The car was lined with smart glass, which mirrored his mask back at him from every angle, each reflection rendered in harsher contrast by the surgical white light. It wasn’t the face of a man, but the emblem of a system—a system that had worked for five generations to keep the city from eating itself alive.
The glass registered his biometrics, and glided to a halt with a sigh. The elevator door swept open only for a second door to appear. He inserted his key into the lock, twisting then pushing the door open. For once the rooms beyond the door gave him what he needed—silence.
His apartment was the largest unit in the Serel Tower outside of the penthouse his parents resided in, that consumed the top three levels, but he felt like it was shrinking in on itself. Anyone would be lucky to have it, and he knew that. Those from the Boundary and even theCardinal would kill to spend just an hour in the luxury it provided, would commit unspeakable crimes just for the opportunity to shower there and bask in the amenities as if it were heaven. But for Greyson, it felt like a prison.
The execution haunted him, echoing in his ears like a phantom taunt. The feeble pop of the first shot, the desperate way she screamed for mercy, the way he’d hesitated, the way she’dbegged.
The punishment would come soon; his father’s wrath would be waiting to greet him.‘Mercy is weakness, Grey. Weakness is the end of all things.’The lesson returned, more than a whisper now, more than a scrape at the edges of his memory. He could almost taste the consequences, could feel them sharpening the air like broken glass.
He locked the door behind him, allowing himself a small gesture of exhaustion, a quiet rebellion against the rest of the world as he let out a heavy sigh, and rested the back of his head against the cool door. His hands slowly peeled the gloves from his fingers, setting them on the entry table beside him, before removing the mask from his face. He set it on its stand and stared at it.
The burden of privilege.
Five generations ago, they were no more than symbols, ritualistic garnishments only worn during Vow ceremonies. As time progressed, and New Found Haven became more stratified, they began to be used as tools for oppression and social control. Elaborate customs and laws were created around masking, making it illegal for lower rings to look upon any of the elite’s unveiled faces.
Now, even the elite were not allowed to see behind others’ masks. Outside of those you were vowed to through ceremony, looking upon the face of another elite was considered an extreme violation of New Found Haven law.
If one of the elite were found guilty of a crime, only then would they be unmasked on live stream before their execution.
Greyson pulled his eyes away from the mask and rolled his jaw, biting back the rage it ignited in him.As if you could oppress the citizens of this city any more than they already were. His father only cared about power, and being the seat of it. He didn’t care that the people under his watch, outside of the Heart, were dying every day from starvation.
President Serel told his son that this was an act of God—letting those not strong enough to survive, die. Though Greyson knew that his father wouldn’t last a single day in the Boundary.
He swept the gloves off the entryway table and made his way to the bedroom, unbuttoning his jacket as he moved. The uniform went on a hanger; the gloves tucked into a drawer with compulsive neatness. He went to the far end of the large walk-in closet where the polished wooden floor met the baseboard, and knelt. The floor panel lifted at his touch, revealing a deep compartment lined with insulation and anti-scan mesh.
He reached his hand in and pulled out a large duffel bag, setting it beside him as he placed the wooden panel back in its place and leaned against the wall. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the bag, pulling it toward himself as he unzipped it. The contents spilled onto the floor in front of him, and he began his inventory for the next scheduled drop.
Fifteen vials of antibiotics, five of narcotics, ten ampoules of enzyme suppressant for children, a thousand credits worth of meal stamps, and rolls of bandaging tape. He split the items equally, packing everything tight into five separate black padded pouches, checking the seals, then slipping them into the bottom compartment of his duffel bag.
He sat there on the floor in the dim light for a long while, his mind running through the plans.
He’d go to the maintenance levels while the Heart slept, and security was at its weakest, sneak into the garages, and strap the items to the bottom of the Veyra patrol vehicles. The vehicles were weighed uponentry and exit of each of the three rings, so they had to be light. Light enough that the guards at the checkpoints wouldn’t notice the loss of a few extra ounces between rings.
First, they’d stop at the industrial plants in the Cardinal ring, and make their rounds to ensure all chemicals were flowing downstream toward the Boundary. While rounds were being completed, the rebels in the Cardinal would retrieve the first two packages.
Next, they would go to the Boundary.
The Veyra did not leave their vehicles there, it was too dangerous even for the militia. The Daggermouths owned the Boundary, and they did not take kindly to the Veyra coming into their ring.
Greyson flinched at the thought, his hands balling into fists as his knuckles blanched. He hated the Daggermouths with every atom of his being. They were murderers, contract killers, who only answered to one man.
Jaeger Nolin.
They were the reason his brother was dead.
Daggermouths were ruthless mercenaries, hungry for blood, and Greyson saw Jaeger as no better than his father. He saw an opportunity to snatch power and he took it, without caring who it could hurt.
Greyson took a deep breath to steady himself, to quell the fury that was all too easily ignited these days, and refocused his thoughts.
The Boundary—the Veyra.
If they stepped out of their vehicles, there would be a bullet between their eyes faster than they could take their next breath. Their patrols were driven, but they were predictable, and predictability made them an easy target.
The Boundary rebels used the sewage system. They waited until the patrol vehicles stopped over water drains, and snuck up from the pipes to remove their packages. Every time it had worked without fail,and every time Greyson could not rest until the Veyra called in the completed patrols with no issues.
He recited the numbers in his head. Sixteen minutes between patrol cycles, enough for him to get into the maintenance levels if he was not stopped along the way. Five minutes to reach the patrol vehicles, two minutes to secure the packages, and get out before the next patrol came through. He rehearsed it the way other men might rehearse a prayer.
It should’ve felt heroic, but it didn’t. It felt like routine. It felt like the desperate act of a man who couldn’t reconcile the crimes he’d committed against the very people he was trying to help.
