Tyrant

(1) 𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙴𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

We all hear the Siren go off.

Eira, the child sitting near me, clamps her small hands over her ears, blocking out the horrendous sound—and after a solid minute, the eerie ringing slowly dies out. A chill snakes its way down my spine at the sinister ring.

"You mentioned the shop in the 8th Quarter, Shaye?" I ask, as if nothing had happened—as if no one was just killed.

"Yes. It finally restocked, along with the other two on 33rd Street." Shaye states, her white eyes shining with the prospect of fresh and edible food.

I stand, careful not to trip over the filthy long white dress I wore.

The dress every female in The City wore.

Long-sleeved, flowy, and hideous.

"Then let's meet back here at sunset, for dinner. Go purchase some food—I will do the same." I lie to the girls in the metro, slinging my small black satchel over my shoulder. The four females stand as I jerk my chin towards the sliding exit door. "Let's go."

I like these girls, I think to myself as we exit through the heavy sliding door of the abandoned metro.

I like them, but don't trust them.

They don't trust me either, I know.

And trust or no trust, I am leaving.

Alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My feet had been dragging across the jagged, uneven asphalt for nearly two hours, my mind racing. I'd been contemplating leaving for a few weeks now, but witnessing the bloody and unjust death a few nights ago convinced me.

The victim was a child, no older than six. They were killed for mentioning the past: speaking of Before warrants death, regardless of age. The voice chips implanted in our throats ensured that.

The girls believed I was coming back to the metro tonight, food in tow. Shame burns deep in my gut. How could I just leave my....

Friends? Comrades? Acquaintances?

I look up at the dark, murky sky.

My enemies?

A cold, cruel breeze smacks across my face, as if mocking me, chiding me for being so hesitant in these circumstances. 

You don't trust them and that's that.

I cross my arms for warmth at that strange whispering wind—but it's right. Those girls are not to be trusted. Even adorable little Eira, with her heart-shaped face screaming innocence. The ones that seemed utterly harmless were always the opposite.

Eira could be a spy.

I stare ahead as I walk. I can't stay in The City any longer—there are too many dreadful memories of death, of hate, of fear. Traveling northwards to Blackridge means being in the midst of a raging war—the northerners are stubborn and prideful, and will never accept The One's rule. And with winter approaching, going north and staying there would be suicidal.

Going south to Ashbourne is not an option, either.

Women are banned from entering that city, and if a female was stupid enough to want to enter, she would be shot upon sight from guards atop the Watchtower. The southerners believed females to be inferior—and are building an army of males to fight The One.

But that information, about Ashbourne building an army, is a mere rumor that had been hovering around The City like fog.

Regardless of army or not, my decision has already been made.