Most parents hope for their children to have Numbers that surpass their own. At a certain age, Numbers become significantly harder to improve and most people stagnate in their growth. Many parents, unable to find fulfillment through their own Numbers, turn to the Numbers of their children for that fulfillment.

This phenomenon, when taken to the extreme, results in what is commonly known as the ‘Proxy Numbers Parent.’ These parents are unable to improve themselves and so they focus fanatically on their children’s Numbers, often in unhealthy ways. They will encourage those Numbers they themselves pursued and discourage improvement in the Numbers they personally do not value. Until the child surpasses the Numbers of the parents, they will be seen as a failure in their parents’ eyes.

While the children of ‘Proxy Numbers Parents’ often show incredible growth, the increases of many psychological issues in recent years are attributed to this unhealthy obsession.

- Excerpt from Parenting 101, by Charles

Day two in the fort dawns bright and early, with work immediately following breakfast. Rather than continuing our work at the landfill, we wander through the camp picking up the bodies of the bugs, throwing them into a large bag and carrying them to the cemetery.

There are fewer dead bugs than what I expected based on the number of gunshots last night but still more than we can carry in just a few trips. After the second round of collecting the corpses, we stop to fill in the current hole in the cemetery and dig a new hole within the next chalk section.

Timothy hands me the bag when we’re halfway through with the new hole.

“Go ahead and collect the rest of the bugs. Scott might get mad if we leave some of the bodies lying around all day,” he says. “And be careful picking them up, those stingers can still be bad if you’re not careful.”

I nod, hauling myself out of the growing hole and pick up the bag. The majority of the bug corpses are concentrated in a small area around a grated window the guards used as a firing range, so once I arrive it doesn’t take me long to fill up the bag, grunting as I carry it back to Timothy.

“How long do these stingers still paralyze people?” I ask as I empty the bag next to the new hole.

“I don’t know, at least a few hours though. I haven’t kept any for testing, but the first time the swarm came through I pricked myself in a…sensitive area. It was like three hours after it was dead, and I can verify that the paralyzing effect still worked at that point. Scared me out of my mind. Don’t ask me how that happened.”

I nod. I really don’t want to know. But he starts explaining anyway.

“I was trying to carry three at a time, I didn’t have the bag with me for some reason, and the one that was between my elbows slipped. I tried to catch it between my legs on impulse, but boy was that a mistake! I was wearing mesh shorts, and ouchie. Well, I guess there was no ouchie, since everything was numb, but still. I make sure to always wear jeans now.”

I hurry to empty the rest of the bag and walk away, shaking my head.

I empty the final bag of bug monsters on the ground outside of the hole Timothy is digging. He’s talking about some movie or another, but I ignore him, focusing instead on the bodies laid on the ground in front of me. Carefully, I pinch the stinger of one of the bugs between my fingernails and pull it from the body. It’s extremely skinny and slides out with hardly any resistance, and I’m left with a sharp stinger about as long as my thumbnail. I slide it into my back pocket and do the same with the next five bugs, adding to my collection. My pockets are tight enough I’m not worried about them falling out -- I’ll just have to be careful not to reach back there.

“...and what’s taking you so long up there?” Timothy finally asks.

“Sorry, sorry, getting my shovel now,” I say. I pick up the shovel and start widening the edge of the hole while Timothy continues deepening it.

“So as I was saying, the last season ended with a cliff-hanger and I really have no idea how they’ll resolve it, but rumor is that the whole thing was written before the first episode, so it should be able to work out cleanly…”

I work silently.

The next three days pass in the same manner. Desperately I plan different ways to gather my friends and escape but get no further than simply finding each other and running away in the night. I’m just too limited in knowledge to plan anything more. Each day passes the same as the one before, guards always at the alert around the camp and Timothy providing a steady stream of companionship and gossip. His constant word-vomit has slowed somewhat since the first day, but not to the point that I am able to get more than an occasional sentence in edgewise. I wonder how much of his incessant prattling is a result of loneliness and fear.

Those thoughts are the only things that keep me from making a gag.

If he had anything actually worthwhile to share I might be less bitter, but beyond the first day, he has talked about only pop-culture references from before the inclusion. Nothing about the new fort and nothing personal. After four days here I feel as if I know more about the inner workings of the fort than he does.

As each day passes, my anxiety grows. The work is monotonous, and the food even more so. I worry for my family back in Clayton. I worry for Pallas and Styx, now armed with guns and fighting monsters without me. I worry for Melete, who always looks angry when I see her around the fort.

But most of all I worry for myself. I’m falling back into a routine. A safe and easy routine, if not entirely comfortable.

Truthfully, the fort isn’t all that bad, even for the non-combatants. The food is terrible, but the rations for the guards are nothing to write home about either. The work is monotonous, but I know I’m contributing to the survival of those around me. And most of all, there’s no danger.

