Frozen Solid

Pilot

Frozen Solid - A.V. DeVogel

…

It was raining hard down upon Little Wington.  The citizens were all running around carrying newspapers or umbrellas to shield themselves from being soaked even more than they already were.

A lone figure stood still, holding a black umbrella.  She was a spy from the government, sent to watch the citizens of Little Wington.  Anyone could rebel.  So they must be watched.

She did not talk to any of the other passerby.  Best not to let her guard down.  Anyone of them could rebel and strike her down.  Anyone of them could kill.

Not that she was a harmless kitten, either.  She had knives strapped to her arms and a razor blade in her umbrella.  She was always ready for them.

A couple of street kids ran past her.  Her senses sparked.  She had found them.

She began the chase, her dark combat boots pounding on the slick ground.  The cold water would give anyone else the chills, but she was a trained soldier.  She was resistant.

The kids in front of her noticed they were being followed, and split up.  She skidded to a stop, then with only a moments hesitation, rocketed after the slowest one.

Rebels always were righteous, going after a captured friend or comrade.  They thought they could change something; take this world into its golden years again instead of the monster it was now.

They all thought that if they just tried, the government who forbade even the slightest bit of abnormalcy, would crumble.  If they defended their honor, if they saved their friends from the death that awaited them from the officials, then other lives would change.  Others would be inspired.

Their motives were stupid.  There was no right; no future; no tomorrow, no free thinking.  They couldn’t save what was beyond broken.

The world, dark and always watching your step… she could understand perfectly the need to scream, the need to change everything and be allowed to just be yourself, but the president, the one man who stood on top of the entire world and ruled all its separate provinces with an iron hand, he made sure that anyone out of rhythm was eliminated.  Even if the pressure to be what you weren’t weighed down so hard that you found a gun and you shot the police who tried to stop you, gathered friends on your back, organized a movement in the name of freedom, and ran about the streets looking for a way to make a different in everyone’s miserable lives.

She had been there, she had done that.  She had fought, and lost horribly.  They were all slaughtered, all except her and Jazmin, who had connections in the White Palace.  Rebellion was the worst choice she had ever made, and now she was the government’s slave.  So she would hunt down these rebels until they were just like her.

Slaves.

The rebel she was chasing had hit a dead end. He was a dead man.  She ran straight after him.  He was hiding in a corner, shivering.  He had innocent young brown eyes.  He made her sick.

“You’re mine.” She snarled, her breath only slightly puffing out from the long chase they‘d had.  A shot was heard throughout the night as a bullet whizzed straight into the rebel’s head.

“And now you’re dead.” She said solemnly, her voice still rough and catchy.  She bowed her head at the rebel, and ran off into the cloudy, raining night.

…

Jaime Morgan’s death was the headline news.  He was declared a rebel against the government; a deserter and a murderer.  His sister, Susan Morgan, too was tried for being related to a known insurgent.