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other hand, are completely shredded.
    “Well, those were a good investment,” I mutter under my breath, peeling off what remains of the gloves and inspecting the pink skin on my palms. My hands feel a little raw, but they don’t actively hurt. It appears the still-smoking material of the gloves absorbed most of the damage from climbing. I toss them into the puddle and offer up a sarcastic salute as they disintegrate, leaving nothing but decorative metal studs floating on the surface. Hopefully the rain will have evaporated by the time I return, or climbing back over the wall won’t be much fun.
    I tighten the straps on Mica’s backpack and stride off. By the time I reach the Dead Woods, the ground is mostly dry. I pick up my pace, jogging through the brush until I’m back at the fallen trunk. I take a long swig of water and survey the area. It’s been less than a week since I was here, but it feels like eons have passed.
    I pull the flashlight out of the backpack and, with my eyes to the ground, feverishly begin my search. I trace a path that spiders through the tightly knit trees out from where I found the machine. I head in one direction, then, after a few dozen feet, retrace my steps and start over at a different angle. It isn’t long before the tedium gets to me, though, and soon I’m forging forward indefinitely in one direction.
    Sweat gathers on the back of my neck as I check underneath tree roots and paw at the dirt with the tip of my boot, finding nothing but newly fallen bits of scrap metal. Every now and then I stop to snatch up an errant bolt or length of wire, unable to ignore the practiced scavenger in me.
    I am so caught up in my search that I don’t notice the sky’s transition from black to increasingly light gray. With its slow brightening, I start to see beyond the immediate circumference of my flashlight’s beam and it invigorates my search. After a while, thirst convinces me to look up. The trees have begun to thin out, and I can just make out the hazy outline of the District ruins in the distance. I’ve ventured so deep into the woods that I’m almost out the other side. This is unfamiliar territory.
    I mentally calculate how far I must have come and, consequently, how long it will take me to get back. The answer makes me stop short and, in doing so, my boot catches on the edge of a large rock. I move to steady myself on the nearest tree but miss, falling forward. I reach out to catch myself with my hands and end up skidding forward. My palms burn as they run over the rough ground.
    My breath hisses through clenched teeth as I roll myself onto my back, crushing the backpack underneath me before I sit up. I slip it off and lean against the tree I had been reaching for when I fell. Wincing slightly, I hold my hands out in front of me and flex them a few times. I haven’t broken the skin, but they still smart. I tilt my head back against the tree trunk and stare up at the sky. What had I honestly expected to find? It’s almost daylight, I’m miles away from town, and all I have to show for my efforts are skinned hands and a few measly generics. There will be no avoiding the morning scavs by the time I get back, which means I’m in for some serious verbal thrashing at best. I don’t want to think of what “at worst” might be.
    I sigh and gently knock the back of my head against the hard trunk. I need to go back, but I can’t bring myself to get up just yet. I pull out the canteen again and gulp down half of my water, staring out into the landscape. Beyond the last few trees, the hazy fog is evaporating; gray-tinged morning light illuminates the ruined metropolis that lies beyond the woods. I stare at the deteriorated silhouette of the District—just one of thousands of once-great cities that have been turned into decaying shrines, or tombs. Forever reminding us of the Skyfall.
    Nobody really knows why the city of Intheria, the bastion of scientific research and medical knowledge, fell