Killing in the Name by Rage Against the Machine 🎶
______________________________________________________________________________________
The numbness cracks on a Thursday in June.
Yaz does not know it is cracking at first. He only knows that the Practice Room feels different today. Smaller. The red light in the corner blinks its steady rhythm, the same rhythm it has blinked for two years, but today the blinking irritates him. Today the red light feels like an eye. A watching, waiting, patient eye that has been staring at him since he was seven years old and will keep staring until he is old and gray and forgotten.
The guitar sits in his lap. His fingers rest on the strings. He is supposed to be practicing scales. C major, G major, D major. The foundations, Thorne calls them. The building blocks of everything that will come.
But his fingers do not want to play scales.
His fingers want to press down hard enough to hurt. To feel something. Anything. The gray film that has coated everything for two years, the numbness that made the cage bearable, is peeling away in strips, and underneath it there is something red and raw and very, very angry.
You're waking up, the Maestro says.
The voice has been quiet for months. Present but distant, like a radio playing in another room. Now it is closer. Clearer. Concerned in a way that makes Yaz's chest tighten.
I don't want to wake up.
I know. But you don't have a choice. The body can only numb for so long. Eventually, you feel again. And when you feel again, you feel everything at once.
Thorne arrives on Friday.
He comes through the door the way he always comes through the door. Smooth. Unhurried. His silver hair is perfect. His suit is pressed. His gold watch catches the light as he settles into the chair across from Yaz, the thin metal glinting like something valuable and old.
"How are we progressing?" Thorne asks.
We. The word lands differently today. For two years, Yaz has heard Thorne say "we" and accepted it as a kindness. We are building something. We are preparing for the reveal. We are going to change the world together.
But today, Yaz hears the truth underneath. There is no "we." There is Thorne, who makes the decisions. And there is Yaz, who does what he is told.
"Fine," Yaz says.
"Just fine?" Thorne tilts his head. The gesture is warm. Inviting. The gesture of someone who cares about the answer, who wants to understand, who is on your side.
Yaz used to believe that warmth. He used to lean into it the way you lean into a fire on a cold night, grateful for any heat at all.
"I'm practicing," Yaz says. "Like you asked."
"Like I asked." Thorne's smile flickers. Something passes behind his eyes, quick and cold and gone before Yaz can name it. "Yes. Well. The timeline is shifting slightly. The investors want to extend the preparation phase. They're very impressed with 'Mad World.' They want to make sure the reveal is... perfect."
"How much longer?"
"A year. Perhaps two." Thorne touches his watch. The gesture is unconscious. Habitual. The gesture of someone who measures everything in time because time is money and money is power and power is all that matters. "You understand, Yassine. This is for your protection. The world out there, it's not ready for you yet. We need to prepare them. Prepare you."
"I've been preparing for two years."
"And you've come so far." The warmth returns, full and bright. "Ten instruments. Original compositions. A viral song that the whole world is still talking about. You're extraordinary, Yassine. We just need to make sure the world sees you the right way."
We. Again. The word scrapes across something raw in Yaz's chest.
"When will I be ready?"
Thorne's smile does not change. But his eyes do. For just a moment, Yaz sees something honest in them. Something calculating. Something that looks at Yaz and sees not a child but an investment. An asset. A thing to be managed.
"When I say you're ready."
He leaves. The door closes. The red light keeps blinking.
And Yaz sits alone with the guitar in his lap, feeling the anger build like pressure in a closed room, like steam with nowhere to go.
He finds the song by accident.
Thorne has given him access to an archive of pre-war music. For education, Thorne said. To understand where music came from before the Cultural Recalibration. The archive is vast, thousands of songs from the old world, organized by era and genre and influence.
Yaz is supposed to be studying classical progressions. Instead, he is clicking randomly, letting the algorithm decide, letting the music wash over him without expectation or purpose.
And then.
The guitar hits like a fist.
Heavy. Distorted. Angry in a way Yaz has never heard music be angry before. The sound is thick and grinding, the bass drum pounding underneath like a heartbeat that refuses to slow down, and then a voice comes in, not singing but speaking, spitting words like weapons, like accusations, like truths that have been held too long and finally found their way out.
Killing in the name of.
