The humidity in the air makes it insufferable to breathe on the makeshift landing pad, positioned atop an abandoned building. Iris was informed she couldn't land on base because that would draw too much attention. The weather is strikingly cold compared to the temperatures in the region where she lives most of the time. A gust of wind hits her face and grains of sand tickle her eyes to the point when she has to force her eyelids shut. She does up the buttons of her black coat and puts her freezing hands in its large pockets, then decides to approach the two men standing at a safe distance from the aircraft.
Once the space between Iris and the respective men diminishes, she can distinguish their features more clearly. Based on their rigid attire, they appear to be soldiers serving the Reestablishment. The omnipresent insignia of the new governing power woven on the sleeve of the shirt that is part of their uniform gives their position away even easier.
Their features are sharp, carrying the coldness of lifelessness. The sky painted in shades of grey, the naked tree branches spread into the distance, in clusters of gnarly mazes floating above the dried earth perfectly compliment the heartless looks of the soldiers currently standing in front of her.
"Miss Gibson?" one of them inquires mechanically, his grip tightening on the rifle he's holding in front of his body.
"That would be me, yes," she retorts grimly, staring absentmindedly at the vast forest occupying a significant surface of the unregulated territories.
"The Supreme Commander has asked me to lead you to the location where he intends to meet you," the soldier speaks, walking alongside the girl towards the emergency stairs of the building.
"Very well," she responds, already climbing down the rusty stairs, ahead of the guards.
The guards then lead her to a bulky black tank stationed not too far into the woods. They motion for her to sit in the back, an order that she wouldn't usually comply with. Considering that she has no idea where the so-called rendezvous point is, she accepts to take her seat. One of the two soldiers joins her in the back, holding his rifle pointed in her direction. Iris is immune to such threats, she knows it's hardly a formality. If she wanted to rid herself of them, she could do it. But her thoughts are elsewhere.
And her biggest concern is whether or not she can face Aaron Warner, if he just so happens to show up and stand by his father's side. He is a long lost memory that seemed to be about to form a scar and stop hurting, but it keeps festering instead. It stings and it draws her attention with a magnetic force. Because the only person that's ever seen her for what she was abandoned her too, left her all alone to dance with her demons.
The thought of him suddenly repels her. She shouldn't be mourning a friendship that was never properly welded in the first place. A distancing that she never received an explanation for.
"The Supreme Commander is expecting you in the dwelling over there," the soldier declares, the omnipresent frown still etched onto his young face. "Number 102."
Iris merely nods and acknowledges the piece of information, then gets outside, closely followed by one of the two guards. He keeps his distance, but follows every step of hers intently.
The house where she is supposed to meet Paris Anderson looks wretched from outside, no splashes of colour to make it stand out from the rest of the neighbourhood comprising of similarly abandoned houses. The roof has got a few missing tiles, the flower pots placed all over the dilapidated porch are filled with mossy chunks of earth, having been evidently neglected for many years. The shroud of darkness surrounding the house completely dismantles the young woman. It looks like a miniature of a dream house, its welcoming aura having been washed away by rain. The never-ending rain produced by The Reestablishment to cleanse the civilised world of the filthy remnants of joviality of everything that happened before they took over.
Iris analyses all of this without ever slowing down her monotonous stride, till her view becomes a large entrance door. The door was once painted in a warm shade of green, that layer now peeling off its wooden surface. Her fist trembles as her soft knuckles graze the door and now she has to stand there and wait. Compelled to wait until she is faced with Anderson's artificially handsome features, concealing the cruelty residing underneath that deceiving appearance of the man who - one could swear - stole the DNA of the myth that Adonis is a weave it with the genes inherited from his parents. The man and the woman that Iris never met; Aaron's paternal grandparents.
Two minutes have passed. Still no sign of Anderson, no sign of movement inside the house either. She doesn't give way to the internal panic, causing her heartbeat to thump against her chest, the intrusive ideas, implying that she doesn't have much left to live. Iris is tempted to drink in the vastness of the sky above her one last time, by those very same thoughts inviting her to enjoy her last minutes on Earth, to appreciate the beauty of life one last time. The final bow. The beauty she's never really observed. The beauty which has always been dominated by how absolutely gruesome her reality was, is and always will be. Because Iris Gibson has never known peace of mind.
But now everything makes sense. The sky looks like a getaway, her ticket to Eden, to the beauty she's subconsciously sought since she still knew the taste of strawberry ice cream. The taste of strawberry ice cream. Its sweet aroma tickles her taste buds like a phantom memory, buried into the core of her being.
But that prospect - namely dying - doesn't even faze her. She's seen plenty of suffering to realise that there are worse things in life than death. That being a mere civilian living in those filthy compounds is synonymous with mass torture.
Before she can overthink all these notions taking over her brain, controlling her imposed detachment and turning it to flame, Anderson appears in the threshold. He looks eerily identical to the image of him stored in her memory. Soft wrinkles have formed around his mouth and on his glistening forehead, yet not tragically enough to alter his features in an ungraceful manner.
"Hello, Iris. Come in," he says slowly, taking his time to process the young presence on his territory.
