Insurgence [h.s]

two

THE PALACE, November 5th 2263

Jayden nudges the tray on the table with a finger. "You haven't eaten a thing."

Jesse ignores him and pulls his knees closer to his chest, curled up in the armchair next to the floor-to-ceiling window. He's already tried it—it's locked. As if he could ever escape through it, as if it isn't an opening three hundred feet above hard ground. Unless they believe he might do something else. He wonders if they know how absurd it is to worry for his wellbeing after what they did to the Revolution.

Jayden clears his throat, behind him. The door at his back is open wide, and Jesse can see his reflection in the glass of the window. Jayden is undoubtedly waiting for him to say something, but he has nothing to say. Nothing he'd like to hear, at least. It's a peculiar feeling. He's spoken so much, believed so much, and yet this betrayal stings so painfully. He didn't even truly believe in Ezra's Revolution; why does it matter so much?

"Can't you just..." Jayden's voice pauses. He doesn't know what to say—frankly enough, Jesse doesn't either. He supposes you were holding Alouette's betrayal like an axe above her head while you were planning on doing so much worse behind her back doesn't quite encompass the complexity of the situation. There are no words for betrayal of this caliber—it's the emptiness between the stars. It transcends his comprehension.

Lark died for nothing.

If Lark had survived, he would've been killed in the attack.

There are no words for this feeling—this knowing, deep down, that his loved ones wouldn't have been spared no matter what. It seems an added cruelty that he should live—and why? Because he caught the attention of a Palace guard? Because Jayden wouldn't have felt good slaughtering him together with everyone else?

Jesse shudders. His shoulder hurts; he's refused to take anything he was given for the three days he's been here, including painkillers. This fake type of caring is too twisted, even for him. Do they think he'll forget it all and move on just because they've shown him some kindness in the attempt to redeem themselves in his eyes? He's not even angry; anger can't describe the complex tangle of emotions inside him right now. Loss after loss, betrayal, rage, pain have fused together to create something new and sharp-edged—and violently blunted by the fact that he can't do anything. He isn't that type of fighter—he's never been. He's never been able to put it all on the line for an organisation.

"Jesse, I'm so sorry—"

Jesse shoots up. In three quick, wobbling steps, he's inches away from Jayden's face. "Don't say another word," he spits out. "Don't stand here and pretend you care, you fucking—"

"Am I interrupting?"

Jesse jolts and looks behind Jayden. Harry is standing in the doorway with Jackson at his side, a half-smile on his lips. His suit is black as pitch, his dress shirt so white it's near blinding. He doesn't even look real—like a hallucination brought forth by Jesse's lack of food.

Jesse bares his teeth. "What do you want?"

Harry steps into the room, that infuriating smile still on his face. His eyes slide over the blankets thrown on the floor, the open wardrobe with clothes falling out. "I like what you've done with the place," he says sarcastically.

Jesse takes a step back, staring at him as he would at a wild beast, fearful it may attack at any moment. Or fearful he may attack Harry and get punished for it—both options are equally likely. He's feeling the siren call of self-destruction today.

"You're dismissed, Bryce," Harry says, without taking his eyes off Jesse.

Jayden seems hesitant, like he's scared one of them might not survive if he gets out of their way. It's a ridiculous fear, but part of Jesse can't help but share it with him. He feels like danger, and he knows Harry would be more than happy to follow through if he just gave him a reason to. He might've thought they were allies, at some point, but he's never forgotten who he is and what he's capable of.