XY Revolution

We land on the roof of the prison in Hong Kong. There’s a handsome man in his mid-twenties, dressed in an expensive looking suit, waiting, flanked by several of the prison guards and a couple of others. I assume those ones are rebels. It’d be suicide going in to a prison without back-up.

Travis helps me out of the helicopter, then quickly leaves me. He’d put his helmet back on for that small task, and I assume it’s because his face is recognisable. Fortunately I think mine has faded into obscurity. For now.

“Ah, you must be Freya!” the attractive man says then comes over to kiss my hand. He smells wonderful and his dark blue eyes sparkle. “My name is Derek Marsters. I’m sure you’ve been told it’s my job to make sure you’re perfect for tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” I respond with a smile.

“Excellent,” he exclaims, clapping his hands together.

A guard then comes forward with a metal detector and runs it over me. When he’s done it three times and come up empty-handed, he gives a curt nod and backs away.

Derek wraps an arm around me, his brilliant white teeth flashing everyone in the vicinity a dazzling smile as he walks me down into the building. There are no windows, just flickering fluorescents illuminating the off-white walls. I can actually hear mice scurrying around in the walls.

Soon enough, Derek says goodbye to the prison guards and stations his own outside a door he then leads me through. The first thing I see is a flash of pink.

“Hi!” a very effeminate voice squeals.

The door closes with a definitive slam, indicating how heavy the damn thing is. It’s unlikely anyone can hear us, despite the volume this man is shrieking at. He’s dressed very stylishly in black despite the pink scarf and glitter eye-shadow. His black hair is arranged perfectly and his face is all pleasantly sharp angles.

“I’m Kevin! You must be Freya!”

The man then proceeds to take my hands and kiss me on each cheek.

“Yeah, hi,” I say.

The shock must be evident in my voice because Kevin then tones it down.

“I’m going to be your stylist for tonight. And yes, I work with Derek. You’re safe with me,” he tells me in a much lower voice.

Derek then puts his hand on Kevin’s waist and kisses his forehead. I smile in spite of myself. Derek’s way too gorgeous to be straight, of course.

“Now take a seat and we’ll get started,” Kevin says, suddenly whipping out a violent looking pair of scissors.

“You haven’t killed anyone with those things have you?” I ask jokingly.

Kevin just gives me a sly look and says, “Not for a while.”

*

I barely recognise myself when Kevin’s through. My usually lank hair has been twisted into an elegant bun. My face is free of any imperfections, even though I have more zits than I’d care to admit. My eyebrows have been darkened even more, and the false eyelashes tickle every time I blink.

I don’t look fifteen anymore.

“Say it, you look fabulous,” Kevin instructs with a smug grin.

“Thank you,” I mumble, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

“Yes, yes, you’re amazing Kev. I have to get her down to the show now. Travis will not be happy if we’re running late,” Derek says, frowning at the watch on his wrist.

Kevin rolls his eyes and sighs impatiently.

“Travis is the most serious teenager I’ve ever met. And he has no appreciation for my art,” the glittery man whinges.

“Yes, I know, Kev. You say this every time. Now,” Derek kisses the other man on the lips, “Don’t get yourself killed.”

“You too.”

*

“Ready?” Derek whispers and I nod.

He then wanders out onto the make-shift stage and I peer out at the crowd. It’s full of men, a mixture of races and sizes. When it’s as mixed as this, it means only one thing; this is a revolutionary prison. Otherwise you wouldn’t need so many different language speakers.

Some of them are joking around with their workmates, but others have their arms folded stiffly across their chests, expressions of stone. They turn my stomach to pure acid and burn my throat.

“Gentlemen, we have a special treat for you tonight,” Derek announces. “We had to ship her in special. Please give a warm welcome to Michelle Cartier.”

I take a deep breath, and step out into the spotlight, smiling as sweetly as I can. The catcalls and whistling feels even more degrading than having to take off my top in front of hundreds of men. I’m probably the first piece of meat these guards have seen in a while, and I can feel their eyes undressing me already.

Derek leads me over to the microphone and I say a polite, “Bonsoir messieurs.”

“Je chanterai une vielle chanson pour vous,” I continue.

The French flows easily after the years of practice. Old Mr Warner was the one who taught me. It’s still the official language of the UN, though English has become much more dominant since long before the Downfall. I doubt that many of the guards here understand it, but someone will. Derek told me that’s the point. We’re revolutionaries, and we will speak our treasonous words. How long it takes to get caught is far more unpredictable.