Her face gives away her genes more than anything else. Her eyes are a carbon copy of her father's, so round and somehow dead. Her nose, with its hunched shape was sculpted having her paternal figure as a model. Too much like Benjamin, the Commander of North America thinks. He wonders if his daughter is as stubborn and well-spoken as him. Benjamin Gibson was a political idealist who dedicated himself to the Reestablishment, seeking in his political structure a sense of order and discipline. Nature was wreaking havoc against the people who colonised its pristine lands too many ages ago to recall how much sentient beings had spoilt and how much of it had remained authentic, true to its untamed roots.
Iris Gibson may be short and still an eighteen-year-old who's hardly dipped her toes into the terrifying realms of adulthood, but she's known how to act responsibly since she was going through puberty. And Anderson is well-aware of her capabilities, her innate leadership prowess and, above all, her unquenchable desire to have things under control.
She saunters past the shabby door and into a spacious living room, serving as a hall as well. The room has a lived in aspect; there's a pile of magazines - such as Vogue and Elle and Cosmopolitan - that she recognises instantly since one of the housekeepers from her childhood also hoarded them. There's a TV, a huge one, above a fireplace. And across from the coffee table which is covered with the countless magazines in a sofa. Its red upholstery looks soft and clean. That is where Iris decides she should take a seat.
"Coffee? Wine? Scotch?" Anderson asks his guest, who denies his offer.
He doesn't insist.
He takes a seat next to her, the small gap between them prompting Iris to feel uncomfortable, even slightly disgusted. The man reeks of injustice and tyranny and everything that the messed up government puts on a pedestal. And as guilty as she is of perpetuating the same system and agreeing on so many atrocities, these values are imbued in every mitochondria belonging to Paris Anderson. He was not taught to uphold these ideals, he embraced them because a large quantity of them are created by him and Iris's father.
The older man avoids any further pleasantries, clears his throat and proceeds to reveal his request of Iris Gibson.
"As you probably assume, I have a request. It's an obligation, honestly. If you refuse to comply, your fate will be the same as your father's."
No hint of emotion at the mention of an old friend.
"Alright, I want to hear it first."
"My son is incredibly...weak. It pains me to say this, but his judgment is clouded by what I presume is desperation. I don't trust him as a leader of an entire sector anymore," Anderson speaks coherently, emphasising his distrust and criticism of his own offspring. "He can't be left to his own devices."
"And what does this have to do with me?" Iris raises an eyebrow, staring at the coffee table absentmindedly.
Her eyes land on a figure she could recognise anywhere. Leila Warner, woman of unspeakable beauty conquering the cover of Vogue. She looks very young, no older than twenty. Dressed in a blue dress that hugs her feminine curves, the front of her body is propped on her forearms against a white wall. There are only subtle hints of makeup on her face that only enhance her natural beauty. Her hair is damp, akin to the rest of her skin, adding another layer of sensuality to the photoshoot. Leila was once that: a femme fatale who went on to become a journalist, pursuing her passion for writing. Her voice was silenced by her very own husband, who made sure Leila would end up nothing more than a burnt out star.
Anderson somehow notices what Iris's eyes are looking at, overanalysing in typical Gibson fashion. He picks up the magazine staring his wife and lets out a snort of irony. In the hands of the monster breathing the same molecules of air as herself, the young woman with honey blonde curls appears to be...different. Her facial expression seems to have shifted from a confident one to a submissive, frightened one.
"That useless boy is just like her, soft and pathetic," Anderson declares through gritted teeth, holding the magazine even tighter between his fingers before throwing it back on the table.
Iris pretends to ignore his remark and hopes that he'll resume the troubling conversation.
"A 17-year-old girl named Juliette has been brought on base recently. Well, not recently. A few months ago. She has unusual abilities, a lethal touch, which is an invaluable asset. I don't like the way he's handling this and I suspect he doesn't actually intend to use her as a weapon to aid us," Anderson expresses his bizarre concerns. "I want you to live on base and supervise his actions, make sure he doesn't ruin everything."
"I understand," she retorts plainly. "But what if I don't want to deal with your shitty son either?"
"You don't have a choice unless you want to lose everything you've ever had," Anderson threatened Iris, causing her to swallow dryly.
And if it weren't for her mother, the woman she's striving to protect, Iris would most likely storm outside. But Anderson knows her weakness and recognises that his son and Benjamin's daughter are alike in so many ways. They don't want to show it, they never do, but they secretly care. Deeply, and not for themselves, but for those who showed nothing but kindness to them.
"And what would my duties involve?" she asks for further explanations, her rule of thumb in connection with making sure she's staying out of messy situations and deadly traps.
"Co-leadership of Sector 45, as well as reports to me on everything that transpires on base and in the compounds. Convince my son to put the plan into practice, to use Juliette as a weapon," his voice is terse.
"Consider it done," Iris indirectly assents, on the verge of sitting up and fixing the wrinkles that have formed on her dress.
"You'll be living on base, you'll be provided with private quarters, where there is an office, a bedroom, a walk-in closet and a bathroom. Just like your prior living space, if I'm not wrong."
"Will I ever return to Europe?" Iris asks, cordially.
"Depending on how well you do your job, we will see," he says, then brings his veiny hands to his greying hair.
Iris assumes - since she's too afraid to actually ask the question - that Aaron Warner hasn't got a clue about her arrival. Or about the fact that they are going to reunite after so many years of distancing themselves from one another. She feels in control, anticipation just how taken aback her old friend is likely to be.
Maybe he'll regret cutting her off. And now she can't offer him the same cold treatment she's endured throughout her teenage years.
