New New Orleans is bursting with colors and tantalizing smells. After their high-speed train ride, Emma woke to warm sunshine and people everywhere. Striding through the Jackson Square hoverstation, she yawns. She tosses the burner DED with the train ticket information in the trash and jogs after Bells, who’s stopped to wait for her by a pillar.
Emma’s already lost sight of Nick and Collette, Bells’ parents, who’ve changed disguises subtly at least twice since they met at the station. She spots them wearing different hats, and Bells’ brothers Simon and Sean have changed their jackets. Emma’s trying her best to stay inconspicuous using her wigs, and Bells— well, Bells has that covered. Emma’s proud of him for learning to shift so fast. There used to be a visible difference when he shifted, but now he can change in the time between breaths.
As they pass through the central transit station and away from the train platforms, Emma is overwhelmed with the sheer amount of movement. Emma follows Bells through the square and down the street, through several types of markets: fresh produce, handmade gifts, clothes. People call out prices, beckoning passersby to come look at the wares in their shops. Musicians play lively tunes, drawing crowds who swipe their DEDs at collecting ports. Above them, buildings old and new seem to shine in the summer light, surrounded by monorails and the flow of people in a constant, moving rhythm.
Emma can barely keep up; she wants to see everything.
New New Orleans is one of the few cities in the North American Collective that retains much of its rich history from before the Disasters. Emma isn’t sure about the “New New” moniker, although Bells assures her it’s a thing. The people of New Orleans rebuilt so many times in the face of storms and floods even before the Disasters that rebuilding again after the World War Three didn’t faze them. Bells still has family here, descended from those who didn’t evacuate with the other Broussards in the post-X29 hurricane that devastated the city.
The plaza is bustling with the morning going-to-work crowd, college kids on their way to class, and street vendors with delicious smelling carts. Any other day Emma would be glad to amble through the city center, but they aren’t sightseeing today. Bells eagerly points out art and history museums as they pass, and Emma makes a mental note to try to make some time to do fun things together.
It’s hard keeping up the brisk pace, especially when Emma wants to look at everything. The city is so beautiful, and this area is filled with musicians playing merry tunes and the delicious smells of fresh seafood. Bells looks as though he wants to follow his nose, too, and winks at her when she does a double-take at a vendor shaking powdered sugar onto beignets fresh from a fryer. “We’ll go later,” he mouths at her and takes her hand as they catch up with the rest of his family.
Emma takes in the archways and cast-iron balconies, the mix of ancient brick and gleaming chrome, the walls painted in bright, warm hues. Emma wants to linger, but there’s no time.
The monorail train is crowded. Children press their noses to the windows to take in the city and the expansive view of the buildings built high above the older historical districts.
A shrill whistle sounds.
“What?” Emma blinks as no one seems to notice.
“High tide,” Bells says. “Come on, you look like a tourist.”
Emma feels like one, gasping at how the lower buildings automatically rise up around the square to meet the other buildings on the sky-street platforms as the square fills with the gentle waves of the tide coming in.
Emma gasps, watching avidly as all the people just go about their business as usual, either walking briskly through the knee-high water or taking lifts up to the elevated monorail platforms or the sky-street.
“Does this happen all the time?”
Bells laughs. “Yeah, whenever the tide crosses over the levees. Back when the sea level was lower, I think the original plan was just to keep making the levees higher and higher, but every time it rained the city would have to pump water out. The Historical Preservation Society found a way to preserve these ancient buildings by working with the tide, not against it.”
Emma watches the city rise; she remembers reading about the engineering marvel that keeps the city afloat. She peers out the window, trying take in the complicated tech that makes living in this area possible.
The car is filled with conversation; Emma overhears bits of French, Spanish, Japanese, English, and Portuguese throughout the train, and is comforted by the familiar sounds of multiple languages overlapping one another.
Emma reaches for the handhold, but she can’t quite reach the bar. Bells gracefully grabs it and smiles at her. He jerks his head at his arm, and Emma takes it. She rolls her eyes at him before he can tease her about her height. They sway with the motion of the train as it curves through the city, and Emma can’t keep her eyes off the changing landscape. It’s easy to be captivated by the constant flow of energy, the bright columns of the old architecture, the steep roofs and parapets that are dwarfed by the shining glass and chrome steel of the new buildings.
