Tyrant

(𝟷𝟻) 𝙰𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚆𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚎

I feel hideous and violated the second that long white dress drapes over my body—the second I feel the scratchy, disgusting cotton clawing against my skin. But it will have to do. 

Because I am finally getting what I want.

With my speedy recovery and thoughts of voice chips and Enforcers and friendship scattered throughout my mind the past day, I had completely forgotten that I was promised an outing the minute my wound was fully healed.

And this morning, when a Retriever named Shazzi Jaide had gently woken me up and stated that she'd been sent by The Top, I had flung my soft blanket off my body and washed up in the Bath Sector—and followed the order to meet Fallon Neith, my fellow Retriever, in the Clothing Storage room. Door three.

"Do you have your Tracker?" asks Fallon, and I nod and tap my right thigh—where a hidden Tracker I was given earlier this morning by Shazzi is secured by a thick black band, should I need it in case of an emergency.

But there shouldn't be an emergency, I tell myself, because Fallon and I are going out looking like two ordinary, dreary citizens wandering the grimy streets of The City. Not as trained, hopeful rebels that are set on change.

Fallon gently runs her fingers through her beautiful white curls, and a part of me respects and admires the fact that she cares about her appearance, wants to cherish her self-care in a city where no one gives you a second glance if you walked out naked and bleeding.

I inhale deeply and give Fallon a timid smile, straightening my white dress and throwing my long hair over a shoulder. I quickly glance in the narrow floor-length mirror of the spacious Clothing Storage room, and press my lips together to hold back disgust at the sight.

Fallon's eyes hold understanding at my inner turmoil as she laces her boots, then pulls out a large jar of dirt from the massive wooden closet nearby—one closet of many in the room. 

"Dirt?" I question in confusion, and Fallon scoops a handful of brown from that jar. 

"To pass off as believable citizens. Dirty and filthy and unclean." 

I let her smear the soil into my new, unworn white dress—she does not miss a spot as she concentrates the dark stains on the lower half of the dress, where one would've tripped and gotten grimy from the street. "We can't look too clean for risk of raising suspicion." She states, and I couldn't agree less.

She stands when she's done dirtying, and I turn to look in the mirror again—to behold a filthy white-haired girl that looks like another oppressed, lonely female with no home, no friends.

Fallon places a hand over my shoulder, and we both stare at our grimy reflections. 

This is how girls on the street look. Women and men and children—they all look like this.

Except their faces are weighed down by sorrow far greater than yours could ever be, now that you have a sanctuary.

"It will change, Phoenix." Fallon says firmly, and I meet her steadfast gaze in the mirror. "It will change, because the Base is unified. We have each other, and are all united not by our looks or clothes, but by our rebellious souls that crave freedom and love."

My heart ignites at those beautiful words, and she gives my reflection a small smile. "We have plans, Sister. This Base is growing, I know, and things will soon fall into place." A flash of pain in those white eyes. "Any deaths only drive us further, only fuel our restless spirits."

The question floats in my eyes like a lingering ghost, but I decide against opening any of Fallon's wounds, fresh or long-healed.

She has experienced death. Her eyes convey stories of loss. I observe as we both secure our daggers to the strap around our thighs—Fallon adds a small pistol onto that strap, and I silently wonder when I will receive target training myself.