Subjectivity: Chapter Seventeen

Enormous, Logan found, was a gross understatement for the project that had begun in what was left of Siochana. Trampled by the bombings of the former Pacific Union, the small town had been destroyed utterly and completely. Mass graves had been dug and mourning families grieved miserably as the charred, disfigured corpses of their loved ones had been tossed in like bags of grain into a farm’s silo. Following their despicable send offs, many had simply left their ruined homes with what remained of their family. Logan found such people to be the lucky ones; they had family to flee with. Many others who were left completely alone following the bombings merely wandered off on foot toward Graham City or NELO. His morose thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the noise of a jack hammer nearby and he lurched upward sharply from his seated position on the edge of an as of yet unidentified building’s structure. All around the bustling activity of construction made a cacophony of noise and sights and for a moment, the fiery haired man was reminded of the marvels that were the videos shown to him of NELO One and Two’s construction. Public and private employees charged around, given great urgency by the atrociously large amounts they were being paid by the government for their compliance to meet unrealistic deadlines. Various transports and the like, initially used for the invasion of NELO had been repurposed to carry building materials to the town and, as his green eyes lazily drifted about to take in the sights, another military transport drove up before abruptly skidding to a stop. Republic soldiers stepped out of the cab and marched to the back of the vehicle, opening the hold and allowing waiting construction workers to unload the large vehicle. One of the few mercies of their trying jobs was that the sky had done as it so often did in the winter of Neo-Palmyra: it had opened up and let forth a torrent of cooling rain that both invigorated the senses and cooled flagging bodies.

Pouring down without care, the precipitation hammered against the metal shells of buildings that had been so quickly raised. The design was a perplexing one and, even from his position on the high ground of the town, Logan struggled to understand the logic behind the design that had come to take shape for the town. Two artificial hills had been raised on either side of the town following the expansion of the island of Palmyra Atoll in the area where Laevous had been settled and so the town’s new design cut a triangle down the centre of such: widest at the shore and narrowest inland. The quaint charm of Siochana had been destroyed irrevocably: where small buildings no more than five stories tall in the downtown district had once stood, high rises were being constructed. Where combinations of small shops and housing had taken to a harmonious mix, grid-like delineations had been created, separating housing from commercial enterprises and governmental complexes. Cold, composite metal skeletons stood like hollow obelisks over the trampled ground, silently watching the rebuilding town with a passive malevolence. ‘The soul of the town is gone,’ the Irish rebel thought to himself, shaking his head. It was truly a mark of the Trans-Pacific Republic, the new body created by Prime Chancellor Doran Laevan after the abolishment of the Pacific Union. He had heard that the man himself would be visiting Siochana himself on his Republic-wide trip to every member nation to officially bring them all back into the fold. The Canadian Prime Minister and President had quickly signed, and though their official statement was that of a desire for continued harmonising of the member nations, prohibited channels spoke of the signing as happening under duress. The rumor stated that, should Canada not sign, America, the seat of the Republic’s power, would place embargos on the economically weak nation for being antidemocratic and with other falsified allegations. The League of Central America Nations had signed as well, their Prime Minister travelling out to America with pen in hand to continue using the once TPR’s wealth to repopulate the destroyed rain forests and to re-sew the land with nutrients and forestall the disastrous effects of global warming in their particularly affected area. The South American nations were convening with Laevan’s Chancellors for the next few days to work through the new agreements of their membership in the Republic. ‘They’re all falling for it. Either through desperation or blackmail, Laevan will have his way,’ Logan smirked bitterly as he thought to himself ‘They’re going to have to answer to their people why they sold them out soon, I hope.’

“It would appear that the rain will not cease for some time,” an all too familiar voice sounded behind Logan. Annoyed and startled, he stood sharply and faced the Father. Now garbed in what was akin to a surplice, a black gown worn by students upon graduation, though adorned with crossing white sashes emblazoned with what appeared to be the vector pattern of some sort of destroyed atom, the man’s haunting visage was set upon the redhead’s. “You would be best to head inside, lest you catch a cold,” Subject One’s voice was cool and bereft of any true care for his wellbeing. When in public the man sounded like a prophet: with dramatic words and grand statements, he wooed all those gathered with his all too alluring promise of a glorious future with he and his organisation that he had refused to name. Only had he referred to his robed associates as ‘the Awakened,’ and he their Father, but never a name for them. Logan had considered asking the man what he referred to themselves as, but far too often only hatred for what he had done clouded his judgement when made witness to his lies of hope and prosperity. The rain padded against his exposed head and where his wispy hair once stood awkwardly on end, it now was slicked back over his head. The Father’s crimson gaze continually bore into Logan and a sense of putrid discomfort rose in the latter as he looked over the man. Unevenly shaved, pockmarked, wrinkled and craggy with cracked lips and a bulbous nose, the defeated Red Dawn leader wondered how anyone could follow him. Though sadly he knew the answer far too well: the Father represented the cruelty in the world that he purported to hate and as the man spoke once more with his acid laced words, he knew that it was all a horrific life: “You would do well to speak. It is rude to do otherwise.”

