I just realized I _still_ haven’t told you, dear reader, my name. 

I suppose I must eventually, or you will read the accounts in this book and feel as though none of it could possibly be something you could learn from.

I am Quicksilver, or at least I am _called_ that, but I don’t remember my true name, which has long since abandoned me.  I am the master survivalist that everyone refers to when speaking in hushed tones about secret tales of treachery and vengeance.

You may have heard of me, dear reader, as a terrible being who steals all that others hold dear to. Stories of my misdeeds may have haunted your early years. I am called a beast that lurks in the shadows, killing for fun, pretending to be a helpless little boy who slits the throats of those who take him in. I disagree with this assessment, for I only steal when I must, and very rarely. I am seen as a sort of monster, and some think I come to the Scrapyards merely for the fun of taking supplies that are vital to their survival. 

Apparently I’ve killed four people according to a story I heard from a group of travelers I was spying on.

You may have also heard of me as a hero– a legend among those who wish to live for longer than a year. I am known to blend into the shadows,  

You may have heard that one of my eyes is hazel, and the other a pale grey, frosty as the sky, and just stormy. This is true, although I don’t exactly like the way I have been turned into some sort of nightmare-legend. I am a simple person, striving to stay alive in a world that does not wish me to be. 

My hair is rather feathery, like a dove, but with more brown. My skin is so pale, it appears almost translucent when I see my reflection. I often wonder if people think I’m some sort of spirit, cursed to live in a dying world. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am one.

The story behind my frozen eye, (which is what I call it,) is rather interesting, but unimportant to the general information I wish to portray with my memoir. Contrary to popular belief, it does not give me the ability to eat your soul.

Somehow, birds still live in our dying world. I find their feathers, mainly pigeons and gulls, but one time, I witnessed a kestrel dive out of the heavens and snatch a mouse out of a pile of abandoned scraps. It was a beautiful experience.

When I was small, I used to sit in my sister’s stories from the Before. I remember staring at her with wide eyes, my hands holding an old scrap of fabric. I remember twisting it in my hands. We would roast dead mice, rats, and pigeons over a makeshift fire that she made for me.

We didn’t live in the transportation tunnel then, we lived in an abandoned house, crumbling ivy and moss lined its edges, and the smell of earth and soil was a natural part of our lives. Tiny flowers surrounded the house. 

Nowadays, I rarely leave the tunnel, and usually only from one of the exits that is directly connected to a Scrapyard. If I crawl to the Surface, it is only for essential purposes. Each excursion is more dangerous than the last, and I generally prefer to avoid the risk involved. I am by no means alone in the tunnel, but I certainly avoid the other inhabitants of the tunnels. 

If I hear footsteps, I vanish into shadows only I know exist, and I don’t reappear for hours afterwards. Sometimes, I’ll slip into the ventilation system, (which brings air from the Surface directly into the tunnels,) and I’ll watch the people, usually in groups of one or two, stumble in and out of the tunnel. My slight frame makes this easier.

I have made an acquaintance, as unlikely as that may seem. She is a small thing, quiet, like a mouse. I think she’s five or six, and her eyes are a watery blue. I call her Waterfall. Waterfall doesn’t know I exist, but I watched her with unseen eyes as she collapsed, exhausted, in a small heap inside a small crate. I leave food near her hiding place, and she often stumbles upon it. Her face always lights up, and she looks over her shoulder, almost as if she is making sure no one else is there, before devouring her meal whole.

Waterfall’s hands tremble, and everytime I see her, she reminds me of myself. I have decided to protect her until she has enough experience to survive on her own. She is still unaware of my existence, but she has become accustomed to the roast pigeon left for her in unlikely places.

I will look out for Waterfall, until I am unable to. 

Waterfall _discovered_ me today. She’s a skittish thing, and her voice is like a set of gears— halting and unsteady— she doesn’t know how to speak in any language. I brought her to my hiding place, after she stopped gasping and trying to catch her breath. She can’t keep enough air in her lungs when she’s scared. 

When I lit my candle, she squeaked. She stared at the flame as though it were alive. I wonder how she ended up in this tunnel. After a while, she curled up beside me, and fell asleep. I draped my holographic blanket atop her quivering form. 

I want to keep her safe. 

I wonder if this is how my sister felt about me.

I tried to touch an odd, shimmering squiggle on her right ring finger today, and it took me about an hour to get her to stop shaking. I think the squiggle is a tattoo of sorts. My curiosity is piqued.

Waterfall is gone. She tried to drink a sip of water from a puddle, and choked on the poison within it. She was small in death. I buried her body. The tattoo on her finger depicted the following:

Subject SFX347-ControlA642

The shadows under my eyes grow darker with each passing moment. My hands shook as I wrote this entry, and I grieved for Waterfall. 

New rumors have reached the tunnels, and I listen, just out of sight. Apparently there are experiments rumored to be taking place, something about the creation of POWER coinciding with the creation of a new superhuman species rumored to be being developed. Power hungry morons. Pun entirely intended.

_Part three coming soon!_