- ELENA'S POV -
I am furious; I am furious at myself, at him, at our government, at this situation we have found ourselves in. At the entire world, actually. At this irretrievably broken world we are forced to live in, forced to repopulate, forced to improve and revitalize under someone else's rules and conditions.
In moments of doubt, and in the world before those would multiply quickly, my mother would say to me that the sky is the limit. These days I'm learning that the bar is set much closer to the ground than the sky.
Darkness wraps its cold, hard hands around me, making my skin crawl; its grip is a guilty reminder of how much I enjoy seeing the world in color when I should be seeing it in black and white and, occasionally, shades of grey. Life here is made of discarded remains patched together into a cloth. Life here is also made of choices - people who choose to work outside have sun-kissed skin, those who choose to work inside have a fairer complexion. They choose their clothes and uneven, wooden bowls and tents they sleep in - and every one of their choices is unique, because every person is unique. They have less, but they have more, because they can smile and cry and argue without the device attached to their body dictating when and how and in which quantity is it okay for them to express their feelings. They are only controlled by their own actions. Everyone in Urbs is pale; people look like ghosts moving between cardboard buildings. They dress to blend in and live according to the system made to defy the very core of human nature. They can express and feel a limited range and variety of emotions like they're something you can turn on and off as you please. In Urbs, there is no room for honesty, freedom, coincidence or exception, only for what's been predetermined right or wrong.
I'm also learning that my faith in the system isn't based on belief, but on commodity. They won me over with safety and comfort instead of truth and conviction, and a part of me is still okay with that.
People are still gathered around the bonfire; they're singing, dancing and laughing it up, overall having a good time. I am not really in the mood to be surrounded by people, nor would I like anyone to see me worked up like this, so I stroll away in the opposite direction.
The taste of him still lingers inside of my mouth, tickling my taste buds like a craving left unfulfilled. Nothing I have ever done and regretted immediately has ever tasted sweeter. His palms are imprinted on my skin and despite the chilly air, I can still feel the burning sensation of his touch. He has made me feel so...
...wanted. When he started kissing me, I felt essential for his survival. His hands were hungry for my body, in a dire need to explore every inch of my skin; I never knew a touch could feel that way. I knew he wanted me, because he chose me - despite common sense, he chose me.
And none of my prior experiences with men were about having a choice. They were about us being deserving of one another because of how high or low we were on a scale of success. We would never choose each other, we would be assigned to one another.
When he told me he knows who I am, I was never more ashamed of myself, like I have disappointed him somehow. I was also relieved, because him already knowing saves us one uncomfortable future revelation.
I shake my head in a desperate attempt to get rid of those thoughts. I am on a mission here and no matter which direction the mission takes, it is not one of self-discovery.
When I remind myself of my mission, I also remember his testimony - he has found the message I have intended for our government officials. Did he leave the message after reading it, or did he take it with him? I am sure they have received my signal as soon as I have transmitted it, so if they came to the location and found nothing, they would know something is wrong. The only scenario worse than this one would be him leaving a message of his own, exposing me completely - what if they really never allow me to come back home? What if, no matter the outcome, this mission works only one-way?
I shiver at the speculation and quicken my pace, now half-running in panic.
My own message was only half true; why did I lie? Probably because I am not really sure who's telling the truth and who I can trust anymore. I am not even sure I can trust myself. Dammit, Stefan has gotten in my head as well as under my skin.
When I reach the location, I hurry towards the shrub behind which I have buried my message. The small pile is still there, as well as the transmitter. I swallow and start digging, the feeling of uncertainty weighing over me heavily, various future scenarios racing through my mind. I continue digging until I sense soft, moist paper underneath my fingers. I pull it from the ground very carefully so it doesn't tear and, after cleaning it from the soil, I unwrap it.
I finally manage to exhale when I see it is from them. The content of their message is quite strange, but at least they don't know that the mission has been compromised. I press the tiny flag on the top of the pole between my fingers and watch as the red light starts blinking before it turns off completely.
I pull the transmitter out of the ground and start walking back towards the direction of the camp. When I arrive, I will have to hide both the transmitter and the message somewhere - probably in my top - until I reach my tent.
I need sleep. Tomorrow, I will decide how to proceed.
I became aware of my body, thanks to other people, sooner than I should have. I was tall and thin and, even in the face of the conditions I was living in, I have managed to develop some semblance of curves. Suddenly, wearing shorts and tops became a dangerous game instead of a normal response to constant uncomfortable heath we were experiencing. I became aware of the way both boys and men looked at me as I walked down the street, making obscene observations about my body, about my ass and legs and breasts, and even neck when I would pick up my long bushy hair into a ponytail or a bun so it doesn't stick to my skin. Running and jumping and playing on the street wasn't an option anymore, not after my body became a tasteless story narrated by men. Over time, leaving my house turned into a hesitant decision making process and my family seemed pleased by that, aware that my body has become a weapon.
