*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.❞


4. T h r e e


Hit the left. It's all they're saying. Hit the left. The snow reaches my mid-calves, but it doesn't bother me. I vaguely recall a burning sensation on the skin from the cold- then there were articles about what happens if you're out in the cold for too long- how your toes will go blue and black and then they'll have to be cut off. I look down. It feels like I'm standing in nothing. The prickling from the cold that stands somewhere in the back of my complex mind doesn't surface. That was a different me.

Or perhaps that was me, and now I'm not even sure who I am. 

"Parrish, hit the left!" I turn around. Two men, clad in identical winter clothing dyed the identical ugly shade of khaki green, stand in the snow beside the open steel door. Not exactly what I'd call an incognito suit, if they were going for surprise attacks. The padlocked chain that had been keeping me inside lies in pieces in the snow- already it's disappearing. The men hold guns at me. Some animal instinct within me tells me to flee, that standing at this end of the barrel was a bad thing. Instead, I want to laugh. In another life, I would have cried and stood there, shaking, hands up. But I was only little, in that other life. A child. And now, I think, not today. 

The younger one holds his gun unsteadily. He's unfamiliar to this. He's probably more afraid than I am. I think of the plug that was in my body what feels like mere moments ago, and come to the conclusion that I must be something different. Not- human, or not quite so. It makes me feel indestructible. Anything is stronger than a human, than a sack of blood and meat with a bit of bone to keep it all standing. They're like balloons. Poke them with a knife and all the contents leaks out. A knife. Interesting.

It's too late to go back for any instrument of that sort, however- any scalpels in the laboratories I passed are too far within the complex behind me, most of it hidden underground. If I turn tail, they will fire. That much I know. 

"Shoot it, Parrish!" His finger coils around the trigger, his tongue passes nervously over his lower lip.

I advance, stand directly in front of the young man, my gaze calm as it settles upon his features, tout with concentration. I can hear his breathing as he stares back at me, lips drawn into a thin line. With my right hand, I take the barrel of the gun and direct it between my parted teeth. "Go on," I say. He seems taken aback by the sound of my voice- I see his grip slacken on the trigger, the muscles in his index finger loosening- just a twitch. "Shoot me," I hiss, the words slurred by the barrel. 

Shoot it, Parrish! And he does. The bullet explodes through my cheek as I twist at the last minute, grazing the hinge of my jaw. But there is no blood. There is no pain, just a dull ache it the corner of my jaw. Parrish appears to be confused with this- as am I. There are no endorphins running through my body, nothing to help cope with the pain- because there is none. When I touch my hand to my face and feel around for the hole, it's disappeared. 

A small smile curls my lisp up in satisfaction. I want to mock him. He's young and ignorant and foolish. His superior, who stands more than several paces below him, enveloped in the falling snow, is not much better. 

"Automatic cellular regeneration," I muse. After a moment of observing his befuddled expression, I say, "unexpected, isn't it? Fascinating too." I don't give him nearly enough time to reply. Reaching out again, I yank the gun from his hands.

One sharp, clear note. Beautiful and sonorous.



He won't strike me. 

He wouldn't dare, not in front of the council. Satisfied with my little outburst, I lean back into my seat and coolly regard the Council of the Seven. My inner gloat is short-lived, however, as we receive a distress signal from the wall. 

"Mayday- mayday-" I straighten in my seat, my muscles tense. I know that voice. Segway. The line breaks, the connection shivers, cracks- and falls silent. It comes up again, louder, this time- scuffling in the snow, panicked breathing- I can smell the fear in the sound. All of us can. "It's out. Help. Help." The line cuts.

We must take immediate action, Malcolm announces, we must go, we must dispatch a troop. I run a hand over my face and stand up. Adamík sends a strange look my way, but I turn from him and follow the others out. I stay away from Jonathan, preferring to fall into line at the back, next to Zhuan. My briefcase hangs heavy from my arm. Vaguely, I can hear Malcolm talking with furious urgency into a chip embedded into the skin beneath her wrist. It is the mark our superiors carry- direct communication lines. A bit like a walkie-talkie. I don't think we have those any more.

