"There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things." - Niccolo Machiavelli

The sun passed the invisible vertex in its path and began its slow descent from morning to afternoon. The girls broke from their formation and meandered their way to the Blackwell girls' dorm building. Tomorrow was to be a different show, and some rest was necessary for whatever trials that lay ahead. So, the girls walked down the concrete paths to the corridor, bundling in their tight-knit groups.

Most of them did, at least.

For one poor soul, there seemed to be little to spare in regard to any friends. Already have the small groups been formed, the chatter now grew loud and incessant, and she was left with no choice but to move with them towards the dorms. No student would spare an ear, no militiaman could offer any meaningful conversation. To sit here alone in the busy quad would bring nothing good to her.

Breathe, Emilia. One step at a time.

Emilia Greenock brushed a hand of hers through her short, jet-black hair—fluffy it was, and always giving her trouble—as she trekked closer now, to a group of the twenty strangers she accompanied. They seemed nice enough, if she dared to speak up and ask for permission into their group. All it'd take is just raising her voice and asking—

Don't do it.

Emilia Greenock grew doubtful and panicked. She couldn't stay here, so close to them, without rousing their suspicions; what business did she have of theirs? To intrude on one's conversation was always looked down upon, and they would not spare her any benefit of doubt. But she did not bear any ill intent, she just doesn't want to be alone—but would they even recognize this plight, from their point-of-view?

Before any of them could notice her, she ducked away, walking slower to keep pace behind them. She noted with a heavy heart that she might not have gotten their attention even if she tried, so wrapped up in their conversation were they to notice anything around them.

The fluffy-haired girl steadied her heart and silently followed the rest of her comrades to their destination. It'd do no good to be caught up in doubts now, before the day has come to its close. She has time, she just has to reach out to someone, anyone who'd be kind enough.

So, she stopped worrying—tried to, at least—and focused on the several girls up in the front. She figured them to be the native ones, those who'd been living in this small town since the beginning of these turn of events. If she were to be friends with any of them, it'd definitely serve her well. Perhaps they'd be kind enough to give her a spot in their rooms to sleep, instead of whatever place she'd have to settle for.

That's assuming they'll let you.

The corridor gave way to the dorm's gate, and when shuffling past the brick entrance, Emilia and the others beheld the sight of the dorm's courtyard. The newcomers took in this humble sight at a slower pace, as the students moved ahead of them, unfazed by the charm.

Now was her chance. Emilia made quickly for the crowd of native Arkadians. All it'd take is to slip past these others in front of her, and she'd be basked in opportunity—

"Agh, fuckin' hell—!" she cried, as a rogue elbow drove itself into her side. A flurry came, and heads turned at the cry.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there," the offending soul apologized, so then Emilia turned her grimace to this girl—a blonde with her hair done in a low-hanging ponytail—and felt her brows unfurl. This girl meant no real harm, if that concerned look was anything to go by.

"It's—it's fine. I'm fine."

Emilia found herself stumped as she got a good look at this concerned blonde. It seemed this girl's temperament to the cold was unmatched, for all she wore was a short-sleeve shirt and jeans, her long-sleeve shirt was tied around her waist. By her own measure, Emilia wouldn't dare consider taking her own jacket off, lest she freeze to death.

The pony-tailed blonde gestured in offering, "Look, I can make it up for you—"

"You should be more careful, River," someone cut her off, "You should know not to let your clumsiness get the better of you."

The pony-tailed blonde, River as she's called, crossed her arms and pinched her brows, miffed by that assumption, but Emilia was too occupied now by the presence of this newcomer and their entourage.

The leader of this trio was a brunette, with sharp brown eyes and a sleek smirk upon her lips; her hair was straight and fell past her shoulders. Behind her another girl stood, with oil-black hair done in a high-set ponytail, and a silent apprehension in their eyes. Another blonde stood beside this apprehensive girl, with smooth locks that fell onto the shoulders of her hoodie. They were the posse to this brunette, hovering close to her side.

Said brunette was locked in a glaring contest between herself and River, the pony-tailed blonde. After some tense silence, the blonde backed off, and kept her gaze to the ground, not daring to look up.

"Don't mind Schwartz here, she's a bit clumsy by her nature," the brunette finally welcomed, "I'm Sara Wilson, nice to meet you."

"Ah, I'm Emilia, uhm, Greenock," she stuttered, "nice to meet you, Sara."

She seems nice enough, at least.

"You seem alone, Emilia," Wilson spoke, her voice as luscious as wine, "you should join us, we'd love to have you. Isn't that right, girls?"

"Yeah, it is!" and the second blonde came up beside the leading brunette, a happy glint in her smile, "Nice to meet you, I'm Jennifer Thompson—most people just call me Jenny though," and a hand was outstretched in anticipation, "oh, by the way, that's Jasmin right there—she doesn't talk much."

The raven-haired girl stood still, watching Emilia. A single nod was all that was given in acknowledgement.

