When her eyes had opened, Aimee wasn't sure where she was. She was lying in a dimly lit, tiny room. It was almost too small to call a room; a better word would have been a cell. Sitting up in the unsteady cot, Aimee groaned as she felt her throbbing head. She remembered the accident between the young mechanic, who she was told was named Jorge, and the executive caddy. She remembered being arrested, and remembered waiting for the court case, but that was all. She couldn't remember the case! And she couldn't remember how she got here, wherever here was.

Groaning again, Aimee rubbed her arms and looked around for some sign of where she was or what she was supposed to do. Swinging herself over and out of the cot, she realized she wasn't alone. Above her cot was yet another one, occupied by a dark, sleeping form. Aimee opened the drawer next to her bed and found dozens of identical, dark green jumpsuits. Pulling one on, Aimee was surprised to find it was exactly her size. She then climbed the ladder leading to the other cot and gently poked the sleeping person. The figure rolled over, and sleepily opened her eyes to look at Aimee, before sharpening her gaze, her electric blue eyes barely hiding her impatience.

"Would you mind leaving me alone, I still have over two hours until my shift," the sharp-tongued girl said, before rolling back over.

"But I don't know where I am!"

Rolling over once again and sitting up, the girl sat up, her features coming into the light; her long, curly blonde hair framed an almost cherub-like face, her pale skin complimented her eyes and hair just ever so perfectly. Aimee recognized her straightaway.

"But you're Miss Undercity 2211, last year's winner!"

Katrina Realer blinked, before laughing unexpectedly, surprising Aimee. The blonde, twenty-one year old beauty swung her long legs over the side of the cot, and jumped down, before changing into an identical dark green jumpsuit.

"Well come on, let's go," Katrina said hurriedly, before opening the door.

Leaving the room, Aimee found herself in a giant warehouse that looked like it had been emptied and filled with dozens of small cubicles, like the one she had just exited. It was almost like the prison ward, except just a bit smaller, a couple of thin, railed stairs at the sides of the hall going up to what Aimee guessed were former offices. The grey walls were unadorned except for a single sign that hung overhead on a pennant

If you will not help others, then you shall be taught how to help others

And tattooed on her right forearm were the same words in a small print, amongst 'Council Department of Forced Will'. Aimee rubbed the tattoo, hoping it'd come off, but it didn't. She had been permanently tattooed with those words.

Katrina put one arm around her shoulder and walked her down past several of the cot-rooms, until they entered a slightly larger one. Inside was a small kitchen, complete with fridge and oven, and several rickety wooden benches and tables. A few people were already there, and Aimee was surprised to see people of all ages, young and old, men and women, all wearing the same jumpsuit and same tattoo. Katrina went to the kitchen to grab something for them while Aimee was told to find a spot. Off in the corner, she saw who she was looking for: Jorge Orwell. The hulking youth was slouched over his food, eating as if he couldn't taste, not looking at anything in particular. Aimee walked over to his table and sat opposite him, and he looked up. Shock filled his eyes, and then so did tears.

"I am so sorry, so very sorry." He began to shudder.

"Stop that, you didn't do anything, it was my choice and I couldn't just let Dunlop get away with whatever he wanted."

Jorge stopped crying, but still looked miserable.

"You were tortured."

That explained the amnesia, but she still pressed on.

"The Council can't just get away with everything they do, someone needs to stand up to them, I was just doing my piece. Wouldn't you try and stop an injustice happening right in front of your eyes?"

Jorge's eyes focused quickly, and the tears were gone as quickly as they had come. "There is one happening, and that's what's happening right here, where the hell are we?"

Katrina had already grabbed their food, just plain cereal and a glass of orange juice each. Aimee introduced the two, and then finally asked Katrina the question plaguing her mind.

"What are we doing here?"

Katrina looked surprised, as if it was rare for people who had been tortured, imprisoned and incarcerated in a section of Undercity they'd never heard of.

