evanna
"Watch your step." Julian's voice echoes in this underground void, slightly ahead of me.
"I know, I know," I mutter, my eyes fixed on the beam of light emanating from Julian's torch. The white stream of light catches everything within it- it's a spiderweb for the dust Julian scuffs up as they walk, catching every particle, every bit as rough and unclean as the city above us is pristine. The loose, grey, woollen turtleneck I wear bites at my neck with every slight shift of my shoulders, but I barely feel it with the numb feelings of revulsion, victory, and curiosity that have now become dominant.
I have just witnessed technology capable of reducing live tissue to its elemental state- every cell broken down, every carbon atom released from what had once been a breathing, moving human body. The government has no respect for the dead. I, at least, respect the way one should kill a person. I hesitate to ask Julian a question that hangs on the tip of my tongue like a heavy weight as the yellow glow of thousands of strung-up light bulbs flickers into view. I ask it anyways. "Was that your first execution?" I can make out the slight movement of Julian's shoulders sagging forwards, the fabric of their grey attire slipping down the nape slightly, exposing the beginning of what I can assume is a myriad of tattoos down Julian's back. For a moment, I think I'm about to hear an irritating story about how Julian's family was executed too. What would I have to say, if that is the case?
'I'm so sorry.' I'm not, it wasn't my fault.
'How awful.' What a nice reminder.
People cannot expect me to empathise with them- I have no need nor interest in making other people feel better through pretending that I care.
"No. I've been to another, a while back. Must've been three years ago or something." Julian's answer is satisfying enough, but they're not quite done. "We're going to have to talk to Bernard about it, especially since they've decided to close the case on the murder of that guy you killed by blaming someone who was probably innocent."
Julian falls into step with me. A faint click, and the particles have gone from Julian's beam of light, now clouding around the lightbulbs. Julian pockets the small torch, and sticks their hands in their pockets. I'm smiling right now. "I don't think they're closing the case," I say.
"Eh? What?"
"I think they're just starting their investigation. They're only keeping their secrets to themselves." I respond with a scowl to a suspicious, uncomfortable look I receive from a revolutionary who sits there in his little shanty, which is more scraps of metal twisted and bent together to form a frame, and then blankets tossed over them to make it look decent enough. I'm glad we get to sleep in Bernard's residence.
"Oh." Julian takes a left, ducking a lightbulb that had been strung up rather badly.
Everyone we pass is branded with a tattoo. I notice the black ink on every forearm exposed by a rolled-up sleeve as we walk through the revolution's beehive. The government hasn't missed anyone.
▿
Music plays, faintly, from the queen's spot in the hive- or rather, Bernard's. My step falls heavily on the wooden panels that make up the floor of his abode as I step over the threshold, and his hand lifts upwards, pulling the needle gently off the record player. The music comes to a crackling stop, and silence has its reigning moment before Bernard makes noise as he puts the record back into its envelope and slides it away. "You're late," he announces, before turning around.
"And I thought those didn't exist anymore." I jerk my head towards the gramophone that sits, like a guilty pleasure, in the cabinet behind him.
Bernard exhales and clamps his hands together. "Music," he whispers, "is a wordless pathway to the soul, an intertwining of sound to create art, a means of turning a cacophony into something beautiful."
"Then it is a stupid thing, if it creates such irrational thinking," I answer. Julian makes a sound of amusement, and crosses their arms over their chest.
"It is a necessity." Bernard looks so protective of his rusty old gramophone that I nearly feel bad for his pathetic care for an inanimate object.
"Can we please focus?" Julian's characteristically irritated voice cuts into our conversation.
With a look my way and the word "Bach," Bernard invites us both to sit down on the sofa of his living room. "Right then," he starts, tugging his pushed-up sleeves down. "What did you want to talk about?"
"The execution, obviously," Julian says. "What did you think, the weather?" I can't help but smile a little at Julian's comments. They're so much more interesting when they're impatient.
There's a pause, and Bernard breaks the silence. "It's quite obvious that it's going to be a lot more difficult to figure out anything when it comes to Evanna now- what she can do, what she can't. She'll just have to start training with you and the others, Julian, to push her limits and to figure out what she can and can't do."
"You think lifting a few weights will help me test my limits?" I ask, tone disbelieving. In truth, I'm amused- and perhaps my pride is somewhat wounded- in learning that Bernard really doesn't know much about me. "My biological processes are heightened thanks to the experimentations that were done on me. I can see better than you can, I can smell better- all of your senses are dull in comparison to mine."
"You're still human," Bernard answers defensively. "That means you have limits."
"I'm not human," I say, "although I'll take it as... as an insult. Everyone and everything has its limits. Your lives have limits, your shoes have a limit, the hair on you head has a limit- your useless record player has its own limit- although it looks like it's been through hell already. I've been through hell- twice, and believe me, I'm not has human as you think."
"You certainly lack empathy," Julian interrupts.
"It saves me time and energy, not having to feel sorry for other people," I answer simply.
"Anyways, what's now clear is that the Government is taking their investigation to a new level. They won't let anyone stick their heads into the matter and probe around to see if they can find any valuable information. Which is why," he says, standing up, and motioning for us to do the same, "I picked up a... stray animal on the way back home. It really wasn't too difficult to get it to move and come with me, all it really required was a firm grip, a few words, and an agreement. I find that my skills of persuasion are rather polished." He picks up his jacket and a pistol, slinging the former over his shoulders before leading us back outside, into the plain of shanties and flickering lightbulbs and weak power.
Our destination is what some might call a cellar converted into a small prison. There are bars everywhere- the cells are cubes of cement with bars on one side, and Guards in front of each. Their stance distant enough to evade the hands that might reach through the bars to grab them, turn them into Guardian angels instead of guard-dogs, but they stand close enough to get a good aim through the bars.
I assume the people imprisoned are traitors- except for one. He sits in solitary confinement, his face in his hands, black bangs falling over his fingers, blending in with the dark shadows behind him. His body trembles, the slight, disrupting quiver of fear accompanies him. Bernard got him down here after the execution? I know I can applaud that- and I know, too, that our prisoner has not betrayed us yet. If he keeps it up, he might live.
I pick up the faintest vibration of a sound wave coming from him, a senseless, crazed mutter. "I am ill," he whispers. "I am ill, I am ill, help me, please help me." He knows he will get no help here.
"Well, well, well " I say, stepping up to the bars and wrapping my hands around them. A smirk tiptoes its way onto my lips. "We meet again, with the lion in its cage."