You are Generic

Chapter One

      I was raised to be generic. Born that way. But on the third day of the second quarter I'm starting to think that's not who I really am. I diagnose the things computers can't see. The moods they don't understand just yet. Usually it's to help sell things,but sometimes you glimpse that person in that reflective surface who seems a little bit like you.

"Very good," Dr. Shoot says

.

I didn't notice her behind me.

She reminds me of a grandmother. I don't have one, anymore, but I've read about them in books. "Onto the next one."

After Doctor  walks away I fall into a daze until Kenneth hits me on the shoulder, Rita and Adelaide bouncing next to him.

"Addison," he says, sniffing a little and pushing his hair behind his ears. "Do you want to go look at it again?"

"I'm supposed to work. I have thirteen cases to diagnose before break four."

Rita grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on daydreamer, let's go."

I start to follow them, Adelaide chattering the entire time. That might be her greatest skill.

I guess it's something about people from her district.

"So I was screening this guy, who was totally non-operator. Very aggressive. And he started hitting a vending machine and I realized I knew him when I was five before they made me an operator." Adelaide says her hands moving as if they had a mind of their own. "He ate a lot of glue."

She'd keep going but we stop. Standing in front of us, we see it. A funny drawing scrawled on the wall.

It says Kilroy was here. And underneath that there was another word.

"Vox?" Kenneth asks, his voice catching on the x.

Rita laughs. "Is that even how you say it? It could be Vos."

"I know what it means." I say. "Voice."

"Voice, I tell the group again. The one thing that can never be generic."

We stare at the loops and twirls in silence for awhile. I can't bring myself to look away. Such a simple sprawling of lines and a hastily written message somehow had brought up a warming, soothing feeling inside me. Then another feeling took over, one of worry and fear. "We should leave."

"Why? It's not like they could punish us for just looking at it." Rita exclaims. She runs a finger along the wall a splash of red clinging to her from the half-dried paint. She pulls it away and admires it as It glows under the fluorescence.

Kenneth is more cautious than Rita as he traces over the letters in the air, hovering an each over the wall.

"Why would someone do this?" He asks as he finishes crossing the x.

"If you could wouldn't you?" Rita asks.

"I'm not sure. It's so un-generic." Kenneth says, a frown now etched into his brow.

"Creative." I breathe out. "It's creative. I think the word is Art."

"Art?" Adelaide asks. "This is art? If it is then we should-"

Without a word we scatter. We realize what it is that we had been so curious about. It pulled us away from our work. Rita touched it with her bare hands unable to resist it's tempting vibrant ruby-red color. We had been mesmerized by something so illegal that only few knew of what it truly was.

When I sit myself down at my computer I try to focus on the case I had left when I was pulled away. It involved some thick white lines smeared onto the pavement in the hub of district two. Two white jagged streaks cutting threw what I assumed to be a fresh coat of paint. From the pictures I had been sent I could tell it was just a simple mistake, nothing of importance, nothing worth investigating. I notify the agent that had sent me the pictures and immediately receive a message back.

"Thanks -Henry" It read.

It must have been someone on a bicycle, recklessly ignoring the fresh paint signs that had adorned the street half a block away.

I can only assume Henry knew it was an accident but even the little things had to be reported, especially when it comes to paint or any other "illicit material".

Whatever had made the "art" on the wall of my office was made of paint. Red Paint. White paint was a common occurrence, the lines on the road, the color of walls, heck even our uniforms are the purest of white, but red was another thing entirely. Only a few things still retain the color red, all of them natural things, things that couldn't be changed by man. Most everything was changed now. Changed from how it used to be or so I can only guess. I was born into this. I've seen nothing but the blankness of white and the darkness of black, in the unnatural things. 

My next case is even more simple than the first. It's just a simple typo, An I instead of an E. The message was to be sent out later tonight, reminding everyone in district two about the destruction of the Portham building.  

"Ready for lunch?" Rita asks. Her lunch bag crinkles in her grasp. 

I nod closing out my computer. 

The five of us group around our normal table in the offices lunch room. 

"Did you notice that they have already gotten rid of it?" Asks Kenneth munching on a mushy lettuce wrap. 

I shake my head. 

"I watched them paint over it while I was working. Four quick brushes and it was gone." Kenneth said. 

I bit my