As the train leaves the center of the city, its passengers empty out: children going to school, people on their way to work, people with bags of groceries. After a man holding a chicken delicately in his arms exits the train, the Broussards and Emma are the only ones left in the car.
“This is our stop, come on,” Nick says, beckoning them.
Emma squeezes Bells’ hand and tries to practice the speech in her head one more time. This is it; they’re going to meet the contact waiting to take them to a Grassroots headquarters.
Here on the outskirts of New New Orleans, it’s quieter. Emma’s footsteps on the cobbled streets seem to echo with uncertainty. She catches her reflection in a shop window and winces. She looks like a child; it’s her height, she knows, and her round face. Maybe they won’t take her seriously. Maybe she should have worn heels.
Emma grits her teeth; no, that could have gone horribly wrong, too, looking as if she’s trying too hard, like a child playing dress-up.
On a nondescript street corner, Collette stops and reads a sign outside a bakery. Emma follows her lead and pretends to be totally immersed in chatting with Bells. Nick steps backward, closer to the corner outside the bakery, and ever so slightly jerks his head. Emma follows his gaze and sees the reflective shine of a small camera that’s embedded in the wall.
Bells’ parents step out of the frame, and Bells takes Emma’s hand, following them. Her heart is thudding with excitement. All the secrecy surrounding Grassroots and how they work is fascinating; she can’t wait to learn more and apply that to the Resistance.
A solarcar that’s seen better days pulls up. Its panels are worn and scratched, and the paint on the metal is long faded. The window rolls down, and a man with bright, dangling earrings regards them with a bemused look. He nods at the Broussards and gives Emma a quick glance, as if he’s sizing her up. It seems like a test; she’s not sure if she passed.
“Angel, so good to see you!” Collete says warmly. “Thank you for picking us up!”
“Of course, of course,” Angel says. “Bells, you’ve gotten so tall and handsome!”
“It’s a burden I must bear,” Bells says, saluting Angel theatrically. “This is Emma, Angel.”
“Great, great,” Angel says, with barely a nod.
They bustle into the car before Emma can think of a good way to introduce herself. The inside is clean, roomy, and comfortable despite the dilapidated outside appearance, with water and fresh fruit waiting for them in a cooler. Emma is impressed; Grassroots really is a well-run organization.
The Broussards chat with Angel as the car speeds them out of town. Emma leans back, wanting for the right time to say hello. What if Angel is a senior member of Grassroots? She doesn’t think she’s making a good impression. She doesn’t want to butt into the conversation, and there never is a good spot for her to jump in. It seems Angel and Bells’ parents go way back, and they’re already caught up in a complex discussion about Sean and Simon’s current Grassroots project.
To her surprise, when they pass a glass storefront, there is no reflection of them or their car. Angel must have activated an advanced camouflage function.
The buildings thin out as they drive through the city, and then they pass familiar-looking signs warning them about the Unmaintained areas. The well-paved road gives way to cracked concrete as they blaze through the bayou, passing over spillways and miles and miles of thick, overgrown wetlands.
They’re keeping close to a rushing river; its glimmering waters sparkle in the distance. It’s so wide that at first Emma thinks it’s the ocean.
Everything is so green and lush with life: cypress trees and swaying willows and trails of moss reaching for the ground. And yet the landscape still echoes that wild feel of the Unmaintained lands back home; it’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. A few times Emma notices more camouflage techniques, such as an entire tree shifting to let them pass and then sliding back into place.
They stop once to recharge the car at a Grassroots charge station cleverly disguised to look like part of the landscape. The adults are caught up in conversation, and Bells has his sketchbook out and is lost in his own world.
Emma goes for a short walk while they wait.
Mesmerized by the relentless flow of the water, she stops just short of the shore of the great river. The wind picks up, whirling around her, and a sudden gust almost knocks her hat off. Emma laughs, clapping her hands to her head. She catches her breath, steps back from the edge, and takes in the massive lifeline in front of her. She inhales and exhales with the rhythm of the river, steady as the beating of her own heart.
