The War Outside Page 3

  “Which are?”

  “The attempt on your lives.”

  Daniel stiffens.

  I draw in a deep breath.

  Mother Terra’s teal eyes shift between the two of us—back and forth, once, then twice—before she sets her jaw and says, “There has been… widespread rumors surrounding the events that took place on the day of your wedding.”

  “What kind of rumors?” Daniel asks.

  “Who the perpetrator was, who she killed, how the two of you happened to escape.”

  “A report hasn’t been made yet?”

  “Oh, one has been made. It’s just riling up the media, and stirring the conspiracy theorists out of hiding.”

  “Conspiracy… theorists?” I ask, unable to prevent the frown that follows.

  “People who piece together information in an effort to make false claims,” Daniel states.

  “Oh,” I reply.

  “They are extremely detrimental to the state of our government,” Mother Terra explains, “which is why we want the two of you to set the record straight.”

  “How?”

  “By appearing on the city’s premiere television network.”

  I blink.

  Daniel frowns. “Why?” he asks.

  “For one: to prove that you are, in fact, alive. And for two: to silence the people who believe that the two of you carelessly left the scene without helping those who were injured.”

  “We were scared,” I say. “We didn’t know what to do.”

  “You were right to run,” Mother Terra says, “especially since that’s what you would have been instructed to do regardless. However—some networks are beginning to question your authenticity as people.”

  “But—” I start, then stop before I can continue.

  Mother Terra watches me with considerate eyes. “You do not have to explain yourself to me, Mrs. Cross; nor do you, Mr. Cross. Fact of the matter is: you responded out of fear, and did exactly what you should have done.”

  “And people are going to fault us for that?”

  “Of course, my dear. That’s the way the media plays. While one sector is joyous that you are safe, another believes that you were wrong for leaving the scene when you could have done something to help.”

  “Now I’m starting to feel guilty,” I say, and reach up to press a hand to my face.

  “Don’t. As your Gentlewoman, I commend you for what you did.” Mother Terra straightens. “Now then, to the matter at hand.”

  Daniel and I both stand in wait.

  “You will be escorted to the Gold Room and prepared for the interview that will occur in our media center. It will be broadcast live to ensure it is seen as honest, and because of that, you will have little leeway when it comes to your words.”

  “What are we supposed to say?” Daniel asks. “Since we’re obviously going to be coached.”

  “Only for your own good.” Mother Terra pauses to consider the two of us. “When it comes time to be asked how you felt on the day of your wedding, you will simply state that you were the happiest you have ever been, only to have that joy ripped away by the terroristic actions of the Fanatical.”

  “And if they ask anything else?” I frown. “What then?”

  “You will state that you cannot comment due to the ongoing investigation.” Mother Terra sets her attention on the washroom. “I would now ask you to shower, dress in nice but casual clothes, and to prepare yourselves for what is to come. I will return in approximately one hour to escort you to the Gold Room for hair and makeup.”

  With that, Mother Terra turns and exits the room.

  “Well,” Daniel says a short moment later, stripping his shirt off as he heads toward the washroom. “I guess we’re going to officially be introduced to the public.”

  “I guess,” I say, and can’t help but tremble.

  We’re to be judged by the entire population of the Glittering City about what we did or didn’t do.

  What, I wonder, will they think?

  I am a nervous wreck. Sitting here, as patiently as possible, in Stylus’ chair, and waiting as he prepares to apply my makeup, is akin to torture in a war-torn land. I find myself cringing as the makeup artist pulls my hair back into a bun, and tighten my hands around the stool’s plush armrests.

  “Are you all right?” Martin Stylus asks as he secures my hair into place.

  “I feel like I’m the focus of a witch hunt,” I reply.

  The makeup artist frowns. “Are you really that nervous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there nothing you can do to make it better?”

  I consider this question wholeheartedly as he spins me away from the mirror, and find myself dwelling upon the integrity of my feelings in the moments thereafter. I know that they are reasonable—because in my current state of mind, I am feeling a mixture of guilt and relief—but at the same time, I can’t help but feel guilt over wondering if there was something more we could have done.

  No, I think. You couldn’t have done anything.

  We were unarmed—children stripped of their ability to defend ourselves—and even if we’d had weapons, I would have had no idea how to use them.

  Besides, my conscience then offers. What could you have done against a woman with a bomb?

  Nothing, I realize. We could have done nothing at all.

  Regardless, that doesn’t help to assuage my guilt. We’d still left people behind, and in that sense, we could be considered just as bad as the person who detonated the explosive in the first place.

  Right?

  I tremble as Stylus continues to do my makeup, as from palettes he pats color onto a brush and through that brush he works to make me presentable, but I already know that no amount of makeup will hide my shame, my fear, my indignity.

  At my side, Harmony works to make Daniel as presentable as possible. Dressed smartly in a short-sleeved shirt and pants I now have come to know as called jeans, he looks nothing short of perfection. I can only hope that I, in a simple blouse and skirt, can look the same.

  Stylus frowns as he considers me, nude lips, rosy cheeks and all.