"Emilia," the hermit greeted again, choosing to be thankful she's found a place in this group of theirs. She shook Jenny's outstretched hand in earnest.

"Now, Emilia, you wouldn't happen to know any of those girls over there, would you?" Sara asked, and with one hand on her shoulder, did she swing her attention over to the natives, conversing with themselves. It seemed to be a lively debate, if the hand gestures by some of them were any indication.

"I, uhm—no, I don't."

"Damn, that's a shame," Wilson whispered, coldly.

Sudden panic seized Greenock's heart, and she glanced up, worried, "Wait, what—?"

They'll toss you aside! You're useless to them!

"We've been hoping to find someone who's been here before," Jenny explained, "but no such luck. I don't know if you've noticed, but—we've been getting the impression that those other girls don't like the idea of us being here. I bet they're talking about us right now."

First impressions were significant, it is true; any misunderstanding could always lead to unintended consequences. What could be spoken of these Blackwell students, conversing with each other near the entrance to their dorm? What might their thoughts be, their impressions about their counterparts from beyond their small town? Doubts were being sown with every passing second, because it was hard to tell for them as outsiders in this unknown land, with its unknown people and unspoken way of life.

A hand laid itself upon Emilia's shoulder, and Greenock was startled from her thoughts.

"I think you should be a dear, Emilia, and go ask them for us," Sara whispered into her ear, "they'll see your courage as being worthy of an answer."

Whether the long-haired brunette was playing into Greenock's fears or not, it made no difference to her then: she felt driven not by her own self-preservation, but by this tugging of the heartstrings, a sort of anxiousness manifested intangibly by its own accord.

"Ah, well, I—"

"Come on friend, I'll go with you!" then River suddenly snatched Emilia from Sara's clutches, marching forward with a hand on the shorter girl's back and with a stiff measure in their gait. When they'd trekked out of earshot, a whisper was crudely hushed into Emilia's ear, "You keep away from Sara and the rest of them. They mean nothing but trouble—don't look at me," then Greenock snapped her head forward, shocked by the command, "Listen carefully: if you let her get too close, she'll just use you, like she's using them."

Oh, what conundrum had she fallen into now?

Sparing a glance to the pony-tailed blonde, Emilia noted the terrible look in River's eyes, a bitter honey-brown hue when glinting in the afternoon light, and those features had been morphed into a solemn scowl. Greenock wondered of all the things that laid behind this scowl, what memories she was not privy to. Now was it true, that the brunette Schwartz spoke of—Sara—is as devious as she claims? Yet again, what did River mean by being used? Could Emilia trust this newfound friend beside her to be telling the truth?

On one hand, lay the potential to not be alone. On the other, the potential to be caught between a rock and a hard place.

Pick, Emilia.

"…if you say so," she finally mumbled, and didn't dare to see the reaction, if there was one.

So hesitantly, yet with the assuredness of her new friend, did Greenock make her way over to those Arkadian girls.

A great number of them had gone inside, leaving three of their kin by the dorm entrance. Yet, Emilia's heart trembled as they turned, seeing the curious looks in their eyes at her nervous gait, yet she dared to come closer, closer still.

"H-hi there," she stuttered in greeting, "I'm Emilia, uhm—nice to meet you all," the notes were clumsy, and she felt herself cringe at the mumbled delivery.

"I'm River, River Schwartz," came the second greeting, far calmer and more collected, "nice to meet you all."

They seem unbothered by the stutter, and one of them—a mousy brunette with a bob cut—gave them a sweet smile in return, "Nice to meet you guys, I'm Max. I'm guessing you're asking about who's bunking with who, right?"

The fluffy hermit dumbly nodded, so River spoke first, "Yes, we are—we're not intruding, are we?"

"No, you're not," Max replied, "We've decided now, so you can call your friends over."

Emilia made ready to do so, but a hand clasped over her shoulder, and she was pulled a bit closer to River's side, "One thing, Max."

What the hell—?

"My friend here, she's shy. I ask that you please give her to someone who you trust, as I don't want her to feel alone, please."

The two at the mousy brunette's sides, a pixie blonde and a tall, blue-haired girl, narrowed their eyes at the obvious begging River was giving them. Emilia herself seemed confused by this, and she looked to Schwartz for an answer. It seemed to her then, that River was determined to keep her away from Sara and her posse, but why—?

Perhaps she put on a good enough show, for Max replied earnestly, "I…I suppose I can help you," and this answer was met by incredulous looks from both of Max's companions. Emilia couldn't believe her luck. Once Max had quelled the concerns of her aides, River calmly gestured the girls over, and so the non-native group led by Sara came forwards.

Once they were close enough, the friendly brunette—Max—rose her voice to address them all, "So, until we can find better arrangements, we will go off of the pairs I've established now," and so Max asked for their names, and gave them a room number to go along with it. With this, they would head to their assigned rooms, and meet their roommates.

Hundreds on the first floor, two-hundreds on the second, Max had told them last.