Logan turned away, too repulsed by the Father in all respects to even acknowledge him for a long moment. “I have nothing to say to a murderer like you, Father,” Logan hissed out the final word with malevolence, loathing hearing the man called such wherever he went, but unfortunately he knew no other name for the man. Casting his gaze to the distant ocean, the Subject suddenly wished dearly that he could be there: to swim away from his mistake. “I sold out my friends to you and Laevan. I sold them out so that he would leave Siochana to the Red Dawn and I, so that we could rebuild and bring peace to the town.” A sight he had endeavoured greatly to not look upon finally drew him to look upon to. Casting his gaze left, Logan’s heart fell at what he beheld: there, under rolling clouds of smoke, were the ruins of NELO. The once massive buildings had been leveled and their ruined countenances cut a jagged, asymmetrical and morose horizon of rubble and death. The extraction process of removing the one million six hundred thousand Subjects had taken a week, however all had been removed and taken by boat to an as of yet unknown location. Part of the rebel hoped that their fate would be better than for those who had escaped the island on European Union. Following his gaze, Subject One as he was truly known smirked darkly at the sight, a rare expression to see on the falsely benevolent man, though Logan did not see him, for his gaze was focused too hard on the complex that was once home to over one and a half million children. Though he had not cared for the facility itself nor those who had been once employed, he pitied their sorry fate: willing participants in the creation of Subjects would surely be given a cruel lot in life for their part in the abomination, as Laevan had said in a recent announcement. The deliberation for what would be done with the Subjects had already been brought to the highest court possible: the Transnational Supreme Court of the Trans-Pacific Republic, newly made for the intensity of the ruling. Though at the thought of the court, Logan only felt bitter reality seep in: there would be no justice and thus there would be no humanity in the actions made against the Subjects. Likely either put to work as menial members of society incapable of acquiring education or something much akin to being given a place upon the bottom rung of society, they would be loathed and disliked for their existence. Feared by those who believed that The Awakening would come for them in the night should they aid a Subject, the artificially made humans would not be accepted nor pitied, should fate turn against them once more.

Observing the smoking ruins of NELO, Subject One finally spoke: “She did it, you know.” Confusion was the first emotion that came to bear for Logan at his words: who had done what? Casting his glance back to the unsightly holy man, the Father merely continued to look over the ruins. “Natalie Bellerose. She had systems set in place that, should she desire, the Central Administrative Building would be destroyed, removing the knowledge of how to create Subjects from the world.” The redheaded rebel felt no words come to his lips as he parted them, wishing to understand how the zealot could know such things. However, were the man able to glean such knowledge from Logan’s expression, he did not answer his silently inquiry and instead extended a hand. “Behold, rebel boy, the fruit of the labour of those who would pervert the universe’s divine proclamations. An abhorrent and artificial creation shall not thrive in a place where justice reigns.” He looked to Logan for a long moment. “The Subjects will die for they are an abomination,” he explained coldly. The rebel leader silently remembered the last time he had spoken to the two he had sent to their deaths and silently asked for forgiveness: ‘Roe, Stephan. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.’ Such humility was unknown to the normally confident man, however the crushing reality of their situation could not be ignored. The Red Dawn was gone, NELO destroyed and her children trapped. There was truly no other force to stand against the tyranny of the Republic so hell bent upon controlling all aspects of their life. Though the question remained in Logan’s head: why did Laevan do what he did? What driving force was behind his methodical amalgamation of authority in his office? “The Zero City,” the Father spoke abruptly, breaking his younger counterpart out of his thoughts with a motion to the under construction town of Siochana, “Will serve as a beacon to all those who follow the Universal Truth!” He proclaimed grandly. “For we of this Universal Truth, we of The Awakening will have our place in the cosmos. We will rout the evil that Laevan is too weak to stop…” His words only confused the former rebel leader who stood silent and looked around, feeling as though he was mad, for no one around them seemed to take qualm with the elder man’s words. Construction workers merely continued on their way: laying concrete, erecting steel walls and other functionary tasks, but otherwise seemed entirely ignorant to their existence. Seeing him stare at the others so curiously, the Father looked to Logan for a moment: “You need not worry, boy. They know the Universal Truth and know better than to worry for their Father’s wellbeing, for he is a capable man even in his weakness.” Once more gesturing to the town, he continued his thought: “The Zero City is a small scale version of the One City, one of the Laevan’s little projects. The theory stands that, if he brings all his endeavours into one place, he can better control everything.”

The fiery haired man merely looked over the stale town with a look of dread: the soul of Laevous, of Siochanna, had been destroyed and instead it was merely being made example of through the ruining of its likeness. Where quaint, multi-coloured shops once stood in harmony with all strata of housing, now militant grids were the providence of order and saw clear separation between residential, commercial and industrial complexes. Closest to the sea stood some of the largest complexes: the recycling facilities and freshwater conversion plants were being rebuilt while farther out one found large business and following them, small businesses, residential housing of all strata and finally the governmental complexes farthest from the coast upon the high ground. The town cut a cold and heartless visage through its steely skeletons standing watch over the construction workers who worked busily to give them their flesh. “Nothing you can say can undo what you’ve done, Father,” Logan hissed out the man’s title, “You’re nothing but a murderer. I know what you did to that boy and I found the other bodies.” Turning on his heel, he faced off against the old man: “And I won’t let you corrupt a town of good people who only want to live peacefully again!” The Father, truly Subject One, though such was unknown to Logan, merely stood there, looking over the construction sites. Agitated at being ignored, the defeated rebel clenched a fist, determined to deliver a solid blow and fell the frail looking man with one strike. Though it was then that Subject One acted: spinning on the ball of his inner heel, a metallic click sounded and the glint of metal could be seen overtop his hand. As though he were going to backhand the unsuspecting rebel Hayes, the movement seemed passive and lazy, though such was beguiled by the Father’s speed. Searing pain exploded across the redhead’s throat as a blade cut deep into his carotid artery, and blood spewed out an unsightly mess before him and the defeated young man stumbled backward, clutching at his neck as blood leaked into his throat, choking him. “You…” He spoke before coughing violently on his own blood and collapsing downward onto his knees. However, much to his dread, the Father was not done with his violent ministrations and swept down again, delivering the same bloodied blade straight into the soft flesh of the base of Logan’s throat.

