There are times in which the very thought of your existence makes you quiver in a mix of fear and exhilaration. The fact that you are completely unique and what you, and you alone, do what has never exactly been done before. It's times in which you do things against what society believes to be correct. When you break the rules that were drilled into your very skull since you could remember. The rush of adrenaline surging through your veins and the way your heart skips rapidly inside your chest. There is no going back. Once you've felt it there is no other way to live. It's like a drug, discovery is. Once you've had a taste of it your hunger grows. You ache for more. You become ravenous for this knowledge, this truth beyond the propaganda and lies placed before your eyes. You must know what you're missing out on. The possibilities are fascinating and as you realize the desperation of your situation it becomes an obsession.

The people around walk about through their daily routines with smiles on their faces. They sing and laugh just as always. Do they not see what you see? Do they not care that the world is falling down around them? Or is it just that they do not care? You have to make them see. You have to make them care. It becomes your goal.

Proof. That's what he always talks about. If you have proof you have to pursue it. Pay close attention. A chance to prove yourself. Not only to him, but to everyone. To prove that the hot tempered boy with dark eyebrows and hands in his pockets was more than just a brooding young teen with hunched shoulders.

These were the thoughts that continuously ran through Doon Harrow's mind. Day in and day out they remained. All so cohesive, but never quite fitting together properly. That's how he was though. He had all the elements to become a successful young man. He was intelligent, a problem solver, relatively good looking, but he was brash and prideful at times.

The deep rage of the past continued to swell inside him and he could not let go after all this time. The grudges he held were set in his tight tight jaw and dark brown eyes that always had a look of piercing scrutiny that made you want to avert your gaze. Whether he truly intended to be that way no one would ever find out. He wasn't the sort to blurt out his emotions and when he did anger was all anyone could pick up for miles. There were a few, though, who could peel back the top layer of wrath and see what was truly behind the facade. Frustration, isolation, bitterness, grief. The wounds left unhealed, untouched. It was better that way, wasn't it?