‘ How would you know ! ’ she writes, and beneath that, she continues, the pressure of her pen leaving angry imprints on the blank page underneath ‘ There are 7 continents on this planet, 196 countries, and 1000s of cities ’ On the reverse side, she scribbles hastily ‘ You really think there isn’t a SINGLE place out there better than here ? ? ? ’
The page is torn from its perforated margin and unceremoniously cast over the edge of the ceiling like a piece of discarded rubbish. A followup note flutters down seconds later, lacking the apoplectic flourish of its predecessor, but its message no less condescending.
‘ you should get out more ’
After both notes are beyond reach, she wonders if she’s said too much. Perhaps this country—Cascadia, as he calls it, wherever it is—is like a giant cult, its citizens so brainwashed with propaganda that they truly believe their borders are the only thing separating them from the godless lands known as the rest of the world. Perhaps they have become so complacent inside the safety of their cages and distracted by corporate enslavement that any knowledge pertaining to the world outside their own has… passed from memory.
God, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what to think.
‘ who are you to tell me to fight for this place
you came here because you wanted to
you stay here because you choose to
this is your fight —— not mine
I want to go ’
Her pen lingers, canted in her hand as she stares at her own words, lips pressed together. Then, with slow, hesitant strokes, she writes
She glances over her handwriting once more as she sets aside her pen and tears out the page. She places one hand over her tender hip and pulls herself closer to the edge of the ceiling, hissing quietly through her gritted teeth, and—at last—lowers a black silk arm over the side, down into the open, her note pinched loosely between her fingers.
(clipped & continued here)
He’s hit a nerve - anyone could tell him that just from observing the imprints on the second note, or even just by hearing the way the paper was torn before it reached him - but still he continues to stand his ground. Perhaps the rest of the world was alive and thriving; but Cascadia itself was godless. A glided cage that provided small benefits for the elite whilst working the rest to death and hunting down the few that dared to defy Conglomerate directives.
The last time Noah considered something his fight, the city burned. His warnings fell on deaf ears, Rebecca Thane dismissing his concerns as cowardice whilst the other movement leaders assumed things wouldn’t escalate, and now most of them were dead, leaving the survivors scarred in more ways than one. His own criminal record is consequently so long that you’d think even hell wouldn’t take him - let alone the rest of the world. If a better place exists, he’s resigned to never seeing it.
Few escaped Cascadia without dying in the process, and they usually just fled to Omnistat or, in the more extreme cases, Sabaeus. Managing to escape across the ocean to another land was a near-impossible feat given the Conglomerate’s hold on all forms of transport in the country, and if Noah thought about it long and hard enough, he’d possibly be able to draw comparisons to a permanent lockdown.
She really is out of her depth on the knowledge front.
But finally, he makes progress regarding her identity when he sees her hand lean over the side. It’s not enough for his liking yet - not a name or a face or a voice - but it’s a start. The note is pulled gently from her grip, consideration being taken to avoid startling her, and Noah places it next to the rest of the papers that she’s used to communicate with him. He doesn’t answer her straight away; there’s a trend in the notes, and he wants to address that first.
To her, home isn’t Cascadia.
“...Where’s your home?” The angry barrage of words from her previous two notes goes mostly unregarded - as he’s already mused, he just hit a nerve. Noah is much more concerned with where her view of the world came from-- what made her come here of all places, especially now that she wants back out of it. He wonders if he’s saying too little in light of the fact that three words is all he’s said in response to three notes, but he can’t help someone he knows nothing about.
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