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  Although I'm not an official member of the revolution, I do my part by performing odd jobs for SAFE. I'm a Messenger, nothing more than an errand girl. I'm afraid to devote me entire life to SAFE because I can't imagine how my father or younger sister would survive without me. My father's barely hanging in there already and my sister, Abigail, looks up to me. If they ever lose me . . . .

  At long last, the monorail pulls into Paradise Harbor Station, three stops away from the one that leads to home. I clamber to my feet and join the queue to exit. The agent boy looks at me. It's only a casual glance but he's probably wondering why I'm leaving the tram three stops too soon.

  It takes forever to get off the monorail and out of the crowded station. Does anyone drive anymore? I glance at my watch again. Five minutes.

  I walk up the sidewalk and disappear around the nearest corner. Once I'm out of sight, I race along dark alleys and backstreets until I see ships lining the coast. I long to take my shoes off and run through the glistening white sand. I want to dive into the ocean and swim until I reach a place where emotions are not regulated by the government—if such a place exists anymore. But I have an appointment to keep and so I turn away from the shore and continue down another dark alley.

  When I emerge, I slow to a walk. Clutching a stitch in my side, I stroll up to a black car with tinted windows that's parked with its engine idle. The alarm on my watch beeps. I've made it on time. I breathe a sigh of relief and taste the liquid Purge yet again. I had to endure constant reminders of its lingering essence during class.

  I halt outside the rear door on the driver's side of the vehicle. Something clicks and the window rolls down halfway.

  "You are nearly late," a voice says.

  I can't see the owner of the words. Shadows conceal his face and his true identity remains a mystery. He's known as the Entity and he's an information broker. I've performed jobs for him before but this is the first time I've ever met him in person. He typically prefers to hand out assignments through intermediaries. But for some reason, he decided to personally give me this particular mission.

  "Sorry," I apologize, trying to figure out what I did to deserve this honor. No one, except for a select few, ever receives a personal visit from the Entity. I should feel proud. Instead, I feel nervous. "School ran over a bit."

  He doesn't respond. He only pushes an envelope into my hands. I stare down at it. It's blank on the outside. Untraceable. Seemingly unimportant. But it's concealing something, as it's locked with a digital cipher. I unzip my jacket halfway and stuff the envelope inside.

  "You know the drill," the Entity speaks again, his voice distorted by a voice modulator. "Don't open the envelope. The recipient's address has already been uploaded remotely to your Digi-Nav. You will receive more intel later, detailing what you must do to get this package to him. When the job is done, you will be paid your usual amount."

  I nod and he rolls up the window without saying anything more. I watch the car drive off. Then, I turn away and backtrack to the monorail station, imagining what's inside of the envelope tucked away beneath my jacket.

  Chapter Two

  Liam

  After seeing her again Saturday afternoon, I think about the girl from the monorail.

  My training and lifestyle does not permit it. Thoughts of a person lead to attachment, which leads to desire. And desire is forbidden because it's an emotion.

  Still, I can't stop thinking about her, even though it's been two days since I've last seen her.

  It only happens when I first wake up, during the last hour before I inhale the Purge. The last hour is when I'm at my most vulnerable, since the drug is starting to wear off. Other than that, I never think of her. The Purge always keeps my head clear so I can fulfill my duties as an agent of the law.

  Her poise exudes a confidence that she can't actively display because I would have to arrest her. She doesn't intrigue me because the Purge suppresses all of my curiosity. I try to find something behind her hazel eyes but there's nothing there. I'm usually good at reading the emotions people conceal. That's how I'm able to capture the most deceptive of criminals. But she's different. I suppose that's why I think of her.

  She also reminds me of someone I used to know a long time ago.

  Trying to remove her completely from my mind until the release of the Purge in less than twenty minutes, I shift in my seat and stare outside at the buildings zooming past.