Back then, I was jealous of Caroline for many reasons, however, her breezy dresses were my primary source of apprehension. Not because she had better clothes than me, but because her dresses had the ability to hide the majority of her body without making her sweat like a pig.
When Urbs was established, when they decided to hide our bodies underneath unattractive, bland suits, I welcomed their decision with arms wide open. After I was promoted to my current position, I received access to the gym, so I started working out. I am still the same old me - tall, thin and curvy, with uncontrollable hair during humidity, but more toned. I am aware of the muscles throbbing underneath my skin, I am aware of my power and my fortitude, I am aware of my body and today I realize I have nothing to be ashamed of. My body is a weapon - mine, not theirs, and they will never use it against me again.
Still, being surrounded by all these men who are studying my body like they are searching for instructions on how to handle me brings me back to the time when all I wanted to do is cover myself up from head to toe to shade myself from the threatening male gaze.
I keep my eyes on the ground the entire time, however, I can still see him glancing at every single guy who serves me a wrong look. He is either jealous and protective over me or disgusted and ashamed of their behavior and, if I had a choice, I honestly have no idea which option would I rather choose.
After the meeting is over, I approach him and hand him the message I have retrieved from the ground yesterday, giving him a moment to read it; he seems as confused by it as I was.
"You changed my message, didn't you?" I ask. I am not accusing him of anything, I would simply like to be aware of what's going on.
He frowns, still observing the paper in his hand. "Not entirely, only any mention of the camp. Instead I wrote that you haven't found any traces of life and that you are planning to move in the opposite direction of where we are."
I take a step forward, moving closer to him so I can check their message one more time. "To which they respond 'turn around, there is nothing to be found there'?" I make my sentence sound like a question when, in reality, I am only thinking out loud. Okay, their response makes more sense now. "But how do they know that there is nothing there?"
He closes his fingers around the piece of paper, thin material crumpling in his hand. "They know everything," he says calmly, matter-of-factly, but I can sense traces of nervousness in his voice.
"This," I point at his hand, referring to the message, "Makes no sense. If they know, then my mission was all for nothing!"
I pointed out that we had no record of him. I speculated there may be more people like him. And I had placed the idea of him living outside the city walls on the table. That is why I am here, after all, because I came up with that theory!
"Maybe," he shrugs, trying to keep his cool. "Or maybe they simply haven't told you the truth behind why you are really here."
I give him a sharp look. My first instinct is to defend them; it comes naturally to me, the urge to defy him. However, after giving it another thought, I realize that something like that isn't off the table anymore. Every scenario I was programmed to deny is probably only one step closer to the truth.
He looks up at me, intensely, like he is challenging me to a staring contest. "Why did you show me this?" he relaxes his fingers and opens his hand, presenting me with a ruined piece of paper on his palm. "You don't even believe in the Uprising."
"I don't," I say firmly. To be fair, a major reason why I don't support their cause is because he doesn't have a plan. I am an analytical, logical person - my employers have invested a lot of time and energy, and probably money, into convincing me that facts matter more than loyalty. If the facts were on his side, who's to say I wouldn't betray the system?
"The system may be flawed, but at least it is organised. It has a goal, a future."
"You are still defending them?" he asks, disgusted by the thought.
"What do you have? A bunch of frustrated men whose only goal is to burn everything to the ground," I rather continue my rant than answer his question. The truth is, I don't think I will ever be able to give him the answer that he wants to hear. "And then what? What are you going to do once you save all those people from the system you find so horrible? Move them here? Make them live in tents? To live like animals merely to survive? Is that the life worth living? How is your world better than the world before?"
Neither of us have moved an inch, so I am still standing close to him; I can hear his heartbeat, he is worked up again, yet he is trying super hard not to show how much my words bother him. He knows my words to be true; hell, he has probably spent countless sleepless nights trying to find a reasonable answer to these same questions.
The sun is especially dazzling today, its beams piercing through the delicate fabric of the sheets spread above us.
Yet, he will never admit that loudly, at least not to me.
"At least they would be free," he says, clenching his teeth as a way of controlling his own feelings of anger and despair.
"Your freedom comes at a price," I respond.
He straightens himself up - I honestly wasn't even aware that he was slumping until now - towering over me, reminding me that he is at least two heads taller than me. I am not afraid of him; I know he would never harm me, but his presence is hard to ignore.
