I glance down uneasily at the fresh, painful tattoo on my arm. It wasn't even a good design, like Eva got. It's a simple "X". Just another thing that marks me as unfit. It's like a black hole, sucking all the happiness out of life. With emphasis on black. This tattoo will forever remind me that I am poor, typical, and drab. The black tattoo separates me from the Greenies. Eva had an amazing design. Her skin has been given a green butterfly. It was so beautiful, based on the two seconds I saw it before she gleefully skipped away to join the New Greenies, not even a wave goodbye to her "best friend forever".I stand up from my cot in my closet of a dorm. I slip on my tattered and old boots. "Time to go to work." I say while rolling my eyes. I slip on my sheet of a jacket and head out the door. I didn't bother to brush my hair, as it will get messed up harvesting cotton at the fields. At least, this is what I am told by an experienced Blackie. I slide outside my cramped room and into the hallway. I now live in a "boarding school." I'm here with Blackies from the ages of 16 to 20. There's many other closet-sized rooms on my long hallway. Other Blackies are also evacuating their rooms. Sleepily, and reluctantly, I can tell. I trudge into the elevator. I check my tattoo. 7 o'clock. Yes, my tattoo can tell time, send messages, be a calendar, a communication device, and worse, a tracker. Yes, everyone's tattoo's have trackers. Even the Greenies. So The Watchers have tabs on us, all the time. The tattoos send our emotions, thoughts, position, and anything we come into contact with to The Watchers. I shake my head as I press the button to go the the first floor. The Watchers just gotta message: Adelia Mason pressed the elevator button, 1st floor. 7:02 am. They know where we are. Always. The elevator pings and I know I'm in the main hall. There's a small breakfast station set up, and I decide to take a look. I grab a bagel and I'm about to head out the door when I see her.
It's Eva.
