Wasp Nest, a matched fanfic

Wasp Nest

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Matched Trilogy

I should know better than to carry fragile things. An abandoned wasp nest isn't something you need when you're on the run. It's useless. It takes up space in my pack. It could have been crushed far too easily while I was climbing down canyons, crawling through tunnels or taking the boat down that poisoned river. But I kept it anyway, and wouldn't you know it – it's still intact.

I'm not even sure why I picked it up. Maybe because, like I told Cassia when she saw me, it reminded me of a seashell: a little gray sphere, so neat and compact, so organized considering it was made by mindless insects. Back home in Sonoma, I used to walk along the beach and collect shells, feeling their texture – rough outside, smooth inside. Putting them up to my ear to hear that rushing sound. It didn't sound like the sea, of course, because there was no rhythm of breaking waves, but I liked it. It's strange, considering that when I lived there, the everyday routine of that little fishing village used to drive me crazy. All I ever wanted was to escape. Now I've escaped, I miss hearing the sea.

Maybe I took it because I needed to remember how it feels to carry something that can break, something vulnerable. I haven't allowed myself to be vulnerable in a long time. Not since the labor camp in Tana. Probably not since they stopped me in my boat. I became fast and fierce, like a wasp, defending myself with stinging words. But when I met Cassia and took her offered chance for escape, I knew I'd have to learn to protect her. She was too soft for the labor camps, Citizenship written all over her, washing her hands again and again as if the dirt might stain her forever. For all her knowledge about the Pilot, her speed and endurance in the Carving, she still wasn't the survivor I am. I ended up carrying her pack, helping her climb and steering her down the river with the same care I took with the wasp nest. And even though she didn't know half as much as I thought she would, she still brought me where I needed to be. She'll make a great addition to the Rising. I even like her sometimes – for fighting off the blue pill's poison, for calling Ky out when he burned that map, even for the naïveté which kept her sweet and hopeful long after all the rest of us had lost it. I don't regret protecting her.

I envy her sometimes, but that's different. That's just the weakest part of me talking, the small and fragile part that still daydreams about things that will never come true. I don't want the Society's life, I really don't. I don't want my dreams scanned, a port in my house recording every move I make, my work assignment, husband and even meals all chosen for me. It's just not easy to remember that sometimes when you're living on cacti and berries in the Carving, or watching the burial of a five-year-old girl.

At times like that, I can almost imagine taking the place Cassia left behind: a house with a garden, all the food and medicine I need, a blue silk gown, a Match like Xander Carrow of my very own. It's a life of safety, and it looks pretty damn good to someone who's never had it. That's when I need to remember the decoy villagers, the Anomalies, the farmers, and that all those safe, complacent Citizens' lives are at the expense of their deaths, and that's too high a price for anyone to pay. That's why we joined the Rising, Cassia and I. Why we have to fight. Because if we don't try to right these wrongs, who will?

I gave Cassia back the microcard and the miniport. She didn't tell me why she threw them in the river, but knowing her, it was probably symbolic: either she's rejecting Xander for good, or making sure I can never look at him again. I'm not sure whether to slap her or thank her. Maybe it's a good thing that particular golden-haired distraction is out of my life. Still, she's got no right to be posessive of Xander when she already has Ky. Not that I don't understand it though; if I had a Match like Xander – beautiful, charismatic, cunning enough to hack into his microcard and add that line about having a secret – I'd be posessive too. Is he really in the Rising? That was my guess, but I may never know.

I used to keep his microcard inside the wasp nest, as if the hard plastic needed protecting instead of the thin, papery walls. Giving it back to its owner was the right thing to do, but I miss it now. Even though we've never met and probably never will, his smile in the photograph gave me hope. Even though I really should know better, I wish I could have seen it one more time.