“I must ask you for the gift of patience,” Misraaks says once again.
Behind her helmet, Selem’s eyes are dark. She’s fighting back tears, of frustration, of fear. So many times she’s been told to wait, told to be silent and patient and obedient. “Trust us,” they always say, “we’ll figure it out.”
“No!” Selem slams her fist into the holoprojector, busting off a side panel and causing Misraak’s image to flicker briefly.
“Guardian—” he starts, but Selem silences him with a furious gesture.
“I have a name! I am not your plaything, I am not your, your, good little soldier who just follows orders! I am not clueless, or inept, or worthy of nothing but darkness!” Selem is aware of a group of Eliksni staring at her from across the street, but she carries on anyway. “I am tired of being treated as a weapon! I’m not just some blunt object you can send toward your enemies, not a blade just to drive into their hearts!” She tears off her helmet, a tear running down her brightly flushed cheeks. “Treat me like a person!”
Her last scream reverberates through the plaza. She breathes hard, ragged, pointedly avoiding looking at any of the dozen Eliksni watching her confrontation.
Misraaks deflates. There’s a long pause, both of them hardly moving, before—
“Trust me a moment longer. I beg you.”
And with that, Selem is alone.
