughed softly. "I'm sure."

"Right."

The reply was tart and disbelieving. Bean frowned. The teachers obviously didn't mean to have him hear this conversation, and he almost wished he wasn't hearing it. But he had to know the truth. Besides, it wasn't like he was breaking any rules. They wanted him to play this hell they called the fantasy game. They were asking for it.

Still, the truth wasn't a happy one.

"You don't sound convinced."

Bean sighed. Every bone in his body ached, screamed for release. Leave the game, leave the game…but he couldn't. His neck burned from Achilles' hold, his ribs stung, his mouth bled again, maybe worse than before. How could he get out?

"Let's just wait and see how this plays out."

Two gruff, adult hands grabbed at his shoulders, pulled him backwards. He gasped and instantly regretted it as his pain pierced his expanded chest. The streets of the game grew farther and farther away as the hands pulled him backward, away from the screen.

Bean cried out when the extent of the injuries finally reached him. His head swam. He raised his arm to hit the invader to no avail.

"You're done with the game," said the voice.

"Graff," Bean spat, trying to keep his breathing shallow. It hurt to move, so he stopped. "Let me go," he said as calmly as he could manage.

"What did you do to the game?" Graff demanded. His voice wasn't as stern as usual, though. If anything, he sounded concerned.

"I didn't do anything, sir."

"How did you hear our conversation?"

"Oh, so it really did happen? It's not a figment of my imagination?" A crazed, pained hiccup escaped him. "Good to know what you think of me, Colonel."

"That was classified information."

"You think I wanted to hear that? I'd rather not know your theories, sir, with all due respect," he said with as much disrespect as he could muster. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it looks a bit suspicious that your game—the one you supposedly control—is attacking me. You've been trying to ice me from the start, sir, and don't think I don't know it."

"Nobody's been trying to ice you."

"Don't lie to me, sir, I'm no fool. You hate me. I'm a mystery to you. You think I'm dangerous."

"You posed a threat."

"Posed? Past tense? You're really going to kill me, then. With that stupid game."

"We don't know what's wrong with it. I apologize for the…malfunctions."

"I will go back to it. You can pull me off of it right now, but I will come back. Even if it kills me."

Graff paused then, and carefully turned Bean around to look him in the eye. "I know. And that's why you're useful to us. Because you take risks and you're willing to die for what you believe in."

"So you have been watching the game."

He hesitated, then thought better of lying. It was Bean, after all. "Yes. We've been watching." When Bean didn't say anything, he cleared his throat. "I can get you down to the medic."

Bean shook his head, pulling away. "Don't need one."

Graff nodded, knowing the decision was final. "Be careful, then."

Bean watched him leave. Yes, the pain was near unbearable, but it was worth every second of distress.

He had their trust.

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And that's chapter five, so REVIEW! Please? I love all peoples who read Orson Scott Card...I heart Bean...