Image 1: Frank's stepdad

Image 2: Frank's house, but imagine it without the blue sky and grass. 

Andrew clenched his jaw, a vein appearing prominent. From the day it had all gone wrong, he had convinced himself it was too late for him, too late to fix the charred and burnt ruins of his life. There was a quote he'd musingly taught his stepson, Francis, "These violent delights have violent ends.". When he himself had adopted an apt love of poetic tragedies, he'd decided to buy Azélie's boy his first copy of Shakespeare, at the age of six. King Lear, to be exact, the man who was betrayed by those whom he thought loved him most. One that he'd later felt he shouldn't have introduced the boy to. But the whippersnapper devoured whatever literature you gave him. Andrew had smiled on fireplace-lit evenings, watching a little Francis, small feet not reaching the floor as he sat on the sofa, engrossed in some classic story or other.

He'd been proud of him. Had he ever said so?

Did the boy know that in the first quote he'd taught, he'd spoken from experience? He himself couldn't help the people he'd now made bonds with, but Francis... Azélie's fatherless child. The child who still called him 'dad', the child he was supposed to be a father to. To protect.

For so long, he'd been an amoeba, allowed himself to be blown by the wind, to and fro, left and right, cowering under Azélie's authority, against her threats and demands, that he'd long felt helpless to deny. Because even though she was a shell of who he'd thought she was, he still had her. She hadn't left him. And even though he hated the very thought with a deep and spiteful loathing he rarely confronted, he cared for her. It was still a comfort to have her with him, in legal name if nothing else.

He had to protect her child. In the kid, the world saw a confident teenage maverick, but he saw a forgotten little boy.

-------

Syeda was just finishing praying the late afternoon prayer (Asr), her hands up in supplication. She'd prayed for herself. She'd prayed for Halima. And, as always, she'd prayed for her absent father, asking him to be returned to her.

For someone who was used to being strictly logical and rational about things, prayer had at first seemed bizarre. Why hope and ask for things? Why not make them happen? But experience had taught her her true limitations. Man wasn't all-powerful, no matter how he wished it.

She had spent the last couple weeks, days and nights, in her father's search, infiltrating every safe and even risky (potentially IP traceable) database she could, trying to track down her father's photo anywhere it could have been taken from the internet. She had checked numerous security cameras around the town where the clue-sender could have entered or left. But nothing.

Her realist approach had failed. Miserably. The apparently all-knowing Syeda, the genius, the prodigy, the self-reliant, now realised she could make nothing happen.

Would a person devoid of spirituality, god-less and apparently destiny-less, give up now? She didn't know. But she certainly would have, if clinging to those ideas.

But a person of belief, who did believe in a Deity, a destiny, would they give up now?

She had a feeling they wouldn't. At least, she now wouldn't.

She knew she'd failed, but she now she had someone else to rely on other than herself. And it gave her comfort.

Her Lord. Christians called him God. Jews called him Ilah. Muslims called him Allah.

Allah would help her. He was always there. There was a verse in the Qur'an: "And when my servants ask you [Oh Muhammad], concerning Me – indeed I am near. I respond to the invocation of the supplicant when he calls upon me,".

But the sentence hadn't ended. "So let them respond to me [by obedience] and believe in Me that they may be [rightly] guided."*

Those words helped in a way nothing else she had could. But her father...

She hadn't seen him in nearly five years. What if his return wasn't... destined to be? What if she had to accept that?

What would she do with her life? She'd studied, since, made ambitions, sent off an application for the universities her father would've wanted her to attend. Chosen the career he would've wanted her to have. Because what he wanted, she wanted. It had always been that way.

She had noticed other children didn't think the same, how they almost wanted the exact opposite of what their parents did. Jack's father was a prestigious general, and wanted Jack to succeed or supersede him even. But Jacob De Alba wanted nothing more from his life than to one day quietly live in the wilderness somewhere, away from people and responsibility. She didn't understand, but she could accept it.

Last of all, she prayed for her aunt, and her grandmother, for her ailing health. What happened, of course, was up to God. But she could ask. He would respond, in some way. With that, she got up, and folded and put away her prayer mat.

News blared noisily from the other room. Halima must've turned the tv on.

Syeda walked in. Halima, in all her curly-haired and cat-onesie splendour, was sat on the sofa munching tortilla chips. A news reporter was talking on the wall-projected television. Syeda sat next to her and tried to neatly and professionally pinch some crisps from Halima's advertised 'Sharing bag' that Halima never shared from. Halima gave her a mock dirty look and grumbled something from a munching mouth, but otherwise kept her eyes glued to the projection.

"The MNP's support has skyrocketed in the last year. As the country's potential last general election looms closer, the Sovereign threatens to use the newfound power of the House of Lords and the King's Guard to bring back an autocracy, ruled from a throne in Buckingham Palace. Does this herald the end of freedom of speech and democracy in The United Brynnland?"

'MNP...', thought Syeda. Motherland National Party. As in, the political rivals of the current party in power; BFP, Brynnland for All.

