recap: London is trying to help the ONA, but pressured by Mark Hubert, she leaks information from the Everton forum. She had lost the faith of many members of the ONA for a while. However, she earns it back by looking for a whistleblower. In the process, her name is quietly spread among the employees, and apparently, even further. One of the people who comes across her information, contacts her and asks if they could meet anytime soon.

At the same time, London comes across buried evidence from Judge Hart's murder investigation that seems to point directly at Emir.

This is where part two begins.

-----

After knocking on the locker room door, I wait for an answer. The door is fixed at the end of the equipment room; it's a rectangular space with sturdy iron racks carrying kneepads, wickets, balls, and nets. They seem worn out but regularly used.

"You can come in, London." The nurse calls out to me.

I walk in and hang my purse from one of the knobs on the wall, which were meant for towels. There are neat rows of smooth white lockers fixed onto the walls. Black and white checkered tiles cover the floor. Lying on a sturdy stretcher-like couch was the man who had called me to Bex. He offers me a nervous smile, and the nurse directs me towards the empty stretcher next to him. A small card with a few questions and a pen is dropped onto my lap.

What's my name? Do I wish to stay anonymous? Would I be present in the system?

London Capell. Yes. Yes.

I hand it back, and she leaves me with a form to fill. As I do so, the machine drawing a bag of blood from my new informant rumbles with strange mechanical groans. He remains still, with his eyes closed, showing no sign of unease.

Once I've submitted the form and the nurse has left the room to check my ID and password into the MEDI+ system, we find an opportunity to talk.

"Check my backpack," He says.

I crouch next to the backpack, at the feet of his stretcher, and pull out a laptop. He weakly gestures with his free hand to bring it to him. I pull the nurse's chair next to him, angle the laptop in his direction, and he scans his fingerprint to give me full access to its contents.

"The main application should start running automatically. Look for the 'mail' symbol in the upper-right corner. Then head to the section that's labelled 'Private.'" His voice guides me through the steps until I locate the file in question.

It is a memo from Orion's provincial head—quoting an exchange with their CEO, a distasteful joke, and an unrelated update in their customer care policy.

"Is this a company-wide memo?" I ask.

"There is no way for me to know." He sighs. "We aren't allowed to discuss private memos with someone from outside our department."

I nod thoughtfully.

"So?" he asks in a tense voice. My eyes drift towards the tube of blood sticking out of his arm. At least the machine is silent now.

Taking a deep breath in, I read out the provincial head's response to his CEO's comments:

"If the ONA wins and any new taxes are levied on me, or my company, I will be forced to reduce the size of the workforce." I pause and look up at him. "It does read like a threat, but it's not technically illegal. May I take a picture of this with my phone?"

"Yes, of course"—He nods fervently—"What will you do with it?"

"I'm not sure," I mumble. I take a handful of pictures, trying to get a clear focus on the words. "I am guessing you want me to leak it."

"Well, I think you'll know best. They can't get away with telling us who to vote for, can they?" he remarks, somewhat defensively. 

"Were you planning to vote for the ONA?" I ask delicately. I'm relieved when he returns my smile, so I go a step further. "I saw their party colours outside. Is there a connection between them and this medical non-profit?"

"You could call them friends." He laughs, and my smile widens. He trusts me. I recalled reading their name at Silver Valley. Most of the medical equipment here has the same logo printed on them—there had to be a connection. He goes on, "I used to volunteer here before I got my current job at Orion. It feels good to do good when you're out of work."

"Where does the blood go?"

"Some to the hospitals downtown, and some to the medical camps near the fringe." His eyebrows draw together as he tries to remember.

"Have you been to the medical camps?"

"Yeah, I've been through rain and hail," He replies with a wistful smile. "If you are trying to understand why I called you—let me tell you—these people were there for me when I had nowhere to go."

"I understand," I reply. As I'm returning his laptop to his backpack, the door opens behind me. I spin around to find the nurse, standing with her hands folded in front of her.

"I'm sorry, you can't donate blood." She looks at me with a remorseful expression. "Your chart reads that you were on Pradelto—"

"But I stopped a week ago," I interrupt.

"You're still not safe enough to be a blood donor." She shakes her head.

-----

The bullet train had been stuffy and uncomfortable. It had arrived ten minutes late, and I had somehow managed to down enough coffee at the station to keep myself awake at that hour. Leaving after a two-minute conversation would have felt too wasteful so I stick around.

I watch people pour in—most of them come in pairs. I watch people work—efficiently moving from donor to donor. But most of all, I pick up bits of conversations from here and there. Apart from friendly chitchat, a surprising amount is about the election. Not in terms of the candidates but the issues at play—employment, immigration, and law. There is no denying that there is a preference towards ONA. In fact, a few of the volunteers readily offer information regarding the progress achieved in Everton in the past few years.

At one point, when I step out of the crowd to sneeze, I notice a pin-up board covered with posters. Some of them are pinned over the others due to the lack of space.

"Know your rights!"

"FAQs"

"What if a gendarme...?"

"OPEN KITCHEN!"

