The refugee

“Well, first of all," Ben says, rolling his shoulders back tiredly, "I’m sure Rhea filled you in on a lot of outside politics, but there is a lot of history you need to know.” He squats down, tracing in the dirt with his finger as he speaks. “What did she tell you?” he asks without looking up at me.

I furrow my brow, thinking back to what Rhea had said yesterday. “I didn’t really get a whole ton of it but I know she talked about the four quadrants, how the tribes work, their colors. She showed me where her sister is buried. That’s about it.”

He nods slowly, drawing a grid with four boxes, nine smaller circles inside each square. “But that doesn’t line up with what they taught you in school on the inside, does it?” He asks, already knowing the answer. I don’t bother responding, just shake my head quietly, wondering where this is going. He shifts to the left of the picture he has drawn across the ground, forming a large circle in the dirt, outlining different shapes within it. “Years ago, the world wasn't how it is today. Politics caused conflict, war, neighbors turning against each other. There were so many different ways people believed they should be run, and there didn’t seem to be any peace in sight.” He starts labeling each of the shapes inside the circle with certain letters.

“Different political opinions put up walls between people, metaphorically as well as literally. Everyone took a side, and each political party went off into their own land to be governed the way they believed was right.” He runs a finger back over the borders of the different shapes, solidifying their independence from each other. He points to each of the labels he’s made, their letters matching up with the type of government he says. “Direct democracy, democratic republic, socialism, communism, anarchy, you name it. Each party gave themselves a different name, a different color to differentiate between them. If you were red, you didn’t talk to blues, if you were white, you didn’t enter yellow territory. It was peaceful that way. You don’t have to argue if everyone you are around agrees with you. That’s just how the world worked.”

“Okay, I guess that makes sense,” I say, studying the map over his shoulder. He doesn’t respond.

“People lived like that for a long time, but without understanding and communication between the different territories, misunderstanding spread. They started to look down on some, to fear others. Ignorance breeds fear. One of the governments took advantage of that ignorance. They promised their citizens safety in exchange for their right to choose. Over time, they became more powerful than the others, the totalitarian white party. They shut off their borders altogether, keeping everyone out. Keeping outside thought, religion, and ideology from reaching their peoples’ minds. They were completely cut off from the rest of the world.” He shades in one of the countries entirely, then moves back to the picture of what our world looks like today.

“Other countries had to start merging together, the weaker governments surrendering their power and territory to more successful ones, until there were only three quadrants left apart from the inside.” He points to the leftmost quadrant in his drawing. “Red chooses nine leaders to represent them, like Rhea’s father.” His hand moves up into a the top square in the diamond-shaped drawing. “In the Northern Quadrant, each citizen votes on every decision. If they do something, they do it together. Everyone has a say, everyone either wins or loses.” He writes a small N in the square as he moves his hand down again, “In the Western Quadrant, they have one leader who makes all the decisions to the best of their ability. They put their trust in him and don’t question his decisions.”

“Okay, got it. What does this have to do with anything?” I ask impatiently.

“It matters because although the outside quadrants know this history, the people inside the Southern Quadrant have no idea we’re really even out here. They’ve learned a different story, they don’t understand that there is nothing out here to be protected from. They sit content in the hands of the people who are doing them the most harm. If we can get them to understand, if we can undo some of the brainwashing, we can attack from the inside as well as from here.”

“So, we have to tell them,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “If we can get them to understand, if we can undo some of the brainwashing, we can attack from the inside as well as from here, right?” I say, trying to make sense of his plan.

“How do we do that?” He looks up at me, taking a deep breath.

“The Address.” He starts pulling his map back up. “This,” he says, pointing to a wide clearing on the edge of the map, “is where the President is coming day after tomorrow. And this,” he says, shifting his finger right a few inches, “is where we are.”

“And what happens when we get there?” I ask, looking up at him. He hesitates, looking me up and down and nodding to himself before he responds.

“The statement is going to be televised, broadcasted to every home, every building, every citizen. Listen, I’ve been on those streets, I’ve seen those people. Anne, I don’t know how they did it, but they turned you into the face of the entire revolution. Those people believe in you like I’ve never seen before. Broadcasting you in that lab was the biggest mistake our government has ever made. They’ve seen you at your worst, broken and dying. And they’ve seen you stand up. They’ve seen you do things that they’ve always been told aren’t possible. You’re breaking through the illusion. Anne, you’ve changed everything.”

He smiles, shaking his head in disbelief and excitement. “I’m going to get you onto those screens again, I just have to get close enough to their system and I can redirect the broadcast to what we’re going to put out.” He pulls a small piece of metal placed carefully in a plastic case out of his bag, holding it in front of me. “Anne, this is everything. I’ve been working on it for years, interviews of soldiers telling their stories, videos from the outside, bombs, viruses, evidence of what our government has been doing all this time. We play this and then we cut to you.”

“How do you know this is going to work?” I ask, wary.

“I know the video is going to work, I’ve tested it a hundred times. I just need you to tell your story. I can’t have you rattled, okay? So, there is one thing that you need to know.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking at me sideways. “There are ten members of the President’s closest advisors that will be there,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Your mom will be there. Are you ready for that?” he asks, studying my face.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” But a lump rises in my throat, months of unanswered questions rising to the front of my mind. My mom. My mom who saved me, who shot me, who knew I would be okay, who turned me into an experiment, who left me there. I push the thought down, trying to hide the nausea bubbling in my stomach. “I’ll be fine,” I say again, more for myself than for him. But my fingers reach for my chest without thinking, rubbing where a bullet wound should be.

Hopefully.