Monologue Of A Boy Dialectical Journal

It's finally here, a year after the finale of the first book. Sorry it took so long. As it turns out, I'm not reliable like at all.

Two years have passed since Freeman attacked the Registry, and things have changed.

If you haven't yet, I strongly recommend you go read Book 1 - Collared or you will have no idea what is going on.

Light streaked in the heavens as the pair made their way carefully over the uncertain terrain. The boy's footing was surer than the girl's, though both made good time, both were used to the sort of scrambling required to move quickly over the rocky hills, wary of unseen holes that threatened to roll an ankle. The boy was ahead of the girl, moving swiftly, threatening to leave her behind, if only because
"A wayward star." The boy whispered, not wanting to break the serenity, though it was loud enough for the girl to hear. "Falling from the heavens." She added, took a breath, and scrambled on after the boy. Breeze gently floated through the boy's feathery black hair, and it whipped more noticeably against the girl's thicker locks. This far out from the town, the night sky was full of vibrant stars, a blanket of luminescence. The hills they were climbing over were farther from town than most of the inhabitants would usually dare venture, but the twinkling windows of warm homes could be seen in the valley below. "Didn't know you were familiar with that saying." The boy stopped a moment, waiting for the girl to catch her breath. "You're the one who told me. Don't you remember?" The girl added with annoyance, brushing her hair out of her eyes, trying in vain to get it to stay behind her head. She didn't have any cloth to spare for a hair tie. "Did I?" He said, holding out a blue ribbon for the
Standing taller than him, she would've liked to say she could get away from him in a struggle, but he'd shown her his sword skills once before and she knew better. In the dim light, in the quiet night, the boy was hard to notice. He had a talent for making himself less perceptible. Bugs chirped, the wind in the leaves of the trees rustled, and water babbled innocently somewhere nearby. The girl stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for the boy to say something. When he didn't speak, she began to feel self-conscious.
"I stole food. Everyone in the Brink steals food." The girl said, defending her own actions.
"Not everyone. The town has me to keep an eye out for bandits like you." The boy said.
He was wearing a uniform that had been patched and repaired so much there likely wasn't any of the original uniform left. The boy had taken in the size to make sire it fit him as well. Despite the condition of the garment, it was easily recognizable as a vintage uniform of the Registered Military. A lovingly carved wooden badge was pinned to the boy's shirt declaring him as sheriff, and the girl couldn't help but wonder where he'd gotten it (and how much she could get selling it.)
"I'm not a bandit. I'm just a thief." It was an important distinction. Calling her a bandit implied she had friends, and she had none of those. On purpose.
"You can't just go around stealing whatever you want." The boy said, crossing his arms.