“Nice view, isn’t it?”
Emma turns; it’s Sean, Bells’ older brother. “Hey,” she says awkwardly remembering Bells’ long-ago suggestion they talk. She’s been so busy with the Resistance, and Sean’s always been away on Broussard business, so she hasn’t had a chance. During the car ride, he smiled at her, but there was no way Emma would bring up her personal questions in front of Bells and the rest of his family.
Sean nods, humming to himself with a knowing smile. “Bells mentioned a while ago you might have some questions for me?”
“Yeah,” Emma says, relieved he brought it up first. She twirls her fingers in her hair. “Sorry, this is weird.”
Sean gives her an amused look. “Is it because you’re dating my brother?”
“Yeah.”
Sean laughs. “No worries. I mean, I don’t really wanna know that stuff either, but be safe, you know? You’re being safe?”
Emma turns bright red. “We haven’t— We aren’t—” she trails off. She definitely doesn’t want to talk about sex with Bells’ brother, but, then again, she doesn’t know who else she can talk to.
Sean pats her on the shoulder and laughs. “It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Thanks, but I want to talk,” Emma insists. She paces, trying to think of what she wants to say and what she wants to know. “So we haven’t, and we talked about it, and Bells isn’t ready, and I’m not ready and I, I mean, I’ve done it before…” she trails off.
Sean waits for her to speak.
“I think I might be asexual,” Emma blurts out.
Sean nods; his face seems warm and open.
Emma exhales; she knows a few ace people at school: Courtney on the volleyball team, Peter in her history class. But she’s never talked to them about it. It would feel strange to reach out to them now, not that she could, now that she’s left school.
“I mean, I don’t know. I still feel like… sex, it mostly… it was okay? But I didn’t think it was a big deal, since it seems like a lot of people do it and especially being in a relationship—”
Emma understood the power of social capital at school. She had it all figured out. She wasn’t one of the most popular kids in her class for no reason; she knows she’s cute and has a warm and bubbly personality and gets along with people very well, especially with the people she dated. Emma thought sex was supposed to be a huge factor in staying together for many people.
The weight of those expectations seems even heavier now, and Emma wants this relationship with Bells to be perfect. She can’t mess this up. He’s her best friend. And now he’s her boyfriend.
“Okay.” Sean gives her a warm smile, turns to look at the river, and waits for her to continue.
“I talked with Bells about it, before, and we’re, we’re good,” Emma says hesitantly. The whole sex conversation actually went really well. It seemed like an open and shut door as far as Emma was concerned. But she still has worries. “I mean, some of the stuff— I don’t get either? And I’ve never really gotten, like, my past relationships, the, like, big stuff with the flowers and the gifts and the… I don’t know if…”
Sean listens, letting her ramble on about the gestures and the touches and what they mean and what they could mean, and Emma thinks she’s not making sense at all, but he’s really easy to talk to, and, after a few minutes, Emma stops, embarrassed.
“Do you want to hear my story?” he asks.
Emma nods.
“For me, I knew way back when, even in high school when people were all about crushes and dating and stuff.” Sean grins with his hands in his pockets; he sways a bit as he talks.
“I was more interested in studying agriculture and working on the farm every day. I was asked out a few times, but I didn’t really understand how dating was different from friendship, and it got confusing. And then in college, I dated a bit before I met Ryan. I don’t really care about sex, but, if my partner is into it, I’m into it, you know.”
Sean’s voice is soft and contemplative, as if he’s thought about this a lot. “I like kissing and cuddling, but my friend Diana doesn’t, and a professor I know doesn’t like any kind of touch at all. There isn’t a right or wrong way to be asexual: some people are touch-averse, some people aren’t; there are different levels of attraction and stuff. If you think you’re asexual and feel comfortable using it to describe yourself, that’s great.”
When Sean smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle just as Bells’ do. “Ace, gray-ace, wherever you are on the spectrum, it’s okay. There are a lot of people who feel the same way.”
