It was quite a surprise.

The human mind is keen on reacting to sudden changes with resistance, shock and even disgust. It will work hard to dispel, conquer and eradicate such changes until a semblance of normality can be achieved. Sitting on a window ledge with too much time and too little to think about, I thought of it like a flock of birds, who would bully an outcast but let them live with them eventually anyway.

The mind was not only hostile, but stupid to the point where it would fight with itself, almost as if it were possessed with not one, but two beings. It was a double edged sword of unmatched sharpness and caliber. Full of hate for change yet, so capable of adapting to changes considered to be foreign with an ease seemingly unmatched by any other creature that still resided in this wretched world. How could the mind win against others if it could not even win against itself?

“Just over this way, one more doorway, see!” The hand ushering me forward was a little too forceful, and I stumbled on my step as I looked up to see what she was describing to me as we walked through the maze of corridors and rooms.

“Hold on, you’re a little too short for that one,” the same lady said to me, smiling at me from above. She grasped the door handle firmly and pulled with a confidence and grace I had seldom seen before. “Come on in, we won’t bite!”

I was still half asleep. By then, I still knew little better than nothing, but now I know that by that moment in time my fever had probably broken a little less than a day ago. The room was brightly lit, something that I had yet to get used to after being acquainted with Shiinevaar's almost perpetual darkness for so long. In a land where winter was so strong that it could mean that snow could bleach the sky, light was simply a commodity, not a necessity. Which, by default, meant that I was not used to seeing it.

With so many lights everywhere, my eyes hurt as they constantly readjusted to the spectacle of grandeur that constantly befell me.

The lady kneeled down and patted my back, pointing vaguely forward. Gesturing towards the cavernous room- albeit, every room in the house seeming cavernous to me- the light shone into my eyes as I could make out a row of people standing at the back wall of the room, themselves making up a multitude of different shapes and sizes. Another sign of luxury. Where I came from, everyone was thin, and nobody was as tall as the person standing second from the right in front of me.

“Little girl…” she whispered quietly into my ear, voice bubbly and jovial. Another change I would have to get accustomed to, it seemed. “The people in front of you, from today- will be your family.”

The Shiinevarean word for ‘family’, ‘serbul’, was a word that I heard for the first time in that enormous room, with six pairs of eyes staring at me intently as if I was a valuable painting being auctioned.

When I grew up in the place I now mentally refer to as ‘The Cabin’, we used Old English to speak. It was seen as offensive and rebellious to dare to speak Shiinevarean, if anyone could teach you in the first place. Everything, from the rare chances I could speak with others to the only book in the house worth reading- all were in English. If no one had ever spoken Shiinevarean to me in my life, I would have never known it existed. Now, I still cannot speak it, but my knowledge of it and a few important words was a giant lamp post that told me that I had had my life very drastically altered.

The first one that spoke had a hoarse voice, as if they had just recovered from a fever like myself. However, there was an underlying tone of genuine friendliness to it, something that I understood on the sole basis that I had not experienced it before. “Welcome to our family. I hope you will feel safer in our House.”

“I don’t even know why you’re here. Priss, why on Earth are we adopting this specific orphan out of the half or so million out on the street?” Expected. Someone like me was no stranger to hatred. His voice cut clear through the still room, an air of cockiness dispelling through his tone.

“George!”

My eyes had adjusted, and I could see the speaker, an older boy with blonde hair, look away with what I could not tell was remorse or hate. The others, who all seemed to be older than him, looked at him condescendingly. Throughout the wide room, six figures stood with their backs to an enormous panel of glass that showed that it was still night outside. While the mansion, dubbed mentally ‘as the House’ simply because it was far larger in size than ‘the Cabin’, was still much of a mystery to me, I had pieced together enough while laying awake in bed. Before reaching the Food Ration Office that mother had once taken me to, I had begun to feel my legs give way, but still pressed on. I soon began to realise the futility of my woolen blankets against the cold, and I dwelled on that thought before my memory cut. Through snippets of conversation I heard outside the door, it seemed that I had collapsed on the street before I made it to the Inner. Having read through my one book extensively, this spectacle that lay before my eyes seemed eerily similar to something I had only been able to imagine.

