gunpowder. babe+terra vt. Aug 29, 2021 21:01:25 GMT -5
Post by harley royce, d3. ✨ zoë. on Aug 29, 2021 21:01:25 GMT -5
You have heard the rumours that District Nine never stopped fighting for the cause, half of the main town still a warzone. Gunshots you won't be able to hear before they hit you in the chest, leg, spine, the deployment extra Peacekeepers confirms the whispers are true.
You're not scared. District's Five through Seven have been easy. There are two sets of challenges at the top and tail of your Victory Tour, one already conquered, a very different kind of task for the Lower Districts. But Nine is a happy medium. A victor in Babe Adroxis, spear through September's eye played on repeat at Montague House. A dead girl in Teddy King, you could've butchered her even more but gave her mercy - a true sign of respect, equals in all ways but one.
When you step off the platform you hold your breath, escorted by soldiers in white. Like you couldn't fight off the crowd that had gathered on the steps of the station, frowns and furious faces spitting words you cannot hear. Someone holds up a sign from the back of the crowd and when your eyes catch the painted words your heart stops for half a second.TEACH US INSTEAD!
They're not supposed to know.
A Keeper nudges you along, if they said anything you can't tell through the reflection in their helmet visors. Nobody had asked about the trainings in One, Two and Four in the other districts. Or maybe they had, and you simply could not hear.
Your fists curl into balls, nails digging into your palms, if Nine know then surely Ten will too.
You know what that means. You've known it all along. Treason, in the highest regard - Nine, Eleven, Twelve, then you'll meet your maker in Ten. You swallow hard, feel something catch in your throat, splutter into the crook of your elbow and your nose finally registers the undeniable scent of this place: gunpowder.
Into a van, into a car, crumbling buildings either not yet repaired from the war or freshly destroyed in a last-chance defiance of totalitarianism. You stop somewhere outside of the main town center, raise your eyebrows into a silent question mark. Change of plans, someone scrawls on a note. We'll record your speech instead, play it on the stage once you're gone. For your safety.
For your safety, you want to laugh but instead just nod. Why do you obey without question? Why do you let the world decide what happens to you? The war is long over, at least it was in Ten. You can stop letting fate choose whether you live or die, but stockholm syndrome has kept you alive this far. It's innate, second-nature. Muscle memory. Take your orders. Kill without questions. Stay alive.
Nine makes you question where your loyalties lie, why you simply do instead of dictate. Maybe it's the little rebel in you, child of The Circle. Or maybe it's just the taste of treason in the air.
You park the answer for later, ushered out of a car to a building labelled ADROXIS AMMUNITIONS. They hand you a card but you pocket it into the inside of your jacket, you know why you're here:
Babe Adroxis, gunpowder boy.
'Hello', you wave, voice feeling croaky in your throat so you clear it and stick out your hand in greeting. 'I'm Terra.'
He's taller than he seemed on television.
table by elegant.