Book.

Part One; Chapter Four

It looked liked your average school auditorium times about a hundred billion. The space was absolutely massive and completely, sardine-level packed with people. There were no constant similarities that might’ve helped figure things out, either. It was like a human convention being held in New York City. Both old and young, black and white, male and female--everyone of every nationality and age and personality type seemed to be present.

Why were there so many people all huddled in there? What was happening that there should need to be this many people in one concentrated area? I was starting to panic. The drugs still flushing through my capillaries began to make me woozy. I felt ill, wanting to lie down and go to sleep and just wake up in my pink bedroom with my ginger cat Jorge underneath my pink comforter and for this all to be just one monumentally intricate dream--

“Hey, blondie!”

Initially, upon noticing how many other blondes were around me, I ignored this, until a hand tapped me politely on the shoulder.

Trying to cover my obvious surprise, I turned to see a chest clothed in the same white cloth garments that everyone else wore. My head craned up to meet the face of a twiggy, lanky, curly-haired boy, looming approximately eight inches above my eye level.

Writer’s blood forever secured inside of my veins, I deftly observed his traits as if looking at a character, and archived them away in the back of my head. Based on his complexion and dark brunet hair, I guessed he was of russian descent. He looked young, couldn’t be much older than twenty or so, but he also had one of those faces that seemed perpetually childlike. His mouth twitched in a modest smirk; his hands were held behind his back with Jane Austen-esque civility. A wavering light in his pale blue eyes flickered warmly, refreshing my tired mind of how proper eyes were meant to look--which is to say, not like Dr. Bailey’s. I could see one word crossing my vision, over and over, dotting all over his friendly face.

Brother.

And it was true. This odd, familial link must be what it felt like to have a sibling. I knew immediately that I had found somebody I could trust.

“You new here?” he asked.

I nodded, smiling timidly. “Yeah. You?”

His head shook once in response. “Nope. Just bored.” He stuck out his hand. “Marat Nabiyev.”

Yep. Russian.

“Ramona Atlund.” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was businesslike, but I dismissed that, grateful to finally have someone genuinely amiable to talk to. “Nice to meet you.”

His eyebrows furrowed when I mentioned my name. “Likewise... I’m sure.” He said slowly, glancing down at the card on my wrist. I noticed that he had one too, but I couldn’t quite read it at the angle it was at.

“You know, you really should accept your new name,” He said in an undertone, his expression grim as he leaned closer to ensure that no one else heard his words. I didn’t feel as if it were an invasion of space, though. There was an unusual maturity about Marat, like his mind and body were different ages. He stood with perfect posture, and spoke with crystal clear intent, yet seemed like he had a hard time looking me in the eyes. Somehow, that didn’t bother me as much as it should have.

“I know it’s difficult, but they’ll think something’s up if you don’t. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. It’s not the right time for that.”

I didn’t have time to ask what on earth that even meant before Marat directed me towards a set of tables in the far corner, where workers were assigning numbers to a long line of people. With peculiar patience, he waited with me in the queue. The situation was strange to say the least. I felt like he was more of a bodyguard than a friend, the way he stood there, hands professionally behind his back and eyes always forward, constantly watching the crowd with eerie scrutiny.