*From the perspective of 324 because why not?*

Is it truly believable that when, in the name of equality, if all humans are raised the same, dressed the same, fed the same, given the same items, taught the same subjects, given the same opportunities, and spoon-fed the same brainwashing slop there can still be a rise?

Someone who allows the gears in their brain to rotate just a tad, a small little click that sends a shock wave of energy so powerful for the first time in your life you feel _awake_?

I believe it.

I’ve _lived_ it.

I’ve been sitting in a cafeteria, shoulder to shoulder with people my same height and shape, black helmets and masks covering their faces, the only outward difference being a three-digit number, a mere patch on their jacket, and realized, for a moment, _at least one other person thinking the same thing as me: How did we ever get here? _

The government has been perfectly content with telling me that when I die, someone else will take my number, and by living a life of perfect, unscathed equality, by spending every second working and learning to fall in line, will pave the way for a greater good.

_What is the greater good?_

I believe I have that simple yet powerful answer: there is no greater good. There is only the ruining of the strait-laced government that can bring me some affordable form of happiness.

But when this Revolution I’ve molded my life for, this Outlash, this _Change_, lists reasons to their fellow _Changers_ about the core of the _why_, they always speak of a greater good, a utopia, a heaven that can one day be achieved if we just keep fighting.

“So the generation after us may have a better chance of having a sense of what good living could be.”

Screw the greater good. All I care about is watching these higher- ups, these ones who earned their right to have their name be something other than a number, have their skulls driven into the ground.

_Undesirable_.

Ha. Of course. Sometimes it seems I’m the only one who can form my own thoughts. How ironic that a person who is conscious of their own abilities has been doomed to hold the lowest rank society can ever hold. _An Undesirable_.

Of course, at the end of our 18th year, when handing out Archetectual internships, medical training, technology support, and many other jobs , they could come up with nothing better for me than nothing itself.

That is what fueled me for resistance. That is what makes me smile at Council Head Cordovon Palt, staring at me with their little gold helmet secured tightly around their face in an attempt to look intimidating. What a name, am I right? What privilege it is to have a name.

“Are you going to answer the question, 324? Or should I ask you again?” Cordovon tilts their head at me in a condescending way, as if I’m a 5-year-old who has skinned my knee doing something I shouldn’t have.

I say nothing. Boy, do I love these masks. They can’t see me grinning ear to ear.

Cordovon tries pacing the room a bit, which is difficult because the room is so small. I shift in my chair, as much as I can, to take a deep breath. My arms are handcuffed on both sides, and my legs are strapped to the metal legrests.

Cordovon pauses their pointless pacing. “We’ve seen the footage. We know exactly what you’ve done. Will you deny it?”

I say nothing.

“Will you deny it?”

I say nothing.

Cordovon goes to the tray of miscellaneous torture weapons meant to intimidate me, glazing their fingers over each and every one in a teasing manner.

I grit my teeth.

Cordovon finally decides on a large syringe, bringing it up and twisting it in the migraine- inducing light ostentatiously so I can get a full view.

“Will you deny it?” they ask again.

“I will not.”

Cordovon nears me slyly, holding the syringe in the air. “Numbers are replaceable. Easily, easily replaceable.”

“That’s good news for you, isn’t it?” I say through gritted teeth.

Cordovon says crassly, “It makes no difference to me,” before their tone takes a suddenly dark drop. “Where is it?”

“You could be more specific.”

That earns me a kick to the gut with the heel of their boot, and I bite down on my tongue to resist from making any more noise than I already have. Cordovon seems satisfied. “Don’t play smart with me. The things you stole.”

“I’ve stolen many things,” I grunt out weakly. My mind goes to 717, and regret immediately fills my body like murky water. Did I really trust 717 that much? How could I be so careless?

Cordovon heaves a great sigh. “Alright. I’ll tell you how things are going to go since you’ve been acting slow. If you won’t tell me where it is, then I will not hesitate to inject this into your arm. This formula is…” Cordovon rotates the syringe to stare at the label. “#008473. Do you understand what it does? Us neither. This will be our first time using it on a person.”

“How exciting,” I mumble dryly.

“Yes, very exciting.” Cordovon is done with this banter, I can tell. “But, if you will give us the location where you’ve hidden all the items you have wrongly stolen from our institution, then you may be…” Cordovon lowers their arm holding the syringe. “Upgraded.”

I say nothing. Cordovon takes this as a sign to describe further. “As you know, being ranked an Undesirable is typically a permanent situation. But in your case, if you tell us where those items are, I can arrange for you to be removed from your rank as Undesirable, and reconsidered for something more useful. There’s no doubt that you are a shifty fellow, perhaps we could use you.”

***

Now, had 324 considered these things carefully and taken Cordovon’s latter proposal and spilled the beans, Cordovon would’ve sprung into action, ordering that 324 be taken away and secured immediately. 324, dragged away by soldiers, would be overwhelmed with shame and regret as Cordovon arranged groups to locate the stolen items and kill everyone in sight. Many would have died as a result, 717 for example, who would awake one night to find soldiers rummaging their room and one aiming a gun at their forehead.

324 would spend many nights wallowing in their cell, full of guilt and anger, cursing themselves over and over again for giving in to such senseless temptation when they should’ve remembered that all the government does is lie.

324 would lay on their backs on the bare floor, staring at the ceiling but not seeing it, instead seeing Cordovon’s head being smashed into the wall over and over and over…

324 would’ve refused food and drink and sleep, all the while having half, fever-ridden dreams of killing soldiers any way possible, repeatedly, until there were no soldiers left to kill.

This dream would’ve been fulfilled when, one day, the doctor would try forcing a pill into 324’s mouth to keep them alive. 324 would’ve shoved the doctor into the wall, grabbed their keycard and gun, and dashed down the halls, not to escape, but to kill.

324 would’ve partly succeeded in their task, killing five soldiers and wounding one, before taking a bullet to the head.

As a result of the kill, the guard on floor 3 that shot 324 would’ve been upgraded to the name 54 instead of 548, a two-digit name meaning a move in the ranks, a prestigious promotion.

But none of that happens, because 324 closes their eyes and mulls over Cordovon’s deceitful options, weighing each consequence. 324 can’t be sure of anything except that the government lies, quite frequently, to get what they want.

Ever since 324 joined the Resistance, they never imagined themselves dying of old age. No, 324’s idyllic death consisted of dying in the heat of a battle with bursts of flames and gunshots ringing in their ears while they took out countless enemy soldiers. 324 craved a death of sacrifice and valor, a death of significance. That was how 324 wanted to die, not quietly in a metal room where no one was there to witness except for the killers themselves.

324 shakes their head. “No.”

Cordovon heaves a sigh, knowing that this seemingly interminable game of back-and-forth banter will come to an end.

Cordovon injects the serum, and 324 dies within the next five minutes, slowly, faintly, painfully, like a setting sun.

When 324 breathes their last, Cordovon promptly orders the removal of their body and sets the syringe in a disposable bin dispassionately, as if tossing away a tissue. But in their heart, Cordovon knows this means trouble for them.

***

Somewhere in a dark secluded room crowded with boxes, warm bodies, and a sense of fight, the most ignorant of them all asks casually, “Where’s 324?” but the question hangs in the air, unanswered, frozen, as someone bitterly shakes their head.

And somewhere in the government’s most secure prison, the guard on floor 3 is still one kill away from being promoted.