How nice it was then for Emilia, that her number was so easy on the tongue. Now, as they made their way into the building and Max showed them the stairway, she found herself at relative ease. If worse came to worse, she could find a place in the lounge that Max mentioned.

It was with a heavy heart that she also noticed River go off with that group she had warned her of. Emilia wanted answers, but if she was stuck on the second floor and River was down on the first, then she'd be out of luck for some time. Hopefully she'll talk to her again and repay the pony-tailed blonde for what she'd been given.

So up the stairs she went, and with a number of other girls did she enter the second-floor hallway and looked for her designated room. She wondered then; what kind of person dwelled in Room 222?

"Al'ight, that's your spot there, on the couch. I got some spare blankets, if I remember where they are," some rummaging came from the closet, then with a victorious Ha! the figure pulled from the interior a large comforter, "Right, so 'ere you go. If you need anything else, jus' ask me—I'll be quite literally over there," and a hand pointed towards the only bed in the room, a bit messy from when its owner had first awoken.

Grace nodded and took the blankets her friend—Olivia Henderson—was offering. With these blankets she took a seat in her new living space and admired the confined chaos that was her friend's room.

"Thank you again, Olivia—for giving me a place to stay," Grace clarified.

"Of course, of course!" and then slyly, she added, "I'd rather you than someone I don't know."

Grace looked to the curly, short-haired brunette across from her, and inquired, "Why, do you not trust them?"

"Well…I," Henderson idly scratched at the back of her head, "I don't distrust them, but I don't know if they'd go as far as I would—like, would they put in as much effort as you, or me? I just don't know for sure—and until I do, I'm keeping them at arm's length."

The short-haired blonde hummed in interest, "That's fair. I'd like to meet them first before I make my judgement. Perhaps there will be someone who is genuine, someone who you can trust besides me."

"Hey, I do trust others," Olivia huffed, "That reporter from the second floor, Juliet, she's someone I trust enough. An' she's got a whole group of friends, and I believe she'd help us out when we need her."

Grace raised a single eyebrow, curious, "You're sure of them?"

"I have faith in it. When Madsen gives us our gear, I reckon I could ask Juliet to let us into her group, then we'd be one helluva team!"

"Madsen?" Grace then asked, not quite following.

"Ah, he's the big guy who gave that speech to us in the quad," the brunette reminded her and continued, "but yeah, once I get into contact with Juliet again, we'll be set. Don't hav'to worry about being put with a bunch of strangers."

"But what of her friends? You met them on the ride here, but that's all you know, if I remember correctly," the blonde noted—yet was dissuaded just as quickly, "What about them? If Juliet's trusting them, I think we can trust them as well."

"I ask that you be careful either way, it's not a good idea to put all your eggs into this one basket," and with that, Grace began making her impromptu bed, draping the blankets carefully across the couch's leather surface, "Tomorrow will tell us our future. Until then, we enjoy this time to ourselves."

Olivia agreed and trekked to her desk, specifically to the shelf where she kept all her books that she had brought with her. From there, she pulled a single volume from the small shelf. The hard cover was an aged off-white, and upon this cover was the title, long and grand. From where she observed, it seemed like any other book to Grace, but it was the way that Olivia held this book that brought more insight to its worth. So when Bennet caught a glimpse of the author's name on the cover, she asked the brunette—

"The Lord of the Rings?"

Henderson stuttered a step at the intuitive guess, then said, "Yeah, it is. This one here is The Fellowship of the Ring," so Olivia passed the book to Grace, and the blonde took it carefully, as if it were a relic. It sure looked like one, given its aesthetics.

"Is this an original?" Grace then asked, interested. Sitting up straight, she marveled the illustration on its hardcover, and opened the book to a random chapter, flipping through its contents.

"Nah—well, I don't think it was. My mom gave it to me as a birthday present when I was really young," Olivia made to sit on the couch next to her friend, and pointed to the book, "if you go to the first page there, you'll see—ah, there it is!" and Henderson smiled at the handwritten inscription on one of the first blank pages. It had been years now, a long time ago, but the ink had not withered, the love had not diminished.

My dear little Olive,

This book was given to me by my mother when I was young, and was my favorite of all the books I had. I am giving this to you, so that you may know just how special this book was to me, and so that you may give it to those who you treasure most.

I love you to the end of the world, happy birthday sweetie.

- Mom

And as Grace read these words, she felt herself overcome by an ethereal presence. A terrible shock to her heart this presence was, and she couldn't stop tears forming in the corners of her eyes. She was in the midst of something personal, this much she knew, and when she handed the book back, she felt it right to say, "It's beautiful."

"I mean, I haven't been reading it as much recently, but I guess you're right."

"You guess? It is beautiful, and you should not shy from it!" and from the sudden, adamant passion in her words, Grace chided the curly brunette, "A gift of this kind is not something to be disregarded. You must treasure it, for it is yours."

"Yeah? Why d'you say that?" Henderson asked, surprised by the assuredness in the blonde's tone.