Emma learned about asexuality before, but it was just flat words on a screen. What Sean tells her about his life and his feelings, she’s felt that too. Not understanding what other people meant when they saw someone pass by and said they were cute— Emma didn’t quite get it either. She didn’t understand it when her friends imagined whole futures about dating and kissing and having sex with people who were effectively strangers; Emma couldn’t imagine it at all, despite what she would say, hoping she’d fit in.
Even when she was dating, kissing was weird. She didn’t have another word for it. It seemed too up-front, too physical sometimes, but she tried it. In some of her past relationships—Kyle, Denise, Carlos—she liked kissing them, but how much of that was the kissing itself and how much of it was liking the time spent with them, she wonders.
“Do you, like, find people attractive?” Emma asks. She doesn’t know until she says it aloud how much this question has been bouncing about in her head, because everyone always seemed to just automatically know if someone is hot.
“What do you mean? Like, I see so-and-so on the street or think some celebrity is hot or pretty or cute or whatever?” Sean strokes his chin, regarding her.
Emma nods. Celebrities and strangers were called pretty for some confusing, pre-determined reason. Emma puzzled over their features and thought about the other students in her grade and she figured it out. There were dimples and colors of eyes and jaws and cheekbones; there was a formula, an algorithm. The same way so many people in her class said, “Oh, Bells is so cute!” in that dreamy way, she could look at him and think yes, he’s wonderful, he’s funny and smart and beautiful and I love being his friend. And then she saw what they saw: his symmetrical face, his smooth skin, the trendy way he styled his hair. He fit into the formula of attractiveness.
“Yeah, I can appreciate people who are pretty.” Sean smiles at her. “But they’re only aesthetically pleasing. I don’t think about wanting to kiss them or have sex with them or anything, but that’s part of me not being attracted to people like that, you know? What attracts you to people?”
“Uh, if they’re interesting,” Emma says. Everyone she’s dated has always been fascinating, and Emma wanted to be in their orbit and learn more about them. “I mean, I talked a lot about their physical features like their eyes or hair or whatever, but that’s because that’s what everyone else talked about.” It never had anything to do with how they looked, Emma realizes. Dating was just another problem, another formula to solve, and Emma was determined to be good at it.
“My friend Diana did that too,” Sean says. “I think a lot of people have that experience. You’re not alone, you know.”
Emma’s thought about this, but it always seemed like a vague theory, far away and untouchable. It didn’t feel tangible and certain the way it does now.
“Do you feel comfortable identifying as asexual?” Sean asks, tilting his head. There’s no judgment in his tone, and the question is simply open, waiting there for her.
Emma takes a deep breath. She’s thought about it often enough, but never felt quite brave enough to claim that word for her own. Emma wished she had an aha moment like Jess that time in freshman English. Jess was reading a poem aloud and then, all of a sudden, she stopped, her eyes widening. “Oh. That’s me. I’m bisexual,” she said, seeming a little stunned.
There were a few amused chuckles in the classroom, and Emma heard a “well, how did you not know, I knew, like, in middle school” and the little breath of “ooohs” from the kids obsessed with knowing who was crushing on who. While the school’s flitting interest in Jess’ revelation faded, Emma’s own questioning came to the forefront of her mind. When Emma first discovered what asexuality meant, at age eight, she didn’t think about applying it to herself. Then, Emma was on a flurry of research binges, figuring out how hovertrains could float in the air and why the sky was blue. Learning that there were people with little to no sexual attraction to other people was another fact of the universe that Emma understood. She moved on to topics that were more interesting at the time, like space, and then that became the focus of her eight-year-old research obsession.
Discussing asexuality in health class freshman year brought the concept back to mind. Emma delved into research, as she does whenever a topic fascinates her. It was like opening a door full of possibilities, and Emma tried to learn as much as she could. But she also thought hard about what other kids at school thought about her. She wanted to succeed so badly. She tried so hard to understand what people were talking about and experiencing that she pushed all of these feelings and questions deep inside her, as if she was afraid of them. Emma thinks if she just learned what asexuality meant now she’d hang on to the word like a lifeline, like the possibility that this is me.
Facing the question now, Emma finds that she is brave enough. The word resonates with her, a note falling into tune.
