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weirdestbooks · 3 months ago

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The Weapon and the Spy Chapter 1

The Rebellion (Wattpad | Ao3)

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TW for needles and body horror. Also @jmysty4 wrote part of this chapter and made the art so shoutout. We also now have a discord server for this fic.

50 years later…

Ireland had known Oceania was bad news. Everything they did was strange, odd, and set off alarm bells in his head, a warning that they were dangerous.

The takeover hadn’t been expected, but looking back on everything Oceania had said and done, Ireland should have expected it.

He always hated that he didn’t realize until it was too late. Until he was no longer his own nation, a goal he had fought so hard to achieve, but just another piece of the so-called Airstrip One.

That didn’t mean Ireland had been useless. He was far from the only person who hated Oceania’s dictatorship and wanted to see it removed.

“Big Brother” claimed to see all, but the unrest was only growing. Many people, both Irish and British alike, refused to be oppressed without resistance.

And so the Rebellion was born.

And it was ready to reclaim their home.

Before they could do that, however, they had to reclaim someone else first.

Britain had told Ireland all those years ago, the last time they had contact, that Oceania wanted something with his powers. Considering Oceania’s obsession with surveillance and always wanting to know where everyone was and what they were doing and thinking, Ireland knew that Britain had to be involved.

Unwillingly.

Britain and Ireland had never been close friends, but Britain was a right stubborn bastard, and he wouldn’t just give into Oceania’s demands. More likely, he was being forced into doing it.

Ireland wouldn’t be surprised if Oceania were willing to kill Britain’s people in order to keep him under their thumb.

Which is why they needed to get Britain away. The more personifications that sided with the rebellion, the more influence they had, which was something they sorely needed.

Far too many people had grown up and were raised by Oceania’s dictatorship. It would take a lot to free them all, to break the hold Oceania’s propaganda had on them.

Secondly, it was hard to find information on Oceania’s might, their concentrations of military force, and all the things like that. But Ireland could always find Britain, ever since the night when they were meant to combine, and he knew if he could rescue Britain, they would be able to learn more than they would have been able to before.

It was hard to have spies.

So they needed someone who had already been on the inside.

They needed Britain. Thankfully, finding him would not be an issue. Even though Britain had cut the mental ties that had connected them, it wasn’t enough to truly burn the bridge between them anymore. Their bond went deeper than just another string in Britain’s massive web. They were meant to become one, and Ireland could feel it.

His very soul ached for its missing pieces, a pain he was more than willing to endure in exchange for his freedom. He was glad for it, truly, but it still kept him up at night. He wished that there had been more time, anything, to figure out what was happening. It was maddening, decades of uncertainty and paranoia leaving him with a steadily growing hole in his core, threatening to tear him apart. It wasn’t like this before when he had been a part of the United Kingdom, but now every fiber of his being was screaming that his existence was wrong. He shouldn’t be. The torn and frayed edges around the gaping wound that Britain’s absence left on his soul would not close. And they reached out, forming bright lines in the air and on the ground, a guiding light only for him to see, beckoning him to follow, to become whole. He dreamed of blood, pyramids, and spiders. So no, finding Britain would not be an issue. Getting him out of whatever predicament he’d find himself in, however, was.

That’s how Ireland found himself back in London. He hadn’t dared to go anywhere near the city since he first noticed surveillance getting more extensive, and now the price the city had paid became painfully clear.

