Paragon

Chapter 2

A mirror looks back at me. It screams the only word that can describe itself and the person in front of it.

Broken.

It's completely shattered, scribbled with lines and cracks. However the pieces remain intact inside its frame. Despite its wrecked fragments, it's still doing its purpose. If I can still see my myself, then the mirror is still useful. That concept is the only thing that can lift me up when I feel like I'm useless or unworthy. Something that keeps me collected whenever I feel bad for being different from the others.

I inch forward and watch my flawed reflection. My jawline isn't that sharp unlike those models in the magazines. Skin is scarred, and lips are chapped. Even my eyes have nothing special in them, just pure black of unhappiness. I'm trying my best not to be insecure, but I can't simply avert my attention. My flaws are right there, displayed in plain sight. How can I not notice it?

I grimace in distaste as my eyes trail down at the sight of my neck.

What's hidden behind this scarf is something that no one should ever see but someone did. Shaquera saw it with her own eyes. That's enough to, once again, raise my guard around the city. It's a reminder to be more cautious next time.

A sudden knock on the door sends me jolting back from the mirror. The continuous banging grows louder and louder.

"Hello? Is anyone in there?" the thin, feminine voice says. Could be the lady who lives next to my house.

"Yes?"

"There is an execution going on. Everybody's presence is required."

I raise a brow, "Okay, I'm on my way!"

An execution? This early?

There's not much time to dress properly so I choose to slip on a stained white turtleneck to fully cover the entire scope of my neck. This will conceal every trace of it from the people and the swarm of security drones hovering above our heads. Paired with the nearest trousers and shoes, I quickly walk out of my tiny house and join the flow of the bustling crowd.

Upon reaching the place, murmurs have already circulated in the air. The execution is about to start but the swamp of people is nothing but a hindrance to my view. So I weave and plow, pushing my way through the crowd until I find a good spot near the wooden elevated platform—where the execution will take place. If I counted it right, there are six men standing on the scaffold, judging by their massive frame. The outlines of their rippled muscles stand prominent on their tight tuxedos which, if I’ve heard it right, are completely bulletproof.

"Dear townsmen of Scarville, we are sorry to interrupt your morning," says by the red-haired, middle-aged man in white suit. He’s an Official. That's what we call to anyone who works in the higher positions of the Bureau. The pod in his hands can attest to that.

A pod is a rectangular device manufactured to look like a thin piece of toughened glass. Much more handy and durable than the other communication devices. It’s made using the rarest type of materials which explains why the higher ranking officials are the only ones who have a direct access to the product.

"To start it off, I am here to announce that earlier this morning, someone had been caught committing an act of defiance. An old man attempted to illegally bypass the borders," he stops to take a deep breath, his eyes clocking the words written on his pod. "Therefore, we demand that his death shall commence immediately."

After his introductory address, he moves over the edge of the platform to give space for the enactment of the punishment. The moment they bring in the unfortunate person, I feel my insides boil with rage. I can't stifle the hatred that I have for the Officials. I despise their presence. I think clenching my fists can at least reduce the anger that courses in my veins but no, it doesn't. It only ignites the already burning detestation in me.

The one that they're going to kill? It's the beggar from earlier. They're taking the life of the same old man who I always encounter in the streets. He has cuffs on his wrists, kneeling on the scaffold with his head hanging low.

This is so ruthless. These guys have no mercy, not even a bit.

"I, Thomas Roy, hereby declare in my word of honour that you shall be condemned to die by a jury of your peers!”

I clamp my teeth at him, infuriated.

I can't help it. He is the Overseer of Scarville. He runs the town and creates the rules around here. I think they call it Mayor back in the days. It makes me wonder for a bit if the leaders had always been selfish and corrupt. I wonder if they, in any way, always acted like this because if they did, the world was always clearly messed up.

"Is there a statement you'd like to say before the execution is carried out?" Thomas asks. .

The old man remains silent. He's still looking down, hopeless. The crowd has kept their mouth shut as they voraciously wait for the beggar to utter a word but to no avail. Instead, a sonorous outcry rings in the air.

"No, please! Don't take him away!" A little girl weeps, racing up to the wooden platform. She kneels beside the old man with tears in her eyes.

"Please, don't kill him. He's the only family that I have!"

"Rules are rules, sweetie." Thomas whispers in a soft but menacing tone. "Now, come with me. You're not supposed to be up here."

Thomas tries to pinion the little girl away from the old man but the kid yanks her arm from his grip. The sudden action has clearly insulted the Official, causing him to impulsively pull a gun from a nearby guard and shoots the little girl on her left leg. Like a sac, she hits the platform with a thud, vermilion blood painting the floor.

"Hey!" the crowd yells in unison, then the riot begins.

The people of Scarville engage in a public disorder like never before. The place starts to get showered by a clamor of rants and curses as they pull Thomas down from the stage. As though a pack of wolves, everyone pounces on him with no hesitation.

