It's very difficult for Lea to wait until that nighttime hour occurs, but wait she does, her people a loose connection assembled by codes on CiDs or signs in windows--primarily the latter. Nonverbal, unrecorded communication is much smarter, and she's learned to utilize it in the five years without much technology at home. Most of the people who are a part of her group don't know the name of the woman instigating, or even what she looks like.
Ideas are like a virus. They spread through contact. All you need is a patient zero.
There were many, many people in the stands before, but now it is overflowing, body to body, mostly Xenian. Do not stop, they have been told. There are more of us than there will ever be of them. Through a game of telephone, they have all heard one thing in particular:
A true democracy is owned by its people, not its government.
Ownership is one of those things that will stir endless amounts of persistence. She knows what buttons to hit. And Lea, dressed in black, wearing sensible boots, moves through the crowd, is among them. Like the others in her group, she is masked, though she might lose hers eventually to separate herself from the other rioters in her group. They've brought even more of the silver fox masks, tucked into jackets and bags; they share them with members of the pre-existing rioting group, acquiring new strangers for their number.
Lea is keeping an eye on militia agents that are visible, gladiators--if one of the higher ranking ones is near, she is not above taking a hostage. Not just for the visibility factor, either; she knows how to question, now. Lucas taught her how to be a monster when she has to be.
That ruthlessness is not one of her favorite things about herself, but it is necessary. So is this. Some of these kids will die tonight, and in the future; she's told them so, they've told each other. But they won't die in vain, and they'll kill their oppressors, too.
Anyone who takes your rights away, his life is forfeit to you. He owes you. It's a law of nature, of blood. Not the other way around.
no subject
Ideas are like a virus. They spread through contact. All you need is a patient zero.
There were many, many people in the stands before, but now it is overflowing, body to body, mostly Xenian. Do not stop, they have been told. There are more of us than there will ever be of them. Through a game of telephone, they have all heard one thing in particular:
A true democracy is owned by its people, not its government.
Ownership is one of those things that will stir endless amounts of persistence. She knows what buttons to hit. And Lea, dressed in black, wearing sensible boots, moves through the crowd, is among them. Like the others in her group, she is masked, though she might lose hers eventually to separate herself from the other rioters in her group. They've brought even more of the silver fox masks, tucked into jackets and bags; they share them with members of the pre-existing rioting group, acquiring new strangers for their number.
Lea is keeping an eye on militia agents that are visible, gladiators--if one of the higher ranking ones is near, she is not above taking a hostage. Not just for the visibility factor, either; she knows how to question, now. Lucas taught her how to be a monster when she has to be.
That ruthlessness is not one of her favorite things about herself, but it is necessary. So is this. Some of these kids will die tonight, and in the future; she's told them so, they've told each other. But they won't die in vain, and they'll kill their oppressors, too.
Anyone who takes your rights away, his life is forfeit to you. He owes you. It's a law of nature, of blood. Not the other way around.
Beneath her fox mask, she keeps hunting.