shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

oo3.2

vance

HE WON'T STRIKE me.

He wouldn't dare, not in front of the council. Satisfied with my little outburst, I lean back into my seat and coolly regard the Council of the Seven. My inner gloat is short-lived, however, as we receive a distress signal from the wall.

"Help us. Help us, or it's going to kill us-" I straighten in my seat, my muscles tense. I know that voice. Segway. The line breaks, the connection shivers, cracks- and falls silent. It comes up again, louder, this time- scuffling in the snow, panicked breathing- I can smell the fear in the sound. All of us can. "It's out. Help. Help." The line cuts.

We must take immediate action, Malcolm announces, we must go, we must dispatch troops.

I run a hand over my face and stand up. Adamík sends a strange look my way, but I turn from him and follow the others out. I stay away from Jonathan, preferring to fall into line at the back, next to Zhuan. My briefcase hangs heavy from my arm. Vaguely, I can hear Malcolm talking with furious urgency into a chip embedded into the skin beneath her wrist. It is the mark our superiors carry- direct communication lines. It's the privilege of knowing everything, everywhere, all at once.

Zhuan directs me back to reality. "Well spoken, back there," he says, his voice its usual discreet murmur.

It takes me some time to respond. For a moment, I look ahead with eyes narrowed in confusion- Zhuan always sits on the fence until the last minute, and this is, for starters, the first time he's directly agreed with me, and, secondly, the first time he's perhaps taken a side so early on in the discussions. I wonder wether he mocks me. But for some reason, I always seem to think his undecided attitude in meetings means he's got some sort of ulterior motive to it. I give him a polite nod and an equally polite smile. "Thank you," I answer.

Jonathan is too far ahead to hear us.

The hurried walk from the council room feels longer than it should. Officer down. I think of Segway's words, think of everyone who has already died because of the snow.

And yet... this sounds like murder. Cold, hard, direct murder.

I tug my gloves on as I walk beside Adamík across the helicopter pad. Neither of us say a word, but we're both probably thinking the exact same thing.

Fingers shaking a little with the cold which seeps unforgivingly through my leather gloves, I fumble with my seatbelt. By the time I've clasped it in tightly, all the others are pretending not to notice my difficulties with the seatbelt. I stare outside, wanting to forget about all of them for the time being. Adamík Beneš sits beside me, and I am glad for it. Jonathan has engaged himself into some chatter with Malcolm- and my jaw tightens upon seeing them.

Looking down, I retrieve my headset from where it lies neatly in its little compartment beside my seat, and I put it on. The engine of the machine thrums to life, the doors close. I can see the shadows the whirring blades cast upon the snow as they slice through the air, picking up speed.

Minutes later, we descend. The altitude that usually makes me feel ill does not get to me- at the moment, I am far too worried about the men down there- and the threat they are facing.

All of us get out of the helicopters: backed up by the military, we begin to advance, two generals in front, weapons resting on their shoulders, fingers ready to fire. I see a figure on its knees in front of another, but I know it's not Segway. It must be Parrish, then- and what looks like a girl, but it's difficult to make out much.

The echo of a gunshot ripples over the icy wasteland.

The figure tosses something down and runs- and so do I, towards the dark red road upon which I have stepped twice and have never wanted to step upon again. But I must. There are always people to whom I cling to. There are always people who will make me a fool.

"Oh my god." Oh my god, I think, as I pull Parrish into my lap, my fingers pressing against his wounds, but there's one in his head that will never heal.

Segway is alive, but I ignore him. I ignore them all. Oh my god.

Parrish was a good man. He was brave and kind and strong- and yet now, he is dead.

▿

I wring my hands beneath the flowing water again. It is cold, just like everything else, it is cold- and wet and uncomfortable, just like everything around me. With a heavy sigh I turn off the tap and dry my hands on a paper towel. I am about to leave when a hand clamps around my wrist- and pulls me away from the door. Jonathan.

"What were you thinking?" He snaps, as I yank my arm from his grip. "Opposing me like that- you fool!" His eyes flicker up my body with an air of disgust, as if it's my physicality that disappoints him.

"I did what was right," I answer stonily. "I thought-"

"I don't care what you thought! I raised you to be a politician, I raised you-"

"As a shepherd raises a sheep, yes," I snap, interrupting him in return. He looks scandalised, insulted. "You taught me to follow your opinions, you taught me to submit and obey the dog."

"I got you into this position," he seethes. "You should be grateful, you miserable little-" he loses it—and hits me with a force that stings even more now that I've forgotten it. A smack— the back of his hand, to my cheek— automatically, my hands want to go to my face, prod the pain from my cheek, automatically, I feel the urge to then curl up into a corner and cry like I used to. But I don't.

I am not his sheep any more than I am a little boy.

"No. I got me into this position. You do not dictate me."

"I am your father."

It's a poor line of defence, and I respond bitterly. "I don't know what you're talking about." There. A flicker of— hurt?— in his eyes. It surprises me, and for a moment I try to persuade myself to reconsider what I've just said, but then I remember what he's done, and with a snarl I tear my arm from his grip. "Stay away from me," I snap.

Doing up the silver cuffs of my vest sleeve, I turn around and leave him standing there, with his shoulders slumping forwards in slight and angry defeat.

I won't apologise. The thought crosses my mind several times, but I coat my heart with ice and leave it at that, because what he's done to me is far, far worse than a slap.