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“Oh, yes,” he replied affably. “Lovely speech, dear. A bit different to your previous ones, but perhaps it feels different being here at the Delta?”

I tried not to show my discomfort about my previous speeches. “A touch of nerves, I think. But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and presented a small object to me. As I took it, I realized it was a small, antique hand mirror with exquisite details and gold vermeil on the edges. No doubt it was an artifact from the Old World, and at least a couple hundred years old. Such things were incredibly rare in the compounds; we had photos and videos galore, because there’d been an active effort to digitize and preserve it before the Fall. Most historical artifacts, however, were left for the Wasteland, outside of personal collections that people brought with them.

“My daughter,” the old man began, but his voice briefly faltered. He cleared his throat and started again. “I lost my daughter in a skirmish with the Order when she was out on patrol. This mirror was her most prized possession, because it was passed down in our family for generations, even after the Fall. I thought, with your interest in history, you might enjoy it.”

All at once, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I tried to steady myself, to maintain the aloof, authoritative persona Julius wanted, but it was crumbling under the weight of this man’s loss and his apparent grief. I felt a pang of empathy for that grief, that heavy weight he carried with him everywhere, because I carried it, too.

I cleared my own throat. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept—”

His hands enveloped mine when I tried to hand it back. “Please. There’s no one left to use it with my wife and daughter both gone. I’d feel better knowing a lady like yourself has it. You’ve faced the Order and know what they do, and you survived. A miracle due to your strength.”

Guilt swirled in my belly, because it was no miracle. It was sheer, dumb luck, and this poor man had been taken in like the rest of them.

“What’s your name, sir?” I asked gently, cradling the mirror against my chest.

“Henry,” he replied. “I’m retired now, but I used to be assigned to oversee the entirety of the Heritage Department. I was a history professor in the Old World.”

The Heritage Department was a small team whose job it was to preserve human history in the compound. They wrote the history curriculum I’d taught, and they were responsible for the compound’s museum and community outreach. Of course, the version of history they taught was probably rosier than the real thing—the point was to uphold the mission of the compounds as the ‘last bastion’ of humanity.

I suddenly felt torn. As moved as I was by the gift, and by the loss of his daughter…he supported this regime. It was why he was in this room. He was invited because he agreed to the general idea that what they were doing at the Delta was right and must continue as-is. He probably agreed with the general sentiment that my family was lesser, that they deserved a deprived existence in the Wasteland.

But he’s still a human being, a voice in my head argued. He deserves compassion like anyone else.

But where was his compassion for the White Rose Militia, who’d risen against the Sire’s authoritarianism and sacrificed their lives for the possibility of freedom? Where was his compassion for his fellow citizens, who lived every day in a place that controlled their every move, from their careers to who they married? Did being complacent in the wake of Julius’s reign of terror make him as bad as the people who were, even now, likely brutalizing the protestors outside?

Would I be my father’s daughter if I pretended otherwise?

So, I composed myself. I didn’t shed any tears. I straightened my back and gave him the same distant, dispassionate smile I’d given everyone all evening.

“Thank you, Henry, for the gift,” I said politely. “You have my condolences for your loss.”

Henry’s expression shifted, as if he knew something had changed. He observed me shrewdly, and his own demeanour became colder, more closed. The corners of his mouth turned down, and he looked disappointed.

“You are welcome, Sole Survivor,” he replied formally. “I still believe if anyone can bring peace to the Delta, it’s you.”

He walked away stiffly, and my conflicted heart dropped. He’d been so warm and kind, seeming excited to meet me, and I felt as though I’d crushed his spirit. But this is a lie, I reminded myself. This persona, this ball, everything—it’s all a lie. And comforting him with more lies doesn’t do anyone any good. The truth matters.

Does it? I asked myself, feeling despair creep in. Does it matter when they can make anyone believe anything?

The dancing began soon after, and the live feed was cut to allow people to enjoy the evening. I’d forgotten they were even filming while I greeted guests, which was probably a bad thing. Thankfully, I didn’t think I’d embarrassed myself.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Hamilton said in a low voice, after the guests had dispersed onto the dancefloor.

I watched the couples spinning round and round, seemingly unaware of the violence that lurked in every part of this compound. No matter what atrocities were committed in their names, they kept dancing.

“I suppose,” I answered without conviction.

Later that night, the news came: three protestors had been killed and several others injured. The report was that they were part of the White Rose, but when they showed footage of them before the military raid, they didn’t look like militia members to me. They looked like civilians, disorganized and outnumbered, but brave enough to still resist.

I wiped my eyes and shut off the television. Sitting up in a bed large enough for three, I was disgusted at myself. Here I was, in the Mayor’s beautiful house, insulated from everything those protestors had gone through, and helping the regime that killed them. It wasn’t my choice, but it was still the truth.

Should I just resist and die? I asked myself. Or resign myself to spending the rest of my life in the White Room? Would that be better than what I’m doing now?

I’d seen that they were showing a recap of the ball tonight. I barely recognized myself on screen, and I couldn’t watch most of it, but from what I gathered, the general commentary was complimentary. Julius had seemed pleased enough with my performance, which made me feel ill, but I wondered if garnering his trust was the more strategic move than simply sacrificing myself without a plan.

John’s advice would be simple: survive the best you can. After all, I hadn’t asked for this, and everything I’d done had been forced and tortured out of me. Yet that somehow didn’t make me feel less responsible for what was happening.