xi. Thou, light-winged Dryad

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Hands cupping twinkling wine glasses rise in a synchronized manner as the incumbent Northside candidate raises his martini to toast his successor.

"Here's to democracy. Our nation's greatest source of pride."

Murmurs fill the air as the crowd irrevocably agrees. The silver-haired man in a stuffy three-piece suit, adorned with a small raven pin on his lapel, continues:

"It is a privilege to have been able to participate in it, both as a voter and as a representative. I am immensely grateful for the support I've received throughout my terms. It's been an honour serving each and every one of you. But now, as I've reached my term limit, I hope to pass on the baton to Sara. She's determined to succeed in her goals, dedicated to the people in this district, and a true force of nature. There couldn't be a better candidate."

Sara—the AFD nominee for premier—a prim woman with a movie-star smile, stands next to him on the stage. Once the speeches are over and the soft music resumes, she cuts through the crowd and mingles effortlessly. I can't take my eyes off her. Her practiced laugh, assuring touches to the shoulder, and sudden compliments to the singer of the band. Out of sportsmanship and politeness, the ruling party had invited the opposition candidates as well. The last time I spotted Jeremiah, he was standing close to the bar with a well-known business tycoon. I guess he isn't bad at mingling either.

The night is boastful and exclusive. One of introductions, proposals, and rumours. The candidates move from table to table, bar to bar, armed to impress with their party tricks, quips, and anecdotes. Some couples have taken to the dance floor already; swaying to the music, wrapped in each other, far away from the rest of us.

Wayne has been a difficult date. After several introductions, he left me at a table of contractors, for a private conversation. Seated at the table are an unhappy couple dressed in their finest and a father-daughter duo who aim to dominate the conversation.

The father—whose name I won't pretend to remember—continues to gloat about a plan he's meant to pitch the following week. The conversation dulls into the background when I notice Jeremiah with another opposition candidate, a few tables over, tipping backwards as they roar with laughter.

Sara approaches our table stopping the father's long monologue in an instant. She pushes a stray lock behind her diamond-adorned ear as she modestly introduces herself. Her smooth black hair stops right above her collar bones in a blunt cut.

"And you must be?" Her voice rises when she addresses me.

"London Capell. I'm a senior producer at the Reverent," I say, extending my hand across the round table; she gives a firm shake.

"Are you here alone?"

"No, I came with Wayne—"

"Oh! Of course," She interrupts. "You're...new."

The contractor's daughter takes a large sip from her glass, her eyes flitting between the two of us. It takes a second for me to realise my mistake. Neither had I taken care to learn more about Wayne nor had I been paying attention to the people around this table and their impression of me. From the intrigue in Sara's voice and the subtle condescending tilt of her head, it's easy to tell that Wayne has a pattern, and I'm a plus-one being perceived as his "new" thing.

"How did you both meet?" she smiles.

When I say, 'work', her smile widens.

"Oh! Of course. Well, I hope you have a good time tonight. You can report back that the party was brilliant," She jokes, doing a small shimmy with her shoulders. The table laughs along ostentatiously.

"I will." I force a grin. Pointing at her empty wine glass, I add, "Would you like to get a drink?"

The upward tilt of her head returns as she agrees.

We walk to the closest bar and she asks for two glasses of red. With the bloody drink cradled in the palm of my hand, I ask her more about her plans as casually as I can, sprinkling in a few questions about her hair. She comes from a long line of private prosecutors, studied at an expensive boarding school, joined her mother's practice—who, particular and observant as she is, would never let her be in public with her roots the wrong colour.

"My parents were protective when it came to hair coloring. In my teen rebel phase, I dyed all of it red, by myself, in my bathtub," I say to lighten the mood. She giggles, and her wine-stained lips accentuate her attractive looks.

"Are you scheduled to run any of your ads during the evening segment?" I ask despite knowing the answer already.

"Yes, short ones," She replies. "It's just a thought-provoking bit. It really helps our case that ONA is openly condoning vandalism. I think people hesitate to crack down on crime but the statistics are awful. I'm sure you know."

"I do. They're awful," I stress. I'm not sure if I'm convincing enough. "What are you proposing?"

"Just more patrol. A lot of people look for menial jobs in and around Odile—and Redbridge. Not all of them are legal residents. All this loitering, frustration, and envy. It builds up in them and explodes. We have to do something about it," She says, switching to a voice I'm sure she reserves for interviews.

I nod along afraid that If I clutched my drink any tighter, the glass would shatter in my hand.

It's an opulent fruit-forward wine, and I take long sips resting against the wall of the empty corridor, running behind the hall. The tiles are painted with blue tessellations, and the floor is a patterned marble. Leafy plants sit in copper-coloured pots, swaying and rustling in the cool breeze. The sweet-scented air brushes against me as I breathe deeply.

I used to be better at this. I wasn't the life of the party but I never felt like this. So unresponsive to the music and unimpressed by the hors d'oeuvres. A ribbon of sadness runs through me, twisting around my heart and squeezing it.

