FACELESS

Chapter Three

Ynk sits on his porch, legs tucked underneath his chin as he watches people pass his shoddy, bleak home, which matched all the other shoddy, bleak houses on the block. It's not as busy, this time of the day; work hour for the adults, school hour for those whose parents can afford it. Doesn't matter where you're going, just that you are, as the Order has a strict schedule to keep and you have to keep to it. Ynk's just glad today's his birthday, giving him an excuse not to go to school, separating from the crowd—but even that's set to change, sooner rather than later.

People walk with identical strides, covered in filth and wearing nothing but their plain, boring clothes, barely saying a word to one another as they make their way to their destinations. There are no cars—vile pollutants, and Ynk's glad they were done away with a long time ago—so everyone walks, or bikes, or takes the subway, though that's a rarity nowadays.

Nobody meets his stares, too focused on themselves to pay a silly little boy any mind. Except a man from across the street, as he can see an official-looking man staring at him with a content, emotionless stare. An officer, no doubt, judging by his suit.

Jeez, someone needs to mind their own business, he thinks, frowning. Ynk drops his gaze, glaring holes into the white, shining mask sitting beside him. When he glances up again, the officer's eyes have trailed away, studying the busy streets and faceless individuals going about their day.

Ynk finds himself staring as well, noting the identical masks making up the morning crowd, tightening his hold on the one lying next to him. His heart pounds in his chest.

They all act the same, he notes. Like a bunch of soldiers marching into battle...

Not that he'd know much on the subject, having only learned about war in school. An ugly topic—though, thankfully, the Order did away with that as they did with greed, corruption, and other selfish pleasures past generations had failed to destroy.

Still, the thought makes him shudder, and he turns away. Out of habit now, he stares at his Face. Its eyes are the first to catch his attention, daring him to pick it up and try it on. Or, perhaps, to smash it, get rid of it before he has to endure its pitiful excuse for beauty and uniqueness—

He shakes his head, stop thinking that way—it's just some dumb mask! No need to get so freaked out over it.

He traces a finger along the edge, bringing it up to eye level to look at it.

He's still surprised how different his mask is to the other masks he's seen the past twelve years of his life, once again drawn to delicate swirls and circles drawn on its surface, painted on by some unknown artist who must've been feeling particularly brave while making Ynk's mask. It's so rare, he's sure, for a Face to have decorations on it, as it's frowned upon to try and be different from your peers. After all, a Face is built to match its owner's brainwaves—but it's blank-slate expression makes everyone equal.

Holding his Face in his hands, noticing how pale and shaky his fingers are, Ynk wonders what's wrong with him. He thought he'd be prepare for this day—that he'd be excited, accepting, and welcoming to it. He had been, in fact, and had been thrilled to become an adult like every other child his age (no, adult—no twelve-year-old was regarded to as a mere "child," there was certainly a distinction there. There would be no other reason for them to be welcomed in the community as workers, volunteers, helpers. They were so much more than just "children").

But the sight of his Face—staring through those gaping, soulless holes for eyes that are lined with colorful lines and artistic detail—does nothing but make his stomach churn.