Page 71 of Reverie
My brain spasms at the knowledge that they have a morgue on site.
Luna rolls her neck to look at me over her shoulder. “Bless your heart,” she says, the saccharine words falling from her lips.
I give her a closed-mouth grin that I’m sure telegraphs my thought, which is,fuck you.
Morris Winthrope looks commanding and serious in his blue suit and complementary blue and gold tie. Standing behind a sleek glass podium, it’s no mistake that the backdrop behind him mirrors that of the official seal of the Oval Office.
With his hair slicked back, he looks presidential.
“Hell if that ain’t some optics,” Max says, his voice full of awe. But I bet it’s not from Winthrope’s presence on the screen.
It’s because Blair stands to the left of her father, just one step behind—and because the label at the bottom of the screen shows that this is a live feed.
“There’s technology that can do that?” I say to Max.
“There’s technology to do everything,” he throws back. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, hands hanging down and with rapt attention on the screen.
“Quiet,” Misha commands, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes just because I hate him.
And I do. I hate Misha Hroshko.
Returning my gaze back to Morris Winthrope and the Blair look-a-like, I quiet myself to listen to the man’s speech.
“Our country is under attack, and the everyday American is the victim. Policies which have been enacted under the guise of social progress only serve to do one thing—to rid the world of our American identity,” Winthrope says, and I feel vaguely nauseous when Blair nods in somber agreement on the screen.
“There are several truths that are immutable at this moment in history. One, that we are called to take drastic steps to ensure the safety and sovereignty of our great nation, and two, the American populace is tired of fighting for this exact right.”
Blair gives a delicate, silent clap as the crowd cheers. The camera pans to the audience, and there must be at least two thousand people filling the stadium.
“We must be mad, literally mad, as a nation to permit this great erasure to continue. And as I look to the future of the greatest nation on the planet, I’m filled with foreboding. Because we are on a path of clear destruction—destruction of the American identity.”
The crowd goes positively feral as I listen to Winthrope spew his nationalist rhetoric.
“It is time for all Americans who see the bigger picture to unify our nation and march into the future. And it is with this goal in mind—the goal of reversing the damning course of destruction our country is on—that I proudly announce my candidacy for president of the United States.”
Winthrope steps back from the podium, his practiced smile plastered to his face. He takes Blair’s hand, and I lean forward to watch their movements as they wave to the crowd and trek toward the exit.
As the camera zooms out, the words “Picture a Better America” flash on the screen behind them.
The commentator’s voice comes back on. He only gets three words out before Misha turns off the screen.
We’re all silent for several tense seconds.
I’m the first to clear my throat.
“Well, we knew that was coming,” I say.
Misha gives Amelia and Luna an unreadable look.
“What am I missing?” I ask, my voice dropping low.
Luna releases a deep breath while Amelia crosses her arms over her chest and looks out the open door.
“That was a complete declaration of war against us,” Luna says.
“And a signal that they’re ready for the next step,” Misha adds. “A call to arms for all the Engineers, Designers, and Legion hopefuls.” He runs his hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looks agitated.
“How was that a declaration of war?” I grind out, casting my gaze around the room.