Frank watches me closely while the service elevator clanks its way back to street level. I grip the rusty iron bar that hems us in, avoiding his gaze, and stare at my brother.
It’s not him.
“You’re being a brat.” He narrows his eyes.
He’s dead. You watched Harding kill him. Stop being an idiot.
“Hey,” he reaches for me. "You're not an idiot."
“Stop it!” I shriek, wincing at the shrill tone of my own voice.
Frank jumps, gasping audibly but not saying a word.
Caleb’s face morphs and twists in front of my eyes. His warm olive skin, which looks sickly under the orange lights, turns grey and ghostly. The hazel eyes turn into black pits, oozing black sludge down his cheeks. His mouth opens into a soundless scream, and he drifts towards me, arms outstretched.
I cower against the opposite end of the elevator cage, shrinking down to delay the point of contact.
He won’t touch me. It’s not real. He’s dead.
“He’s dead!” I shout.
The image dissolves, and Frank walks through it, kneeling in front of me. “Kyla, are you with me?”
I check around us, expecting Caleb to appear somewhere new, but the vision is gone. I nod. “Yeah, sorry, I… saw something.”
“Kyla, you have got to take this.” Frank holds out a bottle of green liquid. I don’t have to read the label to know it’s Composure.
It takes all my self-restraint to stop myself from hitting it out of his hand. “No, Frank, I don’t.”
“But you’re seeing things—”
“I know,” I push the bottle back into his chest, gazing steadily into his sad eyes. “I know. Look, something happened in Reform I haven’t told you about.”
Frank frowns, but stops the elevator at the top and leans back against the cage, waiting for me to continue.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in the hope that my stomach will stop churning. It does nothing to calm the sick sensation of unrest that’s been sitting there all day. I lean my head back against the cage and sigh. “I resisted some of the syrups. Compliance? It didn’t work on me.”
Frank’s frown deepens. “That’s… not possible.”
“Well, it happened. They dosed me, and I could still refuse an order.” I let this sink in for a moment before continuing in a desperate rush. “If I could resist that, maybe I can do it with Oblivion, too.”
“I dunno, Ky…” Frank shakes his head slowly. “That seems like a long shot.”
“I can’t rely on this stuff anymore, Frank. Not after what it’s done.”
“And if you keep seeing… things?”
“I know Caleb’s dead.” I inhale deeply again, holding it in and focusing on the churning pit of my stomach. “I know it’s all in my head. I just need to keep calm.”
He sighs, slipping the bottle back in his pocket. “Alright. But if you punch me, I’m dosing you.”
“That’s fair.” I check the elevator door leading to the tunnels. “Come on, coast is clear.”
We jog back to the square in a few minutes. Evening has changed into night already, but the streets are ablaze with a combination of sparking, broken streetlights and flames—workers have set cars alight, sending them flying through warden lines. If this afternoon was a hectic riot, this is mayhem.
The sickening lurch in my stomach gets worse as we peek around the corner, watching the rioting workers celebrate as they bowl armoured guards over like tenpins.
“This is too much,” I groan. “They’re taking things too far.”
Frank grunts in begrudging agreement. “Good thing we’re planning on soaking them, ain’t it?”
I nod. “Where to?”
He points to the right. “One block in each direction. They’ll feed right from the reservoir. Just need to use the hose to direct it. Melly will do the rest.”
“And you’re sure this is going to dose them?”
Frank laughs without humour. “Nope. But what else do we have?”
I make a move, but Frank grabs my shoulder and pulls me back towards him, slipping the Composure into my hand. I open my mouth to refuse, but he shakes his head. “Just carry it, okay? I’ll feel better knowing you have it on you.”
My shoulders slump, and I put it in my pocket. “Okay.”
“Right. Let’s do this.” Frank bumps his fist against mine and we take off in separate directions.
The workers couldn’t care less about us—they have their sights set only on those wearing black uniforms. I hurry with my head down, keeping to the edge of the road, next to the broken glass windows lining the shopping district, intent on reaching my mark at the same time as Frank. A darkened alley looms to my right, and I slow my pace slightly as I approach, wary of surprises that might lurk there.
