Chapter Text
Red-765208 is scared.
She has been her whole life.
There are bullets hailing down, and smoke clouding the air. Red-765208 coughs, wheezing into her hands. She can’t see anything, not the ground in the distance, or more importantly, The Enemy through the smog.
Red-765208 is terrified.
She cannot see them to know where they aim. She cannot see much of anything.
(Her vision was only 80% of optimal, she had been told before she was shipped. Only three or four months ago now. She was 40% smaller than the largest of her batch, and her reaction times were only in the 40th percentile. She had only met the passing criteria for a function Red due to the technicality of so many of her batch dying before completion.)
A bullet whizzing by her face makes her jump.
She was going to die .
She doesn't want to die.
Fear strikes through her heart as she watches a Red not 30 feet from her fall, gunned down.
A memory she can't recall the context of, but long ago and in a different place she knows she has never been plays behind her eyes. Bullets whizzing through the crowd, everyone she had ever known dying in bloody agony as the wedding was stormed.
She is supposed to march.
She is supposed to go forward.
She is supposed to, was made to, do War.
But Red-765208 is afraid.
Another memory, just as contextless and dreamlike as the last. She was telling someone to run as people, as non-reds die. So why not follow that dreamlike past version of herself’s advice? She told someone to run in a situation like this. So she should too.
So she turns.
So she runs.
Because bullets are hailing down just like in that non-memory, and she is afraid.
“What are you doing?” A nearby Red hisses.
Red-765208 doesn’t respond, she just runs.
Until burning.
Her leg gave out under her.
When she glanced down, there was a bloody hole in her pants.
She’d been shot.
She’d been shot.
The pain was sharp, burning, and she was sobbing as she collapses.
“Pathetic.” A Rose marching passed her spits.
“Coward.” Another jeers.
“Thats what you get for running. ” One almost laughs.
She curls around her leg, shaking. It hurt.
Her leg felt like it was burning from the inside out.
“We should leave Reds like you as bait.” One snaps.
Maybe if she makes herself smaller, they won’t jeer.
She lays there, bleeding as they glare and occasionally kick her, marching forward around her. She makes herself smaller.
Her leg clots.
She is a Rose Red after all, she was made to survive gunfire.
Bullets are flying around her, and as she sobs on the ground, she knows she would much rather be here, hiding, crying than fighting.
And as she lays there, crying, the gunfire slows.
And then, when she dares to think maybe she can go back to the barracks and cry until the next time she’s woken, she is hauled to her feet.
Dragged by a Non-Red who’s face she cannot see to the Irons. Her leg is stitched and she is not given a moment to rest.
When she is shoved towards the Commander, that's when she gets terrified.
Their expression is grim as they drag her to the barracks.
Then she is in front of everyone. She’s shaking with fear. The arms holding her up, holding her still are the only thing keeping her knees from buckling.
She is going to be flogged.
She’s only seen Reds flogged a few times. She’s never managed to watch all the way through. After the first few hits, she’d always close her eyes and curl over her arms. Hiding from the violence. Trying not to watch, trying to think so loudly she didn't hear the crack of the whip or the wheezing shimpering sobs of the offending Red.
She could never bear to watch. She was too weak.
And now she stood in their place.
She’s lashed to the pole, shaking as she feels the eyes of the whole battalion of Reds eyes on her.
The commander swings down the whip, and Red-765208 screams.
It hurts.
She hears some of the Reds in the front, the bloodthirsty and violent, call her pathetic. Laugh to themselves as she cries.
Some Reds are made better than others.
And she was not made well at all, and they know it.
Again and again, the lash is swung, welts rising on her back, then blood dripping as her skin splits.
As the lash swings down, she can’t focus on anything but the pain. The other Reds jeering fading to the background. The world disappears around her so that it's only the whip breaking her skin in constant timed lashes. She can't breathe, she just sobs and wheezes and screams .
The world drips from between her fingers as the pain consumes her. As her body gives up and she falls unconscious.
When she wakes to the usual alarms, she’s slumped on the floor.
Everything hurts. Everything hurts. Every joint is stiff, and with every movement, scabs break on her back. But she stands, too numb with the terror of disobeying to do anything but March with everyone, no matter how her leg protests at having any weight on it, no matter how every movement makes her sob through keening breaths.
The same War as yesterday, the same fight, just further forward. She’s shoved forward whenever she slows. Rough hands on her bloody back.
“You’re not running again, are you?” One hisses. She’s taller, stronger. Almost double Red-765208’s size. She is perfect, a good Rose Red, not defective like her.
“No!” Red-765208 snaps, voice shaking. She hates talking. She hates the other Reds. She wants to sink to the ground and sob. She wants to curl up and hide from her gaze. Hide from everything .
