All the slaves' public housing apartments are clustered on a very famous street, at the corner of the main avenue in that part of Brooklyn. A Revolutionary by the name of Freetown had been assassinated there during the 20s. In his honor, all the slave living areas in the United States' cities bear this name. Freetown Doe was the head of the FreeRush Movement, and his disappearance, put on account of some Masters-Avengers, had turned his ideology into a more extreme and aggressive legacy. When my parents joined their ranks in 1998, the FreeRush Movement's claims were already qualified as radical.

To discredit his supporters and give a justification to his murder, Malcolm X Doe had been accused of being a member of FreeRush, just as recently, it was claimed that George Floyd Doe and Breonna Taylor Doe were active members of FreeRush and the BLM.

In order to access Freetown, it is necessary to pass through one of the rusty porticoes adorned with the infinity-shaped slaves' symbol, guarded by some Activists who have here usurped the police's function. The tension between our under-race and this organ of the government, in particular, made the cohabitation impossible.

The officers come to Freetown only with their immutable prejudices; their brutality. Aligning themselves with the threats and methods of the Masters-Avengers, they sometimes visit the gates to discourage the Activists — citizen actively involved in the fight to change the Constitution in favor of the Abolition of slavery, campaigning for better conditions in the Freetowns, and giving time to help in different ways. The term "Activist", dating back from the Civil War, was used as a qualifying adjective of the North's Union. However, just like when the motto "Black Lives Matter" was the first pronounced to be countered by slogans such as "All Lives Matter" or "Blue Lives Matter," the response to the Activists, by some Masters, was the Masters-Avengers.

Despite the late hour, the Activists are already at their post when I arrive on the street. I do not recognize the one who, after a swift glance at my left arm, lets me sneak through the entrance; his worried look quickly returns to the direction which I came from. He nervously pulls at his blue coat, that stops at his left shoulder, as if it could make it longer. I thought that I was not being followed, but noises seem to be approaching us.

"I can call someone," I try, not convinced that the few slaves whom I see around would want to intervene.

With a nervous gesture, he summons me to leave, and his lamp points at a fixed face suddenly emerging from the darkness. The eyes riveted on me come closer, while other silhouettes appear behind the woman.

"Go, now!" the young Activist yells, waving his lamp in my direction.

It would be of little use against the three baseball bats that his opponents are shaking happily.

But they will not do anything to him, no. They are waiting for the slaves. The tattoo of the Americans, that they share even with this absurd Activist, too different from ours, makes us recognizable. Our chains, which are too noisy, are like baits. They do not dare to march on Freetown and wait to pick us up in the nearby streets. At this time of Sunday, the neighborhood is saturated with Masters-Avengers, and the slaves have to trick their way into or out of the street.

As American citizens steeped in hatred, armed by fear, the Masters-Avengers have taken refuge in the ultimate belief that we are a sub-race. This goes beyond the idea of standing above us. We are for them a peril to humans. A stain, a crime, an enemy for whom the only answer is extermination. COVID-19 has made us dirty and unfit, contributing to the spread of mediocrity.

No matter how hard Marvel tried to distance itself from them, the Masters-Avengers popularized their names and motives as Avengers of the real citizens against our presence on this Earth.

At this last thought, I stumble and fall to the ground, trembling.

The fall rekindles the pain in my eye, and my fingernails dig into my scratched palms. The clattering of my teeth prevents me from focusing on my breathing.

I am a master in the art of lying to myself and an expert in the art of fooling those around me, as Mohamed trained me. Essential qualities promoted by the freed slaves regarding the way that they behaved with the Masters. There is no space for spontaneity in this path that could lead to freedom.

In all circumstances, my emotions remain orderly and buried deep in my consciousness. However, their receptacle, sometimes too full, spills over, and I am then caught in typical emotional asthma attacks. One of the symptoms that BC19 looks for in newborns with COVID-19 or BC19 syndrome, characterizing their enslaved blood that will not benefit from the vaccine. Sars-COV-2 appeared in 1919 parallel to the Spanish Influenza, as the fight of the separatists in different colonies around the world was at its peak of violence because of the First World War. Clinging at all costs to the privileges that slavery brought them, the colonizing nations used eugenics to denigrate the natives, including my grandparents. The stigma started back then: those old Masters accused them of allowing the spread of diseases with their deficient lower genes, the most important being COVID-19, creating an indelible taint and a basis for setting the following years of the BC19 program. COVID-19's first name was the Chinese Flu or Wuhan Flu before its sequencing several years later, as a reference to its origin. That had terrible consequences on the first Asiatic generations — both slaves and citizens — arriving in the United States and in Europe, who had to face daily racism and violence.

