Number 4

Something shifted. It was not obvious, and to the average viewer nothing would have registered on their consciousness. But it was there. A shift in the air in the air vents, an intake of breath from Number 2, cell 5. Something was stirring. 

Rilak didn’t move from his chair. Moving would alert the other watchguard that something was different, and it was better for the man to believe that Rilak was sleeping like some lazy bum. (‘Keep him quiet,’ they had told him, ‘don’t let him act before we are ready’.)

The other man in question continued to watch the security feeds with the intent air of a man whose mind is already at home but must keep up the appearance of ‘working’. Perhaps he wanted some sort of promotion that would get him out of the dingy and miserable holding cells of the Empire’s enemies. Rilak didn’t know his name. The man had been gruff ever since Rilak had checked in, and any attempt at conversation had fizzled very quickly. 

2 shifted slightly. The man did not notice. The air vents continued to throb unnaturally, a hum that was not quite the right pitch. 5, cell 21 blinked twice in rapid succession. 2 spat at the wall. A silent form of communication among the bound, a defiant whisper in the dark. 

Rilak didn’t bother to continue watching the two ‘talk’. If he continued to do so, he might recall their names. And if anything went wrong, he could not know their identities, for that would cement his guilt (even by association) and further endanger another person. 

And so, he contented himself with watching number 4. This one, he knew, would be the one to make everything work. The Empire would tremble tonight, and it would be all 4’s doing. The air vents continued to hum wrongly. The other man had settled back down in his chair and returned to his blank stare. 

Rilak didn’t know what 4 could do. He didn’t even know 4’s true name, the man having only been called monikers throughout his career as rebel leader. His face was still plastered on the propaganda outside, his image twisted to make some sort of caricature of his true image. ‘Unnatural’, the Lord declared from his white throne. ‘Monster’, the nobles hissed behind their embroidered fans. ‘Savior’, cried the people shivering in the cold. 

‘Human’, thought Rilak as he watched the man himself kneeling alone in his cell.

4 was an interesting number. An ancient nation of the East had feared the number, believing it to be a bad omen. Apparently the pronunciation of ‘four’ in the language spoken then was similar to ‘death’, creating a connotation of ill fortune and death. Rilak vaguely wondered if it was a god’s joke. Perhaps the god of the Eastern nation of long ago was having a laugh now, naming the enemy of the Empire the number of death. 

The air vents continued to hum. Number 1 and 5 were tense now, waiting for their leader’s word. The security guard continued to daydream about far away things in kinder worlds. And Rilak watched the world turn. 

He had wanted to be a scholar, at one point, to study the words and their meanings. History was a puzzle to him, a fascinating story to tease from the texts of a thousand ancient scrolls. When the Empire outlawed the texts of the past, Rilak had been forced from his studies and pressed into work. 

In the world outside, Rilak had found a place hostile to scholars, a place where the ignorant were blessed and the intelligent scorned. Where the Empire weeded out anyone who had the intellect to challenge their rule and either subverted them or murdered them. And, well, Rilak was a coward and hadn’t intended to be a martyr. So while his fellow colleagues were executed for shouting in the square and saving lives, he stood in the shadows. 

When everybody was gone, he told himself that he had been waiting for an opportunity to come. That at least he hadn’t gone over to the Empire and served them. That he hadn’t been the one to bring the axe down upon the heads of his friends. (The stories of a hundred tyrannical kingdoms that reigned in the past told him that his inaction was the very reason why they were dead.)

The Fortress had been hiring guards. The captain had not been looking for loyalty, only for people desperate or heartless enough to hurt and contain their own friends and families. Rilak signed up for the opportunity to dig into the Empire’s festering core, a small way to justify his inaction when everyone else was dragged away. 

The rebellion had been the ones to approach him first. They had danced around him for a while, obviously unsure how a scholar had survived the initial Purges without defecting to the luxurious life the Empire promised the learned. They finally trusted him with a few things, then a little more. 

It all led back to the jail. The destruction of the facility wouldn’t do much, practically speaking. Most of the rebel soldiers that had found their way here had already been executed, numbers 1, 4, 5, and 9 being the last slated to die. But the true aim here was the spread of terror among the elite and the empowering symbolism for the common people. If everything succeeded, even the poorest slave would know the story of the Fortress and smile. 

Number 9 finally joined the conversation between 1 and 5, a quiet cough silencing both of them and easing their tension slightly. The vents continued to murmur. The air felt a little bit warmer. 1 shifted in place while 5 rolled their eyes, all of them waiting. Everyone was waiting, here, mused Rilak. The prisoners for their freedom, the security guard for his life, and Rilak… 

4 looked up at the security cameras, and blinked, very deliberately, one time. The vents shut off.