Grace looked ready to give her an answer then, yet she hesitated. The blonde seemed to shrink from her straight posture, and so, with a hunched back and idly fidgeting her hands, she spoke softly, "My mother never gave me presents on my birthday. She couldn't. Neither of my parents had the money to spare."

Olivia's brow creased with concern, "Really?"

Grace also creased her brows, but in honest agitation, "I—never mind. It's not something you would want to know—"

"Try me," her friend swiftly countered, and then Henderson sat crisscrossed, facing the upset blonde, "I want to hear it, if you're willing to talk about it."

Grace hesitated still, but the shining interest in Olivia's eyes told her that it was fruitless to push her away, now more than ever, "My family hails from Amur, a region in the far-eastern stretches of Siberia, in Russia. They had emigrated to the United States in the nineteen-twenties, once the Bolsheviks had begun their march eastwards, to take control," and at the still-present interest in her story, Grace continued, "My great-grandparents had no sympathy to those Bolsheviks, and because of their faith, they surely knew that they had no future in a Soviet Russia. So, they fled, and with them was my grandfather. Once they arrived in America, they made a home for themselves in the state of Washington, and that is where my family has lived since."

"From my grandfather, he met my grandmother, and from them my mother was born. So then from her meeting my father, have I now been brought into this world," and Olivia raised an eyebrow at the girl's unusual phrasing, "and so that is how I've come to be."

It was then that the curly brunette noticed the frown, an etching drawn in drastic measure onto Grace's features; a cold frown, a deep-set frown, "Except now, those Bolsheviks have made their way here, and they wish to destroy my home. My family fled Russia to keep from the Reds, but instead they've followed us here."

"Well, are those people out there Bolsheviks?" Henderson asked, "I mean, I haven't heard anything on the news about who they are, but I don't think they're that—"

Grace turned her terrible frown to Olivia then, and even though the brunette knew it wasn't meant for her, she fell silent under that glare, and held her breath as Grace spoke, quietly, "Perhaps you're right, friend. Perhaps they're not the Bolsheviks that forced my family from my native land. Perhaps they're fascists, or perhaps they're just fools," then Grace's glare shifted down to her lap, "But I will not wait until they come for me, for those I love. I…I have not heard from my parents, nor my relatives at all the past couple of days—I cannot call them, I cannot send them a letter, I cannot reach out to any of them. It was because of them that I could live free from the tyranny of the Soviets, and yet their efforts weren't enough. If I am to let those…those devils take my family from me without a fight, then I have already lost."

"Wait, you can't reach your family?" Henderson asked in disbelief.

"They still rely on landlines, and last I heard, those are out of commission because of the Reds. My father's the only one with another cellphone, and he has not answered my calls these past few days," even though her voice was distant, a tremulous grimace formed vividly on her face, and Olivia witnessed the fluctuations between panic and silent rage, "Our home lies in the vicinity of Seattle. I can only hope for the best yet assume the worst."

Olivia sat there in silence. She had not the correct words to convey her condolences, so she sat there with her book—her mother's favorite book—in her hands. And as the seconds ticked by and the rays of sunlight began to creep across the walls by the window frame, the brunette felt suddenly conscious of their solitude in this place, in this quiet room.

Her parents lived on the other side of Arkadia, in the southern portion of the town's inner suburbs. She wouldn't dare bring this up in front of Grace, she wasn't completely tactless, but the blonde's spiel had pricked at the assuredness in her heart, for even despite them being an hour's walk away Olivia felt so separated from those she loved. Grace's emotions seemed to be spilling over then, and into Henderson's doubts did they make their presence felt.

"Are you a believer, Olivia?"

Snapping from her thoughts, the curly brunette traced Grace's solemn gaze to the spot just over her bed. Above this bed, perched in faithful vigilance, was a figure of the Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, who was nailed upon a wooden cross. And even in the dim, they both could see the crown of thorns, and the blood that spilled from the wound upon his chest.

"Yes. Catholic," Olivia replied, only now realizing Grace had called her by name.

"Orthodox," the Russian girl concurred. And as if she felt it necessary, Grace pulled from under the hem of her long-sleeved sweater a rosary, ordained with lacquered wooden beads, and with them was an orthodox cross, its iron structure shimmering brightly in the dim.

"It's beautiful," Olivia noted.

"It was my grandfather's," Grace explained, "he'd given it to me when I was very young, just before he passed away. He found it right to give this to me, despite all the relatives he was close to, despite my mother being there as well."

A single tear, only noticed by how it sparkled from the light, trickled down Grace's cheek. The light dimmed, the shadows crept, but the cross still shined before them.

"He gave this gift, for me to cherish. He trusted it to no one, but me."

And Olivia looked down to her book, still clutched in her hands.

For me to cherish. No one, but me.

And when she opened the cover and flipped once more to the note on that page, she understood why Grace wept these silent tears.

