The world has to have a balance between what is good and what is evil, and that battle goes on inside me every day. While the wars constantly wage inside my head, I try to keep myself level. Lately it seems like darkness seems to be controlling most of the world we have today, but the people of what’s referred to as “Ancient Earth” brought that on us. From the stories that have been passed down through many generations, I gathered that the world used to be full of life, big structures called “trees” around every corner, supplying the world of a element they called “oxygen”. There’s no more of those anymore, having been wiped out completely by the civilization.

The civilization was once told to be a nation of happy people, full of laughter and joy until they wiped out the Earth so completely it turned into nothing more than a dry desert wasteland. The fossils we find are of animals the Civilization had, often referred to by seemingly meaningless names like dog, or a rather large one like elephant, or the ones the say lived in holes in the ground full of water, things like fish. The only thing left we have now is the Human Race of People, often referred to as the HRP Republic.

I’ve heard tall tales of the earth being stocked with water, people constantly drank it, it seems like they were addicted to it like some of the city drunkards are addicted to alcohol. Once, I even think they had the idea that it helped to make them healthy, which is almost funny considering that it wiped out almost half the population because someone poisoned it. The water did something terrible to them, practically eating them from the inside out. The books we have in the library said that from the time the water was poisoned on, which is now referred to as the “Great Water Poisonings of 3011” took out about half the population. Then came the .

The books say whole cities went savage, completely abandoning organization and help, often killing each other off in a way like an old book the library gave to me to review called “The Hunger Games”. The title never made sense to me, hunger was never a game, hunger is a feeling you get in your stomach that urges you to eat. Food is scarce now because of the water shortage, which is sometimes what the clans go to war over. The book said that it would drop a bunch of people inside a really big arena, and drop traps and things forcing the people together, and that the whole point of the “Games” was to be the last one alive, meaning that one person has to kill multiple people inside the arena, or just hide out and kill the one last person left, since it has to narrow down to two eventually. That took out another 30%, most of the people being forced to kill, most not wanting too.

Then there were the Kamikaze, a group of people so depressed, sad and afraid that they lost the desire to live, often blowing themselves up, lighting themselves on fire, jumping off buildings and bridges, all just to rid themselves of the world they were stuck in. I’ve been told that they tried to bring others down with them, too. Often going on “Shootings”, killing over 50 people in the same building (on average) and then shooting themselves. That took out another 15% of the population, even though only 5% were actually suicidal.

That was one-hundred years ago, where there were only the last 5% standing. Right after the Reset, people went into hiding, barely surviving. They scavenged everything they could. Gun shops and shooting ranges were the first to go, then places like Armories and Forges were overthrown. Anyone with the guts to steal and kill would survive. We went into a time of kill or be killed, where places like military bases were overthrown. The biggest warlords were always after places like that, but scavengers and everyone else either got recruited or killed, sometimes both. And often in that order.

The world we have today is simple. We have clans. There are ten clans. None of the clans are friends, all though you have the clans that owe each other favors, have teamed up before, things like that. There are three different types of clans. The Warrior clans, which fight insanely, you can walk by old bases and see piles of skeleton bones and rotting bodies. It looks like something straight out of a horror movie. Then there’s the Seeker Clans, they have the same role as the scavengers, find and keep. Then there’s the peace clans, which are like preachers. They go around and try not to get themselves killed, while trying to keep the Warrior clans from killing each other off. Each clan has its own perks and benefits, as it does its disadvantages.

All though that’s how most people live, I don’t. I refuse to belong to a clan, because I get attacked much less than most clans do, because I choose to represent a smaller target. No giant fort for me, just a lonely steel cabin in the middle of a pile of broken down cars. I actually like it here. It’s about a 50 feet wide room, with an old mattress on the floor in a corner, my shotgun, armor and AR under a false bottom in the wooden floor I built.

Crap. I can hear them outside. As far as I can tell there are three, but that’s only voices. The largest group I’ve ever fought is 5, but they were all small people. These guys sound big, with deep, commanding voices. I don’t know how they found me, but obviously they’re here.