  “What?” I ask, unsure how to respond to the gentleman behind me.

  “It’s nothing,” he replies. “It’s just… your frown—”

  I shake my head to cut him off and climb out of the stool. “Are we almost ready?” I ask, directing my attention to Mother Terra’s reflection in the massive mirror.

  “It would appear as though we are,” she says. “Harmony?”

  “Yes, Revered Mother?”

  “Stop fussing over Mr. Cross’ appearance and let him off the stool.”

  Harmony applies one final spray of sealant onto Daniel’s hair and gestures him to remove himself from the chair.

  As he turns to face me, he offers a small, if forced smile, and says, “You look nice.”

  “So do you,” I say, though we both know they are simply false platitudes in a world that appears to be growing ever-smaller by the second.

  The Revered Mother steps forward to acknowledge us. “Good,” she says. “Now, let us go to the media center.”

  She turns on her heel, her jagged skirt fanning out around her knees, and leads us out of the Gold Room.

  Though normally busy, the lobby appears utterly desolate on this day.

  Like a funeral, I think, for the fallen.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and follow Mother Terra as she leads us across the Spire, toward a room with a golden plate that reads MEDIA CENTER.

  I am instantly struck with terror.

  This is it. This is finally it.

  After having such little contact with the public, I will actually be physically speaking with them.

  “Hey,” Daniel says. “Kel.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “No. I… I want—”

  Mother Terra turns and offers us a sharp look.

  We quicken our pace.

  She tu
rns around.

  Daniel takes hold of my hand.

  And I, stricken with fear, tighten my hold on his fingers.

  His touch, as comforting as it happens to be, will not save me from what will come next.

  As Mother Terra first knocks upon, then opens the door, I find myself wondering if I was right to agree with this.

  Can’t turn back now, I think.

  With that in mind, I relinquish my hold on Daniel’s hand, then step into the Media Center.

  The light inside is blinding, and its intensity immediately inspires me to lift my hand to shield my face. As my eyes begin to adjust, I can see that most of the light is centered on a trio of chairs at the center of the room, behind which is a printed backdrop of the Glistening Park. A tall woman with pale skin stands impatiently, barking orders to the men adjusting the lights and operating the machinery I can only assume are high-quality video recorders.

  “I said fix that damn light!” the woman barks. “We don’t want our couple to look like they’ve been pulled from a lake.”

  “Miss Demiro,” Mother Terra says.

  The woman instantly turns and plasters a smile upon her face. “Oh! Revered Mother! I’m so happy to see you.”

  “As requested,” Mother Terra says, sweeping a hand out toward us.

  “Mister and Missus Cross!” Miss Demiro says. “It’s so great to finally meet you!”

  “A pleasure,” Daniel says.

  “You look lovely,” the woman says, taking hold of my hands.

  I force a smile regardless of the situation. “Thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” Miss Demiro straightens after pulling her hands away. “I’m sure you’ve already been prepped on today’s topic.”

  Daniel and I nod.

  Miss Demiro turns to look at the three chairs and says, “We’ll be discussing the attack that occurred at the site of your wedding. I understand that you might be limited on what you can say, but be assured that we won’t be asking anything too invasive.”

  “Which we’ve agreed to,” Revered Mother Terra says.

  The interviewer nods, then gestures toward the chairs. “Mr. Cross, you sit on the right. Mrs. Cross, you on the left.”

  Daniel and I step under the floodlights and seat ourselves where asked. Miss Demiro takes a moment to look at a wrist-piece similar to Mother Terra’s before settling down on the chair across from us.

  “All right!” the interviewer calls. “Camera check A!”

  A green light appears on the camera across from me and Daniel.

  “Camera check B! C! And last, D! All set? Good! Start rolling cameras in five…”

  The door to the Media Center closes.

  “Four…”

  The lights center upon us.

  “Three…”

  Sweat breaks out along my palms.

  Miss Demiro lifts a hand to signify two, then lifts a single finger thereafter.

  Then a chorus of music is playing, and Miss Demiro is smiling like she isn’t about to be talking about an assassination attempt.

  “Good morning everyone, and welcome to Capital City News. I’m Cynthia Demiro. Today, we are going to be discussing the events that occurred exactly two days ago at the site of our Beloved Couple’s wedding. I have with me today Daniel and Kelendra Cross, who survived an assassination attempt after one of the Fanatical breached the city and detonated a homemade bomb. Hello, Mr. Cross, Mrs. Cross.”

  “Hello,” Daniel and I both say at the same time.

  “I hope the two of you are doing well today.”

  “As well as can be expected,” Daniel offers. I merely tighten my hold on his hand.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Now,” Cynthia Demiro says, leaning forward to examine the both of us. “I’d like to ask the two of you a few questions regarding the event.”

  Oh God, I think. Here it goes.

  I catch Mother Terra looking on at us from behind the row of cameras and watch her nod slowly—eyes narrowed, lips pursed into a frown.

  Cynthia Demiro straightens and considers the wrist piece on her left hand. “My first question would be: what happened? How did the bomber make their way onto the property?”

