evanna
WE DON'T SEEM to be doing anything. The days whittle by, ridden with training, and the longer I stay with the Red Hand, following Bernard's order, the greater my resentment for him grows. It's not that I mistrust him entirely, but I don't dare bring up the subject of what we found at the laboratory. I'll figure it out on my own, and if he slips up in his speech, and I can squeeze out some answers that way, then I'll take that opportunity, but for the time being I don't complain, and I fall back, gradually, into the step of life as a revolutionary.
Bernard doesn't let me go out. In his opinion, it's too dangerous; in my opinion, his justification is stupid. If I watch myself, nothing can happen. We don't hear from our President: any messages delivered through the speaker lines are spoken by someone from the high council. It changes from notice to notice. Occasionally, the waver of Vance's voice warbles out from the speakers, and every time, a hatred in me for him begins to develop, and then grow.
He is on their side. Of course he is. He's a coward, and cowards will stay with whatever they know.
Julian, Francis and I are put into the same rotation for training. It suits us all, because they're the only people I can tolerate to an extent. Well. I can tolerate Julian well enough, but sometimes I need Julian to put a handle on my patience with Francis. Julian teaches us to shoot, Francis teaches us knife combat and throwing, and I'm put in charge of hand-to-hand combat between the three of us.
I eat every three days, and Bernard has no problem with it. So, I was right. My metabolism is different. I don't know what they did to me, but I have to find out.
The training is vigorous, however. It's intellectually stimulating and physically challenging, even for me, sometimes. It rotates efficiently between groups of us: on some days, we're taught the mechanics and all there is to know about electric systems, the armour and the weapons of the guards scattered around and outside Tetrahmon.
Bernard speaks to the whole of the Red Hand on occasion, to inform us of our next durites or to inform us of what intelligence has been able to report from Tetrahmon.
"I think he's afraid," says Julian to me one evening. We're seated on Julian's upper bunk, legs dangling from the metal frame of the bunk. It's late: everyone's gone to bed around us. Dinner had been tarnished with another of Bernard's speeches.
"Afraid?" I ask quietly. "What good's a leader if they're afraid, especially of exposure?"
"I think that's what makes them better. Human," Julian tells me, and before I can scoff, they continue. "It's not exposure he's afraid of. Not directly, I don't think. There's something else bothering him. He told me yesterday that the intelligence is dwindling."
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I pluck an eyelash from where it's threaded itself between my other lashes before it manages to get into my eye. "That's a loyal following you've got there," I comment dryly.
Julian sighs. "He told me people are quitting their 'double identities' and falling into their jobs in the city as citizens that respond to the President, and not to Bernard or the Red Hand anymore. It's not that difficult to understand why, either. Everyone's afraid for themselves. Fear is something very difficult to look past, especially when you're trying to look past it to see an unrefined, unstable, unpredictable revolution against an extremely powerful government that's a bigger threat to them than we are." Julian brings up their legs to sit cross-legged, their dark eyes blending in with the tenebrosity around us.
"Cowards."
Julian's mouth thins. "I don't blame them."
Silence is allowed to reign for a little while longer as we sit there side-by-side in the bunk, the walls pressing in all around us.
I decide to confide in Julian: because if I can't, then I'll be lost during my time here. I let my voice drop to an undertone, almost inaudible. "I think Bernard's hiding something from me."
"What?"
"You heard what I said." In the shadows, I can make out the movement of Julian's arm as their raise it to brush their bangs back.
"Why do you think that?" Julian's tone sounds almost hurt- but why? Hurt, betrayed, maybe.
"Has he told you anything about what they've figured out from the laboratory?"
"No. Well, not much. I thought he'd-" The creak of a mattress makes Julian cut themselves off. They wait until the noise has stopped, and a good minute more, before continuing. "I thought he'd tell you."
"No." My answer is curt, impatient.
"He's not told me anything of veritable significance, Evanna," they whisper back. "Only that the information is of uppermost importance. I think he just needs it to figure out what you're really worth. I think he just wants to make sure you're at your maximum capacity before you fight for him, which is fair enough, really, given what you can already do. I expect he's keeping it to himself to avoid the information from spreading or anything. I wouldn't worry about it. Really."
My fist clenches around the sheet. "So essentially he's turning me into a weapon."
"You're not a weapon, Evanna, you're just an... important soldier," Julian answers calmly.
That pushes it too far. "I don't fight for him. I'm not his soldier. I'm not like you. I don't fight for anyone, I fight for a cause, and that's it. He has no proper authority over me."
It is with those words that I leave Julian, letting myself jump down to the floor from Julian's bunk. Frustrated, I get into bed and stare up at the outline of Julian's gun. Gun.
Bernard is making me something to use for the rebellion, something for him to wield. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, i will confront him.
For if I am to be the Red Hand's gun, what will become of me?