Chapter 19

Trish arrived at the large plaza where CaliaCorp HQ stood above a group of towers all overlooking a central area with a lavish fountain. Huge vertical screens hung from the sides of each building. A commercial looped on all of them, syncrhonised across the sky. In it, Calia danced, writhing her body in a tight blue dress that hugged her figure. Each sensuous movement emphasised by a flash of bright light, a strobing effect timed to the flicks of her hips and the dips of her shoulders. Her brown hair bounced and glinted in lights off-screen, and behind her more light, a trail of falling streaks of blue and gold plummeting to the bottom of the image.

Trish ignored it. Her attention focused on the people sitting by the fountain, the people drinking coffee at tables spilling from cafés out into the square, relaxing and talking. As if it were the most normal thing in the world. Smiles abounded. Every single person, from the waiter putting a fresh cappuccino in front of a middle-aged executive to the maintenance worker repairing a water fountain, grinned. Subtle, gentle music wafted through the square, a kind of upbeat ambient meditation track that made Trish’s stress creep to the back of her mind. Perhaps it was her focus, though, causing that. Her plans. She felt sure that she was making a good decision. That it was about time someone got a little messy, a little rowdy in the squeaky-clean corporate heart of the city.

So, she raised her homemade sign high above her head. Her cropped t-shirt pulled up with it, revealing a strip of hot pink satin, the bottom of her bra. Trish smiled. In the bleak, cold reality of the Circuit, her body was one thing she could control. One thing she could shape and sculpt to perfection, to exactly how she wanted it. She knew she looked attractive and enjoyed others knowing it. When the inquisitive eyes of passersby fell on her, measuring her from the tip of her black boots to the messy blonde hair of her head, she relished the attention.

“CaliaCorp is brainwashing you!” she shouted.

More eyes fell on her. She began to walk forward, to the fountain, and started to strut around it, waving her sign at any who would look. Everyone did. The quiet of the square meant that no-one would miss the young woman calling out and stomping in her boots around a fountain gently spraying water into the air. Her clothing, her demeanour, everything about her an alien presence in the calm, corporate environment. A raucous, rebellious voice belting out a slogan over and over, a repetitive chant to ensure the message reached everyone. As if trying to repeat until it felt true. Hypnosis by repetition. Trish almost believed it herself, as insane as it sounded.

The flashing screens above her, the smiling corporate drones beneath them. It felt like confirmation. Or confirmation bias. Weren’t people who worked in offices always that way? Cold, detached, but happy because they had money and safety. Choosing peace and quiet over change and progress. Conformity over creativity. Or something. Rebellion seemed like a distant memory. Something for companies to use in marketing and not something people did to fight the power. To sell revolution safely.

But Trish wasn’t there to be safe. She went there to fight back. To have people see her fight back. To inspire them. The thrill helped. Something about every eye in the square on her, it gave her a rush. A tingle between her legs. She looked up into the towers and could see people staring down, holding up their phones, recording her.

She started to move her hips. Like a mirror of the videos playing high above, moving with erotic grace. Walking stopped, she took up position in the middle of the square, right between the fountain and CaliaCorp headquarters, and began to swing her hips as she lowered her body down, flicking her skirt out as she did, revealing panties that matched her bra as the skirt bounced with her motion. Still roaring out the same chant.

“CaliaCorp is brainwashing you!”

The screens seemed to flash faster. The music beating in rhythm with Trish now. She flowed, moving with it, or it moved with her. It felt right. Being there, being seen by so many, all eyes on her. That was what she needed, what she missed. She always wanted to dance for a crowd and she wouldn’t pass up the chance to entertain them. More phones came out of pockets. More recording, streaming. The screens flickered and the image changed. Live footage from someone on the square, zoomed in on Trish. Capturing her motion.

She looked up at the screen and bit her lip. It wasn’t just the square. It was the world. The world watching her message. The world watching… her.

The music went faster and so did Trish. The sign slipped from her hands and fluttered into the fountain. It didn’t matter anymore. Everyone saw it. Now her hand moved behind her head, and she began to buck her hips forward to the music. Thrusting, humping the air. Then her hands moved down, smoothly running over her body, pressing her breasts together, then down, down to those writing, twisting hips. Rubbing her thighs. The moment all that mattered. The feeling of the eyes on her, the crowd. The performance of a lifetime, and the world watching her.

Watching her, why? Trish felt for the information, her mind reaching for it. Grasping at it. Her hands grasped at her hips and she rolled them around, making circles with her body. It moved on its own now. So many people were staring, lusting, wanting her. Weren’t they? Their eyes seemed so confused. As if they heard something they shouldn’t have. A secret. Did she share something? It felt so good to dance, to move, to show her body. Her tight, toned body. The body she ached to maintain.

Something else gnawed at her. The secret. What did she need to share? Why was she here? Trish looked up, tilting her head back and letting her hair out in a fluid swish of her arm. She looked at herself on screen, her own image ever so slightly delayed. She watched her hair tumble over her shoulders and then saw above that, the logo. CaliaCorp, emblazoned on the building.

That was it. That was the secret. CaliaCorp. They were brainwashing everyone. Brainwashing her. The screens. The music. They were doing it to her. Right there, the moment she arrived. But she knew now. Trish looked around at the crowd. They moved closer, most holding up their phones, capturing the moment. She was still on the screens. Still broadcast to the world. She still had a chance to get the message across. To tell everyone what was happening. Trish scrambled to grab her sign, but the paint ran into the water of the fountain, streaking down it, leaving it a soggy mess. She left it there and turned back, swirling, spinning on the spot, eyes darting between the eyes of the throng watching her. What could she say, beyond the message, beyond what she shouted before. What new information could she give them, if they were already brainwashed? If they were already slaves to the machine?

She took a moment, adjusted her skirt and her shirt. She tied her hair back up and blinked, making sure not to look at the signs. One chance to change the world. To start the revolution. To show people why she wore combat boots. The revolution would be broadcast to everyone. She would be the catalyst.

Trish took a deep breath. Opened her mouth. And felt a gloved hand cover it. Then a crack to her right knee from something solid. Hands grabbed her arms, and they ripped her away from the square down into an alley beside CaliaCorp headquarters. She took a look back at the crowd, lowering their phones, going back to what they were doing. The screens went back to Calia. Like nothing happened.

A door opened, and strong hands pulled Trish from the street, and into darkness.