Eminent Silence

by Tristan Carey

  Well, I had no idea what the name of the town was, but still.

  Our stomachs were practically growling, so we followed the smells down to the market. We gazed around in silent curiosity — the twins eyes were wide with wonder. It took me a moment to remember they'd never been outside their country before — perhaps never seen the outside of Novi Grad or the Crucible in their entire lives. I, at least, had the benefit of seeing New Jersey and D.C. a few times in my life. Not exactly exotic locales (debatable, regarding New Jersey), but still. I hadn't been locked up.

  I myself wasn't exactly feeling very talkative, either. None of us had spoken of the Komitet attack since it happened, which was just fine by me. I wasn't a fan of talking about my feelings, and I had no intent on sharing my debilitating introspection of murder with Wanda and Pietro. I was sure they were worried about me, but I figured if I put on a brave face and kept it to myself, it'd be fine. I could carry this burden on my own. Don't let them see your fear.

  I found myself taking in every little detail — the loving cursive of hand-written chalk signs, the laughter echoing out of windows overhead, children in the streets, with dolls, trucks, and cell-phones. Actual cell-phones. I'd forgotten those things even existed. The French were alarmingly friendly, considering the downtrodden Sokovian people we'd just left behind, and I was a little intimidated by the looks we got. Some were suspicious, but most were just curious; vendors trying to sell their wares. Fresh breads and wines and oh-my-god was that cheesecake? It was such a culture shock that the bright colors and happy faces were almost an assault on the eyes.

  But we didn't have money. I was still trying to figure out how we were going to get food, with the dreadful thought that we'd probably have to steal or mind-trick these nice people, before Wanda grabbed my arm, startling me.

  'Amelia, look!'

  She was pointing at a newsstand. The cashier was half-asleep under the awning, hat pulled low over his eyes as he reclined in his seat. I was nearly dragged over to the kiosk, trying to figure out what Wanda was pointing at.

  Pietro, standing (his leg had healed remarkably, although he seemed a little anxious to test himself) right next to it, had a magazine in hand. I didn't get what the big deal was. At first, I thought they were just marveling at the glossy paper — there was a notable lack of international news magazines in Sokovia, and it wouldn't surprise me if this was the twins first run-in with them.

  But I quickly found out that wasn't the case.

  Pietro held it up, jaw hanging in a half-grin. 'Look, Amelia! You're famous!'

  I nearly ripped it out of his hands, unable to believe my eyes. The front cover photo was me in Novi Grad, Sokovia.

  I remembered the moment clearly in my mind — I had just stepped out from behind my cover, standing on top of some fallen rubble, standing over the heads of everyone else. Back straight, shoulders back. Seeing it from a different point of view was so bizarre. I looked like that? It had to be someone else, someone who looked braver, who looked so photogenic in a candid shot.

  But it wasn't anyone else.

  Billowing black smoke, from burning cars and homemade cocktails, framed me, making it appear I had just walked out of a fire — unscathed. My back was to the camera, face turned away. Yellow raincoat, distinctive, catching the eye, impossible not to notice. Red-and-white scarf billowing in the wind. In my arm, the busted shield I had picked up.

  And in the background, the Cheka tanks rolling in.

  I gaped. I was on the cover of TIME magazine.They seem to emerge from thin air, nowhere and everywhere at once. At first, shambling, silent in their little patrol. Then, growing bigger, they start to chant. They call for freedom. They call for what is rightfully theirs.

  The citizens of Novi Grad have made their demands; to be seen by the State, to be heard. The markets are closed today, not that they ever had much food to begin with. Every day is a struggle here. Jobs are difficult to find, and the ones you do, they pay meager wages — hardly enough to feed yourself, much less a family.

  All the phones are tapped, although the media pretends it trusts its people. Connection to the Internet is a laughable endeavor; Sokovian citizens have access to exactly three websites, and two are owned by the State. The third is the rudimentary email system. Needless to say, the State can see that, too. Technology is rudimentary here. I have not seen a single smart-phone. The latest cell is a prepaid Nokia flip-phone from 2002.

  And these people are tired. They are sick of the constant surveillance. It's a common joke amongst friends. How do you know the Cheka are spying on you? There's a new cabinet in your house.

  The Cheka, Sokovia's militant police force inherited from the Soviet Union, have quarantined the city. The people have had enough. They rise up. They stand together. They march to the gates, at a scale that rivals the D.C. Mutant Rights march of 1982. It seems the entire city has crawled out of the darkness. They greatly outnumber the police force here, but they are still underpowered.

  It is illegal for a citizen of Sokovia to own a gun. Even the hunting and farming communities must go through massive bureaucracy just in order to continue their lifestyle. The people have no way to protect themselves from crime and danger — they must rely on the State, who have already decided that the safety of one person, of any lowly citizen, is not their primary concern. Crime is serious problem, especially in the cities. The State are never there to stop it from happening. People die every day, because they have no means to protect themselves, either from each other, or the suspicious Cheka, who'd rather shoot first and ask questions later.