The pain was blinding and the felled youth writhed against the dusty ground as he choked. Clawing futilely at the Father’s bright robes, he only managed to smear blood on his boots before his hands, shaky and unstable, failed to respond to his brain’s demands. “This is a sad day,” the Father spoke coldly, “You have forced me to kill you when you could have been of more use to me. There was a place for you in my world, but you were childish and chose death instead.” Subject One fell to a knee swiftly; any vestiges of frailty in his old age cast aside, and retracted his knife in the process. With his right thumb and forefinger, he delved the two digits into Logan’s throat. The dying man let forth a silent scream, for his vocal folds had been disrupted completely, and writhed in vain, desperately trying to escape the horrific pain that was having someone forced their fingers into a flesh wound. Logan gripped the dusty ground in vain and thrashed around in unbridled agony against the unbearable pain as the Father gripped something in his throat and pulled. Blood flowed freely between his fingers and from the slash across the redhead’s carotid artery as the old man continued his ministrations before with one jerky and unpleasant motion removed a long piece of flesh and dangled it before his crimson eyes “Know that this is the voice of a traitor,” he instructed of the dying man whose vision had blurred to such an extent he could not focus on the flesh removed from his throat. “And know that it will be you who suffers most from it, boy, not I.” With that, Subject One grasped Logan’s face with one hand and pried his mouth open before forcing the piece of flesh into his throat and releasing him. The putrid taste of his own vocal fold caused him to wretch more violently than he had before, though this only served to further the blood loss as his heart failed to deliver the vital fluid to his brain. His brain, deprived of oxygenated blood, seemed to fail in its cognitive duties as Logan failed to understand the severity of his situation. Clawing weakly at the ground, he attempted to stand, though found no strength in his legs or arms and instead writhed on the ground pathetically. “You will not survive this,” the Father’s words came out mockingly, “You will die. And you will die alone as a broken, pathetic boy.”

Panic filled Logan’s dying mind as he looked up and saw the haunting visage of his murderer. ‘I can’t go to death looking at this demon,’ the rebel thought to himself desperately, and looked to the side where he saw the ocean’s stormy tide roll in and out. It was only then that he had noticed that the rain had begun to fall. With the steady patter of rain against all around him, the world seemed to slow immensely. Overtop of him, the Father continued to spout his cruel rhetoric about how the world must be changed and that the ultimate sin of man’s existence had to be corrected, though it did not register with the dying rebel leader. His sight had begun to darken considerably as his heart beat less and less blood out of his lethal wounds and it almost felt as though he was tired. ‘Maybe I’ll just sleep,’ the rationalisation came to him. The rain was cooling and seemed to lull him to death, ‘The ocean is a beautiful sight… I won’t mind dying like this…’ Peace came to him at that moment as his heart had begun to flow. Though the crimson eyed cruel man would not allow such and with a hand clenched the dying youth’s head and pulled it back upward to stare at him as he died. He could hear the man speak of how he wished to watch him die, but the words were lost to the failing mind of Logan and so his dull verdant gaze merely stared lifelessly upward as his heart slowed ever further. ‘Please god, universe, anyone… anything,’ Logan begged silently, ‘Don’t let me die like this… Don’t let me die to this monster,’ he could feel tears leaking from his half lidded eyes as he desperately tried to look away, but lacked the strength. He could feel the pounding of his heart finally draw still in the back of his head and after a moment, a terminal breath escaped Logan’s lips. His hands relaxed in their grip of the dirt below them and his legs lowered and splayed out in front of him. His sight, so darkened over the past few minutes, finally failed him completely and darkness encompassed his mind. Deafening silence came over him as the agonising pain of his body left him and he was left as a disembodied mind. ‘Please,’ he spoke silently, ‘Don’t let him take the world.’ With his parting plea to the abyss around him, Logan Hayes died.

~*~

The wretched smell of human waste and mould filled the air with a heavy, nigh unbreathable stench that saw Stephan feel as though he needed to vomit was the most pertinent unpleasantness about his new cell. The smell was inescapable for regardless of how tall you stood or how low one crouched, the acrid smell permeated and so it left all those in the prison cellblock largely immobile and silent, for heavy breathing only brought sickness and partial suffocation from the lack of oxygen to breath. The young brunet man’s cell was bereft of any sort of toilet or sanitary means of such a nature and so he was required to relieve his bladder and bowel in the corner. The act of such was incredibly degrading and left him feeling ashamed and dirty every time he did so, most notably due to the fact that, as opposed to his previous cell, he was no fully visible by those in the cells across from him and they leered constantly, ever watching his movements, as rare as they were. The pile of refuse would grow steadily more unbearable as the days wore on and would simply disappear when he slept on a particular night, though the correct day was unknown to him, due to the lack of time coordination means available to Stephan. Curious as to how the waste was removed and if he could use it as an opportunity to escape, the Greek man had once stayed up on the particular removal night, however found none to remove the foul pile or any sort of mechanised means of doing such. Thus for the following week, he was forced to bide his time next to a pile of human feces and the like twice the size of what he was accustomed to. The same principle stood for his food: a bowl of grey, tasteless matter would appear in his cell every morning before he awoke and, were he to wake early, it would not be there and so he would go hungry for the day. To call the food gruel would be incorrect, Stephan found, for even gruel had a flavour, whereas the food he was given in the prison lacked taste entirely and merely slid down his throat quickly and served to only sustain him at the barest of levels. He had lost a great deal of weight and, not being of a heavy build, had quickly grown emaciated and thin. His hair, once a shining light brown, had darkened with filth and from the unhealthy nature of his body. With deteriorating health, the Greek made every attempt to conserve his energy and, after a week of examining every possible means of escape, merely lay on the floor behind his bed and waited for something in his life to change.   