“Yes,” she says, relaxing for the first time since this conversation began. “I think— I am asexual,” she says, settling into the word.
“Cool.” Sean gives her an easy smile, and they sit in comfortable silence.
“What about the other stuff? Like how I’m confused about, like, relationship stuff in general?” Emma asks.
“You know that romantic and sexual attraction aren’t the same thing, right?”
“Yeah, of course,” Emma says. They talked about it in that health class freshman year. Everyone knows this. “I’ve thought about being aromantic before, but I don’t know if it fits exactly. I mean, I thought asexual didn’t fit perfectly for me either, since I’ve liked sex sometimes. But—with the sexual attraction stuff—I mean, it feels the most right.”
Sean nods. “Good. That’s the most important part. If it feels right to you.”
“I’ve thought a lot about being aromantic, too, but sometimes I’m not sure,” Emma admits.
“So there are a lot of arospec people, and everyone has their own experience, you know?” Sean throws his arms out wide as if he’s drawing an endless circle. “Like, maybe never having romantic attraction. Some people have a little bit or feel like they can develop romantic relationships after building a bond or getting to know someone.” Sean pats Emma on the shoulder. “Anywhere you are is perfectly normal.”
Emma exhales. She’s read this, but hearing another person say it to her feels good.
“You’re asexual and aromantic, right? And you have a boyfriend?”
Sean smiles at her. “What about him?”
“Do you like that— him being your boyfriend?” Emma cringes, asking such a strange question. Emma tries to sum up how weird the word feels for her, as if there’s a whole new expectation for their relationship. “I don’t know if I like Bells being my boyfriend,” she says, feeling small as she admits it. “I love him, of course, but, like—now that we’re— I don’t know. I thought I was trying to express something big, something like… He gets me. I get him. And we’re, like, soulmates, you know? And I thought going from friends to romantic relationship was a good way to show how I feel, but…”
“Hmm…” Sean draws out the sound thoughtfully. “Do you know what a queerplatonic relationship is?”
Another term from that same class so many years ago. Trying to remember the definition is difficult. “Like friendship? That’s what we already are, though.”
“A queerplatonic relationship can look different for many people, but the important part is that it encompasses that bigness that you were talking about.” Sean slows down, speaking with careful consideration. “A queerplatonic relationship can have very close emotional connections and commitment between people and can be a helpful way of saying that you are life partners, but not necessarily romantic.”
Oh.
“So I’m comfortable with Ryan being my boyfriend, and he likes it a lot too.” Sean chuckles. “Technically, Ryan and I do have a very queerplatonic relationship, but we also like being romantic with each other. I also lean a bit more toward being demiromantic, so it works for us. I think we talked about it about a month into dating. I was a little nervous at first, but it all worked out. I’ve dated people before who didn’t get it, but Ryan is great. We talk a lot about, like, our boundaries and what I’m into and not into.”
“Queerplatonic,” Emma repeats, as if a weight is being lifted from her shoulders.
“Hey, Em, wake up. We’re here.”
Emma blinks groggily. The afternoon sun has long faded to dusk; it’s nearly dark. How long have they been driving? Several hours, at least.
“Where is everyone?” She and Bells are alone in the car. It’s parked in a dimly lit tunnel; there’s a strange texture to the walls.
“Ma and Dad had some business stuff to work out first, and you were knocked out. I figured it would be better to let you sleep. I mean, you haven’t really been getting good rest lately, right?”
It’s a thoughtful gesture, but Emma can’t help but feel frustrated, as though she missed a chance to meet people and to have these adults to take her seriously. She sits up, rubbing her head; she feels awful. She hates naps. She always wakes up more tired than she was before.
Emma tries to get her bearings. Now, with her eyes adjusted, she can see from the faint glow of the lamps above that the tunnel is made of thickly woven moss and vines grown over a wire framework. Clever, hiding aboveground like this. Then, Emma realizes that there weren’t many bunkers built below ground in the wetlands.
Splotches of dappled sunlight filter through the greenery, but otherwise Bells’ hair seems to be the only color left in the world. The streaks of violet in his dreads glows with vivid intensity. She kisses his cheek. “How long have we been here?”
