Chapter One

Axelia picked at the petals of the bedraggled flower, its petals a vivid blue. She smiled up at the sky, which was surprisingly a red-orange. Most of the time, during a sunrise, the sky would turn a sickly green or be obscured by thick, groggy clouds that smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and sulfur and gasoline. She rubbed her back against the tree that had supported her, relieving her right shoulder of an aching pain that had been there since she woke up. Axelia always escaped here, to the woods, whenever her parents got at her or her brothers. Which was very often.

The sparse woods had been her sanctuary for the past fourteen years, and they were more of a home to her than the pile of kindling that her family called a house. It was actually quite nice, really, but that was one of the things that Ambrosia decided was unpleasant. Nice things. Pretty things. Beautiful things. Because she wasn't beautiful, or pretty, or nice.

Her eyes slowly made their way skyward, and she noted that the sky was starting to bloom into a quaint blue that reminded her of the blue of the oceans, though she had only seen one. And that ocean was probably already contaminated. She decided to stay awhile, admire what little nature remained about her. Maybe even reminisce awhile.

A slight breeze ruffled her ink-black hair, which was slightly disheveled, either because she hadn't brushed her hair that morning or because of the bark that itched at her scalp. Her hair was hanging loose, never tied or pinned back. Ambrosia hated it when her hair wasn't their to hide her emotions from the world around her. Her pale skin was rough and scarred, years of burns, cuts, arrows, fights. A wicked violet bruise stained her cheekbone, and her thin upper lip was greenish. An ugly red scar laced it's way down her arm. Even looking at it brought the pain back, making Axelia wince.

Axelia, as you may or may not be able to tell, wasn't the average girl. She didn't like skirts, or jewelry, or fancy handbags. She liked her old, torn-up jeans, weapons, and hunting. She didn't like pink because it complimented her hostile, violet eyes. Axelia liked purple because it was a color she saw on almost a daily basis. It even decorated her skin in a number of similarly shaped patterns. Though Axel had never seemed to mind. Who was there to impress? The girls who sat at the crowded lunch table, gossiping about how she had gotten a new bruise? The “cute” boys who gave Axelia odd stares? Her parents?

No,not them. After all. Her mother was the masochist that beat her senseless on a daily basis. Her father was almost never home, busy with work for the Administration, which was the capitol city of both Lymphal and Illithica.

The Administration acted as a liaison between Lymphal and Illithica, which was one of the only things that both nations had in common, besides the Truant Project and a dying world. Despite how her father worked for the Administration, Axelia actually thought he was more of an errand boy, Axelia had never been to, let alone seen, the Administration. She had only heard stories and rumors about how it was the most advanced and beautiful place on present-day earth, with its tall, crystalline towers and high-performance technology. Not to mention high security.

There is one way into the Administration, and one way out, and that's because the Administration is a chunk of levitating ground almost 3000 feet above the surface.

Most say that the Administration is suspended from mid-air because they plan to“eliminate” the rest of the populace. But they already do that.

The number one rule in both empires of Lymphal and Illithica are that each and every citizen shall have a useful trade by the age of twenty-four, the age of adulthood, or they shall be executed. Except for those who win the Truant Project. They can choose to not have a skill or produce the unnecessary media, like music, or paintings, or books. They begin training for their trade as soon as they reach the age of ten, and will continue training until they come of age. At the coming of their twenty-fourth birthday, that person is shipped off to the Administration to take the final test that will perceive if he or she is skilled enough at their trade. If they aren't, they will be executed. The Administration's only reasoning for this was that without work, there will be no food. Without food, there is no work. They had passed that law a month ago. In truth, Axelia knew that the Administration was trying to kill off the nations so they had all the food, all the land, to themselves. It was obvious, after all. Take a glance at the Truant Project, where the Administration would take children, innocent children, and fatten them up like pigs, just before sending them to the slaughterhouse. The punishment for breaking most laws was a variety of deaths, which you could pick almost as though you were ordering off of a menu. Oh yes,thought Axelia, I'll take the private hanging at three o' clock on Wednesday.

She snickered, while she imagined a waitress asking, Want some fries with that, doll?

And then her smile faltered. The day was December 31st.

Which meant that the drawing of names would be tomorrow.

Axelia snapped up in bed, her heart pounding like a drum. She clutched her head, a furious migraine threatening to take over her, send her sprawling on the floor, whimpering. It was always like this the week before the drawing. Every night, a dream of her laying peacefully in her glade, with hideous, corrupted thoughts overthrowing her general train of thought, both a nightmare and a delicate dream. She never dreamed of getting picked, nor did she dream of participating in the Project. It was pretty much the same dream every time. Her, at sunrise, settled cozily into the soft bark of a tree, her tree, deep in the glade.

The hotness that was balling up in her head was fading away now, and Axelia removed her hands from her temples, raising her head. Looking to her right, she stole a glance at the clock, though she knew what it would say.

12:01 AM.

Axelia's eyes drifted up to where her calender was. Squinting, she could just catch the date, circled with a bold red marker.

Jan. 1.

Though she knew it was coming, Axelia let out a tiny gasp, almost choking on the tears that started to form in her tearducts. Just below the date was a stamp, its orange ink corresponding with the red.

2 'o clock sharp – annual drawing. Lockheid Square. All children required to attend.

Right then the tears flowed down her cheeks, which were flushed a bright crimson. She was tired of all of this, the Truant Project and the Administration and everything. The tears stung the open cuts and scratches that were on her face and neck. Axelia had always cried like this, alone, locked away in her room in the dead of night. Because it calmed her, to know that no one could see her. See her this weak, this vulnerable. With her arms locked around her legs, bawling her eyes red. Even with the deep, calming breaths that she took, it was no use. But then she remembered something. Her therapist had told her to count as far as she could whenever she broke down.

And she did.

But the counting turned into something that made her want to cry even more. Rather than count the happy things, Axelia counted the tragedies, the deaths, of everyone she knew. The first was her childhood friend Leila.

She died during the Truant Project.

Then there was William, who was caught trying to sneak away in a freight train.

Her sister, who had perished from a rare disease.

The list went on, over fifty, then over sixty, until Axelia finally stopped at seventy-six. By the time she was done with counting the dead, she had fallen asleep, again.