The door to the second floor clicked closed as she trudged towards her dorm room, a bit exhausted and more so miffed. Madsen had everything under the sun planned to the point, but he seemed entirely willing to let them squander with providing accommodations. It made Max wonder just what kind of things the Head of Security—or better yet, the Head of the Arkadian Militia—was doing nowadays. Chaos down in the town proper was most likely to be his first concern; having seen it herself, it'd make sense why Madsen was nowhere to be seen once they were dismissed to their dorms.

Though, if his mindset was anything like Chloe spoke of, he'd probably ask them to make do with the forest itself, rather than the comfort of their dorms.

Max shook her head and silently snickered at the thought. David was trying his best; it was only fair that they try as well.

Her door was ajar just the slightest, and opening it brought her suspicions alight. It seemed that Chloe and Victoria of all people had convened in her little abode to ask something of her.

"Guys? What's going on?"

They floundered at who would speak first, until Victoria rose to the task, "What you did out there, Max, was nothing good."

Another shake of the head accompanied a sigh from the brunette, "Oh for the love of—we're not doing this again."

"What if this girl starts blabbing to the others that a sob story is all it takes to get what they want?" Chase adamantly countered, "You think they wouldn't exploit that to their benefit?"

"I'm with Vicky on this one, Max," Price rose to the pixie blonde's defense, much to her best friend's surprise, "Like, if I was given that opportunity, and knew that I could exploit it, I'm just saying—"

"Well, then what should I've done, given her the cold shoulder after we just met?" Max retorted, "How are we going to work together if we don't even act like we care?"

"That's not the point. You've created a precedent, Max. They won't think about helping us, if we're just going to give them what they want for nothing in return," and Chase gestured to Caulfield pointedly, "if you do not command their respect, then why would they feel the need to give it to you? You have to be assertive with these kinds of people, or else they'll start taking advantage of you."

"Alright alright, fine, I get it," Caulfield disrupted, "but how do we supposedly get them to respect us?"

"It's simple," the blonde smiled innocently, "We set the record straight."

"Okay, first off, no," the mousy brunette began, and pointed an accusing digit towards the not-so-sorry Queen, "whatever kind of records you're thinking of, I'm not up for it, it's only gonna make the situation worse for us. Secondly," and the hand swung to the punk, "since when were you and Victoria able to agree on something?!"

Chloe proceeded to explain the sudden truce by stuttering, and frantically gesturing between herself and the amused blonde beside her, ending with a nervous grin.

"Just now?" she summed up.

Max slowly, gently, facepalmed.

"Look, Maximus—Vicky's right," Price defended herself, "as far as we're concerned, those girls down below are already thinking of ways to benefit without liftin' a finger. And once they see the kind of treatment you've shown to whoever-it-is that's in Kate's room, they're gonna want the same treatment, somethin' you and I and all of us can't afford—"

"Can I just ask?" Max interrupted, and at Chase's raised eyebrow and Chloe's pause, she resumed, "just why are you two so adamant about this? Why are you guys so dead set on giving them this…this metaphorical boundary that they cannot cross?"

The two averted their gazes to different corners of the room. It seemed that they had answers for Caulfield, but neither was keen to say them outright. It made the frown Max wore etch deeper on her face.

"Because it's something that I would do," Victoria finally said, "It would surprise me if these girls—who we know have no care for us, nor for our town—would actually want to be a part of…of this thing that Madsen's given us. We cannot be sure if they want to help us defend our home, and so we have to ensure their trust. If that means setting the record straight, and setting boundaries for them, then this is what must be done."

"Yeah, that," Chloe muttered in agreement.

"I don't think that's necessary," Max deterred, "we know they've been forced to flee from the Reds ever since they arrived here. I believe these girls want a chance to get back at them, for taking their livelihoods, for taking their homes and families away. If we were to just give them a chance and be their friends, then maybe we don't need to set boundaries, maybe we don't have to be demanding something from them."

"And what if they're not our friends?"

"Well, I don't see a reason as to why they shouldn't be."

"Everybody lies, Max, no exceptions," Chloe spoke up, "that blondie and her little friend, I bet they probably made up some excuse to test your metal and got away with it—but you do make a good point," she then relented.

"You cannot be sure that they'll be there to help the rest of us," Victoria pressed, emerald eyes sharp and jaded, "They'll stab us in the back if we are too trusting!"

"Neither can you be sure that they'll betray us so easily," Max countered, ocean blue orbs bold and brazen, "There's already enough distrust as is, to be hostile to them now is only going to guarantee their betrayal!"

It was a stalemate. Compassion and Cautiousness stared each other down, demanding the other to rescind. A tiebreaker would be necessary for this struggle of ideals, yet Chloe felt stuck between being hopeful, and sticking to her principles.

So when Max and Victoria looked ready to take their feud to a physical level, Chloe dared to compromise, "How about you guys try it?"

They turned their stares to her, and muttered simultaneously, "What?"

"How about you guys, I dunno, put your ideas into practice," the punk rationalized, "like, what if you both were to lead some of them, like a captain of a pirate crew or something, and so when you decide to trust them or not, we'd know which way would work best."