Five decades under INGSOC rule had left London a shadow of its former self. Now, there were only factories filling the whole city with smog so thick you could mistake it for fog and giant gray apartment complexes nestled between slums. It was as though the entire city had been leveled and rebuilt anew to fit Oceania’s needs. And in the heart of London, besides the oily stream that was once the Thames, stood a gigantic structure, best compared to Egypt’s pyramids. In the sea of soot and dirt, it stood pristine, glowing white like polished marble: the Ministry of Truth. This was it, the moment they’d been praying for, hoping to arrive for 50 years. The Rebellion was ready to take back what was theirs. It was a monumental effort, one Ireland had spent at least four of these five past decades, to build a resistance strong enough to one day take down Oceania from the inside, one sector, one region, one countryhuman at a time. It was ambitious, unreasonable even, but he had to try. He had to. He was given a chance, and he was going to make the most of it; all the odds be damned. The beginning of his rebel group was blurry, a time he mostly spent in a drunken stupor when the weight of this new world was too much. It didn’t last. Ireland had never been one to wallow in self-pity for long, but he thought he was justified in wishing for the tiniest bit of relief in times like these. Before long, he’d found his purpose again, the same it had always been: to help his people. At first, he simply tended to wounds, offered food. Discreet acts, helping the struggling, but he was never able to offer a long-term solution. His escapades only escalated from there, and soon enough, he began harboring men and women on the run, or at least the few that managed not to be taken to the Miniluv within mere hours. The Party’s regime was cruel and harsh and terribly, horribly effective. Within just a few years, a proper underground resistance was born. Many others of their kind came and went; some were just flukes invented by the Party to catch defectors. But for the first time in a long time, Ireland allowed himself to dream. And now the time had come. They were split up into groups, spreading out throughout the city, and at 7 pm sharp, they were ordered to begin their riots. The city was large, and they would use it to their advantage, stretch the Thought Police thin throughout the winding streets, and overrun the city before reinforcements from Dublin or Manchester could arrive. It was planned out as perfectly as it could be, which frankly wasn’t a lot, but it would have to do. But Ireland had a different mission after all. Getting inside that blasted building and getting Britain out of said building, no matter the cost. He could feel the cut bond all the more clearly now, all centered in the massive pyramid-shaped hellhole the Ministry of Truth called its home on the British Isles. Britain had to be inside that thing. Unfortunately, it was also the most guarded building in the whole city. A fact that would not deter him. Ireland wanted to get as close as possible to the Ministry before being detected, so he’d decided to use the first riots as a distraction. He only took a handful of people with him. His little side quest should not be to the detriment of their greater efforts. So, as the first explosions rang through the streets and smoke began to reach from the streets into the foggy skies above, his mission began. He stopped his people in a decrepit alleyway right next to the Ministry. From here, the giant structure cast a massive shadow onto the neighborhood they’d found themselves in and tinged everything in black. He turned around, eying each of his comrades carefully, before addressing them directly.

“Remember,” Ireland whispered, “My job is to find Britain and get him out. You need to find any information of use and then destroy as much as you can while you’re at it. The more we can find for our operation and the more of Oceania’s things that we can destroy and impede, the better off we’ll all be. Understood?”

The other rebels nodded, and Ireland made his way forward. He was going to enter first, followed by the rebels. Since the others planned on being more of a distraction, they couldn’t enter together, as that would draw eyes to Ireland.

He needed to be undetected for as long as he could. After years on the run, he’d developed a knack for blending in. He had left his coat and other rugged clothing behind at their little outpost in what was once the Peak District, opting to wear an old Thought Police uniform he’d salvaged from one of their missions. It was probably out of commission, but it did not matter too much. All he had to do was play the part.

Ascending the stairs, posture straight and proud, felt like slipping into a different skin, but it was a process that came to him as naturally as breathing. He could feel camera lenses following his movement, see a few workers glancing his way. He ignored it. If you acted like you belonged, no one really questioned it. He

Ireland stepped through the great entrance into a foyer. It was scarcely decorated but well taken care of. Everything was spotless, concrete walls hidden behind layers of perfect white. People mingled here, checking in and out, hurrying to their stations and departments. A few officers were here as well, but all the attention he got were a couple of acknowledging nods. No one stopped to chat or look. Perfect. Now inside the building, he lowered his posture, opting to make himself as small as possible. He faded into the crowd, becoming just one of many, as any good worker of the Outer Party would. Ireland followed the stream, slipping past the check-in amidst a particularly big wave of employees. Slowly, he noticed the energy in the building shifting, uncertainty flickering in the worker's eyes. The news from outside must’ve finally made their way inside. The crowd in the foyer and other entrance-level rooms began to grow panicked, speed picking up and voices getting louder. Ireland picked up speed as well, but unlike the others, he had a goal in mind. As he moved further, the crowd became smaller but even more hectic. He cut his way through the chaos with cold precision and finally moved into the last room of the entrance level. He had no clue how the rest of the layout of this place looked.