Bloodlust.

It slithers inside their heads. It claws the enclosed walls of their skulls. Then it growls. Hissing. Snarling. Overfed with platters of injustice. Determined to make a difference.

The guards, although unarguably outnumbered, manage to take all the punches and kicks from the crowd. They quickly realize that using their weapon will be of no use. Instead, they willingly sacrifice themselves to be a human shield just to protect the well-being of their beloved overseer. People are ramming them back to impede their assistance but they remain on their position, determined to block all incoming assaults. Everything is jumbled in chaos and I live for it. I swiftly run towards Thomas and plunge myself into the mass of people, adding my own set of iron fists to the collection.

"Sto... Stop..." Thomas mutters with his hands in the air. Crimson liquid starts to gush out from his nose in thick streams. The blood envelops his cheeks.

Then a gunshot.

The sound of it ceases the overgrown havoc in a blink of an eye.

"Stand down! Stand down or be killed!" two new unit of guards, armed with heavy rifles, have successfully halted the tumult. While the noise gradually subsides, the others are using this opportunity to pull out their guns as well.

Thomas is now being assisted to the scaffold to continue where they left off, his once pristine perfect suit almost got ripped in shreds. He's been injured. Just mild, not too severe. Too bad. If the guards haven’t interfered with us, he’ll be dead already. Just like how we want it.
"You filthy chattels! You know that I don't tolerate disorder, right? Especially not on my watch!" he spits through his blood-stained pearly white teeth.

"Would you like to exterminate them all, Mr. Thomas?" a guard raises his rifle in the air, cocks it up and aims it down at us.

"Oh no, I'd be in trouble if I were to wipe them off the map. Better to contact the Bureau."

Thomas, with his nose still bleeding, paces back and fourth on the platform in search for something. He makes his way down the scaffold and eventually locates the thing that he's looking for. He furiously grabs it from the ground and throws a lion's glare at us.

"Look what you've done! My pod is now broken, thanks to all of you!”

The pod's screen has been smashed to smithereens. Not a single part of it is usable as it used to. It's now a futile piece of trash, exactly like how he sees us.

"Administer the execution straightaway. I don't want no delays," he commands. "Bring the little girl here as well. If she wants to be with her grandpa, let her be. Let them be together 'till death. Anyone who dares to oppose me will be joining them."

It's not a surprise that the guards have managed to haul the little girl and cuff her beside the old man. She's been pleading them to stop restraining her but her endless weeping deems to be inaudible to them. The tension between Thomas and the citizens of Scarville is inflaming through the air, the smell of their indignation wafts across the whole place.

We want to resist.

We must defy their rules.

We need them to hear our ire-filled uproar.

But we can't. We shouldn't.

It's their lives for our lives. All we can do is watch them in distress while being compelled to wear the gas mask that will bring them to their very end. The gas mask has been the primary way of executing criminals. They always use it for execution. Tubes are placed in its corresponding spots to connect the leather mask and the small gas tanks behind them. Instead of protecting them from the noxious gas, it serves as a protection from all of us. They feed them with poisonous air to cater their insatiable hunger for oxygen.

"This is what happens if you ignore to abide by the rules." As soon as Thomas announces his favorite catch-phrase, thick puffs of green smoke crawl into the tube, and soon, inside their lungs.

The virulent gas starts to cloud the glass of their eyeholes, completely suffocating them in the process. The old man writhes in pain as he tries to pull it off of his face. The little girl does the same, her muffled voice still entreating to be forgiven. Her blood spills out even faster, smearing the liquid on the platform as she starts to suffer a violent seizure.

What a gruesome scene to behold. 

I close my eyes and wait for it to end. With countless executions every week, I can day that I’m used to seeing deaths but every time it happens, it always pierces my heart. It breaks my heart. Upon opening my eyes, their oxygen has been entirely stripped away from them. They are now nothing but cold carcasses sleeping gently around a cram of eyes.

"Poor people will, and should, always remain at the bottom. Remember that." From there, the guards detach the tubes from the mask and carry the gas tanks to their private vehicle. Next thing I know, they have already departed from the area, leaving the dead bodies for us to clean up. The crowd remains appalled. Silent and stationary.

Remorse seeps through our eyes.

Agony stabs everybody from behind their backs.

And resentment is, indeed, flourishing within us.

I feel so sorry for them. Believe me, I do. I feel so sorry for using their death to my advantage, but I know I have to. It's the only opportunity that I can get.

Amidst the pandemonium, while they’re all busy trying to attack the overseer, I’ve successfully stolen his real and functional pod. I know risking my life will be worth it. I’ve doubted my plan at first, not sure if I can execute it properly. Turns out, I can. I'm the best thief in town after all.

Well, I better move now. There's still a job for me to finish.