  It's early morning, nearly sunrise. Earlier, a phone call from the agency woke me up ahead of my alarm. An informant discovered another citizen with revolutionary paraphernalia inside her home. My partner and I were sent to detain her.

  My partner, Sophia Bailey, guides the bubble-shaped car down the highway towards the eastern side of the island where the affluent live. These are the type of people I wouldn't expect to be SAFE rebels but I guess since money can't buy happiness here, it can fund something else.

  I face Sophia. She sits there as rigid as board, staring straight ahead. Her long sleek black hair is tied up into a braided bun and a single plait traces the right side of her head. Her dark brown eyes are focused only on the road and her lips form a tight line like a military formation. She wears the same white uniform as me, neatly pressed with three purple lapel pins across the left chest—the insignia of an operative of the White Agency.

  Sophia normally speaks before assignments to contrast my quiet nature. But this morning she is deathly silent. Like me, she's awaiting the Purge, and won't talk much until the drug has taken effect.

  We exit from the highway and drive down well-lit streets, as the sun starts to peek its golden face above the horizon. We pass brightly colored billboards that remind me of the tram girl. The billboards flash up to date news stories and information about joining the agency, the progress of the colonies established in the far north and south regions, or making a difference in government. Our government is already perfect, so I can never understand how recruiting new officials would change anything.

  Our government controls and regulates everything. All property, whether commercial or residential, belongs to the government. A percentage of revenue generated by companies belongs to the government. There are still social class distinctions but those lines are blurred. The poor are people who simply refuse to work or revolutionary fanatics who have cut all ties to the government due to out of control hatred and ignorance. The latter are few because most of the rebel filth prefers to operate in secret, blending in with other citizens while containing their secret ambitions.

  And it's my duty to toss all of them into an empty jail cell.

  "We're almost there," Sophia mutters suddenly.

  I notice that we're driving past familiar haunts, places I remember before joining the agency. My father was an electrical engineer before he died and my mother's a doctor. My family has always been well off and we have a house in the area, although I haven't lived there since I was nine.

  Sophia guides the car onto a very familiar lane, lined with three-story brick houses. My old house is around here somewhere. It's Monday morning so my mother should be at home, resting from working all day yesterday at the local hospital.

  I spot flashing purple lights in the distance. Multiple patrol cars line both sides of the street. Beat cops have already arrived and secured the scene. They're waiting on us to head the thorough search of the premises. I open the glove compartment and remove the two digital scanners inside. We'll need these later.

  "When we get there, I can handle most of the talking if you wish," Sophia tells me hesitantly. I try to ignore the caution in her voice but the need for the Purge compels me to feel something I can only guess is dread. It slithers into my mind, threatening to turn me into a criminal. But my training and the last bit of the Purge inside my bloodstream attack the rising dread ferociously.

  "If you insist," I comment. After all, she is the veteran.

  "You had to see this for yourself," she adds and I wonder about her sudden desire to talk after remainin
g silent for a long time. Her words are also cryptic. So, who are we about to take into custody—one of my neighbors who I might have known as a young boy? Perhaps Sophia believes that our mission might affect me somehow but she is mistaken. I perform my job without remorse. Always have and always will no matter the culprit.

  I think about my mother. Surely the sirens and flashing lights must have woken her. People have flooded their front yards to see what's going on, to witness firsthand the apprehension of another lawbreaker. My mother is probably one of the witnesses.

  Sophia slows the car down. My old house is really close now. Sophia weaves the vehicle around parked cars and pulls into a driveway at the end of the street, behind a familiar sports utility vehicle. My heart starts banging against my chest. This is wrong. We shouldn't be here. This has to be the wrong house.

  Sophia silences the car. That's when I notice the media prowling the area, interviewing police officers and civilians. I look away after spotting Olivia Cruz, a prominent reporter with Paradise Channel 13 News. She's always around whenever there's a big story to cover.

  "If you want to stay out here . . . ." And Sophia's words trail off. As agents we have to be careful with our words and she was treading the line of sympathy right there.