I lift up the rug and false bottom and pull the AR and gear out, and I can hear them coming. I pull the chestplate on and stand up and start to turn around just as a bag goes over my head. I start to scream just as I feel the tip of a needle prick my neck, and I can feel myself fading out, and fall to the floor, listening to the voices as my vision fades to black.

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I wake up, and I can feel my head ringing. Hard. My head hurts, and I can feel my heartbeat in my forehead. I look around, and I’m in some kind of basement or cellar. I’m sitting in the middle of the room, my wrists tied with a zip-tie on my lap. I start to yell, and then realize my mouth is gagged. I rock back in forth in the chair, trying to slip my arms and feet loose of my chair. I hear a door open, and I feel fear start to course through my veins.

I look up from examining my bindings, and see a man enter. He was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and he had a black gas mask on. It covered his whole face, but had glass pieces around his eyes in a kind of rounded triangle shape. He looks towards me, and his eyes are so dark brown it looks almost like he has one giant pupil in the center of each eye. He comes closer, and he turns around. I see two daggers crossed over the back of his jacket with a red banner underneath. Crap. That means he belongs to one of the three warrior clans, the Gladiators.

He turns back around, and starts talking, “Listen very carefully. You are going to do exactly what I say, when I say.” I immediately recognize him as one of the voices from last night. “What we need, only someone like yourself can acquire. Don’t think we need you, you were just the nearest person who doesn’t belong to a clan. What we need is hidden, and you’re going to have to work very hard to find it.” He holds up a picture of a black metal cylinder, with a lot of noticeable fragile pieces in it.

“This reactor is the last thing we need to take out the other Warrior clan, The Jaguars. Problem is, they have it. We need you to go undercover working for us. Infiltrate the clan, gain rank, gain access, take the reactor, get out. Simple.” I feel the rage building up inside me and look him straight in the face. “And why on Earth would I do that?” He looks at me, and pulls a handgun from his back pocket. He presses it against my temple, and I feel the cold metal against my head.

I dart my eyes in his direction, and he is staring at me, obviously looking for a reaction. I don’t give him one. But rather say, “How can you trust me to do this?” He looks back towards me, and pulls the gun away from my head, just about a quarter of an inch away. He points the gun just slightly to the left, and pulls the trigger, purposely narrowly missing my head. “Got it?” I nod my head, and he cuts my ties; setting me free. I run out of the basement, and out the door. I look back once off the front porch, taking a mental note of the address of the house. Thirteen eighty-seven W. South Oak Lane. I have a feeling I’ll be back here.

The concept that surrounds reasons for having a favorite toy is an interesting one. The toys that people, normally young children, would call their favorite would normally not be because of what the toy does for the child physically, but what it does for the child emotionally. For example, you may have a favorite teddy bear and that teddy bear is your favorite because your military dad had it delivered as a Christmas present from Afghanistan, or something along those lines.

Because the “Favorite Toy” would be an object that does something for me emotionally, rather than physically, I would pick something of emotional significance. Some people had teddy bears, some had stuffed penguins, some had giant fluffy pillows named Mr. Fluffy, I had nothing but the long barreled, sleek, shell loaded instrument of destruction I kept in my closet. Just after the day father taught me how to use it, I kept it with me until that selfish bastard shot himself with it. I haven’t done anything with it in almost a week, but I feel like hunting today.

The instrument, for me, is a sign of rebirth. They help me fix the world in a way that others can’t. Every four seconds, a person dies from starvation because the world does not have enough food to support life for its people. I help the world by slowly balancing out the scale, making less human life. I do what I do to save the world, not hurt it, but some days I feel like I bring people too much pain for their own good. But, if this is what it takes, then this is what I’m going to do.

I step out of my house, quickly making sure it wasn’t noticeable in my backpack. I decide to go hunting downtown today, maybe visit the art museum down there. I step onto the subway train car, feeling the carpeted floor moving away from home, leaving it behind.