But of course it could never be for all. Not in a declining, post-subsistence economy. With teachers and other major professions replaced by machines, the people qualified to do those jobs were given a generous enough allowance to live. Now everyone wanted to train for something they'd never have to do. Who didn't want free money to sit at home? Admittedly it was only for a set number of 5-ish years, while they found a different job, but still.

Other fields like healthcare had reactively suffered the worst, with less and less people choosing to enter them each year. Some types of nurses could be and had been replaced with bots, but not all. And a doctor and other medical staff were such professions that robots couldn't be trusted with them yet. Forgetting the numerous complexities of the medical care, humans in pain preferred to see and feel, and were adamant to see and feel (shown in recent riots against robotic doctors) the sympathy of other humans, rather than bots repeating lines.

But back to the BFP (who Chris's father also worked as Minister of Health for). All predicted they were going to lose in the coming elections. MNP would win, and worst come to worst, if the King couldn't come to a truce with the new government, it would be his forces facing off against theirs. Civil war.

The MNP... Syeda's brow contorted. Her father had been working in R&D sector under the Health Ministry. What if...

What if it was the government itself that orchestrated his kidnap?

'Oh my...' How had she never realised this? What had kept her so effectively blinded for so long?Syeda felt herself beginning to lightly perspirate.

Why hadn't she thought of this before?

Of course it was them. Of course.

It showed, in how Chris had been following her around so much.

Her father had worked for the government, then gone missing in vivo. His father worked for the government, and probably set his son to 'out' her as some anti-patriotism advocate or something (you could strangely enough get convicted for that these days, if evidence was strong, and if you looked different or your name sounded different, despite the whole 'Brynnland for all' trash they bought immigrants' votes with).

That boy was trying to accuse her of a crime she didn't commit. In legal terms, Malicious Prosecution. She could sue him for that, when it happened. But Highers, or Uppers (whatever trish-trash they labelled themselves) in Court would never let a Lower sue an Upper.

So the only choice she really had was to remain visibly innocent. Which she was so far.

She just didn't intend to stay that way.

If opposing the MNP/BFP complex they called a government was the only way to get her father back, then so be it. She would oppose both, in whatever discreet, incognisant way she could. If she really opened her eyes (if anyone did), the political system's wrongdoings were clear; they'd put down and media-wise shut away the nation's immigrants, its working class and its unemployed, lumping them all into the hodgepodge faction of 'Lower' for the past thirty years. 'Lowers' who were treated by national policy as different to more 'gentlemanly' society, 'Lowers' who didn't receive tuition loans for university and had to pay the full £18,000 per year out of pocket, while people who could afford to pay it upright didn't have to.

'Lowers' who the Mids and Uppers called thieves and bottom feeders, who were increasingly being denied financial benefits or homes. Some were sick, some could barely read, learning in deprived towns. Without a home, money, or employability help, what could some of them then do but steal? To live?

There was a time when Syeda had thought that smart people did well in life and stupid people didn't, but her thoughts were slowly, effectively changing.

But whatever. Syeda wouldn't let silly things like 'privilege' and others being 'born with it all' make her wallow in a well of self pity. That was no way to live. That was for the pathetic.

True mavericks knew only they could make themselves, brick by brick, stone by stone, no matter who their parents were. Like she and her father had.

They continued watching the rest of the monotonous news stories. Apparently the government had finally revealed that they'd (partially) cracked teleportation sixty years ago, but still couldn't do it safely or effectively. It was revealed while the UB's research division was being prosecuted for testing and causing grievous bodily harm to missing humans they illegally tested it on, mostly employees. Other countries, like Russia, the USA, China etc., wanted to hire the researchers before they were put to trial. It was a messy story. This case had been going on for years, and was the media's go-to topic when there was no other interesting news.

As Halima looked like she was about to doze off, the doorbell rang.

Syeda raised eyebrows at Halima, and they silently agreed Syeda would go to get it.

She did. As Syeda opened the door, a distinctive odour hit her, like a slow motion slap. The next door Scottish neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, was waiting agitatedly at the door.

She spoke (with her thick but charming accent). Hysterically.

"In God's neeem, WHERE did aaall theeeese moooggies cum frum, Seee-da?" she asked shrilly.

Then Syeda looked at the ground. All around their house actually.

There were cats indeed, lying still on the ground. Everywhere. Some on top of each other.

Unnaturally still.

Syeda's brow furrowed, and a sharp frown became visible, as she scanned their perimeter.

"Mrs. Higgins... Why are there ninety dead cats outside our house?" 

A/N: Here's a question guys: are there any characters not living up to your expectations? Or any who positively are? Anyone you want to do more? Lemme know! Even if this book is finished (or fully plotted out like it is), I can still incorporate your ideas! 

I actually go back and edit a lot lol, was just editing Jack's training scene in Chapter 11 earlier today, I hadn't really explained it clearly, but it's better now. 😅

Thanks for reading! Stuff really picks up pace in the next chapter, only click next if you can really keep up! AND THE JOURNEY CONTINUESSS, WHAT WILL ASH FIND NEXT???

*Qur'an, [2:186]