I was still unsure of their reasons for seemingly choosing to take me into their residence, even going as far as giving me my own room- I did not know Shiinevarean at the time, and I was not aware that they intended to adopt me into their family. However, what came next spread some light into the mysterious mire of a situation I had been thrown in.

“What did I tell you before? She’s not from the Outer. One look! That’s all you need to see! Does anyone outside the walls have skin as fair as this? Is anyone who needs to act to survive as small as this? She looks as if she has never worked a day of her life.” The woman called Priss turned to face George. “Oh, and you little rascal, one more thing. I had Earnshaw pick out what was in her pocket, and do you know what I found?”

My hands were to my sides as soon as Priss uttered the word ‘pocket’. Everyone stared at me as I fumbled for gaps in my clothing, only to find that I was not fitted with what I originally wore when I set out front the Cabin.

George chose not to respond, looking as if he had faced his- I assumed- sister’s bickering a great many times before.

“Two pages! She set out on a journey-”

“Journey?” This time the older man with the hoarse voice that greeted me when I first entered spoke.

“She was wrapped in nothing but a woolen blanket, carrying two pages in her pockets. Sleeping on the street, outside Death’s door when someone carried her into the police station. She couldn’t have set out less than a day or two ago, or else she’d be dead. She’s trying to get somewhere.”

“Sister. The pages. What’s so interesting about them? How can you be sure she can read? They could be tissues, for that matter.”

Priss stood up, expectedly angry at being distracted. “Those two pages come from my favourite book!”

“So you’re here to say that that girl broke a window and ripped two pages from your book, and now we’re adopting her?”

The person next to George gave him a hard nudge, and his jesting face fell faster than the beggars in the winter.

“No, you fool. Those pages are hers, alright- perhaps she couldn’t carry the entire book with her, so she carried the first and last page as a lasting memory. Not only that, but she told me she can read. And I believe her.”

George’s sour face persisted, but the other five in the room eyed me with obvious interest and curiosity. Was I that much of a peculiarity, simply because I could read? Something I could not hope to know at the moment, being in the dark about even exactly where I was. The others still eyed me, but their faces were lined with what looked like genuine compassion. That moment could not be underestimated in my mind- having spent my entire life beforehand in a place like the Cabin, looks of anything other than thinly hidden malice were rare and in between.

It felt wonderful to be liked. It felt even better to not be hated.

“I never thought Everton House would stoop as low to conform to the words of a mere beggar. The age of humans helping one another is past, and you know that, sister. Our religion cannot serve us into the future, and now is not the time to start making exceptions.”

“Give her a chance, please. George.” The voice came from one of the two people in the room that had not spoken yet, the same one that had shushed George before. “Little girl, do you know where you were born?”

My voice was listless and duller than a blank sheet. “In the Cabin.”

Looks of confusion flew my way.

“Where is the cabin, dear?”

“In the snow. Somewhere next to the forest. I ran away.”

Quick glances were exchanged between the members in the room. Like many things, I was not aware at the time as to why. Looking in hindsight, little instances, like a glance, a stare or even a curse directed my way make far more sense now that I am older. That is the gift of recollection, and I was no exception. I realised later, but the slight pause they held after I spoke was for a rather simple reason- Shiinevaar only had one forest on the north eastern side of the Outer districts. Coincidentally, it was the side furthest away from the Everton residence, and I had only collapsed in the snow a few hundred meters from the Inner City. I had walked an extraordinarily long way with only a woolen blanket to protect myself from the light blizzard that had covered the city that night I ran away. To this day I am amazed at how I, seemingly through fortitude, managed to survive long enough to be saved.

Even Priss, who had been my fervent supporter since the beginning of the conversation, fell silent.

“I didn’t like it in the Cabin. So I walked to the lights. I fell asleep and I woke up in a bed.” A thought shot through me in that moment- it was amazing how much reading a single book made me different from the others in the Outer. Mother’s last words had no doubt left their edge. “Am I in my better rest?”

I was but young, and took the words I had uttered in a childish mindset. The same could not be said for the others.

If I could separate the most important moments of my life into a line of lamp posts along a road, then what happened next would be one of the few that shone brightest.

