The Beginning

I. The Dream

          Michael didn't learn much at the Under school he was so "lucky" to be allowed to attend. The constant harassment from the students - and, covertly, the staff - saw to that. But one thing he did learn about was a man, a king, who lived hundreds of years earlier in a civilization called Amerika. And that man made it so that darker people would be treated the same as lighter people. Of course, this was no such problem for anyone living in the Duality, Mrs. Wallace, his high school history teacher said. "Look around you," she challenged the class, but Michael in particular. "You'll see all sorts of skin colors sitting here in this classroom. Yes, we've certainly come a long way since the civilization of  the Amerikans, haven't we?" Only shrugs and disinterested grunts would be the reply.
            At first, Michael thought that he would disagree. After all, he was an Over, and he had to take the tube for a good 45 minutes every morning just to get to this Under school, one which wasn't that great by Under standards anyway. Weren't the Overs just like the dark skin-colors of the Duality? But, after enough snubs, censures, and demerits for "insubordination," Michael grew frustrated, and one day, one terrible day (as he would come to think of it years later), he chose to strike. After a sneer from one of his Under classmates - "Hey, smogbreath! Did you find a good squirrel to bring for lunch?" -  the anger took over, and Michael pounced on the other boy. He punched over and over and over, blood starting to pour from the boy's nostrils, and fearful tears from his eyes. And, as the teacher pulled Michael away from his victim after those few seconds, he smiled triumphantly, having stuck it to his oppressor once and for all.
            Michael never returned to that school.
            Although Michael felt that he had won that day, he soon learned that all it was for him was a loss. A brutal, sad loss that hollowed him. His single mother didn't give him a nice thwack upside the head as he expected. All she could do was stare at him, with eyes that looked like she had lost everything in a single moment, and say softly, "Why?"
            "Because those stupid Unders made me so mad. They called me smogbreath." Michael declared, holding himself back from making it a full on yell.
            His mother's eyes fell further, almost ready to cry. But this only lasted for a second, imperceptible almost, and then she blinked, smiling sadly. "Baby, I know. But you have to learn to love those boys."
            Michael's jaw hit the floor. "Love them?"
            "Yes. Do you think they understand any of the history? Do you think they know why they feel the need to call you names? All they know is what they were taught since they were born. They are better, they will always be better, and you better just be lucky that they let you live."
            Michael started again, desperate for a person to hate. A person to loathe with all of his heart. "Then their moms and dads. I hate them."
            His mother shook her head softly. "Don't you get it? I know you didn't get a lot of education, even for getting to go to an Under school. But think. Where do you think those kids' parents got that behavior from? And their parents? Yeah, they understand the history a bit better now, but that wasn't how they learned it when they were your age and younger. They didn't realize that Under was their ancestors' oasis from the mess they made up here on the surface. They didn't realize that the dirt poor, the ones who couldn't afford to dig or couldn't afford a pass or house Under over the years were stuck up here in Over. They didn't, and they don't realize that."
            That was a lot to digest, but Michael's mother refused to let him do so as she continued. "And you don't realize that this is so much bigger of an issue than you think. Yes, the kids, and many of the Under adults, are mean. But they're as much victims as this whole Duality is. They're victims because they're sick. They're sick with something that's taken them over. An idea.  Hate. That's the sickness. And you already saw today that hate definitely isn't a suitable cure for hate, something so much bigger than any one person. So what else is there to cure it with besides love?"
            For this, Michael had no words. He knew that his mother had been very well-educated by Over standards, and even adequately educated by Under standards, but that was way too easily forgotten when she would take the tube Under every day to scrub their floors, wash their dishes, and prepare their food for only a credit or two an hour. And this, combined with the fact that he still was trying to comprehend this unprecedented downpour of wisdom from his usually quite mother, made Michael say nothing except, "I'll think about it," and quickly leave their ramshackle apartment to take a walk, not forgetting to take a cheap surgical mask with him along the way.
