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09 February 2009 @ 04:36 pm
Original Fiction!!  
HOMG JESUS CHRIST THE APOCALYPSE IS COMING.

That's right. It's ORIGINAL FICTION that involves NO GAY. You heard me right, NOTHING HOMOSEXUAL WHATSOEVER.

That being said, it's actually something that yomimashou and I wrote for our Science Fiction class last year. It's a commentary on something... but you can see if you understand when you read it! ^__~

The reason I'm posting it here is simply because I like it. I'm impressed by how nicely and well-written it turned out, since it was a school assignment, and, in addition, in light of recent events, I find it appropriate. *is enigmatic* Anyway, if you're interested, you should take a look~

Title: A Day in the Life of 5 69785 426

Claimer: Belongs to yomimashou and myself.

Rating: PG-13 for violence

Warnings: Non-graphic violence

In the Western Branch Headquarters of the Maintainers of Public Order, George 426 observed the Revolt Management Wing contentedly, reveling in the feeling of having just dispatched another group of rebels. The unit under his command had raided a civilian house known to be harboring several revolutionaries. Due to his excellent planning, the event had gone quite smoothly; in fact, he thought it had probably gone more smoothly even than most other operations he’d directed in the past. By the time the unit left the premises, all the outlaws had been eliminated and all the civilians arrested. Now all his subordinates were safely back at the station, and George congratulated himself on another job well done.

He strode past the rows of identical gray cubicles towards his office, nodding curtly at a Classification 4 private as he passed. He admired the plaque on his door for a moment, as he always did, before entering the office. It read, in black type, 5 69785 426, and beneath that, Captain George, Revolt Management Department. He smiled to himself as he sat down in the dimly-lit room. It was a title worthy of him; however, there was no doubt that someday he would be a colonel. He had made the decision, and now it was just a matter of killing more rebels. He couldn’t foresee any difficulty in that, though, because nothing gave him more satisfaction than getting rid of the third-classification idiots who wanted to destroy the absolutely perfect society in which they lived.

The captain pulled the first form off the stack that would need to be completed to correctly document the day’s operation and began to fill it out. He worked meticulously, yet efficiently, for several minutes before he was interrupted by the appearance of a lieutenant in the doorway. It was Carraway 895, a Classification 4 under his command. Carraway had done well in the raid that day—actually, the lieutenant always worked well, despite having only the intelligence level of a 4, he mused.

“Captain?” said the lieutenant hesitantly, pausing at the blurred border line between the gray walls of the hallway and the shadowy interior of the captain’s office.

“How many times have I told you that you can call me George?” he said congenially, turning towards the lieutenant and admiring the perfection of Carraway’s uniform. The gray shirt was tucked in and wrinkle-free, just as the MOPO regulations specified, and he could really find no flaw in the way any of it was put together. “Even though I am your superior, you can feel comfortable around me. Now what is it, Carraway?”

"Thank you, sir—George. An excellent raid today, if I may say,” replied the lieutenant. “Everything was very well planned and executed, sir.”

The captain swelled with pride, though he tried not to show it. After all, a compliment from a member of an inferior intelligence classification shouldn’t really mean much. “Oh, it’s all in a day’s work, Lieutenant,” he said with a chuckle. “You did follow your orders very well, though. I do appreciate all that my subordinates do to further our cause against the rebels.”

“I do everything that I can to help keep the people of this country safe,” said Carraway. “But that brings me to my point, sir. I was wondering… if it’s not too forward of me to ask… since I’ve been staying so late at the office lately, and prices have been rising, if you might give me a raise?”

Frankly, George was rather surprised at the forwardness of the usually rule-following Carraway. He liked the lieutenant, though, so he considered the request for a moment before answering. “I would like to reward you, Carraway, because your performance lately has been quite remarkable.” Remarkable mostly because one didn’t usually expect satisfactory performance from the lower classifications, the captain added silently. “I need to speak to the higher-ups, though. I unfortunately do not have the authority to grant raises.”
“Thank you sir. I’m really much obliged. I’m so glad that you’re pleased with my performance,” Carraway said, smiling.

George smiled back, glad to be able to improve the day of one of his inferiors. “You’re very welcome. I do need to get back to my work now, but please, come any time you have a concern. You know I always want my subordinates to feel comfortable around me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Carraway said, turning to leave, and George went back to his paperwork and his contemplation. That meeting had been a perfect example of the merits of their society. Everyone had people beneath them for whom they were mentors, and everyone had those above them to aspire towards. (Except for the President, of course. He was the perfect example, the ultimate leader to whom all the country’s citizens looked for a model, so he did not need to aspire towards anything besides continually perfecting his nation.) In addition to that, every person always knew his duty. Each citizen knew his place in the world based upon his classification, and the government provided clear, strong regulations regarding how people should act. They even provided standardized identification numbers so that no one would be confused with anyone else, and so that everyone’s classification would be clear from the first digit of the number on any legal document. The captain really could find no flaws in his society. It was completely, perfectly, logically controlled, and he would protect it at all costs.

George completed the remaining paperwork regarding the day’s victory in good time, and at five o’clock sharp, he turned off his computer, gathered his things, and rose to leave. Shutting his heavy mahogany door behind him, he headed towards the parking area to retrieve his car. His car—dark, angular, and so quiet as it hovered that it was almost uncanny, it was his most prized possession and an obvious indication of his high class. It would be unsafe to allow third- or fourth-classifications to drive, after all! George sat up straighter as he passed the bus station, reveling in his superiority and his higher altitude over the throng of people continually undulating in front of the building, its fringes growing and shrinking as the masses came and went. He possessed higher intelligence than all of them, and for that he was justly rewarded.


