My Mother Threw The First Stone At My Execution While My Brother Watched In Silence. I Was Rescued By A Resistance Group That Proved The Death Lottery Is Rigged To Steal Our Land. What Do I Do Now That I’ve Returned To Make The Council Draw Their Own Names?

She explains, “We’ll swap the real lottery box with our replica during the selection ceremony, and the replica has no weighted papers so the draw will be truly random for the first time ever.”

“While the swap happens we’ll use stolen projection equipment to display our evidence on the square walls, showing everyone the names and patterns that prove the manipulation.”

She pulls out the replica box and it looks identical to the real one. Same wood and same size and same fake random mixing mechanism on top.

Wyatt demonstrates how the real box has a false bottom with weighted papers that Fischer can feel and avoid.

But our replica is just a simple box with every name having equal chance.

I point out that if a council member gets selected they’ll just refuse to participate or change the rules immediately.

But Wyatt shakes his head and explains that’s exactly what we want.

He says the community seeing the council break their own sacred rules will destroy the illusion of fairness that keeps everyone obedient and compliant.

People have accepted the lottery because they believed it was random and fair, but watching council members refuse their own system will prove it was always rigged.

The plan requires six people working at the same time: two to swap the boxes while everyone’s distracted, two to operate the projection equipment from hidden positions, and two to move through the crowd distributing printed evidence in case the projections fail.

Audrey looks at each of us and says this is likely a one-way mission that will probably all be captured or killed, but no one backs out or even hesitates.

Melissa just nods and says she’s been ready to die for this since she watched her cousin get stoned.

And Kaye squeezes her sister’s hand.

Five days before the lottery I find Audrey alone checking equipment and I ask why she chose to save me specifically out of all the people who’ve been selected over the years.

She stops what she’s doing and admits it was partly strategic, that she’d been watching me for months after my father’s execution.

She says I’m young enough that the community might feel protective seeing me nearly executed, old enough to explain clearly what’s wrong with the system, and connected to enough recent victims that my story carries emotional weight.

My father’s obvious murder, my brother’s trauma, my mother’s selection—all of it makes me a powerful symbol of council corruption.

I realize then that I’m not just a rescued victim but a propaganda tool they plan to use, and part of me feels angry about being manipulated even by the people who saved me.

But another part understands that symbols matter when you’re trying to change people’s minds.

And if my near execution can wake up the community then maybe being used is worth it.

Three days before the lottery Kaylee and I do a practice run of the box swap in the warehouse, timing how long it takes to switch them without anyone noticing.

The first try takes us over two minutes because my hands shake so bad I almost drop the replica, but Kaye stays calm and talks me through it.

We practice again and again, getting faster each time until we can complete the swap in 45 seconds flat.

But it has to happen while everyone’s distracted watching the projections, which means perfect timing between our team and the equipment operators.

We run through the sequence over and over, Kaye counting seconds while I practice grabbing the real box and sliding the replica into place until my muscles remember the movements even when my brain goes blank from fear.

Melissa returns from another reconnaissance mission that afternoon and her face tells me something’s wrong before she even speaks.

She says the council moved my mother into a holding cell near the square, claiming they want to make sure she doesn’t try to escape before her lottery entry, but really they’re keeping her as bait hoping I’ll attempt a rescue that leads them straight to the resistance hideout.

My blood goes cold thinking about my mother locked in a cell waiting to die, knowing I’m alive somewhere but can’t come for her.

That night I break down completely, sobbing that we’re going to let my mother die while we play out some complicated plan that probably won’t even work.

Audrey sits beside me on the floor and doesn’t try to stop my crying or tell me it’ll be okay.

She just waits until I’m quiet enough to hear her.

Then she shares that her parents were also held as bait five years ago, that the council arrested them and announced their lottery selection early hoping Audrey would try a rescue.

She had to choose between saving her parents and protecting the resistance movement that was just starting, and she picked the mission over them.

Her voice breaks when she says they died knowing she chose the greater good over their lives.

That she watched from hiding while the community stoned her own parents to death.

She tells me her parents’ last words to her came through a smuggled message the night before their execution.

And they wrote that they understood her choice, that they were proud of her, and that some fights matter more than individual lives.

I don’t know if hearing this makes me feel better or worse, but it helps me understand the weight Audrey carries every single day.

The guilt that drives her to risk everything trying to tear down the system that killed them.

“If we succeed and expose the council, maybe eventually the community will see that every death was murder, including her parents and my father and everyone else we’ve lost. And maybe that knowledge will mean something,” she says.

The Eve of the Final Lottery

Two days before the lottery, Audrey wakes us before dawn and we start moving equipment through the tunnels.

The passages smell like dirt and rot, and we have to crawl through some sections on our hands and knees dragging bags of projection gear and the replica box behind us.

Kaye leads because she knows the roots best, her small frame fitting through spaces the rest of us struggle with.

Every sound makes me freeze, certain guards are about to discover us, but we make it to the first stash point near the square’s east side.

Wyatt sets up the projection equipment in an abandoned building’s attic, testing angles and making sure the images will hit the square walls properly.

Melissa and I carry the replica box to a maintenance shed behind the platform, hiding it under old tarps that smell like chemicals.

The box looks exactly like the real one, same wood grain and metal clasps, and holding it makes my hands shake thinking about what happens if we mess up the swap.

We make three more trips through the tunnels that day, each one feeling more dangerous than the last.

By evening everything’s in position and we’re back in the basement, exhausted and filthy.

Liz makes us wash up and eat something even though my stomach feels too tight for food.

That night none of us sleep, just sitting around the basement table going over assignments again and again.

Kaye draws the square layout on paper for the hundredth time, marking where each person needs to be and when.

Wyatt checks his bird call signal, the specific pattern that means start the operation, practicing it until it sounds natural.

Melissa reviews the projection sequence, making sure she can trigger it fast when Wyatt signals.

I sit with my assignment memorized but keep going over it anyway, because if I stop my brain fills with images of stones and blood and my mother’s crying face.

Liz brings bread and cheese around midnight, setting plates in front of everyone.

Nobody’s hungry, but she stands there until we all eat something.

“We need strength for tomorrow regardless of how it ends,” she says.

Her voice is calm, but I see her hands shaking when she pours water.

Around 3:00 in the morning, Audrey leaves and comes back with a small wooden box.

She opens it and inside are six knives, small but sharp, the kind you could hide easily.

She gives one to each of us and makes us promise that if we’re captured, we’ll use it on ourselves rather than let the council torture information about the others from us.

The knife feels cold in my hand and I slide it into my pocket where it sits heavy against my leg.

Part of me is scared of it, but another part feels almost relieved, like having control over at least one choice.