Chapter Text
I was maybe seven or eight when I was told that my best friend had died.
My father sat me down and told me that Ella had drowned in the lake, trying to play with the fish.
I remember her sister, Emmaline, being too distraught to speak. Her parents put on sad faces and tears, but I felt an element of insincerity within them. Nazeera and the other supreme children were devastated.
For me, it was the first time I ever experienced grief. Ella was my closest confidant, the person I spoke to about everything. We were like our own diaries, sharing our secrets and wishes and locking them away inside each others’ chests.
She was also my moral compass. She may have been a bit of a loose cannon, overly emotional, even going as far as to admit her desire to kill my father after seeing the scars on my back, but she kept me from steering too far onto the wrong path.
After her death, I didn’t just lose my best friend.
I lost my sense of morality.
⎏⎐⎏
I’ve always despised my father’s visits, especially the process of preparing for them.
And today is no exception.
The past week has been nothing but reinforcing the Sector’s curfews, reminding my soldiers and civilians to be on their best behaviour, not letting as many minor infringements slip under the radar. Everyone knows that the Supreme Commander is on his way to Sector 45, and they all know how I expect them to act during his visits.
As of now, I still have around two hours and a half until Delalieu expects him to be landing, so I’ve currently found refuge in my Training Facility.
I always find comfort in routine and predictability, and a visit from my father won’t change that. So since it’s a Friday, I work on my forearms and biceps.
The strain and pain in my muscles that come from the weights are almost welcome, as they distract me from my stress and mental exhaustion.
I always find I much prefer physical pain to mental.
I circuit around the facility a few dozen times before I only have forty five minutes to get myself presentable.
My shower is quick, the selection of my outfit even swifter. I tend to wear similar articles every day, and I have a narrowed down selection of suits that I’ve deemed appropriate for when North America’s leader decides to visit his son.
By the time I arrive at the arranged meeting destination, he’s already waiting for me. Sitting at a polished, mahogany desk, his elbows propped on the surface, fingers steepled, waiting for me to speak first.
“You don’t normally announce visits with such short notice.”
He smirks, and air hisses out of his nostrils in a mockery of a laugh.
“Your attitude always astonishes me, son,” he quips, standing up and looking me up and down. “I see that a year governing this Sector hasn’t done much to iron it out.”
I straighten my back and recline my shoulders at his comment. He’s never been one for letting familial relations prevent him criticising his Sector commanders.
“You don’t gain respect by beating around the bush.” Even though my tone is level, both of us recognise the jab.
His eyes narrow, and I half expect him to lash out, but I don’t back away. I’ve suffered at his hand my whole life. I’ve learned not to flinch at the sound of a raised voice.
He chuckles and sighs, shaking his head.
“Very well, I’ll keep it brief.”
He claps his hands once, and the door behind him swings open. In walk three figures in black body armour. Two of them are bulky, muscular men, with similar shaved heads and faces carved into permanent sneers. I recognise them as the Supreme Guard: my father’s personal soldiers.
The second, I’m taken aback by.
They’re almost completely covered from head to toe. All that’s visible of their physical image is a low ponytail of medium brown locks, brushing the centre of their spine.
The longer hair indicates to me that they’re possibly female, but at the end of the day I can’t tell for sure. The armour conceals the general shape of their body, hiding any identifying curves or angles, and their face is covered by a holographic visor mask, tinted so that they can see me, but not vice versa.
Another thing I immediately take note of, they are the only one without a visible weapon on their person.
The two members of the Supreme Guard take their stations either side of the door, but the masked person takes up a positon right next to my father, holding their hands behind their back as if standing at ease.
Either they’re extremely foolish, or my father has allowed them to stand at his side for a reason.
“Cheif Commander Warner,” he leers, gesturing to the masked person. “This is Juliette. She’s going to be staying here for the foreseeable future. I can tell that you’ve been under so much pressure lately,” he says that most recent sentence in a mocking, patronising tone that makes me clench my fists. “So she will be taking up certain duties where yourself or your inferiors find you cannot keep up to scratch. These will involve training your soldiers, surveying the streets, and interrogating potential rebels. I expect you to allow her full access to the sector’s facilities and services, and to treat her with the respect you would give to my Supreme Guard. Understood?”
Juliette.
So she’s a woman.
That makes sense, I suppose. Her stature is rather short. But it makes me curious as to how my father expects her to carry out the tasks he’s listed. It’s clear that he thinks her incredibly capable, but surely he would have informed me that he would be arriving with her in the message he sent last week? Why has he sprung her introduction on me so suddenly? To startle me? To upset my routine? Well he’s certainly achieved that second option, whether intentionally or not.
“I’m not sure I trust an individual I’ve never heard of, let alone worked with, to handle such important matters within the Sector, Sir ,” I bite out, and I can’t help the emphasis on the title.
He only smiles. A cruel, calculated smile that used to terrify me. Now it’s a part of the package.
“I expected as much. Which is why I’m sure Juliette is more than happy to demonstrate her prowess. Aren’t you?”
Juliette nods curtly, and she does so so efficiently it seems as though her ponytail doesn’t even move with her head.
“Yes, Sir.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
I expected her voice to be something harsh, cruel and gritty, like most of the people my father associates with. But rather, it was soft. Melodic. Something that stirred some sort of warmth deep in the back of my brain.
Then I noticed the matching expressions on both of the guards’ faces had shifted from cocky aggression, to what could only be fear. Of what? This girl? What’s my father planning?
My father’s sneer grows wider as he says, “Good girl. Take off your gloves, Juliette. And Greene, come here.”
One of the guards, Greene, I gather, pales further, shuffling towards Juliette and my father as his comrade watches with a mix of pity and relief. Juliette, does as she’s instructed, and peels off the padded leather gloves from her surprisingly smooth, slender hands.
From a physical standpoint, she seems incredibly non-threatening. So why is Greene so intimidated by her?
She hovers her right hand over Greene’s exposed forearm, keeping perfectly still, in contrast to the Guard, who’s trembling like a leaf in a storm. Though I can’t see her face, I suspect she’s looking at my father waiting for some sort of signal.
And my suspicions turn out to be correct, as when my father gives a subtle nod, she clamps her small hand around Greene’s arm.
And the man starts screaming like mad.