Cyrus sits on a concrete bench, right in front of one of the many murals celebrating his death dotted around district 13. Staring yet again at his hands. This time calmer, cooler, more collected. It's just a breather, a little break from being a faceless. He breathes in, he breathes out, fully feeling the air filter through his skin. No man has ever been so calm in the middle of his own death celebrations. What could possibly be going through his head, who knows. Does he know? 

Jane Goodall. Jane Goodall was an empathetic figure, Jane Goodall gave each chimpanzee a name. She watched infant chimpanzees grow up to be parents, she saw every single chimpanzee as she would a human. But they weren’t human. Did they want to be viewed as human? Did they tell her they appreciated what she was doing? She was said to have acknowledged them all as individuals, but do they see each other as such? How can we possibly know what the chimpanzees think, we speak a different language to them. A chimpanzee telling a human about a banana looks the same as a chimpanzee telling a human about their favourite Shakespeare tragedy, even if you lived with them. But if you could speak to a chimpanzee, would you view them differently? Would they still be mindless, tool-making, shit throwing apes or are they now people? If chimpanzees could talk, is what they’re saying now different or is it the ears it's reaching that have changed? 

Cyrus stands up and begins his slow stroll to the address given to him by Tim. Walking through the streets, still covered in discarded beer cans from celebrations of his death. “Dirty bastards”, Cyrus thinks to himself while kicking a can. Before he can even enter the house he was directed to, the door opens and Tim walks outside,”come on” Tim says, “they’ve given me and you a mission”. 

Cyrus falls into step with Tim as the pair walk through district 13, “so what's our mission?”, he asks. Tim responds, “district 11, we’re staging a prison break”.