Kingdom Come

i. Badlands

Warm sunlight is beating down on the rugged land around the detainment quarters. In a couple of hours, the sun will be unrelenting. 

The colors of the ruling party—red and green—are painted as a stripe running along the tall gray buildings. They loom ominously over the huddle of tents like an immovable mountain range.

I am helping a group assemble a tent when I see Councilman Emir Hamdi, in the flesh for the first time.

I squeeze my hands into a fist and release them, over and over again, trying to get rid of the tension in my body. From all the news segments, articles, interviews, and even leaked casual pictures of him that I have seen over the past decade, I know that I can draw him from memory, but seeing him in person just does not feel the same.

A few volunteers stand next to him cradling cartons in their arms as they all face a photographer. Their smiles remain graceful and brilliant while the camera flashes rapidly. As he is one of the five members of the council looking after our province, Odile, a photo-op is nothing out of the ordinary.

When the cluster finally dissipates and he begins walking towards a black SUV, I know that it's now or never. Excusing myself, I walk over to him with a recorder tucked in the back pocket of my jeans.

He pulls a duffle bag out of the trunk and has hardly shut it with his unoccupied hand when I reach his side.

"Excuse me, Councilman." I approach cautiously.

"Hi." Emir turns. The corners of his mouth tug into a winsome smile. His eyes are sharp, deep brown, dappled with sunshine, and for a moment I'm starstruck. 

"Uh. Hi." I quickly extend my hand. "I'm London Capell. I'm a reporter at The Reverent."

He shakes my hand, but the welcoming expression on his face falters. With a hint of a smile still gracing his features, he says. "Glad to have you here! We have a lot of work ahead of us."

He starts to walk away in the direction of the tents, and I quickly fall into step with him.

"It's a great turn up," I say, in an effort to keep this conversation going. "I believe the donation will be a size-able one."

"It's a regular turn up." He avoids my gaze. "Nothing extraordinary."

"Right. And this is primarily as a response to the new law?"

A sharp intake of breath, but he maintains a neutral tone. "This is not a response to anything. It's just a donation. We organize several of these throughout the year."

"Of course, but you were the only member of Odile's council—never mind the only member of the upper house of our parliament—to vote against it, and you are one of the organizers."

He stops abruptly, and I halt as well. The gigantic steel gates of the detainment quarters flash as the sun reflects off of them.

"Forgive me, what was your name again?" he asks, shielding his eyes with his free hand.

"London Capell."

"Like that city?"

"Yes—it's a long—"

"—Okay. Ms. Capell, I understand what the press wants to make of this—"

"Well, you don't know me."

"I've known enough reporters like you." He stops me in a clipped tone.

It stuns me for a moment, leaving me slightly offended. I bite my tongue. Like hell you have.

I expected resistance. After his symbolic vote, he has been avoiding interviews and letting people fight each other on social media platforms. Our political expert believes that he has sent the required message to his loyal followers. Now he wants to lay under the radar until the news cycle moves on.