The new "recruits"--that's what they called them, though they were really just reckless volunteers--followed Aia with increasing looks of apprehension. I knew what they were thinking. They were either excited to be finally apart of the revolution, or they were wondering if it was a trap. Or they, like I did when I was in their shoes, were wondering why the most influential person in the nation, the centerpiece to the entire operation, the brains and the power behind the New Order, had such a feminine build.
They couldn't see her face, of course--no one did, except a trusted few, myself included. But no mask in the world could hide how tiny she was--how petite, how thin, how childlike. Even without her constant mask, she didn't look like the face of the revolution. She looked like some angellic child that had wandered into base, all curling blonde hair and pouty lips and blue eyes. But in those eyes was fire, anger, bitter hatred.
I watched the new recruits and her slip, unnoticed, into the indescreet gray building that was our headquarters. They would begin training immediately, no need to check for traitors. Aia did not believe in thoughtless, uncontrolled riots in the street. She wanted force, but needed precision--she told me, once, that she didn't want to throw a rock at the Capitol's head, but shoot a bullet.
For the most part, I agreed. But she also didn't believe in riots at all, or at least she didn't show it. She sent in one or two at a time--spies, assassins--trying to take care of one person at a time. Last month, she had killed three officials with this method, but it was obvious they were catching on. I had told her many times that, in some situations, we needed force more than precision. She hadn't spoken to me for a week.
UGHHHHH I HATE IT. AND IT'S NOT BELIEVABLE AND UGHHHHHHH. Oh, but besides my obsession with writing stories about revolution, I currently have the kitchen and the bathroom DONE. Now all I have left is the living room. Ughhhhh.