I move a pamphlet on language lessons to get a better look at the last one. It's a well-designed colourful poster about a kitchen that offers free meals—three times a day. I am trying to memorise the address when someone walks up to me. It's a young girl, wearing a distressed jean jacket decorated with badges.

"You can keep it if you want. They let you take the posters home. Especially the instructional ones," She says confidently.

"Thank you for letting me know." I smile sincerely. I pull the poster off the board. "Do you come here often?"

"Yeah, twice a week," She replies. Then nodding towards the piece of paper in my hand, she says, "I found out about this place at an open kitchen like that. I play football with my friends in the field."

My smile deepens as I turn towards her. "Striker?"

"Goalkeeper. I never miss," She says, standing up straighter. I notice a woman watching us.

"Are you here with your mother?"

"Yeah, we came to see Nora in the basketball court. My mum's having problems with her identification card, and Nora just gets this stuff—you know," She says, before turning and waving at her mother. 

I know what she means by Nora 'getting this stuff,' but the fact that she was here was brand new to me. The girl catches the look of surprise on my face and adds, "What. You think it's always this crowded at a blood donation?"

"No—I—I didn't know. I just came here to donate blood," I mutter. "I think I'll go see her."

"Cool. I'm sure you can still talk to her—" She turns around at the sound of her name. "Yes, Coming!"

"You should head back. It was nice meeting you." 

The girl salutes me playfully and skips back to her mother.

Quickly wrapping a protective arm around her daughter's shoulders, the mother offers me a tightlipped smile. I nod courteously, neatly folding the poster and placing it in my coat pocket.

"What were you both talking about?" Her mother asks, in a low voice, when I start to walk away. "I don't think she's from around here."

------

Nora wouldn't let me turn down her offer to drive me back to the station. She's incredibly forthright and convincing. In hindsight, I can't even pinpoint when I gave in.

"If you thought that was stuffy, you could never conceive how bad the train gets at this hour." Nora laughs. She steers the car out into the highway and tinkers with the main system.

"I don't know how to thank you," I reply politely.

In contrast to my nerves, Nora seems completely at ease. When I had approached her in the basketball court to quietly apologise for the Everton forum, it had been a little awkward. I was fidgeting with my fingers and stumbling over my words. But in the end, her expressive black eyes had crinkled at the edges, as she smiled and assured me that we were "alright."

I'm glad that there are no ill-feelings. However, a sense of foreboding still hangs over the car. I had tried to keep our meeting short, and this was the exact opposite. Emir is bound to come up. I'm not sure if I have the strength to tolerate a conversation about him.

"I bet you had fun eavesdropping today," She comments. I'm going to have to get used to her bluntness. "These places attract opinionated people."

"I learnt a lot." I laugh softly.

Tall dilapidated apartments with the same square windows rush past us. Cracked walls, peeling paint, and unkept bushes that sprout lawlessly along the road.

"I hope you don't mind me asking." She starts. I peel my eyes off the sidewalk and turn to look at her. "What did you hear about me?"

"All good things. They really trust you, Nora." I smile. She mirrors it, her tanned cheeks blushing pink. "Can I ask why you're running for provincial elections? Sure, a seat in Odile's council is great, but you could easily win your county in the general elections."

"And what?" she looks at me quizzically. "Sit in the lower house—completely outnumbered?" She shakes her head. "This plan is better. I could do more good."

I nod slowly. Their plan. It was the first question everyone seemed to have.

My mind traces back to ONA's first announcement. The way the "Breaking news" graphic had spun around the screen and my heart had started to pound. An analyst had been rushed in to comment on their decision to run for Odile's council. The news anchor's eyes had gone wide when the analyst had called their move, "clever."

"They just have to get three districts to form a majority of the council, and Odile will be all theirs. Then, they can use this province as a model for future general elections. If it does well, the rest of the nation will take notice.

Taking Odile also means sending at least three people to the upper house. Since AFD has already lost Afra, losing Odile would indicate that the upper house is slowly slipping away from them. Out of 25 seats, at least 10 will be from the opposition! It's been ages since we have seen numbers like that! The opposition is growing, and the AFD should be worried."

The air conditioning in the car purrs as we head straight down the highway. I lean my head back to stare out of the window, replaying that news segment in my head. Did the analyst know about the blood donation camps, the kitchens, the playgrounds—these covert methods of forming communities and disseminating information?

A sting climbs up my nose again, breaking my train of thought. I sneeze into my palm, and quickly rub my nose against my sleeve. "Sorry. God, it's the air here. I think," I say.

"Ah. Don't worry. You're just not used to it." She leans over and taps the glove compartment. "There are tissues in there. Don't use your sleeve, or you'll make it worse."

I thank her under my breath and pop it open. Blinking away the tears, I try to grab the small packet of tissues and accidentally drop a photograph on the floor of the car. Nora's eyes quickly flick over in concern. I sweep it up, apologetically.

You can tell that the photograph is precious just by the fact that it is in its physical form. At some point, I believe Nora felt like she had to hold it closer. It has marks on the sides as if she had clutched it too tight and then carefully straightened it out. I assume it's a family picture. A preteen Nora sitting on her mother's lap and a boy her age sitting on an elder man's lap.

