XY Revolution

An alarm I didn’t set goes off at 0600 hours and I feel like absolute death. Travis was right about how hard it would be to wake up after all that travelling and stress. But there’s no sleep-in this morning.

I scan my card outside my room and it brings up my schedule for the day. First thing’s first, a shower, clocked to exactly seven minutes. I take ten, just letting the hot water cascade down my body.

The cafeteria is bustling with life. It’s as if all these agents have come here like ants to a picnic; a sea of faces I’m going to have to learn the names for. Some of them will probably die this year, in some mission or the next and I’ll never see them again.

I shuffle over to the serving section and Eliza is already behind the counter, spooning beans, potato cakes and bacon onto some plates, and handing a couple of bacon sandwiches to others. I haven’t had bacon in two years, and I want to know how the hell the Resistance can afford such delicacy.

“Good mornin’,” she calls over the high counter. “How’s life at the base been going so far?”

“Sleeplessly,” I reply with a yawn. “Hopefully I’ll be able to explore the place after training though, and then sleep forever.”

“It’ll be a busy one for you, this first day. Make sure you’re ready,” she passes me a bottle of water, “It’s really a shame they don’t let you rest up first, but it’s the same for everyone, once you’re physically able.”

“Well, four hours sleep is better than nothing,” I say optimistically though Eliza’s pitying look just confirms my doubts about surviving on such little sleep after thirty hours of travelling and a draining mission.

“They constantly seem to be watching you,” she then points out, handing me a bacon sandwich, refusing to meet my gaze. “Be careful you don’t show weakness. There’s a reason they don’t let you sleep. Training day is one of the biggest tests. It’ll determine your missions and your station for at least the next year.”

“Thank you,” I whisper and wander over to one of the few empty tables.

It’s not long till the bacon juices are running down my chin and a mop of blue hair appears. Travis looks as tired as I feel, his green eyes still glazed over. He looked the same on the helicopter when he woke up too, and I wonder if this is a regular thing. It could be compromising in the field if he’s not alert right from the get-go. It’s like when you come across sleeping animals on the hunt. They’re always just a little bit too slow. And that’s when they die, and my family’s bellies are full that night.

Flanking him is the cheery looking Phil I met yesterday. He’s talking animatedly and Travis just nods in the right places. Phil’s already dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Travis looks like he just rolled out of bed. His shirt is creased, and he’s in the same track-pants he was last night when he visited me.

They approach the counter and Eliza has a great big grin on her face, pinching Phil’s cheek and giving Travis an extra portion of beans. Eliza’s fellow kitchen workers have frowns on their faces as they try to work around her, but the way she looks at these guys, you’d think the sun shone out of their asses. Or that’s what Gran used to say anyway, before the sun got too dangerous to be considered a good thing.

Travis is the first to turn around and look for a table. I notice some other agents waving him over and calling his name, but it’s me he decides to lock eyes with. He acknowledges the others, and then walks my way.

“You’ve got something on your face,” he states in a bored tone.

I touch the bacon grease with my fingertips, then reply, “I know. I just don’t care.”

Travis smirks and sits opposite me, picking up his spoon and delicately places some beans in his mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man eat so neatly. It’s kind of amazing. Between my dad and my brother, meal time at my house was always rather violent. If you wanted anything, you had to go to Mum earlier and plate up otherwise you were left with nothing. The last time we had cake, Dad got an extra bit which Tyler wanted to cut in half. Dad said no, so Tyler took it, Dad reached out to grab it, and Ty shoved it in his own face.

“You eat funny,” I tell him.

“At least I don’t have crap on my face like some kind of savage.”

I raise an eyebrow and he just smirks with that scarred mouth of his, green eyes twinkling with mischief. It’s Phil who comes to Travis’ rescue, before I launch myself over the table at him.

“Hi Freya!” the blonde says, dimples in his cheeks prominent as he beams at me.

How anyone can be so happy before seven o’clock is astonishing.

“Hello Phil,” I respond.

“And may I say you look ravishing on this fine morning?”

He then shoves a potato cake in his face and I snort.

“Way to ruin a moment, Phil,” Travis mutters.

“You’re just saying that because I’m better looking.”

The next moment, Travis has his friend in a headlock. Phil just taps his arm twice and Travis releases him, laughing.

