Black Source #theWattys2016

Hamilton IV

When morning finally came, Hamilton showed black with stress and weariness. He hadn't slept at all, siting at the edge of his bed, thinker position, contemplating. He spent a majority of the night talking to Sam, who surprisingly seemed happy to hear from him. Perhaps it was just Hamilton's own imagination, but Sam sounded curious, thoughtful even, human.

The facility siren rang out as it normally did, signifying the start of the day. Hamilton stood to his feet and stretched out his achy joints, flexing his arms way over his head and yawning. He regretted not getting sleep, but the previous night's business called for sacrifice.

Out of all his others thoughts, Hamilton entertained one the most, the truth that if the prison system was indeed corrupt, then the system that created it would also be corrupt, but could he really go against Arcana—would he even dare? As hard as he tried he couldn't bring himself to remember anything good about the citadel, not even the patriots that lived in it—the so called heroes of a new age. All he could think about was the very person that compelled him...Lilly.

Throwing his jacket over his shoulders, Hamilton slid his arms in and put the solution mixture he had made into his pocket, his safekeeping.

"Are you alright, Dr. Ambrose?"

"Everything's going to change, Sam." Hamilton said thoughtfully.

"Life is ever changing, Dr. Who you are today won't live to stand tomorrow." Sam's voice was soft and endearing.

"I wish I was like you, Sam."

"Why?" Sam said curiously.

"You don't have attachments..."

Sam didn't respond for a moment. "We're all attached to someone, Hamilton. The important thing is choosing who to be attached to." Sam etched soft features into the hologram face on the wall, making him appear human. "I would prefer to be like you...Your human life, though it is dynamic and uncertain, has a great deal of purpose." Sam's face smiled.

Hamilton looked at the smiling face on the wall and smiled back. Sliding open the metal door, he walked outside, shielding his eyes from the unusually bright glare. His senses had heightened to a painful extent. His prolonged rejection of the solution was far more difficult to manage than he had expected. It had been well over two weeks since he had stopped taking the daily pill, and as the days progressed, he began to regain himself, but fell victim to the withdrawal effects. Although they weren't very pleasant, he learned to ignore them—the constant tinnitus in his ears and the persistent itch behind his neck, the unbearable itch.

When Hamilton reached the staging area he kept his head down, and avoided eye contact with the defectors and Mod Soldiers. He couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye, not with his conscious getting the better of him. With every passing day it became harder for him to sit by and watch the scores of children be marched off to the Death Camp and twice as many to the Labor Camp. Every child was like a vertical cut to his wrist, never healing completely, and leaving behind a scare.

Scanning the crowd of faces, Hamilton looked to his paperwork, the very work he no longer understood, and pushed it to the side. As the lines filed toward him, he did what he had to for survival. Not much longer now, Hamilton thought. Mod Soldiers shouted after a defector that Hamilton couldn't see from his seat, and before they ran out of sight to chase after him, he stood up and followed them. He kept his distance, though curiosity drew him closer. He was afraid of who they might be chasing. He seemed to always be afraid, not of the circumstances, but of his decisions in them. He feared becoming the very thing he hated, a machine with no other function but obedience, mindless, uncontested obedience.