Birds could be heard chirping outside. The evening sun had yet to hide away underneath the horizon.
"Sister, I will return shortly."
Estolei glanced up in alarm from the clothes she was mending. Her brother had brought them to her the day before. She refrained from asking about the rips and blood stains on the material. "Be safe, Avriktael."
Avriktael paused in the doorway to the shack they called home. His tall, broad frame covered the entirety of the entrance. "For you, I always am." The sincerity in his voice was unusual to hear these days. Lying came as a second nature to him. He didn't like to lie, but he had to. It was what kept him and his beloved sister alive.
Estolei bit her lip in an attempt to abate her fear. Avriktael often stepped foot into shady territory in the Outskirts. He could take care of himself, Estolei knew. He was the leader of their Clan. But that did not stop her from worrying every time Avriktael left the safety of their home.
Letting loose a sigh, Estolei returned to mending the ripped pair of jeans Avriktael had presented her earlier that day. She flinched at the thought of the scar the jagged knife that went through them must have left.
>>>
Scothmpson paused in his search for a particular item of clothing. "Kierstaer, have you seen my work shirt?"
Kierstaer appeared from the other room. "I think it's in the dryer. I'll go check."
Scothmpson didn't have the time to thank her, for she was out of sight the next second. He double-checked his appearance, making sure his hair was styled to regulations instituted by the Council.
"Here it is!" Kierstaer exclaimed.
Scothmpson hushed her. "You know that yelling is only permitted for the Riots. Do you wish to get ticketed?"
Kierstaer's expression fell. "I apologize. I won't have a lapse in judgement again."
"Thank you for finding my shirt." He quickly pulled it over his head. "I must be going now. I don't want to be late." He placed a fond kiss on her forehead. "Have a nice day at the Factory."
Kierstaer smiled. "I will. Thank you. I hope you have a swell day, as well."
>>>
Mitchane glanced disdainfully at his nails. "I don't understand why they persist to protest when they are always so eager to return to their unambiguous routines."
Kevelle turned a page in his book on the Council's laws. "They believe it is a freedom they can actively express without the Council further limiting their resources."
A snort sounded from Mitchane. Kevelle spared a glance at the male. "Yes, Mitchane?"
Mitchane uncrossed his legs and picked at a slight snag in his shirt. He would have to tell one of the Polishers that worked at his house to throw it out. It was two weeks old, anyway. Being a Grassi, he could not be seen in public in anything but the best fashion. It was how his family rose to Wisher status, after all. "It seems after all of these years they would have accepted their place in the Clans."
Kevelle sighed, accepting the fact that his book would have to wait. Mitchane was in a talking mood. As his friend, it was his job to participate in conversation. "I believe they have accepted their roles. But, it is not in human nature to submit completely. The Polishers retain their humanity and individuality by peacefully protesting certain topics that are broad and generally not important enough to disturb the laws, and thus the Council leaves them be." He bookmarked his book. "They are better than the Riots, in that sense."
Mitchane looked at Kevelle. "I don't know. Haven't you ever thought of how dominant and violent a Riot male is in bed?"
"No," Kevelle replied simply. "Watch your language, Mitchane, unless another Wisher were to hear your crude words."
Mitchane rolled his eyes and began reapplying his makeup.
>>>
Six very different lives. Six very different people.
They will all be brought together. It is The Plan, after all.
