A budding writer with a bunch of ingenious rebels risk their lives to try and overthrow an oppressive government to earn back their liberty of expression. They need to unify and put aside their differences, interests and pasts, and race against time...
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"Chest Number two thousand two hundred and twenty-nine, " a high pitched voice called. Alizeh almost tumbled out of her seat, adjusted her glasses and rushed to the counter where the receptionist who had been yawning for the past half an hour, gave her an irritated glance.
"Name?" she asked in a monotonous voice.
"Alizeh Parekh."
"Profession?"
"My father is a businessman—"
"Your profession please, Miss," the receptionist looked up for the first time in almost an hour and Alizeh could see the haunted eyes behind her rimmed glasses.
She was young, hardly in her late twenties but the toll of the war was visible on her face already. Alizeh wondered if this was what people saw when they looked at her too — an empty shell of a human being.
The receptionist was tapping her nails impatiently on the desk.
"Why do you need to know my profession though?" Alizeh asked.
"We don't ask questions here, Miss. Lots of people queuing behind you for their turn." As if in tandem, a few grunts and sighs came up from behind her.
"I'm a writer."
The receptionist's head shot up again, "A writer? What is that supposed to mean?"
Alizeh was a bit taken aback. She knew writing wasn't a cool and respectable profession to adopt, especially in the post-war period. But that was who she was, on the inside.
Swallowing some bitter comments she finally said, "I write books."
"Oh! You mean the artist class, right?" the receptionist typed away furiously on her keyboard.
"Yeah, if you mean in that way then writing is obviously an art but—"
"Cloud Nine," the receptionist cut her off.
"Aahh... What?"
"You're to be accommodated on Cloud Number Nine in the Cloud Kingdom of Audra," she explained, handing over a small slip. "Show this at the landing entrance."