I can't help but think of Dakota. What is she eating tonight? Can she sleep well? Do they allow visitors? I bet her roots are visible and her blue hair is fading away to her natural color.

I push off the wall and empty the rest of my drink into the nearest copper pot, in spite of the temptation. The wine meets the soil, seeping in and disappearing into it.

"You're going to kill it."

Startled, I turn around to come face-to-face with Jeremiah. He gives me a disapproving look and rests against the wall next to me.

"That amount of sugar is terrible for plants," He explains. "On top of that, I'm sure that bottle's strength was at least 14 percent."

"Sorry, I didn't know," I mutter. I twist the glass so that its mouth faces away from me, just to glimpse at my reflection in its curve. I turn towards him. "I never met you on the day of the interview. It was so chaotic, and I couldn't find the time. Sorry about that."

"I know who you are," He says in a hushed tone, leaning closer to me. His back never leaves the wall. "You're London and I'm an ex-delinquent who got what he deserved."

My face flushes in embarrassment, and I instinctively cover it with the palm of my hand. "I'm terribly sorry about that segment. I can't justify it. There is no excuse for it. I don't think it matters but I still want you to know that I never wanted to hurt you or your wife."

"You were behind Aleena's article as well?" he balks.

"Oh god." I lean further into the wall, hoping it swallows me whole. "I'm sorry. I'll never—"

"Christ. Calm down." Jeremiah laughs, looking at me with amused eyes. "I was just fucking with you. It's past us, okay? Mostly because I feel bad for you. Now, you're more likely to be killed than I am."

I laugh too—more out of nervousness than anything. "Yeah, I am." I gulp.

"I saw you talking to Sara at the bar." He smiles. "What did she say?"

"That she's going to hammer the crime stats into every voter's brain," I reply. "The final nail in their entire election year's work of building the imaginary enemy."

"Hm. I did catch her citing random percentages at a table"—He smiles scornfully—"Typical."

"'Rise in crime?' Their lackey shot me in broad daylight, and no one knows who he is," I remark snarkily; Jeremiah sniggers.

A sudden gust of wind blows over us, and we brace ourselves. I put a hand on my dress to keep it from flying. The chatter, the laughter, and the piano can still be heard out here.

"I don't think they plan to engage with the Nutrien scandal. They'll just ignore the last few weeks and start off with their own promises."

"Yeah, and it will work." I sigh.

"How are you stalling Wayne with your hunt for the whistleblower?" Jeremiah asks once the wind has quietened.

"I'm not. When he asks, I'll just hand him a list of twenty people and bury Letterbox's name in it." I shrug. "But you're right, I have to think it through. I've been slipping."

Jeremiah looks at me with a puzzled expression. With a sheepish smile and some hesitation, I share the details of the awkward moment at my table. By the time I'm done, he's wearing a brilliant grin.

"Yeah, I knew. I heard some things," He replies.

"What things?"

"Not much. Just that the last one was prettier," He deadpans. I scoff, shoving his shoulder. He tips to the side and laughs, "I'm kidding."

"I know." I smile playfully. "I'm a bloody catch."

Jeremiah holds his laughter as he says, "Absolutely. Wayne should consider himself lucky to be conned by you."

I snort, shaking my head at him.

"Tipsy, aren't we?"—he clears his throat—"I should head back in."

I nod wordlessly, and our gaze lingers on each other for a second. Then he disappears down the corridor to return to our grueling reality—the fact that today was only the beginning of it all.

"—On the live stream, she said, and I quote, "This is just the beginning. The rise in criminal activity around urban areas will only continue to grow as immigration increases."

Candidate Sara Egerton immediately sparked a debate on ATOM along with a surge in search terms related to Ivo's refugees. ONA's candidate Brown stoked fires further by calling her remarks "irresponsible" and "misleading." He noted that the rise in crime was a result of unemployment—claiming that it was one example of the failures of the ruling government.

Egerton seems to have replied indirectly, when a pre-roll watchATOM advertisement, attributed failing job security to the "changing demographics." Many believe that her advertisement is hinting at immigration.

Moving on, we have received a report that strong winds are likely to occur, with a chance of rain and looming smog. Data predicts wind speeds to be approximately 38-42 knots. Avoid travel, check your shutters, and stay indoors.

This has been The Reverent. I'm Collin Hart, from our beloved capital. Please take care!"

"CUT!"

"It's unimaginable. The incompetence of the people in this crew!" Collin immediately breaks character and begins to curse out an assistant. "Why is my chair this low? I can't read the prompter with the way it's angled. Isn't there a comfortable chair in this entire building?"

"He adjusted it himself, five days ago," Chloe says, through gritted teeth.

I press down the button on my earpiece and speak in a calm voice, "Can someone please get one of those cushioned white chairs from the third floor? Thank you."

A young intern throws me a thumbs up and rushes off.

"I can't stand him." Chloe sounds exasperated. "How do you do this, every evening?"

"Well, you have to cut him some slack today. He just returned from his father's service," I say, sympathetically. My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans.

"So? My father's dead too. Do you see me throw my phone at someone's face, every time his death anniversary comes around?" she huffs.

