The two would see each other around twice a week. The first may have been a bit of a stretch: just a few, brief moments—dripping with tension—when Calliope came with Jasmine's weekly healthcare parcel. The second: every Sunday for some actual time just being together. Equally tense, but all the same wonderful. Sometimes, they'd go down to the HideAway. Sometimes they would do nothing more than read a book. But no matter what, it was always the sweetest.

There was a new warmth between them they had kindled for the past few weeks. And Calli felt phenomenal every single day, heart swelling with the thought of a soft body and warm lips that had become calmness and comfort to her.

A home away from home.

One Monday morning, Calliope returned home smiling as she always did. She followed the usual trail down through the sewer where it led to The Underground. She entered the office to be immediately welcomed with a tangled thread of unease, an ill feeling floating through the air she couldn't name as anything else other than dread. She looked out onto the flurry of panic on the office floor—people hurriedly hauling boxes, fussing with computers, working with guns. People making arrangements.

She was swiftly snapped from her whiplash when she felt Kit come to grasp tightly on her leg. Her gaze flickered down to him, and she slowly shrunk to his level with a sort of stiffness; like a plant withering over. But he wouldn't meet her eyes, just burrowing into her further. She tried to tilt his head for him to look at her, and he hesitantly complied. But when she finally could look into his eyes, she only saw fear there: that same thread.

She moved to try and say something—provide some sort of ease or reassurance of anything at all—before she was interrupted

"There you are, Bright-Eyes." It was somber. Hollow.

Calliope met her gaze. She was frazzled, her hair disheveled. She smiled, but it wasn't really there. Just a phantom.

"Imogen..." she hushed. She gave a gentle pet of her brother's hair, a vain hope it would provide the reassurance she was not yet able to say. Then she stood to meet Imogen, rolling out of the way briefly of someone dashing along the office floor so fast they nearly barreled into her.

"What's—"

"You have to run," Imogen cut, not daring let her finish.

Calliope gave a slight shake of her head, dumfounded. "What?"

"Take Kit, and run. You have to get out of here,"

Calliope face faltered to a stunned glare. "Imogen, what are you—!?"

"Lucero!" She barked. The woman jumped—Kit did with her—and her jaw set firmly shut, silent. Imogen took a short, yet deep breath. "We've been found, Cal. They know where we are."

"The Peace Army?" Calliope shook her head, eyes training down as she tried to piece things together. "I don't understand. How did the cops—"

"Elliot didn't return last night."

Calliope froze. Elliot was another courier. He wasn't much a close friend of hers, but the loss still pinged in her chest. Yet, not quite because of any strong connection, or mourning. But at the same time, exactly that.

She knew exactly what a loss like this meant.

"Shit..." she got out.

Imogen took in a hissing breath through her nose, and she nodded. Then she took a step closer toward Calliope with a stern look. "You have to leave with Kit now, Lucero. This isn't a request." Calli was far from unprivy to the crack in her voice. "This is an order from your captain. You must leave, effective immediately."

"I..." she swallowed. "But, Imogen... what if I can—"

She stumbled and gasped as harsh palms shoved shoulders. She shuffled backwards, trying to keep herself up. "That is an order! Move, courier!"

Calliope looked into Imogen's eyes. Her stern tone was betrayed by them. And she felt her own breath hitch as tears seemed to threaten her. She gave a single, resolute nod. She tore her eyes from Imogen, then pulled Kit away from her, and the child immediately seemed to long for the contact. But he got it back and more when she hoisted him up, carrying him to their bedroom.

She set the child down on his sleeping matt as she gathered what little she needed. Kit's favorite stuffed toy from the very small collection that he had: a tiny, frazzled-looking, old frog. And Jasmine's loaned book.

She found the limited materials she needed and cradled them to the courier's office. She blindly snatched the first satchel she saw, stuffing in what she could fit.

She had finally finished swiftly, and turned on her heel to head back for her younger brother, still waiting in their bedroom.

When she heard a resounding...

BANG.

Then another.

And another.

A rattling of heavy-fire and agonized shrieks.

She threw open the door of the courier's office. Gunfire rattled through the safe space that had been her home for so many years. And blood came to soak its walls.

She gasped as a man—one of the desk-jockeys whom she was quite familiar with—stumbled back into the wall next to her. His stomach was seeping crimson as his fingers dug into the holed flesh. He looked to her with an unfocused, panicked stare. Then, he finally slid down, leaving a streaking trail behind.

Calliope shuddered, staring hollowly at the fresh corpse for a dangerous amount of time. When she finally shook herself, she darted over the bloodied body and across the main floor, and around the corner to where Kit was waiting for her. She threw the door open, breaths ragged...

Only to find that he was not there.

She screamed for him. She stumbled around the room, peering around the few objects in the space, and looking around the corner of the bathroom, to find him nowhere. Then she felt tight hands on her calf. She gasped in spite of herself, only looking down to find Kit there. She was ready to bark at him, ask him where he had been, why he'd moved, what the fuck he thought that he was doing. But she succeeded in quelling that urge, replacing any harsh words with an admonishing glare.