"Decades ago, there was some kind of disaster in Undercity. There were riots and protests, and the Council was being fought over every decision. Being the power-hungry bastards that they are, the Council started up the Department of Forced Will; a place where those who didn't want to obey could be psychologically conditioned to obey. They hurt us. Everyone here has done something to upset the Council in some way, in a way that isn't just a one-off accident. What did you guys do?"

As Aimee and Jorge explained what happened to them, Katrina nodded.

"Yeah, you two definitely would be in here; Aimee, they're probably afraid you'll become a radical, going against every one of the Council's totalitarian policies, so they're hoping to break you. Jorge, you've pissed off the Council before, I think they think you are purposely trying to sabotage them."

"But that's ridiculous!"

Aimee shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, and decided that if she was going to tell anyone, she might as tell the two people she knew in her same position.

"Actually, it's not. Since the settlement of Undercity, my family has been passing down the old knowledge, from mother to daughter. My own mother renounced this, but my grandmother taught me instead. You would never believe some of the things that the Council put in place to ensure their own power; I'd like nothing better then to rip the foundations around their ears."

Leaning in closer, Aimee proceeded to explain her early life to her friends, telling them of her lessons and beliefs, she told them of the changes in history made by the Council, of the special committee created to ensure no one knew the truth, she told them what she knew of the land above, and how she'd like nothing more then to go up there, and see the mythological sun. But the footsteps outside heralding the proximity of a guard hushed the whole group temporarily. Coughing nervously, Jorge decided to engage in what he hoped would be regular conversation.

"What did you do then?"

Katrina blushed and pulled at a lock of her hair.

"I'm a homosexual."

Jorge's eyes widened for a second before he caught himself.

"So what, I know other people who are, why did they stick you in here?" asked Aimee.

"Because I didn't hide the fact I was, one of Undercity's finest saw me kissing another girl in the park of Floor 17."

Sitting back, the three continued to talk. Aimee discovered that there were roughly five hundred people in the complex, either currently sleeping in their cots, or eating in one of the various kitchens that dotted the complex. Then there were those who were 'working'. Working comprised mainly of mining against the rock, but then there were also the 'sessions'. Once a week, each prisoner would be taken to the back rooms, accompanied by the security guards who would proceed to 'treat' the prisoners, men and women alike. Katrina had already been here for over six months, but wouldn't give in. Apparently a prisoner couldn't leave until they had fully given in, and obtained the favor of all three representatives of the Department. When Aimee asked Katrina what that meant, but Katrina refused to answer, and told her it'd all be explained soon.

Their first afternoon there, both Jorge and Aimee were placed in the same work group, and were ushered along with fifty other people out a pair of double doors and down a winding, thin corridor, walking in single file. Every now and then they would pass a pair of guards, who, uncharacteristically, were armed with firearms. Although most guards in Undercity carried batons, these ones all, without exception, carried pistols and the occasional rifle. These guards would glare at the prisoners as they walked past, prodding them with their weapons, and even smashing their pistol grips down on those who were moving too slow.

As they continued to march further and further down, Aimee noticed that the architecture seemed to get newer and newer, and Jorge noticed that the lighting installments seemed to be getting newer too. Finally the grey walls died out, and were replaced with wooden beams holding up dirt tunnels. Portable lights lined the sides, and now and then they would pass an intersection, where they could hear the sounds of digging echoing towards them. Troops of miners, like them, were marched up and down the tunnels, carrying buckets of mined minerals and occasionally an auto-hammer; a giant, mining apparatus that needed two men to steady it and one to pull the trigger. It was like a cannon, mused Jorge, with a pressure mechanism built in. Every time the trigger was pulled, the pressure would extend a thick rod of steel from the body at a high velocity, smashing whatever it was pointed at. It could smash right through rocks and destroy obstructions, a most valuable tool to the miners, but used incorrectly could be dangerous. Katrina told Aimee of when she once was steadying an auto-hammer, and when the trigger was pulled, the machine didn't go off, so the other steadier looked down the barrel, and at that moment it went off, literally knocking his block off. Katrina had spent the rest of her shift covered in blood, as she wasn't allowed to clean until she finished in the evening.