            The weather that evening was typical: extremely hazy, grey, dead-looking. For the ruins of a city that no one remembered the name of that was inhabited by many people, at any moment it still gave off the sad and resigned feel of death, the hazy smog and blowing garbage making the air perpetually hot like an oven. No one would ever think that anyone lived there, nor would anyone think that an even larger city, the capital of a new country born out of smog, lay a mile underneath. Michael decided not to climb on top of his building - climbing took too much breath - but instead decided to climb to the nearby hill, with two dead - choked - oak trees flanking the peak, their ancient branches twisting toward one another over the pothole-filled road.
            As he shuffled up to the twin wooden monoliths, Michael's mind reflected passively on the fact that they were even there at all. To see any real life besides the droopy, brown grass that (sometimes) "graced" the patchy lawns of the broken houses and apartment buildings was a rarity. And even though the trees were without leaves, standing in their meager shade gave Michael an almost alien sense of comfort, of hope. If two trees could still stand under a downpour of ash, smog, smoke, and rubbish, who was to say that those two twisted shapes weren't an Over and an Under, reaching through a mile of dirt and rock to touch? Who was to say that they would even be recognizable as an Over or Under at all? Who was to say that they couldn't be just two people reaching across the void of hate to create an epicenter of love?
            All of this raced through Michael's mind, and all at once he understood exactly what his mother was trying to tell him. Love. The Unders who had taunted him all his days in the Under school were not the oppressors. They were merely the victims, the tools of the bigger sin, the dark idea that he and all the other Overs were lesser because of where they were born. They did not deserve the direct scorn. The only way to change them was to be their equal was to allow them to redeem themselves. They were not to be condemned, what controlled them was.
            It was this realization that made Michael stop in his tracks just as he began the incline. He didn't recall if he ever had experienced such epiphany before in his life, but he certainly was experiencing it now. He realized that the only way to change anything, the only way for him to ever experience anything different, the only way for him to feel normal, was to love on a grand scale. In that moment, he saw in his mind's eye thousands, hundreds of thousands of Overs all standing together with hundreds of thousands of Unders, none any different than the other. And even though indeed the trees up ahead gave him that comfort, Michael knew that comfort was the end, not the means. He knew that the only way to begin was to begin immediately. He knew that the struggle came before the peace.
            Michael took a deep breath, and smiled. He had finally awoken to recognize the dream that he dreamed. The violence was a bit part - a reckless one at that - in the whole drama of a struggle that was yet to ever get a chance to stand on its own two feet before being blown back. But Michael knew, somewhere, deep within him, the struggle he would struggle with, that would be the one to lead to the peace, to the day when anyone could find solace underneath those dead trees on the hilltop.
            And so he turned, and he ran, his surgical mask flailing behind him, for the smog did not bother him any longer in that moment. The only thing that bothered him was that his mother didn't know that he had finally seen the light.

II. The Faith

            "Now, everyone. We all have the right to vote. No, no, we do. At least, according to the Duality's laws, carried down through the generations from the laws of the ancient Amerikans, at least. We all have the right to vote: Over or Under. We all get to vote for Council members. Remember that, guys. Remember that's why we're going to try and march our way to the tube. We pooled enough passes down to vote for this whole neighborhood. But also remember: no matter what, no violence. That's the rule, okay? None. Alright then, let's get out there!" With that, Abe clapped once and started walking toward the door to the warehouse, pulling his surgical mask down over his mouth, as the band of 20 or so Overs followed.
            Toward the front, Michael walked hand in hand with Elizabeth. Elizabeth donned the customary surgical mask, but also a set of goggle-glasses. They too were customary, at least for her. Unders' eyes didn't react well to the pollutants that floated in shocking concentrations in the Over air. A few other freedom non-fighting fighters, as Elizabeth and Michael would often joke together, were also Unders, and wore the appropriate eyewear. As the group walked from shadow to shadow cast by the dull light through the slats in the high roof, the glint reflected off their goggles made them look like raccoons, or some other animal that was able to survive through the years. Michael thought it funny: up here, those who were of such noble status down below now were merely the raccoons, the animals among men. But, just as quickly as it came, he pushed the thought back out from his mind.