Coupled with the fetid smell of his own biology, Stephan was made witness to the madwoman across from his cell. A scraggly old shrew of a woman with grey hair so spare her scalp was visible, she too donned a grey jumpsuit that seemed to be equally ill-fitted to her person, much akin to her own. Though it was not her unpleasant appearance that irked the beleaguered former student and instead it was her inane ramblings. The woman spoke nigh constantly of her beloved pet ferret named Jackles. The name, both obscure and seemingly random, was spoken with reverence by the mad woman who seemed incapable of providing a name for herself. During one of the many days he had spent in the prison, Stephan had unwisely stared too long at the woman, for he had attempted to discern whether she was mad from her perceived extended stay in the prison or if she had been imprisoned for her insanity. Alas, much to his chagrin, upon noticing his stare, the woman had begun to speak emphatically of Jackles. The brunet had long since grown to despise the ferret and wished to never speak nor hear of ferrets following his escape, a fact that he was determined to make into reality, regardless of the unlikely nature of such now. Having asked himself as to how Roe would handle such a situation, he concluded that the wisest course of action was to remain calm, not do anything rash, and instead wait for an opportunity. However the woman had gone on to explain that her beloved Jackles was exactly fifty seven and three quarter centimeters long and weighed one point nine seven kilograms. Moreover, Jackles was male and had black fur with two concentric white circles: one around his face and the other around the creature’s slight muzzle. With a pension of performing the ‘weasel war dance,’ which comprised of jumping side to side and soft clucking, Jackles was lively and enjoyed to play. The facts that he had learned only served to irritate Stephan and he had shouted at the woman to be quiet, though to no avail, as she simply continued on with her explanations of her ferret. From such he had learned that the best method of keeping the woman silent was to ignore her very existence and instead focus on things inside his cell, however such was very difficult due to the lack of activity possible in the small room. The far wall and perpendicular walls that separated his cell from others were made of such porous concrete that he could easily hear his neighbours, however the young man had quickly learned to pay the disturbed individuals any heed. The walls, though appearing weak, were simply too strong to damage and so, after many failed attempts to dig at them with the spoons and knives provided, Stephan had given up.

One of the other most prominent features of his incarceration was a strangely nostalgic sound: the sound of a dripping pipe somewhere in the distance. The drip of water onto the ground was ever present and did not cease for any man. Initially maddening, Stephan had found comfort in its sound, for he considered it a kind of clock: counting the minutes away, though monotonous, was calming and diverted his attention away from the wailing madmen around him that threatened to wear on his own sanity. Already worn on by the horrendous standards of his cell, the young man knew he had to capitalise on any and all forms of peace he could find in the cell and wait for the proper moment to present itself. However, the continued fall of water from the pipe so far away continued to draw him into the past, to his childhood when America still reeled from its second civil conflict. The streets of Concord, New Hampshire had been his home and though his family did not find them ideal, the city held a comforting familiarity to it.

The rain fell noisily against the metal roofs all around as Stephan and his young family hurried through the rain. Pattering against their sheeted beings, the roofs let forth a dissonant song of industrial fortitude and of a longing for creature comforts nigh forgotten to the people of the United States. Singing their song in the otherwise silent day, the roar of the rain against all horizontal surfaces was a hallmark of Stephan’s young life; it signalled food and the hope for socialisation. Though America was not starving, allocation of nutrition had been centralised in hopes of better managing the influx of economic refugees from their neighbouring country to the north and to stop the creation of a black market on food. His hand was held firmly in the grasp of his mother and before the two of them walked Stephan’s father who carried his youngest child, his daughter, upon his shoulders. Though the young girl was not sick, she simply could not keep up. All around them, massive black buildings stretched into the clouds. Their construction was simple and of a utility-based nature: massive steel girders stretched up and were linked to others, forming a ridged skeleton that was filled in with dirty windows, some of which had been broken and covered with pressboard and other artificially made materials to keep out the elements. They were the homes for the poor and for those unable to take care of themselves, such as the sick, elderly and disabled. Hallmarks of a bygone age, they stood as perversions upon a once beautiful city, a reality that even the boy Stephan knew too well. Where they had once stood was where centuries old buildings had once stood: stately homes for economic lords and ladies of colonial America, resplendent town halls and other public venues had once existed there. Now instead, black obelisks that raped the sky with their massive beings, blotting out the sun and leaving those in their shadows in a perpetual twilight.

As Stephan and his family continued in their light jog, the young boy was pained to ignore the scores of those who had fallen through the cracks of the public care institutions: beggars of all ages sat slumped against the buildings they were denied access, pleading for food stamps and money. Though the boy’s parents coldly ignored them, for they though they placed their love so earnestly and heavily in their children, their love of the rest of humanity left Stephan feeling guilty and spoiled. Why couldn’t the boy’s parents give them a food token or a few dollars? It would not leave them destitute, but when he had brought it up with the tall man before him, he had only scoffed at the idea and told the boy not to be soft-hearted and that they were on the streets due to their own laziness and drug addictions. The Greek boy had seen many children his age and indeed younger on the streets as well, looking all the part of an orphan from movies depicting the nineteenth century with sunken cheeks and sad gazes that broke one’s heart to look into. More strangely, as Stephan had found when he had snuck into the city on his own, much to the fury of his parents, that many of the children were Subjects: children adopted into loving families but discarded when food became scarce and times became tough. When he learned such, the cruelty of it struck the boy like a dagger in the chest and he merely sat before the discarded Subject, apologising for the cruelty of the world. As he did every time they went into the city to retrieve their food rations, they passed that same boy and, as they did, Stephan subtly tossed a couple coins into the boy’s hat, and the Subject offered him a weary smile, to which the more affluent boy winked slyly. The brunet child knew that, were his parents to find out he was using the money they gave him for chores to support an abandoned Subject, they would confiscate it immediately, and so he made their exchanges are subtle as possible. Although Stephan would have preferred to stop and play with the other boy, he knew it best to make it seem like he did not know the boy, and so his family rounded the corner of the massive building. Moving about the half-abandoned obelisks was quite a trek, they had found, for the side of one building covered three city blocks, though the sight following the corner was a predictable one.

