equals | d. portman

one

warnings: none really
word count: 1653
author notes: hello, thanks for opening the fic lmao
_

Wake up, prepare for the day, work, repeat.

Wake up, prepare for the day, work, repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

And for what?

For once in her life, Aurora lingers while staring at the mirror. She needs to be heading to work in about thirty seconds, but she can't seem to move. The buttons on the collar of her shirt are too tight, but they were fine yesterday.

The white walls surround her in a cocoon of despair, locking her down inside. She wants to scream. To break out. To escape. But that would tell everyone that she was infected.

Infected. There must be a world out there somewhere that doesn't see it that way. There must be.

She's all set for today; already made her bed, showered, brushed her teeth, fixed her hair, and done about a million puzzles waiting on the time to come. She doesn't eat breakfast this morning.

With her heart falling into a white abyss, she exits her restroom and begins the short journey outside.

The walk is brief, and she has no interactions with anyone along the way. No one is supposed to have the desire to talk to each other. And they don't. She does, unfortunately. She wants to tell everyone about her condition, but then she would have to be treated.

Walking up and inside her white work building, she's surrounded by others in white outfits, reading white books, holding white phones, and sipping beverages from white cups.

White, white, white. She's so sick of the color white. But no one else is. Color is never present here, no one has wondered why. No one wants any other colors.

"All trains departing to lower levels." The intercom rings out through the tunnel and into her ears. It's too loud, but she doesn't complain. She can't complain.

"The Collective runs by everybody doing their part. Report suspicious activity to health and safety."

A different voice follows it, this one more feminine than the original. "Health and safety is here to help, just look for the black and white vests."

As she enters the building, she scans the inside of her wrist against the monitor, the barcode scanner projecting her information to say that she had signed in on time.

"This train serves the north-east work sectors." 

She sits in her usual seat, pretending like she has no desire to sit in the very back. If she changes seats, someone may get suspicious.

While she waits to reach her work building, the usual morning ads play on her personal monitor in front of her.

"This is a message from The Collective. Are you overly tired?" Yes. "Or experiencing increased sensitivity?" Yep. "Maybe you have difficulty concentrating?" Definitely. "You may have S.O.S.. Switched On Syndrome."

It ends, and she goes back to watching whatever program it is that she had started the day before.

"... a further 43 degrees along this orbit." The voice comes from the computer, showing her images and videos of things that she's seen many times before.