A Thousand Suns

*author's note* This is a story I wrote for my Extended Project Qualification. It's based upon the album 'A Thousand Suns' by Linkin Park, mostly using the lyrics as inspiration.

Prologue: The Requiem

 

The world feels different when you know this is the last you’ll see of it. Every breath; every gust of wind; every branch on every barren, bony tree is sacred - is something that you hold tight to your chest and keep locked in your soul.

 

The sound of the breeze in those leafless trees, the way I had to squint against the dust leftover from the demolition that took place only a month or so ago, the tight hold I had on the gun in my hand �" a feeling I’d never felt not too long ago �" all these things made my heart clench and my breath freeze in my throat for a second.

 

“Stay outta the thick of it, Arin,” Chuck muttered behind me. I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He was holding his gun almost as tightly as I held mine.

 

“Was that sentiment, Chuck?” I said breathlessly, leaning back into the old brick wall we were positioned behind. Sweat made my grip dangerously moist and my hair was sticking to the back of my neck.

 

Chuck flashed me a grin, his eyes alive and shining. “It’s our last day on earth, darlin’,” he said, wiping a hand on his trousers quickly before putting it back on his gun. “You can’t blame me for tryin’.”

 

“If it’s our last day on earth, what’s the point in staying out of the way?” I muttered, peeking around the corner of the half-fallen wall. Chuck didn’t say anything, but I could feel him silently acknowledging my point.

 

That thought calmed me down, strangely. I focused on the space outside of our corner: the dusty, empty roads where weeds were still trying to poke their way through the cracks in the pavement and weren’t succeeding, apart from one tiny little daisy, its petals tinged with pink. My breathing slowed to a normal pace, and my grip relaxed. If we were to die today, it would be fair payment for what we have done, and how we did it. It would be fair payment for what my father started, and what I continued, for the lies and the secrets.

 

There was a crackle in my radio transmitter. “Jarvis to Robot, do you copy? Over.” I pressed my finger to the button, licked my lips and confirmed.  “Robot to Jarvis, we copy. Over.”

 

“Code Blackout, Robot, I repeat, Code Blackout. Over,” the voice said between bursts of static on the other side.

 

I looked at Chuck, who gave me a quick nod before standing. “Time to go, Arin,” he said, shifting his gun in his arms and stepping around me to duck out of our hiding spot.

 

I stared at the sky through the broken roof; at the grey clouds that had covered the blue I knew was above us since I could remember. “God save us,” I muttered to myself, and followed Chuck into the unknown.

 

1: The Radiance

(A few months earlier)

 

My heavy boots clang on the metal floor as I make my way through the underground steel corridor. These metal walls have been my home and the home of the other members of the Catalyst, the anarchistic rebellion, for as long as I can remember �" they are cold and hard, but they hold memories within them.

 

Sometimes I’m struck by how strange an upbringing like mine is, but I can’t remember a time when there were no underground metal corridors, no oppressive government, no people with guns or secretive code words. I know there was once �" Old Man Rob likes to tell me stories about those times from his chair in the west wing corridor, where he sits and listens to his old tape recorder. He told me once that they were recorded speeches from important people in the past. The only people who make speeches these days are people from the government, and then you can only listen to them on the TV or radio. We only have one TV set and three radios in the entire compound, and when the speeches happen �" about twice a year, I’d hazard a guess �" you can barely hear a word they say over the abuse the Catalysts shout over them. Sometimes I wonder if we actually listened maybe things would be different.

 

I found that single TV set in the gathering area, a place with wooden benches and as many pillows and rugs and beanbags as we have, which isn’t many. This is where most people spend their time, but today, there are only a few sitting here, and they’re not paying much attention to the screen �" it only tells us the same things whenever an ATS bomb goes off. But today, because it is quiet and there is nothing else to do, I sit in front of the news report and listen, hugging my knees.

 

“The second bomb in the past three months dubbed the ‘A Thousand Suns’ bomb went off in Sector 67 only a few hours ago,” the Asian woman tells us on the screen. She isn’t dressed formally like I’ve heard they used to �" she wears a heavy brown utility jacket and has on no make-up. She looks tired. These days, everyone does.

 

“I am here at the site of the explosion, where the few survivors are being helped by members of the recently re-formed Red Cross. Government officials assure the public that they are looking for a solution to the problem, but are yet to offer us an explanation for why these bombs are going off, or even what they are. Conspiracy group, The Catalysts, have told us -”

 

“Conspiracy group?!” someone yells indignantly from the left side of the room. He’s playing cards with some other guy I don’t know. “We’re not a fu-”

 

“Shut up!” I say, turning to give him a glare, and he quickly does. There are perks to being the main man’s daughter.

 

“- hold the appearance of real people. Whilst this theory is yet to be confirmed, The Catalysts warn the public to stay on their guard and look out for anybody acting suspiciously.”

 

Kate Chang, as the graphic on the right hand corner tells me her name is, pulls a scientist from off the side and questions him on what his thoughts are about the ATS bomb’s origins and I zone out, uninterested. It didn’t matter to me what the bomb was �" it mattered what it did. How there were, more often than not, only a handful of survivors and a whole lot of ruined houses left in its wake. And those who did survive after the explosion? They were branded forever with the loss of their sight �" the blinding light that had given the bombs their nickname did that.  I’d heard it all before. What I was really interested in was what was going on behind her.

 

People with clothes that hung off them, some with blankets draped over their shoulders, all with blood staining various parts of their bodies. Medics from the Red Cross fussed around them, bandaging burns, offering pain medication, holding hands, but they were ignored for the most part. Most were crying, some stared off into the distance silently, probably at their now burned homes. One person had a hand over their mouth and was shaking, from tears I thought originally, but then suddenly he dropped his hand, threw back his head and laughed. His eyes popped out of his head and his arms curled around his stomach, his face twisted into a grim, wide-open smile. Someone led him off screen, his limbs flailing as two men tried to jostle him into the Medical Tent. There were more survivors in this explosion than I’d ever seen, but to me, none of them had really survived.

 

The news story switches over and I looked away from the screen, watching the man who had shouted earlier get thrashed at whatever card game they were playing. The bench squeaks and I notice that someone has sat beside me, but I don’t turn to look at them. I’d guessed who it was anyway.

 

“How you doing?” my father asks, and I lean back into his side, his arm wrapped around me.

 

“Okay,” I say, still watching the game of cards.

 

“I know that tone,” he says, resting his head on mine briefly. “You’ve been thinking again haven’t you?”

 

I chuckle half-heartedly. “You got me. I’m a thinker.”

Dad sighs, and I look up into his face. He’s not looking at me; he’s staring blankly at the TV screen, not really watching it. He’s got that furrow he gets between his eyebrows that means he’s thinking too hard �" a trait I had inherited, apparently.

 

“You know we’re doing the right thing here, don’t you?” he says finally, looking down at me.

 

I can’t help but frown a little. “I don’t know,” I answer, biting my lip. “I mean I get why, and I hate the ATS bomb and whoever created it as much as the next person, but…”

 

“I know,” my dad interrupts before I can find the right words. “You don’t like the violence. You’ve never liked the violence.” He smiles a little. “You spend too much time with Kane and Old Man Rob.”

 

“I like Old Man Rob,” I say defensively.

 

“I know you do.”

 

There’s another, longer silence. I wonder why he’s not out on the field, helping survivors, but decide it doesn’t matter. I don’t get to spend enough time with my dad, and we spend too much of that time arguing.

 

“Why do you think people do things like that?” I say, staring at the television.

 

“Do what, hun?”

 

I nod at the TV, where they’re recapping the news stories they’d had so far. Death, destruction, more death, attempted death… “Do you think the people got worse as the world got worse?” I wonder aloud, not really asking for an answer. “Or is it the other way around?”

 

My dad laughs a little. “Wow, you’ve gotten to that age where you start questioning everything already?” he says, smiling at me. When I don’t smile back, he sighs and furrows his brow again, thinking of an answer.

 

“Well… there’s always an abundance of horrible things that happen in the world, Arin, but yes, I think it’s gotten worse since the ATS bombs, since the new government got so oppressive, since taxes got higher. People get desperate, and when they’re desperate, they don’t think straight. And we’ve lost the power to have our voices heard, to influence how our own country is run �" that means people have to look for power in different ways, from different places.” I sit up from under my dad’s arm so that I can look at him better whilst he talks, and he meets my eyes with a steady gaze. “Take us, for example. We want to make the government remember their duty; remember what they’re supposed to be doing. But to do that, we have to impress upon them that we can make them do what we want them to do if we have to. I suppose things like that get out of hand when people gain too much power �" they begin to think they can do anything, begin to think they are the controllers of life and death.”

 

“Could �" could that happen to The Catalyst?” I ask hesitantly, not wanting to get into another argument with him.

 

“I suppose so,” my dad answers, surprising me. “I suppose we’ve all thought that, one way or another.” He says the last quietly, staring at a spot in the wall, and I find myself holding my breath. This was the closest I’d gotten to any kind of admission from my father that maybe he had his own doubts about what he was doing here �" I wasn’t about to break the spell now.

 

But suddenly, my dad blinks out of it, looking back at me. “But we don’t have a choice,” he says grimly. “We do what we have to do. And if things do start to get out of line �" well, we’ve got you to set us straight,” he adds with a grin.

 

“Killian, Squad 8 is ready to deploy!” someone yells from the doorway, and I deflate, knowing the moment’s over.

 

“Right, coming!” my dad yells back, standing up. He gives me one last smile, ruffles my hair despite my frustrated protests, and leaves.

 

I watch him walk away, and then turn back to the screen, absentmindedly observing the adverts starting to roll. The sound of twenty or so people �" Squad 8 �" running through the corridors echoes throughout the compound. I waited until they were out of hearing range, and then I began to move.

 

I was going to follow my father.

 

2: Burning in the Skies

 

I didn’t know what I was doing, really. I grabbed a large dark hoodie �" probably belonging to one of the soldiers who’d left �" from a hanger in the deployment room and pulled it on, pushing the hood up and over my face. I knew where my father and Squad 8 were going; I had been to Sector 67 enough times in my secret trips out to know the way, even without Lauryn. The only problem was getting there fast enough �" Squad 8 would take a shuttle car, and no one had taught me how to drive yet.

