evanna
IT'S THE HUMAN factor to everything that allows me to locate a fatal flaw. Either it's the softness of the flesh, or the brittle bone, or the malleable mind, presented for manipulation. I watch them stonily as they walk to and from my cell, each dutifully taking guard over Tetrahmon's sole prisoner. All of them avoid eye contact with me, and I've given up on trying to get them to talk. They are robotic in nature, more so than they are human, and their indoctrination has dulled them to duty and nothing more. And yet... they are human, not in a metaphorical sense, not in their conscious acts, but they are. They just are. And that is what separates me from them.
My hands are curled around the bars of my cell, the shiny metal smooth and cold beneath my hands. I've waited. I've waited for seven days, and it's time to get out. This time, though, it will be difficult. It will be difficult to get through Tetrahmon, when everybody knows my aim, my face. I lay down on the cool floor, my platinum hair fanning out underneath my head, and scrape my fingernail down a bar, making an uncomfortable, screeching sound. The time ticks slowly and feigning sleep has become all too easy. Only a few hours, and night will cast its blanket over the city, and the night shift will come.
▿
It doesn't take an awfully long time to figure out how to short-circuit the lock. I throw the taser down onto the floor, and it lands with a soft thud as it bumps against the immobilised body of one of the guards, and let myself out. "Thanks," I say smugly.
I find myself in a maze of hallways, all painted white, the lights above giving it a sense of visual sterility, detached from the outside world. I keep my head bowed down, the knife in hand, blade hidden up the sleeve of my grey clothing. I'm losing time. Seven days of imprisonment have left me incapable of mapping out a logical direction to get out of here. It's strange. I feel... disconnected.
To my great advantage, no guards directly cross my path, although the security cameras are unavoidable. I had been hoping that short-circuiting the lock of my cell would have had a rippling effect on other systems within the area of the building, but it isn't the case. Not even the lights flicker. I pick up my pace, flatten myself against a wall, my shadow pooling into grey around my feet as a guard passes the perpendicular junction to my corridor. A security camera stares straight at me, and I stare back with a grim expression set upon my face, the fingers of my left hand clenching around the knife even more. I check my coast quickly, and deciding it's safe enough, I unwrap the tattered, old shawl around my neck, part of my civilian uniform, and drape it over my head, deciding that my stark white hair is far too noticeable a feature to be of any help to me. With that, I take a right.
The unpreventable comes to light far quicker than I imagined. The lights dim, and arrows light up upon the walls as a siren begins to howl, the sound echoing through every corridor. I ignore the arrows and start off in the opposite direction at a run, the shawl falling from my head. I slam my shoulder into a side-door, hoping for stairs. Half an hour later, I stumble from the building and right myself. Tucking my hair back in, I aim for a brisk pace towards the metal gate that encircles the prison facility. It's another obstacle that I must overcome, but the guards have lost their alertness that no doubt was ingrained into their minds from their training, but not seeing particularly threatening prisoners but have dulled their capacities. It's no difficult chore to take them out and leave.
I can't help but leave a trail.
It's a tease to me, a game, a taunt of catch me if you can. I've bested them, yet again, and as I make my way through the city that I've come to know well, a twisted smile briefly crosses my features.
And though it is dark, the city is awake, under an emergency. I can make out the silhouettes of the drones against the clouds that drip, viscous, in moonlight. A man's voice sounds out from the speakers that lie littered around every corner. Nightfall protects me well enough from those who know what I've done. As I walk alongside the facade of a building, a striking burst of light illuminates the side of my face.
I look up to see myself. A drone hovers a good ten meters above my head, its projector throwing upon the glass building a billboard of my name, a photograph of my face, the list of my crimes printed out neatly, in large, bold lettering. I've exposed myself, and perhaps not for the better.
Sticking my hands into my pockets, the blade of the knife cool against my skin, I push onwards through the falling snow with determination a map of the city reforming itself inside my mind as I make a beeline for the Red Hand.
I'll be welcomed as a hero. I'll be welcomed as the masterpiece of Bernard's vision, as the future.
▿
"What the fuck were you going for? Did you think that you wouldn't go to prison? Did you think that the whole system would collapse? Diana Malcolm was not our threat." Bernard's attempts at lecturing me like one would lecture a child have little effect on my opinions.
"It's unsettled the population," I protest. "Unsettlement is the last thing they want."
"When the time is to unsettle the city is not something that you get to decide. That's my job, not yours. You risked the exposure of the Red Hand, and thanks to your ridiculously public assassination, you've forced us to delay our plans." He looks more tense than usual, I realise, the frown lines across his forehead and between his eyebrows deepened.
Julian sits in a corner, picking the dirt out nonchalantly from underneath a fingernail. I'm quite sure they're more amused than upset about this whole situation.
"Alright. I'm not going to do it again," I scoff, and with a frustrated noise, he turns to the door and leaves. The moment the door slams shut, Julian gets up and folds their arms across their chest, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.
"What?" I snap poisonously.
"I assume you haven't heard."
"Heard what?"
"They've elected our new president." Julian walks past me and leans against the desk.
Even that shocks me. "Already? It's only been a week."
"The people don't get to choose," Julian says. "The president is elected by the governmental bureau and the high council. It keeps consistency, things running smoothly. Nobody lifts a finger against it because they either truly believe that those fucks up on their high horses are the most important thing and the best option for the prosperity of Tetrahmon, or they don't want to die. I wager the majority lean towards the former." Julian pulls back their lips and runs their tongue over their upper teeth in thought. "Bernard's pissed because that consistency was the major thing he was relying on to strike. Now he's got to adapt his plan."
I snort. "A plan that's difficult to adapt is hardly a good plan."
I watch the muscle in Julian's jaw clench and relax several times, before suddenly, they turn on me. "It's not always that easy," they lash out. "Bernard's been working on this for years, and we're running out of time. Malcolm was at least a somewhat docile President. She wasn't evil, though her ideals were."
"So you're telling me-"
Julian cuts me off sharply. "Jonathan Jakerrlos. President Jonathan Jakerrlos."
"Yeah. So?" I'm unfazed by Julian's words, no matter how dramatically they're being said.
"He has a son. It's Vance."
I try not to let the shock be as apparent across my face, but it's difficult. "Vance? Vance is his son?"
"That's not all." Perhaps my previous judgement on how Julian is feeling about my spectacle was wrong. Their voice is dour, and it's a bit... unsettling, even for me. "Jonathan is ruthless. He'll go to any measures to get what he wants, Evanna. Under him, everything will be under far stricter control. Project Chrysalis was no doubt his idea, and its effects are already starting to show. After what you've done, he will try to create a sieve, and that sieve will be there to sort out those who will die for him and those who might so much think one thing that doesn't fall into his ideology, into his Utopia."
I'm not afraid, but I know there's no way I'll be able to pull off something like that again. Not ever. I must be vigilant. I must be cautious. We all have to be.
"And..." Julian's hand clenches into a fist where it's pressed against the messy desktop, and their lips quiver just slightly as they speak. "And Jonathan- Jonathan Jakerrlos is the creator of Tetrahmon."
The words sink into me like a thousand shards of serrated red glass.