  To be found with a gun means life in prison. These people have no concept of gun safety — no gun knowledge at all, except maybe how to shoot one.

  Because I see them here, I see the weapons hidden in belts and under jackets. They crouch along the rooftops, a shambling militia protecting their families, because no one else will. If this goes south, then they will never see the light of Day again. It is also illegal to hold protests, gatherings without permission. The rights the West have known for so long, that they have taken for granted, don't exist here. These people are risking everything for what may be an ill-gotten dream.

  If there is one thing a Sokovian knows how to do well, it is how to hide. Guns. Money. Food. People. It is the only reason I and my colleague, Frank Crain, have remained hidden here for so long. Sokovia has had closed borders for over a decade, and our presence here is in direct defiance of their laws. If we were caught, we would be kept prisoners — political chess pieces in a world that has recently shown us to be far more complex than we ever could have imagined.

  Not that anyone here really understands that. Media is restricted. The people only know what the State wants them to know. Whenever I mention the Avengers, I get blank looks. When I say 'the Battle of Manhattan', no one knows what I'm talking about. These people have no idea that we are no longer alone in this universe. That there are others out there, these so-called superheroes, who saved the world.

  This world, the world of Sokovia, has remained unchanged. The Avengers have no reach here. Even if Sokovians could appreciate the gravity of the Battle of Manhattan, they would not be grateful. They are the forgotten people. Europe has pulled out of the 20th century, they have risen from the ashes of Communist control. Sokovia was left behind. The Sokovians have not forgotten that. They have not seen or interacted with the outside world for almost an entire generation.

  The State cannot protect them anymore. They were never here to protect Sokovia. They hunt their own people, in search for elusive foreigners and American spies.

  I thought it was mere paranoia, when the first call went out, ordering people to stay in their homes. That an American spy had been discovered, had attacked the Cheka. At first, I thought our cover was blown, so we joined the protests in order to hide ourselves. I had no idea the rumors were true — that there were indeed other foreigners, hiding amongst us.

  The march was eventually stopped
at the city gates. Novi Grad is surrounded by a massive wall, not unlike the Berlin Wall, and the Cheka guard the largest exit out of the city. The people gather and fill in, packing the square, until there is barely any room left to breathe. I nearly lose track of Crain a few times, but we managed to stick together. We watch as the front line engages the Cheka, yelling and shouting, trying to push their way through. But the Cheka won't give, their shields rising in a phalanx, and they fend off attackers with batons. I see a soldier preparing tear gas in the far back, and I grew anxious.

  As it turned out, I never had to worry about tear gas. It was the bullets that were far more dangerous.

  I don't know where or how it started. The only thing I saw is single stone, flying through the air. It struck the captain of the guard right above his ear. He had a gun in his hand, had been pointing at someone in the crowd. He never got to fire a shot.

  Either way, he fell, blood coating his face. The Cheka recoil in alarm. Someone shouts.

  Then someone fires their gun.

  Suddenly, it's a stampede. People panic at the front of the line panic at the sound, turn and run. But it's crushing here, and the panic spreads too fast — the march is rendered into a stampede as the civilians scatter, screaming as the Cheka continue to fire into the crowd.

  Then it turns into a riot.

  It's utter chaos in moments. Frank pulls me out of the way just in time — a molotov cocktail lands just where my feet had been seconds ago. Had I not been moved, I would've gone up in flames.

  We run for cover as bullets rip through the air, being pushed and shoved as people churn every which way. Some fight, some run, but the Cheka are now charging at us. Frank and I are unarmed. If we get caught in this, I doubt our chances of survival.

  We find tenuous safety behind an old shop. The walls are riddled with scars of old battles and wars — a fact that you can't easily tell, now that another raged around us. I nearly catch a chip of broken brick in my eye, and mortar sprays into my hair. As I throw myself around the corner and cover my head, I can hear a clicking noise — its Frank, maintaining his duty as photographer, catching as much action as he can without endangering himself. Although I feel, at this point, the point is moot. We are in far more danger than we ever bargained for.

  Foreign correspondents often risk life and limb when reporting in dangerous areas, but I have no training on war journalism. I do not know, besides the most basic of tactics, of what to do in situations like these. I am not an active participant, nor would I dream of joining a fight — as a reporter, its my duty to record and report as objectively as possible, gather as much information I can. Surviving this is the only way I can ensure this news will reach the outside world.

  Still, we remain unharmed. If anyone sees us, they seem uninterested in targeting us. The Cheka, at least, have their hands full with the persistent and furious populace, who turn out to be much better equipped than they anticipated. As we watch, several individuals stand out from the crowd, three people who seem to tear through the square with inhuman ability.

  I have had the honor of speaking to one of these revolutionaries, a young blonde girl who never gave me her name, but didn't hesitate to pick up a fallen shield and step up, forming the thin line between the Sokovian people and the attacking Cheka. It is a kind of courage, bravery you don't see very often, especially not in someone so young. But that is what Sokovia has done to the people here — it has turned men to slaves, and children to warriors.

