Disclaimer: Hypothetically not mine.

A/N: Written for Challenge #026 'name' on ygodrabble. As a piece of trivia, all three of the names at the end mean some variant of 'freedom' (in Sanskrit, Hebrew and Albanian respectively).


Life, Rebooted

© Scribbler, January 2011


They moved on whenever they had to. That was the easy part. There was a network of help when you knew where to find it – or who to ask. Father thought his word was absolute, but his children weren't the only ones ever to flee the tunnels. There was always someone ready to offer sanctuary for those with the courage to escape that damn legacy.

"We're the same," said one man, whose wife was white and from a distant country. Father would have hated her. She served them food from her pantry, gave up her bed and pressed money into their hands when they left. Her husband held her close, long sleeves covering the scar tissue around his arm where he had been branded a servant of the Tombkeeper family. "We have to support each other, in this and in all things."

The whole thing was an adventure at first. Fresh air! Open space! Other people! Buses were a novelty. Peering down at traffic brought more delights: motorbikes, bicycles, scooters, pony-and-carts, big cars, little cars, three-wheelers and those with wheels bigger than the car itself. They travelled across the land, through cities, towns, villages and open countryside. Sometimes they rode. Sometimes they walked. Sometimes they hitchhiked.

"It isn't safe," was the baritone murmur whenever they had to resort to this last option – especially if unsuccessful attempts meant camping on the side of the road. Tiredness came heavily on those days. Walking in the hot sun was hard, and eating only biscuits and preserves was horrible, but they couldn't carry much. They had to travel light so they could run fast if necessary.

"At least we can't be easily tracked," was the feminine reply. "Father will have a tough time following this route."

"You really think he's just going to give up?"

There was always a pause, even though the answer was always the same. "No. But he won't succeed, either. We're nearly there, Rishid. If we can just hold on a while longer, we'll make it."

"Keep the faith?" The scorn in these three words was almost palpable.

"What's wrong with faith?"

"It turned Father into a monster."

"You're oversimplifying things. Father was never the same after Mother died. His faith was all that kept him going. He just… lost sight of what he should have had faith in."

"Now who's oversimplifying?"

"You needn't sound so bitter. Malik isn't marked. A change of hair and clothes, a new location, and we can start again. He can live his life the way he always should have."

"A life of hiding. That doesn't sound so different to me."

"Stop. It's just us now. We need to stick together."

They finally reached the edge of their world – the outer edge, since the inner had been a trapdoor in sand seen from below. If roads were a treat, the airport was paradise.

"Now remember, your name is Mukti. You've been very ill so you can't stand straight or talk properly." Soft hands cut her little brother's hair so short his scalp felt cold. "I'm Liridona, and Rishid is –"

"Avidror. I remember. But why do we need new names?"

"We're starting a new life. We want to leave behind everything from our old lives."

"We do?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's just us now." She paused to hug him from behind and press a kiss on top of his newly-naked head. "We'll look after you, Malik."

"Mukti."

She squeezed tighter. Avidror watched the doorway of the public restroom they had chosen for their transformation. His sister's hair was also shortened. She looked like a boy, but the eyes that shone in the bathroom mirror were the same ones that had watched over them all her life.

"Right."


Fin.


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