“Stop right there!” a gruff voice shouts behind me, a vice-like grip on my shoulder.
I jerk to one side, slipping out of the warden’s grip and down the alley. I pick up the pace instantly, intent on reaching the first corner and losing my chaser before he can catch up to me.
“Kyla?” A voice I would know anywhere calls from the darkness. My mother.
I peer into the inky shadows and find her eyes staring back at me, wide in shock. An onslaught of conflicting emotions comes at me all at once—love, relief, happiness, shame, fear… My pace slows as dread takes over. What would she say? Would she hate me for what had happened?
She reaches out a hand, nodding with a faint smile. “Come on!”
I speed up again, my feet almost slipping from under me as I race towards her, arms outstretched. Behind me, the warden grunts in irritation, his boots scuffing on the ground as he loses his footing. Mum grabs my wrist the second I get within her reach and yanks me aside. We press inside a doorway with nowhere to go. I open my mouth to question her just as the warden catches up to us.
When I glimpse his face, I only have a fraction of a second to identify him—Harris, with his pale complexion flushed pink from the chase.
And it seems like he recognises me, too. His eyes trail up to mine, and a degenerate smile spreads across his face, lighting a fire in his drooping eyes.
But as he reaches for me, he’s bowled out of sight by a surge of rioters. I gasp, clutching on to my mother’s arms for support. She holds me to her, arms shaking, shushing me and stroking my hair. “It’s alright, it’s alright.”
I want to stay here, in her arms. I want to close my eyes and forget about everything, be a child again. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I peer out from the doorway to see where they’ve gone. The crowd carries Harris back to the central streets. He yells obscenities, kicking out and struggling, but it’s no use. They bind his arms and hold his legs to stop him from fighting, carrying him out of sight.
“Where did they come from?” I hiss, pulling away from my mother’s hold.
“They were waiting for a warden to follow me. We’re luring them out, trying to pick them off one at a time.” Mum looks me over, wincing when she sees my ragged clothes, my gaunt face.
Her concern pokes a finger at the guilt swelling inside me. I avoid her gaze. I avoid asking what else the rioters are planning. I don’t want to know. Whatever it is, I know I won’t like any of it, and I don’t want to think of her being involved with it. I just have to get back to the street.
“I have to go,” I say to the concrete. “Thanks, and… I’m really sorry, mum. I love you.”
I don’t have time to hear what she says—I turn and run back to the street so quickly that it’s all a blur to me. Meanwhile, the blurry, cruel version of Caleb hovers over my left shoulder, shaking his head and tutting at me.
It’s not him. He’s dead. You watched Harding kill him.
The chaos on the street has reached even higher levels of violence, with people running in every direction—rioters and wardens alike. Wardens pull out their pulse rifles, shooting electrifying nets without warning and taking down stragglers, paralysing them. A loud explosion shakes the remaining glass in the shop windows, making everyone in the street shout loudly, ducking for cover.
Nobody is demonstrating anymore. No one is shouting for justice, or demanding change. It’s carnage.
A few feet away, I find my target—a short, metallic hydrant on the curb of the sidewalk, next to the burning husk of a car. I’m relieved to find it’s still intact and undamaged.
I sprint over to the hydrant and duck down, grabbing the radio from my belt. “Melly, I need a hose. Hydrant on Central Twenty-Two.”
“I’ve got you, Kyla,” Melly replies.
A whirring sound vibrates under my feet, and the hydrant extends from the ground, the top reaching above my head. From the side of the metal body, a panel opens up, with a hose reel inside. I grab it and take a firm hold, pointing it up in the air at an angle.
“Alright, Melly, turn it on.”
Instantly, the hose jerks in my grasp, and I clutch it firmly as the water’s force pushes me to the ground. It sprays in a high arc, a massive torrent of water laced with positive emotions and artificial trust.
I douse everyone I see—wardens and rioters alike. At first, people try to escape the flood of water, but soon wardens start to show up in droves. I grin, turning the hose on them, ensuring I soak them from head to toe in the cocktail of syrups.
“Come and get some!”
