Zaria Dove

Superiors

You get what I’m saying, right? Let me break it down for you. Type B, they’re like these mysterious beings, like ghosts that you can’t see or catch.

We’ve all heard stories about them, and we even call them the unseen. The only time you can actually see them is when they choose to reveal themselves, but anyone who lays eyes on them meets a terrible fate.

Type C has been training Type A and Type C tirelessly to fight against these unseen creatures, hoping to find a way to defeat them. There are only two known ways to kill them.

First, you have to be super fast, because they move faster than light. I’m not entirely sure about this, though. The second way is when they decide to show themselves, but even then, it seems impossible to take them down.

And just to be clear, when I talk about “Training Type A and Type C,” I definitely don’t mean women.

Despite having advanced technology, their way of thinking is far from progressive. Only a few women, like maybe two or three, hold positions of power in their top ranks.

And guess what? My mom is one of them. Her role is to make sure that all women are obedient and submissive. We’re treated like mere animals, like cows, goats, or sheep in a herd.

We’re taught to follow orders, dress to please men, be gentle, be beautiful, and most importantly, be able to have children. If a woman has trouble with fertility, they claim to have an easy solution for that too.

But it’s easy just for them, unlike the women who have to endure the excruciating process just to be able to have children. It’s so painful that it drives them to the brink of madness!

However, losing one’s sanity isn’t a major concern as long as they can fulfill their purpose and give birth. Who cares if they’re happy or not, right?

This mindset is something that women have learned to accept, but not me. My mother uses cruel methods to control disobedient women, but I refuse to stand idly by and watch.

My father, Oliver Dove, was the only one who treated his daughter, treated me like a princess and taught me to be strong.

When he suddenly disappeared and was presumed dead, my world shattered and I discovered my mother’s true nature. Here, women are merely seen as tools for procreation and bearing children for the army.

Eventually, a man will choose me and take me to his chamber, just like every other girl.

He will have his way with me, regardless of my consent, and make me bear his children to strengthen their armies. But you know what? That will never happen, not over my dead body!

I, Zaria Dove, have made a solemn vow to myself to persevere despite the loss of my father. I have been training relentlessly, becoming faster and stronger.

I am determined to conquer my fears and surpass my limits. This is my way of honoring my father’s memory.

After a tiring and exhausting day, I managed to reach my rooftop by climbing through the pipes outside my window. Letting out a sigh of relief, I took off my mask.

Why I had worn it in the first place? It was because of the relentless disease that still lingered, even though at a slower pace, It no longer took lives instantly, but instead prolonged the suffering, forcing people to undergo frequent tests. Those unfortunate enough to be infected were sent to a contamination prison until their last breath.

Inside those walls, their bodies became mere vessels for experimentation, as scientists desperately searched for a solution.

Type C had no fear about using human beings as their lab rats. Unlike us, their experiments often yielded success, but a cure for the disease remained elusive.

However, there was another reason for me to wear a mask - to conceal my identity. In this twisted world where Type C ruled, the rules and restrictions imposed on women were stricter than ever before. But I refused to conform.

Just because men were attracted to women with long, flowing hair, making it an added allure, didn’t mean I would follow suit. On the day of my father’s death, I boldly cut my own hair every few months, allowing it to graze my chin or grow just a little longer.

I dyed my hair, constantly changing its color, though I often leaned towards shades of gray, purple, or teal, or sometimes even a combination of all three.

Amidst all the changes happening around me, there was one thing that remained constant - my eyes.

They had a unique shade of purple that couldn’t be hidden, especially these days, now that we didn’t have any glasses to wear, there was nothing that can help me to protect my eyes from curious stares.

They took away most of the things that they considered too feminine, but left behind a bunch of other items that they couldn’t make sense of.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I was on the rooftop. I took off my mask and casually threw my leather jacket in the corner. It had become a habit for me to grab my trusty nunchucks every day, a ritual that helped me let out my frustrations.

I couldn’t help but grimace at the sorry state of my once-white tank top. I blamed my mom for the stains, thanks to a rough tumble she caused. Our fights were nothing new, and this certainly wasn’t the first time we clashed.

Swinging my nunchucks with determination, I unleashed my anger into the wind. Just as I turned around, I heard a loud thud followed by a small gasp.

“Did I just hit someone?” I wondered, scanning the area for any signs of life. I waited for a couple of minutes, but there was no response.

“Idiot!” Chuckling to myself, I realized that I had practiced enough for the day. I casually tied my jacket around my waist and gracefully climbed down the pipe, making my way back to my room through the window.

“How many times have I told you not to go out this late!” As expected, my mother greeted me in her usual cold manner, showing no warmth or concern. No “hello,” no “how are you,” and definitely no questions about whether I had eaten anything.

In my usual style, I replied, “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t care?”

“There could be unseen anywhere!” Her warning about the potential presence of the unseen went unnoticed, and I remained silent. Eventually, she gave up and walked away.