Ezra

The pale light of the moon cuts through the morning mist with all the precision of a knife. It seems to split the droplets in half and make a pathway for me through the alley. Buildings rise on either side of me, lit on fire by the sun rising to my left.

I take another shaky step, making sure to place my foot somewhere away from the countless piles of trash lest I make a sound. One wrong move, and the radars will pick me up.

My white uniform reflects the moon's light. I wonder if that's why they designed the uniforms in such a way, so they could always spot us in the thick darkness of the city.

A siren sounds nearby, and I throw myself behind a dumpster. My breath catches in my throat. I clamp a hand around my mouth to prevent the strangled cry from escaping.

They aren't coming after me. I'm safe. I'm hidden.

Thomas removed the tracking device from my neck days ago. As far as the government knows, I'm dead.

Well, until I broke into their security headquarters an hour ago.

"I'm picking up some heat traces this way, Captain."

My head turns towards the low female voice at the mouth of the alley. Three shadows loom there, holding long guns. The moon catches off their badges and reflects sharp shards down towards me. The balls of light dance around my feet, and I shuffle back a few more feet.

"Go see what it is, deputy," the taller shadow barks, extending a white uniformed arm towards me. "We will move on. Surely you can handle one teenage delinquent."

The female laughs.

"Permission to shoot to kill?" she asks. "These rebels are getting out of hand. They're recruiting as young as possible nowadays."

"Permission granted," her captain states, walking away. "Remember they're rebels, not children. They made the decision to act against the government. They deserve to die."

He leaves her shadow alone, then, taking the other officer with him.

His words chill my blood.

Rebels.

Is that what they're calling us now?

Last month, it was idealists. I haven't heard the term 'rebel' in years. I guess they're tired of the citizens sympathizing with us. When they coined us as 'idealists' people thought we were harmless children, a group of kids with nothing better to do than sit around and dream up a better world.

Not that it's hard.

Yet, 'rebels' fits better. Ever since we started fighting back and decided that we deserved to live.

I creep towards the back of the overflowing dumpster. Sneaking out of the back is the only option. Thomas is waiting for me. Without looking back, I clutch the disk to my chest and take off at a sprint.

"Hey! Stop!"

The woman spots me the moment I break out into the mist. The sound of gunfire erupts around me, and I duck. A bullet grazes my shoulder, tearing through my thin shirt like butter. As I turn the corner, I press a hand to my arm. Warm liquid greets me there, and I wince.

It could have been worse.

My heart races in my chest as the footsteps grow nearer, louder, and quicker behind me. Every now and again, she will fire again, but I'm fast.

Fast and small.

She can't get a good shot at me.

Not to mention, she and I both know where I'm heading.

The city center.

The darkness shatters like glass as billboards appear around us. I blink several times, fighting the urge to skid to a stop and gather my bearings. The scene around me sways like a mirage, twisting and turning under my feet as my eyes adjust. The thousands of white uniforms merge together, separated only by the assortment of hair and skin colors.

Everyone seems to move past me without lifting an eye in my direction. What they notice is the police officer chasing me. Gasps split the hushed whispers down the middle, and eyes search for the person being pursued.

Yet, I look like everyone else.

That was the goal of the uniforms. If we make our differences disappear, maybe we will be able to get along. Maybe the civil wars will stop. Maybe the rebels will disappear.

Like Thomas always says, though, individuality can't be eradicated. As long as we have the ability to make our own decisions, there will be wars, poverty, and pain. If they really want to stomp us out, they're going to have to inject something into us. Change our neurons. Thank God, science hasn't reached that point yet.

Instead, they have the Execution Law in conjunction with a strict set of general laws. Break one law, even the smallest rules like curfew, and you're dead. Don't stop to pay your respects to a monument raised to the president? Shot. Throw trash on the ground? Hanged.

After the war, when the president took over, democracy was thrown out the window. Dictatorship became the norm.

I slow myself down to a walk, sucking in gulps of air. A few eyes cut towards me, but they turn away just as fast. Without thinking, I tuck the disk away into my waist band and hurry out of the city center.

"Get out of my way!" the female barks behind me, but her voice is so far away, she sounds more like a whisper among all the disruption she's causing. I'm lost to a sea of white. That's the great thing about normal civilians.

They're so civil.

Thomas blames fear for their abidance. I agree that the powers of the government are frightening, but they aren't the scariest thing on Earth.

When I come to the end of the city center, I pass the execution stage. The tan wood is stained with candy apple red blood. The black case that holds the weapons of the executioners stands at the back of the stage, encased in bulletproof glass. An electronic counter hangs behind the box. A bright red number blinks to remind us of lives lost since the law was passed.

Six thousand, eight hundred forty seven.