At home, George’s good mood persisted as he retrieved that day’s dinner from his pantry and read the label, learning that tonight’s main dish was to be prime rib. The Bureau of Nourishment always made such good food choices! Reading the instructions carefully, George placed the plastic dish in the microwave and set it for four minutes and 45 seconds. While he waited, he clicked on the TV. Nothing much was on at the moment, but it was almost six o’clock, and he liked to watch the news while he ate. For the moment, he contented himself with watching a game show that pitted Classification 5 students against citizens of other countries. The fives always won, of course. No other nation in the universe could ever compete with the society their President had developed.

Soon enough, the microwave beeped, and he brought his meal to the table and sat. Cutting off a piece of the pale gray meat, he noted without surprise that it was perfect; it tasted exactly the same as always. He ate steadily through his main course and the accompanying gray-vegetable puree, only halfway paying attention to the foreign children being crushed on his television.

As the captain started on his perfectly round, uniform strawberry shortcake disk, the six o’clock news began, and much to his approval, the top story was none other than his department’s raid. He nodded appreciatively as the newscaster described the basic facts of the event while footage played on the screen, showing George’s men and women lurking in the shadows before the attack. He was especially pleased by the anchor’s comments on the plan’s exceptional organization and its efficiency in putting down the rebel faction. George thought that they should have asked him for an interview, though, if they truly wanted to do the story justice.

The subsequent news interested the captain much less, so he turned off the TV and went into the living room. A few days previously, he had purchased a brand-new book on psychology that fascinated him greatly. He wasn’t usually interested in psychology—it was too close to those useless humanities—but this book, entitled The Classification Motivation, was just phenomenal. To add further to its standing, it was rumored that the author was very close to the President himself. George had already devoured about half of the text, and he looked forward to spending another evening with it.

As he settled in with the thick volume, the captain’s large, looming armchair seemed to try to swallow him whole. The book obstructed the light from the single reading lamp, casting the lower half of his body in shadow. The captain smiled, leaning back further into the orifice of the chair. This was the perfect way to end a perfect day.


The following morning, George set out for his habitual morning stroll to the coffee shop, one too nearby to be worth taking his hovercar. In the slanting autumn sunlight, he cast a shadow with an even more impressive stature than his own, and he admired it as he made his way along the sidewalk. At the café, he drank his usual black coffee while he read the paper, which contained a fairly well-written story about his victory the previous day.

Soon after starting back towards his house, he suddenly heard running footsteps, an unusual sound in his quiet, orderly neighborhood, and then, out of the blue, a young woman burst around a corner about a block ahead of him. She looked to be in her late teens, though it was hard to see under the hat she wore, and she was clad in a plain white blouse and gray slacks. Her muted outfit did nothing to hide her unusual behavior, though, and rather alarmed at this disturbance of the peaceful atmosphere, the captain began to walk quickly towards the girl.

As they neared each other, George stepped to the side, effectively blocking the sidewalk. He thought for a moment that she would crash into him, but she came to a halt at the last moment. Her hat fell off, revealing the scarred face beneath, and suddenly he recognized who was staring back at him.

“You have some nerve to even be showing your face in public,” he exclaimed, “Let alone charging through a nice, neat neighborhood like this one, 3 46363 747!” What in all the realms of logic was this known revolutionary—a wanted criminal—doing there? The captain certainly had no idea.

"That's Aureliana Ferdinanda Esperanza, if you please!" the rebel responded haughtily.

George laughed, amused at the very idea that she would expect him to call her that idiotic, confusing phrase. “Really,” he said condescendingly, “Why must you insist on calling yourself such unusual, cumbersome names? The numbers work so much better. Now, you still haven’t told me what in the President’s name you’re doing here!” He knew none of his words would get through to a person like her, a Classification 3 and a rebel besides, but he thought he’d make a little bit of a civilized effort before getting down to business. Shooting rebels on sight was perfectly legal, of course, but it was always good to be sure they were hopeless first.

"Excuse me for wanting to be an individual,” she shot back. “I forgot it was a crime here. Now I don't have time for nobodies like you, so why don't you just step aside? Who knows, maybe then you'll have done something useful in your life."

George’s face turned dark with rage as she spoke. How dare that girl call him of all people a nobody! But before he could do anything, she started to dart past him, and she was fast. He was faster, though, as he drew his handgun, swiveled, and shot her in the back with practiced precision.

As he watched the body fall, the captain heard more footsteps approaching from behind him. He swiveled back around, gun at the ready, but he lowered his weapon when he saw that it was none other than Carraway. “Lieutenant! Wonderful job finding this rebel!” He said, gesturing towards the ground behind him. Carraway merely nodded.

“But come,” continued the captain, ignoring the lieutenant’s lack of response, “We should get to the station and let people know what happened. The higher-ups will be pleased when they hear about your contribution! I could ask them about your raise at the same time, what do you think?” He started walking, looking back to make sure Carraway followed.

The lieutenant nodded again and began to walk, but George noticed his subordinate looking back at one point. The captain never looked back on a kill. He was sure the troublemaker was dead, after all, so there was nothing more to look at.

As they grew more distant from the scene, clouds obscured the sky, and a chilly, gray rain began to fall. Rain to rid the world of another rebel, thought George 426 as he watched his shadow blend with the darkening sidewalk. To keep things the way they belonged.
 
 
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