Derek picks up his guitar and starts strumming a waltz and I place my hands on the mic, and start to sing.

“J’avais un rêve
Qui m’a fait espérer,
Un jour je trouverais
Un sens de la verité.

“Mais la vie est sévère
Et je n’ai pas ma liberté.
En étant une femme,
Personne, je mourrai.”

The tone of the song is pleasant and my voice is low enough to be perceived as sultry. It’s a total contradiction to the words, which you’d only know if you were really listening.

“Je contrôle rien
Mes amis ont disparu,
Je ne sais pas,
Si mon esprit est perdu.

“Il me semble
Que je suis devenu une esclave,
Mon rêve est mort
Mais je suis brave.

“Je combatterai
Je résisterai,
La verité est à moi
Et vous mourriez.”

There is a reasonable amount of applause, but some of the guards are getting to their feet and walking towards the back of the room, faces angry. Derek quickly sends me off stage and I wave a goodbye and duck behind the curtains.

“Wasn’t she fantastic? I really do hope you enjoyed the show. Because it’s the last you’re ever going to get,” Derek announces.

Doors burst open and the next thing I hear is machine gun fire ripping through body after body.

“Come on!” someone yells and I jump.

Derek has his arms on me, gun out in front of him, pushing me forward.

“Now would be a good time to get out that knife!” he shouts and I fumble for the ceramic blade.

I automatically feel better with it in my hand.

“Stay close!” Derek yells and we burst into the main hallway.

There are several dying guards lying on the ground, and people in prison jumpsuits running through it all. This is undeniably a prison break now. I see one man with a knife still sticking through his eye and blood bubbling from his lips.

The sirens are sounding and people are screaming. Gunshots sound every two seconds at least and bodies keep dropping. I slip in a pool of blood but Derek manages to keep me upright.

He doesn’t stop me from being grabbed at the foot of a staircase in this labyrinth of a prison. A guard is lying on the ground, his hand a vice around my ankle. Blood is streaming down the side of his face from a head wound which looks fatal.

“Save me,” he begs with a choked voice.

I almost leave him, but then slide my blade across his throat. The ceramic, despite its thin, sharp edge, still drags the way a knife doesn’t across the skin. I actually feel the blood flow onto my hand rather than gush in one quick breaking of the dam.

“C’mon, Freya,” Derek says, taking my non-drenched hand and half dragging me up the rest of the staircase. “This way will take us out on the roof. When we get out, run. I’ve got your back.”

“Got it,” I say and kick off the small high-heels I’m wearing.

Derek turns around and rips the bottom off my dress so I can actually move my legs, and then we keep going, nearing the top. I feel so unfit by the time we reach the top of the sixth floor, the way I’m panting but it’s not over yet.

Derek takes the lead through the door, gun raised, and he immediately starts shooting. I dart out after him and chaos erupts around me. It’s dark out, but the roof is completely lit up like a rugby field. The big black helicopter’s blades are turning, and deafen me slightly. I can hear planes in the distance too, and enemy choppers no doubt. But the clearest sounds are those of gunfire and shells hitting the concrete roof.

The Hong Kong skyline looks like a dream, but all I can see reflected in it is red.

There are so many bodies around me, either dead on the ground with a bullet in the brain or up and about, trying to kill me and whoever else is on our side. I sprint as fast as I can, and hope that I’m too fast for any crack-shot to hit me.

I try and duck and zigzag on my way, knowing how much of a bastard rabbits can be to shoot when they move. I assume it’s the same principle, of course. I’m the rabbit, racing for my life, and I’m being hunted by twenty assholes wanting the same prize. If they all hit me at the same time, I might literally explode in a rain of flesh and guts.

It feels like the longest run of my life and it’s all happening in slow motion. I won’t even remember this in all the clarity of the moment later. It’ll just be a blur. If I make it through, that is.

All I can focus on is that helicopter door, with a black figure hanging out of it, helmet on, shooting down the lines of the enemy. One by one, they fall. How the hell he manages to calmly pull the trigger and hit his targets flawlessly with all this going on, I have no idea.

He’s just eighteen, I remind myself. Only eighteen.

And I’m fifteen, running for my fucking life.

The relief when I finally throw myself inside is something I can’t even begin to describe.