"But we don't have the time to test that out," Chase reminded, "Madsen's told us that the Reds will be here soon, and we'd have to establish our structure of command by then."

"What is our structure of command?" Max then asked, and they all fell silent. They hadn't realized the full clusterfuck of logistics and technicalities that awaited them.

"Maybe Madsen's got an idea about that," Chloe hoped, "but I still think this idea I got is doable. We just gotta find out who's going where, and who's doing what."

"Are you suggesting that someone else is going to lead, other than Max and I?" Victoria snarked, "As if they'd know anything about what it takes."

"Wait, you think I'm fit to lead?" Max openly asked. It seemed the brunette did not share the optimism of her blonde counterpart.

"Of course you are," and the smallest sincerity shone in Vic's words then, "if it weren't for you, Max, then I would be…I would be dead, and so would the rest of us. It was you who gave me a chance, it was you who took the fight to the hounds. If I had to give up my command, I'd give it to you and no-one else."

Twenty-four hours have passed. To Max, it felt like a vivid memory. A time too surreal to be true. To hear it from someone else only made it more surreal.

"Damn, Vicky, at least ask her out to dinner first—"

"Can you fucking not!?" then Max burst out laughing as she beheld the sight of that shit-eating grin, and the irritation in Victoria's flustered face, "I am trying to be honest here—"

"Oh, we know," Chloe surmised innocently, "We know, Vicky—"

"That's it—" and so Chase rose up from her spot on the couch, and silently challenged the bluenette to a duel of hands.

Chloe was all-too willing, "Come on then, square up Vic—!"

Despite her regal atmosphere, it seemed the Queen was very much acquainted with getting physical, and so when she pounced on the unprepared punk, it brought to Chloe a sudden sense of being in-over her head. Didn't mean she would take back what she said, no matter how many times the pixie blonde would demand it or choke her over it. Yet—and Chloe hated to admit this—Chase definitely knew her stuff when it came to roughhousing.

Max recovered from her laughter, only to hear Chloe cry out with genuine panic, "Max help—Dicky Vicky's got a hard-on for me, please help—!"

"Take it back you fucking blueberry!"

"In your dreams, Vic-kEE—!" a sudden flurry came, as Victoria now had Price in a loose chokehold, but still the Pirate Captain would not be easily deterred, "You'll never take me alive, bitch!"

Max's stomach began to hurt, as she fell back into her guffaws, in tears at the scuffle. Tomorrow was a new day, but she was content to be here now, amongst her fellow sisters, enjoying these moments in time.

"...and that's pretty much it, when it comes to my family."

"That...was a freakin' rollercoaster ride of emotions," a pair of green eyes commented from the navy-blue couch. A white bedsheet was draped over this couch, and a spare pillow was clutched in the hands of the listener, as they gave attention to the final piece.

A chuckle, then, "Oh, well it could have been a lot worse. There was this one time where our parents had gone out shopping, and my youngest sister had been grounded for two weeks because she wasn't doing so well in school," the voice narrated, "she was so driven by pure spite, that she made to swap our mother's hair conditioner with bacon grease."

Emilia went wide-eyed with anticipation, "No way!"

"She tried," Kate clarified, "I stopped her before she could doom herself to solitary confinement by parental decree. Not even our dad could give her the benefit of the doubt if she'd gone through with it."

"Jeez, dude," Greenock mumbled, "You almost had me there, I'll admit it."

"That's why we used Vaseline instead of grease."

"Wha—!?"

"The key is that you try to ruin the person's routine, but not the person themselves," Marsh elaborated, "that way, their retaliatory action won't be made from a justified position, but because some circumstances occurred that do not give any retaliation any merit, especially when it is true that nothing truly dangerous happened to the person who's been pranked. This was why my youngest sister and I got away with it, because we weren't going to fess up to anything, our big sister Caitlynn wasn't going to say anything as well—as far as our parents were concerned, the contents of that conditioner bottle just became a bit...goopy."

"Oh, now that is nasty—!"

A hearty laugh came from the exclamation, because having Vaseline in one's hair was a fate reserved for those foolish enough to encounter it.

"Oh, you should've seen the look on our mom's face," Kate wiped a spare tear from her eye, grinning ear to ear, "we hadn't realized she was planning to go out to a dinner date with Dad on the day we pranked her, and they'd already booked the reservation—with no chance of a refund if they cancelled, of course. She had to go there with her hair all waxy and gross."

"I can't even begin to imagine my parents letting me get away with that," Emilia cackled along, but her enthusiasm shorted suddenly, and she mumbled, "yeah, hah—hell of a story."

"...how about you, Emilia?" Marsh dared to ask, "what about your family, what are they like?"

A pause. The smiles faded.

"...I, uhm..."

Kate took the hint, "I-It's fine, you—you don't have to answer that."

"Sorry," Greenock replied, as if it were a reflex, "I'm just...finding it hard to talk about them right now."

