Tyrant

(𝟷𝟷) 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝙽𝚘𝚝, 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎

My legs ached to the point of pain.

Swallowing up my exhaustion and fatigue like rough grains of sand, I throw another kick to the human-sized punching bag. Then another. And another.

Another. 

Another.

Beads of sweat cascade down my brow, my arms, my legs, as I plop down on the wooden floor of the Defense Practice room, the mere thought of further movement sending my muscles into a trembling frenzy. Air blows in uneven rasps out of my mouth as I close my eyes, calming my thrumming heart and body and soul from the workout.

Four weeks of intense training and toning at the Base has convinced The Top to at last grant me the position of Retriever, of going outside inconspicuously and bring back sustenance for the rebels here.

Tomorrow, she said. Tomorrow would be my first day.

Receiving my position from Raeyan has become a sober reality. To finally be a Retriever and assist this Base...

Light, casual steps echo through the empty training room, and my eyes snap open to see a slender, dark haired female clad in a black undershirt and leggings striding to the stacks of dumbbells near the mirror-wall. I stare at her long hair, admiring the rebellious, glossy blackness of it. Black holes, I tell myself. Her hair looks like the infinite depths of black holes.

Information I had learned in second grade.

Science class didn't do much good for anyone, did it? Says the silent, demanding voice in my head, and I can't help but agree with it.

The dark-haired woman and I are the only rebels in the Defense Practice room, due to the late hours of the night. I look to the circular clock against the wall. 11:58pm.

Five hours. I had kicked and punched and trained for five hours straight, alone, desiring a sense of independence without my Overseer. Plus, the Defense Practice room is always unlocked, regardless of time or Overseer monitoring. I mentally pat myself on the shoulder for my endurance and perseverance, feeling an emotion I haven't felt in a long while. 

Pride. At myself.

Confidence, discipline, and loyalty were traits of a true rebel, my Overseer had taught during our grueling training these past weeks. He was unforgiving in his methods, but looking at the strength and accuracy I had acquired in a mere four weeks, I can't help but appreciate Darcio's coaching tactics.

A glint of light against silver catches my eye, and I look to the dark-haired girl at the other end of the room.

To find her pointing a gun at me. 

I'm immediately on my aching feet, my heart drumming against my ribs as that gun, silver and unforgiving, remains aimed at me. At my chest.

"W-what..." I stumble for words, endless possibilities firing through my tired head at why the hell a gun is aimed at me. Who is this?

"Phoenix Arbelle, correct?" The woman calls, her monotone voice like the scratching of nails on a chalkboard. 

"No." I will my voice not to falter, not to reveal the trembling of my very lips. 

"Liar."

I shake my head, careful not to move a single step in case she assumes I'm attacking. "I am Libelle Roman." The name of my mother and her maiden surname jump to mind, and I speak it with false confidence.

"Are you acquainted with Phoenix Arbelle." She asks, her voice sounding much less human than before. More robotic, artificial.

My breath catches in my throat.