Nazirah opens the door to her room, which is small but mercifully clean. She’s relieved to find that her two bags have already been brought up. Nazirah spends two minutes stuffing her clothes into the tiny dresser. She spends another thirty seconds perfectly positioning the photo of her and Cato on the wicker nightstand.
Her hands shake as she tries to drag out the time. She’s never been much of a public speaker. Nikolaus knows this. He’s the leader, not she. Nazirah has no idea what to say at this meeting in … fifty-seven minutes … to win anyone over. She usually says the wrong thing all of the time anyway.
Nazirah sits on the window seat, staring nostalgically at the streets below. She idly draws shapes in the dusty window, then opens it to let in some fresh air. Nazirah watches people walking energetically. Being away for so long gives Nazirah a new perspective on Rafu, on the beauty of its simplicity. She looks at the white cement walls of the bungalows, bleached from constant sunlight. She looks at the salty ocean, warm even in wintertime. The cares here seem deceptively small.
The minutes tick away.
Should she prepare something? Will it seem inauthentic if she writes down a speech? What would she even write? Niko didn’t tell her what to say; he barely told her anything! Is he expecting people to rally around the rebels at the sight of her face? Nazirah doesn’t think that will quite cut it.
Twenty minutes to go and Nazirah cannot stand waiting anymore. She gives her hair a quick brush and strolls downstairs. The lobby is empty, but Nazirah spots Aldrik the next room over, still at the bar. He and Adamek are sitting in a far corner of the room, heavily engrossed in conversation. From the number of empty glasses at their table, Nazirah can tell they’ve been there the entire time.
Nazirah storms over to their table, bristling in indignation and attracting the stares of several patrons. She stands over them, arms crossed, clearing her throat loudly. Adamek glances up at the noise, but Aldrik continues scribbling away illegibly in his notebook. Without looking, Aldrik hands Nazirah his nearly empty glass. “Yes, love,” he says, “another brandy would be divine.” He slaps her backside.
Adamek’s green eyes light up in mirth. Nazirah’s blood boils. She throws the drink in Aldrik’s face and slams the now empty glass down in front of him. “Get your own goddamn brandy,” she snarls.
Several patrons sitting around them stop and stare at the commotion. Aldrik looks up at her with one astonished eye. “Oh,” he grumbles. “It’s only you.”
Nazirah slides onto the bench next to Adamek, glaring at the two of them. “Only me?” she growls. “Yes, it’s only little old me! Only one-third of your campaign, only the face of the rebellion!”
Aldrik wipes his own face with the back of his hand. “Congratulations, Nation,” he snaps. “You’re the face of the rebellion. Are you hoping for a party or something? Is that why you’re acting like such a bitch?”
“No! I want to know why I’m being left out of strategy meetings!”
“First of all,” Aldrik says, “this isn’t a strategy meeting. It’s a simple financial discussion, which you’ve never been expected to handle and which neither Morgen nor myself thought you would particularly enjoy.”
“I thought –”
“Shut up,” Aldrik interrupts. “Second of all, since you’re practically wetting yourself with eagerness, Morgen here can tell you all about our prospective budget of kickbacks and bribes while I go get that brandy.”
“I didn’t –”
He rises quickly, snatching the empty glass off the table. “And finally, you better watch your goddamn mouth around me. You might be able to pull that shit with your brother, Nation, but the Commander isn’t here. You answer to me now.”
And with that, he’s gone.
Nazirah stares blankly ahead. She slowly faces Adamek, who immediately bursts into laughter. Nazirah has never seen him genuinely laugh before. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his cheeks dimple. “If he didn’t hate you before, Nation,” Adamek manages to sputter out between laughs, “he definitely hates you now.”
Nazirah bangs her head against the table, knowing that he’s right. “I can’t believe he thought I was the damn waitress,” she says.
Adamek continues laughing, mimicking her in a falsetto that makes Nazirah cringe. “Get your own goddamn brandy.”
“I do not sound like that,” she huffs, playfully pushing his shoulder.
It’s something she’s done countless times to Cato. But this isn’t Cato. Nazirah and Adamek both have their roles to play and this isn’t part of the script. At the contact, the two of them sober up. He takes a sip of his drink. “I see you’re talking to me now.”
“Was I not before?” she asks slowly.
“In the car, you were ignoring me.”
Nazirah flushes. “No different than usual.”
“Finished wallowing over your boyfriend, then?”
“Cato’s not my boyfriend.”
“Does he know that?”
“Yes!” she snaps. Nazirah glances at the clock, realizing they only have a few minutes until the meeting starts. She drums her fingers nervously on the table.
“All right there, Nation?” he asks. “You seem stressed.”
“I hate public speaking,” she says. Nazirah isn’t sure why she chooses this moment to open up to Adamek, but there it is.
He shrugs. “So?” Adamek puts a steady hand over hers, stilling her fingers. “Everyone handles anxiety in different ways. Your ways tend to be incredibly annoying.”
“And what would you suggest I do instead?” Nazirah asks, pulling her hand out from under his more slowly than she needs to.
“Relax.”
“Relax?”
Nazirah looks at his unfinished drink, suddenly thinking of Victoria Morgen and her electric blue champagne. She glances at him, sure the guilt is plastered on her face.
“What?” he asks suspiciously.
“I have a better idea,” she says quickly. Nazirah reaches for his glass and downs the rest of it in one gulp. She grimaces as the alcohol burns her throat. “Ugh,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s not my drink.”
Adamek blinks … blinks again. He says, “That was … unexpected.”
Nazirah playfully blows in his face, blaming it on the nerves and the alcohol. “What?” she asks him innocently. “Intermix girls can’t drink?”
#
The room is small, confining, and crowded. There are several well-connected fishermen, some lesser Eridian Lords, and even a few intermix families. Nazirah assumes the majority of them are here through word of mouth, because the rebels can’t openly campaign without attracting Medi attention. She simultaneously wishes people would leave so she doesn’t have to speak and wants them to stay and garner support.
Nazirah coughs into her hand. The spontaneous swig of brandy did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves, leaving only a bitter taste in her mouth. Aldrik looks at her sideways, clearly worried that she’s panicking.
She is.
The meeting starts. Aldrik initiates, simply talking about the rebellion, why it was formed, and what the insurgents hope to achieve. He’s a passable speaker, although monotonous. Nazirah tunes him out within the first five minutes.
Unsurprisingly, Adamek is an excellent public speaker. He doesn’t detail anything sensitive or personal, merely reiterates what Aldrik said in a more rousing way.
Adamek finishes speaking. Both he and Aldrik look at Nazirah. The crowd watches her expectantly. They’ve come to see her: intermix, native Eridian, orphaned face of the rebellion. They’ve come to hear her words. But she is wordless.
“Hello,” she begins feebly. “My name is Nazirah Nation.” She stops speaking, unsure of where to go from there.
Aldrik mutters, “We’re fucked.”
To Nazirah’s complete surprise and gratitude, a small hand shoots up energetically, tiny wrist shaking in enthusiasm. She sighs in relief, because questions are specific. Questions need answers. Nazirah nods at the young boy near the front. “Yes?”