I’ve always wanted to be a pilot. Ever since I was little, I dreamed about flying through that big blue sky. I don’t remember the name my parents gave me. Frankly, I don’t recall them at all. Story goes the Great War separated us when I was five. For the government, I’m just a number. Number 93 to be exact. But the few people who actually care about me, call me Blue. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of my blue eyes, because I felt blue before I met them. Or is it because my hair’s natural colour oddly turned blue through the years? I grew up in the Rajona District Orphanage. We were with lots and food was scarce. The Head Mistress divided us in groups of 10 and let us fight. The winner was allowed one decent meal. The losers had to starve another day. Sharing your food was forbidden. If you were caught, her Slaves would tighten you up on the pole in the middle of the playground, or should I say “fighting arena”. Then they’d fetch her whip. 15 whipping for some water. 25 fo...