When the first bomb shelters began taking applicants, people scoffed, some laughed outright. It would never come to nuclear war, they said. Remember Hiroshima, remember Nagasaki! We're a civilized world, they said. When the first bombs landed, the laughter ended abruptly. It was as if someone had lifted the needle on the vinyl record of life as we know it. The music stopped, the party was over.

Shelters popped up more and more often, in more and more places. Far from laughing, people were desperate to get inside at this point. Currency was still currency in some places; Americans especially rejected the idea that the dollar bill could ever be supplanted or suppressed. In other places, the barter system was employed, to varying degrees. Artwork, virgin daughters, promises that would chill the spine of Satan - no earthly possession was considered too valuable, no oath was too sacrosanct.

The 'Castle Movement' that had begun in the previous decade, once considered the paranoid folly of men with too much money and not enough sense, had seen a sharp uptick in participants, with medieval-style castles springing up in mountain passes, river valleys, and rocky canyons - anywhere defensible. Stone and steel walls were erected in fortification, while tunnels and channels were burrowed underground, forging shelters where people could live on, where the human race could survive and propagate should the worst come to pass.

Perhaps it is one such bomb shelter you reside in, crowded in with family, friends, or perfect strangers with little air and even less food. The fortified basements of elementary schools, the catacombs beneath a Gothic church. Or perhaps you somehow scored a more lofty place to hold out for the end of days. A wealthy castle-baron's child, or a possessor of some secret that secured you a place within the durable stone walls, complete with fresh air, hydroponic gardens, and a slice of normalcy amid the chaos. Even still, perhaps you were unfortunate enough to be granted access to neither, and have been making your own way on the mean streets, ever fearful that the next sunrise you see will be your last.

Whatever your particular circumstances may be, they're about to change, and drastically. When the helicopter arrives, it does so with an urgency that cannot be mere efficiency. Rotors still spinning, men in all-black tactical gear spill forth, guns at the ready, securing the immediate area. One calls out, and his words are your name. You've been chosen. The Black Dawn Academy emblem on their shoulders is all the confirmation needed - none of them take their hands off their guns to flash a badge.

The decision is yours: Will you go, or will you stay? The men bid you to make haste, though none will say what the hurry is, there is no mistaking the fact that if you tarry overlong or seem uncertain, they will leave you behind. The helicopter doors remain open, the wind from the rotors whipping leaves and debris in a maelstrom of sound and wind around the predatory air transport. You have fifteen minutes to gather your belongings, say your goodbyes, and board the helicopter, or risk losing your one and only chance at a new lease on life at

Many a time Dylan wonders if the last sunrise would be his last.

His parents? Gone. His siblings? Gone, he buried his sister two days ago. That was five days after his birthday. Not that those matter anymore. No, the days of throwing the ultimate party when you turn twenty one? Those days are far gone. All that matters now is survival. And boy did Darwin have it right. Survival of the fittest is the key, not just physical fitness but mental fitness. So Dylan sticks around the cramped bomb shelter his crazy uncle on his mother's side built even though it's filled with the stink of cousins he never really cared for before. Truth be told, they don't care a whole lot about him either, but they're smart enough to realize that those clever traps Dylan knows how to build has kept them fed. And that's all their smarts used up, right there.

The sound of a helicopter nearby disturbs his daily hunting/gathering routine and that definitely annoys Dylan. Hunting time is the only time he manages to get away from the cramped homemade bomb shelter, with the stinky cousins. At first he considers ignoring it and staying right where he is, on the branch he's been patiently sitting on to wait for prey to be caught in one of his traps. And then he finally remembers.

“Shit,” Dylan says to the little squirrel that happens to run by him down the tree and right into one of his traps. He jumps down the tree, trap forgotten, and hurries back to the bunker. He arrives just in time to see, those men in all-black tactical gear rounding up his “family”, weapons pointed at them as they call out his name, Dylan Harker. The sound of his arrival, given away by his rugged boots purposely stepping on a branch has those weapons turning to him faster than he can raise his arms, which he does. With arms up he looks at the group and flashes them a grin.

“Whoa,” he does his best Keanu Reaves impression.