  "Let's get this over with," I mutter, handing Sophia one of the scanners.

  We climb out of the car. I don't feel anything like I'm supposed to but it's different this time. Instead of apathy, I feel hollow inside.

  The house is government owned. Three stories, made of gray brick, and nestled between two sloping hills; it's a multi-million dollar residence given to my family because of my parents' contributions to medical and technological research. Brick stairs zigzag their way up the side of the left slope to a lengthy porch. Two officers stand sentry on opposite sides of the double glass front doors. Before I can reach the steps, Olivia Cruz hurries over, followed closely by a cameraman.

  Ten minutes until the Purge.

  "Agent Cato?" She knows me well. Admittedly, my name has shown up several times in her reports and articles. She wears her thick curly dark brown hair in a ponytail. Her purple glasses are askew slightly on the bridge of her nose and her green eyes are thin and slanted upwards just a hair. She's tall and thin and the two of us stand at nearly the same height.

  I turn towards her and keep my face as hard as stone. "I will grant you an interview after we process the scene." It takes everything in me to speak to her. But I can't answer questions right now. Not with the Purge so close that I can almost taste the gas in the air.

  Olivia nods. She knows she's going to get her interview eventually. I'm a man of my word.

  Together, Sophia and I enter the house. Everything is where I remember it to be six years ago when I left. The same leather sofa stands to my right facing the digital screen on the opposite wall, which triples as a television, computer, and vidphone. We walk across hardwood floors. A chandelier drapes from the high-vaulted ceiling overhead. To the left is a staircase leading up to the open second floor balcony. Beyond the staircase is the kitchen, completely wood paneled except for the metal oven and glass windows over the sink. The windows look out to the spacious backyard. The only difference between six years ago and the present is that the place is now crawling with law enforcers.

  The cops wear gray uniforms as opposed to our white ones and they don't have lapel pins. Instead, their purple badges gleam from the center of their chests.

  One of them finds us as we sweep across the living room, a middle-aged man who's balding with a thick black mustache. "Where is she?" I ask a little too sharply. I feel Sophia's eyes upon me but she says nothing.

  "Upstairs," the officer informs me. "In one of the bedrooms. She's detained for questioning whenever you two are ready."

  "We want to see any evidence you have found first," Sophia states, "to confirm that the tipoff is legit."

  "It is," the officer assures her.

  I experience a tightening in my chest suddenly. I glance at my watch. Seven minutes until the Purge. The time is going by so slowly and I fear that I'm not going to last much longer once I see the evidence that the cops discovered. I shake off the fear and remember my training. She is a criminal now, I remind myself. I've put away many of these people before. She shouldn't be any different.

  "Lead the way," Sophia tells him.

  We follow the officer up the stairs and down the narrow hallway. We pass several closed doors and step into a room on the left, which stands at the end of the hall before it curves off to the right. This is my old bedroom.

  "Here's where we've placed the evidence that we've found so far," the officer says. "I'll leave you two to do your work."

  He exits and Sophia digs right in, scanning something inside of a cardboard box. I barely notice what she's doing because I'm looking around. There's the bed where I used to sleep, curling up at night and listening to the crickets chirping on my windowsill. There's the desk with the digital screen where I used to sit studying day and night for the agency trials. There's the bookshelf with the digital readers containing all of the essays I've read to learn all the laws of Paradise. There's my first rifle mounted on the wall straight ahead, the very weapon that taught me how to shoot properly. There's the closet door concealing clothes that are way too small for me now.

  A beeping sound snaps me out of nostalgic mind wanderings. I glance down at Sophia, who's crouched next to the box. A pile of what looks like magazines rest on the carpeted floor. She holds up her scanner, having utilized the device to check the magazines for fingerprints.

  "There are only a few fingerprints on these," she informs me, her voice low and steady. "They all match one person."

