I wish the global quake had buried me. It would be easier, then, to cope.
My love? Murdered. My family? Betrayed. Friends? Fallen.
And all that in the name of the Hiezers.
My name is Blague. Just Blague. My surname was stripped the day I was marked for exile. Now I wander in the sands of the forgotten continents, scraping by among the rest of the outcasts. There are others like me, out here. Capable minds and able bodies, all scorned in one way or another by our oppressors. Every one of us has witnessed that same terrible scene: screaming citizens as they’re bagged and dragged off into labs, intended for some experimental purpose. We dare not act out, of course. Not under the watchful gaze of the Hiezers. Not beneath their lashing whips, where one false move could be our last.
It’s only in the shadows where we can plot. Tactically. Quietly. Gathering munitions until the time is right. I know something is amiss about the chemical they’ve used to brand our skin. It burns hot when we fight. So I’ll use it… I'll use it, and light the fire that defines the legacy of an entire rebellion, even if it kills me.
By the time this is over, I'm going to make them wish they'd buried me too...