It takes him all of two seconds to make the decision, much to his uncle's chagrin who is now realizing that he's about to lose his badass trapper. Dylan says yes before he's even made it to the men in all-black tactical gear with the scary weapons.

He's saying hell yes as he goes grab his duffel bag, filled with the few things he actually cares about enough to take with him. The only goodbye to his uncle is a pat on the shoulder that reads more as a 'Sucks to be you', than any true affection. There's also a grin and upnod to those stinky cousins before he pulls himself up into the helicopter.

And as he settles in, gets himself all buckled up, Dylan looks over at the sun going down in the horizon and for the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn't think about tomorrow's sunrise.

Her routine is repetitive. Her eyes open blearily to the dim light of candles to watch her sister rise from their shared bed in their small corner of space tucked below the old general store; it's a punctual thing, five every morning, ready to do her share of communal work. Every morning, Nadia rises shortly after and throws on Alexa's hand-me-downs. She grabs her bag. She inches around dozing children, the young ones who get to have their recommended eight hours. Out of the stifling subterranean "homestead" she flees, her boots grasping the concrete steps to freedom.

She isn't any sort of woodsy aficionado. While her sister disappears into the trees that border the building, she diverts from the path, rounding away in the direction of the garden, such as it is. Very few things are sustainable in the climate they inhabit, particularly during the colder months, but Nadia is determined. She spends hours there. The hours pass like sand trying to move through a hole too small.

It's exhausting, but it's better than daycare duty.

This is where she is when her routine changes. They get so few visitors that even some of the hunters emerge from their cover in the forest, pairs of suspicious eyes watching the helicopter set down on asphalt. The guns are startling to everyone. Some of the children flee. When one of the uniformed men demands to see one Nadia Burns, the suspicion turns to accusation, and the eyes go to her; it's an unnerving thing, all that consciousness.

She clutches her bag with dirt-smudged fingers. She steps forward. At seventeen, she's old enough to hold the expectation that she won't scurry off like a horrified munchkin seeking refuge from a wicked witch. As the man speaks, she struggles to pay attention to it, searching the faces for her sister while her stomach flip-flops awkwardly in her abdomen. The words process slowly, bringing to light new horizons and an escape from the repetition, at the cost of familiarity: Alexa stays behind.

It's a joint decision between the two, pressured through by the older of the girls. That garden's going to die, she reflects, sinking into a seat in the noisy aircraft, looking out into the faces of people she knows as they disperse, back to their orderly day-to-day lives.

When Nadia sinks into her seat in the powerful aircraft, the armed men pile back inside as well, barking out an instruction to buckle up and hold on tightly. Dylan is already strapped in. As the helicopter rises into the air once more, there is a sense of urgency on-board, though none will say what it is.

Just as the tension reaches a pitch that is so high, the air seemingly crackles with it, a screaming sound pierces through even the eardrum-piercing scream of the helicopter's rotors. Red lights inside the cabin begin to flash, a universal warning sign embedded into the psyche of the human race. "Brace!" calls the pilot, banking hard to the left just as an explosion flares into life, back in the opposite direction in which the helicopter now flies - back near Dylan's homestead.

The helicopter is battered by abusive winds as the sonic wave of the blast eventually hits them, sending the helicopter tumbling through the air like a toy. "Hold on!" shouts the red-faced pilot, the gunmen white-knuckled and silent as they cling to the supports overhead to keep from being pitched from their seats, restraints or no restraints. Through some miracle, the helicopter straightens itself, flying onward and forward, and for a time, the red lights cease their flashing. Scarcely enough time to catch their breath passes before the whistling begins again, and the pilot warns, "Brace!" once more.

This time, the detonation is louder, closer, harder - the helicopter is hit so hard that the sound of splintering can be heard as the titanium alloy used to form the slick, black outer layer of the aircraft is creased and crumpled by the impact like a cheap soda can. The helicopter goes tumbling once more, a door ripped off the hinges, hurtling away into the wind-buffeted abyss outside. Along with the door go two of the gunmen unfortunate enough to be holding to the door for support. Through the open doorway, it isn't hard to miss the detonation site: Nadia's home, and everything within a 2 mile radius - is no more.