I’m safe from the monsters. For the first time in weeks, I sleep soundly through the night. I don’t have to look over my shoulder every minute. I haven’t even taken my machete out of its sheath for the last two days.

And that terrifies me.

The complacency I’ve fought for my entire life, the ambivalence that consumed my existence before the inclusion is nipping at my heels, whispering a sweet song in my ear as I fall asleep. It would be so easy to just stay at this fort, to let others take care of my protection, let others fight, let others lead. It would be so easy to just accept what life has given me. To not care. To coast.

But I refuse.

I’ve tasted passion and drive, and I refuse to give that up. So I plan. Even if the plans have no hope of succeeding, idea after idea floats through my head, ways to gather my friends and flee. I train. Every waking moment I keep my skill active, making small and large modifications to concealed parts of my body. And I wait.

If it weren’t for my friends, I would have made a mad dash for the wall of the fort days ago. It probably even would have worked -- there are several times when I’m working close to one of the walls and I notice the lack of guards in the immediate vicinity. Of course, that assumes that the guards wouldn’t openly shoot at my fleeing form.

But every time I see Pallas or Styx, they give me the same hand signal: ‘wait.’

So I stay patient, continuing to plan, to train, and to wait.

I meet a few of the other refugees of Fort Carscott. None of them have the same bitterness towards our guards as me; in fact, most of them seem to respect the guards for being willing to put their lives on the line on their behalf. Only one other young woman, named Bella, seems even slightly angry at her inability to participate in combating the monsters. Her anger, however, is not directed towards Jeremy or Fort Carscott, but rather is directed towards herself, that her Numbers are not high enough to allow her to fight.

There seems to be an unspoken rule within Fort Carscott to not talk about life before the fort. Pop culture and general subjects are fine, but no specifics are ever mentioned. Any attempt to get a report on Clayton or on what monsters we may later face is met with a pitying head shake and a quick change of subject.

The wounds are too raw to think about, people’s eyes seem to say. And we’re safe now, so there’s no need to go talking about monsters.

It’s enough to drive me crazy.

It’s the end of my fourth full day inside the fort, and I lay within my sleeping bag. Timothy snores beside me, unable to stay silent even in sleep, but I am oblivious.

My focus is directed completely toward my skill. I picture myself, exactly as I am, but an inch higher than my current height. It is harder to visualize than some other changes -- after all, I want the rest of my body’s properties to stay the same, just slightly elongated. But after focusing for a few minutes, I feel as if I have enough of a grasp on what changes I want my skill to make. I take a deep breath, and I push.

The pressure of my skill rushes over me. The modification is immense and encapsulates my body in a more thorough way than anything I’ve ever tried before. I maintain the modifications of my skill to my leg, my Numbers, and my tattoo, raising the difficulty even further. The weight in my chest seems unbearable.

And yet, I bear it.

Originally I had compared my skill to a third arm and likened activating my skill to flexing that new third arm. But as I grow more experienced, I realize that analogy is flawed.

When exercising, there is an upper limit to what I am able to do. While mentality plays a huge role, at a certain point my muscles simply won’t be capable of doing any more. It’s simple physics, and the physical muscles in my body are not strong enough to lift beyond a certain weight.

My skill is different. The flexing is a mental battle more than anything else. Can I bear the pressure my skill pushes onto me? Can I hold it long enough for the modifications to take place? That is the only question. There is no physical wall that I am unable to push past -- every time I’ve stopped the skill before it completes, it is my choice. It is my mental willpower which is unable to bear the weight of the change I am attempting to enact.

Not to say that it is easy, not by any means. I’m no athlete, but I’ve always heard the major limit on our physical strength is mental as well: usually, our bodies can do much more than we think, and it’s only our own doubt and self-preservation that prevent us from pushing to the limit.

But my skill has no body to damage only a mind that is too weak to make full use of it. I grit my teeth, sweating in the sleeping bag. Just a few more seconds…

Finally, I relax as the modifications take place and I feel my body expand. The sleeping bag feels just a bit tighter than it was a moment ago. I grin to myself in exhausted satisfaction.

In the distance, I hear a yell. I ignore it. Gunshots and other noises throughout the night are fairly common, indicating the latest in the regular line of monster attacks. I refocus on my skill. Do I have what it takes to make another modification on top of my increased height?

I’m interrupted from my musings as I hear shuffling just outside of the tent. As the zipper is pulled open, I grab my knife and sit up, releasing the modification to my height and trying to untangle myself from the sleeping bag.

“Atlas?” I hear whispered in the dark.

A smile lights up my face. “I’m here,” I whisper back to Pallas, quietly rising to a crouch, careful to not touch my sleeping roommate. “We finally getting out of here?”

Pallas just nods in response, his silhouette framed in the entrance of the tent.

“About time,” I mutter. “One sec.” I pull on my jeans on and grab my supplies, meager though they may be.

“Atlas? What’s going on?” I hear Timothy’s tired voice mutter.