A line stretching down the entirety of the side of the public housing complex was comprised entirely of families huddled under umbrellas and for those less equipped; under jackets and plastic sheets pulled over their heads. Stephan was thankful that his family had done as well as they did: they, like the majority of Americans, could once more afford luxury items like new clothing and brand name food. The proclaimed miracle of such was based on the creation of the Pacific Union, which had served to reallocate massive sums of money to countries in need. Much of these emergency funds had flooded the United States following the Chinese-based conclusion of the Civil War four years before Stephan’s birth. During the war, hundreds of thousands of Americans had starved to death as the three rival governments put more interest in vying for authority than in their citizenry’s wellbeing, a crime that was seen as warranting the death of the three respective leaders by the Chinese, under Pacific Union jurisdiction. Though America was recovering well, the pain of those days had not faded from sight and the centralised food outlets served as a grim reminder of such: the new American federal government, centralised and authoritative, did not trust the states to feed their own people, and so it controlled such. However such control caused major administrative hiccups in the form of massive lines for the food and many citizens being illegible due to criminal history or status as a Subject. Casting his gaze to one such individual he had learned was a Subject from his nameless homeless friend, Stephan grimaced at the reality that, due to a legal loophole of Subjects not being considered human, they were not eligible for food stamps, since they were not citizens in the same right as normal born people. NELO had set up foot depots for their Subjects, however many were too sick to reach them, for they were on the outskirts of town due to their unpopularity. Though the regular citizen seemed to be fine with letting Subjects starve, the idea of a private company acting outside the government’s food stamp system seemed to be an outrage, and the logical absurdity of such only served to anger the boy more. For though he did not know why people could think such things, he knew it was wrong and didn’t want to see his friend or anyone else sit on the sidewalk and beg for human kindness.

With his mind distracted and his eyes straying from the line, his mother dragged Stephan forward and he stumbled, grumbling in annoyance. “You need to pay attention, Steph,” she chided him absently, “We don’t want to lose our spot.” The boy merely shrugged at his mother, though she was not looking at him and instead had attempted to peer around the line, evidently trying to discern how long they would be out in the cold. “George, would you watch the children for once?” His mother spoke coolly to her husband, who shot her an irritated stare before returning his gaze to the device in his hand: though only a slim piece of metal, it projected a four inch wide screen above, from which Stephan’s father, George, watched what appeared to be the news. The man was not known for being talkative and when he did, it was rarely a good sign, for his words chided his children and complained about his wife’s complaining. Stephan knew his parents loved one another dearly, but even at his young age, he knew that they were struggling to come to terms with having moved to such a desolate country. His parents, as he later learned, moved from Greece to America for his father’s work as a systems analyst for a multinational corporation, but when the war had broken out, the company removed itself from the country and left their young family destitute. If not for the position Stephan’s father had received through the government, they would have surely been placed in one of the abysmal ‘poor towers,’ as they had come to be known. The accommodations were cramped, filthy and the rumors of drug rings and a black market on food stamps scared the young boy terribly. His mother cast her gaze down the road, passively noting the lack of cars, due to the restrictions upon electricity consumption following the destruction of power lines by the Confederate Union, the former congregation of states in the southern half of the country, who had wished to stop the production of military arms by the United States of the north and eastern states and the New Federation of the west. The act had been a cruel one that the remaining former leadership of the volatile bloc had later apologised for, since it left almost three hundred million Americans in the dark without heating in three bitingly cold winters to follow until the power lines were completely restored. Stephan shuddered at the thought and was glad that he was not alive during that time. Noting his movements, his mother peered at him: “Stephan, sweetheart, are you cold? I’m sorry we didn’t bring any umbrellas, daddy and I didn’t expect it to rain.”

Stephan shook his head, “No, I’m fine, really,” he attempted to assure his mother, though the woman only frowned skeptically before removing her jacket and placing it about her son. The movement was touching and he smiled, though nevertheless attempted to shrink away from it: “No, you’ll get sick if you don’t keep covered up. I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her son’s altruistic spirit, though placed the jacket on his shoulders regardless. As she went to speak, a loudspeaker crackled in the distance, and the line of families quieted and peered in the direction of the sound. A woman’s voice boomed through the silent street, proclaiming that the New Evolutionary Leap Organisation, on behalf of the Pacific Union government, had come to offer blankets, warm drink and plastic ponchos to those ill-equipped for the driving rain. Cheers rang out as the woman’s voice fell silent, and many applauded the action. “They don’t want to love Subject boys and girls, but they’ll take their stuff?” Stephan asked his mother, and she merely shook her head, dismissing the question as she moved onto the edge of the sidewalk after the rumble of vehicles could be heard. The boy followed her to the curb and, peering around her, he saw the movement of three large vehicles: white transports adorned with the NELO insignia of a ring of DNA inscribed with the words ‘Hope,’ ‘Providence,’ and ‘Fortune’ in the centre in a fine golden scrawl. The first vehicle was followed by men garbed in pure white uniforms with the same insignia upon their shoulder and back who handed out the aforementioned plastic ponchos and the occasional umbrella from the hold of their vehicle. The second vehicle gave out shining blankets which, Stephan suspected, were comprised of an artificial waterproof polymer that retained the heat and kept out the moisture. The last vehicle, well behind the others, was tended to by the most NELO guards who gave out large cups of steaming drink to those gathered. Thankful smiles and praises were given to the NELO employees as they gave out their wares, and Stephan noticed some parents openly embracing the white garbed individuals with tears of unveiled gratitude and thankfulness in their eyes. It was a strange sight that, though people would so quickly speak ill of the unnecessary nature of Subjects in a country comparatively lightly hit by the Barren, but take their charity without repose. Stephan found it even more strange that the NELO officials carried handguns holstered to their waists and some with automatic rifles strapped to their backs. As the three transports rolled ever closer to their destination, Stephan’s mother looked ever more uneasy, nervous with anticipation.