"An unavoidable tragedy," comes the voice of one of the tactical team members. "Someone knows where we are. Someone knows that our mission is to collect the Black Dawn applicants. They missed us the first time, and very nearly got us this time.We'll need to consider reevaluating the plan to stop for the next pickups, or I fear we may not survive the encounter." When he speaks, the other men with the guns look at one another, then finally one speaks.

"The two of you must decide it together. Do we pick up the last entry, or do we abandon them and head on to Black Dawn?" Seven pairs of eyes look between Dylan & Nadia, pressing this weighty decision onto their shoulders amidst the chaos of the recent bombings.

Brace.

The moment Dylan hears the word, he is bracing. The smile he worked so hard to welcome their next pick up with, is just gone. In fact, he hasn't even had a chance to introduce himself when suddenly he is holding on for dear life. Then there is the calm, and yet, Dylan doesn't relax.

Brace.

It happens again. The world, his breakfast, it all threatens to go upside down and Dylan forces his mouth shut, lips pressed hard into each other to avoid turning the contents of his stomach into the new interior decorations of the helicopter.

The news delivered by the soldiers are met with apprehension and numbness. He blinks a few times. He didn't even care about those stinky cousins. He lowers his head. He didn't care about his uncle. His eyes close. It's a moment, a moment of emotion, of vulnerability. He draws a deep breath, wipes his eyes with his arm.

“If they know where we are, where we are going... they'll just follow us on our way to Black Dawn, won't they? Or, they'll take us out on our way there. Regardless, this,” he gestures around at the helicopter. “It's very quickly becoming a useless piece of junk.” He looks at Nadia and somehow, manages a smile at her.

“I don't know about you, but if we're going to have to fight our way back I like our odds with more people than less. I vote we grab at least one more, then we ditch the helo, making it look like it crashed and just hike our way back.” He looks over at one of the soldiers. “Please tell me our destination is not somewhere in the middle of the ocean."

There's lacking comprehension in Nadia's face at the first warning; when the backlash of energy buffets the helicopter, she jerks like a rag doll against the secured straps of her seat, leaving her airless. In her struggle to compose herself, she's left unguarded for the second wave, again thrown about in her seat by the force of impact to face the open side of the aircraft.

Her bottom lip quivers. She's not unfamiliar with the emotional numbness that comes after loss, eyes glazing over to see past the wreckage of what she considered "home" in her tidy, hygienic quotation marks. The silence she's persisted through since boarding doesn't change now; she prefers to listen, instead. It's attentive, at the very least.

Dylan's voice is answered in a slow blink and more silence. Weighty, pensive silence. It ends with the lingering ambivalence of American teenagers in the shrug of her narrow shoulders, head turning to face away from the direction of what was once "home".

"High-powered explosives and improving aim lowers the odds of any fighting our way back at any number," she answers her older peer - and the uniformed peoples who collected them. The vagueness is alleviated when she tacks on a more succinct, "Sure. Let's chance fate."

A new day in the château. As they are woken up, Joséphine climbs out of her bed, with the other two youths she shares the room with. They rush to the room where their parents are having breakfast. The seven of them quietly enjoy their morning meal, as they anticipate another day of work and leisure. As they leave, the maid, Sadia, clears up.

She leaves the other children to meet with the Baron's son. He had requested equestrian practice, and she was probably the best horsewoman in the château. She also had the most free time apart from the Baron's children. They saddle up their horses, and go riding out into the countryside.

After a few hours, they come riding back, exhausted and euphoric from their excercise. The Baron's son goes up into the keep, and she stays in the courtyard to watch the afternoon drill.

Joséphine loves to see the guards drilling. It is so orderly, so impressive. Section C is organised, and she loves how the men move so easily under the ultimate command of her mother, the Captain. The drill changes every week, and she usually slowly grows to understand how each one worked. This was a new week, so she doesn't understand this one yet.

They are about to retire for the evening, when a radio comes in from her mother. A helicopter is fast approaching. It comes to a stop above the castle, and descends into the courtyard. Section C keeps eyes trained on it, their hands on their weapons. This was the Black Dawn Academy, and they called out for a Joséphine Fourier.