Priss crouched down immediately as she was nearly twice my height, and enveloped me in a sudden hug. I recoiled immediately, and she noticed. Not understanding, I struggled momentarily and in that moment the two of us, eye on eye, seemed to come to an understanding. I stopped, and she didn’t let go of me for quite some time.

I had rarely talked to anyone, let alone been given much affection. It was scary, but Priss was warm. And I liked being warm more than I disliked being scared.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” She hugged me tighter, in response to my words. As a child, I could have no thought as to the magnitude of the words I had just spoken. “You’re safe here now.”

Everyone was silent, and even George’s malice had flushed from his face.

It was odd in that large room. Grandiose furniture surrounding the many walls, a little shaft left in the rich, giant back window hidden by equally royal curtains. Orange warm lights, people dressed well and standing tense, yet so seemingly so seren with their backs to the window. It was something that was so picturesque and so overtly happy that it disturbed me. Nine people in a room, and no one said a word.

The wind flowed through the shaft in the window, and the room breathed as if it were a sleeping leviathan. Still no one spoke, and the wind played an eloquent chime in the almost beautiful absence of sound.

Priss still hadn’t let go.

As I stood limp in her arms, I found myself looking forward as tears slowly formed in my eyes. It was like something I had never had, and only something I could have hoped to see, hoped to feel from blank words on a page.

“This is nice. I wouldn’t mind resting here.”

---

“Are you ready?”

“Don’t ask me a question you know the answer to. You’re better than that.”

The trees that lined the edges of the Academy courtyard had just begun sprouting new leaves, evidence of the thaw of the iron grip of the Shiinevarean winter. They struck up like rows of toothpicks into the sky, opposing the grand, but rather squat line of buildings that made up the Academy’s central courtyard. A flat sheet of green had covered most of the open space, a welcome change from months of bleak white. Winter was receding, and with it, it seemed as if life had been breathed into the seasonally desolate city.

“First is still your first. No doubt your second will be different, and perhaps in your third, you will learn to cope.” Aemelia’s breath condensated in the cold air as the two walked towards the Academy garage. “You should know that you are not alone. This is an act not just any pilot, but any soldier will have to go through. Like the long dead old men once said- the waiting is often worse than the fighting. When it was turn for my first sortie, something that comforted me was that there were already people that had come before me, proving that Spirit Striders were reliable combat machines.

Though it was a reassurance, the thought did nothing to abate the anxiety that plagued Marilin’s heart, no matter how logically unreasonable it was.

“Could you imagine what it was like to be one of the first pilots? Knowing nothing about combat but the controls, being put in an unstable machine with no improvements, no experience… you know what they say, right? The early Sancretes, they were little more than death traps.”

While she had never thought of it that way, Marilin knew that what Aemelia was saying was true. Everything had to have a beginning, and the Spirit Strider was no exception. Early Striders relied on heavy armour before mounting pilot casualties taught the world that the Spirit Strider was not meant to be an armoured fighting vehicle- armour came with weight, and weight came with reduced dexterity. Just like the battlecruisers that once ruled the seas, Spirit Striders had to skimp on armour in order to gain an unrivalled edge in maneuverability. Speed, in itself, was armour.

“We have much to thank for our point defense systems.” Marilin spoke slowly after her train of thought. “Too many lives were lost to figure that the Strider was inherently not a machine designed to take hits. It is not a monster, a giant, or a leviathan. It is a butterfly.”

The morning sun began to rise over the edge of the Academy buildings, a refreshing sight after months of it being drenched in gales of snow. It was about time for breakfast, something that could be seen with the increased number of people milling about the courtyard, walking, stretching or conversing with each other before the notification for breakfast was sent to their PADS. After a morning meal, students would mull about before going to their first classes for the day. One slight thing that Marilin appreciated that she was not previously aware of was that as a Pilot, she no longer had to attend any classes she did not wish to go to. Having already earned her qualification, the classes catering to the mass of the potential pilots on the Academy grounds had little value for her.