Reaching their digging section for today, Jorge and Aimee learnt the procedure for mining; Jorge would swing at the rock while Aimee would swing at the dirt, working in unison and effectively. Starting at ten in the morning, the pair had their shift ending at two, then an hour break before having to mine again until six. By the end of the day, both were covered in bruises and blisters, unused to this sort of work.

"How can you stand this?" asked a very tired Aimee, nursing her right shoulder.

"When it's your turn, and you find out what the alternative is, you'll understand why. Most people can't stand more then a few months, it's either work, give in, or try killing yourself." replied Katrina, sipping a cup of coffee.

Jorge came and joined them, carrying two portions of spaghetti, one for him and one for Aimee.

At the next table across, several older prisoners were sitting still, hands pressed together, muttering under their breath with their eyes closed. It seemed to Jorge that they were speaking to someone, but not to each other.

"What's up with them?" asked Jorge, twisting some spaghetti around his fork.

But rather then Katrina answering, Aimee didn't even look up from her food as she carefully span her own fork in the food.

"Those people are practicing Christians."

But Jorge just looked confused. "They're practicing what? They aren't doing anything!"

"Christianity was a religion born from the belief that God had a son born by a mortal, named Jesus, and he was to be the prophesized messiah of the Jewish people. While many of the people living at the time didn't believe in his claim, his followers would build an entire religion based on what they had been taught."

"That's not what these guys are. They call themselves the Followers of Shekeyah, just a bunch of loons really. Didn't you ever see them around Undercity, they've got a secret meeting place somewhere on Floor 13," Katrina explained. "Bleeders think that some God promised them freedom in a land far, far away. I don't get why there has to be a God anyways, if there was, wouldn't we have escaped by now."

"Not true," countered Aimee, "For even if there is a God, who is to say he must answer our prayers and save us?"

Katrin just snorted, but Jorge stared thoughtfully at Aimee, right hand scratching his unshaven stubble thoughtfully.

"Have people always believed in God?"

"Well, according to my family's ledgers, the Council erased a lot of talk about religion from the history books, preferring people to rely on them then to believe that a greater force exists, one that wields the ultimate power in the universe"

Then Katrina's earlier words brought an idea to both Aimee's and Jorge's minds, and turning to each other, they nodded, and then started.

"Katrina, can we-"

Katrina cut him off. "And another thing, it's about time you two start calling me Kat." Jorge blushed, and then started again.

"Kat, can we escape? Has anyone ever gotten out?"

Rather then answering, Kat took out a pen and grabbed a napkin, and drew a rough map. Looking at the map, Jorge traced the route, which led past cot-room 146, and to look at the wall behind the cot. Looking at her questioningly, Kat just motioned for Jorge to go take a look now quickly, as cot-room 146 wasn't too far away. Walking out of the kitchen and past the security guards posted outside, Jorge walked down to cot-room 146, and then squeezed behind the building. But rather then finding a hole in the wall, or a ladder to freedom like he hoped, he found a message instead, painted in white letters on the side of the cot wall:

To all those souls, trapped down here in the depths of hell, to those who have decided not to sell their soul, to stay alive and fight, steal whatever you can and leave it here. The smallest effort will help, for soon we shall rise against the oppressors.

A

Looking down, Jorge saw a small pile of unprocessed ore lying at his feet, alongside a number of pens, twelve wooden bats fashioned from the beams, and even the heads of several pick axes.

Back in the kitchen, Jorge finished his meal while Aimee joined Kat for yet another coffee.

"Who's A?"
"Shut up, the guards are right outside!" whispered Kat, "We'll talk later."

Jorge sat back, and rubbed his stubble-covered chin thoughtfully while Kat and Aimee talked girl stuff.

