"Forty-seven... forty-eight... forty-nine... fifty!"
Each grunt left Zaya's lungs with the force of a punch as she counted her push-ups. Her body was shaking and her pale skin was slick with sweat, and she was only just getting started. It was that damn food. Three times a day, a meal emerged from the chute in the door of Zaya's cell, and each time, it was equally lacking in taste and nutrition. She had decided to assume it was three times a day, anyway. Without a window through which to view the changing glow of the smog-sick sky, she had no way to judge the passage of time. But three meals seemed like a day, and however weak she felt, Zaya had decided to keep to her regular, daily workout routine. She had to keep up her strength. She was going to need it, because any day now, her rescuers were going to come for her.
Zaya believed that with her whole heart. You had to believe in things like that, if you were going to join a rebellion.
And you had to believe in them even more strongly if you were going to lead one. Zaya understood very clearly that, as much as anything else, it was her role to keep the faith and be the torch that lit the way for everyone who followed her. It wasn't all on her shoulders, of course. There were other fighters and other leaders. But somewhere along the way, thanks to her hard-fought victories, she'd become the face of the movement. People called her a legend, even when she tried to stop them. Her face and her words were plastered across a thousand posters, pamphlets and illegal holo-broadcasts. Friends and foes alike whispered that she was invincible.
Maybe her capture would finally put a stop to that, at least.
As Zaya well knew, every run of good luck had to come to an end sooner or later. So here she was, rotting in a Regime cell, waiting for someone to come for her.
She'd seen worse cells, at least. This one was state-of-the-art. The walls, floor and ceiling were all made of some kind of black glass. She had a comfortable bedroll to sleep in, all her necessities were being seen to, and they had even let her keep her own clothes. Even if it was much, much too quiet for her liking.
Zaya was just about to start on her sit-ups when she heard the sound of the lock in her cell's heavy, metal door roll open. That was new. So far, everything had come through the chute. The rebel leader surged to her feet and grabbed her old, heavy, military surplus jacket, throwing it on over her shoulders like it was armor. Almost everything she wore was armor in some way or another, save for the light tank top she had on under her jacket. Her boots had metal caps at the toes, her black pants had been modified with a dozen huge pockets to help her carry her gear, and even the dizzying, abstract tattoos on her face were carefully calculated to allow her to evade facial-recognition algorithms. The way she styled her short, spiky, blonde hair was just about her sole concession to vanity.
With a loud clunking noise, the lock finished opening, and an instant later, the door slid open into the ceiling.
Zaya was poised like a tiger as a quintet of Regime soldiers filed into her cell. With their black, featureless masks and sleek bodysuits, they creeped her out a hundred times worse than the automatons and drones she was more used to dealing with. Once she saw who they were escorting, though, the soldiers were the last thing on her mind.
"You!" Zaya spat, and flew at the woman.
Predictably, she made it only one single step. Her raised fist didn't make it even close to her target's face before she found herself thrown off her feet and slammed into the ground by two of the faceless, silent soldiers. As she grunted and strained uselessly against their iron grip, the cell filled with the sound of rich, cruel laughter.
"My, my," said Domina Lionstone, the woman Zaya hated more than anyone in the world. "Zaya the Star. Leader of the rebellion. You really are everything I'd hoped."
"Go fuck yourself!" Zaya growled. She couldn't believe this. Lionstone was right here, not six feet away from her. In that moment she would have given anything for a loaded gun in her hand.
"And so articulate too!" the dictatress mocked. "Can't we have a civilized conversation?"
Lionstone snapped her fingers, and the soldiers on either side of the captured rebel hauled her to her feet. They released her immediately afterwards, but it was perfectly clear that they were still watching for any sudden movements. Zaya decided to wait for them to drop their guard, and in the meantime, get a proper look at the woman who had come to torment her.
Lionstone, Domina of the Seven Houses, was undeniably beautiful, and carried herself to make herself seem every bit as regal and powerful as she did on her propaganda broadcasts and at her carefully-scripted public appearances. There was something unearthly about the way she looked, so clean and perfect, on a world that had become little but smoke and grub. Her deep red hair was in a sleek, shoulder-length bob, her black lipstick and eyeliner were immaculate, and for someone who spent so much time styling herself as the defender of the people, her clothes were achingly extravagant.
A huge, black, fur-lined coat was draped across her shoulders like a cloak, and underneath it, she was dressed in a latex halter top and tight latex leggings that ran all the way down her long legs to connect seamlessly to her heels. It was an outfit that spoke to an absolute refusal to compromise style for the sake of practicality, save for a bulky watch on her wrist. Everything was black, and polished to a mirror sheen. Her jewelry was the only exception. It was all gold instead, and emblazoned with a rainbow array of gemstones. She wore multiple rings on each hand, multiple piercings in each ear, and a single, heavy chain around her neck. Zaya scowled. She wondered how many miners' lives even one of the diamonds had cost.
"A civilized conversation?" Zaya repeated, her voice thick with decades of slow-building anger. "No. No, we can't. Because you and all the other fucking leeches burned the whole world out of greed, and now you want to be kings of the ashes too, making the rest of us work like slaves for your benefit. So we can't talk, can't stop, until we make you pay. Until we're free."
Lionstone arched an eyebrow.
"Very impressive," she drawled. "Did it take long to practice? Did you need a mirror to nail that look of self-righteous superiority? Well, fine. If you insist on being that much of a bore, we'll talk politics."
She started pacing, strutting back and forth across the large cell. Zaya's eyes were bulging out of her skull. She couldn't believe how theatrical Lionstone was. Clearly, it wasn't all just an act for the holocams. She was a genuine psychopath.
"The people love me," Lionstone declared, plainly relishing the chance to lecture her. "They trust me. They need me. You want... what? A return to the democracies of old? Ridiculous. And besides, I'd win whatever vote you put before the masses."
"Because you lie!" Zaya spat. It was taking every ounce of her will to hold back from trying to choke the dictator. "You twist their minds with your endless lies. If they just knew the truth-"
"I give them the truth," Lionstone countered. She seemed completely unashamed of what she was saying. "The version of the truth that counts, anyway. I will keep them safe. I will keep them stable. Thanks to me, the vat-farms will keep running, and the shipments of riches from the outer planets will keep flowing."
"Riches that you and your cronies keep hoarded for yourselves!" Zaya roared. She would not hear this. She'd grown up on one of those farms. She knew what they were like. "Where I come from, we never saw a single cent, while you..." She gestured furiously at Lionstone.
Her captor sighed. "The masses need something to aspire to," she explained slowly, as if talking to a foolish child. "But I wouldn't expect you to understand. Not yet. But you will."
