When sisters with lethal touch are taken to Sector 45, commanders start to fall. Regions break apart. Revolution starts.
Based on Tahereh Mafi's Shatter Me. Characters and plots belong to the author except for my OC's and my own plot with them.
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I have a story too. Those are the words that send shivers down my spine. They get caught halfway down my throat because those words are mine. They were mine when I reached into my boot and threw my blade at a passing soldier. Not for any particular reason except for he pissed me off. They were mine when I smiled sadistically before killing my victims—my enemies. They had the decency to beg before their lives before their flesh was torn from their very bones and their blood boiled down to nothing.
Those words are still mine as I wash scarlet blood from my hands in the washbin.
My blood-ridden, broken body stares back at me. I grip the sides of the washbin and force myself to look away from my face. Oh gods, my face. Its once-clean exterior is full of gunpowder. My hair is matted with dirt and debris from the explosion. I swallow thickly, tears rimming my eyes as I blink them away furiously.
I look up at the mirror once again. The tears are gone, replaced with anger. Simmering, hot, rage. I know myself, and this isn't the version of me that keeps my heart beating. That girl is no longer weak. She's a warrior.
She's in fucking control.
I can still hear my father's orders pounding in my ears; The explosion he told me to set in one of the enemy's bases still rings in my ears. The children that crumbled down with the bricks and mortar. The pipelines that burst and flooded the entire lawn out front, drenching chrysanthemums and leaching soil so that nothing beautiful would ever grow on the pristine grass again.
Blood.
Blood.
It smells of iron. I wash my hands and dry them on a towel, letting the gentle red colour stain the white material. The fibers clutch to the clumps of dry blood and strip it off my skin. My father will be here later today, and if he doesn't see blood...
Why do siblings think they can steal anything from you? Does he really think that just because he's my brother I won't fuck him up for stealing my shit? Again?
I am so glad that I've just finished my training session, knives at the ready, and guns strapped in every uncomfortable position on my body. Well, my father would be proud. But I don't care for the literal motherfucker.
Guards turn the other way when they see me. The new ones at least, not the old ones who knew me far before I'd become the very thing my father wanted me to; A weapon. Kishimoto for example. He barely flinched when I punched him in the gut earlier today. I know my brother would kill me for using father and Anderson in the same sentence, however, I am his creation. And he'll never let me forget it.
"Where's the little shit?" I ask, barging into my brother's room.
Seamus Fletcher's mouth falls open. I guess the guards of Sector 45 are still not used to me degrading my brother like that. He's older...so I guess that means I have to respect him? Whoever came up with that bullshit was clearly not a younger sibling.
"Wh—Alexandra?" Aaron asks, somehow tight-lipped and pissed off at the same time.
I clench my jaw. He knows I hate it when he uses my full name. It's a reminder—a reminder of something we both want to forget. The blade of guilt is too much for him to handle as the poison of sorrow is for me. A part of me wants to push the blade in deeper and deeper. Not until my brother is dead, but until he is close enough to the brink so that he can apologize to her.
"Where's my book, and the other half of my wardrobe?"
Aaron glares at me. I realize what he thinks I've done, but I'm not that stupid. I've killed things more stupid than a grain of rice.
"My diary," I say.
He cracks a grin. "You keep a diary?"
"You keep a diary," I mock. "Stop the sneakiness and give it back. I happen to know seven types of martial arts and I won't hesitate to kick some sense into that giant mop head of yours."
Aaron runs a hand across his hair as if to prove a point. Oh, I would love to get a pair of scissors and cut it all off. He's always doing that.
He gets up from his chair and beckons Fletcher to follow him. "We're having some guests later tonight."
I run through the possibilities in my head. "They" could mean Supreme Commanders. Maybe they're arriving today because of the battle preparations.
Still, I have to ask. "What kind of guests?"
He shuffles the papers at his desk. It is only now that I see the bags underneath his eyes and wonder just how much sleep he's getting. Clearly not enough. "The not-so-friendly kind," he says.
I dig out blood from underneath my nails. "I'll go sharpen my blades."
He reaches out to grab my arm. I try not to flinch as his fingers find the raw grooves my father left on me last night. Aaron's green eyes bore into mine. "Don't kill either of them. I mean it."
I shove his hand off my arm and spin a blade, throwing it at the small centimeter gap between the both of them.
"I'm not you," I say and walk to the dining hall. "Start being grateful."
