Tyrant

(𝟷𝟽) 𝙲𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚕

On the long trek back to the Base, the sound of the Siren still rang like a long-gone cry for help in my ears.

Fallon and I had made it back within the course of two hours, before noon, and the second I had placed the cannisters of beans and chicken in the Food Sector of the Bunk Rooms, I staggered to the Sleep Sector for some much-needed rest.

Zehra was nowhere to be found, likely tending to her Healer duties at this hour, and Fallon had  stated that she must meet with The Top to reschedule the dates for Retriever duties.

And my roommate, who I had spoken to about four times, is still missing.

I try not to let that unnerve me as much as it should, and instead savor the calm silence that floats around me like a tranquil moonrise.

Half a day spent on Retriever duties has already worn me out, I consider, as I lean my arms behind my head and stare up at the wooden ceiling. 

And as I remember the sight of a young child howling and bawling over her dead mother's body, any thoughts of relaxation and relief wink out of me like a dying star—I sit up and run a hand over my face.

You couldn't have done anything. It is what it is.

I cradle my head in my hands and recall all those miserable, joyless faces I had set eyes upon this morning. Faces of children, elderly, adults, babies—

It's unfair, I decide. It's unfair that those citizens must suffer out there while I'm over here, enjoying the and safety and companionship and empowerment this Base offers.

Running a hand through my sticky, oily hair, I deem myself in need of a bath—to clean my body, and to ease these thoughts that drip in my head like a leaky pipe.

I make my way to the Bath Sector of the Bunk Rooms—out of my bedroom, to the right, and into a door at the end of the long hall; the Food Sector resides on the opposite end of the same hallway.

I stride in and spy two of the twenty shower stalls occupied—closed nylon curtains and the sound of running water mark their usage. At this time of day, I tell myself, most rebels are busy and working, leaving the Bath Sector empty.

And I thank myself for deciding to get clean at this hour and not wait until later in the day—although the shower stalls themselves are private, with curtains and walls to maintain privacy while bathing, the main area is indeed mixed—similar to open locker rooms from Before. No dividers separate women and men, leaving both to freely change clothing articles in front of one another if they wished.

Just a minor issue. Though not many seemed to mind, as some girls and guys had stridden out of their private shower stalls with only a towel around their body, throwing on some clothes from the metal lockers on each side of the room—right side for women, left for men. 

Without any assistance, I had realized my first few days at the Base that each locker contains different outfits in various sizes—and I had always chosen non-white attire.

These past weeks, I made it a habit to always pick my after-shower clothing first, then change into everything inside the stall, after bathing. And even with war and violence and corruption swarming the continent, I still felt the need for modesty—for decency.

Today, I drag out a black sweater and thick leggings, as the chill this morning had not only been caused by my fear of the Siren, but by the icy, sweeping wind that signaled an approaching winter.

As I walk for an empty stall, setting the clean clothes outside it and within reach, a nylon curtain snaps open to reveal a tall, dark-haired male in a towel—wrapped dangerously low around his waist.