Shiver

*NANOWRIMO15* ❝Cʟᴀssɪғɪᴇᴅ_: Dᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs_❞ ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂♙||⚛∙⚗||♟▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂
Get ready for a frosty dystopia. ANNO_2079_ Evanna Frior lives in a world coated in frost and ice; Tetrahmona. She was born in Prague, a city-silhouette in the north of Tetrahmona. Its skyscrapers rise tall and proud above the frost lands. The only city believed to have survived the greatest snowfall ever experienced by mankind, Prague is sheltered from the 'wildlings,' by its city walls. Nobody leaves the city; nobody enters it. Prague's inhabitants must follow a code that builds them to follow instinct to turn over any outsiders and anybody who is different. Most people do so. But not everyone.

Evanna does not live like everybody around her. She is a tetrahon, a native of the world she was born in. A daughter of frost. And that means only one thing. DANGER. ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂ ❝Wʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ʜ ᴀ ᴛ ᴇ s ʏᴏᴜ, ɪᴛ's ʜ ᴀ ʀ ᴅ. Bᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ғ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ s ʏᴏᴜ, ɪᴛ's ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜ ᴀ ʀ ᴅ ᴇ ʀ.❞

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7. S i x

Evanna

 

“Mais putin, c’est quoi cette merde? Ta geule, Francis, t’en sait rien. Arrétez de me faire chié, nom d’une pipe.” A young person, who held a cigarette in their hand, was busy giving something they clearly considered to be a ‘motivational’ speech. 

 

“Ouais, mais-”

 

“Ferme-la, je t’ais dit.” I have little-to-no problem understanding the vulgar french- and neither do the band of other young people, or so it would seem. Hands in my pockets, to hide the blood, I stride over to them from behind the bookcases of the library. Every book in sight is history, rewritten history, more history, autobiographies of the leaders. History is written by the victors, I muse. There are no children’s storybooks, not from what I can see, and it is quite obvious as to what is happening here. Ignoring the volumes for now, I approach the little group.

 

They are students, clearly, but it doesn’t seem like they’re reciting a presentation of any kind to learn by heart. “Eh- oh-” the students stand up, with their hands in the air, and I check my clothing. Of course. They think I am here to kill them. Presumably, soldiers don’t venture here often.

 

“Rest your arses, he’s unarmed,” the leader says in Czech.

 

“Je crois que c’est une fille,” comes a quiet answer in French. 

 

I let out an amused snort- the leader gives me a scrutinising look, and gives a nod. “Yes. A girl. So?” They flick their cigarette - I watch the ash float to the floor and just rest there on the blue carpet. 

 

“So, it’s not- female soldi-”

 

The leader turns around to interrupt the young man who has just spoken up. “I told you to shut up,” they snap. “Who are you and what do you want? We’re just students. Trying to learn so we can be the best future for this country.” For this hell-bound country, you mean.

 

My tone is amused when I next speak. “Yes, I’m sure of it.” I know they are lying - although this leader is an admirable liar. “I’m not actually a soldier, though- Julian. Is that right?” I ask, flatly. The person seems taken aback, but I don’t give them enough time to get over the shock, much less to answer. “It’s a small world,” I say, as if that explains it all. The students’ expressions have turned to mixtures of fear and suspicion. “Although- rest assured, I am not here to report you- nor am I here to kill you.”

 

“So you’re not one of them,” Julian finally states.

 

“Clearly not.” I’m growing impatient - but I tell myself it would be best if I didn’t lose it. These people are possible allies. Certainly not friends, but allies, perhaps. I’m not here on a socialising trip, I’m not here to be amicable and to be invited over to some ‘friend’s’ house for tea, which is, vaguely, something I have chosen to remember from the past. But warmth and all the comforts of home are now things that have lost all significance and all attachment to myself over the years.

 

 

Julian coughs - I’m not sure wether it’s genuine or in mockery. "Are you against them?" Comes the next petulant question.

 

I sigh. "One could say that.”

 

"Then I believe it's time for formal greetings. These punks behind me-" Julian jabbs a thumb over their shoulder- "are a band of people like me.”

 

I raise a brow.

 

Julian looks annoyed at this, and gives a forced sigh. "Mais merde alors, like me in the sense that we have the same ideologies.”

 

They don’t wait for a reply. "You'll learn their names if you stick with us. As for me- I'm Julian, and you will call me Julian, and you won't refer to me as 'she' or 'he,' because I'm not either - so there." Julian folds their arms across their chest and looks extremely pleased with themselves.

 

Indifferent, I just nod. “Alright.”

 

“Well?”

 

“What?”

 

“Introduce yourself, maybe?”

 

I almost feel stupid. Right. Of course. “Well, I’m Evanna, and feel free to call me whatever you like.” Hopefully that wasn’t a mistake- I don’t fancy them handing me over to authorities, although I have my doubts that they’d do something like that. Besides, I’m quite confident I can take them down - they look like a band of undertrained street rats, who probably don’t know how to hold a handgun properly, much less how to shoot one.

 

“We’ll need to get you a change of clothes, then,” Julian comments. “Can’t have you parading about dressed like a fucking soldier. Hey, you! Yes, you, Francis. Find her something. Merde alors,” they say, turning to me. “I hope you’re not going to be a burden.”

 

I smile, falsely. “I believe I am quite the opposite.” Inside me, something stirs, and my fingers twitch. Jules might have to watch their mouth a little more, or my hands might just become a little more bloody.

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