XY Revolution

It doesn’t take too long for me to find my room. Despite the apparent labyrinth, all the corridors and doors are numbered chronologically. Room 412 is just big enough to fit a single bed from wall to wall, a bedside table and a small chest of drawers. I would probably hate the cramped little space, if not for the window. I know it’s artificial, considering how far underground we are, but it just looks so real.

“We chose the beach from-”

“Home,” I breathe and turn to see Natasha.

She’s dressed in a very smart blazer and pencil skirt, her green eyes outlined in black. Her smile is lovely and warm, but it hurts seeing such similar colouring to Josh. My chest starts to constrict, but I force a smile.

“Hello again,” I say.

“Nice to see you, Freya. We’re so glad you decided to join us.”

“Thanks.”

“I hate to do this – you’re probably exhausted,” I hadn’t even thought about it to be honest, “But your presence has been requested at a meeting.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Um, with who? Travis? Because we’ve talked plenty.”

“Travis won’t be there. This is far more sensitive than talks of combat.”

For some reason the dismissive tone in her voice grates on me. It may be that I don’t see combat which results in the deaths of hundreds as particularly trivial.

“Okay. When?” I ask.

“Follow me,” she instructs then turns and leaves my new room.

I take one wistful look out the window before going after her.



Natasha places her hand on certain panel in the lift after pressing the ‘1a’ button.

“Natasha Louis with Freya Belmont,” she says in that same clear voice Travis used earlier.

I make a note to learn how to talk like that so I don’t end up getting locked out somewhere in this underground trap. Knowing me, it could happen. The past few years, I seem to attract every worst case scenario. Though I’m not dead yet, so maybe not.

In a matter of seconds, we arrive on level one, but just when I think the doors are about to open and I can step out into the familiar foyer, the elevator takes a different direction – horizontal. My hands grip the railing so tight my knuckles turn white.

“You’ll get used to it,” Natasha says. “You should’ve seen Travis when he first came here. When Naomi brought out the hand-scanner, he nearly passed out.”

“You serious?”

“It happens with almost everyone. We don’t get many upper-class recruits, who are already used to similar technology.”

My grip relaxes. It’s reassuring to think that Mr Blue-Hair was even more terrified than I was.

“I think the only thing even close to this stuff is the tracker-tattoos. One scan and they can bring up every little thing about a person on their screens,” I say.

My arm actually burns at the memory.

“Of course,” she says with realisation. “You would’ve been inked a few years ago now.”

I roll up my sleeve to the shoulder and show her my number; the eerily black ink on my pale skin. She leans in slightly to look at it, with what seems like curiosity.

“I never had mine done,” she explains.

The door suddenly slides open and we’re faced with a dark hallway, with glowing blue lights positioned just slightly after there’s too little to see clearly. I can’t even tell what colour the walls are, or the floor.

It’s no longer the neat wooden floorboards found in the foyer, or the rustic planks found down in the barracks. It’s sterile, echoing tiles. You could hear Natasha coming from a mile away in her heels. I tread behind her as lightly as possible, eyes straining in the gloom.

“It’s right at the end,” she says. “They don’t seem to like any of the other rooms, though when Intelligence has been in there for forty-eight hours, you don’t really want to go in without disinfecting first. They’re hard workers, Intelligence, but you don’t have the best hygiene when you’re under that kind of pressure.”

I just nod and pretend to know what she’s talking about.

Eventually, the corridor comes to an end and I nearly heave a sigh of relief. There’s a large archway at the end, but all I can see is more wall. Clearly, I have a lot to learn about the Resistance and their technological secrets. Natasha gently pushes me off to the side and stands opposite the door. The next thing I know, the blue lights’ beams focus on her like gridlines, moving all over her body.

As quickly as they appear, the lights return to their usual glow and the ‘wall’ breaks in half, sliding across and revealing two women. One is Asian, of some kind, with straight black hair which falls like satin. The other has a European look about her, with copper-coloured hair and blue eyes, and an expression like stone.

“Freya Belmont, welcome to the Resistance. My name is Henriette,” the red-head says in an English accent.

She doesn’t offer her hand for me to hold.

“Welcome. My name is Katsumi,” the Asian says very slowly, trying to accurately pronounce the words. “Hajimemashite.”

“Nice to meet you,” Natasha says.

“Huh?” I ask stupidly.

“I’m Katsumi’s translator. She’s the head recruitment officer, and second in command of the Resistance,” she explains.

Katsumi smiles at me and Henriette just walks over to the large wooden table, and takes a seat in one of the plush chairs. Katsumi and Natasha quickly follow, Natasha pouring water for each of us. The room itself is reasonably spacious, but split over two levels. There’s the table, and then down below, computers line the walls and a large screen from floor to ceiling is visible from all parts of the room. The walls are deep red, and the carpet dark.

I sit down opposite Katsumi, Natasha is between us on the corner, and Henriette opposite me to the right. It’s slightly intimidating to say the least. These are the Resistance leaders. Natasha didn’t need to introduce Henriette’s status; I can feel the power radiating off her in a way I’ve never known, male or female.

“We’ll cut to the chase,” Henriette starts, “You captured our attention with your pre-auction stunt almost two years ago.”

Suddenly the super large screen lights up, showing the footage of that day. I watch in horror as several girls and I take our shirts off on the stage and the camera zooms in on my breasts and the message so boldly written on them. The next shot is of me being whipped by the Old Church Steps. The wounds feel fresh again, hearing that crack of the whip and seeing the gashes opened on my back.

Fortunately, with some of Gran’s special oil from the farm and Mum’s insistence, the scars have faded significantly. They’re simply whiter, indented lines on my back rather than grotesque mutilations.

“It’s rare to see such…articulate defiance in someone so young and even rarer when that someone doesn’t scream at the punishment,” Henriette continues. “You did go quiet for a while afterwards, though that was to be expected, however once you started going to Morrison’s regularly, we knew that wasn’t just a one-off rebellious act. You’re a fighter.”

Katsumi then rattles off something completely unintelligible to my untrained ears.

“Your grandmother has been passing along certain tips for safe houses and sustainable living for several years, and we know about your hunting experience too,” Natasha translates. “What you did with the boy proved it all; you can kill, but you kill for a reason.”

Henriette nods, and then informs me, “You’ve shown a talent for theatrics, which is why we think it best we use it to our advantage. You will be trained with far more care than most, and in more specialist areas. You will spend a lot of time with me in particular.”

I frown and ask, “Isn’t that a lot of responsibility for a newcomer? You don’t even know me.”

“Oh, we know you, Freya Belmont. You handled yourself on that mission perfectly. This isn’t a gamble on our part; you are exactly who we need and we’re not going to waste time figuring out if you really are. It’s time for action.”