Page 82 of Because I Killed Him
Except for one.
She never took a risk again.
THE DAY DEMOCRACY STOOD STILL
By the Tattler, Tattletale
Grandmaster University, October 1st
Some call the assassination attempt on our great and glorious President Theodore Reeve a “Blue conspiracy.” Others prefer the dramatic flair of “a foiled coup.” But let us not mince words. The fateful night of September 27th was far more than political treachery. It was THE DAY DEMOCRACY STOOD STILL. A day when twenty-eight high-citizens, paragons of privilege and propriety, chose betrayal over duty, aiming to remake the law in their image and for their own gain. Shocking, is it not?
Yesterday, fresh from his discharge at Pembroke Hospital, President Reeve returned to the Golden Gate Manor to a thunderous show of support. The silence among his peers, once deafening, has given way to a chorus of contrition. The high-citizens who stood idle are now rallying around President Reeve, granting him the mandate to deliver justice. Twenty-six Blues are under house arrest, awaiting trial for crimes that defy comprehension.
Let us outline the specifics. Two Blues are charged with the brazen attempt on President Reeve’s life. Six face allegations of murdering two low-citizen representatives who supported the Bliss Prohibition Act. Eight more are accused of snuffing out the promising lives of three Grandmaster University students, and ten stand accused of attempting to do the same to three other students. Grim math, indeed.
The Civilized World watches now with bated breath, for if convicted, these high-citizens will face the ultimate sentence: public execution. The guillotine, long reserved for the lowest among us, is poised to claim its first high-citizen heads. History waits. Justice looms. And you can trust the Tattler to keep you informed every step of the way.
I close the Tattletale article, my eyes dry from staring too long. The words don’t feel real. They read like a cruel joke, as if the page willdissolve into mocking laughter and be replaced by a giant middle finger.
I move to the window of my suite and crack it open enough to let the birdsong drift in from the gardens below. The melody flutters, light and carefree, as if in ridicule of the crushing weight that hangs over the campus. Outside, the morning sun burns sharply; its rays cut clean through the cloudless sky, so bright they bleach the Guillotine Yard and reduce it to a hazy blur.
For the first time, the guillotine doesn’t feel like a threat.
At least, not to me.
Justice.The word feels like a stranger in my mind. It’s something low-citizens like me aren’t supposed to rely on, let alone believe in. All my life, the rules were fixed: Blues stood high, the rest of us low. And that was that. No exceptions or possibilities of change, just thirsty, wilting dreams.
But now, everything seems different. Loyalties have shifted. Power has changed hands. Goals that once seemed unshakable have crumbled in days. The entire political landscape has been turned on its head, and every step feels precarious, teetering between victory and defeat.
And yet, for the first time, I feel a flicker of hope. I can’t help but reach for it, clinging to the thought that maybe the days ahead could bring something new. Something good.
“Miss Waldsten. Mr. Prew’s vehicle has arrived to collect you.”
I glance up to see a Pinkie standing in the doorway. It’s designed to resemble a young man, with slicked-back dark hair and a pencil mustache. Going from six Pinkies to only one feels like a steep drop, but as long as I remain in Edmund’s entourage, it’s enough.
I grab my bag and head down to the lobby of the Green Dormitory. The butterfly doors glide open, revealing a campus bustling with the usual morning rush before class. Holographic jazz bands blast brassy tunes from the street corners, while drones drift merrily overhead, displaying class schedules and the fastest routes to the Lecture Halls. Yet the liveliness clashes with the students’ unsettled mood.
They huddle in groups as I walk past, their whispers cycling through the same shocking list: the Speakeasy murders, the assassination attempt on President Reeve, the fallout, and the high-citizen arrests.
Like me, nobody can quite grasp it. But beneath the disbelief, a currentruns through all of us, a terrifying yet hopeful possibility that the Blues might soon learn what it means to bleed.
Edmund’s hovercar idles at the curb. It’s larger and flashier than the one I rode in at the Speakeasy, luxurious from the ornamental grille to taillights. No doubt he has a private garage tucked away somewhere on campus, filled with vehicles like this, each customized to suit a particular whim.
As I approach, Jack’s and Charlotte’s muffled voices seep through the hovercar’s tinted windows. Their fiery tones cut through the jazz music from across the street. I hesitate, hand hovering over the door handle. Edmund doesn’t tolerate lateness, but stepping into the middle of this feels wrong.
“I was never the one for you, darling,” Jack says, his voice eerily matter-of-fact. “I see that now.”
“Don’t do that, Jack,” Charlotte snaps. “Don’t cheapen what we had. Yes, I screwed up. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Yes, it does,” he interrupts. “Because you can’t ruin something that’s meant for you.”
The tension between them is suffocating even from outside the hovercar. But I can’t wait any longer. Forcing a smile, I climb inside and greet them as if I hadn’t heard a thing.
They both nod quickly, then retreat into their corners of silence. Jack sits stiffly, his legs planted like a braced bull, and lets out an irritated sigh. He pulls out a cigarette case, shakes it, and frowns when he realizes it’s empty.
Charlotte smirks. She takes out her case and slips a cigarette between her lips, deliberately not offering him one. Then she pulls out her emerald-studded lighter, only to find the fluid has run dry. Jack spins his lighter in his fingers with a grin, the metallic click loud in the tense silence. Charlotte grits her teeth until the cigarette in her mouth snaps in half.
The ride to pick up Dickie feels longer than two minutes. Charlotte mutters under her breath as she fusses with her silk scarf and cloche hat, each movement a futile attempt to hide her shaved head. Jack stares out the window, drumming his fingers against his thigh, his usual swagger dimmed but restless. It feels like being stuck in a lifeboat withtwo people determined to poke holes in it rather than share it, even if it means sinking themselves. I count the seconds until we reach the Orange Dormitory.