“Eh, maybe an hour. I don’t think Torrance would be ready for a while, so we would have had to wait inside anyway.”
Emma peers at the sketchbook in Bells’ hands and spots a few unfinished impressions: the city square, musicians in the street, and a beautiful girl Emma doesn’t recognize. “These are really good,” she says. “You did all these on this trip?”
“Yeah,” Bells says. “Some at the beginning of the book are older, though. Wanna see?”
He hands her the book, and it seems to take on a new weight in her hands. She knows how private he is about his art. She’s seen his work before, but he’s always guarded about his in-process sketches. Emma turns to the beginning of the book and fumbles for the interior light. Brightness floods the vehicle, and Bells’ drawings leap into stark contrast.
The first few pages are familiar: the high desert of Nevada, the train track striking a clean line through cacti scattered across the sparse landscape, a closeup study of a cornstalk and then the corncob itself with each kernel detailed in Bells’ careful hand, sketches of Jess and Abby. Emma traces her fingers around their faces; she misses them too.
The city of New New Orleans leaps out at her: the lines of the buildings, the city squares, and the girl. Emma flips through the pages, and the lovely stranger keeps reappearing, seeming to look up from the page with a knowing smile. She’s beautiful, drawn with a precise hand on some pages, her form appearing amidst scribbles and sketches on others, as if Bells couldn’t draw fast enough, as if she was going to escape from the page and leap, demanding and vivacious, into real life.
Emma stops on the last page, where the girl is captured laughing and catching her hat before it’s caught by the wind. She’s taking in the beautiful river flowing ahead of her; her face seems filled with determination. Emma takes in a sharp breath. The girl is her. She didn’t recognize at first the elegant curve of her neck, the confidence in that gaze. Is this how Bells sees me? She feels suddenly self-conscious. What if she’s not living up to the girl he thinks she is?
“What do you think?”
“It’s lovely, Bells,” Emma says. Now just to channel that confidence.
“They’re ready for you. Go on in.”
“You’re not coming with me?” Emma is suddenly nervous but doesn’t want to admit it. She swallows the bubble of energy and watches Bells shake his head.
“It’s your proposal. I can’t go in with you, sorry. They have very strict policies and don’t want me to bias them. Dad says it was hard enough to get them to bring you here, let alone meet with you.”
Emma walks the narrow corridor alone. The enclosed hallway between greenhouses is fogged with condensation, and Emma can barely see the greenery behind the glass. With each step she rehearses her speech, practicing her opening lines over and over until she finally comes to the end of the hallway.
The door creaks open when she pushes it. Inside is a circular room sunk in the ground with many seats around the rim, like a round lecture hall. Most of the seats are equipped with holoprojectors; a few are occupied by people. Nervous energy bubbles over; her hands shake. This is more people than she bargained for.
The two men standing in the center of the room are apparently legends in the guerrilla farming movement: Torrance Whitaker and Skye Coulson. Nick and Collette had talked nonstop about them, mishaps and pranks when they were all in school together, silly things that would in no way help her in this professional meeting.
“Hello,” Emma says. It’s one thing telling their parents and friends about the truth about the League and asking their support, but it’s another thing to talk to complete strangers. She’s hoping that they’ll be sympathetic, since they’ve been working their whole lives against the Collective’s broken systems.
Emma takes a deep breath and pulls herself to her full height. “I’m here because I want to talk to you about joining the Resistance.”
The two men glance at each other and then break into incredulous laughter. “Join the Resistance?” Skye asks between guffaws.
Torrance gives her an amused smile. “Honey, we are the Resistance. We’ve been fighting the Collective since before you were born.”
“Right!” Emma says, nodding furiously. “I mean, I know about that. Bells’ parents have been part of Grassroots forever…”
Torrance nods. “Yes, the Broussards are wonderful. They’ve been key to keeping their region well-supplied for the better part of two decades.”
