A Midnight Sun Is Rising

Enjolras first suspected the true nature of the Society at the age of seven, during a rare event in which a Council member's daughter was deemed undesirable. He watched from the window as she was dragged, kicking and screaming, away from indifferent parents. The officials were unnecessarily rough and tears tracked a shining path against skin turned ruddy by pain and terror. In the brief second before she was thrown into the black van, her eyes met his. Hazel darkened by the knowledge of her fate. Horror. Pain, unimaginable pain. And worst of all to witness, complete hopelessness. She reached a hand out to him, seeking, and he banged his own fist against the glass, calling, screaming, for the officials to stop, for mercy, for God’s sake, mercy. Enjolras’ mother rushed into the room and yanked him away from the window.

The girl was his age. So young and undeniably innocent. She was undesirable due to a genetic growth disorder. The drinking water tasted strange for days afterwards and the neighborhood was shrouded in a peculiar fog of confusion, but his mind stayed curiously clear. Amidst this clarity bitter resentment took root.

Three weeks later Enjolras was walking by his father's study when he realized the door was open. A thin sliver of cold electric light fell across his path from the opening, stopping him in his tracks. It was, perhaps, this light that forever sealed his fate. Bitter is the light that illuminates the ever dark shadows of mankind's own cruelty. Even bitterer so is the innocent young soul who witnesses this illumination.

The screen on his father’s wall was lit with the same unnatural light, a startling white background imposed with virtual images of grey files. Enjolras’ eyes scanned the labels, government standard black type grating against his vision, before coming to a rest on FAMILY PHOTOS. It was strange, he thought, that his father would want to keep such memories. A distant and brutal man, proud to a fault, he cared little for the family that shared his name. A second of hesitation and then Enjolras reached to touch the file, the warmth of his fingertips registering against the machine. Pixels rose up, twisting into obscure lines and points before aligning into a uniform PASSWORD? Here he paused, unsure, his hand hovering above the letters.

“It’s THIRDPANTHEONFALLING211096.” A steady voice answered from the back of the room. Enjolras whipped around, eyes searching the dark corners desperately. He was not a careless boy, and he had checked the study for occupants multiple times before entering. A figure stepped from the corner, wrapped in scarlet and infinitely familiar. “Trust me, Enjy.” His mother whispered. “Enter it in. THIRDPANTHEONFALLING211096.”

The look in her eyes was more than enough stimulus for him. Turning back to the shimmering screen, slightly trembling fingers tapped out the code. Once again the pixels separated, reformed, twisting in a bizarre dance lacking breath and grace. An image took shape, startling in its clarity. First were the images he had seen countless times, the images from Before, yet infinitely different. The bombs fell not from enemy planes, but from planes inscribed with the Society’s signature. Men and women covered in dirt and ashes, armed with whatever they could scrape up, fired back below. Beneath their feet graffiti words were emblazoned in red: FREEDOM and THIS IS OUR HOME and YOU CANNOT SILENCE OUR VOICES.

This was not a war against an enemy country as he had been taught. It was a revolution.

Enjolras turned to his mother, questions choking his throat, but she shook her head. “Watch.” Words took their place on the screen.

On November 17, 2035, President Baker was installed as dictator during the crisis against the Axis Powers with the full support of Congress. The world was under enormous threat. What some may consider immoral acts were committed repeatedly by the government, acts justified by the end result, victory over the enemy.

“Obviously it’s a bit biased.” His mother spoke. “They were always huge admirers of Machiavelli.” Pictures of torture, bloody and in brutal detail, flashed before them.

While the crisis was resolved, Protests erupted across the country, fueled by released information of such acts, blown out of proportion by activists. The government took the necessary steps to maintain peace.

More video, this time of citizens penetrated by bullets and beaten to the ground with police batons. Blood painted the scenes, flowing on streets, coursing from limp bodies, splattered against brick walls, staining the cities like rust.