With little scientific proof to back up theories about the virus, a common saying emerged among the enslaved communities to describe the vaccine and symptoms of the disease as "customizable" at the authorities' will. The yellow spots that would later be covered with the slave tattoo are not always present at birth. The pathology itself is not a lie, although the onset, symptoms, and progression must be assessed individually. What has been false is the popularization and sharing of scientific writings dating back to when BC19 was invented to give a more solid basis for state-sponsored, institutionalized discrimination and slavery.

Among the quotas of slaves set at the beginning of each year to replace the majority of slaves who died or were freed, criminals represent a large proportion of those who were not born or did not come from enslaved families. In many American states, the death penalty has been handed down as a condemnation of slavery. Thus, citizenship is withdrawn, and civil rights are reduced to those of Central Park bench. So that slave quotas are filled in the sight of freedmen, many prisoners are enslaved each year. From this perspective, it would have been impossible for me to be among the few children who are occasionally removed from the quotas by BC19, despite, sometimes, a very long family history of slavery. My parents accumulated both crimes and diseases.

Heavy steps behind me bring me back to my reality. I am in Freetown, it is Sunday, and the slaves are going home. Even though the state in which I find myself is quite common — every slave endures it regularly — it is disapproved of to appear so sensitive. Covidic crises are part of the intimate sphere. Nobody wants to be reminded in the public square of the reason we live in this essentially insalubrious and unsafe street. A leg comes to jostle me, hitting my shoulder, as if to urge me to get up.

Caught short, I try to wipe the tears from my face, already looking for a pretext to justify my behavior.

"What are you doing? I thought you would already be at the orphanage!" Ho-Jin says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I grab his fingers, pull them towards me so that he kneels beside me. His face now inches away from mine; I whisper our code. He shakes his head, terribly embarrassed. Him, more than anyone, hates this type of situation.

"C-O..." I try spelling again.

Ho-Jin's hesitant hand slips behind my neck, and he brings our heads together until our foreheads touch. He closes his eyes and beckons me to do the same.

"Brother, whose fate I share, I see you. When the hatred of our detractors weighs on your shoulders, I see you... Do you see me?"

"I see your sadness, your pain, your frustration," I reply between two sobs. "Your anger, your torment, your obsession..."

I enumerate these emotions sealed, giving them life, giving them time to run through every part of my being. The shaking stops, and my fists loosen. I take a deep breath. Since we are not allowed to help ourselves with a treatment not brought by Activists, we have developed our own esoteric, palliative, and alternative healing protocol to deal with the crises.

"I see you, brother," I murmur, my eyes open as one last tear flows down my cheek.

"I see you, Kanoa," Ho-Jin repeats, staring at my right eye. I guess his disgusted look in the dark, but he does not add anything, helps me get up.

Maybe he will ask me questions later, and hopefully, he will also take the opportunity to explain how his right arm ended up in such a bad state. He respects me enough not to try to lie to me, most of the time at least, but when it comes to this subject, to his suffering, he is always very defensive.

An old lady who must have witnessed the scene passes by, giving me a nasty look and spitting on Ho-Jin's old Air Force One. We exchange a guilty smile as we watch her slowly walk away. Ho-Jin opens his mouth, but then it is the turn of a group of children, notebooks and pens in hand, to walk between us. They are led by a man whose left arm is covered.

The practice of tattooing is another tool of segregation. As they must always be visible and for this fact, forcing slaves to dress in clothes without a left sleeve allows them to recognize a member of the different communities. To mask the true reason for mandatory tattoos, they were long considered therapeutic for the containment of the virus transmitted by slaves.

The obligation to always let one's tattoo fully show through does not apply to the Masters. Most of them, like this one, cannot completely hide it anyway: the symbols of the tattoo of the Americans are so protruding, so excessive, that they can be guessed on his hands, his neck, and around his mouth.

