evanna

Julian and Bernard appear in the loft ten minutes after they have left me, and announce that they will permit my residence among the people of the Red Hand. There are conditions, of course. I must follow all rules. I mustn't question them. I stay with Julian or their troops, and I make as little acquaintances as possible. "We don't need anyone leaking any information that we're harbouring a fugitive," Julian had sided with Bernard. I tell them both that they have nothing to worry about- I'm not an amicable person.

They smile at that. I don't.

I notice they've also changed their clothing- instead of the multitude of oranges and yellows and reds they had been wearing, they now wore similarly beat-up garments, but this time, all grey. I don't fail to notice that I've been dressed in grey since the beginning, either. I begin to better understand the world I am now in.

"We need to go to the hearing, don't we?" I ask, a little stupidly.

"Obviously," Julian answers. "Everyone does. Don't you think they'll realise if they're missing- oh, I don't know, two hundred citizens, give or take a few?" I don't have time to answer before Bernard interrupts.

"She can't come. What if they recognise her?" Bernard says. He's still only addressing me through Julian, and it's beginning to annoy me.

"They won't," I reassure. "The only two people who saw my face were soldiers, and I killed both of them. Besides, these are not the clothes I was wearing when I killed the first one. I fled before they could get a proper look."

Bernard appears to be unconvinced. "You're proving difficult to trust," he tells me.

Finally. I smile sardonically. "I get that a lot."

He makes a huffing sound and looks towards Julian. "What d'you think?" He asks them.

Julian shrugs. "I think it'd be worth it." They shoot me a grin. "Evanna's not stupid." Thank you, I think. "Besides," Julian continues, "there'll be so many people that it'll be difficult to pick out a face they might have never even seen. The speech will certainly give us some insightful information on what's been happening and what they're planning, up there." Julian turns to me. "You haven't gotten a number or a chip, which might make things significantly harder. Yeah, I hadn't thought of that earlier..." Julian trails off and bites their lower lip, one hand resting on a hip.

"A chip?"

"Yeah," Julian replies. "A chip. They stick it in your other arm to check out your location."

"What do they do that's so hindering?" I inquire.

"They run every person in for a scan. An arm scan, I mean. Everyone lines up according to their numbers, and then they show the guards their arms, and their numbers are ticked off a register." Bernard says.

"What about those without numbers? Surely there are some people who've done something to their forearms, disfiguring the tattoo. A burn, maybe?"

"They go last, and they run them through a machine that'll read the chip," Julian speaks, this time, beating Bernard to the explanation. "They just scan it. It makes you feel like you're a tin of canned food on a fucking supermarket shelf. Their code is part of what's integrated into the chip, so they're automatically ticked off, but we can't just tattoo any digit onto your wrist, because-"

"There are three million people in this city, and the numbers are, presumably, picked at random by a machine, meaning there's no way of coming up with a new one unless we go through all three million codes," I finish off. Both of them nod.

I grin at them both, wickedly. "I'll find my way in."

▿

vance

When I leave the office, I am still in a relatively bad mood. I leave the building, and go to an adjoining building, equally made entirely out of glass, and head to the fifth floor to the reception of the Bureau of Counsel, who take care of affairs such as absence slips and other slips that are required to do certain things.

I receive an allocated five-minute permission slip to use the mirror today, for this very special and important occasion. The secretary hands it over, signed, and with my name printed upon it, Vance A. Jakerrlos, as well as my code number, which I don't pay much attention to. I thank her curtly and then make to go home.

Na Kampĕ, the street I live on, is characteristically empty at this time of day. The speakers outside are still calmly relaying the message about the event this afternoon to the public- they won't stop until they've gone through at least five rounds of it. Not up here, anyway. I fumble with the keys to my flat, but I get in in the end, and draw the curtains over the glass windows in the living room, and make sure to stay in sight of the cameras installed by the government into the homes of Tetrahmon. I stir myself up a light salad for lunch, with a few slices of bread and butter- I won't be needing more- and then sit down at the dining table, facing a camera whilst eating.

I used to hate the feeling of someone watching me whilst I ate- it was a sort of pet peeve, but now, it does not do to feel uncomfortable in front of the camera. I chew down the vegetables monotonically, with effort occasionally checking my phone, getting up for the daily paper. The camera watches me, but, at least, as a government official, I am permitted some form of decent privacy. I lay my chip out on the dining table, once I have cleared up my lunch, and the screen flickers into view, with my daily schedule put into the margin, with my collection of notes beside it, the blue laser keyboard dropping down to the table's flat surface in front of the screen. I check that everything is is order, and set myself an alarm for 12:50. If I leave the house roundabout then, it will give me enough time to simply... settle down.

I do everything as it should be- I choose my suit, lay it down flat on my bed with the clothes still on the hangers, choose a pair of fresh socks to go with the ensemble, and go take a shower. I have chosen my best suit to get dressed in- it's a dark grey colour, with narrowly cut lapels, dark red, silk lining on the inside, and a handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket in an arranged fashion of exactly the same shade of red as the lining of the waistcoat. The trousers compliment it all- beneath, I wear a tank top, atop that a crisp white shirt. I knot a tie about my neck, too, red, striped boldly with grey and white. I take my comb and brush my hair back, combing the dark strands carefully enough so they feel like they lie down flatly. I gel them down with their usual slight part to the side. Content with the way it feels, and with what can see of myself, I fish out the cream-coloured permission slip for the mirror. It is already 12:42, I note. I will have to go soon.

Striding to the corner of my bedroom, I insert the slip into a little slot in the wall. It disappears, and a thin door slides open to reveal the mirror. The amount of time I have left stays in the top right-hand corner of the mirror in holographic blue numbering. I grab my comb, carefully fix my hair, shaping up the areas that I'm not happy with, and sigh as my bangs come free of my parting again. I pat them back into place, but they're a hopeless case. Abandoning that, I straighten up my tie, pin it down with a silver tie-pin. I have two minutes left. Hurriedly I smooth out any wrinkles in my suit, eliminate any creases, tuck my shirt in a little better- the door slides back over the mirror, and that is all.

I disable my alarm, pick up the chip to stick it into the breast pocket of my shirt again, and then gather up my briefcase. Time to go.

▿

The Square is teeming with unorganised movement. There are people everywhere, on both sides of the Walk. The entire place is laid out in front of us- the six of us, as we sit behind this window of glass, of strong, clear glass, and regard the people that are beneath us- the commoners, all of them clad in their plain, grey uniforms- scraps of clothing that were salvaged- those that have the privilege of wealth, still, wear their grey bourgeoisie upon their shoulders, but all of them are in uniform colour, and that is what matters, I think. Only we are allowed a splash of colour here and there.

I can see Adamík Beneš in the corner of my eye, and I long to say something to him, to hold some form of conversation, but we are all seated too far apart- for the sake of aesthetic uniformity and to prevent small talk or whispering.

Only one person will be doing the necessary talking today, and that is not us. That is President Malcolm.

a/n: thanks for reading this chapter! <3 I just wanted to say that all your support is so great, and it really helps me a lot, and I'm so grateful for it. Thanks for the votes and comments too, let me know what you think about the main characters so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Suggestions for improvement are always welcome :D

There's a little gif of Vance up there as he's going to get seated for the Presidential speech, for those of you wondering.

Thanks again,

Sarah xx