Rosalind Stein | Twenty Seven; Â Survivor
House: Brink
Security Class: 2
Status: Infected - Telekinesis
Alignment: New World Radicals
By all standards, Rosalindâs family was ordinary. She lived with her two moms, three older sisters, and a dog just north of downtown Seattle. They werenât wealthy, but they were comfortable. Both her parents did something in businessâ Rosalind could never figure out what, exactlyâ and spent about as much time travelling as they did at home. When they were home, they made family dinners and played board games and scolded Rosalind and her sisters for tracking mud into the house. They were ordinary, and so was Rosalindâs life.
There was a fair age gap between Rosalind and her oldest sister. By the time Rosalind started school, her oldest sister was already in high school and was expected to follow their parents into business. The next turned out to be a tech wiz, and Roseâs last sister entered college with an internship in engineering. Everyone expected Rosalind to do something similar. Something practical. But Rose was never very good at expectations.
The problem, she supposed, began in high school. Her teachers had wanted her to take a few AP classes, maximize her potential. To appease them, sheâd signed up for AP Art History and expected to spend the semester bored out of her mind. The exact opposite happened. She became hypnotized by the evolution of colours and technique, the reasoning and emotion behind each style. Before she knew it, she started spending her time in art club after school. To her art teacherâs joy, and her parentsâ private disappointment, she turned out to have a knack for the creative, especially when it came to faces. After only a few months, they seemed to come alive on the page. She filled pages with sketches, her desk with art supplies. Finally sheâd found something worth doing.
In an attempt to curb Rosalind away from the future of a starving artist, her parents convinced her to add literature club to her after school activities. Rose obliged, after a fair bit of complaining, but she did find it mildly interesting. And it was. At least, hearing other people argue over Edgar Allen Poeâs The Orangutan was interesting. Actually reading it turned out to be less so. But the most interesting thing about the club was one particular member; a homeschooled girl who looked like sheâd be scared off by a mouse and spoke like she was trying to force a round peg into a square holeâbut despite all this, she was always the most passionate about what she had to say. More often than not, Rosalind found herself agreeing with her. And then going out for coffee with her. And then going on hikes through the woods and taking trips to the art museum. It was almost a month before Rosalind realized she liked this girl. It was almost two before she realized that Jo had been asking her out on dates this whole time. Shortly after she realized this, Rosalind asked her back.
Soon enough, the college question reared its ugly head. Once again her mothers implored her to do something practical and secure. Rosalind responded with a lot of slammed doors and late nights out with Jo. Eventually, they compromised on Art History as a major. She thought she could handle it; at least art was a part of it. But, as it turned out, art history was a lot of writing long, boring papers and reading even longer, more boring essays. Rose started slacking off and failing her classes, until the university put her on probation and her parents threatened to cut her off.Â
In a rare act of holding her ground against her parents, Rose accepted their threat. Now, of course, there was the problem of supporting herself and s she cut herself down to a part time student, and, in a stroke of luck, found a job at a bookstore that offered the loft above it as part of its pay. The money she earned still wasnât nearly enough to pay for college, but she managed to save for night classes, and at least she was doing something she was actually invested in.Â
By the following year, she was stable enough for Jo to move in with her. Jo got her own job at the bookstore, which helped pay for Roseâs classes and kept food on the table. Roseâs family never really understood her logic, but her sisters supported her with compliments and the occasional paintbrush set, and her mothers always made sure to invite her over for Christmas, although it was often frostier in the house than outside.
Time seemed to slip by like a tide flowing out to sea. Sometimes Rose sold a painting or two. A commission was a cause for celebration, which usually culminated in pizza and a movie in bed that neither of them watched. The cramped apartment stretched big enough for birthday parties and Thanksgivings and late nights with friends and too many beers. Some days, Rosalind would finally go nuts and go exploring through the city. Other times sheâd drag Jo out of the house. Jo would end up finding someone to add to her journal and Rosalind would fill a page with sketches while Jo interviewed. Jo could never explain why she wrote peopleâs stories for them, but then, Rosalind could never explain why she drew them the way she didâ in the middle of their lives. Maybe it was for the same reason. The most extraordinary things were ordinary.