 

I puzzled over it as I walked, my pace quickening the more I realized how little I had thought this through. Squad 8 would have left via the right-hand garage, seeing as Sector 67 was east of here, so that was where I was heading. The floor sloped upwards until it turned into metal stairs, which made my footsteps sound dangerously conspicuous, but as long as I acted casual, like I knew what I was doing… I’d done this enough times before to know how to get out of the compound unnoticed.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Or at least I thought I had. My hand was on the door handle to the garage, and my shoulders deflated in defeat for a second. Then I recognized the voice, and I turned around.

 

“Did you follow me?” I asked.

 

Kane shrugged, his mop of hair flopping into his eyes. “Wasn’t hard. You’re not as sneaky as you think, Ari.”

 

I leant against the wall beside the door, pushing a strand of hair back behind one ear. “No, I’m sneaky enough,” I told him. “You’re just good at tailing.”

 

Kane bit his lip and copied my body language, leaning against the railing. “You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded me. “What are you doing?”

 

I looked him straight in the eye, and he looked away, up to the heavens. “Of course. You’re following Killian and Squad 8.”

 

Kane knew me far too well. And I knew Kane far too well. “Yep. And you’re gonna help me.” I spun around, opened the garage door, and walked through.

 

The garage was probably the biggest space in the whole compound �" it had to be, to hold all the motorbikes and shuttle cars and vans we had. From the outside, it looked like an old barn made of corrugated metal walls, perhaps abandoned or just holding some farmer’s tractors, apart from the fact it was on the edge of the city, and anyone who tried to get in wouldn’t be able to �" there was a small hidden keypad in the wall where you had to enter the right code for the doors to open. Luckily, I knew that code.

 

“Grab a motorbike,” I called to Kane behind me, heading straight for the keypad.

 

“Wait �" you think I’m going to help you break your dad’s orders?” Kane asked, standing in the doorway with an incredulous look upon his face.

 

“Of course you are,” I told him, flipping open the lid to reveal the pad.

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

I smiled to myself. “Because you know I’d still do it whether you helped me out or not.” The code I’d entered was right �" there was a click and a gap appeared between the two doors that hid our compound from the rest of the world.

 

I pushed them open, letting the light of midday stream in through the gap I was slowly enlarging. The sound of an engine revving came up behind me and I gave myself a mental pat on the back in victory.

 

Kane pulled up beside me, the dirty green bike beneath him shuddering to a stop. He chucked me a matching helmet before he drove through the gap between the two doors.

 

I smiled to myself, pulled the helmet on over my hood, making sure my long orange hair was tucked out of sight, and followed the bike out of the compound, closing the doors behind me.

 

What always hit me whenever I left the compound first was the smell. It always smelt dusty; dry, but with some other smell that was more moist, and dirtier. In the compound, it always smelt clean �" sometimes a little smoky if you’re near the weapons testing or the practice areas, but always clean. The first time I’d smelt the world outside was also the first time I’d started to doubt the Catalyst’s values.

 

I locked the door behind me, entering the code once again into the pad, and hopped onto the back of Kane’s bike, hooking my arms around his waist. Neither of us said anything to each other; we knew where we were going, we knew why Kane was helping me and we knew why I was doing this. There was nothing to say.

 

A lot of people got around on motorbikes these days �" at least, those who could afford it did �" so we weren’t conspicuous. The lines of houses, some with ominous gaps between them, some with half a wall or missing a roof, were coloured grey and lonely, and graffiti was seen on the front of almost every wall we passed. The road was covered in dust that rose up like the spray of the sea to part for us as we drove through the neighbourhood, splattering the hems of our jeans and leaving tire marks that criss-crossed with other tracks as we drove. Very few vehicles were on the road today, and any that we saw were heading in the opposite direction to us.

 

Along with the lack of vehicles came the lack of people �" but that was something that was much less unusual. Occasionally we’d see a pair or small group of children playing in the road who’d jump back, eyes wide and terrified, when they saw us coming. A mother would come out and hustle them back inside, perhaps guessing who we were and where we’d come from, or perhaps she’d just learned to be cautious of anyone with enough wealth to pass by on a motorbike. A few people sat against walls, either sleeping or wanting to be asleep, some with blankets, one with an old tin can, empty. A head or two poked out of broken windows as we passed, watching us with suspicious eyes or worried glares, afraid to come out and see properly. The world was quiet accept for the roaring of our bike, and even that seemed to just add to the silence. Another thing that contrasted to the energetic life that I had experienced in the Catalyst.

 

The closer we got to Sector 67, the more people there were outside. Most huddled in groups, whispering amongst themselves, hands pressed to their chests in concern and empathy for the people affected by the ATS bomb of this morning. They were all looking in the same direction, the direction we were going, to the area of town cloaked in grey, thick smoke and the taste of horror and desperation. You could feel that from here, where the people watched us with solemn understanding rather than cautious fear, where they followed us with eyes filled with sorrow. They knew where we were going; they knew the kind of destruction that we would find when we got there.

 

Kane stopped the bike a few blocks away, indicating that he’ll push it along as we walked through the throng of people that had gathered to see what they would probably wish they hadn’t tomorrow morning. Mind, I was the same as them �" drawn to this tragedy like a moth to the flame.

 

It didn’t take us long to get through the crowds to the entrance of Sector 67, marked by a long line of yellow police tape guarded by a single masked policeman, his gun held close to his chest, although it wasn’t needed �" no one else wanted to get any closer than this. People parted for Kane’s motorbike more than they parted for us �" although they were a part of everyday life, they were still seen as a symbol of the Catalyst by a lot of the public as they knew they were what we used to get around on mostly, as well as the shuttle cars. The policeman was eyeing us, but unless we made a move, he would stay as still and as quiet as we were.

 

“We need to be less conspicuous,” Kane muttered to me, his knuckles white on the handlebars of his motorbike. “This was a terrible idea,” he added for good measure.

 

“Shut up,” I replied, crossing my arms. “You want to be less conspicuous, get rid of the bike.”

 

“Where exactly do I do that without it getting stolen by one of these poor buggers?” Kane whispered back furiously. “You never think these things through.”

“You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to!” I retorted, glaring at him. “And you’re totally welcome to leave if you’re not comfortable!”

 

A sudden flash of orange and my attention was immediately diverted from Kane. They were burning the bodies. Wait, scrap that �" my father was burning the bodies.

 

I pushed further forward through the crowd, Kane protesting behind me but unable to follow, until I reached the front, gripping tightly on to the police tape. My father stood there, pulling pieces of already damaged wood that had probably come from the houses that had been hit by the ATS and throwing them into the growing fire on top of burned blackened bones. People stood around, some weeping, some hysterical, some just staring. Catalyst members looked on grimly, fists tightly clenched, mouths in a hard, stern line. My father had his arms folded across his chest, his face carefully contained so that you couldn’t see the anger boiling inside of him. I stared at the flames that burned the innocents that had died today, that climbed into the sky where they joined the grey that already shrouded whatever was beyond that. It was hard to remember what the sky was like on days like this. Beyond the bonfire and the crowds of people, Sector 67 had become nothing but an ocean of debris. I remembered a little about this part of town; there had been a pond in the middle of it, one which Lauryn had once taken me to without telling my father. The water had been surprisingly clean, almost drinkable, and families did drink from it when the plumbing went out. Me and Lauryn had sat and watched the people find a small moment of solace in this strange little body of water that had somehow survived everything where nature had normally failed, and Lauryn had told me that that little pond was why so many of Sector 67 were so supportive of our cause �" because it had given them hope. Now, I wondered whether it was still there. I wonder what it was full of now �" water, or ash and blood and rubble and dust.

 

The smoke was making my vision blur, but I couldn’t look away. I had to get closer. I glanced at the policeman �" someone had broken down crying to the far left of the crowd, desperately trying to claw her way to the pyre of bodies, the man masked in black struggling to push her back underneath the tape. I saw my chance. I took it. As I’d said to Kane, I was good at sneaking.

 

I ducked and darted behind rubble and into the shadows, slipping into the crowd that surrounded the fire, and suddenly I knew why my father had built it here. As well as the street Kane and I had been on, there was two others filled with people, all staring at what was left of Sector 67. He wanted to create a reaction �" he wanted to create a spark. He was using the fire as that spark.

 

There he was, looking at the flames, his face impassive. Standing amongst the crowd, I could feel the tension he had created by just being there, I could feel the way they were all both wary and a little in awe of him. All I saw was my father, play-pretending at being a rebel leader. He turned to us and began to speak.

 

“If any of you saw anything today, it would be unwise of you to keep it to yourselves,” he said blankly, and then motioned for the rest of the Catalysts to follow him as he walked off. That was it. That was the speech he gave to all these people who had just lost their homes, their families, their lives. That was what he chose to say to them to inspire them to try and re-build their lives.

 

“Can you help us?” someone said from the crowd, and everyone shuffled nervously on their feet, moving away from the person who had spoken, a boy about my own age with wide eyes and matted hair and no shoes.

 

My father looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

 

“Ca-can you help us?” the boy asked again, stuttering a little but his gaze never wavering from my father’s face. “We’ve lost everything �" surely there’s something you can do to help?”

 

I look at my father along with everyone else, searching his face for some kind of compassion, for something like how he had looked at me this morning before he’d left. Something kind or loving or gentle.

 

“That’s not my job,” he said, and he strode away.

 

There was silence in the crowd as he left. Something in the air felt tight, strained, felt close to breaking. My chest ached, like something had been ripped from it. I felt hollow, and I wasn’t sure whether it was echoing what I could feel around me or from my father’s uncaring face and his empty words.

 

“But we’ve stood by you since the beginning!” someone yelled, a hoarse female voice. “Sector 67 has always been on your side! Yet you abandon us now? Our Sector may be gone, but we’re still here!”

 

Her cry was echoed by shouts on every side, people yelling and crying and shouting in desperation and anger and grief, and I found myself joining in, not just because I would stand out if I didn’t, but because the same betrayal these people felt I felt also, like a stone that had dropped in my stomach and left my throat raw and every part of me tense and strained and angry.

 

And Squad 8 kept walking. They walked away from us �" from Sector 67, from the pyre that still burned behind us, from me. I stared at the people around me, their skin clinging to their bones and their clothes clinging to their skin, their eyes bright with grief and passion and anger that was not directed at the government or the bombs but at the Catalyst, and I felt more a part of them than I had ever felt a part of my father’s rebellion. A woman brushed shoulders with me and I suddenly had this desperate urge to grab her and apologise to her, to beg her forgiveness, to explain that she was not the only one who had lost today, but I had too. But the anger in the crowd was almost tangible, like clouds of smoke forming above us, like a storm brewing around us, beating like we were one heart, and I couldn’t risk that that anger would turn on me.

