XY Revolution

“Derek!” a familiar voice squeals and then Kevin, in a haze of black and pink jumps on the man not a moment after the door closes behind him.

Travis yanks off his helmet and throws it to the ground, pushes his blue hair back from his forehead. It’s wet with sweat and his cheat is heaving underneath all the padded leather.

There’s another man in here, in one of the seats, clutching some linen to his head. His nose is very large, but his eyes are a pretty hazel colour and he speaks with a sing-song Irish accent.

“Hello there,” he says pleasantly. “I’m Xander. The one you lovely people risked your lives for.”

I look down and notice the prison jumpsuit sleeves tied around his hips.

“Freya,” I breathe back.

Travis is soon at my side and giving me a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” I say and get to my feet so I can sit down properly.

The blue-haired boy takes my hand and helps me over to the closest chair. I hadn’t even realised how ready my knees were to buckle.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I think so,” I stammer, checking my arms for any sign of damage.

I’ve heard about people who don’t even realise they’ve been shot till they can see it, because the adrenaline’s still clouding their minds. It’s strange how something meant to protect you can also hinder you; though it’s never for long, as Dad pointed out to me when I asked him about it a while ago.

“How about you?”

He chuckles.

“I’m fine. This is a regular mission for me,” he responds with a smile.

“You’re an amazing shot,” I blurt. “How do you…”

“Practice.”



I feel slightly more human when my face is clean and my hair back to its usual slightly-oily consistency, hanging past my shoulders. The torn dress is in the trash and I don’t think I’ve ever missed wearing pants this much. Kevin heaves a sigh when he sees me normalized.

“All my hard work gone,” he says wistfully and I chuckle.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get to kidnap her again at some point,” Derek informs him and Kev cracks a grin.

I take a seat next to Travis who’s been woken up by the sudden conversation. His eyes are still glazed over and his expression peaceful.

“Where are we?” I ask him and he looks at the screen of his phone, tapping it a few times.

“Twenty minutes outside of Vegas. We’ll be landing in forty,” he mumbles and closes his eyes again.

Las Vegas.

His eyelids flutter open again.

“Have you ever been outside of New Zealand?” he asks and I shake my head. “Two new countries in one day. You’re going to crash when you get to bed.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more awake.”

He snorts, “Yeah, that’s what they all say. Then we can’t wake them up for at least sixteen hours.”

“How long have you been here?”

“In the Resistance?”

I nod.

“Two and a half years. You see a lot of newbies in that time. You see fewer of them return during their first six months.”

He must catch the look on my face, because he quickly adds, “We don’t just send you out there without preparation. It’s a month of training first.”

“You just put me into a prison with more guards than I can probably count and nearly got me killed. What training did I have exactly?”

“Follow your orders. And trust me, we don’t just throw everyone in the deep end. We’ve been watching you for a while.” His words are eerily close to Natasha’s, the recruitment agent or whatever. “It’s not everyone who can kill their childhood friend in cold blood with such ease.”

“The killing’s the easy part. It’s the guilt that gets you,” I tell him in a low voice.

“You’re not guilty about it though, are you?” he whispers.

“I feel sorry for his family. But no. He killed innocents and took away our one bit of freedom. I don’t feel anything about him.”

“Was he your first?”

“Excuse me?”

Travis rolls his eyes and I watch the scar on his left eye stretch slightly with the movement.

“Was he your first kill?” he clarifies.

“He was the first human.”

“Well, I gotta hand it to you country kids. You know how to hunt.”

“If we don’t, we starve.”

“I’m not sure if I like you yet, Freya, but you’re going to do well with us,” he announces, putting his hands behind his head.

It’s a good thing I’m a lot shorter than him, otherwise his elbow could’ve knocked me out.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He smirks at me.

“Absolutely.”



We land a hundred metres or so from the actual place.

“We have to pop your Resistance cherry the right way,” Travis says with a smirk and all the guys laugh.

I grit my teeth and try not to knock someone else’s out. But the desert is beautiful in a way and I soon forget that I’m annoyed. The sun is just rising and I already feel its intense heat despite the still cool air.

“You don’t wanna be out here an hour past sunrise,” Travis says once the helicopter has taken off again towards a large farmhouse which sticks out like a sore thumb on this plain. “The sun will give that pretty porcelain skin of yours second-degree burns in three minutes.”

I raise my eyebrows at him and ask, “You serious?”

“I wish I weren’t, but the good ol’ U.S. of A. isn’t as great as it looks in the movies.”

“I haven’t seen a movie since before the Revolution,” I tell him with a frown.

It’s his turn to raise his eyebrows and ask, “You serious?”

“You don’t have money to eat, but you can go see movies?” I accuse.

He shrugs and with a nasty sneer says, “That’s the UN for you. If you keep the masses entertained, they might just forget that they’d riot for a loaf of bread.”

He then puts his gloved hand on my back and pushes me forward, and we start walking towards the farmhouse.

“Watch carefully,” he says.

That’s when the ground opens up before my eyes and the helicopter drops into it. The gaping hole closes without even a trace it existed.

“What just happened?!” I shout and Travis cracks up laughing. “The ground just disappeared!”

I start running towards the spot but there are no cracks in the desert ground; no hints.

Travis then struts over and informs me, “This is a secret rebel organisation, Freya. We can’t exactly keep our helicopters, drones and tanks out in the open where any idiot flying over could see them and drop a bomb.”

I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath, “This is…like the movies.”

“C’mon,” he says and we continue our walk to the farmhouse.



There’s an old lady on the porch, playing with a small bit of metal. There’s a shotgun next to her and a large straw hat resting on top of a bird’s nest of grey hair. Her chocolate skin shows very few signs of age, and I’d assume she was younger than my mum.

