You flinched from the broken silence and turned around, you saw a figure catching up to you revealing themselves in the spotlight where you stood; very short of breath. “Sorry to trouble you but I’m a bit lost” the person said. As they looked up, you see that the person is a woman. You can see that the woman is stylish in her high-end clothes and her great curls for hair. Yet she seems a little flustered despite not being able to see her expressions through the flu mask. “Yeah sure, what can I help you with?” you answered calmly. She wheezes a bit: “T-thank you!” she exclaimed in relief. “I’m meant to meet my friend at her place but I’m not too sure where she lives as I completely forgot!” She picks a note from her jacket and unfolds it to reveal a diagram of the area with the odd few notes. “My friend said it would be a five or ten minute walk from the station, but I feel I had been walking in circles as every street seems to look the same.” she paused for a bit as you look at the map. “I know her street number is 14 but I forgot the name of it, I think it’s something like Hor…Hordi…Hort….” she hesitated for a moment until you interjected: “You mean Horton Wood?” She perked up: “Yes that’s the one! Where would that be?” “If you see this road on the diagram, you take the route from the right here and walk a moment until you see a small road on your left. It should be along this road, I’ll mark it out for you on your map.” You pick the diagram out of her hand and mark the road with your office biro in your coat pocket and handed it back. “Here you go!” She looked at the map , looking pleased “That’s great! Thank you very much! If I hadn’t seen you, I would be walking around here for hours” she laughed; although you don’t see it, you can tell she was smiling. You smiled along and replied: “You’re welcome, glad I could help.” You turned to resume your journey until you heard her again: “Wait! Can I ask you another question?” she said inquisitively. You turned round and gave her a smile: “Sure, go ahead.” “Okay.” She continued, “How do I look?”

Your smile quickly turned into puzzlement, “W-what do you mean?” “You know, how do I look?” she replied. “I-I don’t think I have a say in this really.” You answered neutrally unsure. “Well I didn’t give myself enough time to sort myself out before going out so I’m pretty self-conscious of my look right now- Oh. Silly me!” “What is it?” “Where are my manners? How can you comment on my looks without seeing my face.” You have a slight feeling of dread in your gut which gradually worsens as she removes the mask in front you. “So tell me…” She says as she fully removes her mask and drops it. Her enthusiasm gone from her voice and replaced with a raspy, malevolent tone: “Am I pretty now?” Private Outfit You are now very startled by this and now your memory returns to you of the urban myth of the 'Slit mouth woman'. You froze in fear as you try to recall what to do in this encounter. What do I say? How do I get out from this? Your thoughts are shooting questions left, right and centre a thousand times until you were interrupted. “Am..I..pretty?” The woman demanded. “I..I…d..d..” You start to stutter. “WELL?” “I…dd..don’t…n..n..know!” You stammered. “So sorry!” After than you swiftly walked away from the woman. You quickly looked back to see if she was gaining on you. She was still standing under the streetlight. Confused yet still petrified, you still walked in a hurrying matter. Glanced back again yet this time, the woman was gone. You were somewhat relieved yet still unsure it that was a good thing. Your five minute journey quickened in half the time as you paced your walk a lot faster. As you were moments before your front door, feeling a rush of relief and anxiety now hastening to find your keys. Finally you find your keys but before you were able to insert your keys, you feel a large thud on your back along with a sharp pain in your back. You wince to the pain and you feel someone turn you around to reveal their face. You see the same grisly smile from before. “You know, it’s a shame that you’ve lost your smile. It was really sweet.” She holds up something that looks like the blade from a pair of scissors, already tipped with blood. Holding the blade closer and closer until you feel it compress on your cheek. “Let me put a smile on your face.”

You stay still, listening hard. You can hear masculine voices saying indistinguishable words, the click and hum of a radio, a car pulling up. The paddy wagon, you think, until you hear three gunshots. They echo through your very body, earsplittingly close. Everything inside of you stills.

They're not taking prisoners tonight.

They're near, they're so near-- you have to move, you have to get out of here-- but if you run, they might see you. You might be safer staying here. You can hear your own heartbeat. You're a deer in headlights. Do you run or do you stay put. Do you run or do you stay put. Do you run or do you stay put.

All of a sudden a bright light hits you, and you look up, taking half a second to register it as a helicopter searchlight before instinct kicks in and you bolt. They know where you are now, they found you. You don't think as you run. There is nothing in you but adrenaline and fear. You skid down the slum's maze of alleys, crash sideways into a wall, keep going. You can hear them on your tail, the thundering footsteps, the voices over walkie-talkies, the barking of the dogs. The sirens over on the main road.

You need to go somewhere. You need to know where you're going. But you can't think. All you are is fear. You're not even thinking about what they'll do to you: the stories, the camps, the gunshots, the night your sister didn't come home. Or the knowledge that you're running out of places to hide, that they control everything and there is no escape. There's no room for that much coherent thought. There is only ice and panic and the lump in your throat. You can barely even see.

You spill out onto a larger road. Nobody's out tonight who had anywhere else to go; everyone heard the sirens and knew there was a hunt going on. The helicopter is whirring above you, the wailing cars closing in. You throw yourself at the nearest door, pound on it, rattle the knob. It's locked, as if that would keep them out. You give up and sprint for the next one, and the next one. Nobody opens it. Nobody's going to save you. There's nothing left for you, you realise with a sinking feeling as voices surround you, and footsteps come to a halt. There's nothing left.

'Put your hands up!' one of them says. The helicopter light is on you like a spotlight, the red and blue of the car lights flashing across the bricks of the building in front of you. As you slowly raise your arms you take desperate inventory of ways you can kill yourself before they can do it for you. But you aren't armed, and there's no ledges, nothing like that. There's nothing you can do. This was your last stand, and all you did was run yourself into a corner.

Someone takes your hands and wrenches them behind your back, handcuffing you. You stand there numbly, not trying to fight. There's no fight that can be had. You don't have the fire your sister did. She always was better than you. She deserved to be the one to last, even if just this pitiful last year.

You did your best, though. You did your best by what she started.

You let them lead you into the back of the car, and it takes you a moment to wonder why they haven't killed you yet. That sharpens you: they haven't killed you yet. They must want something from you.

As you have that thought one tears the bandana from your neck, and you have a split second to make a noise of complaint before he's jabbed a syringe into your newly exposed skin, and the world fades to back.

When you come to you're in a golden cage in the center of an opulent room, with many high-definition cameras arranged around pointing at you. Huge windows line the walls revealing dull blue skies and clouds painted with afternoon light. You can see several huge, ornate airships in the distance, like the one you must now be on. And in the room itself: well-groomed people in formal clothing. Women done up like dolls and sipping champagne on the arms of men whose faces you recognise: Vito Dagett. Mathew Hyde. Caiden Reeve. Lord Malek Thornton. Many, many others. The richest people in the world stand around you, but one face in particular catches your eye: President Grant Ridley.

He smirks at you as you get to your feet. You aren't chained, just trapped in this small cage. 'Our guest is awake,' he announces to the room, and the chatter trails off, everyone slowly falling silent. Once all that remains is the hum of the airship, he continues speaking. 'The little girl who's been giving us so much trouble. I'm so glad you could join us at last.

'Ladies and gentlemen, witness our greatness. Annabelle Dove stands before us; sister, as you know, to the wretched Abigail Dove. Ms Dove, I hope you're watching.' Your heart skips a beat despite your predicament: is your sister out there? Is she alive?

But all your hope is washed from your body as you hear his next sentence. 'Let's start by breaking every bone in her hand.'