Yaz does not understand all the words. He is nine years old. He does not know what the song is about, not really, not the way an adult would understand it. But he understands the feeling. The rage. The refusal. The way the music builds and builds until it explodes into something that cannot be contained.
And then the chorus. The same line, repeated. Over and over. Louder and louder. The word that means defiance.
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Killing in the name ofSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crossesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crossesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crossesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crosses
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Uh!Killing in the name ofKilling in the name ofNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told ya.
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Those who died are justifiedFor wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesYou justify those that diedBy wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesThose who died are justifiedFor wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesYou justify those who diedBy wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crossesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crossesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crossesSome of those that work forcesAre the same that burn crosses
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Uh!Killing in the name ofKilling in the name ofNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told yaNow you do what they told ya(Now you're under control)Now you do what they told ya(Now you're under control)Now you do what they told ya(Now you're under control)Now you do what they told ya(Now you're under control)Now you do what they told ya(Now you're under control)Now you do what they told ya(Now you're under control)Now you do what they told ya(Now you're under control!)Now you do what they told yaThose who died are justifiedFor wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesYou justify those that diedBy wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesThose who died are justifiedFor wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesYou justify those that diedBy wearing the badge, they're the chosen whitesCome on!Fuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell meFuck you, I won't do what you tell me
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Motherfucker!Uh
I won't do what you tell me.
Yaz plays the song again. And again. And again.
The red light blinks in the corner. Recording everything. Watching everything.
Yaz does not care.
The defiances begin small.
Thorne assigns him Bach. Yaz plays Hendrix.
Not openly. Not during the scheduled lessons when Thorne's people are watching through the cameras. But at night, when the orphanage sleeps above him and the Practice Room becomes something other than a cage. At night, Yaz plays what he wants to play. What he needs to play. The heavy, grinding guitar. The pounding drums. The music that sounds like anger given form.
He learns the song. Every note. Every chord. Every moment where the voice drops from speaking to screaming, where the band pulls back and then surges forward, where the repetition becomes not monotony but power.
I won't do what you tell me.
He whispers it at first. Then speaks it. Then, one night when the anger is too big to hold, he screams it into the soundproofed walls, letting the words tear out of him like something that has been caged too long.
The Maestro watches. Silent. Worried.
Careful, the voice says finally. This feeling is real. But feelings this big need somewhere to go.
This IS somewhere to go.
No. This is just... burning. Fuel without direction. If you're not careful, it will burn you up instead of taking you somewhere.
Yaz does not listen. He is nine years old. He has been hidden for two years. He is tired of being careful.
Mrs. Okonkwo notices.
Of course she does. She has always noticed things about Yaz that others miss. The way his shoulders tighten when Thorne visits. The way his eyes go flat during the scheduled lessons. The way he has been walking differently these past weeks, his steps harder, his posture sharper, like someone preparing for a fight.
She finds him in the common room on a Wednesday afternoon. The other children are outside, enjoying the thin summer light. Yaz is sitting by the window, watching them without seeing them, his fingers drumming a rhythm on his knee that sounds like violence.
"Yassine." Her voice is soft. Her orange headwrap is slightly askew. Her bracelet clicks as she settles into the chair beside him. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About whatever is happening in that head of yours." She reaches out, touches his hand. Her fingers are warm. Gentle. The fingers of someone who has always cared, even when the caring changed nothing. "You're different lately. Angrier. I can see it building."
"So?"
The word comes out harder than he intends. The word Tomás used to say, back when Yaz was seven and birthdays went unremarked. So? The word of someone who has stopped expecting things to matter.
Mrs. Okonkwo flinches. Just slightly. Her eyes cloud with something that might be hurt or might be guilt or might be both at once.
"Don't make trouble, Yassine. Please." Her voice drops. "He has been good to you. The lessons, the instruments, the opportunities. Other children would give anything for what you have."
"Other children aren't trapped in a basement."
"You're not trapped. You're being protected."
"Is that what you call it?"
She does not answer. Her bracelet clicks once, twice, three times. The sound of guilt she will not name. The sound of someone who knows she is on the wrong side and cannot find her way back.
"Just... be careful." She stands. Straightens her headwrap. Does not meet his eyes. "Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're planning, be careful. He's not someone you can fight."
"I'm not planning anything."
The lie comes easily. He has been planning for weeks. Not anything specific. Not anything strategic. Just the shape of defiance. The outline of refusal. The knowledge that he cannot keep being this, cannot keep pretending, cannot keep letting the anger build with nowhere to go.
