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“The hell are you listening to?” '915 asked, locking the door behind him and dropping his uniform jacket onto the back of '543's chair. His brother was hunched over the white desk, fiddling with something electrical and playing some crackling noise that '915 supposed might be music, if it had died in a sewer thirty years ago.
“Some kinda broadcast,” '543 replied, not looking up but instead carefully attaching two green wires to each other with electrical tape. “I think it's coming out of the Zones. Sorta music stuff, mostly, but sometimes a guy comes in and tells you what you're listening to. He hasn't said what this one is yet. I haven't gotten a station identification, either. Might be a secret frequency.”
'915 nodded like that made any kind of sense. “Did you hear about those firefights out by the wall this morning?” he asked, careful to pronounce the words correctly. '543 never took the time to hit the Ts and the Rs correctly, they were all soft and rolled. Ignored like a g at the end of a word. Kinda. Comin'. Sorta. Listenin'. It always set '915's teeth on edge. He sat down on the bed and took his boots off so that he didn't have to look at '543.
“Mmhmm,” '543 said, using his teeth to pry open the electrical tape. He stuck it on the edge of the desk with his lips, and then resumed speaking. “The man on the radio was talking about them, too. Called all of those rebels 'brave souls' who 'lost their lives on Celebration Highway'.” As he spoke, '543 dropped the roll of electrical tape to do airquotes. '915 noted that his hands were splotched in black paint. The top of the desk was, too, almost like it might be an oil stain- but '915 knew better, and he could see the tops of two new canvasses poking out from beneath the bed.
“They were a bunch of rebels,” '915 grunted, tugging at his laces. There '543 went again, talking about the Zonerunners like they were some kind of novelty. A group to be watched, and adored, and held above the citizens of the City. What did he know? If '543 kept getting demerits, he might not even make it out of school. Then he'd have to get a factory job, and Dad would probably kick him out, and he'd probably end up like- “And they got what was coming to 'em,” '915 said, cutting off his train of thought. “The S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W/S did a good job. I think almost all of 'em made it back into Reeducation.”
'543 gave a dramatic shiver. “I hate thinking about that place.”
“That's 'cause you've been in there three times already, Five.” Idiot. Couldn't talk right, kept making all that art, never paid attention to orders . . . it wouldn't be surprising if he died in Reeducation.
“It's not a nice place to be, Fifteen. It's . . . sticky.”
“That doesn't make any sense.” '543 never made any sense. It had to be all of that creativity that he had, it twisted the way he thought. '915 slid his boots under the bed and kicked the canvasses out of sight, all in stride. He looked up at '543 finally, trying to meet the other boy's gaze.“Besides, you know that reeducation is for the betterment of our society. We wouldn't be where we are today without the elimination of worldviews that cause harm to those around us.” He lapsed into the old sayings so easily. They felt good on his tongue, like an old friend. The things he learned in school wouldn't hurt him. They were always true, and they were always good, and they were always right. Why did '543 have to pick fights with the Educational Instructors about the little nitpicky things?
“Don't,” '543 cautioned, locking eyes with '543. His face looked gaunt, purple ringing the spaces under his eyes. “Don't say that. You haven't been there, and your friends haven't been there, and the Educational Instructors haven't been there. Stop saying those things, because they're not true.”
He lowered his head, almost looking defeated. His hair fell into his eyes, shading them from '543's sight. God, when had his hair gotten that long? He'd be getting demerits for it soon, especially if he didn't tie it back during sparring.
“It's nice there, I guess,” '543 said after a beat. He let out a defeated chuckle, carefully unscrewing something in his tangle of wires. “They've got beds, and food, and TV. They've got board games and books. All of 'em Better Living-approved, of course. But you don't know what it's like in there, Fifteen. And I can't quite-I can't quite remember what it's like being in there, either.”
“You only went there because you were off of the pills,” '915 said in a low voice. “You were out of your mind, Five. You tried to-”
“Yeah, I know what I did,” '543 said, with a little bit of a bite in his voice. He still didn't look at '915. “And I'm not gonna again, alright? But that's not the point. The point is that I don't know what happened in there, but all of a sudden I was better.” He put down his project to glare at '915, turning around in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. “I'm not in the habit of trusting miracle cures, and I especially don't like when people do things to me without me knowing.”
“You're paranoid,” '915 said, standing up. “You're paranoid and you've been sick before. Are you taking your pills?”
“Shut up. I'm fine. I'm fine,” '543 said. He turned back around and picked back up the project, touching two wires together and watching as they sparked. “I'm fine and I'm taking the pills and I just-” he broke off, fumbling for words. “I just don't wanna be some brainwashed little zombie, alright?” The wires fell out of his grip. “I like being able to think for myself. I don't like being just some poor little thing that gets herded around and told 'it's alright, it'll be okay' for my whole life. I don't think there's anything wrong with me, Fifteen. I don't think there's anything wrong with me.” His shoulders were shaking then, his hands curling up to cover his face.
'915 snorted. Emotions? Again? “Tell that to your math homework.”
'543 sniffled. “D'you mind if- just for this time-”
“You can't keep doing this forever,” '915 said, crossing the room to find his textbook. “But yes, you can copy my notes.” He should play nice while he still could. '543 might not be around forever, especially with this attitude.
“Thanks,” '543 said, accepting the few pages and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Y'know, if- if I get this radio back up and working-”
“That thing's a radio?” '915 would've never been able to tell. Maybe that was why it was making that awful static noise before.
“Used to be. I found it in the dumpster outside. It was already tuned to this station when I started. It looks like somebody dropped it off the roof, maybe.”
“Huh,” '915 said, looking at the mess of colored wires over '543's shoulder. “Wonder why they would do that.” He knew, though. He knew that it was tuned to a rebel station and that 103261 had been sent off to reeducation three days before. He had a sinking suspicion that this radio was the reason that '261 had been sent away. '543 hadn't connected the dots, though, so he just said,“They'll get fined for littering if they leave it around.”
“If you drop it off the roof you won't get caught,” '543 said, like he'd tried it before. “No facial recognition up there. Just on the ground.”
The more '543 talked, the more he sounded like himself . . . he sounded like a rebel. He sounded like he always did right before he got reeducated, right before he got dragged off for a month again and came back with his hair short and his eyes glossed over.
A pit was forming in '915's stomach.
“I wanna see if I can tune into this station any clearer,” '543 said. “I think the City's waves are messing with it a little, but I can still make it out. I think- I think I like the music.”
'915 was silent as '543 connected a set of wires and the voice on the speakers burst into full clarity, making both of them jump.
“-was originally a song by David Bowie,” the man's voice on the radio said. “But personally, I think I like this version better. You're listening to WKIL of the desert, your cold place for all of the hot beats. Next up is Violet, an old ninties song by one of the finest Riot Grrrls of the era. Here's that and more, rebels.”
'915 and '543 stared at the radio for a second.
“You shouldn't be doing this,” '915 breathed.
'543 shrugged wax-paper bravado. “What are they gonna do, reeducate me?”