Taking a deep breath, she finally slid the satchel she'd been cradling to her chest over her shoulder, swiftly making sure it wouldn't interfere with her movement at the angle it rested at. Then she crouched to scoop Kit up into her arms. He was shaking, and she felt his weak breathing patter her shirt as he cried into her.

Within the underground, there were a total of two exits. One was the primary; the enterence into the old sewer tunnel, funneling to a ladder one could climb to the street. The other, was a small, man-dug hole in the back of the facilities that reached a tunnel of live sewer piping. The usage of that exit was strictly prohibited except for in times of emergency. Now was, assuredly, one of those times.

It seemed most were staying to fight. They had no time; no preparation for what had come. No time to dispose of patient documents, materials, tools...

The only thing to do was fight for it all. A fight, Calliope was quite sure they could not win. But it was there duty. And it pained her she couldn't serve in that mission. But she had to leave, and live. For Kit's sake.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

And...

Calliope flicked the fruitless thoughts from her head, as one far more vital came to her mind.

What about medications?

Kit in her arms, Calli ran through the field of gunfire. She tried to stay as low as she could, and she managed to make her way to the chemist lab, avoiding the carnage as was possible and keeping Kit's face buried in her shoulder, protecting his eyes from the gruesome scenery.

She entered the unfinished room. She had been in this room enough to know where they kept the medications.

And, the paperwork.

She went to a large cabinet in the back of the room, flinging it open, shoved several bottles of orals into her taken satchel. Her hands didn't hesitate to additionally shove several injections into her satchel as well: for Jasmine.

They needed something. Both of them. She had no idea if these medications would be all they would have for the rest of their lives, or if, maybe, there was the slimmest, slightest chance another place like The Underground existed; another place for them to get treatment.

Maybe against her better judgment, she decided to hope for that. Because it was the only thing she could hope for.

Calliope proceeded toward the large, wall-length filing cabinet on the left side of the room. She frantically ran her eyes and hands on the various drawers, each labeled with a letter.

'M.'

She through the cabinet open, tossing files on the floor that she found got in her way.

'J.'

She pulled out the manilla labeled, Jasmine March, and shoved it clumsily into her satchel. A box of syringes fell loose, and she panickedly picked it up, and shoved it back in.

'L.'

Found.

'C.'

Calliope Lucero.

Taken and stashed.

Jasmine adjusted her younger brother on her chest, pressing him close.

Necessities acquired, she ran.

She threw open the door to the chemist's lab, bolting, not daring hesitate for even a second.

She staunchly kept her gaze forward, firmly holding on her hopeful destination as she dashed across the raucous, iron-stenching room.

Until a firm hand finally hooked her satchel.

She yelped, as she tried pulling away, flinging what little weight she had around, clawing at her back desperately, anything. All to no avail.

She felt her feet lift off the floor, and her body hurl several feet, slamming against a wall. She fell to the floor on her side, grimacing. Still holding Kit to her body. She let out a choked sob; tried to scramble. But then her hair was taken, a strong arm pulling her neck violently backwards, dragging her form to drive her spine-first into the floor.

Those violent fingers pried Kit from her arms. And Calliope panted, clawing after her little brother, angry eyes glaring at the soulless form towering above her, armoured plating serving to even further emphasize the size disparity. He donned a mask that completely obscured his features, only emphasizing the anger in his glaring gaze. He threw Kit to the floor, and the child almost bounced. Calliope screamed, arm flailing after him. But her breath was quickly plowed from her form by a foot that was still digging into her stomach pushing down.

The man held up a rifle to her head. And she froze.

She was going to die.

Her eyes flickered to Kit, now laying battered on the floor. He was going to die too. Alone, with no one.

Images of a battered old apartment. Of a mother's gentle eyes. Of the warmth of her arms. Of the care on her face.

Flickers of the Underground. Of the small patch of dirt outside where she would be permissed to, 'sneak,' out with her younger brother.

Imogen's face, and jabs, and the cold air as she shadowed her delivery route during training. The time she barely missed a roof and Imogen had to catch her. The time she managed to cluster five perfect shots into a target with her handgun. The smirk, and the ruffle of her hair.

Then a coy, tender smile. A kiss. Soft breaths on her naked chest, and gentle teeth nipping lightly at her throat. Platinum hair in her hands and a teasing remark. A naked body against hers, soft moans pattering her ears. The exact moment an, 'I love you,' that would never occur may have occurred. She would pull that rare, coy face she always did when she was nervous; when she'd toe the floor, desperately trying to avert her eyes. Which was a rarity. But moments of genuine softness and commitment were one of those few things that made her shy. Jasmine would stumble it out, tongue tripping over the words. And Calliope would laugh at her; she'd probably get a punch in the shoulder for that. Then she'd pull her in by the full curves of her hip to press a kiss to her lips. And Jasmine would just melt. Calliope was so proud she could make her feel something so intensely that she would have trouble standing.

And then she would say it back.

Lips that felt like home.

Her mother. Kit. Imogen. Jasmine.

Calli smiled.

