Land

Chapter 4

The factory continued to hum around Lyra as she worked. The general buzz of activity was still ever-present and it constantly kept her on edge. It seemed like nothing had changed since that terrible day; she was still stuck in Mort and she still loathed the Faction. The only proof she had to show that something was different were the red marks on her back.

It had been three weeks since that day and Lyra, despite her best efforts, could not settle her thoughts. Memories from Alder's office repeatedly played in her head over and over. The sickeningly sweet odour, his manic laughter, Freya's screams. All were etched deep in Lyra's mind and each one made her want to throw up.

Yet these individual thoughts could not compare to the agonising pain that Lyra had felt when she was whipped. The humiliation which had burnt her cheeks as she stood topless in front of Alder was almost unbearable to replay in her mind. She winced as she remembered the way the metal ball had sliced through her skin, like a knife through butter. She reached round with her arm and ran a finger along the sensitive scars underneath her work rags. The slightest of touches still sent shivers across her body.

Even though they were still fresh in her memory, Lyra was determined to forget the awful images that had re-surfaced inside her head and so decided to set all of her concentration towards the conveyor belt. She never thought there would be a day where she'd find herself having to entirely focus on working. Doing so meant she was completely willing to aid the Faction, an idea that she resented. One thing was for certain, Alder had failed to break Lyra's spirit. Ever since the day the Land Faction had murdered Moira nothing could change the way Lyra hated Victor and Alder, and all of those in power.

As these thoughts crossed Lyra's mind, she notice that there was something odd about the conveyor belt that day. It was completely empty.

Usually it would be crammed full of weapon pieces. In fact there would often be too many parts for the workers to keep up with, but today it was different. The conveyor belt continued to squeak along at its usual pace yet there were no parts to be seen. Lyra looked across to the other workers sitting at their desks however each of them seemed to be engrossed in their own work. She was the only one without something to fix.

She scanned along the moving platform until her eyes came to rest on something far in the distance. One of the workers had placed a lone pistol onto the conveyor belt, and it was slowly edging its way towards her. Whenever one worker could not figure out how to repair a weapon, they would put it back for another person to try and fix further down the line.

Each worker in front of Lyra had their own weapon to focus on, so each left the gun to continue down its route. She watched as the pistol was carried along the conveyor belt, as if it were meant for her. Once it was close enough, she reached over and grabbed it, being careful not to move too fast for fear of ripping open one of the scars on her back.

The weapon was heavy in her hand. It was a 44. calibre revolver and Lyra instantly knew what the problem was. Its re-loading cylinder was jammed. She tried with all her might to force the cylinder open but it refused to move. After a few minutes of inspection, she realised that all the gun needed was a drop or two of oil. It was this sudden thought that triggered a wave of suspicion inside her.

This was such an easy problem to fix. Why had it been passed down by the worker ahead of her? Unless they had intended for it to be taken to Lyra. Perhaps he or she had timed it so no one before Lyra would have picked up the gun.

 She peered over her desk to see if she could find any sign of the worker in her thoughts, but everyone still had their heads down. She caught the stare of a guard and quickly looked back to her own work.

Underneath her desk was a small toolbox with various equipment. She placed it on the table and unclipped the lock. Inside were the basic essentials that any handyman would need. Her hand hovered over the hammer, screwdriver and miniature crowbar before finding the small canister of oil tucked away in the corner. She pulled it out and slowly poured three drops into a small gap on the edge of the revolver's cylinder.