Gene cued up the footage once more, the tenth time in as many minutes. A morbid fascination, or perhaps a desperate, irrational hope, compelled her to replay the scene. Each time her finger hit the play button, a tiny, defiant part of her clung to the impossible belief that the digital tapestry might somehow unravel and reweave itself into a different reality. In this revised narrative, Maisie wouldn't have possessed that misguided courage, that fatal impulse to shield Igor from the onrushing line of White Angels. Jack wouldn't have stood at the podium, microphone buzzing with angry static, his voice amplified into the pronouncements of a self-righteous zealot, spewing condemnation and inciting the already volatile crowd. The carefully orchestrated chaos, designed to teeter on the edge of control, wouldn't have shattered so completely. But it always did. Inevitably, sickeningly, the scene unfolded as it always had, culminating in that horrifying, irretrievable moment: the glint of the syringe, the bare expanse of Maisie's neck, the point of no return.
The cheap desktop speakers vibrated against the particleboard desk, struggling to contain the sound of a world teetering on the precipice. On the flickering monitor, a low-resolution window opened onto the fractured reality. Through layers of static and digital artifacts, the primal roar of a crowd surged, a resonant wave of anger and palpable anticipation that throbbed in her chest. Then, Jack's voice, amplified and distorted into something almost monstrous, sliced through the digital noise. It was a theatrical performance, laced with manic energy that sent a shiver down her spine. "Are you tired?" he bellowed, the words echoing with a manufactured rage, "tired of the upper crust bleeding you dry, humans?! Draining your labor, hoarding their resources, while you starve in the crumbling cities?! Are you ready to take back what is rightfully yours?!"
Gene leaned back into the worn embrace of her office chair, the cool, synthetic fabric a stark contrast against the sudden heat rising in her chest. Weeks had crawled by since the rally, each day stretching into what felt like a month. Weeks since Maisie had collapsed onto the unforgiving grass, a vibrant, defiant spirit reduced to a crumpled, discarded doll. Weeks since Igor, his eyes wide and terrified, had been hauled away by four hulking Angels, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, his body numbed by some unknown drug, a prelude to their real work. The image of him lingered, a ghost in her memory, juxtaposed against the hollow shell she had glimpsed recently at the Lennox mansion. The Igor she saw there, rigid, expression closed, every movement reluctant, a painful contrast to the man she'd once glimpsed beneath the rally lights. Not passionate, but alert. Not hopeful, but wary. Even then, he'd known something was wrong. And now, whatever light had been left in him had been snuffed out entirely, replaced by something colder and quieter that chilled Gene to the bone.
She'd witnessed him in the captured estate's hall, a space jarringly ornamented yet sterile. He stood there, an unsettling figure, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a disconcerting stillness. His movements, once fluid and unpredictable, were now unnervingly precise, almost mechanical, a transformation that twisted her stomach into a knot of cold dread. Back in the house, Maisie, supposedly recuperating, remained oblivious to the peril still clinging to them, unaware of the profound alteration Igor had undergone. Gene, however, knew the truth. Jack, with chilling detachment, had revealed the capabilities of this new Igor, the lengths they'd gone to in forging him into a weapon. She hadn't pressed for specifics beyond his grim overview, recoiling from the details of the violation. The mechanics of their programming, the insidious process of erasure—these were horrors she instinctively avoided, fearing the darkness they would reveal.
Maisie was undeserving of this fate, a harsh reality that felt profoundly unfair. None of them deserved the predicament they found themselves in, trapped in a situation spiraling beyond their control. Igor, perhaps hardened by experience, might have resigned himself to the inevitable, but even he didn't deserve this particular brand of suffering. The others, each with their hopes and dreams, were equally innocent victims caught in the crossfire. Maisie, with her inherent kindness and unwavering optimism, was perhaps the least deserving of all. Her vibrant spirit, so full of promise, should have been nurtured and protected, not subjected to this cruel twist of fate. The injustice of it all felt like a physical weight, crushing the air from their lungs and leaving them gasping for hope.
Gene hit the pause button, freezing the grainy footage on the screen. Maisie was caught in a moment of suspended animation, a miniature statue sculpted by impending doom. It was a tableau of doomed heroism; her body twisted mid-turn, arms rising instinctively as a fragile barrier against the advancing White Angels, desperate to keep them from reaching Igor. Even through the static and blur of the aged video, her eyes held a startling clarity. They were wide with a primal fear, reflecting the terror of the moment, the overwhelming odds stacked against her. But something else flickered there, beneath the fear. A defiant spark, an ember of unwavering resolve that refused to be extinguished. Scared, undeniably, profoundly scared, but undeniably brave too. A bravery born not of recklessness, but of an instinct to protect, a willingness to sacrifice everything for the person behind her. In that single, captured frame, Maisie was the embodiment of courage in the face of annihilation.
Okay, here's the corrected paragraph, removing the reference to hot dogs since there wasn't food:
Maisie leaned closer, her voice barely audible against the noise. "I didn't know it was like this," she murmured, her words a blend of astonishment and nervousness.