 

But the heart has two chambers, and even though I shouted and cried as hard as anyone else in that crowd, I knew that one of the chambers of my heart would always be with the Catalyst and my father. But the other belonged firmly with these people, and these feelings, and this need to be listened to and helped and recognised.

 

3: When They Come For Me

 

It took me two days in my room before I’d decided I’d done enough crying and feeling sorry for myself. On the morning of that third day, I got up out of bed and splashed my face with cold water, ran my fingers through my tangled waves and stared at myself in the mirror for a few seconds before I started pacing.

 

A part of me wanted to stand on a podium and preach to everyone about how wrong we were to ignore the people we were supposed to be fighting for in favour of revolution, but a bigger part of me knew that I wouldn’t be listened to. I was just a girl, only seventeen, and people saw me as the little sister of the revolution, a symbol of what they were fighting for �" their children’s lives.

 

But what about the lives of the children here and now though? Why didn’t we share the resources we had �" the means to defend ourselves, our food supply, clean water, electricity? Why did my father refuse to help those people rebuild their homes?

 

I was giving myself a headache. Standing here in this room, with a bed and a sink and enough clothes to get me by fully dressed for a few years, I felt like a criminal. I’m not a criminal, but I’m also not a leader �" I couldn’t convince the Catalyst to see the error of their ways, I couldn’t bring them to change the way they do things now when that’s how they’d been doing them for years.

 

It wasn’t like I wanted them to stop rebelling against the government �" as far as I was concerned, we were as bad as each other. We each refused to let the other gain more power than ourselves; it was how it had been for decades, it was why the government had gotten so oppressive in the first place. At least, that’s what Old Man Rob had told me.

 

A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. “Yeah?” I called out distractedly.

 

It was Chuck, grinning at me through his grizzly beard. “It’s time, darlin’,” he said, eyes twinkling.

 

I frowned at him, finally pausing in my pacing. “Time for what?”

 

“What you’ve been waiting for,” Chuck answered, pushing open the door and indicating for me to go first. “Time for you to prove yourself, like you always keep blabberin’ on about. Today’s your first day o’ trainin’.”

 

What. I stared at Chuck, astounded, absentmindedly pulling at a lock of hair. “T-today?”

 

“Today,” Chuck confirmed, still grinning. “We all finally convinced yer dad.”

 

Today. I’d been waiting for training my whole life. I’d always seen it as the chance to show my dad and the rest of the Catalyst that I was capable of looking after myself, although I was terrified of the thought of even touching a weapon, let alone holding or using one. The knot I’d had in my stomach for the past three days twisted tighter. Why did this have to come now?

 

“Ari?” Chuck asked, suddenly frowning. “You alrigh’?”

 

“Yeah… yeah,” I told him unconvincingly. “Just… nervous. Let’s go.”

 

Nervous was an understatement. I felt sick. I felt a bit like a dog on a chain, being dragged to the fighting ring where I would be forced to do battle against my own kind. But I was walking behind Chuck. Chuck. He’d been my self-adopted older brother for years �" I couldn’t think of him doing anything bad to me. I couldn’t think of anyone in the Catalyst doing anything bad to me. Chuck, with his beard and his massive smile, Lauryn, with her frizzy brown hair and serious expression, Bigg, with his huge hands and his even bigger charm, Kane… I couldn’t imagine Kane hurting a butterfly, let alone a person.

 

And all four of them were there, at the far side of the training gym (I take back what I said about the garage �" this is definitely the biggest place in the compound) all looking at me with proud smiles and excited eyes. They’d wanted this for me since I first started taking an interest in what the Catalyst was about, and now they were here, ready to train me to become an official member.

 

An official soldier.

 

Kane was the only one who looked dubious �" when he saw me, his eyes lit up with relief but then clouded back up with worry. He’d been knocking on my locked door ever since we got back from Sector 67, and I’d been ignoring him. I felt a little guilty for that now, seeing how he watched me carefully as I walked across the room with Chuck. I stood up a little straighter and fixed on a smile just for him, just to ease his mind. Kane didn’t deserve any of this.

 

Bigg stepped forward and clapped a hand on my back, grinning down at me. “You ready for this, Arin?”

 

I smiled up at him. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I told him, trying to sound positive. I just had to get through this. It was a good thing, really… I’d be learning how to defend myself, just in case things got hairy if… if… if what? I didn’t even know what I was going to do with this training.

 

“Good,” Bigg told me, oblivious to the turmoil in my stomach. “Because it took a whole lot of persuading to get your dad to agree to this.”

“We kept telling him that it was high time, that you’re old enough,” Lauryn said, unfolding her arms and stepping forward, looking down at me with a small smile. “People expect certain things from us these days. We have to make sure we deliver, and if your father leaves us, we need a new leader we can trust to continue in his footsteps.”

 

I swallowed. “And you think that’s me?”

 

“You’re the best candidate, Arin,” Bigg told me, his arm still around my shoulder. “We’ve already told you that you’re often seen as a symbol to the Catalyst �" we can use that symbol to create something members can look up to, something people can follow.”

 

“A lot of people believe in you, Arin,” Lauryn told me, using her big-sister sense to see that I was feeling uncomfortable. “They believe in your potential. And we know you can do it.”

 

I stared down at my hands, clasped and playing with each other nervously. “I… I don’t know. I don’t like it,” I said finally, looking up at them. Bigg frowned, Kane stared, Chuck raised an eyebrow and Lauryn stepped back a little. Weirdly, their surprise gave me strength. I stood a little taller and raised my voice a little louder.

 

“I’m not a robot, I’m not a monkey, and I’m not just some symbol. I get it; I understand why you want me to �" to take my father’s place if and when he can’t lead anymore. And I want to prove that I’m not just some teenager who needs protecting, some lazy punk who can’t defend herself. But I’m not going to be pushed into something -”

 

“Arin-”

 

“No, stop talking and listen for once, Chuck. I love you all. But I can make my own decisions. I’ll take what you think into account, but ultimately, the decision is mine. And if it’s not the decision you thought I’d make, or it’s not the decision you want me to make, well, you’ll just have to deal. Alright?”

 

I expected surprise and maybe even hurt in my friend’s faces, but my eyes first found Kane’s, and he was smiling. There was something like… pride in his eyes. I smiled back at him gratefully, and he winked. Saying I was happy he was there wouldn’t give credit to how grateful I was to him at that moment. Bigg’s hand on my shoulder squeezed slightly, and I looked up to see a similar expression on his face. It made me feel stronger, more hopeful.

 

“Fine,” Chuck said, shrugging. “But we’re gonna train you either way.”

 

I grinned at him. “Thanks.”

Training was harder than I’d expected, but also a lot more enjoyable. Lauryn and Bigg were helpful to a point, but they kept arguing over some financial point in the compound �" it was hard to listen in whilst Chuck was shouting at me for doing ‘girl press-ups’ - whatever that meant. Anyway, in the end Kane told them to leave because I was getting distracted by them, and I was left with just Kane and Chuck.

 

Kane led me through obstacle courses and taught me a few tricks and tips in tailing and keeping quiet, but they were all things I’d figured out for myself. It was what I was best at �" sneaking around, being nosy and quiet, and being fast.

 

Chuck was impressed by how good I was and his competitive nature came out �" he proposed a race through the obstacle course. By this time a good crowd had gathered to see how able Killian Swallow’s daughter was, and there were a lot of whoops and cheers from the crowd as we stood at the starting line.

 

“You ready for this, Ari?” Chuck asked teasingly, stretching his arms out on either side. “Don’t take it too hard when I beat you. I am bigger then you, after all.” His eyes glittered as he spoke, and I knew better than to take his words seriously.

 

“What is it they say?” I mused, jogging on the spot. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall?”

 

Chuck laughed and Kane fell into line beside us. “You guys sure you wanna do this?” he asked, looking a little nervous.

 

“Aw, honey, no need to be worried for him,” I told Kane, my heart racing with anticipation. “His ego may be a little damaged, but he’ll come out of it in one piece.” I knew I could do this. I’d been practicing with both Kane and Chuck in secret for years �" I knew what I could do and what I could handle. Chuck was only three years older than me, and this wasn’t what he was best at. It was, however, what I was best at.

 

Chuck snorted. “Whatever, princess,” he told me. “Let’s get this goin’.”

 

“Alright,” Kane said, shrugging. He straightened up and lifted the whistle to his mouth. “Ready, Set…” He blew the whistle.

 

The obstacle course was made up of all the usual things �" a rope ladder wall to climb up and over, a mat of camouflage netting to crawl under and tires to jump through - and with a little twist Kane had put in: discuses sat innocently on the floor here and there. You step on one, you’re out �" he said they were supposed to represent mines. It was a pretty neat idea, accept that meant we had to trust each other to be honest if we did step on one, and I’m not sure Chuck’s competitive nature could stand up to that.

 

I needn’t have worried. I finished the race only a second behind Chuck, my sides complaining and my hair coming out of its bun. I grinned at him at the finish line, offering a hand. “Well Chuck, congrats on beating a seventeen-year-old.”

 

Chuck laughed. “You nearly ‘ad me as well,” he told me. “If it hadn’t been for that trip at the tires -”

 

“There was a discus!” I complained, groaning. “I would’ve won if Kane hadn’t been so goddamned sneaky!"

 

Chuck laughed again, slapping his arm around my shoulders. “Well, I’ve still got to pick up a little bit of my pride,” he told me. “Shall we head to target practice so I can keep a hold of my status as bad-a*s?”

 

My stomach froze. I’d never held a gun in my entire life. I’d seen them everywhere, but the thought of holding one made me feel hot and cold at the same time, like my nerves and my fear colliding inside me.

 

But I couldn’t refuse now. “Sure,” I said, pushing my fears as far down as they would let me. “Let’s go.”

 

The shooting range practice area was surprisingly empty �" I wondered whether someone had made sure it was that way before we got there, like my dad or Lauryn or Bigg. Kane had made his excuses and left a while ago �" I think he liked the idea of me holding a gun about as much as I did. The room was dark, and as soon as the door shut behind Chuck, a silence fell that made our footsteps sound as loud as giant’s; the room was soundproofed for obvious reasons.

