Specificity At It's Finest.

V O Y A G E

I decide to take the pod home after sending my application. Portia will be ecstatic I finally submitted that wretched thing. She doesn't care for me very much, maybe because I'm not her actual daughter or something like that, but she does believe in me. She knows I'm smart, or thinks so, anyway. 

The pod sighs into the station, and I step inside the hovering bubble of transportation, taking a seat near the back. The sky is bright but still holds lingering clouds. They seem as if they're holding on as tight as they can to the rays of sunlight, barely balancing on the invisible threads of wind. 

The ride home is uneventful. There are only about three other people on the pod with me, and they don't seem too interested in talking to me, which is fine with me. Looking out the window, or walls, I see other pods carrying other people to other places. For a second, I let myself imagine being there, in that pod right there, with all of those happy people. And maybe I'd be happy, too.

The pod again eases into the station, and the sky disappears, as the station is underground. The doors slide open silently, and I step out of the pod onto the smooth pavement. A small male youth, around the age of 3 or 4, looks up at me, sucking on his thumb, wonder in his eyes. His eyes are such a dark blue they almost seem purple. I smile down at him, but he just keeps staring at me. His other hand is holding his mother's. That hand tugs him toward the pod I just got off of, and he follows along behind her, holding my gaze all the same. 

Walking up the stairs out of the station, I rub my hands on my arms, trying to convey some warmth. It's pretty cool outside; the temperature must've dropped while I was in the pod. I remember my hands being warm when they were orange, red and yellow. And the way they seemed to reflect my anger. 

That must be it, then. Does it make sense? No. Does it obey the laws of physics they teach us in school? Not at all. Is it scientifically possible? Not in the slightest. So why was this happening to me?

I hop over the fence into my backyard and see Dad and Portia talking in the patio. Walking on the balls of my feet, I silently slip into the house, sliding open the patio door. To my dismay, it opens with an eerie squeeeak. 

I flip around, facing my parent and step-parent. They both stare at me, solemn looks on their faces, which is odd, considering their normally a pretty happy couple. I cautiously step out of the house and walk towards them. "Hey, guys. What's wrong?"

"Your father has lost his job," Portia says. She rubs her arms as if she's cold or something. Dad runs his hand through his hair, sighing. Portia doesn't work - she was never assigned, as her parents always provided for her. Dad works, and he had a great job, too. His job covered the expenses of Portia, him, and I. Why this is such a big deal, I cannot determine.

"That's fine, right?" I say, trying to hide the uncertainty in my voice. "Won't the Sector Capital just assign you a new job?" That's normally what happened, anyway. When (and if ) someone was let go, the Sector Capital, knowing that they have families to provide for, usually assign them a new job relatively quickly. 

"No, not this time, sweetheart," Dad says. I can see the stress of the situation taking a toll on him. Lines crease his forehead, and small gray hair have been starting to appear more often on his full head of hair. He seems more tired these days.

"I don't understand - why not?" I reply. I almost feel angry. Why wouldn't the Sector Capital take care of us? They take care of everyone. They always have - so why wouldn't they now? 

"Blaise, what your father is meaning to say is that your father has been retired. He no longer is allowed to work and hold a job, based on his physical condition," Portia answers. Dad grimaces as if that statement caused him pain. My eyes dart back and forth in between them - what's going on?

"Physical condition? Is there something I don't know?" I say, feeling my hands grow warm. "Dad?"

He looks at me, concern in his eyes, worry evident on his face. "Blaise, you've always known how I get a little too tired a little too quick, right?" He walks over to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "My family line has had a history of heart conditions. I do, too, which is no surprise," he pauses for a breath. "but they have told me that because of this, they don't want to risk anything happening, so they have retired me."

"But that's not right!" I say, my voice rising in volume and pitch. "You can work from home, you can do other things. Don't they understand that you have a family to provide for?" 

Portia's eyes grow wide, and she raises her hands in the air as if that will stop anything more to come out of my mouth. No, we're not constantly monitored by a camera, and no, they're not microphones everywhere listening to everything we say, but someone could be passing by and hear. An official, a neighbor, a very patriotic citizen - anyone. And anyone could report me to the authorities. 

They say that several hundreds of years ago, much before our country was created, there was a nation - it was called America - and it was governed by two major documents. One of the documents contained a list of rights that all of the people in the country had - no matter what. One of the rights concerned the citizens' right to free speech. They could say whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted (within reason) and they wouldn't be persecuted or arrested for it. Here, in the great country of Obasene, we don't exactly have someone watching us at all times - but if someone hears you talking badly about the wonderful government we have, you could be in serious trouble.

"Yes, honey," Dad says. "I'm sure they understand. I think that they will help provide, maybe by helping us out with the expenses and things like that. But for now, I am not to work at all."

By now, my hands feel quite literally as if they are on fire. I look down at them, and their blaring red color with splotches of orange and yellow. I move them behind my back so Portia and Dad won't see. I don't need to be the cause of another trouble in their lives.

"Alright, then. I understand," I say, backing away slowly. "But please don't expect me to take this lightly, or to just accept it. This isn't okay." I pause, searching both of my parents' (well, parent and step-parent) faces. They just seem tired. And worried. Always worried.

"You know that, don't you?"