Perfection. That is what they said they wanted from us. A parade, to celebrate the changing of an era and to show the Upper City that we were worthy of their Paradise. How naive of us to think that we could have ever met their lofty expectations. How foolish of us to take it as a moment of celebration in the midst of nuclear bombs going off in our homes, the breath of relief that follows every storm. How stupid of us to think they could have been our saviours, even for a moment. Now for my own foolishness, I find myself scared, in the dark, in a part of the city I've never seen before. District Zero, formerly the warzone that all of us were warned to stay out of, is the safest place for refugees now? My father's dead, shot by Upper City's "saviours" in their efforts to "deliver us to paradise." My sister Jazz is missing, separated in the fighting. My leg barely works anymore, "blessed by their divine touch." I can't count the amount of times I found myself praying for a better life growing up. Maybe some better food, cleaner water, a chance to get into school on a scholarship, maybe. Who was I praying to? Was it God? Or was it Upper City? Does it matter anymore? Clearly they aren't listening. Or maybe they are, and they really are trying to make things better like I asked, while I was too blind to see just how good I had it before this hell I find myself in. But I've realized a few things, thanks to this war. To make the good even better, you had to make the evil worse. And I don't want to go to that heaven above us. Hell, don't even call it heaven anymore. It was never for us anyway, it's doors will never open for us, and I will never worship that place again. This is not my heaven. This is, clearly, my lament, for I have realized that I have been left behind where the most violent are crowned champion, councilman, king, god. Lament, for we are discarded. Lament, for we are never to be perfect. Lament the parade we were denied. Lament, for we live in Hell. And the locals call it Zaphira City.