I stop in shock.

"He threw his phone at someone's face?" I repeat. "His rage is the reason he got reassigned in the first place. Why doesn't he ever learn—"

I pinch my lips together as he comes closer—stopping right in front of us. He has one hand in his pocket and the other close to his mouth as he positions a cigarette.

"Nice to see you two together again," He says. "I heard you both were promoted after that interview. You're welcome!"

With a quick two-finger salute and a wide arrogant grin, he walks away. My hands curl into fists while Chloe stands beside me with her jaw slack. She speaks first:

"The audacity of that man!" She turns to face me with a baffled look in her eyes. 

My phone buzzes again and I pull it out, slowly. It's hard to process the lack of self-awareness Collin seemed to possess.

"There is no way he's Judge Hart's son. I've heard Judge was an absolute pleasure to work with! He was just a saint and Collin is..." She trails off, trying to find the right word. "The apple can't fall that far from the tree."

"Maybe that was the problem. Judge was too noble for his own good," I reply, in a tired tone, staring blankly at my phone. 

There are two missed calls from a hidden ID. It's my work phone. It's either one of my informants or Wayne calling from his fourth number. It's hard to keep track when it comes to him. I sigh, clicking my phone shut. "This nation is teeming with monsters. He was about to be a Supreme Court Justice. It could have been historic."

"Yeah, anyone with promise left after him too." She glances at me. "We all lost that day."

I know that she's talking about Emir but doesn't want to name him in the studio. She knew about the situation with Julie. It was incredibly touching that she was willing to look out for me.

"You should take that," She says softly, pointing at my phone.

It was ringing again. I shake my head. "You know what? My segment is over. I don't want to be dragged into doing more work—"

"Who are you kidding? You know you're going to take it," She interrupts.

"You know me too well." I scrunch up my nose. I am my mother's child, after all.

I quickly exit the studio and answer the phone in the empty hallway. Besides the hum of the fluorescent ceiling lights, it was quiet.

"Good evening. You're reached London Capell of the Reverent. May I know who's speaking?"

"Uhh. Sorry, did you say London?" A gruff, unsure voice responds. I hum in confirmation. "Well, my friend told me to contact you. I mean he didn't exactly say that, but he mentioned you."

I pause and lean against a wall. I realize he doesn't plan to share his name. A cold shiver runs down my spine. Who mentioned me?

"You had some questions for him about accounts, his job, and his colleagues. I don't know if you're asking any of mine from—umm—Orion...as well. I mean, it's probably nothing. Sorry I called. I might have alarmed you."

"Oh no, please go on. What do you mean?" I inquire gently. "What is probably nothing?"

"I just thought you might find it useful or interesting. I'd send it but I only have company-mandated devices. I know they're asking us not to travel but would it be possible for you to come down to Bex anytime soon?"

--------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading.

[long a/n below]

I feel compelled to get this off my chest. I started writing this book with its main gist ("politics post climate collapse") more than a year ago. I never published it. My country isn't truly democratic and this book was solely meant to exist as a way for me to vent out my frustration by twisting it into this revenge-fantasy type plot. Being able to disconnect myself from my reality enough to be able to write about it without feeling so helpless. All the time.

As a result of this, it deals with contemporary issues. This chapter, (and the book in general) contains a lot of anti-asylum talking points. For example, by Sara in this chapter. I was never planning to include a long author's note but I feel like I have to. What is happening in Afghanistan is heart wrenching. I'm sure you know. If you're reading this much later in the future, I can't imagine how much the situation must have worsened. There is a rise in anti-asylum rhetoric again. It's painful to read.

I'm not going to go into specifics or spend time condemning European leaders for their plans to stop the "irregular" flow of refugees, their past deportations, and their pretentious "solidarity" with Afghan women. I am only going to add a few links to dispel the hold some anti-asylum myths/arguments seem to have.

Most refugees don't flood into Europe. Most refugees flee and live in low or middle-income countries, the ones neighbouring their war-torn homelands.

(https://www.unhcr.org/en-us/news/latest/2017/2/58b001ab4/poorer-countries-host-forcibly-displaced-report-shows.html)

Half of them are children.

(https://data.unicef.org/topic/child-migration-and-displacement/migration/)

No, refugees are not an economic burden. It's not that black and white.

Shelter and resettlement are not the same thing. Initial resettlement costs may be high but refugees benefit economies, as seen in Uganda and US.

(https://www.forbes.com/sites/katiesola/2016/01/08/germany-cost-refugees/?sh=6a4fe07f7639)(Marcel Fratzscher & Simon Junker, 2015. DIW Berlin, German Institute for Economic Research)

The book repeatedly uses refugee and migrant interchangeably for the sake of fleshing out characters like Sara. They are not interchangeable words.

(https://www.unhcr.org/news/latest/2016/7/55df0e556/unhcr-viewpoint-refugee-migrant-right.html)

(https://www.habitatforhumanity.org.uk/blog/2016/09/refugees-asylum-seekers-migrants-crucial-difference/)

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