Another pause. All the time spent here, talking to each other, forming an honest friendship, however circumstantial it may be; it was not to be done in vain. Already had Kate opened up to Emilia about her life, her dreams and aspirations—of what had become of the many years spent in this small town in the corner of the world. They shared a surprising number of attitudes and beliefs, if only on the most mundane of things. To both be right-handed, to have the same preference for jackets and hoodies over long-sleeved pullovers; to have the same aspirations to go into narrative storytelling as professions, to share the same disbelief for knowing that toast sandwiches exist—these commonalities bonded them together over the hours spent.

And yet, Emilia's doubts of this being a true friendship held her tongue. She didn't even know for what exact reason she held off from opening up herself, and yet there she remained, sitting on the couch. She already had this problem with Sara, and then River; now she found herself floundering to express this shared sentiment with Kate.

What does one say in a situation like this? What should be said, if anything at all—

"...did you meet Max?"

"Max?" Emilia snapped from her doubts, "Oh, yeah, yeah—I met her."

"She's been having a tough time with all this too," the blonde inferred, "She's got her family still in Seattle. They're not able to reach out to her, and she's been stressed about whether they are still okay or not. The same goes for my parents, but I consider myself to be lucky: they live farther from the big cities than Max's parents. I imagine it's the same case for you," Kate cautiously continued, "You don't have to say it outright, but you fear for your family's safety, don't you?"

Emilia nodded. She ducked her head down.

Kate hummed in understanding. Nothing more needed to be said of it.

"...well, it's getting late," a glance to her clock on the nightstand told Kate it was ten minutes 'till nine-in-the-evening, "we should get some sleep while we can."

"Yeah—"

A muffled clamor came from beyond the room. Both girls turned their heads to the door, spurned with confusion, as again the sound rumbled from beyond their domain. Kate stood from her spot on her bed and walked over to the door, turning the handle and peering out.

knock-knock-knock

Another door opens from across the hall.

"Hey, get your shoes on, we gotta go," an anxious voice declared.

"Wait what the hell—" came the confused reply, "Max, what's going on?"

"No time Vic," came the curt reply, "Orders from Madsen, c'mon, let's go!"

"Max?" Kate called out, and Caulfield spun on her heel, "what's happening?"

"We've been called up, David's wanting us in the front quad," the mousy brunette spoke quickly, already moving for another dorm room, "Everyone's coming, so get your shoes and get ready!"

Marsh could see Chloe further down the hall, knocking on other doors with the same anxious zeal. Time was suddenly of the essence and could not be delayed.

"Is something bad happening out there?" Emilia asked her, seeing the blonde move quickly for her tennis shoes was a worrying sight to behold.

"We're needed outside, it's urgent," Kate muttered, and urged Greenock for her pair of converses, "Come on, let's get moving."

So, they made haste to prepare and rallied with Caulfield outside in the hallway with every other Angel on the second floor. Together they went down the stairs to the first floor, forming up with the rest of their sisters-in-arms and moving as one outside to the front quad.

Even before they reached their destination, the Angels could already hear the commotion brewing. What had been a quiet, if slightly tense late evening was turning into chaos, and once they passed the steps from the corridor into the quad did they realize what was happening.

There were many parents; men and women gathered into a single mob around the school's fountain, there in the middle of the open space. At the stairs leading up to Blackwell's main building, Madsen could be seen standing with a small cluster of men from the police department and newly formed militia. The Bear was defiant in his posture, and pointedly so: the crowd before him was riled up and was hurling all kinds of verbal lashing at him and his men in a concentrated effort.

"How dare you! Do you not have the decency to look upon yourselves with shame—!?"

"Those are our children, not yours! You cannot force them to do your bidding!"

"You're a tyrant, you hear me? A fucking tyrant—!"

"Why don't ya try to guilt-trip all of us while you're at it? God-damn cowards!"

The twenty girls looked to this scene unfolding before them with rightful concern. Already could some of the girls pick out the faces of their mothers and fathers, of relatives who'd come to give the Head of the Militia a piece of their minds. Across the way from them, a group of boys could be seen marching past the gymnasium, towards the commotion.

One of the officers beside Madsen directed his attention to the approaching boys and girls, and his voice cut through the protesting like a hot knife through butter—

"Hold on!"

The tirade silenced itself.

Madsen looked back and forth, from one group of volunteers to the other, and so too did everyone else, "I ask of you all now—step forth!"

His command was given; they pressed forward. The boys stepped up and formed ranks, the girls took their lead and formed ranks as well. This loose grouping of students and young adults stood between their family members and Madsen; they were turned to face the latter.

"It has come to my attention, and the attention of the rest of this town," he started, "that I have made an egregious mistake: I have sought the help of these young adults who stand before us without the consent of their families and loved ones. I wish to remind you all, that I did not make this decision with any malice or ill intent. I have made an appeal to show this as a voluntary obligation—and I will do so here and now, if that is what it takes."