“Much to thank, but not something you should rely on. I have many a pilot that have disregarded a Strider’s speed of movement in exchange for relying solely on its point defense system.” Aemelia, nearly a full head taller, poked Marilin’s forehead like a brooding mother hen. “It is as you said. A Spirit Strider is a large creature that acts like a small one, a being that uses movement to survive. It flies, dances, swirls to avoid damage, and uses its own weapons to damage its enemies. It is a butterfly, and it should act as such.”

“A butterfly.”

“That’s what you said. Don’t start going back on yourself, now.”

Marilin rubbed her hands to warm up. Winter’s chill was still prominent, and lingered peacefully in the air. “Such a large being being compared to something as lithe as a butterfly. The things they teach you in class, about the Strider being something akin to a mythical being- not all of it could be true.”

“Just because something is an exaggeration, does not mean that it is a falsehood.” Aemelia laughed and ran ahead of Marilin, turning back to face her. “Just because a butterfly can fit in my palm and a Spirit Strider can only fit in a fully decked hangar, the perception of it does not have to change. For me, it is as you described- not a monster of devastation, but a creature of grace. If it is described as a butterfly, so be it. It is more accurate than being compared to a demon.”

While Marilin had no doubt shared mostly Aemelia’s thoughts on the matter, her near death experience with facing down the chain gun of Alec’s Spirit Strider still bore a deep influence on her mind. She still believed in it’s beauty, but now she could also now see why a Strider could be something that was feared and despised. It was one thing to be in the cockpit, and an entire other thing to be on the ground. She had seen two worlds, and it frightened her.

“Don’t you think that we, as pilots, hold some degree of bias?”

“Everytime I talk to you we drift to a topic of philosophy some way or another.” Aemelia sighed as she stopped in the middle of the path, elegantly changing the subject. “Soldiers aren’t trained to think, Marilin. We’re trained to follow orders and listen to what someone else has to say, so we can exert more power in a cohesive unit. A Spirit Strider may be a grand machine capable of holding it’s own in a plethora of situations, but do not forget that you are fragile. Even with your armour and your point defense system, a single well-aimed shell can cripple your machine. You have an arsenal of abilities and tools and you cannot rely on just one.”

“You seem like a strong advocate of a Strider’s dexterity and speed.”

“No doubt. Many pilots gloss over such a brilliant advantage in favour of lazily relying on their point defense.” Aemelia paused. “One shell. All it takes. Even with everything you have, all that is needed is one. Spirit Striders aren’t something we can send wherever we want, whenever we want. We operate as a team so that losses will never go above zero. Do you understand?”

Of course she did. She might be able to think, but hearing this statement so many times in classes had taught her well enough. In the world of Striders, losses were unacceptable.

“Yes, I do.”

“You are in a little luck. Like I said before, Spirit Striders can hold their own, and I think that from that, some individualism does seep into a pilot’s mind. If you were in the infantry, an air unit or heavy armoured corps, there would be no room for such thinking. You follow orders. As a soldier, you follow orders. Even as a pilot, you follow orders, you hear?”

“How...unforgiving.” A hint of a smile crossed Marilin’s lips. “Don’t worry about it. I know.”

“You signed up for this, dear. We all did, and we can’t back out now just because we think a little differently. You’re a pilot, and having thoughts is normal. Don’t let it cloud your judgement, endanger others or put yourself in a bad position. Just because you are in sole control or one of Earth’s greatest fighting machines does not mean you fight alone. You have a team- you can rely on them, and they will rely on you.” Aemelia jogged ahead, indicating her leave as their paths diverged. “Don’t forget about me, either. Tell me if anyone picks on you!”

Her raucous laughter could be heard even as she ran into the garage from the back door. As evil as it sounded, it was oddly comforting.

---

The city outside of the Academy was bustling with people as usual. Lights, now characterized by the relative lack of thick snow that often lay on the streets, seemed to shine brighter than they had in the winter months. Shops and other assortments of stores, united in their similar masonry, opened their doors day-round for the first time at the first real break of snow. The snow in the ground had slightly dissipated, and the stone pattern of the street could be seen. Even the oppressive forces of winter could do nothing to stop the everyday lives of people in the Inner, who would play in the snow and admire its simplistic white beauty.

The whiteness of snow held a different meaning for different people.

