Salvation

Kerosene.

When I was a child - skittish, agitated, lost - they'd told me kerosene would help relieve my worries. A liquid similar to petrol, yet slow to grasp at a flame and cheaper. Much cheaper. Wide-eyed, I'd watched it seep through jagged cracks in the mechanical monster before me. A flame was tossed at me, flickering midair before diminishing in my palm. Burn it, they whispered, avenge your loved ones.

I spent my time learning about the reality of our world. The Movement, it was a new regime; a superior way of living. They'd preached at us, tantalizing the world with the notion of change. We'd be under the protection of science and its revolutionary breakthroughs. Humanity would reform to improve, evolve and prosper.

Liars, all of them.

We knew that - and we were proven right when they stopped constructing top of the line cities for those unable to fund The Movement. Left with half developed metropolises that became overrun with crime and injustice, the weak were left to fend for themselves.

But I found solace in those willing to make a change - willing to act. Citizens mumble our name and the government prohibits acknowledging it. We've proven that everything submits to the wrath of nature; to the wrath of fire. An entire society that found a way to be seen when they weren't heard. A society even those high up the patriarchy cower away from in fear.

Dabbling in the art of arson became our slogan, our repertoire. Our form of rebellion against inhumane creations administered to monitor the population.

I inhale deeply to take in the strong chemical scent wafting towards me. I fix my eyes on the Convoys surrounding us. Seven of them, armed and aiming their weapons directly at us. Heavy chrome armour adorn their bodies; pink, red and blue lights forming hues on their black uniforms. Uniforms they'd chosen to wear.

Slowly, two Convoys shuffle closer, their boots dragging through deep puddles on the ground. The taller one lowers his gun - a Spectre M4 redesigned specially for security. To stun, not kill. He calls out something along the lines of unmask yourself, but I feign ignorance. His partner's grip tightens on her Spectre as she steps closer.

Kal nudges me nervously, his elbow making contact with my bruised ribs. I grunt in indignation, my right hand edging towards the hem of my hood. Time slows down, and my heartbeat forms a heavy tempo against my sternum. I drop my Zippo from my sleeve and into my palm, twirling it between my gloved fingers before flicking it open.

Five letters slide off my tongue as I lean forward ever so slightly, a blur of orange swaying gently in my hand.

"Catch."

Seven Spectres aim at the fallen lighter and we leap off the rooftop, wind hollering in our ears. But it all goes quiet when flames begin their descent through the trail we set within the building. More luminous than any light in the city, more incessant than any artificial intelligence.

 ---

The sensation of pure, unfiltered adrenaline coursing through my veins is an experience unmatched by any other. From the moment my harness hooks onto the ledge and I lose sight of the rooftop, every ounce of tension in my muscles seem to evaporate. Small tendrils of hair come loose from my braid, delicately fluttering against my skin and an enthralling view of chaos ascends from the city - my city- 'Tor' in toxic plumes of smoke. I crave it, that feeling of fear mixed with false bravado. The thrill.

And perhaps I even enjoy the silence that follows me as I plummet from sixty-seven stories of Red Rooms set ablaze.

"Fallon."

The brief silence which instantly dissipates as soon as my boots touch

 concrete.

"Fallon, hurry up."

I stop prodding at my eye with a huff, "If you'd rather leave without properly getting things done, Kal, then by all means - leave."

He pulls his balaclava off, mumbling under his breath. A disapproving frown tugs at my mouth but I don't chide him just yet. He's a newbie. A jumpy, nervous kid. It's why he wore a balaclava instead of a wig like everyone else. It's why I have to be lenient with his immature grumbles.

Besides, I'm far too busy fishing out a colored lens from the surface of my eyeball to care about the hysterics of a panicked infant. It's standard practice; wearing gloves, wigs, lenses, masks, et cetera, et cetera, and burning them at the end of each job. We do it in order to maintain anonymity. Even a miniscule glimpse of any of our faces or the shadow of a fingerprint can result in being executed.

Publicly executed in the centre of Tor with our corpses displayed in all their putrid, rotten, deteriorating beauty.

"That was stupidly uneventful," Kal mutters, referring to our earlier excursion, grabbing me by my collar and hauling me out of my thoughts. We make a left turn that leads us away from the alleyway, the faint scent of petrol lingering on the fabric of our clothes.

I hum instead of snapping at him to be grateful nothing of note had occurred. I've upset him enough for a day. He remains silent with his brow furrowed. I do the same.

As we step out onto the crowded streets of Central Tor, I watch him take in the sheer amount of people bustling about at night, unbothered by the drones zipping through the marketplace with their radars. Children run about, skinny and frail, clothed in tattered yet brightly colored garments. Women who go about bargaining, a feeble and ineffective method to try and lower prices.

It's how people like us live; basic necessities aren't easily obtainable during the day and affording everyday meals is a luxury. I know that, but Kal doesn't. He was born privileged and comfortable in the Capital.

He looks over at me and then at the Convoy near a wine stall close by, a slightly dazed expression glossing over his features, "What now?"

I shrug, a small smile forming on my face. My hands slip into my pockets, gaze flicking up at the pink sky, heavy with smog and the promise of rain, "We celebrate."

His bewilderment doesn't fade for the next few minutes, even as we both drop onto the edge of my apartment's building. Nearly eight hundred feet above the ground and all we do is bite into identical ice cream sandwiches with nothing to accompany us but the bittersweet essence of freedom.

It's comforting and slightly strange how easily I warmed up to the kid in an hour of walking about. We talked about how he'd found himself in Tor looking for its feared Insurgency. He wouldn't tell me how he heard of us but he did say that after the passing of his mother, he had nowhere else to go.

He told me he's surprised I'm being nice to him and I haven't already shoved him off the ledge. I told him not to give me any ideas. Then we lapse into a peaceful silence I find myself enjoying.

"How'd it all happen anyways?" he asks suddenly. I look at him and the sleep evidently weighing down his eyelids. For the first time I truly realise how young he is, still three years away from being an adult.

"The Movement?" When he nods, I sigh, propping myself up on my palms, "It happened because there were too many people."

Too many people and not enough space, not enough resources to go around. Not enough humanity to go around. Everything was an experiment, a means to an end - a profitable end. The experiments weren't carried out by humans though. They'd created robots that looked nothing like people and yet acted just like them. Robots that killed with no hesitation to extinguish any objections, just as The Manufacturers had programmed them to.

Robots that killed the seven world leaders that had begun this new regime.

It was chaos and an opportunity for rebellions to break free. Until technocrats had risen and taken complete charge. I spare Kal the details; the horrors I'd been forced to witness when my parents were murdered for protesting after things started going downhill. After the countless promises made to us were broken.

I'd watched the discreet massacring of the elderly and orphaned in the name of science and salvation. Children were lined up like lambs for slaughter, because that's what we were to them. Lab rats. One by one, the children I'd known for roughly three months slumped to the floor, lifeless and unmoving.

When my turn came, I ran.

I ran until my heart threatened to tear past the confines of my ribcage. I ran until the bitter smell of death couldn't trace my steps and find me once again. I ran until I found my home for the next seventeen years.

I ran until I found my own salvation.