Six |The Dawn|

09:30 AM WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 5, 4865

[Zemira's POV]

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I walked through the crowded halls of what the resistance named The Dawn, a base command of sorts. The first leaders chose an old factory for a number of reasons, one because the Anopoly takes little notice to what industrial buildings are permitted for use via legal agreement or not. My father just sees the signs of factorial production and assumes it's for the benefit of his regime, regardless of what comes off the conveyor belts. Whether it be mandatory issue safety or the incitement of rebellion.  Therefore, though we may be on their radar, as 'Pheonix' I've found a way to conceal our movements. But as of late, Derrick's getting 'smarter' sending more scouts, demanding more frequent updates on my supposed work to cease black market trade. Of course, no one else knows about the increase in scouts yet, besides Iain. 

As I walk the halls toward the weapons lab, I receive salutes like the ones used in armies as a show of respect for those of higher rank. As well as the Archalian salute, in which you make a fist with your right hand, cross your arm over your chest so your fist is against your left shoulder. Then raise your fist into the air.  

"The motion is a sign of respect," Iain told me when the Resistance first named me 'Pheonix: Champion of Freedom', "but it also means that these men and women are prepared to die following whoever the salute is honoring to battle. But although they're prepared for the end, It means 'Undying'. Those soldiers will never give in, ever. They trust your leadership, your resolve." After he'd said that the look in his eye formed words his lips failed to, 'They believe in you Zem, don't let 'em down.', and I won't. From those words, the meaning of the salute gave shape to the motto of our cause. The words tattooed on the back of my right wrist: NEVER SAY DIE.  

By now I've reached the weapons lab, the sounds of blowtorches and the clang of metal flooding over me. I welcomed the familiar racket as I made my way through the maze of tables and weapon racks towards the workbench in the far left corner. The room itself was quite open, but while it's used for making weapons, it's something of an armory in a way. Although, the ones held in the lab are usually the more powerful ones that may explode. I'm not sure. 

I hear some coming up behind me as I inspect Arachnid for damage, "Welcome back, Zemira," a cheerful voice said. I turned from Arachnid to my other, more trigger-happy best friend, Iris. Best friend is a bit lacking description, she more like a sister to me. The moment I'm facing her she throws her arms around me pulling me into a tight hug. Her black hair, which she crudely dyed white, is neatly braided out of the way to avoid any incidents given the fact that she welds most of the metal together.  Everything on her is almost monochrome, from wearing all black, to her silver eyes.  

"So, Iris how far along are we on Operation S," I ask casually after she releases me. As much as I love to tell her about what happened with the meeting, time has never really been on my side.  "Well, combat prep is going...alright," says Iris but she seems less confident in the report than usual. 

"Iris, what's wrong," I ask, my tone more serious at her uncharacteristic behavior. Her gaze finds the floor like a long-lost relative was down there waiting for her.  "Silv, look at me," I tried my best not to make it sound like an order. I guess it worked because Iris slowly raised her head to meet my eyes. 

"It's Aaron...he thinks we should've taken Nosaroc months ago," Iris relayed this to my whilst rubbing the NEVER SAY DIE tattooed on the right side of her neck. It's a nervous habit developed after discovering her Ativ. As for Aaron, he's an asshole who doubts my planning and leadership with a passion. He says "Someone so ready to go full auto on some ruins should have no problem taking Nosaroc in a day," and his arrogance is gonna get him killed. Alas, all that arrogance equates to a severe lack of tactical...anything. There is one thing he can do though, fire a gun. 

"Ugh," I ran my hands down my face, "How many times do I have to tell him that the storm has been carefully calculated to account for the guards present." the day of The Storm or just Storm is on a day the guards will be spread thin. My eighteenth birthday.  The day Derrick Reyes took everything I loved...and burned it to ash. The day the Anopoly rose, and the Archali fell. 

'You should just go and alleviate yourself from that pain in the ass now,' my madness, or as I so begrudgingly call her, Insanire, which means Madness in the language of the Outland tribes, said. 'Maybe some of your stress would go with his life,' her voice was almost a hiss, from time to time the hissing was filled with caustic venom. 

'Do you ever shut up, Insanire,' I thought back, painfully aware that I was arguing with my own mind. I knew that if Iris or Iain found out about my almost daily altercations with Insanire, they would more than likely attempt to put me in therapy out of concern for my mental well being. I also knew it wouldn't yield results given that my father had forced me to see a therapist after my mother's death.  It was reasonable to do so considering the fact I watched her die in front of me at the age of ten. But the therapy didn't really do anything besides consistently remind me of what was taken from me. 

I'd seen the therapist for maybe a month and a half before Derrick realized that I was going to get anywhere. I mostly blew off the sessions anyway, either going into the woods that now made up most of the Outlands or just hiding out in my room reading or sleeping for an hour or so. Derrick would occasionally find me sneaking out to the woods and force me into the session. I guess it got exhausting for him to keep up with my 'defiance' whilst also raising Artemisa because one day he just stopped trying. 

"Uh...Zem," Iain's voice barely registers to my ears as he looked at me in pure bewilderment, "You ok?" he asked, his voice a conglomerate of concerned and confused. I looked into the two pits of ocean that are his irises, "Yeah, why?" my voice sounded tired already, how was beyond me given that it's nine-forty five in the morning. 

"You just looked tired, and a bit annoyed," he said, the concern more obvious in his voice now. I could see the worry in his eyes, that same worry was projecting in the metallic orbs of my friend's eyes. 

I hated it. 

The look of unmasked concern directed at me. I'm not sure why it bothered me so much, maybe because the only emotions that register as vulnerable to me are so seldom accounted for. After my mom and grandma died, I hardened my emotions, steeled them, locked them up to the point of barely feeling them at all.  I had told myself it was better this way, better not to feel, not to care. Apathy. My emotional state was the very definition of apathy.