He gives me a hard look, staring directly into my eyes, frustrated and angry. Then, after several seconds, his look softens and he exhales. "What do you want from me, Elena?" he groans, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger.
"To be a leader," among other things.
"I am not one, though," he releases a desperate laugh. "I never wanted to be one. I never wanted any of this. All I wanted was to escape from - " he stops mid-sentence, leaving an unfinished secret hanging between us. He has almost revealed something about himself he doesn't want anyone to know, not even me. Maybe especially me. He pushes his face into his open palms, rubbing it vicariously up and down, groaning softly into his torrid skin. When he removes his hands away from his face, he reveals his red skin and watery eyes. "What do you care, anyway?"
I look up at him; his hair has become one with the sun beam lingering above him, making it seem like there is a halo above his head.
"Simply because I am not taking your side doesn't mean I am taking theirs. Those can't be my only two choices. This," I stretch my hand, pointing towards the camp, "or whatever is happening back there."
He doesn't say a word. Instead, he breaks our eye contact and steps back, moving away from me. When he leaves, I realize our bodies were creating all this heath and energy between us; when he leaves my proximity, a wave of chilly air washes over me.
"Look, I never wanted any of this either. Nevertheless, this is what we have, so maybe life is about doing what you have to do instead of what you want to do."
This is the first time I have admitted to myself, and someone else, that this isn't the life I dreamed about back when I still believed dreams come true. If I had a choice, I would have never chosen this job or my flat or Damon.
He puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the sky, speechless. At this moment, I would give a penny for his thoughts.
Silence falls around us; it is not uncomfortable, however, I miss the sound of his voice and I would like for it to make itself known again.
"How did you know who I am?" I ask.
He smiles, still looking up at the sky. His jaw is tightly shaped, like someone carved it out of a rock, yet his smile is so delicate that it softens all of his features as well. "I didn't," he says, finally looking down and leveling his eyes with mine. "Well, kinda. I saw you back in the city, only once. I saw you talking to someone, and then you started walking in my direction. You looked straight at me, into my eyes, breaking one of your own rules. I honestly thought I was a dead man, until you walked past me and kept walking. I saw a red flag pinned onto your blazer, which is how I knew you were a spy, yet I didn't manage to catch your name; I learned it when you came here."
I... I remember that; I was on a mission and on my way back to the Complex, I stopped to see Caroline. And I did see him, I did look into his eyes, I did walk past him, convincing myself I am seeing things. I was sleep deprived and I was staring into his profile for too long.
"I did break the rules," I smile; I was an occasional rule breaker, working my way around the system. "How did you know I was a spy?" I push further, hoping I have gained enough of his trust to receive an answer to one simple question before I move to more complicated ones in the future.
He walks towards the tables and leans onto them, half-sitting on the edge of the wooden surface. "I have information," he shrugs. "I think I know more about your system than you would have hoped. However, I am still unclear about what a spy does, exactly," he inclines his head curiously to the side.
"Ah," I release an unidentified sound and come to stand next to him. The same old feeling of warmth between our bodies comes back and the wood prickles my skin when I lean against the table.
"Well, basically, every person has a number, assigned by the system. Well, um, the numbers are connected to the devices which allows us to monitor their behavior and search for irregularities."
His expression is blank. "And you are here why?"
"To learn more about you and your plans," I shrug; I give him a simplified version of the truth.
"Why you?"
"You know, they think you and your Uprising are a real threat to the system and everything it represents. They know hiding you and your little stunts from the public won't be possible for long anymore. They are afraid of mass panic and hysteria, so they chose several top performing spies, gathered us in a room and handed us your file so we can come up with a solution how to stop you. I know everything about you. Well, I know everything they know about you. I think a copy of your file still sits on my kitchen table," I smile. "So, I came up with this. Infiltration mission."
He nods, deep in thought. "Am I all you expected me to be?"
I try to remember him the way I saw him in my head before I actually knew him. When it was only me and him and a glass of wine in my simple, lonely flat. "Not even close."
"Oh?" he tilts his head.
"I think I have underestimated you in some things and overestimated you in others. Also, I expected you to be more villainy. When, in reality, you are just a boy."
He looks at me, studying my expression before answering, "And you are just a girl."
I look back at him, stunned by the clarity of his words. "Yeah, I am."
He furrows his brows. "So, where do we go from here?"
I exhale. "Look, I am a factual person, and some of the facts simply don't add up here. For now, all I want is the truth."
He stays quiet for a while, clearly pondering on my statement.
"Yeah, I think I could use some truth too," he agrees. "I don't think others will go for it, though. They want action."
I shrug. "Then we don't tell them. We can work on this alone, until we have something concrete to share."
He nods. "Sounds like a plan."