            It had been a good six years since his epiphany, and a good two since his mother passed (lung cancer was the cheap, undereducated Over doctor's best guess), and ever since her death, he found himself fleetingly thinking such disparaging comments about the Unders every once in a long while. But never about Elizabeth. Looking into her pale blue eyes, he always chastised himself for ever thinking such thoughts, and he strengthened himself. The death of his mother left a lot of bitterness, and pain. And while he occasionally transferred it in the thoughts, Elizabeth was always there to remind him of the mantra he agreed to six years earlier. Love. Pain to love. That was the ideal transformation. That was what he would achieve. Michael knew.
          And in those six years, Michael found that he was not the only one having such epiphanies. Although he never was able to go back to any school after the incident, and had to work to help his mother make ends meet Over, Michael's peaceful revolution thoughts were eventually vindicated as he met Abe in a restaurant he bussed about two or so years after the incident. Michael was always a bad one for gauging time, but he never forgot the conversation that would start their friendship. As he came to clear away the table, Abe sat there still, writing on a blatantly aging legal pad. Michael coughed softly once, twice, and Abe looked up with feigned, mischievous curiosity.
          "What's got you coughing?" he asked.
          The two must have spent a good five minutes laughing before they started talking more in earnest. After Michael had to go to clear other tables, Abe promised to speak to him later, and they did after Michael clocked off work.
          "Do you go to school, Michael?"
          Michael shrugged. "I did, up to high school. Even went to an Under school. But then I made the biggest mistake I've ever made, and now I'm here. Bussing."
          Abe furrowed his brow at this. "What mistake was that?"
          "Hitting one of them."
          A soft tsk sounded from Abe's lips. "Yep. That was a mistake. I go to Sudum School for college myself. Just up the road."
          Michael tried to be interested. "Oh, that's cool."
          "Yeah. Hey, you know what 'sudum' means in Latin?"
          "What?"
          "Clear sky."
          The two laughed, just like at the coughing joke. Then Abe spoke again. "Yeah, I think they got to have a sense of humor over there. But, I wanted to really tell you that we have a whole movement going on over there. It's strictly nonviolent," he said, flashing Michael a winning smile. "Obviously, you have some experiences with movement. Maybe just not of the nonviolent kind?"
          Michael frowned at that.
          "Why not just check it out? You know, there are Unders that go to Sudum, that are part of the movement."
          At this, Michael perked up immediately. Unders? He had the chance to maybe make right, to start loving them, like he vowed those few years before. And so, he went.
          And so, on that day, he met Elizabeth, the girl he knew he loved more than as an Under at first sight. And she loved him. She held him as he wept after his mother's passing. He held her as she had a broken arm tended to by Abe after one particularly out-of-hand voting rights protest. They had seen it all together, and they planned to keep it that way forever, until they got to reach their spot in the shade, the calm that Michael had dreamed of for so long.
          But, as all things are, plans were cheap, and on that day, neither of them could have known what to expect.
          As the group started marching from door to door, gathering those who were willing to try and go vote, Michael kissed Elizabeth's hand through his mask, and whispered, "I hear this year some of the Under nutties are going whole hog to keep us from getting to the tube."
          Elizabeth smiled devilishly back and whispered, "They say that every year. You know they've shown up every year for years now?"
          "Yeah. What do they call themselves? 'Electoral assistants?'"
          Elizabeth giggled. "Yup. 'Excuse me sir, if you follow the direction of this baton to your face, you'll be at the tube in no time.'"
          Michael gave Elizabeth a playfully-chastising look, not fully understanding the severity - and truth - of the joke.
          The group marched for what felt like a good hour around the neighborhood. But Michael couldn't tell. Even though he knew this was his - no, their - neighborhood, it all looked the same in the usual hot, humid haze. Grey and brown. Concrete and death.
