The Rebellion Era

Chapter Nine.

Author's note: Scott Eastwood as Tariq Alamsi. (Photo). He is too old and angular to be Tariq, but he is the closest I could come to the image of Tariq Alamsi I have in mind.

                                     ***

A disturbingly loud clamor slap us in the face where it's least expected. A cluster of people pass in front of us, not paying attention, as if we are invisible to the eye. They are also clad in black from head to toe. From the fleeting glance I got to steal at the passerbys, I noticed the gleam of an ink against light; the reflection of the Lightning Bolt tattoo. Unlike Sarah, those seem to have been tattooed all over, with even the woman's neck marked underneath the light tresses of her red hair falling on her shoulders. I try to mull over the purpose behind all of that ink but I keep reaching to the same Boulder; it was only done for the reason of decoration. With a disgusting feeling, I realize an even ugly one. The trio engage in a ludicrous conversation I wager, because the woman laughs, more like a piercing shriek, so hoarse I know her vocal cords are polluted with years worth of tobacco smoke, oblivious to the civil crises enfolding us.

When my vantage is no longer packed with people, the breath catches in my throat. Cavernous sounds like an unduly underestimation of the place. It's tremendous indeed, but with the roof so high I wonder if there was a third floor that has been annihilated one way or another. The walls have been painted black, except for the white of the lightning bolts banners that have been hang up on the walls at irregular intervals. Few feet away is an iron banister; made of short bars. Anyone can push someone over the banister, leading him to his unarguable death. I make my way slowly to look over at the base floor.  The first thing that hit me was the amount of people it's hosting. Intermingling muttering rises from the din like a language I fail to understand. I would have shrinked and huddled in a corner for all that noise was foreign to the usual tranquility of the Lane, but credits to the Square, I finally knew humans are capable of so many sounds. They are all shrouded in the same black gear and from their hands that climb into the air occasionally as speaking gestures, I register the same ink on their wrists. They all seem to be the same; dressed and marked.

Like automatons.

I shudder at the thought.

  The occupants fill the space as numerous clusters of people like ice bergs in an ocean. Other than that, the floor seems to be empty only for the labeled doors lining the walls.

A tremendous chandelier extends from the ceiling to the second floor, drooping tiny crystals like leaves hanging over tree branches.  It gives light to the entire place where the sun failed to penetrate through.

The second floor bears doors with plaques on either side as well, with a hollow middle.

I have forgotten Assem completely till he stepped next to me over the rails. His huge self looming next to me. Lavenders have somehow made Assem the yearly topic of their gossip when he was 15 and have grown into the man he now is. They pondered how someone who isn't invested in labor, managed to have such a unique and muscular build. When he caught me looking, I turned away immediately, feeling my cheeks getting warm at once.

Sarah clears her throat, and we turn to find her smiling at us. Her eyes dancing with particular flare that seems to promise more wonders are yet to prevail. She appears to be waiting for Assem (though he has seen it already when we arrived) and I take in the magnitude of the building with inordinate fascination. I bet my eyeballs have escaped their sockets.

She motions for us and starts down the corridor. I tramp behind her, squeezing through the gush of people going the opposite way. They shove my shoulder aside without offering an apology or halting to check what happened of the impact. Assem only grasps my arm just under my elbow to shield me, but after the wound in my shoulder has begun to excruciatingly ache. If this had happened back in the Gardens, a disastrous outcry would have broke out for this is terribly impolite. However, they merely proceed without even a glance at my blood-soaked cloth, or bloody hair, as if they are used to this. I feel bitterly small, in a world filled with what seem to be an utterly new race.