Marilin’s breath wisped into the chill air as the store finally came into view. After attending one class in the morning, she had exercised her newfound freedom and left to run an errand she had pushed to the back of her mind. Now having half a day off to do whatever she wanted, this was something she felt that she had to do before she went on her first mission.

A patchwork of carefully shaped bricks and simple carvings set into stone, the shop was quite unassuming for a building of the Inner, settled nicely in the shadows to two larger buildings. It was not a shop to be found, but a shop to be sought.

The front door rattled and wheezed as a blast of warm air, a familiarity of every shop on this street, greeted her. A bell, attached to the top of the door, chimed melodically in the quiet. The interior of the shop was small- deceptively so. A large booth stood at the front and center of the store, with a slit opening at the bottom and a combination of wrought iron bars and glass separating a busy-looking receptionist between a quietly inquiring customer.

The rest of the store was quite unassuming- for someone who had not been to the back, the storefront seemed awfully tiny. The frontal area was a rough trapezoidal shape, two enormous wooden shelves plied with stationary and other accessories like paper doing nothing but make the small space seem even more constricted. A long, narrow table was built into the inner receptionist’s desk, and there stood three people, writing slowly with ink onto paper.

“Marilin! Are you here to send another letter?”

The receptionist. She managed a quick smile before the receptionist returned to deal with the customer on hand. The store was unassuming indeed- it seemed nothing more than a small hobby store for the long dead practice of letter writing. However, the Ink and Parchment served a far more important secondary purpose- it sent letters to people in the Outer, maintaining one of the few precious threads of communication between the two separated sections of the city. The value of simply a whisper was great- it could easily change the politics of the Inner City.

Without another word, Marilin threaded her fingers through a feather quill and an inkwell, much like the other customers. To those that did not know the establishment’s true purpose, she was simply another person sending a simple gift to someone she knew. The old writing utensils were simply a cover for letters to the Outer, as no one in the Outer District owned PADs outside of exclusive members.

Dear Mother,

I’m not dead yet.

Is that so surprising? I don’t think you would find it so. I haven’t sent you a letter in nearly a year, and I know you aren’t a fool enough to know that I’d be sending this to you on a whim. I achieved something recently that I don’t think you’d be proud of me for, but you’re no longer here to tell me, so I can’t be stopped now. This one way form of communication makes me feel that I’m talking to myself. Maybe I should just write a diary instead?

The Messenger says that my letters are being sent and I have enough trust in them, even though I’ve never even seen their face. As long as you can’t send back anything to me, I will still always feel like I’m alone here in the snow.

Lewis- if you are reading this, and I know you are- because you’re the only one who learnt to read after I left, and if you’ve received this letter at all- don’t read the next part to Mother. You were always the nicest one to me, even if we never spoke a word.

I don’t give a damn about Laura dying, but give my condolences to Mother. Don’t act like you don’t know why. She may have been my sister, but to her, I was nothing but vermin.

Marilin was nearing the end of the page, and she dipped her quill into the inkwell, cracked her knuckles, and stopped for a moment. While the establishment never read their customer’s letters, Marilin knew better and caught a guilty looking receptionist craning over the counter, a view of malevolent curiosity quickly vanishing from their eyes. She smiled and the receptionist blushed, turning away quickly. While she was a regular customer, it was rare, very rare indeed that she wrote letters.

Believe me if you want, but I can’t help you. I don’t hate any of you, and I’d help if you could. We all know that me, staying alive as sick as I was was a great reparation. I will come for you if it is within my power- that is something I can easily promise. My past is something I cannot, and something I have resigned I will not, forget.

Regards,

Girl on the Windowsill

“Is that all? Just one page?” The receptionist eyed the sealed letter with a watchful eye as Marilin flashed her PAD to pay. “Last time you wrote more than this. Who are you sending these to?”

“Someone I feel I am indebted to.” replied Marilin with a curt nod. The receptionist here loved such ambiguous answers, and she flashed a huge grin.

“Alright, alright now. Come back soon- I always try to leave some sheets of paper for you when you come to buy. You know that, right?”

Marilin opened the door and the unwelcome cold draught almost made her close it again. “Of course I do. See you soon.”

In due time, only two pretty tinkles of a bell were the only evidence she had even been there.