  She holds up the scanner and I lean in for a closer look. All of the fingerprints belong to Emilia Cato, as displayed on the scanner's screen, along with other pertinent information about her such as height, weight, birthdate, blood type, occupation, etc.

  I don't say anything. I just stare down at what I thought were magazines but are really comic books. Every last one of them features the same hero—a young woman barely older than me, donning a tight-fitting black and purple hoodie with matching skirt and tights. A purple masquerade mask conceals most of her face except for her mouth and pale chin. The title of each comic contains these two words: "The Wanderer".

  Twenty years ago, the Wanderer terrorized the island and spread ideals of a glorious world where happiness and creativity exist. Her legacy included infiltrating several high-level security buildings to acquire top-secret information, leading multiple rallies where she spewed anti-government propaganda, and founding SAFE.

  The Wanderer's identity was never discovered because she mysteriously disappeared, which inadvertently fueled the fire of her legend. Now, she has become a patron saint for the revolutionaries.

  These comic books are illegal, one of the most banned items on the island. And she has enough of them here to go to jail for multiple life sentences.

  Paralyzed from shock, I struggle to maintain my poise. Outside, I hear the rumblings of the trucks that will administer the Purge. Five more minutes now.

  Next, Sophia examines a collection of coins. I stand and watch her closely, unable to do anything but breathe. The coins are emblazoned with a monarch butterfly on one side and a frosted cameo portrait of Queen Elizabeth II on the other. They are fine sterling silver proof half dollars. Colorized technology from the Royal Canadian Mint provides an assortment of hues. Serrated edges circle the coins. This collection was produced as a part of the 2005 Butterflies of Canada collection. These are the precious tokens of the revolutionaries. These insignificant circles have secretly revealed their true loyalties to each other for many years now.

  This is worse than I ever imagined. Not only does she possess illegal objects but she's also a member of SAFE.

  "Her prints are the only ones on all of these coins as well," Sophia doesn't have to tell me this but my silence is starting to unnerve her. I haven't spoken while she proces
sed the evidence. I can't speak. My tongue is mute.

  Three more minutes until the Purge.

  "I've found something else," Sophia notifies me suddenly. She holds up a couple slips of paper, previously stuffed somewhere inside the box. "It looks like a letter or something but it's incomplete." She gives the pages to me and I clutch them tightly in my left hand, fighting the disbelief weighing in on my mind.

  "Is that everything in here?" I manage to ask her in a breathy voice.

  She nods. "I'm going to check on the officers and see if they've found anything else. I'll meet you outside in a few minutes."

  I don't say anything and Sophia exits the room, leaving me alone.

  I nearly breakdown as I sift through the pages in my hands. Right now, I'm at my weakest point and it's difficult to focus and remember my training. But the Purge is coming soon to save me.

  I am a caterpillar.

  And so begin the documents. Handwritten. Purple ink. I instantly make the connection between the revolutionaries and this antiquated form of communication. The rebels prefer writing on paper because it's more difficult to track than digital records. If they do use digital methods, the data is always heavily encrypted.

  Instinctively, my grip tightens at the thought of her being in league with the rebels. Why would she sacrifice everything for these people?

  They say that a butterfly beating its wings in America can cause a tsunami in Japan. I am not yet a butterfly so I am incapable of causing this much damage. I still have room to grow. To transform. If I was a butterfly, I could generate huge waves with my wings. Instead, I am currently wingless, which means that I can only create ripples.

  The butterfly metaphor confirms yet again that she's working with the rebels. The butterfly has become their blasted symbol of change.

  "Curse you," I hiss, low enough so that no one outside the room can hear me. I struggle to suppress whatever is bubbling up inside of me. Could it be surprise? Maybe. But she has never displayed any of the warning signs before or was I too young to see them? Could it be disappointment? Perhaps, but I am unsure. Anger? The last one sounds more reasonable but all three are out of the question. I have never actively displayed any of these emotions and I am not about to break the law now. My tract record is far too impressive.