 

There was no walking through it with Chuck; he handed me a small metal hand-held, warning me about the weight, and led me to one of the booths, holding his own gun as he set up the targets to a reasonable width away from me via a remote control set into the wall beside us.

 

“The best thing to do is get your stance right, and then just practice,” Chuck told me. “So copy me.”

 

He set his feet apart on the ground, about shoulder-width, held the gun away from his body with both hands, and fired. The bullet hit the target only slightly left of the centre.

 

“Be careful of the recoil, and keep your feet on the ground. That’s basically the only thing I can tell you �" the rest of it’s in your head,” Chuck warns me before stepping aside and guiding me to stand where he was.

 

I waste time making sure my feet are exactly a shoulder-width apart, changing the way I hold my gun to make it more comfortable, holding it delicately with both hands, two fingers resting on the trigger. I hold it as far away from my body as possible, as though I can make it feel like someone else is holding it other than me, and take a deep breath in and out.

 

I stare at the target over my gun, feeling my arms quake so that it’s hard to focus on the target rather than the shaking barrel of metal in my hands. I push down gently with my fingers, far too gently for anything to happen, wincing away, and then, abruptly, I drop the gun down to point at the floor and release the trigger.

 

“I-I can’t, Chuck,” I say raggedly, staring at the gun pointing uselessly at the metal beneath us. “I can’t make myself do it.”

“Arin,” Chuck says, and I feel one of his hands on my shoulder. His voice is hard, but also gentle. “You have to. That’s what you’re ‘ere for. And I don’t mean ‘ere, in this shooting range -” he turns me to face him, and I was right, he was being gentle �" his eyes are kind, something that I’m sure most people don’t see in him. “I mean that this is why we’re trainin’ you �" this is what you were born for. I know what you said back in the gym, and I respect that you want’a make your own decision �" incidentally, that’s also what’ll make you a great leader someday. But this isn’t just about your legacy.” He turns me back to face the target, guiding my head so that I’m looking straight at it, feeling Chuck’s face and stubbly beard right next to mine. “This is about that need to prove ya’self. You’ve been underrated before you even had the chance to show people what yar made of �" so show ‘em how much they’re mistaken.” He puts a hand on each of my arms and guides them back up, and this time, under his steady, strong hold, they aren’t shaking. “Show ‘em you aren’t the weak, stupid, silly little girl they still see you as.”

 

Weak. I hated that word, and I’d heard it so many times �" too many times attached to myself. Even though I’d grown up among these people, they had no right to decide who I was before I’d decided myself �" and I knew who I was now. Chuck steps back and I pull the trigger, rocking on my heels and shuddering backwards a little, but still standing. I don’t know where the bullet’s gone, but it hasn’t hit the target. But I don’t care. I shot the gun. I pulled the trigger. And I was going to do it again.

 

I practice all afternoon, and with every shot I remind myself of who I am, who I want to be, who I will be. I’m not silly or stupid. I’m not weak. I’m not lazy. I’m passionate. I’m the best I can possibly be. I’m not just a rebel fighting for a cause I don’t understand �" I fight for my cause. The one I believe in. That’s who I am.

 

I don’t follow other people �" other people have to catch up with me. And when the people who don’t like that come for me?

 

*BANG!* The target swings and I stare straight through the hole in the centre to the metal wall behind it. Power surges through me and a smile curls the corners of my lips upwards.

 

I’ll be too good to let them find me.

 

4: Robot Boy

 

Chuck is changing the target and I’m reloading when the door to the shooting range bangs open. Standing at the door is Kane, his eyes wide like a scared deer’s, his face drained of colour and glistening with sweat.

 

“Kane,” I say, at first not noticing the way his breathing was laboured and his hands were shaking. “Guess who’s a… master… shooter…” My voice trails away as Kane’s eyes meet mine and his fear becomes my own.

 

“What happened?” Chuck asks, running out of the target area, pulling his gun out of his waist band. “What’s wrong?”

 

“K-Killian…” Kane’s breath hitches and he’s looking at Chuck, but I feel like he’s only doing it so that he doesn’t have to look at me. “Bigg…”

 

“Where?” Chuck growls whilst I stand there stupidly with shaky knees, the confidence of the afternoon gone.

 

“Main Headquarters…” Kane tells him breathlessly, and Chuck is gone, running much faster than I’d ever seen him race, and I force myself to push past Kane and follow him.

 

My father… what had happened? And Bigg… we couldn’t lose Bigg and my father, not both on the same day, I couldn’t lose them both…

 

Dad…

 

I push myself faster and faster so that I’ve caught up with Chuck, who doesn’t even look at me, just keeps running, pushing aside people who are all heading in the same direction but move respectfully back for us… but that’s weird… surely if there was a situation everyone should be rushing there to help like we are…?

 

What’s going on?

 

I wish I’d never asked by the time I get to Main Headquarters, a room that held only a single wooden table with piles of paper and maps atop, surrounded by hard-backed matching chairs, enough for about twelve people to sit at. Usually, there were at least four or five people inside, leaning across the table and talking in low voices that stopped as soon as they saw me at the doorway. The moment I reach the doorway today, the silence that falls across the room creepily echoes the silence that fell all those times I’d tried to eavesdrop what felt like decades ago. The few that stood around bowed their heads, refusing to meet my eyes.

 

Chuck is already gone, kneeling beside Lauryn who lies motionless on the floor in a pool of her own blood, sprawled on her side. It hits me suddenly that Chuck and Lauryn had been getting closer and closer recently, and I swallow dryly. I’m numb, a bit like when you get an injury and adrenaline floods to dull the pain to an ache that doesn’t quite reflect the seriousness of that injury.

 

Not far from Lauryn, Bigg sits on one of those wooden chairs, head thrown back, hand hanging limply to the side, clutching a gun. I can’t look at him for too long �" I don’t want to examine the blood and brain matter and exploded skull left from the bullet that has gone straight up his chin and through his head.

 

But upon looking away from Bigg, my gaze inadvertently finds a sight I want to see even less. My father is on the floor exactly opposite to Bigg, across that long table in the middle of the room, an arm caught on a chair, his expression slack and his shirt so soaked in blood I couldn’t even see what colour it had been originally. The bullet went straight through the upper left side of his chest. I can’t think methodically anymore though; the wave that had been threatening since I’d seen Lauryn lying there in front of me was crashing down, trapping me beneath it.

 

There is a long moment when I’m frozen where I stand, unable to take even a single step, unable to take a single breath. I’m terrified of getting closer to him, but I’m more scared that my cowardice would deprive me of seeing him one last time.

 

And then he coughs.

 

It’s one cough, shuddering and wet, but I’m there in an instant, my moment of hesitancy forgotten. I move his arm off of the chair, lay him down properly, stare at his face, his eyes opening slowly and staring confusedly at the ceiling. He licks his lips and coughs again, a tiny splash of red appearing on his pale lips. Horror and fear and panic overwhelm me and I look around at the four people who had been there before me and Chuck had arrived. I don’t even care who they are.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?!” I shout, surprised at how angry and loud my voice comes out. “Go get a medic!”

 

The four rush out, charging away and down the hall and I turn back to my father, part of me sickened by the part that is terrified of doing so.

 

“Dad.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking as I stare at him. “Wh- what happened?”

 

“Bigg,” my father says, his voice weaker and quieter and gentler than I’d ever heard it. “He shot me… well, he shot Lauryn first… she tried to stop him… but he got me in the end, didn’t he…”

 

“Shut up,” I said, I’m not really sure why. I just didn’t like the casual way he was saying it all like it was to be expected. “You’ll be fine, ok. You’re a fighter, you’ll be fine.”

 

“Darling, you see where the bullet’s gone �" only just missed my heart,” he told me in that same infuriatingly casual way. “I’m getting old anyway, Arin. The only thing I have left to lose is you.”

 

“What?” I say, and again, I don’t know why, it’s like I can’t control anything I’m doing anymore, can’t control the mysterious fluid leaking out of my eyes �" why are they doing that? “What about the Catalyst?”

 

“Oh, sweetheart…” �" another cough, this one a little more violent, and a bit more blood appears on his lips �" “that’s one of the reasons I’m sure it’s okay that I’m leaving. It would do better in your hands, Arin. But, honey…” He grimaces and the panic rises farther in my chest, fluttering like it’s caught there. “I know you doubt yourself. But people will fight for you. They love you, the Catalyst, like I love you. You’re not like me �" old and broken. You’ve got the strength to carry them through. So, Arin?” I stare at him and I know that even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t look away. The tears have blurred his face, but I wipe them away, frustrated, leaving blood smears on my cheeks.

 

“Fight, sweetheart,” my father tells me. “Fight.” He smiles at me, and then sighs, turning his face away from me. He’s looking off into the ceiling, like he can see past it to something high above us. “It’s time to let go,” he whispers quietly to himself, and that panic in my chest claws and growls angrily, desperately, trying to break free, trying to get me to move and somehow make him stay here with me, make him live, make him look at me one last time. But I’m frozen, left holding onto his arm with one hand, his hand with the other, staring as his expression goes slack and his eye glaze over and all that’s left of my father is the shell he used to live in.

 

I don’t know what I did next. I don’t think I knew whilst I was there. I found myself there by his side half an hour later, throat raw, the tears drying on my cheeks. I’m hugging my knees, staring as the four Catalysts and the useless, stupid medics they’d brought with them carry him away from me and out of the room with Lauryn and Bigg’s bodies. I feel nothing. I’d felt it all in that half an hour, sitting beside my father’s dead body. Someone sits beside me and somehow I know it’s Chuck.

 

“What are you going to do?” he says, and I see through the corner of my eye that his fists are clenched on his lap. His voice is as hoarse as mine feels.

 

“I don’t know,” I say hollowly. “Does it matter?”

 

“Yes,” Chuck says forcefully, simply, and I remember what my father said. People will fight for you.

 

“He told me to fight,” I tell Chuck slowly. I feel old, tired. “But… it hurts too much.”

 

“Then what do you have left to lose?” Chuck replies quietly. He stands before he re-thinks and corrects himself. “What do we have left to lose?”

 

The only thing I have left to lose is you. Was I not enough for him? Could he not stay �" just for me? I shake the thought away, chiding myself as Chuck’s hard, harsh voice echoes in my head. He was right. I felt as though I knew how my father felt now �" as though I understood him in a way I never had before. He’d been unable to let go because of the Catalyst, because of me, because of the hurt my mother’s death had given him, when she’d died from an ATS bomb when I was three. Today, he’d been able to let go because he was passing that all on to me �" I was taking that burden from him. He believed I could handle it. You’ve got the strength to carry them through.

