"Mercy has no place in here," the man in a tuxedo stroked his hands on the mouse.
 "Move," he instructed. 
He followed him justly.
"We can't do this to her," he scowled.
"You can't, yet we can." 
The bearded man put his attention on him for a second, then minimized the image. 
He then started to move his shoes towards the door.
"And when will she know us?"
He stationed his eyes on the screen monitor not looking at him who was walking back. He stopped his feet.
"Soon. Very soon, my son."
The monitor screen displayed a gray image; it flickered intensely— then, the power was gone.
"Tsk."
He looked back and moved towards him. He hadn't reached the doorknob yet.
"What happened?" 
He glanced at him, gleaming with an irritant look. He shoved his clean-cut hair.
"It runs out of power," the old man said in a calm disembodied tone.
"Well, it's obvious."
He spread his arms across.
"Come with me, son."
The door slammed shut.
 ***
Santa Anna Foster Home
West, Dehamas 
7086
Toot… Toot…
"Good day everyone. Thirty minutes before breakfast time. Suit yourself. And, feel at home. Every chamber's neatness must be safeguarded before maids bring trays with food on you."
 Toot… Toot…
 A 12-year-old boy leaped off from his bed as the voice alarm of the foster house rang. It would ring every 7:00 in the morning. 
Sometimes, he wondered where the voice came from but gradually stopped looking for its host when he gained consciousness. 
It's probably mechanical, he thought.
He grabbed his pair of slippers beneath the bed and wore them. He stepped towards the door but went back to his feet when he heard sounds of snorts. 
He traced the origin of the snorts that took him towards the girl lying on the bed hiding beneath the white thick cotton blanket.
"The night was probably cold," he said, looking at the girl in deep slumber, squeezing the blanket.
"Hmmm…" He thought.
 
From the mirror, he moved closer to her and sat beside her. 
 
He scrutinized her complexion. Cute fine cheeks, sleeping Phoenix eyes, plump light red lips, heart-shaped face, and thin strands of light brown hair.
"Isabel," he whispered her name.
She moved and changed direction facing the other side of the bed which was peripheral to the window panes. The sun was gleaming brightly over the vast green fields, yet he could feel the morning chills.
"Isabel, come on up now."
He squeezed the lengthy cotton cloth blanketed on her body. She moved but was responsive.
"Isabel, come on up now. Faster," he repeated, elevating his voice.
"Wait Max."
She put away his hands that were gripping her blanket.
"There's no wait. We've gotta move fast," he demanded standing near the headrests of the bed.
"O--okay." She rubbed her eyes.
"Tsk. Keep up, Isabel." 
He manipulated his flaming temper which was about to burst out any moment.
"You're so nosy." 
She rolled her eyes and got up.
"What do you want me to be?"
"Just shut up Max."
"Fifteen minutes more for breakfast. Everyone must be ready earlier at the moment." 
Isabel came back to her senses when she heard the alarm and glanced on to Max scratching the back of his neck.
"Hi Max," she said and waved his hand.
"You aren't dreaming, aren't you?" He looked closely into her eyes.
"Stop." She pushed him.
"Oh, I'm sorry." He balanced his feet.
She darted her eyes towards him, while he silently choked back his giggle. He took the blanket and pretended to fold it, forcing his chuckle to burst into a total laugh.
"That's my thing. It's my stuff to manage." 
She grabbed the blanket from his hands.
"Yes, I know. If you don't mind here Miss…"
"Crap your nosy mouth, Max. It's still morning. You're ruining my morning." 
She glinted at him and rolled her eyes.
"For it makes my morning beautiful," he blabbered.
She pulled the edge of the blanket, he pulled back. They were pulling the edges of the blanket when they were stopped by a noise of something from the back. 
They signaled into each other's eyes back and forth, until the atmosphere turned awkward. After some seconds, everything got back to normal when a kid bumped into them.
"Good morning Max. Good morning Isabel," he greeted them, as he lifted his body.
"Oh, hello. What's your name again?" 
She offered him a hand. He accepted it and stood up again.
"Thank you."
"That won't be a problem."
"Your name?" Max interrupted.
"I'm John. But the other kids prefer calling me Johnny. I don't know. Maybe because I'm petite. You can call me whatever you select." 
He scratched his head.
"J-clumps. How do you say the name?" 
He pinched his eyes on the small kid.
"What?" Isabel exclaimed.
"The reason is obvious." 
He grinned.
"You may close your mouth now, punk." 
He squeezed his sight towards John who was half-mouthed. 
He closed his mouth and lifted both hands to cover it. 
Red stains rushed on his ears.
"He's cute." 
Isabel gleamed looking at John's pinkish ear.
"He blushed. Oh my gosh." 
She moved closely on John making him blush even more.
He runs not minding the two people on his left and right side.
"Stop that Isabel. You scared the kid."
"Oh?" She diverted her attention to Max.
Both of them were having eye-to-eye contact when the bell rang.
"Come on kids. Breakfast is ready."
Children of different ages from 6 to 14 years old stormed out from their rooms towards the dining area. 
Excitement is visible from their actions. Meanwhile, Max and Isabel were having a conversation by the eyes, exchanging eye contact.
"Oh, oh." Max broke their eye conversation.
"We're dead," Isabel flinched.
"Are you all complete?" 
They heard the foster mother's voice echo from the dining area.
"Oh no." 
Isabel cupped her face hard.
"We're doomed." Max grimaced.
"Kids, is everyone here?"
"Yes Ms. Mathilde," the children answered in chorus.
"Let us see what we got in here."
Isabel could imagine from the kitchen a fat woman in her casual green t-shirt with a logo on the right side that said, "Santa Anna Foster Home. We care. We nurture." and blue jeans with a pair of flat slippers. 
The thought made her mind sick, and she knew it would be even sicker when minutes from now would pass. She could see her grabbing a pen and getting their lists of names of the foster kids. 
 Then, she would roll call them.
 "Jeffrey."
 "Here Ms. Mathilde," a boy aged 13 answered and yawned.
 "Dianna."
"Here Ms. Mathilde," a young girl about 8 years old said. 
She moved forward for her to be seen.
Both of their hearts began to thump when they heard the foster mother roll calling their names.
They couldn't be there. She would desire to run any moment as the images she drew in her mind seemed to be exact.
"John. Jesse. Clark. Crimson. Jericho. Grace. Zein. Yurika…"
After a couple of names said their presence, both of them knew that they were to be called next.
She sat on top of her bed and began tapping her fingers praying to God she could have just disappeared at this moment. He was speechless. 
He stood steadily adjacent to her. Both of them couldn't speak of anything but gesture their body in response to panic.