I wince. “Nothing, go back to sleep. I’m just going to the bathroom.” I lie, hoping it sounds convincing.

“You’re gonna get in trouble with the guards…” he says, but then he rolls over, content now that his warning has been delivered.

I don’t respond and leave the tent, nodding at Pallas in response to his questioning look.

“Styx is getting Melete,” he says. “Meeting at east wall three.”

I nod. The fort uses a simple naming scheme for identifying sections of the wall. The fort is square with walls in each of the four cardinal directions, and the number corresponds to the street passing through that wall, counting in a clockwise direction. We’ll be meeting on the east side of the fort, on the third street from the north.

I follow Pallas in a jog. We stay in the shadows of the buildings, pausing whenever guards are nearby. Most of the guards seem distracted, and I can hear a commotion coming from the west side of the fort.

As we approach east wall three I hear voices up ahead.

“Come on, Oliver. You don’t need to even help us, just don’t stop us.”

“I’m sorry, I really want to...but Jeremy will be so mad. He’ll demote me back to a non-combatant for sure! I’ll be stuck doing laundry all day again.”

“Jeremy will never know. I’m certainly not going to tell him.”

We round the corner to the last building and see Styx and Melete side by side, facing a young man across from them. He looks to be around our age, maybe a bit younger, and the uncertainty on his face is clear even in the darkness.

The gun at his side still sits in its holster, but as we round the corner, his hand drifts down to rest against it.

“Stop!” He yells out, followed by a groan. “You too, Pallas? I can’t just look the other way, guys, I’m sorry. This place isn’t so bad, if you talk to Jeremy about what you have issues with…”

“This is ridiculous,” Melete says. And before any of us can react, she steps forward and punches the kid in the face.

“Ouch!” He yells, dropping on his but to the ground, hands flying to his nose. “What was that for?”

While he’s on the ground, Melete reaches down and pulls the gun from its holster and waves it in front of his face. “Don’t try to follow us,” she warns. She turns to the rest of us. “See! Problem solved! Hi Pallas! Hi Atlas!”

Styx simply sighs. “Sorry Oliver.” He just sits on his butt, rubbing his nose and staring at us in disbelief. “Let’s go.”

We run to the wall and climb over, gingerly avoiding the spikes affixed to the top. In moments we are on the other side.

I smile to myself. Finally!

A voice rings out from behind us, louder and deeper than Oliver’s. “Stop them!”

“Oh no,” Styx mutters. “Run, run, run!” We follow her advice and sprint away from the fort. I’m terrified of tripping, but we stay in the middle of the road to avoid the majority of obstacles. Unfortunately, this means there’s nothing to obscure us from our pursuers.

After fifty yards, I glance back. A few men have cleared the wall, Jeremy in the lead. He holds his revolver in his hand, but for now it is pointed at the ground rather than at our backs. He starts to run after us and I gulp. Despite his size, his speed is not lacking at all.

I put my head down and focus on my feet, pounding against the asphalt.

Fifty yards later, I glance back again. Jeremy has closed the distance considerably, only twenty yards behind us, but we’ve extended our lead on the rest of his men. It seems only Jeremy has invested heavily in dexterity.

That thought is little consolation. From his size, I can’t imagine he’s neglected strength. Melete and Pallas are breathing hard on either side of me. Styx could probably escape by herself easily enough, but a quick glance at her eyes reveals her refusal to leave us.

If only we could make it to the forest! The trees and underbrush would give us more cover, and hopefully let us hide or outmaneuver him.

We continue to run, and Jeremy continues to gain. I consider our options. Run, no. Hide, no. Fight?

I glance back quickly.

He’s huge. Even compared to Pallas. I don’t know if we’ll be able to subdue him, not without resorting to our weapons.

Are we willing to attack another human? To injure, maybe even kill?

I glance at Melete, breathing heavily beside me. Should she use her skill? Can she even use her skill, as out of breath as she appears?

We’ll have to decide soon because he is gaining on us. Only ten yards back, I can hear his deep breathing. It sounds like a bull is right on our tails.

Only five yards now.

Without warning, Pallas stops, turns, and collides with Jeremy. There’s a mighty thwack as the two muscular bodies collide, and they drop to the ground wrestling each other. We stop and turn back, ready to help Pallas fight even if it means we’ll be caught by the reinforcements.

“Go!” Pallas yells. “I got him!” Even as he says that I know it isn’t true. Jeremy has started to pull himself to his feet, eyes directed at Styx, even as Pallas clings to him. The handle of my machete is cold against my palm. Do I dare pull it out? Do I escalate this fight? The giant revolver still rests in Jeremy’s hand, directed away from any of us.

“GO!” Pallas yells, louder than I’ve ever heard him. He desperately holds onto Jeremy’s legs.

We turn and sprint away.

S: 102 (+1)

D:100

W: 322 (+1)

I: 101 (+1)

C: 70

0

Skills: Adjust:Self