 

I stood, and turned to see Chuck standing, waiting for me at the doorway. His hands are covered in blood and there seems to be a few more extra wrinkles on his face than there were this afternoon. His eyes are hard, but they meet mine and I’m struck by the idea that we understand each other more than we ever did before. We’d changed today, the two of us.

 

I keep my face passive, expressionless, like I’d seen Chuck and my father and Lauryn and even Bigg do before, and I walk towards and then past Chuck, through the doorway and into the hall. I wouldn’t show the hurt inside on my face. I wouldn’t show the weakness that I had felt sitting beside my father today �" I would show the strength I had felt years ago, in a shooting range with Chuck beside me and a gun in my hands.

 

5: Waiting for the End

 

They’ve cleaned up Main Headquarters quickly, so when I sit in the place my father used to sit �" the chair his arm had been resting on after he’d fallen �" there is no sign of the blood on the floor or the walls. Everything looks how it did before. The only difference is that where I once had stood behind the door, listening in, I now sat at the head of the table, looking at the familiar faces sat around me, considering me both expectantly and warily.

 

“I called this meeting because I want to take my father’s place as leader of the Catalyst,” I say quickly and concisely, before me or anyone else can persuade me otherwise. “And I wanted to hear what you think, as my father’s advisors and co-ordinators of the Catalyst.”

 

“You know we wanted you as his successor from the beginning, Arin,” Chester, my father’s third-in-command says. He’s watching me with deep, concerned eyes and there are lines crinkling his forehead as he leans forward on the table. “But… we never thought it would be this soon. A lot of people will say you’re too young.”

 

People around the table nod in agreement, and I clasp my hands in front of me. “I understand that, Chester, but -”

 

“I don’t think you’re ready,” says a voice from the far left of the table, and Kane leans forward to meet my eye. I throw him a sharp glare but he doesn’t back down. “I don’t think you’re ready emotionally.”

 

“I am ready,” I tell Kane pointedly. “My father believed I would be, and so do I.”

 

“And I do too,” Chuck says to my left. “Arin’s stronger than most people know or would believe �" and I think if anything, her father’s death has made her more capable than she was before.”

 

I spare Chuck a sad, grateful smile before turning back to the small assembly who were muttering amongst themselves.

 

“I want to hear what you have to say,” someone calls from the bottom of the table. It’s Mike, the scarred leader of our armed forces.  “Why do you think you’re capable of leading us?”

 

A hush falls on the congregation, and I find myself looking at the two empty spaces where Lauryn and Bigg would once have sat. Lauryn would have been on my side �" the Bigg I thought I’d known would have been on my side. What would they say if they were here right now? What would my father say, if he could speak for me?

 

I take a deep breath in and then out, looking around at all these adults, all these people who are older and more experienced than I, and paint the same impassive and fearless look on my face that I had created when I’d walked away from this room only days ago. “I’m not trying to become a new leader �" that would suggest that I would try to do something different to what my father did.” Something nags at the back of my brain, but I push it aside, ignoring it. “This isn’t an end; this isn’t a beginning. I don’t plan on changing anything, on rocking the boat or re-writing our codes. That’s not what my father would want.

 

“The last thing my father said to me was ‘fight.’ Just that. Simply, ‘fight’. So that’s what I’ll do if you would let me. Even if you don’t let me lead, I would still fight for this cause, I would still be here on your side, doing what my father told me to do. That’s all I want to do.”

 

The more I talk, the more uncertain I get. My words are steady, and I can hear the violent rhythm in my voice when I repeat what my father said, but there’s something empty there as well �" something that makes me feel like it isn’t really me talking, like I’m simply reciting something someone had prepared for me earlier.

 

“I’m all for that,” says someone unknowingly from the centre of the table, and he’s echoed by sounds of agreement on all sides.

 

They hadn’t heard it then. They’d been convinced. So why hadn’t I?

 

“I’d still like to choose two… advisors, I suppose, people who’ll help me make decisions along the way, if you decide to let me lead,” I say, and although I pause to find the right word in the middle, I sound casual, calm, decisive. My stomach feels weirdly sick.

 

“If we did decide on that, who would you chose?” Chester asks, and I know he’s hoping I’ll choose him. But…

 

“Chuck,” I say immediately. “And… Kane.”

 

Kane looks up from where he’d been sulking off to the side, surprised. Chuck is giving me this strange side-glance like he doesn’t understand where I’m going with this, and there’s more of those private mutterings around the table that are starting to irk me a little.

 

“Makes sense,” says Mike, lounging back on his chair.

 

“Sense?” Chester splutters, leaning over to look at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“Chuck’s a good choice, we all know that, he has the passion and he knows almost everyone in the compound,” Mike explains, examining his fingernails. “And Kane’s got Arin’s best interests at heart, and he’s cautious �" the two balance each other out. Kane will be logical and careful, and Chuck will be impassioned and fierce. Her father had a similar thing going with you and Bigg,” he adds, and some dark atmosphere falls across the table.

 

“We all know how well that turned out,” Chester mutters, but I can hear the hurt in his voice, because I can feel it too.

 

“No-one suspected Bigg,” Chuck says harshly. “We all trusted him.”

 

“We don’t even know what happened,” Faith, Mike’s younger sister, points out from Chester’s left.

 

“It’s not that hard to figure out,” Mike says, and I can sense that dark anger he’s famous for from across the room as he glares at the table top. “Bigg was probably a double agent who finally decided enough was enough and got rid of Killian before offing himself so that we would have no evidence.”

 

“But then… that would mean all those dead ends we’ve been running into…” Faith trails off, looking around at everyone as though to confirm that she wasn’t the only one thinking it.

 

“Bigg was making sure we didn’t find out anything useful,” Chuck says in a low voice, staring at his hands.

 

Everyone’s quiet for a long time, and beneath the unobtrusive throbbing anger I can feel something else �" the pain, fear and guilt we are all at the mercy of. But it disappears quickly, forgotten as the need to do something about it, to take those feelings and change them into action that resides within us all, takes over.

 

“So… are we making Arin the new leader?” Mike asks, not looking at me but at everyone else.

 

Hands lift up into the air, one by one, and I see Mike’s, Kane’s, Chuck’s and Faith’s among them. Only two or three remain solemnly by their sides, including Chester’s, but when they see that they’ve been outnumbered, they raise their hands too. I realise I’m the only one with my hand down and slowly lift it as well, clenching my fist as though I’m holding tightly on to something invisible above me, and I give everyone around that table a grin of both gratitude and expectation.

 

Everyone leaves slowly, too slowly, some stopping to offer condolences or congratulations in their own strange, Catalyst ways, with a pat on the back or a respectful nod. Mike winks at me as he leaves with Faith, and Chester shakes my hand as if to show there are no hard feelings. There certainly isn’t on my side �" I don’t have the time to be so incredibly petty.

 

Finally, there is no one left in the room but Chuck and Kane, and I can flop back down into my chair, the strength in my legs and my emotions all used up. I put my head in my hands and surprise myself by laughing a little.

 

“What?” Chuck asks, barely looking up.

 

“It’s just �" this wasn’t what I had planned for my life a few days ago,” I say, looking up at the two. “I’ve basically just been given control of the whole compound, but I’ve never felt so out of control in my whole life.”

 

“This is what I meant by you’re not ready emotionally,” Kane says insistently, walking over to sit down on my other side. “Before, you said you wanted this to be your decision -”

 

“It is my decision.”

 

“No, it’s your father’s decision. I don’t want you to take things too quickly, Arin.” He reaches out, his fingers grazing my knuckles. “You shouldn’t take on more than you can handle.”

“I can handle it, Kane,” I say, standing up and pulling my hand from his. “I understand your concern, but I’m fine.”

 

I spin around and leave the room, unsure of where I was heading, only knowing that I wanted to be alone. My head was spinning and I couldn’t think straight, and my father’s face before he’d died kept cropping up in my mind’s eye. I could see the way he’d smiled up at the ceiling, like this was what he’d been waiting for his whole life, and it had finally come. It’s time to let go.

 

But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to let him go, I didn’t want to move on, I wanted to keep holding on to him with my fist clenched so tightly my knuckles turn white. I was lying to Kane, I know I was, I was lying to everyone; I’m not sure I can handle it. I’m not sure that I’ll be the kind of leader they want me to be. So why was I doing this? I’m not so sure myself.

 

Why did this have to be my life? Couldn’t I do something, for once, that didn’t involve the Catalyst? Why did I have to have the kind of father whose last words to his daughter would be to relinquish the control of an entire revolution to her?

 

My room is mercifully empty and quiet. I lock the door and leave the lights off, finding my way to the bed using my hands, sitting down and pulling my quilt around me virtually with my eyes closed. I want to forget everything, to stop thinking about the Catalyst, to stop thinking full stop.

 

I’d been going over my father’s last words over and over in my head, watching him die on repeat, and there was something there I hadn’t sensed at the time �" a sense of inevitability. Everything ends; nothing lasts, as much as I would like it to be different. It was as though he’d lived his life simply waiting for the end, waiting for that moment he could finally let go. I suppose that’s the thing about death though �" it happens to all of us, no matter what. It happened to my father; it happened to my mother, before I ever really had the chance to get to know her; it happened to Lauryn, the only big sister I’ll ever have; and it happened to Bigg, a person I’d thought I’d known but never really had. It happened to all those people I’d watched burn that day, to all those people given a five second slot in the news, all those people living in horrible conditions outside. Inevitable. It was inevitable that I would sit here, an orphan in charge of a rebellion.

 

For a moment, in the heat of the flames of passion and anger, it had felt like the right thing to do. When Chuck had told me I could do it, when those ten other people agreed with him and raised their fists into the air, I had felt like I was where I was supposed to be. Now, thinking back to it in the darkness of my room, it felt more like I was caught up in the eye of a storm, with everything moving wildly around me without my consensus. I couldn’t even remember what I’d said �" it was like my mouth had been moving without my permission. I was back to being that dog on a chain, doing what I was supposed to do.

 

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next, though. Where was I supposed to go from here? How was I supposed to lead an entire revolution without my father?

 

I didn’t know, and as the night drew on, it became harder and harder for me to muster up enough emotion to care. I didn’t matter to me what happened next; as long as, for now, I could sleep.