“Gwen owns this place,” Travis says, smiling at the lady who nods at the door, gesturing us inside. “She’s not married, but the UN doesn’t bother her because she makes their bullets. She’s the best. But she gives us the better stuff.”

Past several rooms with the same faded pink-rose patterned wallpaper, we reach a closet. Travis opens it revealing shelving from half way up the wall to the ceiling, linen stacked neatly upon it.

“Sit,” he instructs and I do so.

He quickly follows and we brush shoulders.

Travis pulls the door shut and then says clearly, “nous sommes résistants.”

And gravity begins to shift. The floor beneath us drops suddenly and we’re swallowed by darkness, the plywood shelves growing smaller and smaller above our heads.

“Travis…what’s happening?”

“Have you never been in a lift before?”

I shake my head then realise he won’t be able to see the gesture.

“No. I haven’t. Only the men are allowed to go in lifts.”

He stays silent on that one and just tells me that we’re almost there. And sure enough, light appears. It’s artificial light of course, but light nonetheless. When the floor does stop moving, I can take in the vibrant green leaves of potted plants in each corner of the small foyer we’ve entered. The door is two wide and reaches the ceiling, with wood which looks as thick as it is majestic.

“Here we are,” Travis announces and stands up, offering me a hand to pull me to my feet.

“This is it?” I ask, eyes still roaming up and down the massive wooden structure in front of us.

He chuckles and says, “Well, behind the door, yeah. This is the Resistance. Home base, Nevada.”

Travis then presses his hand dead centre on the door, and I can feel my eyes widen as the wood glows beneath his palm.

There’s a small beeping sound and he says, “Agent Hunt with Freya Belmont.”

“Come on in, Trav,” a cheery voice replies and I jolt.

I can’t even tell where the speaker is, transmitting the voice. But the door clicks open and Travis pushes it all the way inward so I can step through. It looks like a reception area. There’s a long counter-top and flowers on the ledge, a plush cream-coloured couch and even calming jazz music plays at the perfectly selected volume. It’s bright and homely, and nothing like I expected.

Except there’s a matronly looking woman standing before me instead of a young, attractive male receptionist. Her auburn hair is streaked with grey and pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. Her eyes are like ice, but the crow’s feet at the corners soften them slightly. Her attire is a pant-suit, with probably more weapons concealed than I could name.

“Miss Belmont,” she greets with a warm smile, holding out her hand for me to shake. “Welcome to Nevada Base. My name is Naomi and I’m the keeper here.”

I grip her hand and tell her, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And it’s nice to hear a different accent around here!” she says with a laugh. “We seem to be all American, Canadian or British here.”

“Or they don’t speak English,” Travis interjects and Naomi gives him a knowing look.

“We have very few of those. Now, you have work to do, Travis. Get to it.”

Travis gives her a mock salute, me a quick smirk and then struts off down the hall and through a door which I didn’t even see. Naomi then turns and points me towards the couch.

“We try not to be too…intense in the first five minutes,” she explains when I raise my eyebrows at the casual nature of this meeting. “But it is intense, so be prepared.”

“I’m sure I can handle it. This isn’t some psycho impromptu rescue mission with dozens of enemies trying to kill you.”

Naomi just looks sympathetic.

“No, it’s not. Anyway, you need to be briefed and understand how things work here. This is the oldest and biggest Resistance base in the world. It’s also our home base, so whilst we have sects all over the world – even in New Zealand – this is just where all the really heavy duty planning and supplying takes place.

“This was a bunker built just prior to the third World War by Gwen’s grandfather. When the Resistance began, she offered it immediately. It’s very convenient considering the UN’s position in Las Angeles.

“There are several levels to this base, all of which are subterranean besides what we call the Civilian Entry or Gwen’s home. This here is level one. The further you go down, the larger the number will get, of course. Barracks are on level four along with the main bathrooms. The kitchens are on level two. Level three is the training floor, which you’ll start working in tomorrow.”

“I’m going to get a map or something, right?” I ask.

“Sorry, Belmont. We can’t give you something tangible like that. You’ll have to learn it off by heart, but trust me, it won’t take long to get used to. Your schedule will also help you figure out where you need to go.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, hoping like hell I won’t embarrass myself with my lack of orientation skills.

“That’s all you need to know at the moment. Don’t worry about missions yet, because we need to run full physical tests on your skills and fitness first, then of course train you up to standard, be assessed again and only then will you be declared a full agent of the Resistance. The whole process for a person of average fitness and zero skills beforehand can take over two months, easy. It’s different for everyone though. Regardless, you don’t need to worry yet. Just focus on your training.”

I think I would’ve felt a lot better if she hadn’t have told me all that. I just nod my understanding.

“Excellent,” Naomi says then pulls out a screen as big as both of my hands.

She taps a few things and then holds it out to me.

“You’ll need to put your hand on this so we can record it – it’ll allow you basic access to all our facilities here. However, on the main gates on each level and specialist departments, you will be asked for verbal identification.”

I press my hand down onto the screen and watch the electric blue scanner light move rapidly underneath my palm, travelling from the base to the tip of my fingers. After about twenty seconds, it’s finished and Naomi smiles, holding out a card for me. I flip it over in front of my eyes and find only my name and a number.

“That’s your room key. You need it on you at all times. When you get a meal, it must be scanned. When you wake-up, it needs to be scanned so your schedule will load for the day ahead. There are scanners everywhere for when you need to refresh your memory,” Naomi explains.

I then mumble, “I’ve never had my own room before.”

“You shared? Or were you homeless?”

I have to think before I answer the question. I’m definitely homeless now, after all.

“I shared with my sister.”

I’m grateful when she doesn’t ask any questions and shows me to the elevator, which will take me to the barracks.