  Crain and I watched in amazement as the girl stands directly in front of those tanks, the line of infantry marching in — before proceeding to take them apart, one by one. It is not until she disables the second tank do I realize: she is special. By that, I mean, the girl has superhuman abilities, enhanced qualities that allow her to take a blow from a man twice her size and not go down. How she never seems to run out of breath, reflexes bordering on recognizance, strength beyond what any person — male, female, adult or child — should be capable of.

  My initial thought is that she must be a Mutant. Crain even suggests it, considering that the blonde girl is not the only enhanced human on the battlefield. There are two others — also teenagers, almost adults, with their own unique set of abilities. The boy, in a blue tracksuit, darts in and out of my vision. I see only glimpses of him, before he disappears again, leaving a shimmering silver streak in his wake. He moves in and out around enemies, slippery as quicksilver.

  The other, a dark-haired girl with flashing scarlet eyes. Her fingers bend and twist in an almost grotesque manner, as she renders vehicles into balls of unrecognizable scrap metal, sends Cheka soldiers flying into the air. I have no idea what to call it, short of magic. Others run away from her, crying with unimaginable panic. Others collapse, curl up on the ground in a fetal position, screaming as some invisible force inflicts pain onto them. The Cheka shout accusations at her: 'Witch! Witch!' I consider it a fitting term.

  I would later confirm that they are likely Mutants.

  But the blonde girl in the yellow, who I've dubbed Rebel in order to preserve her identity, she's different. Before the tanks arrived, she spotted us behind our cover, an abandoned building. Without hesitating she ran over, dodging hailfire, just to reach us. She shouts at us, with a level of command and anger that you only hear in adults — so at first, I'm confused as to how old she really is. I initially pinned her at about eighteen years of age — you can imagine my surprise when she tells me she's only fifteen.

  I was baffled by her accent. Rebel's Sokovian is near flawless, but we startled each other when we all realize the other can speak English. In fact, Rebel is from America. An American teenager in Sokovia? At this point, nothing else could surprise me.

  It's through Rebel that I gather key pieces of information. I learned more in the five minutes we spoke, than the months I've already spent here in Novi Grad, hiding. Very few people outside of Sokovia even know the Chairman exists, much less in control of the entire nation. A mysterious man who lives in a grand fortress called the Crucible, hidden away in the Black Diamond mountains — notorious for its endless winter weather.

  When I ask her how she managed to get so far from home, Rebel says she's been kidnapped by the Chairman, but managed to escape. Like us, she intends to leave Sokovia and return home. There is no doubt in her eyes.

  I can't help but note the slight stutter in her voice, although she doesn't seem nervous or afraid. Perhaps just a speech impediment. The charming spray freckles on Rebel's face only further hammer in how young she is.

  For my part, I do try to catch her name; surely the American government would like to know one of their citizens was unlawfully taken from their home. But when the fighting is done, she leaves before I convince her; in retrospect, I feel that this was wise of her. I doubt she understands the full impact of her actions on that day in Sokovia, and how it will affect the rest of the world.

  'There are other people after us,' Rebel tells me. 'Agents of the Chairman […] they won't hesitate to kill you if you get in their way.'

  After everything that has happened, I believe her. Crain and I take off in a different direction than the young freedom-fighters. Our journey is a rough one, fraught with peril and risk of capture. While Novi Grad has been liberated, the Cheka have already begun mobilizing — they are greater in number than most of the rebelling citizens. They patrol the roads we take. Tanks and helicopters take off to neighboring towns and cities, who have begun in their own riots, after hearing what happened in their capital city.

  At first, Crain and I walk, along with dozens of other citizens, now armed with guns and weaponry taken off of fallen Chekists. One drives by in a commandeered Jeep, dressed in a stolen uniform; the man knows we are reporters, that we are foreigners, and insists we hitch a ride. Crain and I are hesitant, but after a moment we agree.

  It was a wise decision. Soon, the Jeep comes upon a checkpoint, manned by real Chekists, who are investigating every vehicle that comes their way.
There is a line of cars to the left — all civilians are stopped, and I don't see any able to go through. The driver tells us to hide in the compartment beneath the trunk bed, and Crain and I do so. It is cramped and dark, a metal coffin; we listen to the muffled voices outside, hear the footsteps as an officer walks around the Jeep, inspecting it. I hear the trunk door open, and I'm sure, I'm so sure that we are to be discovered, that we're done for. If the officer sees the handle on the floor of the trunk, if he pulls away the rug and the extra cans, he will become curious, and investigate.

  There is a long, heavy pause. Then the trunk door slams shut and I hear gravel crunch as the officer walks away.

  Crain lets out a sigh of relief. I actually hit him, because I'm terrified the sound alone will give us away.

  But we are not discovered, and pass through the checkpoint uninhibited. Crain and I remain hidden until we hear a knock over our heads, and the hatch lifts up. The disguised man grins at us, clearly pleased with his work. He introduces himself as Sergei. We're only a day away from the border, he tells us. He can take us there, but after that, we must find out own way. The man has his own family to take care of, and he is going to return to fetch them, before escaping Sokovia.