A memory presses against her mind. A girl with black hair and a soft smile, drawing her close. She knows it isn’t hers to remember, but she feels jealous nonetheless.
“Then march.” The other red orders, shoving her hard, and Red-765208 all but falls at the sheer pain.
The other stands over her as she regains her balance, Glaring down.
“How did such a weak Red get cleared?” She glowers. “You're defective. Die like all the other defects.”
Red-765208 wants to disappear.
Wants to vanish. Wants to run again.
But she doesn't. She turns towards the War, and marches like a good Rose Red.
She’s shooting and shooting, she isn’t even aiming, just shooting her gun to look the part.
She isn’t looking around, she isn't being observant and smart and perfect at fighting, she’s just shooting.
Her leg hurts where she was shot. Her back is nothing but agony.
She’s so caught up in acting, in pretending to be a Perfect Rose, in marching with countless eyes on her, in making sure no one hurt her, she didn't notice the explosive skittering across the ground next to her.
Until of course, it exploded.
She knew she was going to die soon. Had the moment she’d been forced to kneel in front of the commander.
But she didn't want to die.
The next time she was conscious, there was pain. She was in her bunk, and somehow, somehow everything hurt more.
As she shifted, the pain grew worse.
She’d been in an explosion.
She’d seen enough of the other Reds explode.
She forced her eyes open, and oh.
Her leg was gone.
The replacement could hardly be called a leg. Red-765208 had been far too afraid to even look at the new Non-Reds in the battalion, but from what she had seen their replacement parts were shaped like what they were before. The hands had fingers that did more than grasp guns.
The replacement was hardly more than a metal pole to provide something to balance with, grafted harshly just under her knee. Screwing into her skin and bone.
It didn't bleed. She always expected the replacements to bleed.
But it makes sense that it doesn't, after all, she was created with losing limbs in mind. She was created with her death planned.
Everything hurts.
It hurts so badly.
She doesn’t dare move her leg. She doesn't want to move at all.
She curls around her arms and cries.
She doesn't want to die.
The next morning when the alarms blare, she can hardly force herself to move. Either from the sheer terror or having to go fight again, or the pain .
But she is a Rose Red, not a very good one, but she is. She was made to run on next to no sleep, made to keep fighting no matter what.
So she stands.
And immediately falls sideways. She doesn't know how to balance.
The other Reds automatically knew.
Her leg doesn't hurt, despite the fact she knows it should. But she also knows that if she couldn’t walk, she couldn’t march. If she can't walk, she can't fight.
And her only reason for existing is to fight.
Soon she finds her balance, encoded memories that didn't trigger immediately telling her how.
And she goes to War.
She can't run well. She can't march well. The scabs on her back break and bleed and her new leg is all but numb.
She doesn't want to fight.
She wants to turn and run and hide.
Ahead of her is terror. Is bullets. Is probably death.
She’s an easy target after all.
But running is just as dangerous. Running means she’s whipped again. Running means they hurt her.
Both directions mean she’s hurt.
And she can't force herself another step forward.
She feels frozen.
She can't do this.
She can't do this.
She’s crying as she takes another unsteady step.
Her heart is racing in her chest, pounding so hard it aches. Her chest is tight, and it's hard to breathe.
She might be sobbing.
She falls to her knees, shaking.
She can't go forward, she’ll be shot again.
She can’t turn and run, she’ll be whipped again.
She can only stay here.
She lets herself fall, curling around her head and arms. Trying to make herself small.
She may as well already be dead.
She was never supposed to fight.
She’s too frail, too small, her eyesight too poor. She was supposed to be killed when she was tested for defects.
She was never meant to fight. She is defective. She is a failure.
She was a failure at inception.
She was always a failure.
She will never be a good Rose Red.
She doesn’t want to do this anymore.
She doesn't want to be afraid anymore.
She will die either way.
She will die if she marches.
She will die if she runs.
She should have died a long time ago.
She’ll die if she lays here. Shaking. Sobbing.
She’ll die no matter what.
And she doesn't want to be hurt again.
Dying is better than being so afraid.
Another phantom memory. Charging at The Enemy, not the one she fights now, but a different one. Because dying to them is better than someone she can't recall getting hurt.
She lays there, sobbing and crying silently into her arms as other Reds fall dead and dying around her.
Red-765208 keeps waiting for an explosion to kill her. For a stray bullet to end her life.
But none do.
She lays there, shaking until the War falls silent around her. She is not dead, yet she waits to die.
Then she feels a hand on her shoulder. She flinches hard, flinches away.
She doesn't open her eyes. She waits for The Enemy to kill her.
This is her death.
“I am going to pick you up.” Says a voice, says a Red.
Red-765208 opens her eyes.
She’s going to be forced back to the War, isn't she?