Once Ireland got past the last department entry, he started running. Without a clue where to go and only the shimmering threads of his core reaching for its missing parts to lead him, Ireland surged forward, onwards, pushing past the few remaining confused workers and dodging the last Thought Police officers still left within the building. He reached a set of stairs. Faintly, he realized the walls had become more barren. Gray. Nothing to cover the concrete anymore. He rushed down the stairs, hearing shouts behind him. After narrowly avoiding crashing into the wall at the bottom of the stairs, he used his momentum to push himself up and continued. Running through the long hallways, he entered what looked to be a meeting room. Empty. Thankfully. Stopping was out of the question, though, so he kept moving.

He left behind a mess, broken glass, and scattered papers. Not that he cared anyhow. A sharp turn, another set of stairs.

Perhaps Ireland should have been more adamant to get a proper map for the layout of this place, but he doubted it would have helped. The hallways were nothing but a maze, built with the intention to be as hard to navigate for newcomers as possible. At this point, he feared that the actual problem he’d face would be the struggle to find his way back out.

Another sharp turn. A set of doors. Locked.

Ireland did not hesitate, his body moving on autopilot and adrenaline taking over as he broke them down. He did not realize he was running again, nor did he know if he was even being followed. His mind was lagging behind, trying to keep up with the rush.

Deeper and deeper, Ireland ventured into the belly of the beast, bland concrete walls now giving way to rustic metal plates and pipes, still lit as brightly as ever. Here, the only sounds accompanying him were his rapid footsteps and raspy breaths. The shouts, fires, and explosions outside felt more like a distant memory, and officers were nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, a flicker in his peripheral. A face. Spectral, barely noticeable, familiar at first before melting away into the concrete walls. Ireland stopped.

Before him stood a door.

Constructed entirely out of metal, large and foreboding, embedded into the blank wall with wires and pipes reaching into the room behind. His goal.

Ireland let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. A clammy hand reached for the deceptively simple knob. The mechanism had corroded, and rust had taken over, but with a hefty shove and loud crack, the handle buckled beneath the pressure and gave way. Momentary surprise pulled at Ireland’s features, eyes going wide.

Why is it not locked?

The door was heavy, the metal hinges screaming as Ireland tore them open. It was deafening. Panic seized his heart, and he bolted through the small entrance he made for himself into the room, barely registering his new surroundings before slamming the door shut.

Unnecessary. No one is here.

The room was cold and dark, the only light source in the dingy space being over a dozen old TV monitors haphazardly lining the walls opposite the door in a crude half-circle. They were mounted onto the furniture and the walls.

Some even hung from the ceiling and all connected to the room’s center with thick tubes and long cables, disappearing into shadows. The screens flickered irregularly as though switching channels, and the blaring lights stung the Irishman’s eyes.

Ireland averted his gaze to let his sight adjust, instead letting it sweep along the room’s outer edges, cramped with dusty machinery, surgical equipment, shelves stuffed with recorders, and tanks filled with unknown substances.

The air was buzzing with electricity, and a constant, unbroken cacophony of mechanical whirring filled every crevice in his brain, joining the rushing blood in his ears. Ireland tried to steady himself, to calm his racing thoughts, and broke into a coughing fit. The deep inhale only filled his lungs with dust and stale air. The ventilation system must be broken.

After the fit subsided, the room’s stench fully hit his senses, hitting him like a truck. The rancid mixture of blood, oil, disinfectant, and metal penetrated his nose and almost made him throw up right then and there. He tried his best to ignore it and fight through the gagging reflex, instead turning his attention towards the middle of the room again.

Despite the monitors, he could make out little more than a silhouette, a pool of darkness framed by harsh artificial light. There was a chair, that much he could tell, stood proudly at the center like a throne, but its state, rickety and rusty, felt like an insult to the comparison. Whatever sat atop the chair was obscured by a pitch-black blanket, a convergence of darkness as though someone had ripped a hole into reality, and only the void remained. He moved closer.

Ireland nearly avoided tripping over several cables on his way and almost got caught in one of the many wires that hung too low from the ceiling, but he steadily moved forward. A hand rose to shield his eyes as his gaze turned upwards from the ground, settling on the figure before him. He stopped—a widening of eyes, a quick but shaky intake of foul air.

Standing closer, the cold light illuminated the dark mass, pearlescent in reflection like an oily sheen. Ireland sucked in another bitter breath. The hand that had moved to protect his eyes reached out agonizingly slow, shaking like leaves.

Thin, pale arms stuck out from behind the veil, resting loosely on the chair’s crooked armrests, bound and held in place by strong metal cuffs twice the size of the bony wrists they held captive.