This is Sunday School. We do not have enough space for fixed classrooms. Therefore, the volunteer Master-Activists and the few educated enough slaves who are mobilizing to reduce our ignorance facing the things of this world give their lessons in the streets.

A literate slave is dangerous. You always have to appear less than what you are, than what you know. A cultivated slave is dangerous, but easy to handle, maneuverable, for with knowledge comes the heavy toll of responsibility. This slave has more to lose.

"Two plus two make..."

"Four!" the children answer in chorus. Some then try to scribble the answer in their notebooks, using the wall of a neighboring building. Others put their notebooks on the floor. The Master glances at the little group, checks over a few notebooks, and pursues.

"I really do not miss this," Ho-Jin grins.

"But you loved math and physics. You were not very good at them, but for some reason, at that time, you loved the idea of sticking to a certain stereotype, Mr. "Stephen Ho-Jin." Anyway, it was mostly Mohamed who wanted us to use these positive clichés at all costs," I teased.

"No, no, what I mean is this look that Activists sometimes have. That satisfied look, full of pity."

His eyes go blank for a moment as another group of children comes towards us. Without realizing it, his fingernails have grabbed the skin of his right arm, whose most recent scars are still bleeding. I put my hand on his, calling out to him softly. He blinks and smiles at me awkwardly.

"I was good for nothing, you were good for nothing too, and our perfect little Imane was exceptional. The apple of dad's eye... I wish this old foul can realize that her potential would never be exploited if he keeps on making her work with him. He also knows what everyone puts her through, every day because of... It is just... so selfish! Ever since Sami refused to let him come to one of his games, he is..."

Ho-Jin's slight accent stands out more when he is seriously losing his temper, what he was mocked for when we were little.

"You are being unfair, Ho-Jin. We might not have the same view on our perspective, but you cannot say that Mohamed has not been working every single day of his life to create a future for the orphans," I mutter, thinking about the argument that had broken out, a few days earlier, in our family.

"He has every reason to disagree with our decision, but still, as a father, he should try everything to understand us. The benches in central do not have to negotiate with their conscience about pursuing their aspirations. If they too could, they would throw themselves into the Hudson River to avoid pigeon droppings. They would make a choice to die gnawed by the humidity or to learn to float and finally rise to become quality wood. To avoid suffering in their mortifying daily life, in suffocating inaction and uncertainty."

"You are quoting him. Again."

"No, I am quoting the man who he was once when he was still fighting to cure "the heart of our society, not its symptoms, and excesses." And I will never stop admiring that man."

On the doorsteps of the street's first buildings, those who arrived earlier come to greet parents, children, neighbors, and friends. The calm that reigned until that moment changes in the atmosphere, giving away to more relaxed fatigue.

The silence is broken by a great collective sigh, nourished by each slave inhabitant.

"And this story of online auditions, where does it all stand? It is on Instagram, is it not?" I say to broach a less dramatic subject, but just as serious.

I do not want him to have a chance to ask me about the diary yet. Talking about honesty, those moments are becoming rarer as we are moving deeper along with this ridiculously risky plan. Ho-Jin and I are both proud. We both want to appear sincerely hopeful that we will not be part of the death statistics regarding illegal emigration. From the beginning, we approached the project as a pleasure trip, facing alone fear and doubts, wanting to be strong and unrealistic for each other.

"I do not know, but I think that, as usual, my performance is going to get lost, among all these Tik Tok, these cat videos, these dance schools with much better technical means, and these other dancers, much more talented. There is a challenge at the moment, taken up by every one, under the FreeRushYourSpirit hashtag. Wait," he says, starting to look in his pockets. "I will show you the danced Collection, made for the rights of the slaves, this month, with the participation of choreographers from so many different genres and backgrounds, so many countries, such as The Kinjaz, Ushio Amagatsu, Michaela DePrince..."