Her brother?

When I realise I've been staring at it without her permission, I quickly clear my throat and start to place it back.

"It's fine. You can look at it," She says as if she's read my mind. "I know the news has never mentioned my parents. Martin can seem cruel, but when I asked him to keep my real family out of this election cycle—he made sure that they were."

"I didn't know you had a brother," I say quietly.

"Have. I have a brother." She nods, gulping visibly.

"What happened?"

She pauses. "Deported."

I look over at her, and she's still staring straight ahead. Guilt swells in my chest. I should not have brought this up. I put the photograph back in its place, and the glove compartment makes a latching sound when I shut it.

"It's been a really long time since," She finally adds. Her eyes meet mine for a second, before turning towards the road again. "Do you have siblings?"

"No. No, I'm an only child."

"That's too bad," she replies. I almost agree out loud. The words sit like a stone at the center of my chest—I would have liked a sibling. I was a lonely child, but it feels downright silly to feel sad about it right now. "It shows a little. Your only childness," She adds with a cheeky smile.

"What do you mean?" I eye her cautiously.

"You know." She shrugs. "You don't naturally think about how your decisions could affect others. Accommodating other's lives, consequences...it seems like you're slowly catching on to these things." I bite my tongue. "I am not being passive aggressive, by the way. I wouldn't have explained it, if you hadn't asked me to."

"No." I exhale shakily. "Fair enough."

I have taught myself to be okay with being misunderstood. Awkwardly, I ask. "So, the election observers. How is—uh—the investigation going?"

Despite my unsubtle effort to change the topic, Nora dives in. She tells me how difficult it had been to obtain a confirmed list. She goes on to talk about Dakota, and the irregular and expensive phone calls from prison. Emir doesn't come up, and I finally relax.

When all that remains is an empty stretch of land, our conversation starts to dim. Sun-burnt, yellow grass and thorny shrubs are the only forms of vegetation. This stretch is dotted with typical signs, reading: "private property" or "sold."

I almost start to nod off when—by a stroke of good luck—I catch the exit number flash above us. I press my forehead against the glass to read it again as it moves away from us, growing smaller and smaller.

"Nora! I think you missed the exit." I turn to look at her, finally noticing that her face has grown pale. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is pressed into a thin line.

"Are you alright? You don't look alright," I ask delicately.

"Don't panic," She replies, in an emotionless voice, staring straight ahead. A knife twists in my gut when our eyes meet. She says, "I've tried it more times than I can count."

She's talking about the brakes. No alarms have gone off on the dash, and I watch her pump them—one more time—in vain. My breathing is ragged as I look out the window.

We're going at highway speeds.

"Climb over to the back. Sit right behind me," She commands. Her knuckles are white. Her tight hold on the steering wheel does nothing to ease my fears.

"What are you planning to do?" I ask. I can't keep my voice from trembling.

"We have to get out of this car," She replies—almost as if she was convincing herself. "We can't enter the city like this."

Following her line of vision, I realise she's looking at the ledge running along the road. No, no, no.

I look at her, pleading with my eyes. "There has to be another way to slow down."

She shakes her head. The lines on her forehead tell me that she's just as unsure about this as I am, but her eyes look determined. "Climb over. Now."

And I do. 

I climb, grunt, squeeze, and land uncomfortably in the backseat. Hardly had I positioned myself behind her when she swerves past a car, throwing me against the door. Gasping, I steady myself, and she drives closer to the ledge. This is not going to end well.

"Ready?" she asks loudly, manually pushing the car into neutral. Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. I nod, gulping to dissolve the knot in my throat. She exhales through her mouth and then calls out: "On three. Protect your head

One, two—"

The car slams against the iron ledge, and there is a terrifying clangour of metal against metal. I hold the seat in front of me to prevent being flung closer to the collision. The noise grows in intensity. Fiery sparks spray over us, and a scream leaves my lips at the sight of them.

Nora pulls away, and suddenly it's quiet. Too quiet. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I try to breathe again. The metallic covering on that side rattles, and I'm not sure if we managed to slow down.

"Again!" she shouts. And the car clashes against the ledge. I wince at the impact. Nora grits her teeth and presses the car closer.

The deafening screech of metal rises over her cussing. I grab my head in my hands, digging my fingers into my scalp.

Cover your ears. Remember to breathe.

I push my weight against the door when orange flashes against the other window—which begins to crack. The front passenger-side door crumples. The airbag blasts open. The window crackles like thunder—bursting into a shower of glass shards and hinges. A dangerous thud shocks the car and Nora stops.

The car drifts away from the ledge, bent and bruised, rumbling as it moves ahead. Nora takes her hands off the steering wheel, collapsing back in her seat. She's clearly winded.

"We have to jump. This is slow enough," She says, pulling her hair into a bun. I nod mechanically, trying to take deep breaths in and out as I fold the sleeves of my coat to pad my elbows.

She opens her car door. I follow suit. We bend outward. One foot where the door meets the frame. One hand to hold it open, while the other keeps me steady.

Our eyes meet again and I hear her say: "On three.

One, two—"

My body slams against the gravel.

------