Chapter 24: On the Cusp

Casey was in awe that so much had been unfolding around her, and she had been completely unaware for all those years. The sheer volume of knowledge she had absorbed over the past few months sometimes left her dizzy, yet it also made her feel inexplicably stronger.

What astonished her the most was that she felt she wasn't just absorbing knowledge but also inheriting her great-grandmothers' and grandfather's courage to take risks, their insatiable thirst for knowledge, and their ability to navigate difficult pathways.

Whether it was her newfound perspective or a genuine uplift in community spirit, everywhere seemed to buzz with anticipation, as if something extraordinary was about to happen.

Even during mundane tasks like buying food, people around her seemed more enthusiastic about interacting with her than usual. It had to be the change in her demeanour; it wasn't possible they knew what she was involved in. She must have been projecting a different vibe because everything felt different.

As the weeks passed, Casey continued to immerse herself in Percy’s journals and her work with the Taskforce. The filters had been installed in Lysoid Stool, and the demands that impacted the chemical pouches were being met. Production in Opium Stool had stabilised, restoring a sense of normalcy for the Taskforce.

As far as Casey could tell, there was no sign—no flicker of suspicion—that Harold or the President sensed the storm brewing or had any inkling of the Alliance’s plans. The Alliance could now shift their attention back to their ultimate goal: the Government takeover.

As Casey reached the end of the CMP file and the journals contained within, she could see that Percy had missed something significant. He had been so consumed with his research and absorbed in his work that he had failed to see the bigger picture. By empowering the elite with longevity, he had inadvertently become complicit in a system slowly strangling the people he had hoped to help. The trust he had placed in Harold and the President had blinded him, and by the time he saw the truth, it was too late. He was already caught in a web of lies, powerless to stop the very machine he had helped build.

Percy's journals weren’t just notes and observations—they included roadmaps, the blueprint of the chemical manufacturing plant and the labyrinthine tunnels that led to the climate-controlled towns, now called Stools. The knowledge contained in these pages could change everything. However, the raw data needed to be decoded.

Martin was key to helping Casey unlock these secrets and getting them into the hands of the Alliance. She still had the USBs, but the files and journals were dense and complex. They might as well have been gibberish without someone who could interpret them. Fortunately, Martin had the expertise to help Casey extract them, and more importantly, he had the discretion.

They devised a plan to avoid suspicion: pretend to be a couple, so spending time together outside the lab would seem natural. They talked openly in the lab about their love for cooking and what ingredients they would gather on the way home to cook up a feast. In truth, neither of them was much of a cook. Jonathon prepared the meals. While he worked his magic in the kitchen, Casey and Martin would retreat to the basement, extracting the journals, selecting information they felt would be useful to the Alliance and passing it to Ruth.

The process was gruelling for Casey, particularly as she had to always keep her wits about her, especially when she was with the Taskforce.

They trusted her now—truly trusted her. Casey had earned their respect, clawing her way through the labyrinth of the Taskforce's politics, gaining their confidence with every briefing, every piece of information she delivered. Each member of the Taskforce ruled their Stool in their own way, detached, aloof, never really integrating with the lives of their communities. They looked to her for insight, for guidance—a role she had never expected to take on, yet one she had embraced with both caution and resolve.

She had maneuvered through the tangled complexities of the Taskforce with precision, and now, her ability to move between Stools unnoticed was a weapon she wielded with care. But even as she moved freely, there was a weight to it. She knew the stakes were high. Every conversation, every glance, every subtle gesture carried the potential to betray her. The line between success and failure had become a razor-thin thread, one she walked precariously, always mindful of the consequences that could come crashing down if she misstepped.

And then there was Martin. The two of them had forged an unexpected bond in the midst of the chaos. Working alongside him was surprisingly joyful. Beneath the crushing burden of their mission, they found moments of levity—rare, fleeting moments when they could laugh, not because they were blind to the gravity of their situation, but because in those brief instances, laughter was the only thing that kept them human. In a world where everything seemed to be crumbling, those moments reminded them of why they fought. A bond formed not from shared innocence, but from shared understanding. A bond born in the heart of pressure, of necessity, of a world spinning out of control.

In those moments of quiet humor, they found a brief, precious respite—a sanctuary where the weight of their mission didn’t feel so unbearable. They weren’t just fighting for the rebellion; they were fighting for something more elemental: the humanity they were determined to protect from the monstrous machine they sought to dismantle.

The world was changing, Casey could feel it—deep in her bones, she could sense the winds of revolution stirring. The shift was coming. She could almost taste it in the air, feel it crackling in the earth beneath her feet.

Preempting what was ahead, Casey felt sorry for the Taskforce members; they, like she, had been raised in a world that was none of their doing. They didn't know what they didn't know, so they accepted what was around them as the norm. Unlike Casey's community, they lived a life of extravagance without even realising they were privileged; it was just their life.

She voiced her concerns to Martin, her heart heavy with empathy for the very people she was trying to manipulate. “What will happen to them when the rebellion begins?” she asked, her voice tinged with an unspoken worry.

Martin glanced at her, his face impassive. “It’s not Kalan, or Tristan, or any of them. They didn’t choose to grow up in that bubble. They didn’t ask to be cut off from the real world. They’re like me,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

“They’re not like you, Casey,” Martin replied, his voice sharp. “They don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

Casey looked at him, a deep sadness clouding her eyes. “But if we could open their eyes, if they could see, maybe when the rebellion comes, they won’t be part of the brutality. Maybe they’ll choose a different path.” She spoke with hope, though she wasn’t sure if she truly believed it.

Martin shrugged, his tone tinged with skepticism. “It’s not like they don’t know what’s happening. They each have a community. They know what they’re doing.”

“Yes, but they don’t see the people. They don’t see the faces, the lives beneath the statistics. If they only knew, if they only understood the pain of the people they’re controlling, maybe they would feel differently,” she said, her voice soft but full of longing.

Although Martin didn't feel sorry for the Taskforce members, he did have empathy for how Casey was feeling. So, together, they devised a plan—a strategy to expose the Taskforce members to the communities they controlled, to help them see the humanity behind the cold, calculated systems they oversaw. Maybe, just maybe, it would change something inside them. It could be the bridge between their insulated worlds and the reality of the people they controlled. If it worked, it could open their eyes, fill them with understanding and compassion, and—when the rebellion came—it might make the transition less violent, less brutal.

Casey approached each Taskforce member one by one, speaking with them privately. She framed the idea as a way to show the President, their parents, and their superiors how well they had integrated with their communities—how well they had built relationships of trust and respect. She suggested organising festivals, events to bring the community together. She sold it as a productivity booster—how it would make the people feel more connected, more invested in their work, which would naturally lead to increased output. And of course, it would look perfect in their briefings with Harold and the President.

At first, they were hesitant—suspicious even. But Casey knew how to play their egos. She turned it into a competition, each one of them believing that the others had already planned massive, extravagant festivals. That was all it took. Their egos got the better of them, and they were hooked.

The community leaders, meanwhile, saw the value in the festivals. The children would have something to look forward to, but more importantly, it would serve as a brilliant distraction. A chance to gather the people, to make them feel seen—while also distracting the Taskforce from the true game that was being played beneath their noses.

As the plan took shape, Casey felt the weight of it all. The revolution was coming, and Casey—Casey was at the heart of it all.