They met on the balcony, in the patch of artificial grass just out of sight of the cameras. Smoke drifted from the end of Kensa’s slim e-cig as she looked down at layer upon layer of cars, down in the smog-flooded lower levels.
“The revolution is coming,” the analyst said. His face was gaunt and pale as a corpse. His suit was funeral black. His name was nobody’s concern but his own. “It is a statistical certainty.”
“It always was,” Kensa replied. Her silk dress shimmered. “We’re just holding back the tide.”
“And now we can hold it back no longer.”
“Well, then.” Kensa smiled. “It was fun while it lasted.”
The analyst blinked. She wondered if he even knew what fun was.
“When do we run?” she asked. “Tonight.”
His fingers closed on her wrist.
“The revolution is coming,” he said. “And I will be on the winning side.”
Word Count: 150
This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Enisa for providing the prompt photo!