The Fence

Chapter 5: Show Me

We only have one picture of my mother.

Whenever I pass that photo, perched on the kitchen counter like a queen, I pause to take in her face. Her glistening hazel eyes, her prominent dimple, her blazing, sleek hair, her dazzling smile. She's in the middle of Ky and me when we were probably around 2 years old. Ky's resting his little face on her thigh, smiling shyly, whereas I'm beaming behind gapped teeth and crazy curls. We're situated in front of the Central Building, where Mom is proudly showing off her resistance uniform. Her name is embroidered on the front of her polyester shirt, exactly tailored to her body, while matching leggings hug her legs perfectly. Black army boots adorn her feet like an ornament of honor.

I drag my fingers across the spot where her name is in the picture as if I can reach out and grasp it.

Kahlia Marcus.

She looks so carefree in this moment, her brilliant smile so genuine, her soft expression so content. I remember her like this when fabricating the missed years without her. I remember her love, her happiness. I remember her uniform with excruciating detail. I remember the shimmering, silver badge pinned to her shirt, telling all of Gambos not to mess with her.

Now, my own uniform fits like a glove.

Despite my infatuation with joining the resistance, Dad never talked about Mom's experience working there. All I know is what she wore when she worked, never what she did. The rest was filled in by my imagination. I think she was top of her class. She could knock someone out with just a look. She'd fought tons of yukos and had killed them all, until the one she—

Well.

I never let my imagination get that far.

"Kirbena!" Ky calls, slapping the kitchen counter. I jolt out of my mind, instantly pulled back to the present. I realize I'm clutching the ruby necklace around my neck.

"What is it?"

"What did they print on your shirt?"

"Huh?"

"Look," Ky says, turning around so I can see the back of his uniform. Towards the top, just below the neckline, a shield is printed into the navy fabric. He's wearing matching navy cargo pants suited for the work we'll be doing in the resistance.

"Woah," I hum, bringing my fingers up to run them over the embroidered shield. "What did I get?"

Ky swivels me around and lifts up my hair to see my own symbol. "That's weird."

I spin around to stare at him with wide eyes. "What's weird?"

"It's a scythe." Ky pauses to reach behind him, pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper. "That's an option on here."

I take the weapon selection sheet from my brother, eyes sweeping over the other options until I finally locate the scythe. Ky peers over my shoulder.

"They might be trying to tell us to choose the weapons they print on our shirts."

I raise an eyebrow incredulously. "A shield isn't exactly a weapon, Ky."

Ky shrugs. "I don't know then." He points at the bow and arrow on the page. "These are old-fashioned, don't you think? I mean, have you ever heard any of the stories they tell about resistance weapons? It's all physics. They have so much potential, and all you have to do is line up the t—"

"Ky," I chuckle. "You're nerding out on me."

"Oh," he flushes. "Sorry."

"Anyway," I say. "I would get looking. They're probably not as old-fashioned as you think."