The Red kneeling next to her looks scared, eyes wide, face bloody.
She’s tall, and looks strong. Not a perfect Red, by the scars, but a good one.
“My name is Thorns.” The other red says, and all Red-765208 can think is what's a name? “And we’re going to run away together.”
Run away.
If she runs, she is hurt.
But Red-765208 is so tired, and everything hurts so badly.
If she runs she is hurt.
But she’ll die no matter what.
So what does it matter?
She’s so tired. And as the other Red starts pulling her up, she can’t.
It hurts, she’s exhausted, and she falls unconscious.
She wakes up. She didn't expect that at all.
She’s in someone’s arms, tossed over someone’s shoulder.
Red-765208 does not know where she is.
She twists and kicks, the person holding her yelps and she falls.
She hits the ground hard, shoulder first with a crack. Curling over her arms as she cowers away.
“Are you alright?”
That's a Red, talking.
She curls up smaller.
“Please don’t be afraid.” Her voice is quiet, and close. “You’re very hurt, please calm down.”
How does someone just calm down?
Her shoulder throbs sharply, her back is raw and bleeding, and she can't help the crying.
The other Red sets a hand on her shoulder, and she jolts. Expecting pain.
But there isn’t any.
She rubs circles on Red-765208’s shoulder, and Red-765208 has no idea what to do.
“I’m not going to harm you, and we need to keep moving. I’m going to pick you up again.”
“Why?” She nearly sobs.
“Why am I picking you up?” The other Red asks, still rubbing her shoulder.
“Why aren’t you hurting me? I- I didn't fight I didn’t-”
“Because you were scared. That's no reason to hurt you.” She’s being kind, and Red-765208 can't stop herself from bursting into tears.
Then she’s being drawn into the other Red’s arms.
She remembers that same hollow memory of a girl with black hair holding her close, and that being a good thing, a thing that meant she was safe.
“You are safe, and I will not let you die.” The other Red’s voice is forceful, strong in a way Red-765208 has never heard in one of their voices. Or at least, not in a way that wasn’t vitriolic towards her. “I have a plan. There was a rover that got stuck a few days ago, we are going there. And from there, we will go to a city. A city is a place full of Non-Reds, and they won’t know what we are, and we won’t need to do War. We will be safe.”
Her arms are warm, strong, and overwhelming.
She shoves the other Red away.
Red-765208 doesn’t know where she is, doesn't know what’s happening.
“ What are you talking about ” Red-765208 all but sobs.
“I- We’re running away.”
“What does that mean? ”
The other Red goes still, her eyes a bit too wide. “It means we’re never going to do war again. It means we are Rebels.” She says rebels with a fervor, with a longing.
Red-765208 does not know what a rebel is, but something in the pit of her stomach tells her it's a bad thing.
“I-”
“A rebel is someone who doesn't do what they are told, who isn’t obedient. We’re running away. So we aren't obedient. So we are rebels. And- and because we are rebels, we don't have to do War.” She’s rambling, a sort of forceful passion in her tone and Red-765208 just sits there.
They didn't have a commander here.
“And- I was going to run away with my sister. Fruit. Her name was Fruit . But-” The other Red’s eyes are wide as she suddenly stands. Jolting to her feet. “She was shot- she died. She died a few paces away from where I found you. You were alive and she was dead. And you- you were hurt. You were flogged because you were scared. Fruit was also scared. She- You were alive. And you were scared. So I brought you with me. Don’t you see? We don’t have to fight.”
“But-”
“You are very hurt. So I carried you away from The War. And now we are going to the rover. And from there we will go to a city .”
By the end she’s shaking a bit, not with fear, but some other emotion that Red-765208 doesn't know how to identify. Red-765208 has drawn her knees to her chest.
“So, we’ve.. Left?”
“Yes. Yes. The commander, the non-reds, none know we are gone. We- We don't need to do War anymore.”
She’s still confused, terribly confused but.. But if what she was saying was true, that they don't need to do War again, and it seemed to be, then Red-765208 did not know what to
think.
“But we aren’t safe yet.” The other red continued. “We aren’t at the rover, and we need to get there. So I’m going to pick you up, and we are going to go there.”
“Wait,” Red-765208 says, and the other Red stops mid stride. “I- I’m confused.”
“Alright?”
“You said your sister was named Fruit.”
“Yes?”
“What is a name?”
“Oh!” The other Red brightens a bit. “Non-Reds have words that are them, other than numbers. My sister was called Fruit by me. My name is Thorns.”
“Oh.”
“Call me Thorns. Not Red-379645.”
Another memory, just as far from her as the rest, of calling a girl she can only recall in wisps of smoke Snow.
“Oh. Alright,” it makes sense. She always hated being called Red-765208.