When they did finally reach their location, the friendly faced guards greeted everyone with smiles and waves before offering their wares out to waiting hands. Squares of folded ponchos were quickly spread through the crowd in abundance and, upon seeing that they were handed to his mother, Stephan deftly slipped his mother’s coat off his shoulders and stood on his toes, placing it back on her shoulders. “Here, mommy, I don’t want you to get a cold!” He mimicked her tone when she had placed it on his mantle and she laughed lightly, a look of rarely seen ease in her eyes before she was given a steaming cup of what appeared to be coffee. One of the guards handed the young Greek boy a poncho, folded blanket and a drink, giving him a pat on the head, to which he gratefully thanked them: “You guys are angels, you know that?” He smiled brightly at the woman who held the loudspeaker, and she flushed brightly in embarrassment, “Really! You’re even dressed in all white!” Chuckling lightly she handed him another blanket and poncho, which he grinned widely at, “I know just who could use these!” Handing his blanket to his father who quickly wrapped it around Stephan’s toddler sister, he slung the poncho over himself and looked to his mother: “I’ll be back in a moment, I need to use the bathroom.” Lying convincingly, the woman nodded, cautioning him to not go far and stay away from the homeless. Endeavouring to do the exact opposite, the young boy burst into a run and rounded the corner of the massive building. Examining the broken faces of those seated against the monolithic building, Stephan skidded to a stop when he saw a familiar face. Curly black hair marked him easily in a crowd of his peers and coupled with his filthy Subject attire, the boy whom the young Tharros boy had befriended was easily found. The young Subject boy looked up at Stephan with a confused gaze. “Hi,” the more affluent boy greeted him before offering him the extra sheet, extra poncho, and drink he had been given. The boy just stared up at his brunet counterpart, eyes widening in surprise before he smiled widely, gratefully accepting the gifts. Carefully placing the drink a distance away, the child Subject unfolded the blanket and wrapped it tightly around himself before donning the poncho over it, furthering his rain protection. Finally, he lifted the drink to his lips and guzzled it thirstily. With a noisy breath escaping his lips, the young raven haired child abruptly embraced Stephan, who returned the gesture after his own moment of surprise.

“Thank you so much,” the Subject spoke to Stephan, “You have no idea how much this means to me.” Releasing the latter, the black haired child smiled once more, “Really. Thank you, you’re an angel, Steph.”

The memory gave Stephan cause to smile as he sat behind the filthy cot in his cell. That boy, Roe, and all Subjects had time and time again affirmed the necessity of his sacrifice in the cell: if he had to suffer so that they could be happy, he would be more than happy to do as such. For although the cot was mouldy and gave him puss-filled lesions, the lack of a toilet left him nauseated often, and the dank cold left him shivering constantly, he could permit it all if it meant bringing smiles to faces that had long since forgotten such. A poem came to mind then, one that he had learned in the dreary days of Concord, New Hampshire, which he then spoke aloud: “Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.” The mentally disturbed woman across from him silenced her own babblings, her attention drawn to him. “In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.” Looking to the filthy cot he loathed to sleep in, Stephan stood, speaking ever louder. “Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid.” Walking to the bars of his cell, his voice, filled with pride, spoke the last verse: “It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.” Down the hall, the young man could hear applause, while others booed, and some even cried out depraved remarks. He ignored it all, content to merely stand there, looking over the dismal souls before him and instead steeled himself for the future: he would be the master of his own fate and the captain of his soul.

~*~

“You really shouldn’t be surprised,” Ivan chided her as he hurried to Sonya’s side, though she was far beyond looking at the youth, her anger threatening to see her lose her composure. The younger brother, however, was insistent and continued his thought aloud: “I’m sure you know they’d draft me eventually. They like to pick from Murmansk since people are so poor the military makes for good paying work.” She frowned ever so slightly, merely nodding in agreement, though was loathed to admit the truth. The poorest of Russia would undoubtedly be more willing to serve in the military, since they would be given steady food and pay, as opposed to the tumultuous life that they led. However the newly appointed Prime Chancellor had been clever in his workings: having nullified the Pacific Union Charter of Rights and Freedoms before forcing the tentative joining of the twelve member nations, he had secured a regime where, although the domestic laws for each nation existed, international law was up to Republic mandate. “If anything, I’m safer here than I was with mom and dad,” though Sonya only scoffed at the familial nature of his mention of their parents; to her they did not deserve such a kindness, it was undue and undeserved. However she remained silent, still unsure of her composed and even she could be with her brother at such a time. Content to be the one speaking, Sonya and he continued toward the landing pad with Ludwig in tow. With a bitter chuckle, he cast his cobalt gaze to the nearby Siberian peaks: “Someone might notice if I disappeared here, after all.” Sonya only felt a bitter smirk grow in admonishment of the truth. They both knew all too well that their parents broached the young man no love and would likely not mourn his departure for long, if at all. “If anything, I’m worried about you, Sonya. This mission the Major General has you and your friend going on seems rather dangerous. What if you got caught?” He raised a valid point, however Sonya remained silent, intent on their forcing the topic to be dropped or to instead ignore it out of existence. However, the young man, impertinent as ever, stopped her with a firm grip on the arm and turned her to face him. Though he was five years younger than she, he seemed to have grown immensely since when they had last met: almost standing equal in height, he truly seemed more man than boy, now. It was a surreal sight to see the boy, once crumpled against dingy green cabinets, sobbing weakly, to look so adult as he did now. Adorned in a Russian camouflage military uniform with his hair buzzed short, he looked hauntingly similar to pictures of their father in his youth. Although where the subpar parent had dull blue eyes that vacantly stared at the TV, Ivan’s were bright and filled with determination. “Sonya, c’mon: talk to me, I’m worried for you.”

