C0NV3RG3 (Sequel to M3RG3)

Chapter 7

Friday

Lyla

Changing out of my lavender skirt, I shrugged into my black and white sports pants, pulling on my navy-blue hoodie. Hopefully, I would be less conspicuous and sneak in unnoticed.

The Footage Room had a few computers and a huge hardware database stacked against the walls. Dust gathered on the thick binders, the papers yellowed with age. Some Security were busy at work as they inspected one camera after the other, fingers flying across the keyboard with mechanical grace. I waved my Tabloid at them. Fortunately, they let me through, eyes trained on their computer screens.

I plopped down on one of the chairs, swiping my Tabloid across the sensor. It blinked green, and the computer hummed to life.

You had a sister. She's still here. Arista whispered. You didn't tell me much about her though.

"Do you know what she looks like?" Instantly, a picture formed in my mind. It was a sketch, made of carefully coloured strokes and black ink outline. Her hair was chocolate brown, eyes the same shade as mine. Her jawline was angular, her lips thin. Still, her gaze was wistful, trained on something far away, something that wasn't... Here.

I had never met her before. She replied. But she sounded like an amazing sister.

"Tell me everything," I demanded. A few Security sent me weird looks, and I quickly sent them a sheepish smile. "Sorry," I mouthed.

She had perfect grades and was the star of the Republic. People either admired her or envied her. She was placed on a pedestal and was expected to live an amazing life filled with technology and glory. In the end, she only wanted your family to be happy.

Arista paused, her voice darkening. She became so busy that she rarely came home to see you and your parents. Ironically, the Republic did give her a lifetime opportunity: To be in the Merging Process. She was one of the first, along with Anthony, I think.

"And then?"

You never told me, but here we all are, puppets tied together by Republican strings. Oh, the irony. She chuckled, her tone more bitter than mocking.

I think... She paused, pondering. You wanted to forget. I often felt like you despised yourself. Maybe the Merging Process was an escape for you. Although I never knew what you were escaping from.

I bit down on my lip. "How can I find the footage?"

Ask them, not me. I surveyed around before tapping a finger on the Security's back. "How do I access the footage?"

"Show me your Tabloid again." He stated gruffly. I dutifully handed my Tabloid over, watching him swipe it across another sensor before giving it back to me. "Search for dates and locations here." He added, pointing at the two text boxes on the screen.

"Thanks," I muttered, adjusting the date to four months prior. Then, my fingers hovered on the keyboard, eyes glued to the word 'location'.

"Where did I live?" I whispered, feeling a tingle run down my spine. I forced down the queasiness. Not now.

With shaky fingers, I typed in 'Lyla' and waited for the results. A profile of a girl appeared, looking exactly like what Arista had shown me. I mindlessly scrolled through the endless lists of text until I found what I was looking for: Footages.

The first footage ten years ago was simple enough. I was wearing a tatty and overly long green shirt with threadbare knee-length pants. As I hauled a bucketful of water from the well, I dumped the bucket over myself, rinsing out my matted and oily hair before retrieving another pail of water. When I was done, my hair soaking wet, I left the bucket on the side of the well. The screen turned black.

I clicked on the next footage. My face was ashen as I juggled a pile of logs in my hands, stumbling towards a shabby cottage that could only be my home. A few seconds later, I stumbled over a stone and tripped onto the floor. The logs fell out of my hands and rolled down the paved road.

The next few footages were like the ones before. They all involved a dirty and grimy girl who would trip back to her home, utterly exhausted and famished. Her hair was sometimes so sooty that it looked more grey than brown. Other times, it was so greasy that it gleamed sickeningly under the sunlight's intense glare. Her cheeks were sunken, her collarbone and rib cage jutting out under the loose-fitting shirts. Her knees were knobby, and her legs were stick-thin. For her, it was already an effort to walk, much less complete laborious chores.

The ninth or tenth footage was slightly different. Another girl, a few years my senior, held hands with me as the two of us strolled towards the locomotive station. This was who Arista was talking about. Her features were similar to mine: angular cheekbones and striking blue eyes. However, her expression was more forlorn, more mature. She was an adult version of me.

"Do you know her name?" I asked, my eyes trained on the two shrinking figures.

You never told me. Arista sighed. You were quite secretive about your life. I didn't want to pry.

There were a few more footages where my sister was with me. There were short bits and pieces where she would help me with my chores or my homework. Still, I couldn't understand why I wanted to forget all this. This was my family, they were people who had been in my life for more than a decade. Why was I so eager to forget all about it?

Another footage popped up, and this time, it was different. I was being shoved through waves of unwelcoming classmates. My greasy hair was undone, and my once creamy white shirt had been stained by so many acrylic paints that it no longer looked white anymore. The threads of my baggy pants were coming undone, and my white shoes were now dingy grey. My classmates' hands grappled and shoved me around like an unwanted virus, the taunts, hollers and yells overwhelming loud. I was only ten.

Then, my sister showed up, her eyes blazing as she glared at them. It worked. Everyone's gazes lowered, their yells reduced to nothing more than soft murmurs.

"There are at least twenty of you, but you chose her?" My sister started, her voice icy. The class remained silent, their eyes cast to the ground.

"Is it because her clothes aren't as new and pretty as yours?" She gestured towards the girl wearing a gown with layers of shimmery satin. She was the one who had stained my clothes. "Or is it because she doesn't have smooth and silky hair like yours?" She pointed at the girl whose hair was smooth and gleaming. She was the one teasing me. "Is it because she isn't athletic?" She nodded at the boy who had been pushing me around. "Is it because she isn't pretty overall?" No one said anything.

I skipped through a few footages before stopping on one of them. There was a star next to it.

My eleven-year-old self was slipping through crowds of people, squeezing through bodies, shoving people away just to get closer to the front. People sent her disapproving scowls, but she continued running until she reached the very front. Unlike the last footage, her hair was cleaner, and she was wearing a frayed plaid skirt with a baggy tank top. Her eyes were bright and hopeful as she hopped up and down, trying to look for something, or rather, someone.

"So, Layla, how does it feel to be the top of your year?" The interviewer asked, leaning comfortably against his plush chair.

"It feels..." Layla trailed off, deep in thought. "Pretty good." She finished with a timid smile.

"How did you do it?" The interviewer questioned. "I mean, your intelligence shines beyond the beauty of your looks."

"Why thank you," Layla smiled, smoothing down some creases on her dress. "As long as I had the motivation and perseverance, everything else just faded out of my view."

Her chocolate brown braid neatly cascaded down her back, her blue eyes accentuated with dark brown eye shadow. The dark blue satin gown further complimented her eyes, the fabric shimmering under the limelight. Layla, that was her name. My sister's name.

Layla? Arista gasped. No wonder I know her. She works for the Merging Process.

Next update: 23rd February