She quickened her steps as her mind raced at the possible outcome of their intervention. Could anyone convince the Registry all art was equal? Would there come a day when she could boast about being a painter the way bestselling authors talked about their writing? There wouldn't if no one tried.

Strange returned to her flat that evening, and some time later Strange entered with a tired smile and strained eyes. "Did you write today?" He set his computer bag on the desk next to her Word Processor and pulled Wordless into his arms. She had spent the day working on her "story," and she hoped he would approve.

"Something like that," Wordless murmured, disengaging from his embrace. "Where have you been? I stopped by you flat."

"I was...helping some friends."

"You've been secretive lately." She intended to ask him more about that, especially with the Editors on alert for the resistance. Even innocent behavior might be considered suspect. Strange was the most devout follower of the word that she knew. But before diving into that conversation, first she wanted to show him something.

Her warm fingers tangled with his as she drew him to three panels drying against the wall. As soon as he saw them, Strange shook his head with a frustrated sigh. "This isn't writing."

"It tells a story. There's a beginning, middle and end. I'm not done with them yet, but I was thinking—"

"What? That the Registry will accept this in lieu of an actual book? Have you lost your mind, Wordless?! They'll lock you up! Or, worse, they'll make you disappear like the others!"

His angry words bounced off the wall and reverberated in her head. Hopelessness descended. Her eyes darted left to right for some justification. "And how do you know it won't work, Strange? No one has ever tried it before...I am not like you," she whispered. "I can't edit out the parts of myself that don't fit into the Registry's narrative."

Angrily, he snatched up his bag. "Either you edit yourself or they delete you." He yanked open the flap and pulled out his Portable Processor. "There are rules to this, beloved. You must turn in something. Here. I've started it for you. It's not much, but this five thousand words will keep you in the clear until you can write something of your own." He pressed a sheaf of printed pages into her hand, and the paper fluttered to the floor, unaccepted.

"I just want to be free!" she shouted.

He caught her up in his arms and pressed his hand over her mouth to silence her. He kissed her eyelids to halt the tears welling up from a deep, unfulfilled place in her soul. "We do what we must. We write what we have to in order to survive. If you want to be free...write." He slid his hand away and kissed what he had crushed.

She whispered, "Or, join the Resistance."

He took her to bed. He made love to her until she forgot about resistance.

�E