 

6: Blackout

 

The next few weeks were a blur. We gave Lauryn and my father a hero's funeral, and gave Bigg's body to his family, telling them to leave the Catalyst and not to come back. Everyone was restless and confused, and worried. No-one knew for sure what had caused Bigg's actions, but the general view of the council was that he had been a double agent. Kane disagreed, although he never said so; I could tell by the little frown he had whenever it was brought up in conversation. Maybe he was in denial. Or maybe, like me, he felt that something didn't add up in the whole situation...

 

But in the end, none of it mattered. My father and Lauryn were gone, and it was Bigg's fault. Whether he had killed himself to keep his motives a secret or out of guilt, I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. I was getting angry. Someone needed to pay, and Bigg wasn't here to be my personal punching bag. It was easy to look at the government, look at the way they had used and manipulated people from the beginning, and point the finger. It was easy, and I felt good whilst doing it. I felt relieved, like I was throwing off my burdens one at a time.

 

The anger first came when one day I found myself standing outside of Bigg’s room. I hadn’t been there very often �" there had been a period of time when Bigg had taken over tutoring me and I’d realized how clever he was, so most of my visits there were to ask him for help or advice. He’d always been nice and done his best to help me. That man felt like a dream to me now, like a figment of my imagination.

 

His door was open. They’d already moved all of his stuff, sending them off with his family and his body, so the room was eerily bare and lifeless, as though no one had lived there in the first place. The bed, with its scratchy stark white sheets was made, the covers tucked in under the mattress. I remembered that it had always been that way �" Bigg had been infamous for his immaculate bedroom and his neat-freak nature. Something sunk in my gut, like I’d lost my footing, when I thought about him carefully straightening those sheets or lying on his back on that bed with a book in his hands. How much of what he’d said to us all was true? When he’d told me I was the best candidate to take over from my father �" had he meant that? Did he only say that because it was what he was supposed to say, or had he thought that having me as a leader would be the Catalyst’s downfall? What about that pride that I’d seen in him when he’d look at me, that comforting pressure of his hand on my shoulder, both on my first day of training and in the months he’d tutored me? How could he have been proud of me �" felt enough to give me that comfort �" and then turned around and shot my father? Was everything he’d ever said or done false?

 

It hurt, to have to think like that, to have to question the support I’d once taken for granted. It cut deep, deep enough to make my blood boil as though it was going to overflow… Was lying to us, pretending to care for us, not enough? Did he have to murder Lauryn and my father as well? He had personally managed to eradicate three of the people closest to me from my life, and he’d probably been leading us astray or reporting to the government against us since god knows how long. If he had been forced into it, why didn’t he tell us?

 

Why?  The one-word questions echoes through me, not just in my head but through my gut, and I can feel everything getting hotter and hotter inside, and I try to push it all down, try to stay composed, try to keep the anger inside, but it’s too much and before I know it I’m attacking the bed in front of me, desperately trying to rip the sheets with my fingernails, screaming and crying and frustrated that these sheets are too stiff and robust for me to tear apart and I can’t even have an angry meltdown properly �"

 

Someone’s watching me. I spin around, tears on my cheeks and my fingers curled like claws. Faith stands at the doorway, her back straight, her expression strange �" it’s somewhere between sympathy, understanding and solemn worry.

 

“There’s a meeting in five,” she tells me, and I wonder how she knew I was here, or whether she’d just managed to come across me at my worst moment. “I’ll tell the others you’re getting ready.” She turns to leave, but pauses at the doorway, glancing over her shoulder. “Compose yourself,” she advises me before she walks away, and I’m left alone.

 

I sit and stare at the crumpled sheets. They’re just messed up, the pillow on the floor and the piled fabrics full of wrinkles. I feel like a petulant child who’s just had a tantrum. I throw aside the sheet I’m still clutching with one hand and walk over to the sink that stands directly opposite the bed with a mirror set in the wall above it. I’m red faced, my eyes sparking like a wire, wet tear-stains trekking down my cheeks, my mouth and jaw pressed in one hard, strong line across my face. My orange hair is wild and some of it sticks to my face, and for a moment I don’t want to wash away the remains of my outburst �" I want to remain this crazy vengeful being, I want everyone to see and feel my wrath and anger.

 

But I splash my face, I comb down my hair with wet fingers, I straighten my clothes. My expression is still set, my eyes still glow with the embers of a fire, but I look less out-of-control. The anger is still inside, and if you look close enough, it’s still visible, but I decide I prefer it that way. That way they won’t see the strength of my fury until it’s upon them and they are cowering away from it.

 

Everyone goes quiet when I walk into main headquarters five minutes later. Kane has taken the seat to my right, where Chester used to sit, and Chuck is still sat on my left side. I nod at them both, carefully steering my gaze away from Faith beside Chuck, and take my seat.

 

“How goes it?” I ask the table in general.

 

People glance at each other, muttering uncertainly as though they’re not sure how to start, but Chuck pushes his chair in and leans towards me.

 

“People are calling for riots, demonstrations, action. They want to show their anger about your father and Lauryn �" they want to show that we won’t be brought down by them.” Chuck’s eyes are hard, and I can see in him what I saw in myself in the mirror.

 

“Done,” I say harshly. “We need to show that we know who was responsible, and we won’t stand for it.”

 

“What if it wasn’t them?” Kane asks a little uncertainly.

 

“Then we have plenty of other things to riot about against them,” I remind him. “Taxes get higher by the day, they still refuse to let anyone leave or enter the country, and they’ve cordoned off another section of the town for god knows what. People are still inside Sector 21, Kane!”

 

“I know,” Kane says, and I can hear sadness in his voice, although I’m not sure why.

 

“They’re still trying to make excuses on the news and radio,” Chester says angrily from across the table. “They’re claiming that Sector 21 is being isolated for medical reasons.” He slams a fist on the table. “I was there yesterday, and everyone was as healthy as they possibly can be living in the conditions they’re forced to live in what with the government bleeding them dry and making trade virtually impossible! In fact, Sector 21 was well-known for being the healthiest sector out there!”

 

“It’s only because Sector 21 were a big supporter of us,” Faith says quietly.

 

“Then why didn’t they just bomb them like they did Sector 67?” I wonder aloud.

 

“Probably saw all the rioting and anger it caused and decided they didn’t want the hassle of losing more of their police force,” Chuck says bitterly, and I remember that I was part of that riot and keep quiet.

 

“We’re supposed to trust our government,” a soft voice says from the middle of the table. “They’re supposed to look after us, work to keep us alive and thriving, and all they’re doing is killing us off slowly whilst making petty excuses to make it seem pertinent.”

 

“That’s why we’re here,” I hear myself say, and I slowly rise to my feet. “We’ll make them fall. They’ll suffocate in the mess they’ve made. All they do is take and take and take and take and they never listen to us, but we’ll make them listen. Starting today.”

 

There were shouts and whoops from around the table, and Chuck slapped me on the arm, looking at me with eyes made of fire, and Mike was nodding slowly, approvingly from across the table. Everyone was shouting for revolution and change and charging out of the room to join the masses and create a wave of violence the government would never forget.

 

And I was swept along with it, everything inside me burning hot with a violent anger and adrenaline, making me charge faster than I ever have, and I couldn’t make sense of what was going on except that it made me feel strong, invincible, powerful. I had never felt anything like it. It had been different that day in Sector 67 �" that had been fuelled by desperation, not this feeling of empowerment, this chance to do something about the wrong in the world.

 

We charged through the streets, some in Jeeps, some on their feet, and I didn’t really know where we were going - which I suppose shows how much authority I had as their leader �" until I saw that Mike was leading us straight to the police department. We were hitting them where it hurt, right where the tool of their oppression lived. Nice thinking, Mike.

 

The rest was a blur. We were one body, no longer independent individuals, just the Catalyst. There was no more pushing down my anger, it was just getting inside that building and ruining as much as we could, ruining all that symbolised our oppression, all that symbolised what the government stood for.

 

Shots rang out from inside, but we returned them. Some got caught in the crossfire, but when one fell down, another replaced them, because we were one single body and it would take a whole lot of hits to truly take us down. There wasn’t enough inside to really hold out against us �" we were too many, too angry, too dangerous. I’d forgotten a gun but someone pressed one into my hand; a policeman grabbed my arm but I whirled my gun around and knocked him out with the handle of the metal, a rush of pleasurable pressure surging through my arm. Blood splattered onto my face and I wipe it away impatiently, pushing through the crowds to get to the building that had come to symbolise everything I hated about this place.

 

I was almost there, as well, when an elbow thrust backwards and smashed me in the forehead and I was sent crashing to the ground �" only it didn’t feel like that. It was as though time slowed down; everything around me seemed muffled, blurred, and as I fell it felt more like I was floating through a rush of lights and colours… it was only when I hit the ground and pain exploded through the back of my head and my spine that I realized the only colour around me was the dark greys of the people and buildings and the bright orange from the flames that had seemingly randomly started up out of nowhere.

 

I lie on the ground and stare up, aware that someone was standing over me, making sure no one trampled me as I lay there. The sky was directly above me, the colour of paper, and for a moment I thought I saw my father’s face floating there, but I couldn’t tell what his expression was, whether he was happy or sad or proud or mad. I didn’t know whether I was looking at the version of him that I will see when I join him up there, or the version I had known in my past.

 

I was being dragged away, off to the side, away from the rabble outside the department. I look up and see that it’s Chester’s hands underneath my armpits and give him a little smile. He returns it hesitantly and leans me against a brick wall, kneeling in front of me.

 

“I thought you didn’t like me,” I say, half-jokingly.

 

“Still wouldn’t leave you to get trampled,” Chester tells me with a smile, reminding me why my father was so fond of him.

 

“Chester,” I say after a pause. “Do �" do you think my dad would be proud of me?”

 

Chester looks at me for a very long time, and all I can see in him is the person who knew my father the best, the man he trusted with everything - besides Bigg.

 

“Yes,” he says finally, precisely, but I don’t feel relieved. I just feel very, very heavy.

 

“Why do you think Bigg did it?” I ask tiredly. “I mean, besides being a double-agent. Do you really believe he was pretending all that time?”

 

“Yes,” Chester says harshly, his soft expression hardening. “People are capable of terrible things, Arin. As our leader, you would do well to remember it.”

 

We didn’t talk for the rest of the time, watching the riot successfully enter and then burn down the police department. It was a victory for us, but I couldn’t stop glancing at the sky as the Catalyst cheered and yelled. I wanted to see him again.