"… and that is how our great country has guaranteed our genetic survival, by offering places to only the best of the best, we can be guaranteed of a prime genetic stock and a safe haven to live until it is alright to leave again, so from us at the Committee of Nuclear Survival, stay safe, and invest in the Undercity."

The rest of the tape was full of still photographs of the facility, but Wreythe had seen enough, he had proof that civilization still survives, but the only problem was where? The actual location of Undercity wasn't displayed in the video, and Wreythe never considered taking Mr. Brando's tax receipts to find out where the payments were sent to. If he had the invoice, he could track the path of the payment and head to the offices of 'The Committee of Nuclear Survival', but he would have to back-track to California again, something he didn't relish doing.

But there was no rush; the world wouldn't end in twenty-four hours, so Wreythe demanded his payment from Haven to be a working car and fuel. He knew that a single tank of fuel wouldn't take him to California and back, but at least it would cut the journey's time by a fair amount. Wrapping his long, tattered black great coat around him against the wind as the inhabitants of Haven gathered their weapons and prepared to fight, Wreythe was escorted to the exit, and was awarded with a fiery-red 2009 Ford Mustang, which had been pumped full of gas and was ready for him.

Seated in the vehicle, Wreythe placed his rifle against the passenger seat, and gripped the wheel with his gloved hands. It felt good to have a decent car again, unlike all the messed up trucks and half-destroyed wrecks he had driven from Washington to get here. Waving to the gate captain, the Mustang drove through the opened gates, and picked up speed as it made its way down the Cross Bronx Expressway. Just as he was about to switch to the Interstate 95, Wreythe had an idea. An insane idea, but Wreythe never backed out of a challenge, so he turned his car around and drove in the opposite direction.

"Last year a prisoner o' t' Department o' Forced Will had escaped, that they did. It had taken t' Council over a week t' notice, but when they did, they searched high and low in Undercity, but found nothin'. T' truth was that 'A' had vanished after leavin' t' Department, or at least as far as they knew.
In reality, A wa' still in Undercity, but he/she ha' taken a new identity. No one knew who A was, but it was known that A knew a way in and out o' t' Department, as A was t' one who stuck t' message behind cot-room 146, only a few weeks after escapin'. Rumor had it that A was back in t' Department, under a different guise, and it was probable, since no one knew who A was in t' first time, people generally kept t' themselves in t' Department," the old man finished explaining to Jorge, after being referred to him by Kat.

"Wait, but Kat said you know who A is, so why are you saying he/she," queried Aimee, but the old man just laughed and took a swig of his flask, smuggled in somehow.

"Jus' 'cause I know who A is don't mean I'm goin' t' tell you," the old man replied, grinning. "That be a secret."

Aimee thought for a moment before replying.

"But wouldn't it just be easier to refer to A as one or the other? After all we can just assume you're lying."

The old man cackled at this, and Kat just shook her head, and handed the old man a plate of rice and beans as thanks for entertaining her new friends. But as the group were about to leave, the old man stopped them, and fished in his pockets for something. Pulling out a standard-issue pager, the old man stood and handed in to Jorge, before shuffling back to his bed and falling promptly asleep.

Jorge looked over the pager; it was tarnished, and the screen was cracked, but he was sure that if he could find a power source he could get it working. That's when it hit him; the portable lights which lined the tunnels were powered by battery, he'd steal one tomorrow! All he'd have to contend with was the eyes of the guards as they walked past, but Jorge would think of a plan.

A few week's had passed since Aimee and Jorge had been taken down into the Department. There was precious little recreation down in the Department, so later that evening Jorge, Aimee and Katrina were lying on Aimee's cot, talking. Jorge had been playing around with the pager, examining it for any further damage, while Aimee and Kat were talking about the outside. Not outside the Department, but outside Undercity completely. When Aimee had spoken of what her grandmother had taught her, a rush of feelings had been released inside Kat, and now she sat and listened, almost tear-eyed from the beauty she was hearing; about a world governed by a fair body of men and women, chosen by the people, for the people, a world where one didn't have to contend with the CCTV camera spying on them everywhere, where a woman could love another woman just as easily as she could love a man.