When it comes to dancing, Ho-Jin is fluent in expressing all of his emotions, even the unkind ones. I am jealous of that, but such power cannot come without sacrifices; he cannot see, he cannot listen perfectly. I listen to people with intensity because it is a skill of survival to me. A tool which I sharpen by learning to be bored by my thinking or hearing myself speak. People... sense that and feel the need to fill this emptiness with their experiences. That is how I explain to myself the impulse that brings slaves and Masters to confess to me, as I know that I am not a good exchanger. Those same impulses and skills got the Grinbergs to include us in their plans. Ho-Jin, for his part, is not really a good example to practice on this skill as he only allowed himself the lightness of speaking unfiltered when we are together. I have to recognize that he is even better at hiding his real feelings than me because I know him: Ho-Jin is a volcano, always boiling. For him, the task is more difficult; he is in constant pain.

"Ho-Jin," I stop him with a smile, "You know that I am always very happy when you talk to me about what excites you, but tell me really..."

"In the end, there is not much choice for a slave who dances to manage to perform... Either one has to go to a place where the industry, the dance schools have made a space for us, which is not the case in New York, whether it is the unofficial or more popular circles... Do you remember the scandal with the Paris Opera, Broadway, and the plagiarism story of that Venezuelan slave? Otherwise, one has to hope for a breakthrough on a T.V. show, a battle, but that requires contacts that we do not have. The scholarships in this field will soon be abolished because they allowed the enfranchisement of too many slaves."

As for another path towards freedom, slaves who show particular skills and excellence in certain domains can hope for a freedom scholarship to be enfranchised. Apart from scholarships and the lottery, the only other legal path to freedom is luck, as some slaves might join freedmen quotas due to the random selection of BC19.

"I know, yes, but..."

"And then... there is... I do not appreciate being exoticized by this wave of... Korean pop culture... as if we are just a fad, superficial trend. I hate it. I mean, I am glad that some people get a kick out of it, but I do not like that it hides my dance, or who I want to be, at all. The other day, I heard this Master and that Mistress describe me, in their nasal voice, pushing all the adjectives used to the height of superficiality, of stereotyping, making them almost unfit for relevant use. I became so uninteresting under the filter they applied to me. Since then, I cannot... I do not like Korean pop anymore; I hate the word "Kpop." I mean... it is strange the effect their speech had... "

"I have the impression that by dint of wanting to go against the stereotype, you end up not appreciating things, simply out of a spirit of contradiction," I oppose.

"You, for example, how do you feel when someone calls you DeQuan, without taking the time to ask your name first? When they assume that you must like chicken, lack seriousness in all situations ? That you are lazy, like to party and talk loudly, are good at sports but not at all at studying? When someone asks you if you speak Afri-..."

"I understand, hyeong," I interrupt him with the worst accent, which I could put in that word that he cheerly taught me but hates to hear me pronounce.

"I would like the day when I am ready, the day when I am certain of my abilities, to post a video that will shut down all the networks. No one will be prepared for it, and I will have their full attention. I will have their recognition, the one that I have been looking for all this time, and then... I will not be a slave anymore, never again, because once I have it..."

His hand seem to go again to his forearm, but before I can stop him, he throws his arms around my neck.

"Anyway, for the moment, the only thing that is obvious about me, apart from my origins, is the fact that I correspond so little to their criteria of beauty. In fact, I do not fit any of the beauty standards of any society on this earth. I mean, look at all that... all this..."

"You see, that is why Imane has so little... It breaks my heart to hear her say things like, "You do not expect much from a fat girl like me." She admires you, you know, and your opinion means a lot to her, so..."

Ho-Jin gazes over my shoulder as I try to find my words for him. I have gotten into the habit, despite our age gap, of being the one who behaves like his elder. But I am never really comfortable having to admonish him or even give him advice.

"Wait, it is today that you...? How could I have forgot to ask you about the agenda? I am sorry, but it is you that... you always make me talk so much! Argh, I will see you to speak with the Grinbergs after the Collection," he says, starting to run.

There is no trace of sincerity in my brother's words, as well as no shame. This selfish realization coming too shortly after a conversation centered on him, which I hoped, to be honest, once again, scares more than it makes me angry. For a millisecond, I lose the precious and trained control of my enslaved body, and my words are screamed instead of just whispered.

"Wait, Ho-...!"

My hand comes to cover my face, ashamed. I just create a little space between my fingers for my eyes to see him join a familiar silhouette, quite right on the track. They both disappear into the crowd, heading for the next row of buildings, moving further into Freetown.