The most ordinary thing about life, though, was that it changed, sometimes suddenly. One day Rosalind and Jo talked about going to the beach and plans for the summer and rings, and the next they watched in horror as the sky came crashing down. Rosalindâs oldest sister, always taking care of her younger siblings, told her to head inland. So did the news. So did the crowds flooding the streets even as the Puget Sound flooded the docks. To her credit, Rosalind did try. Suitcase crammed with art supplies and clothes, she led Jo all the way to the highway, where people fought and pushed through stalled cars to get away. She and Jo watched the chaos, and then she let Jo lead her away, back towards the water and the last ship to leave the bay.
It was hard to keep track of just how long they drifted. Jo retreated into her books, as she often did when she was stressed. Rosalind tried to draw the members of the crew, but everything just came out looking like her parents and sisters. Over and over again, smiling, laughing, crying, angry, loving and in love. She didnât even realize theyâd landed in Mexico until Jo dragged her outside and into the ruins of a town.
She and Jo barely even discussed it. A word or two, and then they packed, scavenged for supplies, paper and pencils, and then they left. They walked, mostly. Sometimes they rode bikes. Once Rose found a mostly intact motorcycle with some gas that she convinced Jo she knew how to ride, and they took it from San Antonio all the way up to Austin. They crossed the Atlantic on a cargo ship with the luck of a polaroid and the promise to deliver a message to the captainâs child in Mali. They were married on that ship, under the captainâs authority, wearing borrowed formal clothes in the middle of the apocalypse, and to be honest, Rosalind wouldnât have had it any other way.Â
They might have roamed the earth and what was left of its sprawling and crumbled cities forever, had it not been for the rise of the New Wave. They began to hear rumours about the Reformist crusades, and the violent purging of the wastelands and clans outside of Colony control. But despite the caution they took, they were still taken by surprise the morning their camp was raidedânot by looters, but by a new, unforgiving âgovernmentâ.Â
Reformist crusades overturned tents and coffeepots and grabbed any and everyone they could. Rosalind grabbed Jo and then someone else grabbed Rose and tried to lurch her away. They yanked and tore at her clothes and skin, and she knew that if they pulled hard enough, theyâd take Jo, too. So Rose screamed at her to run, let Joâs hand slip from hers, and then she was gone.Â
Rose whirled, ready to fight, and was met with darkness.
She woke to bright, artificial lights, and a cheerful voice saying something in french. Rose said something back that was probably unintelligible, and then she focused enough to recall the French sheâd taken in high school. The first thing she did was demand to know where she was. The second was to demand to be let go. The first request was grantedâ a colony in France. The second was not. Instead she was given a brand, a house, a room, a roommate, and a list of chores. The rules were explained to her in brusque French she could barely understand, but the point got across. Break the rules, get punished. And so the work began.
She was a late bloomer, so to speak. Or her powers were, anyway. Her headaches had started only a few months before being separated from Jo, and theyâd not been sure if itâd been due to malnutrition, or something else. But once they turned up, they evolved quickly. The electric current always seemed to be humming under her skin. Within a few months, she could move things without even thinking about it. She directed objects like an artist because thatâs all it was, really. Just a life sized canvas, her fingers the brush. Of course, with the power, came fear and her security class was increased, her movements more restricted.
While Rose worked and trained and grit her teeth and bore it, she was also earning trust. Not of the ruling classâ God knows theyâd never trust her. No, her trust was rooted in the New World Radicals, whoâd shown her the ropes of the colony and the strings underneath that kept the NWRF in power. Roseâs memory of history outside art was minimal, but there was one pattern that had repeated itself over and over and now it was repeating itself again. She trusted that the Radicals would break the cycle and bring about a new age where there could be peace for everyone under the guiding hand of evolution. All she needed for proof was right there in the electric current of her veins.
After almost a year of planning and waiting, Rose was finally given an assignment. Go north, to Colony 22. Meet with the Radicals there, help cause some chaos. Give those bastards hell until it freezes over. And then, when the time is right and the ashes are settled, youâll help rebuild the world into something better. It was all arranged. The paperwork was sent in and approved. Roseâs good behaviour had paid off, and the Elites had no problem letting her transfer; her powers could come in handy with the english colonyâs repairs. And so, she was sent north, to Colony 22 and the rebellion stirring within.
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