Radio Raleigh

I woke up in an airplane. An airplane. Airplanes haven’t been available for use since I was at least three, and those are only shadowy memories of small bi-planes puttering across the sky like they had no where to be.

The first thing I did when I got over the novelty of being in a plane was reach for my throat, checking for lacerations or scars or anything that might cause permanent damage, but my hands only got about an inch off the arm rests before my hand cuffs yanked them back down.

I sighed. Of course they would keep me locked up. Voluntarily turning myself in gave me no brownie points whatsoever. What did a person have to do to catch a break during war time?

In a low voice, I whispered “Testing,” as if I were a microphone. For all intents and purposes, I was.

The word grated along my throat like I had a bad case of strep, but I figured that was from the screaming. It was recoverable. I could recover.

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Glad to see you’ve joined the living,” a voice like gravel crunching beneath someone’s shoe spoke suddenly, and my eyes darted to my right to see the soldier with dark curly hair and green eyes observing me carefully. He was wearing the traditional uniform of the Western forces; a white uniform with gold trimming the sleeves and matching tassels on the shoulders. A small tag on his breast pocket revealed him to be Lieutenant Colonel Styles.

I didn’t respond and instead wriggled my hands around in the cuffs. It didn’t escape my notice that someone had taken the time to slather my fingertips in burn ointment, tediously wrapping each and every one in its own personal bandage.

It felt like ice was being applied to my fingers, a blissfully cool breeze that blew any semblance of pain away.

Styles quirked an eyebrow but seemed to get my meaning. The cuffs that had me pinned were of a much more advanced technology than what was in the East—he slid a thumb over the recognition software on both sides and the cuffs sprung open.

I brought both of my wrists to my chest, cradling them there.

Styles plopped into the chair across from me. Bringing his wrists up to his lips, he whispered something I couldn’t hear.

Immediately, the rest of his squad filed in, single line, and took up the seats beside me. I tensed, my muscles coiling up. If I weren’t trapped on a plane, I would have booked it from here as fast as I could.

Turning myself in wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

“First things first,” the one with the high-pitched voice said, his nametag reading Colonel Tomlinson. He looked different than I pictured, gruffer, almost. His hair was ruffled and devoid of a hat, and his eyes were cold and ice blue. They broadcasted indifference, as he looked me over. Week-old stubble grazed along the contours of his face. “What is your name?”

I settled my hands in my lap and simply raised an eyebrow. Did they think it was going to be this easy? If I only had myself to worry about, then I wouldn’t care. But my father and brother were fighting in the war, and I would not make them targets to Western forces. I wasn’t bitter enough to endure that kind of heartbreak.

They were doing what they could to help with the war effort, and I was doing what I could.

Anything to make up for the mother that ran out on us, a defector to the people who now held me captive.

What would she say if she saw me now? Did she recognize my voice on the nightly broadcast?

If she did, why hasn’t she given me up yet?

It hit me in that moment that it wasn’t that she didn’t recognize me.

It was that she didn’t care.

“Are you going to keep this up forever?” The one with the nametag declaring Malik drawled, looking at me beneath heavy eyelids.

“You’re a stubborn one,” Horan observed, and I finally got to see the face of the man who held a gun to my head. His blue eyes and bleached-blond hair. The hands that shakily curled around a gun.

The gun.

Instantly, my hands flew up to my forehead, which was wrapped in thick gauze and tape. I cringed at the thought of the scar a bullet grazing would leave—I’d be my own personal Harry Potter. Except my scar would be a hell of a lot less cool than a lightning bolt.

I only hoped that they’d cleaned the blood off my face.

“It’s just a surface wound, the scarring should be minimal,” Styles piped up, sensing my concern. It was strange, how he knew where my train of thought lead. I didn’t like it.

Silence fell, the tension thick and palpable. It tasted bitter on my tongue.

“Why did they choose you?” The earnest one, his tag read the name Payne, asked gently. It seemed he decided it was time to take a different approach.

About time.

I adjusted myself in the chair and stared at him directly. He flinched from the contact, his brown eyes filled with apprehension and confusion.

“Because of my voice.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I expected anything to happen after I spoke. I never really quite understood the enchantment everyone else spoke of. It was just a voice.

However, the men surrounding me remained cold. Calloused. It was as if I had never spoken.