I reach my stop, and start climbing the stairs and instantly mark a random target. I reach the man, grabbing his hand and asking him if he’d seen my mother, she’d only been walking here a few minutes ago, just barely meeting his gaze as I walk away. I catch myself staring straight into his cold silver eyes. Silver. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen eyes like those… my father was the only one who I have ever seen with eyes that same color of shimmering gray. I let go, only to find the man still staring straight at me, his eyes intensely following my movements, almost as if he’s known me his entire life.

I walk into the nearest abandoned building, making sure the man is still in tow while I continue to pretend to just be a helpless lost girl in a big city. I pull out the instrument, and load the shells into the barrel, all the while making sure not to make noise, while at the same time hiding just behind a wall in a back room. I walk out and into the main room just as he walks in, and I close the barrel back into the wooden side of the weapon, feeling nothing but envy as I stare into his cold silver eyes and pull the trigger. I love hunting.

As of course you may know, leaving a body out in the open is never a good choice. As soon as I start moving him, taking him into the basement where I will most likely cement him straight into the ground he was born on, a wallet falls out of the man’s pocket. I open it, hoping to find a reward for my troubles, but only instead find a picture of a little girl. That little girl is me, at 8 years old.

I’ve missed those silver eyes for so long.

The concept that surrounds reasons for having a favorite toy is an interesting one. The toys that people, normally young children, would call their favorite would normally not be because of what the toy does for the child physically, but what it does for the child emotionally. For example, you may have a favorite teddy bear and that teddy bear is your favorite because your military dad had it delivered as a Christmas present from Afghanistan, or something along those lines.

Because the “Favorite Toy” would be an object that does something for me emotionally, rather than physically, I would pick something of emotional significance. Some people had teddy bears, some had stuffed penguins, some had giant fluffy pillows named Mr. Fluffy, I had nothing but the long barreled, sleek, shell loaded instrument of destruction I kept in my closet. Just after the day father taught me how to use it, I kept it with me until that selfish bastard shot himself with it. I haven’t done anything with it in almost a week, but I feel like hunting today.

The instrument, for me, is a sign of rebirth. They help me fix the world in a way that others can’t. Every four seconds, a person dies from starvation because the world does not have enough food to support life for its people. I help the world by slowly balancing out the scale, making less human life. I do what I do to save the world, not hurt it, but some days I feel like I bring people too much pain for their own good. But, if this is what it takes, then this is what I’m going to do.

I step out of my house, quickly making sure it wasn’t noticeable in my backpack. I decide to go hunting downtown today, maybe visit the art museum down there. I step onto the subway train car, feeling the carpeted floor moving away from home, leaving it behind.

I reach my stop, and start climbing the stairs and instantly mark a random target. I reach the man, grabbing his hand and asking him if he’d seen my mother, she’d only been walking here a few minutes ago, just barely meeting his gaze as I walk away. I catch myself staring straight into his cold silver eyes. Silver. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen eyes like those… my father was the only one who I have ever seen with eyes that same color of shimmering gray. I let go, only to find the man still staring straight at me, his eyes intensely following my movements, almost as if he’s known me his entire life.

I walk into the nearest abandoned building, making sure the man is still in tow while I continue to pretend to just be a helpless lost girl in a big city. I pull out the instrument, and load the shells into the barrel, all the while making sure not to make noise, while at the same time hiding just behind a wall in a back room. I walk out and into the main room just as he walks in, and I close the barrel back into the wooden side of the weapon, feeling nothing but envy as I stare into his cold silver eyes and pull the trigger. I love hunting.

As of course you may know, leaving a body out in the open is never a good choice. As soon as I start moving him, taking him into the basement where I will most likely cement him straight into the ground he was born on, a wallet falls out of the man’s pocket. I open it, hoping to find a reward for my troubles, but only instead find a picture of a little girl. That little girl is me, at 8 years old.

I’ve missed those silver eyes for so long.