XY Revolution

Dinner requires a lot more preparation than that ‘tiny’ three hours when we first arrived. Xander coaches me on proper etiquette for the table we’ll be seated at – his father actually sent him instructions for me – and I have to make the tough decision on what to wear. It has to be something both appropriate and seductive. All I can think though is that I’m too young for this, and dinner parties were my least favourite part of my high school education.

The guys all took turns at dabbing make-up onto my arm. Kevin had somehow forgotten to cover up my tattoo, which means that if anyone gets slightly suspicious about me, all they’d have to do is check the security footage from earlier today. Stupid, stupid, stupid! None of us want to report Kevin unless we’re compromised though. Derek winced when I asked if his punishment would be severe, so I didn’t press further.

Derek is hard at work with his computer, muttering furiously into his headset. The Resistance will have to jam the frequency of the cameras in the hallway and elevator on the forty-first floor. Michaels’ office is to the left of his apartment, where we were earlier today. The guard will be killed, and a Resistance replacement will somehow be slotted into his place. That’s Travis’ headache though, and a headache from months ago apparently. They have this ‘sorted.’ I’m just hoping like hell he’s right because the body count of this mission is looking high from where I’m standing.

Eventually I settle on a pale blue dress, a colour I can never normally wear without making me look like I should be hospitalised, with cap sleeves but just a hint of cleavage I don’t have. I also have the advantage of having a longer, looser skirt so I can finally arm myself. I feel much more comfortable too, and that’s always a bonus. Dressing skimpy has so many shortcomings.

“Alright, it’s almost eight, we should go,” Xander says, smelling strongly of his special cologne.

I fear that I might actually start to feel drunk just standing this close to him. He’s completely doused himself in the fragrance.

“It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?” I ask him, pinching my nose.

“Trust me. Nothing is over the top with these people. Besides, if we have to go in a hurry, I just act like I have to throw up or do something embarrassing and we’re gone in a flash. It’ll be completely acceptable because of this cologne, thank you very much,” he argues.

“That’s clever.”

“Thanks. Shall we?”

I take hold of his arm yet again, step over the trip wire and we’re in the elevator again. It’s a long trip down to the tenth floor for dinner, but Xander is good company. He tells me a story about a poker game whilst he was in prison which resulted in him being sprayed in the showers with urine and then made to run through the cafeteria naked and smelly.

We emerge in a foyer with carpet more elaborately decorated than I’ve ever seen, even in this building. The walls are cream from halfway up, and a wood so highly polished I can see my shoes in the reflection, covers the rest. The paintings look even more expensive. The door is more exquisitely embellished than anything I’ve seen, and full of glass. Even the men on the doors smell more beautiful than anyone I’ve met.

Xander leads me through the doors and into a room so vast it’d take me several minutes just to walk from one end to the next. The ceiling is full with crystal chandeliers (apparently that’s what they call lights like these, according to Xander) which glisten like thousands of non-lethal little white suns captured in beading. The tables are numerous and covered with golden patterned table-cloths and place settings with cutlery that looks like real silver. The linen of the napkins looks finer than that of my mother’s wedding dress.

There’s an orchestra at the front of the room, playing instruments I’ve never seen. The sound is so full and rich I could listen to it for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy. There are a few couples dancing – middle-aged, sophisticated looking couples. The women’s dress hems are all longer than mine, making me feel like the real whore Chastity tonight, despite how conservative this dress is compared to what I was wearing earlier.

“This way,” Xander whispers and we weave our way through to one of the bigger tables, set for eight.

Mr Michaels is already seated at one end of the table, and several other men surround him. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut when I realise that I’m probably going to be the only woman eating with these people.

He stands when he sees us, and walks over to take my hands, lean down and kiss my cheek.

“I’m so glad you could make it, my dear,” he greets.

“You too, son,” he adds as an afterthought.

He ushers me over to the empty seat on his right, pulling out my chair for me to sit down, and pushing me in. And they say chivalry is dead.

Xander takes the seat opposite me, eyes wary but his mouth slack with his feigned drunken stupor.

“Everyone,” Mr Michael’s voice is commanding and silences the murmur of conversation at the table, “I’d like you to welcome back my son, Alexander, after his stay at one of our correctional centres, observing the re-education of rebels.”

The men all raise their glasses, already filled with champagne, and toast.

“And I have the pleasure of introducing the stunning Miss Chastity Jones to you this evening,” he continues and I smile brightly at the men.

I’m surprised when they actually raise their glasses again and toast.

“Chastity, where are you from?” the man next to me quizzes.