He moved further.

The light blue of a hospital gown peeked out of the shadows, the garment hanging much too loosely off the body it was covering, stained with old blood and bile.

And further.

A body slumped into itself, unmoving, chest barely rising with only the faintest signs of breath.

And further.

Wires and bolts, embedded into flesh. Pins and needles linked to veins. Tubes and pipes connected to nerves.

His hand touched the black, revolting immediately as shock set his nerves ablaze. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

Ireland leaned forward, his body unfurling from the coiled-up position he’d fallen into as tremors continued to wrack his body. His second hand joined the other, shakily but carefully, oh so carefully, and pushed the veil aside, darkness retreating, fabric rustling and shifting, except it was not. It never was. The strands parted easily, revealing the face beneath.

Britain.

Britain’s eyes were half-lidded and cloudy, as there was no emotion or awareness in them. They were painfully empty.

A thick wire was embedded in the back of his neck, another into his back, trailing along the spine. The skin around them was jagged and scarred but still healed, as if the wires were simply a part of Britain.

Ireland…he had thought…he had thought Britain was forced to work for Oceania. This was worse than anything he could have ever expected.

Ireland bit down the urge to vomit.

He had to get Britain out of here.

Ireland slowly began to pull the needles and pins from Britain's skin. Some slid out without any effort. Some were stuck in so deep it was like pulling out a splinter. Ireland tried to leave those alone. He didn’t want to make anything worse.

Ireland let out a shaky exhale as he looked at the wires in Britain’s flesh, wires that were surely doing something to his mind.

Ireland didn’t feel qualified to get him out of here without making anything worse.

“I’m sorry,” Ireland whispered to his friend’s still body, “I hope you aren’t feeling any pain from this.”

Britain was clearly alive, but his breaths were shallow, his body looking like an emaciated corpse.

Ireland tried his best to avoid aggravating any injuries, but at the same time, working fast. This was taking a lot longer than he’d planned, and Ireland could feel the creeping paranoia and fear that came from staying in one place for too long.

Eventually, Ireland got through everything but the wires.

He still hadn’t touched those, afraid they were live. It was hard to tell when Britain was so still and the room so old it looked as if he hadn’t been touched since Oceania originally took power.

“You’re almost out. You’ll be free soon,” Ireland said, unsure of whether Britain could even hear him or if his friend was too far gone.

Ireland then left the room, casing out the surrounding area to see if there was a way to turn off power to the wires or confirm that there was no power running through them. He found a fusebox a short ways away from the room, which only contained a few switches, all of which seemed to be related to whatever machines Britain was hooked to.

It made Ireland sick.

Did they have Britain on a separate power grid so they could ensure whatever machine he was connected to was always on?

Ireland turned off the switches with unnecessary harshness, rage flooding through him.

He quickly ran back to the room Britain was in, eager to see if that had changed anything about him. Britain still looked unresponsive, and Ireland’s heart plummeted.

Ireland pushed aside his worries and focused on cutting the wires off of Britain.

He couldn't remove anything that was stuck too deep within Britain’s body and probably connected to his nerves or vital arteries. So, instead, he pulled out his old hunting knife and began cutting the other free by force. Some tubes spilled blood when he severed them; others were empty. Ireland wasn’t sure which was more frightening. Before long, he was done. Ireland carefully grabbed onto Britain’s form, half lifting, half dragging him out of the rusty chair he had been placed on. With still shaking hands, Ireland reached to cradle the other’s face. Britain had always had a lithe frame and sharp features, but now he looked like little more than skin and bones. Cheeks gaunt, and eye sockets hollow. Ireland gathered Britain's hair - it was his hair, dear god, not a blanket but hair - and, for lack of means of containing it, wrapped the long, sleek strands around the man’s neck as if it were a scarf. He gathered his bearings and finally picked up Britain's too-skinny body in his arms, trying to force down the overwhelming urge to fuse that the full-body contact caused.

“We’re getting out of here,” Ireland said, holding his friend close and trying to ignore the smell of death that came from him and how intimately his body and autonomy had been violated. “You’re free.”

Ireland just hoped Britain’s mind was intact enough to realize that.

#countryhumans #countryhumans britain #countryhumans ireland #orwell 1984 #cage of eyes au #the weapon and the spy by weird

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