I didn’t even bother trying to move; the train was far too packed for me to get anywhere. So instead, I leant against the glass double doors I’d run in through, and tried to avoid the stenches of sweaty armpits and burning coal. 

As the train puffed off to a slow but steady start, my thoughts began to wander. My mind started at the same stop it always did - what if you’ve been fired? It was a fair thought; I was 14 years old, Branded, and I didn’t have a phone to be fired over. The sparks of fear that one day I’d walk into that building and never be allowed back would never go out. 

The sudden feel of the train speeding up nudged me back to reality. We’d hit The Projects already - just over 10 km of half-built homes. The tracks had been upgraded here, hence it was safe for the train to go faster. I stared out the window, a soft smile sneaking its way onto my face. As much as everybody else hated the half-kept promises the Projects represented, I loved the quiet of them. 

They weren’t like the imposter mansions that scattered the rest of the yellowing hills. Imposters because as grand and proud as they stood on the outside, they were all just as bare as my own within. 

My mind danced to my house. To how my bedroom walls stood tall, if a little worn from soaking up decades of memories. How the four-posts guarded my mothers crumpled pyjamas, resting on my bed. How I’d sold everything, carved the giant oak wardrobes intoart to sell, taken in lodgers, provided cleaning and mowing, and even personally buried my Grandmother last year, just so I wouldn’t have to spend money on someone else doing so. 

I thought of the stories I’d been told. How 57 years ago, my walls would have been protecting gold and silver, red jewels from India and clothes of blue, teal, green, every colour and design you can imagine. How 57 years ago, the poor rebelled. How they used their skills - building, sewing, wiring, everything they could-  to create bombs and weapons. How, most importantly, they had information. Information from the plumbers of where the pipes went, information from the housewives of where the MPs were and when, information from the rubbish collectors of every shortcut and back route in the entire city. Information that quite literally led to the homeless of yesterday becoming the leaders of today. 

At our cost. At the cost of families like mine. 57 years ago, the rich were pushed away. The Rebellion meant they lost the city, but they all had countryside houses. They weren’t going to get away with it that easily though. Anyone who had been in a high position at the time was hunted, and not killed, but branded. Branded with a symbol that meant they couldn’t get jobs. Branded with a symbol that meant they got turned away from grocery stores. Branded with a symbol that would curse all of their descendants for generations to come. 

Descendants like me. 3rd generation Branded. And the last member of the once proud Hart family. 

Moments turned into minutes and minutes faded into hours. I reminisced, remembered and realised, until the mid-morning light outside disappeared, and I was yanked back to reality. We were passing through ‘The Bridge’ tunnel. A stupid but fitting name. It was a bridge between the hell, chaos and suffering of my world - The Meadows (or as we call it, The Dumpster) - , and the heavenly New Downtown. The other side of the tunnel was another world. Towering buildings ruled the skies, and bundles of trees scattered the grounds. Even the sun seemed to shine brighter on this side. 

I was practically forced out of the train the second the double doors opened - the first time  that happened, I wasn’t ready for it, and had ended up tumbling head over heels onto the platform. But that was one year and a lifetime ago now. 

I closed my eyes and took a minute to breathe in the fresh air - a new system pumped factory pollution into The Dumpster. They got all the gadgets and none of the consequences; we got all of the consequences and none of the gadgets. 

Opening my eyes, I pulled out the picture of my parents The Marshal had given me in the few moments I’d seen him last time I was here. With it, he’d handed me a typed message - ‘3/10/2078 - the Western Railway Station, The Marshal’. I had only had just enough money to get into New Downtown, which meant the rest of the journey was on foot if I wanted dinner tonight. Groaning, I began the 50 minute hike to the Western Railway Station.

The walk wasn’t interesting at all. I got the usual glares from people after noticing the branding on my neck. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I responded - “A fiver for one branding, or 12 for all 3!” - but I wasn’t here to get arrested. So after an hour of walking, aching legs and enough stares to burn through my skin, I finally made it. 

The Western Railway Station was in even worse condition than the station I’d arrived at. It was either half built or half destroyed, and stunk of faeces and fire. God knows why. I didn’t want to know. 

The Marshal wasn’t there, but then I wasn’t expecting him to be in plain sight. Deciding my best bet was to go inside the Station, I took a deep breath and walked in. The smell was even more pungent in here, I thought praying we wouldn’t be in there long. 

The Marshal was sitting on an old box, looking just as tired as always. He can’t have been older than 25, but the bags under his eyes, dry skin and already receding hairline made him look at least 40. He had decades worth of stories to tell, regardless of his age. 

He smiled when he noticed me, and I smiled back, unwilling to talk, breathe or do anything that could get the nauseous smell stuck up my nose. 

“Miss Hart. I would  start with the pleasantries, but I’m guessing you don’t want to be sick. You get used to the smell eventually. Follow me.” He nodded towards the back door before proceeding towards it, and I followed him freely. 