“New Zealand,” I tell him honestly.

“You’ve come far.”

“I have, sir. I am very glad for that though.”

“Do you have skeletons in New Zealand, my dear?” Michaels interjects and I feel my blood run cold.

Nate’s face flashes in front of my face; Mr Warner’s, and of course, Josh’s.

“Don’t we all?” I joke. “New Zealand was just too small for my parents, and me too. Besides, I wouldn’t be here now, sitting here with all you lovely people, in this beautiful room, if not for that move.”

“You’re young, girl.”

“Yes, I’m seventeen.”

My neighbour suddenly grasps my left hand and inspects it.

“You’re unmarried,” the old man states and the table goes silent.

I sigh and say, “My father has dementia. He requires constant care from my mother and me. I have a permit with my things upstairs, if you’d like to see it, but I can assure you, this was not something I chose.”

I hope my voice carries enough sincerity to close the topic once and for all. The last thing I need is to be run out of here for some silly gap in the backstory, and a misdemeanour in regards to the marriage law.

“How awful for you, my dear. I’m sure you would have made some man very happy,” Mr Michaels sympathises. “I suppose there will still be plenty of takers once your father dies.”

If my father really did have dementia, the prospect of my sudden suitors at his death would not help me any. I’m certain happy is the last thing I could make the poor bastard who would buy me.

“But I can make many more men happy if I’m unmarried,” I flirt.

I’m tempted to rest my hand on his knee, but the body language tells me that I already have him right around my little finger. He’s leaning in slightly, eyes drifting focus between my face and my chest. Every so often his teeth will graze his bottom lip and he’ll clear his throat, looking away for just a second before returning to his stare.

“I’m sure you do,” he flirts back before opening out his menu.



I let Mr Michaels order for me, telling him that I’d never dined so finely and I wouldn’t know what to pick if my life depended on it; that I needed a strong man to choose for me. You wouldn’t have thought the decision was just to determine what to have as a main course, the way I carried on. Michaels seemed to enjoy it though, not to anyone’s surprise. Men like him only crave one thing; power. Give it to them, and they’ll be addicted to the taste for the rest of their lives. All men under the XY have tasted it.

I couldn’t participate in the majority of the table’s conversation throughout dinner, even though the wine I was nearly forced to drink had loosened me up considerably. The discussion was one of business, and questioning Xander on rebel behaviour in the prisons.

Many of the men, including Xander, have drifted off to a parlour for something called cigars, and alcohol that could feed a village for a week if sold, now that dessert and coffee have all been served. I’m so full I fear I might just burst. It truly is a miracle I’m not in some tiny dress revealing everything tonight, constricting like a vice around my middle.

“Would you care to dance, my dear?”

I look up and see Mr Michaels has already gotten to his feet and is offering me his hand. I smile and slip my hand into his. I feel like a child next to him, and with this age difference, I truly am.

He pulls me gently to my feet and whisks me around the busboys clearing the tables, to the dance floor. For such a tall man, he moves as silently and swiftly as a cat. His hands are soft and supple, like he’s never done a hard day’s work in his life, and not one hair on his head is out of place. I wouldn’t actually be surprised if he’s wearing make-up, that’s how flawless his skin is.

“You are wasted on my son,” he informs me, leading me gracefully through the steps.

“Pardon?”

He chuckles, “You are far too beautiful, and too intelligent for Alexander.”

I drop my eyes and look at my shoes for just a moment – a mixture of embarrassment, the act, and genuine flattery.

“Thank you, sir, but I’m just a normal girl with a normal family.”

His fingertips direct my chin upwards, his cool eyes meeting mine.

“Your father’s illness is hardly normal, and the responsibility for him on your shoulders is not normal. Why, even your eyes aren’t normal, my dear.”

He might just have a heart attack if he saw the black of my actual coloured eyes – he might even think I’m possessed. Funnily enough, some people have actually thought that about me. The white hair does not help. I truly got the strangest combination of my parents’ features.

“You’re a very quick judge of character, sir,” I observe.

“Daniel,” he corrects and I smile with my teeth.

“My apologies, Daniel.”

“There’s a good girl.”

“I aim to please.”

He whirls me around and my skirts spin. The chandeliers twinkle and for just a moment, I’m lost, swimming in this dream of poor, ignorant girls who clutch their Ideals close.

“Forgive me, Daniel,” I start, once the spinning has stopped. “May I ask you something personal?”

“Sure.”

“What was your wife like?”

He drops my hands and leans down, murmuring, “Walk with me.”