Then I noticed the devices in their ears.

They looked like tiny strainers, the kind you’d used to filter the water out of pasta. A tiny green light flashed, and I wondered how the hell I hadn’t seen it before.

They were so afraid of my voice that they were filtering it?

I wanted to laugh at their ridiculousness, but my body couldn’t muster the sound. Any attempt of it died in my throat.

“You’re filtering me, huh?” I said, leaning forward on my hands, and they had the gall to look surprised. For a second, I could have sworn that Lieutenant Colonel Styles paled.

“Safety precautions. You can hardly blame us.”

I smiled. “No. I can’t. It just makes me wonder what kind of world we’re living in when a group of men find it impossible to listen to my actual voice. What are you actually hearing right now? A robot translation? Layers of static added onto my voice?”

Their silence was my answer.

I twiddled my thumbs; painlessly, might I add, and then fell back into the cushion of the plane seat.

“I’ll tell you my name if you take out the filters.” I smiled again, wondering if they’d actually do it. If they honestly believed I could tell them to kill themselves and they would do it, well, that was their problem. I was not someone who wanted all of their sadistic faith. It suffocated me, filling my lungs and making it hard to breathe.

Styles was the first to take out the filters, pulling out a food tray and dropping them on top with a metallic ting.

After him was Payne, hesitant, and then Malik, still sleepy. Tomlinson and Horan took longer, but eventually their filters joined the others.

“Spit it out, then,” Horan demanded roughly.

“Now, now, boys. It won’t be that easy. I heard that your squad searched for me in every town named Raleigh in the country, with no luck.”

Simultaneously, each and every one of them let their jaws drop, pressing flat against the chairs as if they’d been hit by a truck.

Well, every one except Styles and Malik. The only difference in Malik’s expression was that he looked a tiny bit more alert. Styles kept the same poker face from before in place.

It unsettled me, and I refused to think about the fact that I had become used to infallible power. I didn’t want to become the person who expected people to bend at my will.

But isn’t that what I had become?

“We did. It was like searching for smoke.” Styles addressed me directly, his voice a little strained.

“And the only reason you got me this time was because my Colonel made a deal, right? A bargain?”

“Do you plan on going somewhere important with this?”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I am. Now, if you could tell me where it was that you found me?”

He sighed. “Long Island.”

I spoke slowly, enunciating each and every syllable. “Why would my show be called Radio Raleigh if I wasn’t stationed in Raleigh?”

I knew Lieutenant Colonel Styles was not stupid. Quite honestly, he seemed like the type to border on near genius. I was surprised he hadn’t figured it out beforehand. Maybe he’d been on the cusp of it before Colonel Smith decided to sell me out like the expendable he assumed I was.

Styles’ eyes widened fractionally. I saw the pieces fit themselves together in his brain.

“Raleigh,” he whispered, and I felt the jolt that came with someone calling me my real name. “Your fucking name is Raleigh.”

He stood abruptly, hitting into the flimsy plastic table and breaking it into two. “How could we be so bloody stupid? It was staring us in the face the entire time!”

“Calm down, mate, we can’t afford to have you flying off the handle like this.” Colonel Payne pressed his hands firmly against Styles’ shoulders, holding him in place while he took calming breaths. There was a glint in his eye, a murderous glint that should have warded off anyone who had the tiniest bit a sanity left in them.

What really was sanity, anyway?

Tomlinson sticking his face into my line of vision interrupted my thoughts, such an expression of hate in his eyes it almost made me sick. “What’s your last name?”

I shook my head. “Classified information. Above your pay grade, soldier.” I smirked, which only served to infuriate him more. If it wasn’t tinged with the fear of someone blowing my brains out, I would have found this entertaining.

Tomlinson shoved the filters back in his ears before speaking to me again, his eyes rimmed with red and slightly glazed over. “You said that if we took these goddamned things out you would tell us your name,” he snarled, baring his teeth.

“I did tell you my name. I didn’t say I’d tell you both of them.”

“Why the hell not?” Tomlinson screamed, and I pushed him away and stood, coming face to shoulder with him. I glared up at his seething, red face. I opened my mouth, getting ready to speak.

But I didn’t get the chance.

“She’s protecting someone,” Styles said, cutting through all the commotion and leaving a resounding nothingness in its wake.

Oh, hell.