  “We don’t know how she got there,” Daniel says, somehow able to maintain a cool facade in spite of everything going on. “As to what happened… she called out to us.”

  “Beauty and Grace,” I offer.

  “And clenched her palm. That was when she… well…”

  “You need not say more,” Cynthia Demiro offers. “We were not aware that your would-be assailant was a woman. That was not included in our reports.”

  Dammit, I think, watching Mother Terra’s unfortunate expression beyond the row of cameras. I hadn’t anticipated that we’d make a mistake so early on.

  “Can you comment on what occurred thereafter?” Cynthia Demiro asks.

  “We can’t,” I say, cutting in before Daniel can speak any further. “The investigation is ongoing.”

  “I see.” The woman centers her gaze on me now. “Mrs. Cross. You’ve been a centerpiece for the media since your debut on the red carpet a few weeks ago. Your beauty captured the Glittering City the moment that your face appeared on regional television. I have a question that I would like to ask you, and specifically you, about your future.”

  “All right,” I say, already anticipating what’s about to come.

  “Have you given thought about the Designated Purpose you are to commit your life to?”

  There it was: the bombshell, dropped upon me just like Mother Terra warned it would be.

  I seek the Revered Mother out in the camera bay surrounding us, hoping to glean guidance from a distance, but find that she is nowhere to be seen.

  What do I do? I think—staring, unfortunately, at the interviewer, like I am an animal caught in the gaze of its predator. What do I say?

  Daniel tightens his hand around mine.

  I blink, stunned.

  Cynthia Demiro smiles and says, “Have you given any thought to it?”

  “I have,” I reply, though somewhat breathless.

  “Are you able to detail how you might curb the violence in the near future?”

  “I—” I start, then stop before I can continue. I am struck, suddenly, with anxiety I could have never anticipated, and as a result, find myself spiraling into my own thoughts. What to say? What to do? How to think? How to act? Even Daniel’s hand tightening around mine isn’t even to curb the the panic settling into my mind.

  But, I soon realize, why this is occurring.

  It is the government’s words in my head, not my own thoughts, that are causing me to behave this way.

  Be good.

  Be proper.

  Be complicit.

  Knowing where my panic stems from allows me to focus on it, and allows me to pull myself down from the heights of my emotional fit.

  With that in mind, I swallow the lump in my throat, then plaster on a smile before saying, “I’ve thought of it.”

  “Can you tell us more?”

  “Unfortunately,” I offer, “my Designated Purpose is still undergoing the review process, so I cannot say more.”

  “I understand.” The interviewer straightens. “And finally, I would ask: any hopes for the future? Or anything you would like to say to the citizens of the Glittering City?”

  “We ask only that you believe in us,” Daniel states, as if he has read a script, “and find peace in the fact that we will do everything we can to make you proud.”

  “And as to our future,” I add, “we’re hoping to start a family soon. Hopefully within the next year.”

  Cynthia squeals with delight. “Excellent,” she says, then lifts her head to the camera behind us and says, “My name is Cynthia Demiro, and this has been a presentation from Capital City News.”

  The floodlights dim.

  The green buttons on the cameras turn red.

  Cynthia Demiro begins to say, “I am so glad the two of you—�
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  But is cut off by Mother Terra storming forward. “Are you out of your mind?” she asks. “You were explicitly told not to go off-script.”

  “I did what any good interviewer would,” Cynthia Demiro replies. “I tried to get to the bottom of the story.”

  “I’ll send you to the bottom of your career for that behavior.” Mother Terra snaps her head toward me and Daniel. “Up. Both of you.”

  We rise without argument.

  “Thank you for coming,” Cynthia Demiro says. “I really appreciate it—”

  “Mister and Missus Cross: I would ask that you ignore this imbecile and follow me.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Daniel and I manage, and make move to follow.

  It isn’t long before the Gentlewoman is storming through the open front door, leaving the camera crew, producers, and anyone else who happens to be in the room stunned in her wake.

  As we pass into the lobby, I can only hope that neither of us have made a horrible mistake.

  Three

  “Are we in trouble?” I ask as we settle down atop the bed in my apartment.

  Mother Terra stares at the two of us for several long moments before finally saying, “No. You’re not.”

  Like a snake who’s released me from its deadly snare, my chest loosens and a sigh escapes my lips. No longer under the intense belief that I will be reprimanded for words I could not have anticipated saying, I lift my eyes to look at Mother Terra’s cosmetically-altered pupils and find myself waiting for anything that could help alleviate my unease.

  However—it isn’t Mother Terra who speaks next. It’s Daniel. “I didn’t expect her to be so forward,” he says.

  “I should have instructed you better,” Mother Terra replies, “but I was informed by several sources that Miss Cynthia Demiro was one of the most cooperative news anchors in the entire Glittering City.”

  “You mean it could’ve been worse?” I ask.

  “Oh. Yes. It definitely could have been.” Mother Terra centers her gaze between us. “You were right to keep your answers vague. It will prevent the tabloids from skewing your words to fit their narratives.”

  “So what happens now?” Daniel asks. “Are we going to be able to leave, or…”