When Jorge had stood and left momentarily to attempt finding a screwdriver, Kat quickly sat up.

"So, what's between you and Jorge, eh?" asked Kat playfully.

Aimee just blushed.

"Like I know he's a giant, and you're basically an inch above dwarf height, but you like him, right?" Kat continued. "You wouldn't mind if, say, I asked him out?"

But Aimee wasn't stupid.

"Go ahead," she said calmly, like she didn't care at all, "but I'm not sure if you've noticed, but Jorge is a man, so that might spoil your fun."

But that didn't stop Kat, who couldn't help herself. "Alright then, do you wanna go out with me?"

A shocked silence ensued, but after a few moments Kat just cracked up, laughing hysterically.

"You bitch," laughed Aimee, tackling Kat to the ground.

Jorge considered himself a very lucky man as he walked back inside the room to find the two beautiful girls wrestling each other on the floor, before they both blushed so hard that they looked like two beautiful tomatoes wrestling each other on the floor, so they quickly jumped back on the cot, embarrassed.

"So, girls, is there something I should know," asked Jorge slyly, raising an eyebrow. "Who wears the pants in your relationship?"

And with that, the pair tackled Jorge, pinning his arms and legs and refusing to let the giant up.

But the trio was shocked when a pair of guards came in, one carrying a checklist and one carrying a rifle, ordering Jorge and Aimee to sit on the cot. The guard with the checklist ticked a square, then tucked the checklist under his arm and reached out to grab Kat by the shoulder. She made no attempt to escape the guard's clutches, and when Jorge cried out and tried to rush the guard from behind, she pulled out of the guard's grasp, then she span and kicked Jorge in the stomach, dropping him. Jorge was gasping for breath as Kat was pulled out of the cot-room, out of sight.

"What… just… happened," panted Jorge to Aimee, trying to keep himself from spewing his dinner.

But Aimee was already gone.

Walking up the stairs that led up to the office at the top of the former-warehouse, Aimee tip-toed silently, her padded regulation shoes making almost no noise as she went silently, but slowly, and soon came to the door leading into the office. Aimee could hear the bark of the guards as they shouted orders, and she could distinctly hear the sniggering and high fives they gave each other.

Staring through the glass panel on the door, through the blurred window she could make out the shape of Kat, and several of the male guards. Kat was moved to the middle of the room, and then the guards left through one of the doors inside the office. Waiting a moment before opening the door, Aimee silently pushed it open, and peered inside; black, high-backed wooden chairs were stacked against the wall, chains came down from the ceiling in multiple places, long poles were stacked against another wall, next to a closed crate. Aimee opened the door fully and snuck in, ignoring the look of panic on Kat's ball-gagged face.

Moving quickly, Aimee removed the gag, and immediately a torrent of saliva came out of Kat's sputtering mouth. Kat had been bonded to the floor and the ceiling, and was effectively hanging in the air, a foot off the ground.

"Get the fuck outta here!" whispered Kat, but Aimee shook her head, and started to untie the ropes holding Kat in place, but the knots were too well done, and it wasn't long until they could both hear footsteps, but it was too late, Aimee couldn't even move an inch as the doors slammed open, and several of the guards walked in. But they weren't wearing their regular security-armor anymore, they were all dressed purely in black robes, and Aimee wouldn't have recognized them if they weren't all still the same six foot something gorillas she was used to. But they weren't alone; with them came an old man dressed in a white lab coat, with short, bristly grey hair and a scarred face.

"I was not expecting Ms. Radchenkov until next week, but since she is here, and so eager to have her turn, guards, take her and lock her up next to Ms. Realer." The guards immediately rushed Aimee, and ignoring her feeble attempts to bite and kick them, they snapped her into chains and hoisted her, so she was up right next to Kat, who was now crying angrily, screaming into her newly-reinstated ball-gag. The crack of a whip, of leather on flesh, stopped Aimee's thrashing and brought an ear-piercing scream out of her throat, and a second lash on her back nearly made her scream her throat raw. Now crying, Aimee could feel the burning lines the whip had made on her now naked back, her jumpsuit lying in tatters at her feet. The guards reached up and tore off the rest, exposing her, and Aimee just cried even harder, her sobs filling the room.

