To Cease the Fires of the World

A mysterious, cold, dark room. A soft red light overhead. A scratchy bed, a small TV, and a rusty-around-the-edges metal door with no window. This is no place for a good story to start, you might think. We have begun with Clarisse McClellan, a seventeen-year-old who is much different from the rest of society. While other kids spend their time wrecking things, bullying each other, and even killing each other for no real reason, Clarisse takes a walk, listens to her surroundings, or just thinks. Her family is also different; they live similarly to how you might think of "normal." For example, they occasionally sit outside on their front porch (all the other houses don't have front porches), talk a lot, take frequent walks, and most of all, think and consider their surroundings. So now you may think of yourself as abnormal, as well, because nothing in this world is your regular normal.

Clarisse glanced about, utterly bewildered. She held her hands to her forehead; she had a severe headache. Considerations zipped through her head until she could finally snatch one to observe it. The last thing she could remember was Guy Montag the fireman. To her he was like a bright lighthouse which shone upon the land as if to shout its potential, standing above the boring grayscale background, searching for something, yet in closed, locked silence. Now she remembered more; it was the middle of June, in the rain, and Clarisse was messing with Montag. She had finally asked him why he became a fireman, because it just didn't seem fit for him. The other firemen were hoarse, grumpy, and awfully rude; Montag was the exact opposite of those. Unfortunately, she just couldn't remember what he had said after that.

She redirected her gaze onto the small TV, with a slight frown on her face. On it were displayed the letters "You h-ve be-n tran-pla-ted to the So--etal Welfare De-ar-ment of Mi-itar- Redire-tion. Please be pa--ent." The screen was badly damaged.

"It can't be very good for welfare if everywhere in this place is somewhat like this," she uttered.

She waited for something to happen for a long time. It was very quiet. She began to worry. Where was she? Where was her family? What happened to Montag? It all worsened her headache.

After a couple hours of thoughtful, impatient waiting, a loud buzzer alarmed and startled Clarisse. The rusty metal door steadily opened all by itself and revealed a large, unkept, rectangular room, with cells lining the long walls. There was an open door leading outside on the right end and closed doors on the left end.

"Roll call," stated an echoing speaker. "Please exit your room and report to field grounds immediately."

A few officers escorted the inhabitants of other cells to a door leading outside. However, Clarisse's officer led her to another room on the opposite wall to the door leading outside. There was an intimidating man behind a desk who wore an organized and prestigious-looking military uniform.

"Hello, Clarisse McClellan," he said in a low, slightly threatening voice. "You are probably very confused as to where you are and why you are here. That's usual. I'm going to answer your questions so you won't be bugging everyone you see. To put it simply, you have been chosen for the military. Although I doubt you are going to be very useful, there are no other uses for you in the world. You see, you are not like other children. You will never fit in, and society will never accept you. Your family thinks you've been run over by a car. They've moved away and you'll never see them again, tsk-tsk. So, this is your home now, McClellan. Make yourself comfortable, if you can. You will be trained along with the others to fight for your prestigious, glorious, perfect country. And be warned, little girl; do not misbehave, or there will be consequences. Real consequences. That no one can save you from."

Clarisse flinched.

"Now, head on with the others," he continued with a grin. "Line up and they will keep count of each of you. You must follow all instructions hastily, obediently, and passionately. And absolutely NO attempting to escape, or you will be a fugitive of the infamous Mechanical Hound. I assure you; death is chosen for those who disobey." The officer escorted Clarisse out of the room and along with the other people. "See you on the other side, McClellan," the man called as the door shut behind us. I faintly heard an awful, wicked laugh.