http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/bangkok-night-guttenfelder/

Concentration was difficult in the orgy of sight & sound on Neon Hill. And this was a constant at the center of a city that fancied itself the world’s next capital. Horns blared at irregular intervals, under-oiled brakes squeaked in a cringe-inducing, high-pitched whine, red brake lights flashed on faces of people laughing or shouting or frowning at the crush of tourists.

Through it all, Emma had to concentrate. To everyone else on Neon Hill, this was just another weeknight at the city’s polychromatic heart. For Emma, and the impatient woman beside her, it was a vital test.

“Remember the signs,” the woman, Darla, reminded Emma for the nth time. “There are telltale giveaways.”

Emma resisted the urge to squint. Appearing to concentrate wasn’t nearly as effective as actual concentration. With a deep breath, she began to push out the distractions; the bus offloading camera-toting tourists, the insect buzz of motorized scooters zipping between the lanes, a group of ne’er-do-well teenagers hassling a fruit cart vendor.

“Silver sedan, the little one,” she said finally but with less conviction that she would have liked.

“Yes, but that was with less conviction that I would have liked,” Darla said. “What did you see?”

“The back wheels weren’t moving in perfect time with the front wheels.”

“Well, that’s well spotted then,” Darla begrudging allowed. “But let’s try to make it quicker. When it’s the Specters, you won’t have that kind of time.”

“I know,” Emma said gravely.

Darla stepped out into road between the full-stop traffic. She looked to the left, around an ad-emblazened bus. After a few moments, without making any kind of signal, she walked back to the curb.

“Ok, they’ll set up the next hologram. Give it a few minutes, then we’ll start looking again.”

Emma nodded. This kind of practice was tedious but, as Darla and the other elder rebels reminded her ad nauseam, essential. Specters used holograms of similar sophistication, and they were not employed to sharpen the senses of the rebels. If Emma ever spotted a hologram that she wasn’t told to identify by Darla, she’d been instructed to escape with the utmost haste. Too many rebels had failed to do so to their eternal peril.

“The Specters are government forces,” Emma said, introducing a point.

“Yes…”

“Why do they need the cloak and dagger routine? Just arrest people.”

Darla shook her head, checked her watch. “They know we’re out here, they know our numbers rival their own. If they walked into the comedy club tonight and arrested Borianes for sedition, our numbers would double by morning.

“Illusion,” Darla continued. “They thrive on illusion. The illusion of equality, the illusion of safety, the illusion of freedom.”

For a moment, something opened up in the flow of traffic. A few cars braking for too long, maybe, or a delay from pedestrians jaywalking with impunity. A gap formed, a few car lengths long, across three adjacent lanes. When the space opened up, three cars accelerated. Emma sympathized with the drivers. An hour of sitting in mostly-stopped traffic, foot glued to the brake, the stench of exhaust and trash and sweaty humans filtering through their closed windows. And then, miraculously, a little space. A chance to put the pedal down, to leap forward and feel, however briefly, the rush of surging forward without impediment.

It didn’t last. A second, maybe two, and then they hammered the brakes again. All three cars, almost simultaneously, fell back into place in the endless stream of vehicles. The gap was gone and, with it, that fleeting sense of progress.

“Maybe that’s what we need.” Emma pondered. Something caught her eye to the left. She reacted first, thought second. “Black coupe. Windshield is bent wrong.”

Darla ignored the correct identification. The black coupe, a rebel hologram conjured from their stolen projector, was the least of her worries in that moment.

“Emma,” she said, concern laced in her tone, “That’s not a path you want to go down. Martyrs don’t win wars. Soldiers do.”

For a moment, Emma considered that point. “No, I don’t think that’s true. Passion wins wars. One side fights to change, one to maintain. But change, in the end, must always win.”

She broke from the curb then and weaved through the mess of honking and grey exhaust and futility. If Specters had found small victories in illusion, maybe she could find some in reality.

With agile grace, she leapt onto the hood of a car, then its roof, then up onto a bus. People stopped, turned to look at her. She opened her mouth, with no real plan, and began to shout.

“I have something to say, and most of you won’t believe me. Not today, and probably not tomorrow. But what I have to say is true, and that’s the most you can ask of me. It’s the most I can give. Let me tell you about your government, about those sworn to protect you. Let me tell you about the Specters…”