Yesterday it was six thousand, eight hundred and forty. Seven people were shot between the eyes this morning. Seven human beings with their own thoughts, opinions, histories, and dreams. Seven different pairs of eyes that might have all been different colors.

I wonder how many of those people I knew and had my final conversation with unknowingly.

By now, my nerves have calmed themselves. My breath comes out in flat, even strands. My heart drums at a healthy rate again. The crowd has thinned, and I duck between two skyscrapers, lost to the shadows.

"You were followed," a soft voice says as I approach the back of the alley.

"Not all the way," I answer with a sigh. The shape rises off the ground, unfolding arms and legs to reveal a tall, thin girl not much older than me. Black soot covers her uniform and skin, making her invisible. Green eyes shine through the grime.

"You were also shot," she murmurs, turning to unlock the door.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I growl, tapping my foot. "Hurry up and let me in. Thomas is waiting for me."

"Oh, in that case."

She crosses her arms and drops the key back around her neck.

Individuality leads to attitudes. Bad, teenage attitudes.

"Come on, Sarah. Let Ezra in."

I jump at the sound of a second voice. The shadow stands and grabs her forearm. She winces, but he doesn't relent.

"Fine," she grumbles, jerking her arm away from him. "How did you get to be Thomas' messenger boy, anyway?"

"That's what happens when you're smart," I snap.

"Or when you know the right people." The words are spoken under her breath as she slides the door open. Dim yellow light floods the alley.

"Thanks," I say and shove past her.

The doorway leads into a long hallway that slopes downward. I count steps under my breath, turning at specific intervals. The maze-like tunnel system was designed for people to get lost in. Lucky for me, I've been walking these paths for many years.

It used to be easier when she was here. She knew these tunnels better than anyone, down to the type of concrete and how much weight it could withstand.

Now, it's nothing but darkness and loneliness. Emptiness and daunting quiet.

Not once do I run into anyone. Not one whisper is heard in the shadows. Above ground there's the constant hum of voices and the rising crescendo of dissent. Yet, here, there is nothing more than the solemn hush of secrecy and the silent hopes of survival.

The tunnel widens into a larger area, and a massive room appears. Several metal tables line the walls, filled with teenagers and young adults all whispering among themselves. They hold bowls of steaming liquid and cups filled with water. Several turn my way when I walk through the cafeteria, but like the citizens above, they pay me little to no mind.

I search the crowd for the red hair of our leader- Thomas.

Nothing.

With a sigh, I push through the smell of dinner and continue to his office.

I find him standing in front of his window- a two way mirror overlooking the city. His back is to me; his hands fold neatly at the base of his back.

"Sir," I say, clearing my throat. He turns towards me and searches my face for something. Disappointment is all he returns with.

"Where is she, Ezra?" he asks through gritted teeth.

Digging the disk out of my waist band, I walk towards the computer screen mounted on the wall. I slip the disk into the slot on its right hand side, and the data explodes on the screen. It shows her vitals at the time of capture and her destination.

Thomas swears loudly and hits the top of his desk.

"I had really hoped they would hold her for execution," he whispers, running a hand through his hair.

"She's not eighteen," I blurt. "By law, no citizen under the age of eighteen can be executed."

"I know the laws, Ezra," he moans, pressing on his temple like he's trying to rub away the truth, "but I can't save her from The Island."

I glance at the screen.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Thomas shakes his head.

"Don't be," he says as he walks towards the screen. "We have no time to be sorry. Sitting around won't get us anywhere. If we want to shut down the prisons, we have to find their weak point."

"But, sir, what about the execution laws? They're supposed to vote to lower the age restriction within the next few weeks."

That's the reason we have so many teenage rebels. The president proposed the change several years back, and teens crawled out of the woodwork to defend themselves from the threat of death.

The voting system is a sham, anyway, since everyone just votes for whatever the president says, but it helps them keep up appearances.

"I think that fire hampered them a little, don't you? Can you vote a law into action with twelve dead committee members? They'll put it off."

He touches the screen, and it wavers under his touch. His daughter's face shakes, but it makes me smile. Even in her mug shot, she holds a determination enviable. At least I know where she got it from. I just hope her crime pays off.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask with a sigh.

"Get me the coordinates for The Island," he says, moving to stare back out the window, "and tell the rest of the rebels to prepare for a vacation. We will need all the hands we can get to break down that dome."

I nod and hustle out the door.

Hope is a fragile thing that manifests in the heart of desperate people. I hope that a hundred rebels is enough to save the soul of one.

Sorry that I inserted this randomly! This character was going to come into play later, but I really think this double perspective will shed a light on the 'why' behind The Island and Jordyn's background. Hopefully this answers some questions and opens some new ones. Please, let me know how you feel about this. If you don't like it, I will take it out.

Much love,

Amy.