eunioa

ONE

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Florence's fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, the screen before her glowing with the stark images of her latest task—propaganda. The poster designs were simple, calculated—just like everything else in this place. The hum of machines filled the silence as she adjusted the colors, making sure everything was perfect. She didn't need to think about it; it was second nature now. The hue of rusty red, bold black font—subtly straining but so familiar, intimidating yet almost comforting, at least to Florence.

Florence had worked for WCKD ever since she could remember. There were vague memories that would come and go, where she could recall being in a group with some other young children, but that was a long time ago.

When Florence was about seven—or at least, she thought she was—she was tasked with designing posters. As a child, she found the job incredibly mundane and monotonous, but the at least the dullness was constant. It meant she was safe. She had a creative mind, one that no one else could seem to tap into, and they needed someone to bring their words to life. 'To remind everyone of the rules' , she was told. Now, they required posters to plaster the walls of their cities with, to maintain the calm and give the people a sense of normalcy, to keep them protected.

Now, it seemed her entire life was spent sitting at a desk. The chair she was given was unbearably uncomfortable—a black plastic that clung to her back in the summer and nearly froze her in the winter. Her eyes were fitted with permanent contact lenses to shield them from the constant blue light she was exposed to. Although they said it wouldn't hurt, the procedure had been painful, and it distressed her to design for weeks afterward.

Florence's desk sat in the far corner of a sterile, dimly lit office, tucked between two larger, more established workstations. The walls around her were a muted grey, lined with cubicles and buzzing fluorescent lights. The air smelled faintly of stale paper and faint antiseptic. Her desk, cluttered with half-finished designs and scattered reference sheets, was the smallest in the room.

Though she wasn't the only designer, she was the youngest—often assigned the simpler tasks, the ones that didn't require the same level of experience. This incredibly annoyed Florence, especially since she had been one of the longest-working designers in the block. The others, older and more 'seasoned,' worked quietly at their own stations, their designs plain and muted. She, however, had a knack for making her work stand out, and though she was often overlooked, her creations were the ones that captured the most attention—if only for a brief moment. That was something that gave her comfort, knowing her efforts weren't in vain. She was making a difference. That helped her sleep at night.

Occasionally, a supervisor would pass by her desk, casting a brief glance at her work. Their eyes lingered just long enough for Florence to know she was doing what she was meant to do, even if it was only a fleeting acknowledgment. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep her going—at least for now. Deep down, Florence craved praise, a constant hunger for validation that she could never seem to satisfy. She wanted to be seen, to have her efforts recognized, even if only for a moment. The silence that followed each glimpse from a supervisor always left her feeling restless, as if she needed to do more—more than just a passing look to prove she was worthy.

WCKD had become a part of Florence in a way she didn't like to admit. At sixteen, she was still young enough to look at things with the eyes of someone who wanted to believe in them, but old enough to know that sometimes, the truth had to be stretched. It wasn't perfect, no, not by any means—but it was necessary, wasn't it? Day after day she convinced herself that the cold atmosphere was just part of the bigger picture, that it was all for a reason, a purpose. It wasn't like the dark, grey walls were meant to suffocate; they were just efficient. They weren't trying to shut out warmth—they were keeping things in line, organizing the chaos. To protect everyone from the flare. Disturbances can't be tolerated when peoples lives are on the line.

The fluorescent lights above, though harsh, weren't there to drain energy—they were there to illuminate the work. Sure, the humming never seemed to stop, and the steady clicking of shoes tapping the polished floors were like the rhythm of a heartbeat, cold and relentless. But Florence told herself it was all part of maintaining order. It had to be. The people here, they weren't cold—they just didn't have the time for distractions. It was all about the mission, and she had learned to respect that.

Still, when she glanced at the others, seeing their eyes just as tired, their faces just as blank, she couldn't deny how... strange it all felt. Everything here was done with precision, like pieces of a puzzle, and Florence was the one who was meant to fit. She was meant to be here. It was the only place she could belong.

WCKD was cold, yes. Bland, yes. But wasn't there a beauty in the efficiency? Didn't the monotony of it all prove that there was something grander, something greater that needed to be done? Her mind told her she had to believe it—if she didn't, if she allowed herself to admit the flaws, she'd fall apart just like the scorch, outside of the city. So, she pushed aside the unease and told herself that this was where she was meant to be. Even if, deep down, something still felt wrong.

The posters, the designs—everything was just a job. But there were times, like now, when the unease crept in, when the meaning behind the work felt like it was just beyond her grasp.

She pushed it aside. The work had to be done.

Florence was a mix of contradictions. She was calm, logical, and meticulous when it came to her work, but underneath that, there was this restless energy that never seemed to stop. Named in honour of Florence Nightingale, she was supposed to be a symbol of care, of compassion, but she wasn't sure that was what she was. Instead, she was someone who got by on routine and consistency, a perfect fit for WCKD. She hated feeling like a pawn. Designing posters felt like a job anyone could do, but it gave her a sense of purpose, even if the purpose wasn't exactly something she believed in.

She often caught herself thinking about the past, about some other life that she knew had existed before WCKD, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember any details. Faces were just shapes in her mind, names she couldn't quite grasp, places that felt too distant to reach. But even so, she knew there was something—something beyond the walls of this place that used to be her world. Still, it didn't matter much. WCKD was all she had now. She wasn't even sure if she'd be able to function outside of it, as messed up as that sounded. The idea of leaving—of trying to find whatever it was she had before—felt like it might break her into pieces.

So she stayed. The monotony was familiar, even comforting in its own way. She'd get up, go to work, design another poster, go back to her room. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep her from falling apart. The routine kept her mind distracted, kept her moving forward. And honestly? That was enough for now.