Lightly removing his hand, she sighed once more, and stared over his shoulder at the barracks. It had been there that she had recalled the unpleasant memory of their parents’ lack of love for the youth, and it had been there that she and Ludwig had bonded over their dread for their current situations. Turning her gaze to Ludwig, she found he stood informally, given the formality of his dress. Garbed in his dress uniform and promoted to lieutenant, he wore matching black pants and a double breasted suit jacket adorned with grey demarcations of his ranking upon the jacket he wore, a dull red tie and collared white shirt completed the uniform. Upon the right upper arm was the ring of stars symbolic of the nations that united to create the Republic and upon the left upper arm the phoenix: a symbol of the rebirth of their lands in prosperity, or so Laevan had purported. Dressed identically, Sonya felt uncomfortable in the formal garb and felt all too much a part of the sinister Prime Chancellor’s agenda, however ignored the feeling and finally spoke to her growingly impatient brother. “It’s a worry that I, and I’m quite sure Ludwig, have given much consideration to. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense and I cannot give you the details, but know that what we do is necessary and that it will result in a better world: a world where places like Polyarny aren’t conveniently forgotten and left to poverty and malign anonymity.” Unconvinced, Ivan frowned at her, and she offered him a rare smile. “I know you want to go with us and  part of me wishes that you could: we don’t spend a lot of time together, but it has to be this way. We’re going to Neo-Palmyra and we’ll work our way into Laevan’s personal guard, get all the evidence we need, then release it on the world. There are others who think like we do on the inside: the major general is a perfect example” Overhead, the roar of a helicopter could be heard. Two sets of spinning blades set on wide wings joined in one narrow large central body marked it as a tilt-rotor type, capable of carrying many more people than a standard helicopter, and its engines were deafeningly loud. The repetitive high frequency thump of the double rotors steadily slowed as the aircraft, once having hovered high above the landing pad, now lowered itself, all the while turning perpendicular to those awaiting its arrival. When the craft finally touched ground with its flat pads, the sliding doors were thrown aside and from the oddly ornate looking hold, two soldiers armed with automatic rifles took point at either side of the entrance. Casting her gaze back to the general’s squat office building, Sonya saw the large woman offering her a firm nod from the door before retreating inside. “I need to go, Ivan. Be safe and don’t draw any more attention to yourself than necessary. If we get caught, you had no knowledge of it.”

Undesired emotion filled her heart as she looked over her younger brother, finding the look of rejection painful and all too familiar to the one she had seen in his eyes every time he had spoken to their parents. However the hurt expression faded, much to her relief, and her grinned widely at her: “Knock ‘em dead, Sonya.” He spoke quietly, and clapped her on the shoulder. Returning the gesture with interest, Ivan nearly lost his footing, surprised at how strong she had become as of late. Silence fell over the two, though she was the first to break it with the scrape of her shoe as she turned toward the aircraft. As Ludwig wordlessly went to walk by, smirking wryly at the younger male, the blond brother cleared his throat and spoke, feeling woefully awkward, as the two had not had an opportunity to speak to one another alone. “Hey, Ludwig?” The younger inquired, and the tall Estonian turned to face him, “Make sure she comes home, alright?” Less of a request and more of a demand, given his firm tone, Ludwig chuckled lightly, and received a withering frown from the other. Sonya had stopped upon seeing the two speaking, and contemplated returning to them to collect her travelling companion, however refrained and thought instead to merely wait for him out of ear shot. It was important that the two of them get to know one another, even if it was only for a moment before they parted for quite some time. However, though the younger Volkov seemed displeased, Ludwig was either ignorant or uncaring of such, prompting the younger to speak in defense of his words: “There’s no need to laugh, you know,” he said, his tone akin to a pouting child for a moment before he composed himself, “She’s all the family I have and I’m all the family she has. Our parents don’t even deserve that title.”  Casting his gaze up to meet the other’s gaze, the blond youth grinned wickedly, “That’s not to say you couldn’t be a part of our family, the way you look at her.”