"Although I find your cries of pain quite stimulating, I'm afraid I lose patience quickly," smiled the leader as he reached up slapped Aimee's face, leaving a bright red mark.

"W-w-why are you *sniff* doing this to-" was as far as Aimee managed get through her sobs, but the leader had jabbed her straight into the stomach, making her expel her dinner, the residual spaghetti looking like some extremely happy worms in a pile of reddish-brown ooze.

"We're going to have some fun with you, little girl, and you're going to cooperate, just like your friend here. I'm sure the abomination will enjoy watching you, with her specific… taste."

Aimee's eyes widened at the sight of the leader pulling on a long, rubber glove.

If the room wasn't soundproof, then the entire Department would have heard the screams Aimee made that night, but alas, they were.

Wreythe swore as a burst of fire from the pierced gas tank forced him to abandon the flaming wreck of the Mustang in the centre of the Long Island Expressway, not too far from his destination. He knew he had made a mistake now, driving right through the middle of Queens without bothering to check for any raiders first, and now here he was, hiding behind an overturned eighteen-wheeler on the middle of the expressway while half a dozen raiders poured volley after volley of automatic fire at him, hoping to score a lucky hit somehow.

He should have scouted the environs more carefully during the two months he had been here, should have prepared for the obvious deduction that there were more then two gangs operating in the area, but no, Wreythe hadn't bothered with his usual ritual, and ran right into an ambush, his short-lived reward paying the price for his laziness.

"Oh well," said Wreythe aloud, nonchalantly as he pulled his rifle in close and cocked it, "they may not have brought enough people for this kind of fight."

Crouching, Wreythe peered around the truck's cab and was greeted by over a dozen rounds of 9x19mm being sprayed all over the cab. Reconsidering this route, Wreythe snuck to the other end of the truck, and peered around the tail. Five of the six raiders were looking at the head, hoping their target would be stupid enough to come out again, but the sixth raider was missing. Not liking this one bit, Wreythe pulled the tail of his great coat over his prone body, hiding his head under the jacket, and aimed through the scope of the rifle, hoping the raiders wouldn't notice him.

Being only about twenty meters away, it wasn't a terribly hard shot for Wreythe, and he quickly pulled the trigger, cocked it, then fired, cocked and fired a third shot.

The first shot had taken a raider in the chest, and he had hit the ground, most likely dying and out of the fight. The second shot had chipped the pavement near a crouched raider, which surprised him, judging by his raised eyebrows and wide eyes, but the third shot had removed one of those eyes, making him look only half as shocked as his face exploded in a shower of blood and bone.

The remaining three raiders legged it, thinking Wreythe had buddies which had turned up, but the sixth raider had not come out of hiding, and this worried Wreythe a great deal.

Worrying him a great deal until he realized that the sixth one wasn't hiding, he was, in fact, over twenty meters off the ground, having now finally made his way to the top of one of the hotels, and was now peering over the roof, hoping to squeeze a shot at Wreythe. The pavement around him appeared to burst as the fully-automatic fire of an AK47 thundered around Wreythe, spraying him with flying chips of asphalt. Rolling backwards, Wreythe evaded the fire and sprinted towards the building, which hid him from view. Wreythe knew he had only precious seconds before the raider came downstairs to kill him, but nevertheless he took off his pack carefully and lifted out something he had picked up at Fort Leavenworth, in Kansas; a working Claymore mine, one of just the several he had taken with him after he had stripped the armory of grenades and ammunition, half of which he had used since, but he had been keeping hold of the mines for a special occasion.

A smiling Wreythe heard the explosion from down the street a few minutes later, and grinned even wider. His destination, the John F. Kennedy Airport, wasn't far at all.