I glance at my watch. 7:45 p.m. Almost show time.
Turning away from the mirror, I move to a set of chairs beside the door. I gaze soberly around the bedroom, which feels like a waiting room for an appointment long overdue.
Ava paces up and down the tiled floor, repeating a silent recitation.
“How’s your wrist?” I ask her.
“Healing quick.” She stops her marching and slowly peels back the bandage on her right arm. A snake curled in the shape of an infinity symbol marks her skin. Pops of gold and yellow adorn the scales, just like Rayla’s tattoo. “For renewal,” Ava told me when she chose her emblem. “A rebirth.”
My own tattoo itches and burns, like my growing intensity. I rise from my seat and move for the door just as the singing stops.
“I’m ready,” I announce and give her a strong nod.
She returns a grin. “I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m proud of you. Father would be proud too.”
“Father is proud,” I correct her. “He knows.”
Ava turns the handle, and we move from our quiet room, shoulder to shoulder, down the hall and toward the waiting rebellion.
I fold the sleeve of my shirt above the shiny pigment inked onto my right wrist, just over my microchip. I chose an eye as my emblem. Beautiful, bright, and solemn. The bottom row of lashes are the petals of a black-eyed Susan, the yellow curves shaped like tears. The government is always watching, but now so am I.
As we enter the first door on the top floor, the radiance of a dozen screens flash and scream at us. Dallas. The Governor’s Mansion. The Anniversary Gala.
The Common is watching you now, Roth.
Three lights illuminate two stools placed before a white background. Emery stands beside the camera, messing with the lens. I take a deep breath. I hear Ava take one too. We step into the flood of light and take our places.
Fireworks electrify the screens to my left. To my right, I see close-ups of stately guests strutting and cheering as they make their way toward a platform the length of a football field. I spot the president, his wife, their son. And directly before us on the screens, center stage, I see Roth, his mansion and opulent gardens behind him. Two screens the size of houses flank his regal shoulders. His bloated, severe face leers down on the crowd. Two gigantic eyes. Ever watchful.
Ava keeps still. Placid. Poised to strike. I breathe deeply to stop my rage from bubbling to the surface.
Roth moves to the front of the platform, a badge of mourning strapped around his uniformed arm. He stands soaking in his power, waiting for the smallest noise to settle. It takes only three seconds for a deafening hush to fall over the governor’s garden. Over everyone in our room.
His thin lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He motions to his wife and the empty chair beside her. A hologram of Halton, idealized and glorified in his noble Strake uniform, fills the seat where his grandson should be. I spot Halton’s former Gala date, Mckinley Ruiz, hovering behind his chair, making a show of her fake sorrow.
Roth moves his hand over his heart. A sharp buzz emanates from speakers in the ceiling above us, and Roth’s voice suddenly comes blaring through.
“Today is a celebration of the power of one.”
His eyes bore into mine. But I feel no fear. Only resilience. Grit. Strength.
“One Child, One Nation. One people.”
“Save the twins!” rings out from somewhere in the crowd of ritzy guests, an unexpected intrusion.
A perfect introduction.
“Now!” Ava calls out, sharp and strong.
The camera flashes red. Emery nods. Pawel flicks a switch, and it’s show time.
“My name is Ava Goodwin,” my sister begins steadily.
I see our outlawed faces displayed and magnified on every monitor across from us. Every jumbotron inside the Anniversary Gala has been hijacked. From Pawel’s command panel, I see videos of our twin image towering over the streets of Denver, Chicago, and Seattle, the skyscrapers blasting out our message.
“My name is Mira Goodwin,” I announce, my voice finding power. “We are the twin daughters of Darren and Lynn Goodwin.”
I stare straight into the lens, trying to see the people behind it. Millions are watching. Millions are listening. The entire country. Hell, maybe the world.
“Tonight our country celebrates seventy-five years of the Rule of One,” Ava declares. “Seventy-five years of oppression.”
The president, the governors, the Guard. All of the nation’s most important leaders watch in horrified silence.
“We speak to you now, on this symbolic day, to affirm that we exist. We went against the system”—Ava grabs my hand—“and we survived.”
Dwarfed by our identical faces, Governor Roth glares up at his screens. A captain runs to his side. “Turn off the power, you half-wit filth,” our speakers betray Roth’s rabid whisper.
He can’t. He’s powerless.
Defeated.
“We are the rank and file, the discontent, the Common. We are labeled Gluts, marked rebels. And we are many.” I repeat the last words as a threat. As a summons.
“Revive the rebellion,” Ava tells our country, echoing Father’s appeal. “And the Common will rise.”
Ava stands. I stand. We hold down our wrists, fists clenched, exposing the tattoos that smother our microchips.
“Resist much.”
“Obey little.”
The screens go black, and the camera turns off. I exhale.
“Was it enough?” Ava asks.
The question hangs in the air, then sinks into an extended silence. It sits there, waiting for someone to pick it up.
To answer the call.