Back in the subway's safe-haven, teenaged Christopher Abolish is sitting on the squeaky army cot left there by the Saint Grey City Transportation Authority. He lifts his right hand flat and level to his brown eyes. All of a sudden flames rise less than an inch above his hand. They stay there for about three seconds until Christopher's boyish face grimaces in pain and the flames stop. He blows his hand in an attempt to cool it.

Paris Jaarda, a 28-year old Cassgorian woman looks up at Chris Abolish. She's piling medical supplies and water into an army duffle bag. She stops shoveling things in and tosses a small tube to Chris.

"What’s this?" He asks picking up the tube.

"Its ointment," Paris starts. "Burn ointment. You can create fire but ironically enough it still burns you. I guess your mutation wasn't as kind to you as Rhett's, George's, and Zoe's. Just rub that on your hands. And there’s no point of creating fire if you don't need it."

"Paris, how come you didn't mutate like the rest of us?"

"I don't know," she pauses. "I don't even know why you four mutated in the first place. The radiation from the bombs a month ago wasn't anything different from all the other atomic radiation we've seen. The only answer I could think of was some strange reaction to both the radiation and Cyaneca."

"Cyaneca?"

"Yeah, you know that red stuff that man in your father's acid plant was coated in?" Paris explains. "You said it got all over your hands. And Rhett was in contact with a lot of it in the recon missions he was in. Zoe was bit by a zorilla that it was tested on. George, I don't know about George. After all, we just found him in the tunnels when we all ran in them."

"He seems closed off," Chris says. "But he has no problem opening up to Zoe."

Paris laughs to herself as she finishes packing the duffel bag. "Well look at her, there’s not a man alive that wouldn't love to spill their life story to her."

"You got that right. By the way, what are you doing?"

"I'm going out to check up on some of the survivors that are still alive. And you're coming with me, grab a bag," She says pointing to another full duffel bag.

Chris jumps off the cot. "Up on the streets?"

"No, in the tunnels. No one knows what Saint Grey City looks like now, that’s what the others are doing. Plus, you remember what Rhett said, you are to stay in the tunnels until they get back."

"C'mon," Chris whines. "We've been cooped up in here long enough. I want to go to the streets. I'm getting claustrophobic."

"I know, I want to go up there, too. But we'll get up there soon enough. Just be patient, Chris."

"Fine," he stubbornly agrees putting the strap of a bag over his shoulder as they both head out of the door.

They carry the bags down the subway until coming to a hurt old lady. She has burns covering her entire left arm and a side of her face. Paris kneels down and reaches for the burn ointment in her bag.

"Chris," she says rubbing the ointment on the lady's arm. "Go down farther and help who you can. The medical supplies are pretty simple: Burn ointment for burns, splints for broken bones, disinfectant, gauze and bandages for cuts. If the cuts need stitches or if there’s a really bad break just tell them I'll be there to help them soon."

"Yep," Chris replies as he starts down the tunnel.

He passes several dead citizens on his way, until he comes upon an older man skin covered in dirt, and eyes that seem to be clouded over.

"Sir, are you alright?" Chris asks.

The man slowly turns his head to Chris's voice. "Not in the least."

Chris sees a cut on his arm and reaches in his bag for bandages and disinfectant.

"This may sting a bit," he warns the older gentleman as he pours a little disinfectant on his wound.

The older man looks down at his arms. Then turns his blank stare to the wall across the tunnel. Chris wraps gauze around the wound.

"Sir, if you could just apply some pressure right here, the bleeding will stop in a..."

"Don't bother with me, kid," the man interrupts. "Do you see my cigarettes around?"

Chris looks around and sees a pack of cigarettes laying about ten feet from the man. He grabs them. "Are these yours?"

"Don't know, those Kazzato bastards took my sight in that bombing. But something tells me I won't need it much longer. I lived a long and full life," the old man says as Chris quietly listens. "Do you happen to have a light, young man? So I can enjoy my last cigarette?"

"Uh... yeah," Chris says extending his finger to the end of the man's cigarette. A flame appears less than an inch from his finger. The man gets the cigarette lit as Chris winces in pain again.

"Thank you, sonny. Its not much, but for what its worth, you have this old man's thanks," the elderly man says as his cigarette shakes in his mouth.

Chris looks down on him once more before leaving. His eyes catch movement down in the distance and runs down to check it out. A woman in her mid twenties is laying stomach down on the damp concrete near the subway tracks. She's in a lot of pain, as Chris can tell from her almost silent moans and groans. Her little finger on her right hand is missing, all that’s left is a bloody stub. The wrist on her other hand is swollen up twice the size of her right wrist. She's covered in cuts and scrapes with a few deep cuts. Chris takes out water, disinfectant and several other supplies from his bag as the woman notices him.

"Get me to the hospital, please," she silently begs.

"I can't ma'am, it might not be safe up there. I have friends checking it out, here, take these, they'll help with the pain," Chris puts two pain relievers in her palm and gives her a bottle of water.

He cleans and disinfects her small scrapes and cuts and tends more to the larger bleeding ones as she takes the pills. He wraps a thin bandage around her missing finger and wraps gauze around her larger cuts.

"There's a registered nurse coming, a friend of mine," Chris assures the lady. "She'll help your wrist and finger. Just try not to use your wrist too much, Okay?"

The lady nods and looks down the subway, the way Chris came from, hoping to see Paris coming already. Chris leaves her another bottle of water and continues down the tunnel. He gets to the hole in the street, where Rhett, George and Zoe crawled out of and sees the same lady clutching her cross. As he gets nearer he hears a dog whining, faint but just enough to hear the sound through the hole. He kneels near the lady and sees the lady, shivering, wearing a dark green parka, like the ones the others wore as they left.

"How can I help miss," He says looking through the hole, listening to the dog's yelps.

"F-f-f-freezing," the lady mutters.

Chris reaches in his bag and pulls out a space blanket. He wraps the shiny silver sheet over her.

"It looks weird, but believe me, it'll keep you warmer than just about anything," Chris says still staring through the hole.

"Thank you," the lady replies, but Chris is already halfway up the mound of rubble towards the hole.

He lifts himself out of the whole. He's taken aback by the war zone that vaguely resembles Saint Grey City. He's broken out of the trance he was in by a louder whine from the dog he's been hearing. He looks down in the hole again and sees his duffel bag of medical supplies he left down there.

"I'll be back in a minute," he says to himself and takes off after the dog.

Meanwhile, Paris Jaarda continues walking down the tunnel and gets to the old man, the first person Chris came across. But the man is dead now, the cigarette still smoking, still in his mouth. Paris checks his pulse to make sure and sadly moves on.

"Help!" The mid-20's lady yells from down the tunnel.

Paris runs over to her as fast as she can and checks her over. She applies a splint to her arm, and reaches for her suture kit. She begins stitching up the lady's deeper cuts and looks at a light down farther in the tunnel shining on a duffel bag like hers. She looks around for Chris near the light. She stops stitching up the lady and walks down to the light. She sees the religious woman in the space blanket and walks over to her.

"Did a friend of mine come by here, brown hair, 17 years old?" Paris asks the still shivering lady.

"Yes, he was here not three minutes ago," She answers.

"Where did he go, this is his bag."

"He just crawled up to the surface."

Paris rubs her hands through her hair and stares at the hole, battling the decision whether or not to go up after him. Her nursing instincts win as she goes back to help the lady she was stitching up a minute ago.

Go back to part 1
Go on to part 3