          But then, eventually, they walked by the old, dilapidated apartment building Michael was born and raised in. But it wasn't the building that he recognized. It was the trees, the long-lost friends trying desperately to touch.  And at the top of that hill, just underneath their strained contact, were the electoral assistants. They were easily identifiable. It was election day for the Council, and the tube to go down to the polling places was just on the other side of that hill. But that wasn't what made them obvious. No, that honor went to the ominous gasmasks they wore. Although it was the consensus that this was to hide their identities, Michael thought the masks were symbols. The air was so putrid and the people so filthy up there that they couldn't settle for mere surgical masks: this air was toxic to them. There were maybe 20 or 30 of them, standing in a unified row, all wielding what looked like bats or clubs or nightsticks. Some beat them rhythmically against their hand aggressively. Some merely stood at parade rest. Regardless, the message was clear. No voting today.
          Still, the group, and a few other Overs who joined them, got in their own row, linking arms, with the exception of Abe, who held up a megaphone and said earnestly to the Unders on the hilltop, "We are all legal citizens of the Duality, and are exercising our right to vote. We will not submit to demands for money or proof of identity, as is our right as citizens. Please allow us passage." Although it was assumed this would fall on deaf ears, Abe said it with the hope that the warning would be heeded, and Michael heard it with that same hope. Elizabeth did not look as hopeful.
          All the same, the line began to then confidently march up the street, nearing the top of the hill. As they neared, they started to hear the shouts. "Get back, smogbreathers," to the Overs, and "You should be ashamed of yourselves, traitors!" to the Unders. They pressed on, as Elizabeth squeezed Michael's hand tighter than ever. And then, as they began to reach the top-
          Thwack.
          The sickening sound of club on skull was heard somewhere down the line, and soon the gasmasks gave it their all, swinging their clubs with all their might. Michael heard screams, but only focused on Elizabeth's hand, and trying to walk forward. "Come on, Elizabeth!" he shouted. "Almost there!"
          And then the bang erupted, echoing off the trees, and Michael felt the hand in his go limp, and then Michael saw the Elizabeth he once knew also go limp, and everything became a blur as he felt stinging blows on his arm and back. He thought he heard something snap in his forearm, but he didn't care. He only cared about Elizabeth, who was being dragged away by fleeing members of the group. He wanted to cry out, to tell them to wait, that he needed to be by his best friend's side, but then one more thwack made contact with his skull, and then he fell.
        And, as his vision began to fade to black and unconsciousness began to set in, he saw Elizabeth weakly move her mask down, her eyes boring into his, and a single word being mouthed over and over. Something to keep his faith in forever: Lovelovelovelovelovelove-
        The last thought Michael had before the blackout was just that. Infinite love, even for Elizabeth's murderers. And for the first time since before his mother's death, the bitterness was gone.

III. The Promised Land

          Michael pushed back a stray lock of hair behind his ear as he prepared to deliver his victory speech. Two Under guards stood on either side of his bedroom door as he straightened his somewhat dusty suit. There wasn't a whole lot of things in Over that didn't get dusty or slightly dirty. By Over standards, his suit was impeccable. Although he hated to grant himself such honors, as Michael looked in his mirror, he couldn't help but think it fitting that his suit was in such good shape. It was, after all, a victory for the Over, not just him. It only made sense that he was able to represent all Overs at their best, while still being best by Over standards, not Under. It was his people he wanted to help. It was all of the Overs that he cared for, not himself, not Abe, not even his own mother.
          That day when his Elizabeth was taken from him by the gasmasks and their guns - so long ago, eight years - Michael had at long last understood. He had his true epiphany, not just the one he thought he had 14 years ago. This was not a struggle to be fought by one man or one woman, or even by 10 or 20. It was a struggle to be conducted by them all. That is why he could only love those who took his dearest from him. They were all necessary, they all needed to fight for what was right. And it was with this epiphany that Michael worked in earnest.