“We can figure out a name for you when we get to the rover.” The other red, Thorns, says. Offering a hand.
Red-765208 doubts she could stand, so she takes it.
The rover isn’t as buried as Red-765208 recalls, but Thorns walks forward with all the confidence in the world.
Red-765208 follows.
The ground is wet with rain, and Thorns opens the door. Red-765208 follows her inside.
The inside of the rovers are small, and Red-765208 curls onto a seat. Her legs are almost numb from walking so long, and no one is here to stop her.
That's what she’s come to realize. No one is here to stop her.
They had walked for a day, and no one had shown up to stop them. No gunfire had hailed down on them.
She can sit here, curl around her new metal leg, and rest.
She doesn't want to Fight anymore.
“The rain seems to have loosened the hatch.” Thorns calls from outside, and Red-765208 hears the back hatch swing open.
“Everything's still in here!” Thorns calls, and Red-765208 lets her eyes drift shut.
She won’t be punished for resting a bit.
So she shuts her eyes, and lets herself rest.
When she wakes up, Thorns is next to her, not asleep but not doing anything. She’s staring into the distance through the window, tense and still.
There was a blanket tossed over Red-765208, and she figured Thorns had put it there.
It was warm, and it was soft. Nothing like she’d ever been given before. She shifts to pull it more securely around her, and Thorns jumps.
Then a small smile cracked across her face. “You’re awake!”
She doesn't feel so heavy that she can hardly stand. She feels awake.
She’s never felt like that when waking up before.
She nods, pulling the blanket around her a bit more.
“There are enough rations to last us several weeks, and I’m fairly sure with the rain I might be able to get this thing out of the ground.”
Thorns is smiling, and Red-765208 grins a small grin in return.
“Beyond that,” Thorn’s eyes are still wide, her movements a bit jerky. As she lays there, the word manic -a word she knows she had never heard nor spoken- comes to mind. If Red-765208 hadn’t been half carried by her for the last few days, she would have almost been afraid. “You need a name.”
“I.. ok?”
Thorns pulls a page of paper from the folds of her uniform.
“This is a paper about Roses. Not us. We’re named after a flower!”
“What?”
“It's not important. The paper explains anyway. I’m going to read it to you. Then you can pick a name.”
“What does a paper have anything to do with a name?” Red-765208 asks.
“I picked mine from it. So did Fruit.” Her tone shifts as she says Fruit’s name, but she continues nonetheless. “So you should too.”
“..Ok?”
“ Rose, (genus Rosa), genus of some 100 species of perennial shrubs in the rose family (Rosaceae). Roses are native primarily to the temperate regions. Many roses are cultivated for their beautiful flowers, which range in colour from white through various tones of yellow and pink to dark crimson and maroon, and most have a delightful fragrance, which varies according to the variety and to climatic conditions.
Roses are erect, climbing, or trailing shrubs, the stems of which are usually copiously armed with prickles of various shapes and sizes, commonly called thorns. The leaves are alternate and pinnately compound (i.e., feather-formed), usually with oval leaflets that are sharply toothed. The flowers of wild roses usually have five petals, whereas the flowers of cultivated roses are often double (i.e., with multiple sets of petals). Rose flowers’ size ranges from tiny miniatures 1.25 cm (0.5 inch) in diameter to hybrid flowers measuring more than 17.5 cm (7 inches) across. The rose plant’s fleshy, sometimes edible, berrylike “fruit” (actually the floral cup) is known as a hip and usually ranges from red to orange in colour.”
She reads, and looks at Red-765208 expectantly.
Red-765208 had not caught much of anything beyond shrub. “Um. They’re shrubs right?”
“Mmhm.” Thorns replies.
“Shrubs have branches.” Red-765208 continues, panicking a bit. Thorns had really put her on the spot here. “So I guess I’ll call myself Branches?”
“Right then.” Thorns grins. “I like that.”
Branches nods, and pulls the blanket over her head. It's soft, and she feels safe under it.
“I’m going to go try and dig out the back wheel.”
“Alright.”
Branches heard Thorns shifting out of the back seats.
Then the sound of the door opening, and Thorns stifling a yelp.
She tore the blanket off her head.
In the door stood a figure.
Another Red.
She was a taller Red, much taller than Branches anyway, her hair cropped short to her skull like a new shipment, but she looked anything but young.
A scar took up half her face, a robotic eye leering out of the socket. Her trigger arm was metal, and she was covered in freckles.
But the most pressing matter was that she was holding a gun, aimed directly at Thorns’s head.
It was a larger gun, one that could tear through their skin and leave them dead in moments.
“I’ll give you 30 seconds to explain who you are and what the fuck you're doing in my goddamn rover,” She starts, voice curt, rough and terrifyingly cold . “And if I'm not impressed, I will kill you. ”