 

I wanted to see him so that I could ask him to come down and tell me what to do.

 

7: Wretches and Kings

 

"They're expecting you to say something."

 

Chester's voice rocks me out of my daydream and I look at him, slightly panicked.

 

"What?"

 

Chester rolls his eyes and gestures to the people standing outside the now burned and wrecked police department, standing amongst the bodies of friends and foes - although mostly foes - alike. They stand in rough groups, grinning and talking amongst themselves, but occasionally they glance at me and I realise that Chester is right.

 

"Oh. Right," I say awkwardly and slowly stand, carefully regaining my balance. Chuck comes forward, offering me an arm, but I refuse it - I won't show any weakness in front of these people who are supposed to be following me. When I've straightened up fully, I look up and notice that all eyes are on me, and I'm not sure what to say.

 

I swallow and think. I think about Lauryn, the fire in her eyes and the cockiness in her smile. I think about my father, his steady, determined gaze and his powerful voice that had managed to unite a whole population's worth of people in rebellion before I was even born. And then I think of Old Man Rob, sitting on his chair in the corridor, quietly listening to his speeches - the way he would recite them to me like an old mantra, his dark eyes both sad and passionate.

 

I wanted to be all three when I spoke today. I wanted to be confident like Lauryn, determined like my father, and wise like Old Man Rob, but most of all, I wanted what all three of them had - passion.

 

But I couldn't find it. It wasn't within me - despite everything that had happened, despite everything the government had done, despite all the grief I had felt, I felt no passion in this moment, looking at the carnage we had left, the bodies and blood on the floor, the smoke and ash rising from the scorched building. People were starting to emerge from their houses now, peeking out of doorways, holding each other for comfort, staring with wide and terrified eyes. I realised that those people who had died today had families, homes, lives, and with that realisation came nightfall, and darkness.

 

How had we not heard it? That was all I could think as that shadow draped itself over us, as the wind stirred into a small typhoon, whipping everything up around us, the dust, hair, clothes, scraps of paper. It was audible now, floating above us on its roaring turbines, the seal of the government - something with a rose and a lion, I didn't know; it was a symbol forbidden in the compound - plastered on the side. It flew over us, and I saw cameras poking out of the bottom, observing us, and realised that this was something that would get broadcast around the nation.

 

I couldn't talk now - I could barely breathe without eating a mouthful of wind - but I could move. I looked down at the people of the Catalyst, who were only just now realising what was going to happen and were turning to look back at me, waiting for my orders. I held a hand to tell them to wait, glanced at Chuck, then Chester, and grabbed both of their arms, giving them each a stern look. They both nodded to show they understood - they had to stay by me.

 

I walked forward, the two men flanking me, guns out. I took my own out and held it loosely at my side, making my way through the crowd to the front, so that I stood in front of them. Ahead of us, beyond the crowd of Catalysts, the airmobile - it wasn't exactly a plane, but then it was no helicopter either - was lowering itself down into landing, a good distance away from us but still too close for comfort. I stopped walking when I reached the front, and the airmobile stopped its furious humming. The door was lowered down.

 

And out came the head of the government. I was so shocked I almost stepped back into the safety of the crowd. The head, the Prime Minister, the one who authorised everything that had been done to us - Ellen Collins stood in front of us, in a crisp dark suit, just two armoured bodyguards beside her.

 

And whole fleet of them inside that machine, I'm sure, but still.

 

She walked forward, getting so close that I got that same urge to step back again, but she stopped before I could give in. We were feet away from each other, her a head taller than me, her back straight and every aspect flawless.

 

"I've came to negotiate with you, Catalyst leader." Her voice was exactly how it sounded on the radio during the broadcasts; controlled, even, deep. "If you would allow it."

 

I stared. "What?" I say incredulously. Collins raised her eyebrows, looking at me with petulant disdain, but I'm so surprised any kind of manners I once had are gone. "I'm sorry, Prime Minister, but you let us riot and go crazy for -- how many years? Twenty? Twenty-five? And you come now, when we've taken down one of your police departments. Why?"

 

"Because there is a new leader," Collins replies plainly, her expression rock-hard and... flawless.

 

"Only because you killed the first one," I say bitterly, the sharp ring of grief stinging in my throat.

 

"You don't have enough proof to be making accusations like that," Collins tells me sternly, like a primary school teacher telling off a child. "From what I heard, it was from an inside operation."

 

"That you planted," I say in a low voice, hyper-aware that I'm talking to an authority so much more above me. But I can't stop myself. The passion I'd been looking for had suddenly risen up with the appearance of that seal in the sky, of her face, so confident and authoritative, as though she had nothing to fear of me.

 

"Again, you don't have any evidence of that," Collins says, still calm. "But I am not here to determine who killed your father, Arin. I'm here to negotiate peace.”

 

Something jolts inside me when I realise she knows my name and I can’t speak, but Chuck does for me. “You want us to give in?” he says, glaring. “Lay low, let you walk all over us again?”

 

“Obviously we will listen to what you want to change and consider it,” Collins says, barely glancing at Chuck. “But the rioting must stop.”

 

I stare at her, then look behind me, first at Chuck, then Chester. Both are frowning, fists clenched, anger in their expressions. Collins stays firm and stone-like in front of me.

 

“How can we trust you to change things?” I say. “You never have before. You’ve never listened to what your people want from you �" how can we expect you to do so now?”

 

“Was that not the point of the violence and the riots?” Collins replies, cocking her head a little. “You wanted our attention �" you wanted us to listen. Well, we’ve heard. We’re ready to listen.”

 

I stare at her, and the more I stare at her the angrier I get. She isn’t afraid of us. I can see it in her �" she thinks of me as a child having a tantrum, and she’ll settle me down with empty words and promises she doesn’t intend to keep. She doesn’t understand that I hate being patronised, and I’m angry, and powerful, and grieving. And those things make me very, very dangerous.

 

“No!” I yell, and I feel a surge through the crowd behind me of something �" I don’t know what, some kind of emotion, but it makes me feel stronger to know the Catalyst are behind me, literally and figuratively. “You don’t know anything! You’ve never walked amongst these people, never seen their suffering or felt their desperation. You’ll talk and talk but never do anything, you just expect us to get down and obey every word, but no. We want change, and we want it now.”

And I lift my gun, and I point it at her head, and I put my finger to the trigger �"

 

The security guard is on me in a second, pulling my arm down and bringing his metal-clad knee up into my stomach. I fall to my knees, groaning, and feel the ground vibrate as the reinforcements I’d known were inside that stupid flying machine charged towards us, and I grip my gun and shoot the leg of the guard who’d put me down. He yells and I’m relieved to know that the bullets go through the armour �" at least at close range �" and kick him to the ground with my foot, standing.

 

Collins is long gone �" ushered back to safety by the guards, into the airmobile which is already taking off. There’s shouting and blood and screaming all around me again, but this time I don’t feel as though I’m on the winning side. Static crackles from some speakers in the airmobile and out comes Collin’s voice, magnified and impressive.

 

“Something you will all need to learn, Catalyst,” her voice says, and the way she says our name is almost mocking, taunting. It’s the first human emotion I’ve heard from her. “You want to fight the power, then people are going to get hurt. That’s a given.”

 

“Move!” I yell, to no one in particular, making no specifics about where we should move, just knowing that the only wrong thing we can do right now is stay still. Guns let off all around me, fists fly, people fall, and I know we will not win this fight. They’re armed with better weapons, covered in metal and are professionally trained. The only thing we have is anger and guts, and that can only take you so far.

 

Everything was out of control. Steel unloaded, blows landed, people shouting and scrabbling like animals. But we were doing better than I could have even imagined. The few bodies that lay on the ground were not just ours �" they were theirs too. We were slowly retreating, backing away, heading for the vehicles that had brought us here, but we fought tooth and nail whilst we did. I clamber aboard a Jeep, standing on the edge and clutching the side of an open window, ushering people into the car, occasionally leaning back to shoot an officer, although I know it did hardly any good. It was when the Jeep was almost full that I noticed the airmobile was still above us, still watching with its cameras. I have an idea �" a crazy, terrible idea, but I do it anyway. I clamber up to the roof of the Jeep, look straight up at the airmobile and wait for the camera to manoeuvre itself so that it was facing me.

 

“WE’RE COMING FOR YOU!” I shout, and I hear the shout relayed by the Catalysts around me, and a shot comes close to my head �" I can feel the bullet soar past the hairs of my neck �" so I duck and jump back off the roof to swing myself into the Jeep, banging on the screen between us and the driver to let him know we’re ready.

 

The minor army stops following us after only a few minutes; they probably realised we would have the home advantage at our base. People are ushered straight to the medics, and someone takes my arm as though to lead me there too but if I have any injuries, I cannot feel them now. I’m pumped, alive, filled with adrenaline so potent it’s like liquid fire in my veins.

 

Kane sits in front of the blank TV, where I had sat with my father a few weeks ago, playing with the remote. I’d known he wouldn’t come; he wouldn’t have approved.

 

Before I can say anything to him though, Chuck’s there, sitting on a beanbag he’d dragged to settle in front of the TV. I grin at him, expecting him to be as full of excitement and adrenaline as I was, but he’s glaring at me.

 

“What were you playing at?” he growls.

 

“What do you mean?” I ask, taken aback.

 

“That stunt on the Jeep. You were open, Arin, you could’ve been shot!” He wipes a hand across his face. “’We’re coming for you’? You do realise we’re going to have to keep that promise, right?”

 

“Yeah, and we will,” I say, although I’m not as certain as I sound. “And what kind of a leader would I be if I was too scared to actually do anything?”

 

“It was stupid Arin,” Kane admits, finally looking up.

 

“What do you know? You weren’t even there!”

 

“I saw it all on TV,” Kane says, nodding at the screen. “The voiceover managed to make you seem pretty bad, but I saw you standing on the roof of that Jeep. You could’ve been killed.”

 

I fold my arms tightly across my chest. “I’m just trying to be the kind of leader I would want to follow.”

 

“Then stay alive so that they’ll get the chance to follow you,” Kane says softly, and I sigh, knowing he’s right.

 

“At least they got the message,” I say, leaning back into the bench. “They can’t make us back down. Right?”

 

Chuck grins. “Yeah, they got the message alrigh’,” he says with a wink, and I smile back at him.

