**CURRENTLY A FEATURED STORY**
highest ranking: #11 in Science fiction
❝true happiness is only achieved without freedom.
There is a girl who wakes to a world that she was supposed to protect. Instead, she fights it.
There is a man who is cursed wit...
It's named 'security and considerations.' Shit. Locked, and it's probably the most important part of this folder. I wonder if even Vance had access to this. I close my eyes, let my hands spread over the screen, feel the photos bursting across the ridges of my fingers. I feel the electricity pulsing from the chip in my hand run through my fingers, into my blood, turning it to gasoline.
Fry the system, a voice in my head tells me. Fry the whole damned system. But infiltrate it first, another voice whispers. Hack, crack, hack, slither in, invisible, unnoticed— password. Password or hack. I turn the chip over, then back over so the screen faces me - and. Choose to override the system. I turn to the chip's AI, and with my fingers, I speak to it.
System override requested.
System override requested by whom?
Diana Malcolm.
Please enter number._ Please enter number._
Number not available. Override.
Number is requested for override.
I close my eyes again, brow furrowed. There has to be something else.
Emergency override requested.
Please state the nature of your emergency.
Assassination of a higher power.
Emergency override requested by whom?
Vance Jakerrlos.
Please enter number._
Vance's number, his tattoo- I remember seeing it, as he sat, slumped in his cell in the Red Hand's prison the first time he was taken here. Black ink on a pale forearm, greenish veins embossing the number onto skin, disappearing into the tattoo. I know I know it... it comes back to me in a flash, a stroke of bling, absolute luck. I enter it in, fingers hurried.
C1o32. __
Number accepted. Welcome, Vance Jakerrlos.
The file opens to reveal the security measures imposed by the government in order to prevent war and conflict from disrupting what was supposed to be a perfect city. The wall, the arrangement of bureaus- the sectors, each with controlled populations. The education system, taught by either alumni from Tetrahmon's education, or by robots programmed to drill principles and a way of living into the minds of children, teaching them to give those up top power over oneself.
"To prevent uprisings," I mutter, eyes flitting to the next file. I open it, scan it over- and my heart drops into my stomach- because at the heart of this glass city is an entanglement, a black knot of white lies, deception, and betrayal.
In order to prevent uprisings or revolutions of any sort, a group shall be founded, named the Red Hand, and when the time comes, the President shall decide to terminate all Numbers who have chosen to join the revolutionary group.
The leaders of said group will be Bernard Eniel, Colonel Marshall, and Lois Randal. Only these select few and those with access to this file will know of the true purpose of this group, and—
I cut my reading short and stand, my heart pulsing in my throat, my vision focusing, blurring, because for the first time in my life, as far as I can remember, I'm terrified. I'm scared, I'm scared by and I'm furious with myself, because I've failed. I made the biggest mistake anyone could possibly make. I trusted, and because I trusted, I betrayed myself. It's like tripping over your own feet at the edge of a cliff and hurtling to your death. It's like tiptoeing on the edge of self-destruction and finally taking a wrong step.
I pick up the gun I use for marksmanship training, stuff the chip into my back pocket, and flee the dorm. No sooner do I turn the first corner down the corridor that I bump into to something solid - and very much alive and swearing - as it falls to the floor. It's Julian, and I'm almost relieved.
"What are you doing?" They ask, scrambling to their feet, but I grab their shirt sleeve and look at them earnestly.
"We need to get Vance and then we need to leave. We need to get out of here-"
"Wait a minute, hold on. I don't understand, Evanna, it's not safe up there!" They hiss, shaking me by the shoulders.
"It's them. The Red Hand. It's all a trap. It's them, Julian, it's them."
This time, there are no protests, and all that we leave behind are dead people walking and the sad, resonating echoes of our hurried footsteps along the concrete floor, lined with false consciences and larger-than-life mistakes.
The sound is cacophonous and yet empty, barren, like the icy wasteland above us.
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