She had been waiting for this moment. She quickly rushed inside, and got the duffle bag she stored near the gate, and ran out to the helicopter. She kissed her mother, and proceeded to the helicopter. When she got to the helicopter, she turned around, waved to her mother, "Au revoir", and got aboard with the other two recruits.

When Joséphine climbs aboard the helicopter, the armed guards follow her back on-board, all save one. He approaches the recruit's mother, the one referred to as the Captain. Grim-faced, he has a brief conversation with her, pointing back toward the way the helicopter had approached from. The Captain's eyes widen, then narrow in determination, and she wheels away from the guard, shouting orders that seem to be obeyed immediately - people begin scattering, passing a message along as they go, until the courtyard is a hive of activity. The guard watches all of this begin, then turns to climb back aboard the helicopter as well.

"Alright, we've likely only got a few minutes before the bombing begins again," the guard shouts over the sound of the helicopter rotors. "Let's move out!" He signals the pilot, who immediately sets the 'copter to lifting off. "Brace," he orders, and this time none of the guards reach for the remaining door, instead holding fast to ceiling bars, the seat arms, and anything at all that looks remotely capable of securely holding their weight upon impact.

"There's still one more name on the list, Sarge," one of the other guards speaks up.

"What, no there isn't," the lead guard says, snatching up the manifest. A final sheet of paper flutters to the floor of the helicopter, and he dives for it just before it's blown out into oblivion. "How did we miss this?" he demands, looking from one face to the next, as if in search of someone to blame for this failing. None of the other guards step forward, and they're saved from the scrutiny as the pilot shouts, the helicopter diving into a turn.

"Incoming!"

Though the helicopter is high enough over the ground that the castle is little more than a speck on the ground, with what appears to be a convoy of ant-sized vehicles flooding away from it, when the bomb hits the center of the castle, decimating all those who were unlucky enough to remain inside, the shock of the blast hits the airborne transport solidly, sending it into a tailspin. The pilot manages, somehow, to pull out of the dive.

"We leave it in your hands again," says the Sergeant, though he doesn't sound as if he wants to do any such thing. "Will we stop for the last name on the list, or will we head onward to Black Dawn?"

This is a spectacle. Nadia watches as Josephine boards, looking past her at how different her circumstances appear to be. Hers is a silent greeting and one without any of the traditional greeting methods; she bears no smiles, nor nods, merely speculative contemplation that sinks well into her hazel-eyed face. The million-yard stare persists until the helicopter lifts, and this time when the order to brace comes, Nadia's ready: she clutches her restraints in both hands, knuckles going white.

She jostles much less when then aftershock of the explosion rocks the aircraft, nostrils flaring briefly.

Once everyone's settled, as the previously queried question is once more tossed out, Nadia's reticent - but speaks first: "We already risked death to pick up one, we may as well pick up the last. Seems a waste otherwise."

Josephine settles into the helicopter, seeing the girl opposite her show what must be signs of trauma. She sees one of the guards speak to her mother, and when told to brace, she does so immediately, given the grim behaviour of her co-passengers. She thanks God that her mother and the Baron escaped. When the bomb hits, she is ready, but the spin still disorients her.

After hearing the question, and Nadia's answer, she says "If he is on the way, then yes. Otherwise, we're risking us three for one person."

It would be a shame to virtually kill this other person, the risks are too great.

"Really? Another one?" Dylan does not look impressed. Then again, that last one could be him. In fact, with his previous luck? Chances are it would have been him. But it isn't. Slowly, he shakes his head. Slowly, he looks around the place. His gaze falls on Nadia first and he stares just a little too long at her.

"No surprises there," his words carrying a certain hopeful tone to it that is a bit at odds with the situation. Optimistic is perhaps a better descriptor, yet the worry on the young man's face is certainly hard to miss. He turns to Josephine and a half smile touches his lips. "We had to make the same choice about you," he wryly tells her. "And her we are are. Seems fair with give this next one a chance too," he looks around. Bracing.

"So yes, after that last one we go."