 

Maybe it was going to be okay.

 

 8: Wisdom, Justice and Love

 

The corridors are quiet �" something I’m not all that used to. A few people are still with the medics, recovering, and most of the others are resting. But I can’t. I feel restless, every nerve in my body alive and alert, and sleep seems impossible.

 

“Where are you going, little one?” says a voice from the shadows and I turn suddenly, heart rate rising.

 

Old Man Rob sits in his chair, his old tape recorder set aside, his hat cocked on his small head. He gives me a warm smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up even more and triggers an automatic grin on my own face.

 

“Rob!” I say, walking over to give him a hug. “You scared me!”

 

“A little jumpy tonight, are we?” Rob asks, giving me a hard stare. I shrug and sit on the floor beside him, pulling me sleeves over my hands.

 

“I would’ve thought you’d have gone to bed by now,” I say lightly.

 

“Ditto,” Rob replies, winking at me. I’d taught him the word a few months ago. “What day is it?”

 

“I don’t know. Sunday?”

 

“Huh. Sunday.” Rob shakes his head a little, as though baffled by the way time passes. “Do you know what annoys me about this place, Arin?”

 

I laugh. “I think the real question is what doesn’t annoy you about this place.”

 

Rob grins and pats the side of his nose. “Hush, child,” he says with another wink. “What I was going to say was the lack of a chapel. Or any kind of house of worship.”

 

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

I laugh again. “I don’t think many people do have a religion these days. Certainly not many people here, anyway.” I push my hair away from my face and catch sight of the tape recorder, sat by one of Rob’s chair legs. “What were you listening to today?” I ask, nodding at it.

 

“Oh… Martin Luther King,” Old Man Rob replies distantly.

 

“You’ve told me about him before,” I remind him. Rob was often listening to speeches by Martin Luther King, and whenever he talked about him it was with respect and awe. Sometimes he even took off his hat when he talked of him, as a sign of respect.

 

“Great man,” Rob says. “The one I was listening to today was an anti-war speech… one he made in 1967, during the Vietnam War. Have I told you about it before?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Let me see if I can remember it… there’s one section I’m particularly fond of. Hmm… ah yes.” Rob clears his throat and straightens his back, looking straight across to the opposite wall with dark, hard eyes. I can almost imagine him younger, delivering a speech like the one he recites now.

 

“‘A true revolution of values will lay its hands on the world order and say of war: ‘this way of settling differences is not just.’” He pauses, frowning a little as he tries to remember. “‘This business of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation’s home with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into veins of people normally humane, of sending them home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice and love.’” Rob stops and deflates, settling back into his chair. “Something like that,” he says, waving his hand vaguely.

 

“I like it how you said it,” I say quietly, leaning back again. There’s a long pause where we both sit in comfortable silence, and then I can’t help myself; I break it. “It sounds like a horrible time.”

 

“Sorry, darling?”

 

“Vietnam… ‘burning humans with napalm’… ‘dark and bloody battlefields’… it sounds terrible.”

 

“It’s not that much different to how it is now, sweetheart,” Rob says gruffly, looking down at me. “Think about it. The ATS bombs leaving people blinded and homes destroyed, people dying in riots and explosions and leaving families grieving and poor, all the poverty and corruption and hate… it’s dark times, Arin. Dark times.”

 

I stare down at my hands. “‘Injecting poisonous drugs of hate into veins of people normally humane…’” I repeat, thinking. I feel cold, and not just because of the metal I’m sitting on.

 

Rob grunts. “It’s a powerful speech.”

 

I nod, wrapping my legs up in my arms. “Yeah.”

 

9: Iridescent

 

It’s harder to sneak out when you’re the leader of the rebellion, but I still managed it. Knowing my face had been broadcast all over the country last night I had to cover it with a scarf and use a hat as well as a hood to ensure my far-too-conspicuous hair was hidden, but I managed to slip away unnoticed by midday.

 

It was cold, the first cold day of the year, but I had to make my way to the police department on foot. I bowed my head and kept my eyes on the ground, but hardly anyone paid me a second glance �" a lot of people hid their faces these days, for safety reasons, as shelter from the cold or the dust, or sometimes because of a disfigurement left behind by the ATS bombs - or something else.

 

I couldn’t stop thinking about that speech Old Man Rob had told me about. It made me think of Chuck, and Lauryn, and my father… even Bigg. They’d all been affected by the way the world was �" not just the poor, oppressive times we were living in but also the anger and hate the Catalyst had fuelled. Yesterday, I’d helped to fuel that anger and hate. And I’d felt good about it.

 

I’d thought I’d been helping. I thought I was making a difference in the world �" a good difference. But in truth, I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d just been going along with what I thought my father would have wanted me to do �" but just because my father would have believed it was right, doesn’t mean it was.

 

I’d arrived at the wreckage that was the old police department. It was surprising how much damage we’d done �" the walls had caved in under the fires we’d set, the bricks blackened like charcoal, and there was still a few spots of blood on the floor. Most of the bodies had been moved, but I spotted at least two still left in the rubble �" whether because they couldn’t be moved from under the wreckage or there was no one who cared enough to move them, I didn’t know.

 

I stood there for a very long moment, standing in the wake of detestation, the wind biting at the parts of my cheeks that weren’t covered. I was holding my breath, like I was waiting for something, but I didn’t know what. Brick dust spun across the ground, raining down from walls that were barely holding up. I felt the same way �" like I could collapse at any moment, my insides crying in grief and guilt, and I realise that I had never felt so alone. Not when we lost my father and Lauryn and Bigg, not when I’d watched my father walk away from hundreds of people in need, not when I’d put myself in charge of a revolution I barely understood. Right here, standing in front of this scene of ruin and collapse I had helped cause, was the loneliest I had ever been.

 

And then someone tapped me on the arm. I whirled, fists clenched, but it was just a woman, dressed in rags and covering herself with a threadbare blanket. She stared at me with wide eyes, but when I relaxed and lowered my guard, she smiled. It was a smile filled with sympathy and sadness, and I realised she thought I was grieving for someone lost to the riots, not the one who had created them.

 

“Are you cold?” I ask, gesturing. She nods and I pull off my hat and hand it to her, tucking my hair more tightly into my hood. She takes it from me eagerly and places it over her own dark head, covering her blushing ears. She gives me a grin so wide I might as well have given her a new house.

 

“You are very kind,” she says, and I manage to give her a small smile. “Did you lose someone?” she asks, nodding at the wreckage.

 

I look at her, then what’s left of the police department. I guess I did, somewhere in the midst of all that violence. I lost myself.

 

“Yes.”

“These are desperate times,” the woman says, and her voice is sincere and quiet. “But there is always hope.”

 

“Hope,” I repeat, sighing. “Every time I let myself hope, something goes wrong. I seem to be failing a lot lately �" making all the wrong decisions.”

 

“You are sad,” she says plainly. She looks at me hard, scrutinizing my face. “And frustrated with yourself.” I nod a little, and she surprises me by taking my hand. “That’s okay. Everybody makes mistakes. You have to remember that, remind yourself to do better next time, and then… let it go.”

 

I look at her and find that my eyes are filling with tears. This woman had no idea who I was �" what I’d done �" and yet she’d given me the greatest comfort I’d had since my father had died, all for giving her a hat. Maybe she would have said something different if she’d known what my mistakes were, but it didn’t matter. She was right. The best thing I could do now �" the only thing I could do now �" was to move on.

 

And then there was nothing but noise, and shaking, and this stranger’s hand in mine, like an anchor in a storm. There was light �" a light that started bright, so bright my eyes stung from just a second of looking at it, and I grabbed this woman and pushed her to the ground, shielding both our eyes as the floor trembled beneath us like it was trying to shake us off. My ears were ringing from the sound of the explosion, making my head ache like it was splitting, but I could feel the shaking start to wear off, fade away. It was only when the ground was completely still that I allowed myself to let go of her beside me and lift my own head from the floor.

 

The explosion had gone off about three blocks away, far enough that it hadn’t reached us, but close enough that the fragile police department had finally crumbled in on itself. A few people lay on the ground having been thrown off their feet; a father comforted his crying daughter as she clapped her hands over her ears; and people began to evacuate themselves shakily from their houses, relieved that the buildings hadn’t collapsed on them yet. But where the explosion had gone off �" I was 100% sure it had been an ATS bomb, nothing else made a light like that �" there would be virtually nothing left.

 

And that was where the woman who’d spoken to me was looking. She stared with a pale face and eyes like saucers, and I knew immediately what was happening, even before she took off sprinting, with me hot on her heels.

 

We stood at the edge of the block in an alleyway, staring at the ruins of a town that had once been thriving with life. The woman in front of me leant against a wall, staring at a place she had once known well, left as nothing but an empty plain of rubble dusted with black ash, and let out a gasping sob. I stepped forward, hesitating at first, but then put a hand on her shoulder. She turned and threw herself at me, her face pressed into my chest, her tears soaking into my hoodie. My heart broke. This woman had appeared to me like an angel of wisdom and forgiveness, and now a single burst of light had destroyed her entire world, her entire home.

 

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze, slowly rubbing the back of her shoulder blade, and we sink to the floor together whilst she cried over the scorched corpse of her broken home.

 

10: Fallout

 

I do my best to help with the aftermath of the bomb, comforting families, helping patch up the wounded, picking through rubble for anything that can be salvaged. I do what I’d wished my father had done that day in Sector 67 �" I help.

 

Smoke still covers a lot of the area, so walking around is like swimming through dark, murky water, but it hides my face from anyone who might recognize me. We’re offered masks to cover our noses and mouths to protect ourselves from inhaling to much dust or smoke by the Red Cross, but there’s a limited supply and I end up giving mine to a little old man who reminded me too much of Rob.

 

As I hold hands and find old pictures and charred teddy bears, I think. I think about how this could have been prevented. I wonder whether accepting Collins’ offer and negotiating yesterday would have made this different. I wonder whether building bridges instead of burning them would have made this avoidable. And I start to realise how much the little things I do, the small decisions I make, can affect the world so easily in the position I’m in. Bringing water to a medic could save someone’s life; promoting peace rather than violence could have stopped his life being in danger in the first place. We’d been doing it all wrong.

 

I suddenly don’t want to go back to the Catalyst anymore.

Author's Note

I'm most worried about plot and whether I've made it clear enough and it makes sense, as sometimes my writing can be kind of erratic, but of course, any constructive criticism is useful.