Mrs. Okonkwo leaves. The common room is quiet.
Yaz keeps drumming his fingers on his knee. The rhythm of violence. The rhythm of something about to break.
The triggering moment comes in October.
Thorne is explaining the new timeline. The reveal has been pushed back again. Another eighteen months. The investors want more songs. More content. More proof that the Hidden Voice is worth the wait.
"Think of it as refinement," Thorne says. He is sitting in his usual chair, his usual posture, his usual warmth radiating across the Practice Room like heat from a perfectly controlled fire. "We're not delaying. We're perfecting. By the time the world sees you, Yassine, you'll be ready for anything."
"When did you decide this?"
"The investors decided last week. I'm informing you as a courtesy."
"A courtesy." Yaz tastes the word. It tastes like metal. Like blood. Like the chain-link fence he used to press his fingers against, feeling the diamond pattern bite into his skin. "You decided my life for another eighteen months. And you're telling me as a courtesy."
"Yassine." Thorne's voice sharpens slightly. Just slightly. The warmth flickering. "I understand you're frustrated. But this is how the industry works. Timing is everything. If we reveal too soon, before the world is ready, before YOU are ready, everything we've built falls apart."
"Everything YOU'VE built."
The words escape before Yaz can stop them. They hang in the air between them, solid and sharp and impossible to take back.
Thorne's face does not change. That is the worst part. His expression stays exactly the same. Warm. Understanding. Patient. But his eyes go cold. His fingers touch his gold watch. The gesture of someone measuring time. Calculating. Deciding.
"I see," Thorne says. "You're feeling... restricted. That's natural. You're nine years old. You've been working very hard. It's understandable that you would feel some... rebellion."
The word lands like a slap. Rebellion. Thorne names it, and in naming it, contains it. Makes it small. Makes it a phase. Something to be managed. Something that will pass.
"This isn't a phase."
"Of course not." The warmth returns, smooth as oil, impossible to hold onto or push away. "This is who you are, Yassine. Passionate. Driven. These are good qualities. We just need to channel them properly. Direct them toward the work instead of against it."
"What if I don't want to be channeled?"
"Then we'll have to discuss what that means. For you. For the contract. For everything we've built together."
Together. The word again. The lie again.
Yaz feels the anger surge. Two years of numbness. Two years of compliance. Two years of playing the instruments and following the rules and believing that Thorne was helping him, protecting him, building something extraordinary.
And now this. Another eighteen months. Another delay. Another decision made without him, about him, as if he is not a person but a project. An investment. A thing.
Don't, the Maestro says. Not like this. Not here. He's waiting for you to explode. He WANTS you to explode so he can contain it.
But Yaz cannot hear the warning. The anger is too loud. The anger has been building for months, for years, for his entire life, and now it has found a target and it will not be denied.
The rebellion lasts seventeen minutes.
Later, Yaz will count them. Seventeen minutes from the moment he stands up to the moment Thorne leaves. Seventeen minutes of screaming and refusing and saying all the things he has swallowed for two years.
He tells Thorne about the contract. About the thumbprint he pressed onto paper when he was seven years old and did not understand what he was signing. About the protection that became a prison. About the lessons that became chains.
He tells Thorne about the watching. The red light. The cameras. The constant surveillance that makes him feel like a specimen instead of a person. An experiment instead of a child.
He tells Thorne he is done. Done practicing. Done preparing. Done being the Hidden Voice for investors who have never seen his face, who will never know his name, who think of him only as a product to be refined and revealed when the timing is right.
"I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!"
The words explode out of him. The words from the song. The words that have been building for months, looping in his head, teaching him the shape of refusal.
He is on his feet. His hands are fists. His chest is heaving. The red light blinks and blinks and blinks, recording everything, capturing the moment when the investment turned on its investor.
And Thorne sits.
He does not stand. He does not raise his voice. He does not react at all except to lean back in his chair slightly and cross one leg over the other and wait.
Wait.
The silence stretches. Yaz's anger crashes against it like waves against a seawall. The seawall does not move. The seawall has been built to withstand exactly this. The seawall has been waiting.
"Are you finished?" Thorne asks. His voice is gentle. Concerned. The voice of someone dealing with a tantrum, waiting for the child to exhaust himself.