Ties with outside countries, all experiencing their own catastrophes as the world underwent legendary disasters, were officially cut. Private corporations, universities, public education, libraries, religious organizations, and hospitals were seized by the government for the good of the people.

A snort from his mother.

Revolution burned across the country. With concentrated measures-

"Reports indicate these measures included the kidnapping, torturing, and brutal killings of revolutionary leaders, broadcast on live television to the populace. There were massacres almost everyday. So many died. So many..." Her voice bent under the weight of the words.

-the treacherous flames of rebellion were extinguished after twelve long years. As a final protection of peace, chemicals similar to hallucinogens were infused into the water and air to change traumatic memories to a less painful knowledge of history. A war with an enemy country that had been resolved. This war, Councilmen, is the history we must tell our citizens in order to protect them. Knowledge of the truth, of such violence, could only lead to more violence. This is how the Society was created. The goal of the Society is to bring peace and happiness to her citizens. We cannot allow any obstacles to keep us from our goal.

It wasn’t over yet. Dates flashed by, dates not so long gone, each belonging to a picture like some perverted scrapbook.

1/27/2147, two years ago. Babies in tiny body bags. A caption read “Four hundred eliminated on this date with estimated potential IQs over 120”.

3/17/2147, one thousand children below the age of ten with genetic disorders. Eliminated.

4/5/2147, two hundred toddlers with physical defects. Eliminated.

The list went on and on, each number blurring together in his mind until nothing remained but dark figures and the blank, lifeless eyes of the innocents.

“You had to know, Enjy. I’m sorry, but you had to know. In time I will explain, but your dad will be home soon. You must go.” She escorted him back to his room, the door to the study closing with a soft click, though he thought surely the departure of all he had once known should sound louder. More like a thunder clap. Or perhaps a gunshot. Even so, he fell into bed silent.

Numbers, he realized. That’s what we are. Numbers, to be added and subtracted at will.

****************************************************
His mother died one month later. An official cause was never found. The Society turned her death into a sacrifice, a sacrifice for its continuation, its “peace”, a sacrifice for that which she hated beyond words. Her casket was covered in a scarlet shroud. In his mind it echoed the rivers of blood she had shown him weeks before. A reminder of why he had to fight, why he couldn't let what she had given him go. When the moon rose that night, he sobbed, breathless, enraged sobs, cries of anger and anguish melding into one.

It was the last time he cried for a very long time.

Enjolras’ father buried all compassion with her death, and if Enjolras was marble his father was black granite. Even so his son burned with righteous fire, and a week after his mother’s passing he found a letter in her script stuck beneath his childhood train set. It was written in a code she had taught him as a game when he was young. He understood now it had never been a game.

My Child,

This is the truth of my life, because you deserve the truth, and because it is all I can offer you now.

I was born in the slums. My family was poor, and it was a horrible existence to say the very least. I did things you could never imagine just to survive. Remember the plight of those below you, Enjy. Your father never looks down upon the misery of the people, but you are different.

When I was thirteen, the Resistance found me. They are a secret group fighting for freedom and equality. In other words, revolution. I was accepted into their ranks within the year. By the time I was seventeen, I was a respected member. My mission was to infiltrate the Council through exploiting my relationship with a Council member. Your father, honey. But I never meant for it to turn out the way it did, never meant to have you...
But no matter. After you were born, I had no choice but to marry your father. It was not so bad. I had you and that was enough. All these years I have continued to report back to the Resistance.

On the 24th I was found out. They will kill me and they will manipulate my death. Do not believe whatever they tell you. It is all lies, lies they will use to groom you into one of them. You cannot let that happen. Play their games, say their vows, do whatever you need to to stay unnoticed, but do not become one of them.

Listed below are contacts, members of the Resistance you can trust. I hate doing this, hate putting you into danger, but it has to be done. You have to continue my fight. Fight for me, for yourself, for the people. I love you, Enjy. I'm so, so sorry you were born into this twisted world.

I love you for always and ever. Love, your mother.

And so an angel of the revolution was born.