At such, Ludwig laughed broadly, “Oh my, you’ve read too much into that! I don’t think your sister or myself have such cliché feelings. But if only for your sake, I pledge it on my life that I’ll make sure she comes home alive.” Seemingly calmed at such words, Ivan went to speak, intent on thanking the other, however the latter shook his head. “Not necessary to thank me, don’t forget I’d like to see her live too.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, the Estonian grinned a similar grin to Ivan’s own, “You remind me of myself a few years ago. Just…” Batting at the Russian’s hair, he continued his trailed off thought: “but blond and shorter.” With a light chuckle, he removed his hand, “We’ll meet again I’m sure. When that happens, we can socialise more appropriately.” With a nod of agreement, Ivan watched Ludwig continue toward the tilt-rotor helicopter, however midway he paused and turned. Shouting over the noise the aircraft let off, his voice could barely be heard: “Tell you what, Ivan!” The black haired Estonian hollered, “If she comes back injured in any way, you get one free punch!” Smirking deviously, the youth agreed silently with a punch delivered into his other hand. Seeing such, Ludwig turned and entered the helicopter with Sonya. Inside the two found seating for roughly fifteen people in booths separated by tables. Save the two guards, the newly made lieutenants were completely alone in the cabin of the helicopter, though as the engines roared to life anew, they took their seats at one of the nearby tables. Either their escort or their captors, the two guards took point within earshot, their gazes never leaving the general vicinity of the two. Ignoring them, Ludwig looked to his redheaded counterpart, a slight smirk on his face: “If you get hurt on this little outing, I get punched. So do not do anything stupid, hm?” Eliciting a confused ‘hm’ from the Russian woman, he shook his head, dismissing the matter at hand. It would assuredly be a long flight to the distant island of Neo-Palmyra where one of the reportedly most infamous prisons existed in the shadow of the beautiful Graham City.

Several hours had passed when one of their fellow travellers finally spoke up. Of the two guards, one looked significantly older than the other, though given his more humble rankings as indicated upon his uniform, Sonya found him to be the subordinate to the younger man. “This has been sufficiently awkward, I’d say.” Dull cerulean eyes of the younger man flickered between Ludwig and herself and, upon his words, the older man straightened in his seat, paying full heed to his superior’s words. Pushing himself to a stand, the Russian woman took note of his uniform, for it was, upon closer inspection, unlike most. Though adorned with the circle of golden stars and phoenix of the Republic, upon the breast the words ‘Chief Prison Officer’ were emblazoned in silver thread. His uniform was entirely black and the rifle strapped to his back was appointed with bright cautionary labels, indicating the extremely deadly neurotoxic bullets it was stocked with, and moreover that unauthorised use would deliver a painful charge to the would be assailant. Making a mental note not to touch the man’s gun, Sonya nodded to him in agreement. The man, looking to be no older than thirty, had long blond hair much akin to the colour of her brother’s and more eerily similar eyes, though where his were bright and virile, the Chief Prison Officer’s were dull and disinterested as she had noted previously. He walked over to their table and first offered a gloved hand to Sonya herself, she shook it firmly, and he offered her a nod in return before shaking hands with Ludwig and standing before their table, hands folded behind his back. “I figured you two would be a tad chattier, all things considered. In any event, I am Chief Prison Officer Jack Gilbert. You may address me as Officer Gilbert. Behind me is one of my more experienced prison guards, Robert Harding.” The aforementioned man nodded to the two of them brusquely before returning his gaze to Officer Gilbert, who only let forth an annoyed huff. “Bob is not a very personable fellow, but he has excellent drive in his job.” Robert Harding had grey hair covered by a black hat and craggy eyes that seemed to age a man past what Sonya expected to be no more than in his mid-forties. “I make it a habit to meet every new guard I am given at their deployment base. You two have come from a particularly merciless one, and given your records, which I have read, I believe you will thrive in our environment at the Seventh Trans-Pacific Republic Penitentiary, however I will tell you now that I do not tolerate the death of prisoners. It is a horrific amount of paperwork for me should you do so and I would make it… unpleasant for you, should you subject me to such.”

Clearing his throat, he motioned toward the wide window that was next to their booth, “And as per my own instructions from the Office of the Chancellor for Internal Affairs itself, I’ll direct your attention outside toward the hideous structure being constructed off the coast of Neo-Palmyra.” Sonya’s gaze snapped to what she could only now see as their aircraft abruptly banked to the right. Though Neo-Palmyra was but a spec on the ocean at their distance, a massive circular plate of metal floated upon the ocean’s stormy surface closer to them. So massive was it that the waves did not jostle its great being, and instead crashed against it. The enormous plate looked much akin to a sort of island-city, for at the centre were large, half constructed high rises. Though most notably was the most central of buildings: built akin to an egg, the building looked completely finished to the untrained eye, for it was covered entirely in what appeared to be seamless glass, strapped with spiralling bands of metal that met at the point of the structure. The building gleamed like a priceless Faberge egg made of glass and finely hewn metals, for even in the stormy winter light it gleamed like a jewel. The otherwise modern looking high rises were not only dwarfed in size but also in glamor and seemed plain and disinteresting. Tearing her gaze from the monstrous, egg shaped building, Sonya saw that, as one moved farther from the centre, the height of the buildings decreased, and at the every edges, there was nothing but the dark base of the enormous plate. “That is the One City, a design by the Prime Chancellor himself you see, with the assistance of a one Rina Hayashi, a prominent architect. It is the mobile capital of the Trans-Pacific Republic, built to better facilitate good relations in the Republic. The Chancellor of Internal Affairs believes that the former Union was too heavily centralised upon Western ideals, and that the Republic should instead better reflect its cosmopolitan nature.” Awe struck by the massive construct, Officer Gilbert rolled his eyes, “If you think it looks large from up here, wait until we land.” Motioning back to the structure, he pointed out the long divisions of the One City, wherein eight triangular sectors existed. “Those walls between the sectors? They aren’t walls at all, you see. They are massive highways to better facilitate traffic. You see, the One City can support upwards of thirty million people, larger than even current super cities like New York or London.” Giving a dry laugh, the prison official rolled his eyes. “Truly a marvellous use of taxpayer dollars, hm? Moving everything and everyone important to one place, and all around the centre of the Republic: the strange egg building, Gherkin Alpha. The Prime Chancellor certainly has revolutionary ideas.” Sonya could only shake her head, for she did not see the One City as a marvel in engineering and a means of uniting the Trans-Pacific Republic.

It was a weapon disguised as a city.     

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