          The year after Michael's second epiphany, Abe too was shot, but nonfatally, in the leg. Still, by this point, Abe felt he could not properly serve as a leader for his group, and asked Michael to take up the mantle, which he did with the passion of himself and Elizabeth combined. The next couple years rolled by in a similar fashion, with the group struggling to get their neighborhood the suffrage to which they already were legally entitled. And then, one fine year, Michael had no clue why, the gasmasks stepped aside. It was so shocking to Michael that he only paused, mouth agape at the gap that the masks had formed. But all one of the gasmasks had to say on the matter was, "Well, what are you waiting for?!" It was almost as though this was a temporarily "lapse," in their judgment, and the one gasmask hoped the people would go down the hilltop before they all came to their senses.
          And you better believe, they did.
          It was down there on that first voting visit, that Michael took the opportunity to locate Elizabeth. Her parents had claimed her body immediately and brought it down to be buried somewhere within he sprawling underground metropolis. Michael searched for hours and hours, and never found her that day. He had to be escorted by police back to the tube.
          And somewhere deep down inside, Michael was almost relieved he could not find her. The faith was more real that way.
          But soon enough, as slowly more and more neighborhoods could vote, the question of electing an Over to the Council started to grow, and before he knew it, Michael found his name on the ballot. That first year, he lost overwhelmingly.
          But the second year - oh, the second year - he was elected to the lowest position on the Council by a narrow margin. Michael didn't know exactly what brought it on - it was theorized that there was a movement Under that was rallying for an Over Councilman. That night, the night before the victory speech, Overs lined the ruined streets, shouting, laughing, joking, rejoicing. At last!, their revelry seemed to declare to the smog-filled skies. At last! And that night, Michael joined them, even indulging drinks of some moonshine liquor.
          At last, indeed.
          And so Michael found himself the next morning, straightening that dusty old suit of his with two Under guards at the door ready to guard a member of the Duality's government. To think: even an Over could still be considered a member of the government.
          But a member of the government Michael was, and he decided after admiring the appropriateness of his impeccable formalwear that he should go to speak to his electorate. He donned his surgical mask - along with his Under guards, who also wore the requisite goggles - and stepped outside.
          Michael immediately noticed something different: the air was actually somewhat cool, and the haze somewhat lifted. He slowly lifted a hand and raised his mask a bit. It was tolerable, and off came the mask in one quick swoop. Before beginning the walk to the hilltop, he turned to his guards and said, "You boys can take them off. It's okay." One of his guards merely adjusted his mask, and the other said curtly, "No sir. Thank you, sir. I suggest we get moving, sir."
          Michael only nodded understandingly, and began the leisurely walk to the peak of that famous hill, where he was to deliver the speech. Looking around him, the houses and buildings were still broken. The grass was still dead. The air was still smoggy. Concrete and death, like always. But then Michael remembered what he had discovered just minutes before. Today it was cooler, comfortable. Michael thought that sometimes, you had to take it one step at a time. Today for instance, all you could really ask for was for it to be comfortable. And that was okay, because tomorrow it might be pleasant, and then one day, who knows, it might be heavenly.
          And then Michael had finally reached the top of the hill, standing in the pleasant shade of the two lover-trees. And as he mounted the stage, Michael could see the other side of the hill. A huge crowd of surgical masks, plain faces, glinting goggles, and even some scattered gasmasks, greeting him. They cheered so loudly that the sounds of their applause reverberated against the two trees, and were multiplied in Michael's ears. And as he saw that huge, integrated crowd, and heard their unanimous acclaim for his election - no, their election, the Over's election - Michael felt a few tears well up in his eyes. This was the future. This was the promise to all Overs and Unders that would be kept. This was the promise to all of the Duality that would be kept. This was the promise to all people that would be kept. Michael knew that it wouldn't all be easy now. This was just the beginning. One Councilman out of the hundred or so in the Duality.
          But sometimes, at least at first, Michael concluded as he leaned forward to speak to the people, like the one cool breeze that signified many more to come, the beginning of what was sure to be a bright future was all you could ask for.
          And that was okay.