Then she shut her eyes.

But in the following moment she expected to hear gunshots, she only could hear irritated grunts.

And a scream.

Her eyes shot back open. There was Kit. Punching and kicking at the man before him's legs. A glare on his face as he sobbed. And Calliope blanched in horror when the officer cracked him in the head with a gauntlet.

He splayed backward onto the wood. And Calli watched as his eyes flickered from anger to fear, the gun turning on him.

She screamed in protest, scrambling for her waist, trying to find her gun. But she wasn't fast enough.

The bullets rocketed from the policeman's rifle. And Kit became almost unrecognizable after what they did to his skull.

And Calliope's stomach sank. She suddenly felt so incredibly ill. But she didn't have long to process as the man turned back to her. And she felt the claws of anger take her mind.

She finally found the stock of her gun hanging from her waistband, and she pulled it on the man, firing for his head. The glass cracked on his eye. He stumbled. She shot again. The second round ricocheted off his helmet. Then again. This one hit one of the few spots where armor was lacking. The bullet sunk into the monster's throat. He dropped his rifle, and he gagged and clutched at it, his hands dying red.

Calliope, vision red, fired at his head again, but the round sailed off and smashed into the roof somewhere. The man tripped backwards over the corpse of her little brother and fell to the floor. And Calli felt sick again.

How dare you even touch him.

She screamed and fired again, and again, until she'd emptied her entire magazine into the man. She didn't register her own carnage until after. When she saw she'd managed enough force to shatter the bullet-proof eyehole of his mask, already cracked. And the civil soldier was bleeding on the floor and motionless.

Calliope heaved a ragged breath. And then her gaze fell on the broken body of her little brother, laying there, motionless. She bundled him in her arms, and sobbed. He was so cold...

She felt herself shuddering. The smell of gore was choking the air now, penetrating her lungs and turning her gut. She shook as she held him, eyes stinging with hot tears and the wafting of iron and gunpowder.

A hand grasped her now, right by the strap of her bag. It pulled her close, and Kit rolled out of her arms as she was stood. The hand drug her away from her sibling as she sobbed, clawing weakly at the air to go back to him, but with no real volition. He was gone. She just wanted to hold on a little longer...

She didn't care who was pulling her. If it was someone who wanted her dead, that was just fine with her. And so, she allowed herself to be taken through the office. All the way to that one, small hatch. The one hatch she was trying to reach. The one hatch where her brother would no longer be following her.

The person dragging her threw it open and shoved her toward it. She looked with frozen, trembling eyes at the person who'd drug her. Imogen stared back with a remorseful look.

"I told you to leave, Calliope..." she shuddered, lips tight. She shoved the scrawny woman. "Now LEAVE!"

Calliope stared at her, feet heavy on the floor. Her breath caught in her chest, she dashed toward the older woman, and she hugged her, sobs wracking at her chest. Imogen squeezed her back.

Imogen pulled her to arms length, and looked into her eyes tenderly. "Please, Calliope. When I..." She swallowed, tightly, and gave the most morose smile. A smile that reminded Calli of unfavorable memories.

"When I have to go face your mother tonight... I don't want you to come with me."

Calliope sobbed. And she fell into the woman again. She felt her arms wrap around her, giving her a slight squeeze, before she pushed her out of them with enough force for her to fall backwards into the ground.

"Now, LEAVE!!" she barked.

Calliope sobbed. She stared into the woman's eyes, betraying her true feelings to her.

And so, Calli tightened her lip. And she scrambled behind herself into the hatch. Imogen knelt, smiling after her.

Then the door slammed shut.

Calliope froze, staring into the ink where Imogen's final eyes had been. Then she heard heavy footsteps. Then gunfire. And the loud sound of a thud against the wall behind her. The urge to puke wracked at her stomach again, pain gnawing her heart. She turned away for a final time, and scrambled down the emptiness, tears still tumbling from her eyes. She had no idea where she was going in the pitch dark. But it was a straight shot, she knew. She just had to feel along the walls, keep pushing forward, until she reached her freedom. And she did, when she finally tumbled out the other hatch into the open space of a twin sewer tunnel. This one, still in operation.

She fell into the rancid water. The poisonous air stung and burrowed into her eyes like botfly maggots digging into live flesh. Her eyes darted around the emptiness. She stumbled through the space in swift desperation, only thinking of finding a way out.

It took her several tens of minutes before her hands felt the cold, metal bars of a rusting ladder.

She pulled herself up it as quickly as she possibly could muster. When she reached the top, where the sewer met the street, she shoved the grate aside and scrambled out.

And there she was in the dark of the night—the middle of some sparse, residential street. She shoved the grate back into its place and darted for the first alleyway. The place where she, finally, allowed herself to break.

She slammed to the wall and slid to the floor, sobs ripping through her core. She grasped her sewer soaked hair and hushed a strangled sort of shriek. Then she felt her stomach turn.

She scrambled forward, the contents of her stomach projectiles out with a series of painful retches.

She coughed up the last bit of bile, spat, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then she slumped right back onto the wall.

And she cried.