Gene closed her eyes, the reverberation of the sound echoing in her mind with an intensity that eclipsed even the visual memory. It wasn't just a sound; it was a visceral experience, etched into her consciousness from hearing it live. She could still almost smell the stale air of the HQ's back room, a forgotten storage space usually off-limits to prying eyes. The room was a chaotic landscape of defunct equipment, blinking uselessly, and forbidden data drives humming with secrets they weren't meant to share. It was a place where interns like her weren't strictly meant to be lingering, let alone eavesdropping on high-level transmissions. But there she had been, a fly on the wall, as Maisie's voice, carried on a crackly feed, had pierced the static. The crack in Maisie's voice held a weight she hadn't heard in years, a raw, exposed vulnerability that stripped away the polished exterior Maisie now presented to the world. It was a sound that transported Gene back to their shared history, back to school, back to the late nights crammed into their tiny dorm room. They'd shared beds on sleepless nights, whispered secrets and impossibly stupid, hopeful dreams into pillows until dawn, their voices hushed against the hum of the city outside. This sound, though, was different, a stark departure from the youthful optimism they once shared, and it left Gene wondering what events had conspired to bring it forth.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
She had clung so desperately to the belief that their actions were rooted in something righteous, something noble. The White Angels, with their fervent pronouncements, had painted a vivid picture of liberation: a just and equitable redistribution of wealth, the eradication of inequality, the end of slavery, and long-awaited retribution for generations of systemic oppression. And perhaps, back in the fevered, idealistic beginnings, before the lines between justice and cruelty blurred, before the methods devolved into ruthless barbarity, there had been a kernel of truth to their utopian promise. A flicker of genuine hope. But now, standing amidst the wreckage of their so-called revolution, witnessing the devastating consequences inflicted upon Maisie, upon Igor, and upon countless others who were meant to be rescued and redeemed, the brutal reality crashed down upon her with crushing force. The sheer, undeniable weight of their hypocrisy and violence pressed hard behind her ribs, stealing her breath and threatening to suffocate the last vestiges of her naive faith. The promised liberation had become a suffocating cage, and the angels had revealed themselves to be demons in disguise.
Gene pressed play once more, a knot tightening in his stomach despite having witnessed the scene countless times before. The grainy pixels flickered to life, painting a grim tableau on the screen. The silence of the room, heavy and oppressive, was shattered by the booming resonance of Jack's amplified voice, each syllable a hammer blow preceding the inevitable tragedy. Then, the agonizing sight unfolded: Maisie, her limbs suddenly betraying her, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, the insidious drug claiming its victim. The image burned itself into Gene's memory, a constant, unwelcome reminder of the events he so desperately wanted to forget, yet felt compelled to relive.
The guilt tasted acrid and bitter on her tongue.
Despite outward appearances, she remained an integral part of their operation, a fact she clung to with a mixture of trepidation and grim satisfaction. She continued the elaborate charade, playing the role of a loyal, almost insignificant cog in the vast and complex machine they had built. To the casual observer, she was just another face in the crowd, another drone dutifully performing her assigned tasks. But the truth, carefully concealed beneath layers of practiced obedience, was far more intricate. She was, in reality, a silent observer, a meticulous documentarian, and a subtle facilitator, wielding influence in ways that were perhaps small on the surface but, in their cumulative effect, wielded a surprising power. She gathered information, meticulously recording details that might seem trivial now but could prove invaluable later. She smoothed over rough edges, offering solutions and creating pathways within the system, all while maintaining the illusion of devoted servitude.
Each time she forced herself to confront that horrific footage, a subtle but undeniable fracture occurred within her. The carefully constructed facade of indifference, meticulously built and fiercely maintained, suffered another hairline crack. It was a slow, insidious erosion, like water relentlessly dripping on stone, gradually wearing away the barrier she had erected to protect herself. Beneath that mask of apathy lay a raw, aching nerve, exposed and vulnerable. With every viewing, she felt the facade thinning, the nerve drawing closer to the surface. She feared a tipping point, a moment when the protective shell would completely disintegrate, leaving her utterly exposed. Soon, she worried, this carefully cultivated armor would crumble entirely, leaving behind nothing but jagged fragments of the person she once was, scattered remnants of a self she could no longer recognize.
The footage wasn't just showing her horrors; it was dismantling her, piece by agonizing piece.
The weight of the decision settled on Gene's chest like a cold, heavy stone. The window of opportunity was closing fast; she had to choose, and soon. This fragile illusion of safety, this desperate pretense that everything was normal for Maisie's sake, was cracking under the strain. Pretending wouldn't protect Maisie forever, not in this crumbling reality where threats lurked in every shadow.
Maintaining the facade was becoming impossible. Jack's questions, though seemingly innocent, were chipping away at her carefully constructed lies. He probed about their past, their unusual resources, and the haunted look in Maisie's eyes. His curiosity, though not malicious, was a fuse burning steadily toward the truth she desperately concealed.
Igor was a constant, unnerving presence, less a walker of halls than a haunter of them. Gaunt and spectral, his eyes seemed to pierce through you rather than focus on you. He shuffled along like a specter tethered to a place he only half-recognized, a chilling reminder of lives broken within those walls—a ghost merely grasping at who he once was. His very presence offered a terrifying glimpse into a potential future Gene desperately hoped to avert for Maisie, a stark symptom of the decay spreading around them.
The choice before her was neither simple nor clean, but a brutal calculation of risks, a decision between two terrifying unknowns. Yet, inaction was no longer an option. Any further delay, any waiting for an undeniable catastrophe, would mean that the next White Angel strike might leave nothing of them to save. No person to heal, no memory to cherish—only an empty void where Gene and Maisie had once been. She had to act before they were simply erased.
