THE dream starts as always.
The same room I know I’ve seen before but can’t quite place. The soothing voice I know I’ve heard but can’t remember where.
“Remember who you are. Prinz Solman.” It whispers. The voice has never said anything else.
“Who are you?! What do you mean remember?! My name is Alexander!” I shout at it, but it only repeats what it says, albeit more firmly.
And then, before long, the room, the voice, and everything around me is consumed in flames, and all I hear is maniacal laughing.
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I woke up in a cold sweat. The dreams were intensifying, and I knew it.
My first dream occurred six months ago, it was shorter and less vivid. So I’d brushed it off, but as time went on, they became more vivid, longer, and more frequent. Sometimes, I could even feel the flames as they consumed the dream, and my body would feel hot, as if I’d just come out of a small fire.
So far, I had told no one, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, so I simply kept the dreams to myself.
I slid into my day-clothes before turning around, where my younger sister still lay soundly asleep. Without warning, she snorts and opens her eyes, causing me to startle.
“That’s creepy. You know that?” I said to her, “Really creepy.”
“What is? The fact you were watching me sleep or the fact I woke up when you started doing it.”
I sigh, “Touche. Now get up, or Mr. Wilson will have our hides again, and I don’t like the idea of being fired.”
Navina groaned and rolled out of bed, and turned to me, “What are you waiting around for? Pervert.” She blew a raspberry as I left her room.
I entered the kitchen/dining area, “Hullo mom.” I looked around, “Where’s Dad?”
“He went on ahead, and-” She pulled out two brown bags, “-he left his lunch, so you need to take it to him at the factory.”
“Right.” I nod, “I’ll take my breakfast to go.” I scooped up another bag,
“Right, well. Be careful.” She kissed me on the forehead.
“I will.” I smile, and headed out the door.
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As I entered the factory, I found the first person I needed to see and the last person I wanted to see. “You’ve gotten lucky. You’re on time.” My britannian supervisor pulled out his pocket watch.
“I’m always on time!” I chirp with faked enthusiasm. I was sticking it to him, and he noticed.
“What are you carrying?” He snarled,
“My father’s lunch, he forgot it today.” I raised the brown bag,
The supervisor fell into a judging silence, then: “Give it to him quickly. Then get the hell over here, the crane is jammed again.”
I sighed and then headed over to my father, “Dad.” I tapped his shoulder as he spoke to his foreman,
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“One sec Alex.” He turned back to the man, As I moved away, snippets of conversation caught my ear,
“Are you sure this will work? This is ambitious, sending a lone agent with so little support.”
“Our current spy says that the Class of 39 is coming here of all places. This means we’ve caught their attention,”
“That isn’t always a good thing. The girl is twelve-”
“She’s been trained since she was nine, she’ll do fine.”
“Still-” The foreman shushed my father as they turned around but I’d already begun walking off. ‘What girl? Trained for what?’
It was another question on a growing list.
“You! Boy!” My supervisor came to me, “I told you to work on the crane!”
“But-”
“Damn witch!” In a flash the supervisor threw his fist towards my face, catching me in the jaw. Lights spun in my eyes as I sprawled on the floor.
“Why.” My supervisor kicked me in my ribs, “Don’t.” Another kick. “You.” He kicked me for the final time, “Listen!”
By now a crowd had been drawn to us, no one dared to move lest they catch the attention of one of the thugs on the periphery of the factory.
“Sir. That’s enough.” My father laid a hand on my supervisor’s shoulder, only to be slapped in return.
“Don’t touch me.” He hissed, “Fix the crane.” He spat at me,
“Yes...sir.” I groaned weakly as I got up, my ribs creaked with pain.
“Today!” My supervisor yelled as he stormed off to harass another worker.
My father and the foreman he was talking with helped me up.
“I better fix the crane.” I chuckled, and as I left I overheard my dad say “Damn Britannians...kids shouldn’t have to go through this…”
I sighed, and then approached the crane, I climbed up the service “Oh! Alex! You’re here?” A kid waved down, it was my friend Cruz. An eleven year old who had a knack for making machines work.
“Already met my beating quota.” I try to laugh, only to be met with sharp pain in my ribs.
“Yeah, so did I.” He pointed to a swelling black eye, clearly recent. “Help me out here,”
“I don’t have a choice.” I slid under it next to him, “So what’s up?”
“The joints are beginning to rust together, again. For a tank factory this certainly isn’t very well maintained,”
“‘That’s why they hired us.’” I said in a mockery of the supervisors voice,
“Anyway, I need a grease can, think you can get it?” He asked,
“Sure.” I turned and slid down the service ladder towards the storage room.
“An additional 20 tanks per month? This is too much, the workers are getting less than four hours of sleep, many are dropping unconscious on the job!” It was the supervisor, talking to another Britannian in military uniform.
“We need them for the push against Neu-Klaxovia.”
“It’s always a push, and that’s all it’s ever been.”
“You heard me. I want 94 tanks per month.” The officer was adamant. “Or we’ll take our funding elsewhere.”
The supervisor sat down, defeated. “94 tanks it is.”
I quickly scampered away as the officer came back out, ‘We can’t do an additional twenty tanks. We’re barely sleeping as is!’ I approached the storage room again, and knocked.
“E-Excuse me.” My voice shook, “Can I get the grease can?”
The stressed supervisor looked like he was about to hit me, then he sighed, and said: “Top right shelf. Make it quick.”
I grabbed the can and left.
I climbed back up the ladder, the first thing I said to Cruz was the officer’s orders.
Strangely, he seemed unsurprised. “It’s always been like this, my parents said so.”
“Like what?”
“Every year or two, they work us to the bone, producing more tanks. Then they all get destroyed in the Blutwald.”
Blutwald, or Blood Forest was the term for the vast system of forests and mountains that the Neu-Klaxovia resistance group was notorious for using as a main base. It's notorious reputation comes from the fact that over the past one-hundred years nearly one hundred thousand Britannian soldiers had died there fighting the Neu-Klaxovians.
“I want to leave here.” I said resolutely,
“Careful,” Cruz joked, “The supervisor might beat you for saying that.”
“I’m serious Cruz. I want to leave here,”
My friend looked at me seriously, then laughed.
“Good luck. You aren’t the first one who’s said that, and you won’t be the last.”