The anger drains. It does not disappear. It goes somewhere else, somewhere deep, somewhere that will keep it safe until the next time. But the force of it drains, leaving Yaz standing in the middle of the Practice Room with his fists clenched and his chest heaving and nothing to show for the explosion except the sound of it still echoing off the walls.
"I understand," Thorne says. He uncrosses his legs. Leans forward. His eyes are warm again. Patient again. The eyes of someone who has won and knows it. "You're frustrated. You're angry. You're nine years old, and you've been working very hard, and it feels like nothing is moving forward. These feelings are valid, Yassine."
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you. I'm acknowledging you." He stands. Walks to where Yaz is standing. Places a hand on Yaz's shoulder. The touch is gentle. Careful. The touch of someone handling something valuable. "But you need to understand something. This anger? It's not going to change anything. The timeline is what it is. The contract is what it is. The only thing your anger can do is make this harder for you."
"Then make it easier."
"That's not how this works." Thorne's voice drops. Something honest creeps into it. Something cold. "I invested in you, Yassine. Time. Money. Resources. I believed in you when no one else did. And I will continue to believe in you. But belief doesn't mean I let you run wild. Belief means I guide you. Shape you. Help you become what you're capable of becoming."
"What if I don't want to be shaped?"
"Then I would have to reconsider. Whether this arrangement is working. Whether you need... different conditions." He lets the words hang. The threat implicit. The cage could get smaller. The walls could close in. "But I don't think that's what either of us wants. Is it?"
Yaz does not answer.
"We'll increase security," Thorne continues. "Just for a while. Until you're feeling more... stable. And we'll schedule some additional sessions. Talk through these feelings. Find healthy ways to express them." He squeezes Yaz's shoulder. "This is a setback, not an ending. You're extraordinary, Yassine. We just need to make sure that extraordinary energy is pointed in the right direction."
He leaves. The door closes. The red light keeps blinking.
And Yaz stands alone in the Practice Room, feeling the aftermath of the explosion settle around him like ash after a fire.
The changes come quickly.
New locks on the Practice Room door. New cameras in the corners, angles that cover everything, that leave no blind spots. New schedules that account for every hour, every minute, every moment of Yaz's day.
The archive access is revoked. No more pre-war music. No more Rage Against the Machine. No more songs that sound like anger given form.
Mrs. Okonkwo avoids him. When they cross paths in the hallway, her eyes slide away. Her bracelet clicks. Click, click, click. The sound of guilt she cannot face.
The other children whisper. They have heard something. Not the details, but the shape of them. The boy in the basement made trouble. The boy in the basement got punished. The boy in the basement is different now. Marked. Someone to stay away from.
Yaz does not mind the isolation. The isolation is honest. The isolation does not pretend to be protection.
He sits in the Practice Room, surrounded by instruments he is no longer allowed to play freely, watched by cameras that never blink, and he thinks about what happened.
Seventeen minutes. That is how long his rebellion lasted. Seventeen minutes of screaming and refusing and saying all the things he had swallowed.
And what did it accomplish?
Nothing. The timeline is the same. The contract is the same. The cage is the same, only smaller now, only tighter, only more honestly what it always was.
Anger is fuel, the Maestro says. The voice is sad. Gentle. The voice of someone who saw this coming and could not stop it. But fuel without direction just burns.
I know.
You know now. But knowing isn't the same as learning. Learning means changing how you act.
How should I act?
I don't know yet. But I know this: the cage isn't held together by locks. It's held together by patience. Thorne has patience. You need to find yours.
Yaz thinks about this. The cage. The patience. The way Thorne sat and waited while Yaz exploded, knowing the explosion would exhaust itself, knowing the seawall would hold.
He had more of it. Patience. The willingness to wait. The understanding that time was on his side, that the longer this went on, the more valuable Yaz would become, the more trapped he would be.
For now.
The words echo in Yaz's mind. Something shifts in his chest. Not hope, exactly. Something harder. Something colder. Something that looks at the cage with new eyes and begins, for the first time, to study it.
The rebellion had lasted seventeen minutes.
Thorne's calm had lasted longer.
And now Yaz understood something he should have known from the beginning: the cage wasn't held together by locks. It was held together by patience. Thorne had more of it.
For now.