“Yes, absolutely!” Emma’s thrown a little off guard. In her head, her practiced speech now sounds naïve and redundant, especially with Torrance and Skye looking down at her like every teacher that’s underestimated her before. Emma stumbles and speaks quickly, as she does when she’s nervous. “So, the entire Heroes’ League of Heroes is a scam. The Collective’s training process is just a way for them to keep meta-humans in check.” She knows she’s rambling, but she keeps going anyway, skipping the introduction and going right to the middle.
Torrance and Skye just stand silently in judgment along with the other adults as Emma improvises, trying just to hit the highlights: meta-humans forced to play a role, the villains being kidnapped and experimented on, the entire League doing heinous things in the name of enhancing their powers.
“So… that’s why we have to stop the League,” Emma concludes awkwardly. It’s not the polished speech she meant to give, but she feels so flustered, standing on this platform with so many eyes on her. “That’s why we’ve been going around trying to tell as many people as possible the truth.”
Torrance laughs. “Look, we’ve been resisting.”
“So…” Emma feels as if she’s missing the joke. “Will you help us?”
Skye smiles at her, bemused, as if she’s a child with a cute idea. “Well, it looks like you and your friends have uncovered some of the unsavory truths about the Collective.”
Torrance looks at his partner and nods. “Yes. It’s a noble goal, and I wholeheartedly believe that telling the people of this country the truth about their heroes is good, but it doesn’t fix the main problem.”
Emma falters. “Right… the system is flawed, but…”
Skye claps his hands, as though he’s glad Emma agrees. “The North American Collective has a long way to go in providing adequate infrastructure to support its people. The obsession with superpowers and the amount of energy invested in melodramatics to pacify the public and keep people well-entertained and distracted is something that should have ended a long time ago.”
Emma nods, even if she doesn’t agree with everything Skye is saying. Sure, the country is obsessed. Superheroes are celebrities; everyone wants to know who’s dating whom and what they’re wearing and stuff, but that comes with being in the public spotlight. That’s not going to stop overnight. Emma doesn’t want to stop the press coverage, but use it to focus on the real story. She tries to put this into words, but all that comes out is “But…”
Torrance and Skye seem like pillars, with their arms crossed as if they’ve already made up their minds. “Grassroots has been a vital part of keeping people well-fed when the Collective marks up the price on all fruits and vegetables for shipping them. We commend you and your friends for uncovering this meta-human business, but it doesn’t actually concern Grassroots,” Torrance says.
“We appreciate you coming all this way to let us know,” Skye says. “We support your endeavors.”
“Is that a no?” Emma says, shocked. She hasn’t even made her proposal about why they need Grassroots’ communication system.
One of the holos speaks up, a woman with the flag of the Southeast Asian Alliance pinned on her blazer. “The North American Collective is flawed; we support your attempt to reveal those flaws.”
“So you say you’re supporting me, and that’s it? Look, we need access to an efficient communication system, something you already have! So we’ll be safe. We’ve already been attacked, and so many people are in danger. You know that all those MR-D4Rs have military capabilities, right? And with so many of them, it’ll be too easy for the Authorities and the League to apprehend anyone they think stands in their way.” Emma knows her voice is getting higher and higher, but she feels desperate.
“We are aware of the MR-D4Rs and how the Collective might misuse such a resource,” says another holo, a stiff-looking man with the European Union insignia on his coat. “That is why Grassroots members operate in the highest secrecy, and all our communication is encrypted far beyond what you might even imagine.”
Emma feels as if she’s been talking in circles. This is why she came to Grassroots for help in the first place. Bells’ idea of using the network seemed so perfect, but she never imagined Grassroots hearing her out and then just saying Good job on figuring it out! Good luck with that.
Her frustration turns into anger, even as Skye and Torrance give her polite smiles that can only mean dismissal. “Thank you for your time, Emma. This hallway will lead you to the main annex, and the Broussards should be done with their business by now and be able to escort you out.”
Skye and Torrance turn to address the people and holos in the room. “The next order of business…” Torrance begins.
“No!” Emma snaps.
The two leaders stop and look at each other and then at Emma as if to say, why is she still here? All the other adults turn their eyes on her.
