There’s a turmoil brewing in this place. It cries, screams, and sobs in desperation. It didn’t think it would plague lives for so long. And yet, here it is. Hiding in the recesses of the mind, it cries to be known or heard. But it can’t be known. The government has made sure this turmoil lays behind a heavy fog. No one can see through it. No one can investigate it. No one can venture into it. If anyone dares, they will be shoved back where they started. For the rest of their lives, no thought of the risk they just took will ever enter into their minds again. 

This is my world. There are thousands of us in the West Dolor Institute of Learning. The thousands of us are clones. All of us wear the same thing, walk the same way, and respond in the same manner. The idea of rebelling can’t enter our minds. We can’t leave unless there is a way to fight back. 

But there is always a light in the darkness. A light so bright that it can shine through the white mist. 

There’s a sacred rule that every tyrant must follow: disguise weakness with strength.

A strong storm is forming. Few know what’s going on. It moves unseen behind the mist. But when the lightning strikes and the thunder claps, suspicion leaks out. In its stead is fear. Snaking in the hearts and minds of the witnesses, they shy away. Battling a storm like this would be insanity. It would ruin everything peaceful and good. 

But there is one willing to go out in the storm and find its source. There’s one who is willing to risk almost anything. Sacrifice anything.

Except for one thing.

When the storm takes that one thing away, will the hero emerge victorious? Or will this one hide in the shadows, waiting to become a victim of the brewing tempest’s rage?

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

The hero is lost behind crowds of people. A limp, still body is a symbol of despair. Tears escape many eyes as hope departs the soul. 

Someone must rise while the turmoil reigns. Someone must destroy the tyrant while he is in power.

But will she rise from the ashes and strike the light?