I tip the canteen up, desperately hoping that there is still some left. But there is none left, not even a drop. I drop the canteen in frustration, running my dehydrated tongue over my dry, chapped lips. I need to find water, fast. There is no river near this Village. No water. Nothing to keep me alive. If I am to die, I don't want to die here. Not in this beat-up Village full of merchant carts and beggars. Not while none of my questions have been answered.

The Village is louder than my hometown, Region 372. People here have no automobiles, their only methods of transport were animals, like all small Villages. Automobiles used to be everywhere, abundant. But that was hundreds of years ago. Automobiles could be rented in Cities close to Villages, but only for a few days at a time. But only for business purposes and for a very high price.

A merchant lady approaches me as I walk down the street, asking if I want to purchase a beaded bracelet. I brush her off and keep walking, but something catches my eye. A glorious-looking cart filled with apples, mangoes, plastic bottles of water and what looks like freshly squeezed orange juice - an extremely rare delicacy - fresh meat, cheese, and mouth-watering loaves of bread. It all looks so delicious and - I'm not the only one who thinks so. Someone wearing dark black clothing sneaks up to the cart as the owner slips away into his canvas tent. Most cart owners live in such tents. They are too poor to own real homes. One of the many cons of the Revolution.

The black-clothed boy - at least the person's build made them look like a boy - runs like a bullet up to the cart. He grabs a large brown paper bag of the top of a pile and fills it with four apples, four bottles of water, six bags of meat, three slices of cheese, and two loaves of bread. But as he is stuffing one loaf of bread in the bag and one under his jacket, as it doesn't fit in the bag, the cart owner strolls back out of his tent, seeing the boy. The boy whips his head back, sees the owner, and runs for it. He runs exceptionally fast. He disappears down an alleyway, leaving the owner shouting curses at him. I take this moment to my advantage. I run up to the cart, grab a bag and fill it with the exact same amount of the exact same things as the boy stole, but I throw in a mango and a bottle of orange juice as well. This may be illegal, but if I don't do it, I'll die. That's what I tell myself every time I break the law. It's for survival. I have gotten lucky. This amount of food can last me for at least another three or four weeks. I can't believe it. It's almost too good to be true. Oh, wait. It is too good to be true. The cart owner decides to stop screaming profanity and turn around, getting a perfect view of me stealing from his cart. Awesome. I cuss under my breath. I put the first step of my very well-organized plan into action: I run.

"Get back here!" The cart owner shouts. I don't understand why people shout that when someone runs from them. They do know that the person is running away from them, don't they?

I probably should have mentioned that there's only one part to my plan. I don't know this Village. I don't know the streets. So I keep running, occasionally glancing back over my shoulder. No one has tried to follow me yet, so that's a good sign. I have gotten caught before. At the last Village I was at. I stole from a cart that sold only apples, and I had only taken two. There were so many apples there, and they were only five nickel each. I longed to feel the juice running down my throat, to taste its sweetness. The owner of the apple cart found me. I still dream sometimes of the heavy wooden paddle he used coming down on my back. I remember hiding in an abandoned house for three days, unable to move, forced to lie there and stare at the ceiling. Unable to forget the humiliation of the eyes of a hundred people watching me being beaten, unable to get the sound out of my head. The sound of the paddle breaking in half from the force. That was the only reason he stopped. If that paddle hadn't have broken, I'd probably be dead. I basically had to drag myself into the abandoned house. I was lucky that he thought I only stole one apple. On the third day in the house, I was able to eat the one hidden in the pocket of my denim jacket. I was able to walk later the same day.

No one seems to be following me, so I stop running and walk into a beaten-down, hopefully abandoned house. As soon as I walk through the doorframe (there's no door, go figure) a hand clamps around my mouth. I grab the hand and pull it off, twisting it. I whirl around to face my attacker. He is the boy in black.

"Who are you and what do you want from me?" I demand aggressively. "I asked you a question!"

To my surprise, the boy raises his head, revealing his face. He has icy-blue eyes - I always wanted blue eyes, but mine are emerald-green - and a handsome face. His brown hair is short, but long enough that sweat sticks some of it near his eyes.

"My name is Gabriel DiAngelo," He says to my surprise. "You're a fast runner."

Fast as lightning, he advances on me, reaching out to grab my arm. But I am just as quick. I grab the arm reaching for mine and twist it behind his back, hard. He cries out. I kick him to the ground and run up the stairs. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I think. I should have run outside. The boy is up the stairs in less than fifteen seconds. When he approaches me, I throw a punch at his jaw, sending him reeling. But he just spits his blood on the ground and walks toward me again. I throw another punch, but he is ready for this one. He intercepts it by slapping my fist away. I throw a few more, but they are all blocked by this method. After a minute or so, I give up. 

"Good," Gabriel says. "You're calm now. I want to talk-"

I cut him off by kicking, well, between his legs. He falls to the ground, groaning. I step over him towards the door, but his hand wraps around my ankle, pulling me to the ground. He stands up, his face still greenish, and moves between me and the stairway. I try to punch him again, now that he's expecting it less, but he simply grabs my wrist and spins me around so he has one hand firmly holding my wrist, and the other is wrapped around my waist. One of my arms is still free, but I decide he doesn't need to know that. I run the fingers of my free arm over the pocket of my jacket, the pocket where I keep my knife.

"You're a damn good fighter," He says in my ear. "We can use someone like you."

I feel his breath in my hair. It tickles my ear. I thrust my elbow back into his ribs. His arms disappear from around me. I put about three meters of distance between us and hold out my knife in defense.

"We?" I repeat. "There are more of you?"

He smirks. "Hundreds."

"I'll pass," I say and try to walk past him.

"Think about it," Gabriel says, stopping me. I step back to where I was, but my knife hand remains at my side. "Free food every day. No more wandering around, wondering what to do with those fight skills of yours. Something to fight for. A home, a family, a-"

He steps closer to me. I hold my knife out in front of him again. He's too close.

"That eye colour," He whispers. "They gave you the gift."

"How do you know about my gift?" I demand, holding my knife steady out in front of me.

"You know that you have it?" Gabriel asks. "That's incredibly rare. I've never met anyone with the gift, let alone someone your age who knows they have it. Most signs start showing around the person's early twenties. How long have you known?"

"Since I was three," I reply.

"Come with me," He pleads. "There are people who know how to help you use your gift."

"No," I say. "My gift is too dangerous. I could hurt someone."

"Not if you know how to control it," Gabriel is too pushy.

"I think your little fangirl session was very cute," I say. "But the answer is no."

"I didn't want to do this, Cassiopeia, but you leave me no choice," He says gravely.

"Do what?" I ask almost mockingly as I walk by him.

"This," He pulls something out of his pocket, a syringe, and plunges it into my neck.

My knees go weak. The world starts to spin.

"Damn you," I say with an annoyed tone.

I fall into his arms. My last conscious thought, the very last thing that crosses my mind is so simple it's almost funny. Not where is he taking me? or how has he read about my gift?

Oh no, the last thing that crosses my mind is how does he know my name?

The world goes pitch-black.