Zhuan directs me back to reality. "Well spoken, back there," he says, his voice its usual discreet murmur.

It takes me some time to respond. For a moment, I look ahead with eyes narrowed in confusion- Zhuan always sits on the fence until the last minute, and this is, for starters, the first time he's directly agreed with me, and, secondly, the first time he's perhaps taken a side so early on in the discussions. I wonder wether he mocks me. But for some reason, I always seem to think his undecided attitude in meetings means he's got some sort of ulterior motive to it. I give him a police nod and an equally polite smile. "Thank you," I answer.

Jonathan is too far ahead to hear us. 

Fingers shaking a little with the cold which seeps unforgivingly through my leather gloves, I fumble with my seatbelt. By the time I've clasped it in tightly, all the others are pretending not to notice my difficulties with the seatbelt. I stare outside, wanting to forget about all of them for the time being. Adamík Beneš sits beside me, and I am glad for it. Jonathan has engaged himself into some chatter with Malcolm- and my jaw tightens upon seeing them. 

Looking down, I retrieve my headset from where it lies neatly in its little compartment beside my seat, and I put it on. The engine of the machine thrums to life, the doors close. I can see the shadows the whirring blades cast upon the snow as they slice through the air, picking up speed. 

Minutes later, we begin to descend. The altitude that usually makes me feel ill does not get to me- at the moment, I am far too worried about the men down there- and the threat they are facing. All of us scramble out of the helicopters. Backed up by the military, we begin to advance, two generals in front, weapons reading on their shoulders, fingers ready to fire. I see a figure on its knees in front of another, but I know it is not Segway. It must be Parrish, then.

The echo of a gunshot ripples over the icy wasteland.

The tall figure turns tail and runs- and so do I, towards the dark red road upon which I have stepped twice and have never wanted to step upon again. But I must. There are always people to whom I cling to. There are always people who will make you a fool.

"Oh my god." Oh my god, I think, as I pull Parrish into my lap, my fingers pressing against his wound. Segway is alive, but I ignore him. I ignore them all. Oh my god.

Parrish is a good man. He is brave and kind and strong- and yet now, he is dead.


I wring my hands beneath the flowing water. It is cold, just like everything else, it is cold- and wet and uncomfortable, just like everything around me. With a heavy sigh I turn off the tap and dry my hands on a paper towel. I am about to leave when a hand clamps around my wrist- and pulls me away from the door. Jonathan.

"What were you thinking?" He snaps, as I yank my arm from his grip. "Opposing me like that- you fool!" His eyes flicker up my body with an air of disgust, as if it's my physicality that disappoints him.

"I did what was right," I answer stonily. "I thought-"

"I don't care what you thought! I raised you to be a politician, I raised you-"

"As a shepherd raises a sheep, yes," I snap, interrupting him in return. He looks scandalised. "You taught me to follow your opinions, you taught me to submit and obey the dog."

"I got you into this position," he seethes. "You should be grateful, you miserable little-" and he loses it- and hits me with a force that stings even more now that I've forgotten it. A smack- the back of his hand, to my cheek- automatically, my hands wants to got to my face, prod the pain from my cheek, then curl up into a corner and cry like I used to. But I don't. I am not his sheep any more than I am a little boy.

"No. I got me into this position. You do not dictate me."

"I am your father."

It's a poor line of defence, and I respond bitterly. "I don't know what you're talking about." There. A flicker of- hurt- in his eyes. It surprises me, and for a moment I try to persuade myself to reconsider what I've just said, but then I remember what he's done, and with a snarl I tear my arm from his grip. "Stay away from me," I snap.

Doing up the silver cuffs of my vest sleeve, I turn around and leave him standing there, with his shoulders slumping forwards in slight and angry defeat.

I won't apologise. The thought crosses my mind several times, but I coat my heart with ice and leave it at that, because what he's done to me is far, far worse than a slap

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...