THE NEW REBELS (Part 2), original fiction by Sondria

“You do understand what I’m asking you to do, don’t you Moon?” I nodded.
“And you’re not going to have any problems executing, are you?” I shook my head.
“And Sun, what about you?” DJ saluted and stared ahead. The Commander knew that we could execute. He also knew that this assignment could build or destroy our existence. He was prepared either way. The other Moon and Sun stood in a room below us preparing to pick up the slack in case our emotions took over. DJ followed The Commander out, locking the door behind him. I went into the bathroom and pressed my hands against the cold marble of the sink—trying to stabilize my instability. Cautiously, I lifted my head to look into the face of my sister’s killer.

“Ten minutes, Maya.”

I imagined her four blocks away, engaged in a similar ritual. She applies her blush as I apply my shoe polish. She moisturizes her perfectly manicured hands and I slip my clean, purposeful mitts into leather gloves. As she slips into her nylons and I lace up my boots, we both pause and look over our shoulders.

“Five minutes, Maya.”

She becomes uneasy…and it’s not the pre-speech jitters that usually propel her into fiery use of vocabulary and dramatic pounds of the podium. She wants to wear the garter with the .22 secured in it, but to what avail? What life would she be protecting? She gave hers up a long time ago.
Maya walks into the restroom and presses her beautiful hands to the cool, hard porcelain—trying to stabilize her instability. Slowly, she lifts her head to look into the face of her killer.

“Show time, Maya.”

DJ and I walk in silence to the event that my sister is headlining. Before we walk the last block he squeezes my shoulder and I remember the last time we three were together.

“Where are you going?!” I asked, but I knew. I knew when they said, “advance” and “new car” and “creative freedom”.
“This is my chance! We can’t change the world from a basement! These people are offering us a chance to have our message heard.” She was good, even before they groomed her, she could lie to us without flinching. They needed a pop star that would speak to the restless youth…someone they could trust to keep the economy afloat, they said. But when she left in the Mercedes they bought, I realized that “my chance” couldn’t possibly coincide with “our message”.

“She’s not your sister anymore,” DJ said squeezing my shoulder.
“Yes she is.”

Maya had strayed, but she was just as much my responsibility as she was when I was saving her from flu shots. She was my sister, the cultural icon—The New Rebel, leading the generation in the televised revolution of consumerism.

I ascended the steps to Maya’s dressing room.
Maya descended the steps to the stage.

I went into the dark bathroom and placed my gloved hands on the porcelain. Stabilized.

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~sondria.