“Just because you’re the king of combat,” Phil mumbles bitterly before shovelling more food into his mouth.

“You better practice your left arm today, by the way,” Travis orders. “I don’t want you slacking off while I’m gone, or I’ll beat your ass tomorrow.”

“Yes sir.”

I frown and ask Travis, “You take a class?”

“I’m the combat training specialist at Home Base,” he explains. “But today, I have to get you to all your appointments.”

They constantly seem to be watching you.

“Speaking of, they want you at 0700 hours sharp at the hospital,” he adds. “Hurry up and eat so we can leave.”

“You got here later than I did,” I argue.

“I’ve already earned my place here,” he counters smugly.

Phil just rolls his eyes and smiles.



He walks in wearing a pristine white lab coat, and a burgundy tie. His hair is brown and his eyes are like chocolate. His skin is the colour of coffee, and immaculate. The tiniest hint of stubble is traceable on his jawline.

“My name is Dr Walsh,” he informs me with a bored tone. “I’m a doctor here, obviously, and today we’ll just be going through a basic physical.”

Sitting here in a white gown with just a bra and knickers on underneath, I already knew that – obviously.

“So, any family history of disease?”

“Prostate cancer?”

He cracks a thin smile at that.

“Do you smoke?”

“Does anyone?”

“Are you sexually active?”

“I’m fifteen. No.”

“How are your periods?”

“Regular.”

“Cramps? Blood clots?”

“Small cramps on the first and second days, and yeah, clots.”

“Have you been tested for anaemia?”

I shake my head.

“Have you ever broken a bone?”

“My big toe, when I was five.”

“And any allergies?”

“None that I know of.”

He enters several things into his computer, and then grabs a small, flat bit of wood.

“Can you please open your mouth?”

I oblige and he touches the wood to my tongue, holding up a small flashlight so he can see into my throat. He weighs and measures me. He checks my blood pressure, my heart rate, breath and then takes a couple of vials of blood.

“You seem anaemic, so stopping your periods with an implant could do you a world of good,” he tells me nonchalantly, sticking labels onto the vials of the dark red liquid.

“Um, okay?”

“Periods are also a hindrance in battle, and we can’t afford the inaction it sometimes requires of our female agents. Most women here have the implant. It also works as a contraceptive, which could save you in the field.”

I cringe but nod.

“We’ll give you a week or so before sending you in to have your eyes fixed, and the implant put in you. In the meantime, we’ll give you iron pills along with a supplement, which all our field agents take.”

I nod again, somewhat relieved that I won’t have lasers beaming into my eyes or something jabbed in my uterus today at least.

“Now can you please remove your gown so I can finish the physical? I can get a nurse in here if that’d make you feel more comfortable?”

I’m surprised by the offer, and the way he’s waiting for my permission with careful eyes. I forgot what it was like pre-Revolution.

“No. It’s okay,” I say.



The psychiatric exam is something quite bizarre. By bizarre, I mean I was strapped into a machine that attached a clear helmet to my head and lit up when I was shown different pictures.

But it’s time for the actual training.

Travis leads me to level three, into the gym. This room is the biggest I’ve seen since coming here. The amount of equipment is the largest I’ve ever seen. It’s also the most hi-tech equipment I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Everything seems to light up; every area is equipped with a monitor, recording and analysing the trainee’s steps.

We head over to the far corner of the gym. Everyone here acknowledges Travis on the way. We even see Phil lifting weights in a glass room with several others – his look a lot bigger than anyone else’s but he still lifts them faster than them all, chattering all the while.

“In this room, we train almost anything physical; cardio, strength, agility, flexibility, reaction timing, and of course, hand to hand combat,” Travis explains as we stand in the middle of a ring, five by five meters each way. “To be a full agent, you need to be ready for anything. You need to think quickly and you need to stay alive. You must be able to handle multiple attackers, and attackers of different statures. You must be stealthy, swift, and deadly. You must be in top physical condition to survive. And this is where you learn how to do that.”

He strips off his shirt, revealing a much more serious scar going from just under his left pectoral and through his belly button. It stops at his right hipbone. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, because that one wound could’ve very easily killed him. Just that one slip-up can cost you everything. But he survived. This one doesn’t die easily.

Welcome to the Resistance, right?