“Look, I get what you’re saying, that you have your own missions and stuff to do, but this is important! In order to change the system we need to, to… ” She’s grasping at straws here, but she thinks there’s an important point she completely forgot to mention. “The system is unfair, yes! But the Council, Kingston, and the government are directly in league with, with the League!” Emma splutters, aware of how ridiculous she sounds, how young she is, how inexperienced she is, but she hates most of all feeling ignored and treated as if she doesn’t matter in the slightest.
The Grassroots members look at each other, they murmur, and the scrolling wall of text translates into multiple languages.
She’s got their attention now, for better or for worse. Emma tries to pull herself together. This is her last chance. The Resistance is depending on her. “Look. Kingston is awful. He’s been pushing the League’s agenda hardcore, probably ever since he’s been elected in 2104, to distract the public from the conflict he’s pushed us into overseas with Constavia. And that’s about mining tantalum to enforce even more control over meta-humans and keep us all in his control!”
Skye holds up a hand. “I don’t disagree. Kingston is a manipulative and opportunistic man with a desire to stay in power. I didn’t know about Constavia, but it doesn’t surprise me.”
“Aren’t you worried about him pushing our country to war?” Emma says, throwing up her hands. “We need to remove him from representing the Central Regions as President, from the Council, from any position of power!”
“But how are you doing that?” Torrance points out. “We’ve seen what you’ve been doing, trying to spread the word. I’ve seen the ‘The League is a Lie’ graffiti all over towns. It’s just the topic of the month on the conspiracy boards and it’ll be forgotten as soon as the next thing comes along.”
“But it’s changing,” Emma says. “Yes, the graffiti is a start, but we can capitalize on the public questioning the League. My plan is to have meta-humans interrupt battles being broadcast and to tell the public what really is happening, but it’s taking some time, especially with the way it’s being covered in the press.” And, with Deirdre in charge at the Villain’s Guild, Emma’s not sure how effective all of those missions are.
“You’re telling some superpowered people to pick fights with other superpowered people so that the fights will stop being staged,” Torrance says. “Do you see how ridiculous that is?”
Emma falters. “There are some people who are looking beyond what is scripted and actually reporting what’s happening.”
“The average person can’t tell the difference,” Skye says. “If I watch the news and I see two costumed people fighting each other, I’m going to assume things are going on as usual.”
Emma is tired of having to explain herself, having to keep proving that her goal is a viable one. Just because they don’t have clear results now doesn’t mean that they aren’t doing something. “Look, the Resistance…” Emma stumbles. “Those meta-humans are stopping the fights and telling the reporters what is happening.”
“Right, but if that part gets edited out and no one sees it, all we have are the usual fights. So what if a few people we’ve seen as heroes before are now villains?”
“That’s why I came to ask you about your network, to see if we can broadcast something without someone from the League changing it to suit their narrative.” Emma tries to stay calm. “Please,” she adds.
Torrance laughs, short and patronizing. “Our network is the original network, spun by dreamers and communicators hundreds of years ago, people who were so loathe to be out of touch with one another they would lay miles and miles of underground fibers under their city, across immeasurable distances, under oceans, through mountains. Grassroots is a movement that connects all the Regions. We make food accessible despite a government that is more concerned about appearances than productivity.”
“Grassroots communicates using an older network,” Emma muses, thinking aloud. “The pre-Collective one with the underground fibers and stuff.”
Torrance lifts an eyebrow. “And?”
“All we need is a simultaneous broadcast on everyone’s DED that can’t be deleted.”
“I think you are mistaken in thinking that we can actually connect to the national broadcasting system. That’s the point. We don’t,” Torrance says. “It’s how we can communicate privately with one another.”
“Oh.” The little bubble of hope that was inside Emma pops.
Torrance pats her on the shoulder. “Look, we appreciate you coming here with your findings. I didn’t know that business about Kingston and Constavia, but the upcoming election does give us the opportunity to replace him. All the more reason to.”
Emma’s shoulders slump. She doesn’t want to wait until next year for a maybe. She wants to take action now.
Maybe the patting is supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but the motion is actually guiding her out the door.
“Don’t lose that passion for your goals,” Torrance says with a wan smile. “We believe in you!” The endorsement echoes in the long, empty hallway, and then the door closes with a resounding thud.