He was met with scorn.

"It does not matter what you say," someone's mother called from the crowd, "you still went behind our backs to take our kids from us! We cannot trust what you say!"

"We'd rather you send us, send us then!" a father cried forth, "Better us than our daughters and sons, do not let it come to this!"

"Hold on!" the Bear bellowed again, and the crowd spared him a moment's time, "I am not governing your children, nor will I try to. I ask that you let them decide, let them choose what they wish. If they do not want to be a part of the militia, then it shall be done; but they are adults, they are capable of making their own decisions, they are capable of making such a choice!"

Again, the parents were whipped up into protest, vehement in their own wishes. They would not let it come true; they would not dare recognize the possibility.

Strange though it was, the boys and girls remained silent. Some glanced at each other, expressing their anxiousness through this silence.

What could be said of them, if not that they were caught between two truths: of safety and sacrifice. It was true that some of them did fear the idea of being consumed by the coming onslaught, that terrible fates will await them on a predetermined date. What their parents spoke of was true—they were very much worried of the coming struggle against the Reds. And what could be said of those who had fought for their lives in the Battle of Blackwell, not even two days since? They knew well the rage of battle; they knew the boiling of blood and the coldness of steel!

And yet, there they stood. The forty of these young men and women stood, side by side, and knew it in their hearts: they could not back down now.

Once more, Madsen's voice carried over the crowd's, "We will now call for a decision made on behalf of this town, for the admittance of these young adults into the Militia of Arkadia. The purpose they serve, should they choose to volunteer, is to support the militia to the best of their ability, so that the opportunity exists for those who cannot fight to flee from certain danger," then Madsen directed his call to them, "I said this once to you all, I will say it again: if you do not wish to be a part of the militia and want to go back to your families and loved-ones, then please raise your hands now!"

Silence reigned. The elders were anxiously awaiting the moment a hand would be raised, so they could pluck their children from assured danger.

No one raised their hands.

"...I will say it one last time," Madsen gave them the benefit of the doubt, "if you do not wish to help your fellow militiamen in defending this town, then raise your hands."

Pleading began, in hushed whispers. Mothers and fathers clung to the sentimental appeal and begged. Names were called upon; gentle encouragement was given—

No one raised their hands.

The hero within each individual is realized in their words and actions; the subconscious stems from what a person speaks and how they speak it; what they do and how they do it. It is why some words or actions mean so little and other words or actions mean so much; they are entwined with the person's subconscious, that which wills them to speak, and compels them to act. So that when people speak of courage, of bravery in the face of insurmountable odds, they speak of heroes in the same breath. That even despite the uncertainty of the struggle, despite knowing well that there cannot be a hopeful outcome in whatever lies on one's path, there still lives the flame of adversity, burning against the heavy backdrop. And that this flame, no matter how small and insignificant it may be, shines all the more when surrounded by fellow inklings of light, until the illumination is so great that there cannot be any room left for doubt.

This spurn to a higher endeavor was not spoken aloud amongst them, nor muttered under anyone's breath. Instead, it sounded from the beating of their hearts, and the glimmer in their eyes.

They would find their purpose here, together, as heroes. They would give their efforts to saving those who could not save themselves. They dared to sacrifice their own safety for the sake of their friends, their family, their folk in its entirety; they wished to fight for all that they had left.

No one raised their hands. Not a single one of these young men and women shirked from the duty that had been bestowed upon them.

And to see this of their own children, their own flesh and blood—it tore through the laments of their elders. What once was pleading had morphed into a swift resignation; mothers wept in the arms of their husbands, fathers clenched their fists in shame. They were so concerned with the safety of their sons and daughters, that they dared to overlook the threat that each and every person now faced; no matter their reasoning for being here, in this small town far from the rest of the world, an obligation laid upon everyone's shoulders.

Men and women, in all of history foretold, find themselves in one way or another pitted against the eternal struggle of the ages. That not merely their mortal beings, but their very subconscious be swept away by the whirlwinds of change, helpless and unknowing of where they might land. Whether this be in the claws of the Devil, in the hands of Fate, in the loving protection of the Lord—all were doomed to the uncertainty! And even despite this terror made constant, humanity chose to endure. For it was because of the blessed union between Man and Woman that made them a figurative rock in this tumultuous storm, unyielding to the forces of change. Only by coming together could Man and Woman cheat the uncertainty of their fates; for with this bond came the gift most sacred to all of humanity itself: the gift of creating life, of nurturing life, of defending life to the last breath.

It was decided on this fateful night, for all that may hear it. The flame will burn and will not cease in its plight; this bright light stands defiantly against the whirlwinds of death and destruction and shall not be swept from the face of the Earth.

A/N - Part Three introduces many new characters into the story (OC's). I understand that some people do not appreciate having other characters take the spotlight, insofar as they feel 'hollow' compared to the original cast; so if this is the case, feel free to leave a review about these new additions to the Angels' roster. Any comments and criticisms are welcome. - MB