Only, it wasn’t a back door -  not in the sense that it went outside anyway. The ‘back door’ opened into a narrow, spiral staircase, heading down. I would have assumed that it was supposed to be used to access the Underground, however people would’ve been crushed during rush hour down there. It was either a major design flaw, or it was built in later for another purpose. 

At least the smell was gone. 

“So, Miss Hart, how was the journey here?”

The Marshal was walking unnaturally fast down the stairs, and I tried to stop panting long enough to respond. “Good, thank you. Not the most comfortable, but safe.”

We continued to exchange useless pleasantries, as we descended the stairs. Eventually, we came to the bottom of the staircase, and a door, identical to the first one we had come through. 

Only, through this door wasn’t a staircase or a stinky, crumbling train station. Instead, at least 100 small desks connected to make a circle, with a gap just big enough for people to walk through and enter the centre. And sitting at the circle of desks, was at least 300 people, squashed together, each sitting in front of laptops and computers, but with strange, obvious modifications. 

“Please, have a seat Miss Hart,” The Marshal said, gesturing to one of two empty seats in front of us. 

I smiled, taking the seat immediately, glad my legs could finally rest. The Marshal sat to my left. He did not call for everyone to be quiet, or get their attention in anyway, as far as I could see. However, as he sat down, silence blanketed the room. Not in a way that made it seem as though conversations were finishing, but in a way that made it seem as though they had been cut off. 

The Marshal scanned the room, no longer smiling. “Generals and Commanders, good morning.” The room was filled with a quiet mutter of people responding to his ‘pleasantries’. “Today, we meet for our regular debriefing. We also have a new attendee, Miss Athena Hart.” At my name, gasps rang out through the room, although most of them were immediately smothered out of fear of…disrespect?

The Marshal continued. “Thank you. Let us begin our debriefs. Cabin 1?”

I dazed out as each ‘Cabin’ debriefed the rest of the room. My mind wandered, until the hustle of people moving snapped me back to Planet Earth. The Marshal glanced down at me apologetically. 

“Sorry. I am aware that was not the most interesting thing ever. Why don’t we stay for a while? You must have several questions. I am amazed you have not exploded yet!”

I didn’t like the way he spoke. It was too formal, almost robotic. I didn’t speak the way the country’s leaders did, but I also wasn’t as robotic as The Marshal. Maybe preserving the way we used to speak wasn’t the best idea. But I was about to boil over with questions.  

“Yes, please”, I responded. The Marshal smiled in response, continued waving and shaking hands, before sitting back down the second the room was cleared. 

“So, what can I tell you?”, he asked.

“Well, I have a few questions. The first being exactly how you knew my parents?”

“Ah, straight into the deep end. Well, your parents were 2 of the best Generals I knew. They led Cabin 1 for years together.”
I needed more. “Oh. So they took out opponents like the SAS, then?” The Marshal nodded as I spoke, confirming my enquiries. It wasn’t ideal, but hopefully it would do. “Right. And…do you know how they died?” I adopted a sombre but curious look.

The Marshal smiled again, sadly this time though. “Your parents died on an ET mission. The details are confidential, but I can tell you they were together.” Almost exactly what I had expected him to say. Ever so slightly more, however. That made it enough.

I smiled back at him. “Thank you. That’s good to know. They were fighting for what they wanted, and they were together. That gives me a lot of peace.” I took a deep breath before asking the next question, afraid it would be too much. “And…my Grandmother? Do you know if the SAS had anything to do with her death?”

That one The Marshal ate up. “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, Miss Hart, but we  believe they had a whole lot to do with it. The SAS targeted bombs at different homes of leaked ex or deceased ET members.”

“Oh. Can you prove it?”
“We have some evidence, yes. Enough to convict the SAS, however we have to hold onto it until the laws against Brandeds are changed. We would not want to have it taken from us.”

I smiled. “Thank you very much, sir. I should really be going now. My delivery job starts soon, and I wouldn’t want to be late.”
“OK. I would offer to walk you to the door, but I assume you have a lot to think about.”

I took a moment before responding. “Yes. Thank you again, sir.”

“You are very welcome. And Miss Hart, if you decide to join the Equality Troops and fight for our cause, come back here in exactly one month. If you are not here, I will take it as a sign that it is not for you.”
I nodded, before turning and heading to the door we came through. I walked and walked back to the station I’d got the train to. I picked up my small sum of money from my delivery job yesterday on the way there. I got on the train, slipped into my mind again, then got off the train at the other end. I walked through yellow grass for ten minutes, before arriving at my house. I went in, locking the front door behind me. I went into my bedroom, locking that door behind me. I pulled the blinds. 

Only then did I take off my shirt, revealing the wire from my waist, connecting to my neck, where I had placed a miniscule microphone, and a miniscule camera taped to my shoulder. I took them both off with extraordinary care and laid them on my bed in front of me. 

The SAS thought they had me. They killed my Grandmother. The ET thought they had me. They killed my parents. And I was going to take them both down, even if it meant going with them.