The sunlight pulled shadows by their heads - lined up like troops in training. The shadows met at the feet of the Knight - dressed in a white, militaristic uniform. The troops- ahem, citizens of this 5 o'clock gathering kept their brows stern and their lips firm.
It was silent - a cool breeze lingered amongst their necks and beneath their hats. The sunlight was warm against their backs; their black uniforms absorbing the heat, but not to give that to their faces.
A man, skinny and average in height, stared blankly into the space in front of him. His hair was blonde - almost white - cut into a bob. He is an office worker, who does his work. The office became as quiet as it was out there - he would think to himself, but he's taught himself not to think with words. His name, from all that he knows, is Vincent Desrosiers.
A small but butch woman strained her neck - her veins popping. Vincent peered at her from the corner of his grey ocean eyes - and, as everyone knew, her light was turning red. He couldn't see it, because he was standing on her right and the light was on her left, but he knew because her popping veins started to pulse with a white fire.
She fell to the ground - spasming and screaming in horrendous pain - Vincent saw her red light flashing faster and faster as her fingertips exploded. Vincent watched this, but hadn't moved his head. Tears built up and swelled his eyes; his thin lips trembling in fear. The ambulance came, and took her away. A man moved up from behind and took her spot - and a single slam of steps in unisen followed.
"May that be a lesson," a monotonous robotic voice said, coming from the Knight with his lips unmoved, "No one thinks treason. We can hear you."
"Yessir." more identical robotic voices sang, no lips parted. Everyone marched off in their lines.
How does one write with no thoughts? I don't know. If you can't read this, it's because I'm looking away. But the new king is terrible - I cannot express myself anymore. If I die, then let this be a lesson. A lesson to the damned king for diminishing his kingdom's population for having an opinion. It's only been a week - and already 10% of the population has died.
The parchment rested upon the long meeting table. Vincent's boss, Michael, exhaled through his nose.
"Marc was a good worker. But expressions like these result in... well, you know." assumingly Micheal's 'voice' said.
The parchment, which was just ordinary A4 paper, had five bloody spots at the dot after 'died'. The writing curved down the page after each sentence, the letters getting more crooked each word. It happened 2 years ago now.
Vincent looked around - everyone's uniforms stunk of body odor - and he could see it. The blackness of their uniforms couldn't even hide the yellow leakages from their pits. Everyone exchanged eye contact of somewhat guilt - everyone felt... ashamed, of some sort of description.
Their lights faded to orange, but then back to green.
Once upon a time, the only comfort Vincent could find was home. Vincent lived in an apartment - a good looking one. He didn't have to complain about his neighbours above him anymore, though that unsettling silence kept him awake more than they did before. The only sounds that sent him to sleep now was the sound of cups being gently placed upon their coffee table. Their robotic voices were heard sometimes, but the most common words he heard were; "I miss you."
He unlocked the door and made a bee-line to his bathroom, where he removed his uniform and got into the shower. The warm water upon his skin was like a hug - something he desired a lot. His right shoulder was broad, but not 'masculine', it was smooth like a baby's skin. He didn't have much muscle, just enough fat to hide his bones. That wasn't to say his collar bones weren't contoured.
His left shoulder, on the other hand, wasn't as smooth as his right. It looked identical until it reached the centre; of where a rectangular-prism shape bulged beneath his throbbing red skin. The skin at the top was purple shiny and tough. Through that skin, was his light. A green light. It was bright, too. It shone through his uniform; through everyone's identical uniforms. People only looked if it was orange or red. If there is no light, then it was red.
Vincent was one not to have had a proper romance before - he was always scared, due to seeing his parents. He is the only person since he was young to dress himself - to be kissed or touched. He, more recently, has had wonders. The same wonders and curiosities as though he was an adolescent - he really does try to keep them not even to himself, for the King will hear of them, or perhaps he'd actually think aloud.
That was, when the voice boxes were new. He no longer thinks that way,
It's probably best this way.
At midnight, the TV light glowed on Vincent's face. The only thing ever on TV was about the king, or the damned man who started all this - Dr. P.F Belshazzar. A scientist valued by the king more than the Jesters - more than even the Knights. Belshazzar was the only person in the whole of South Falco to not wear a uniform - but rather, a badge to symbolise his importance. He normally wore a long, undone lab coat with a variety of turtlenecks and jeans. He only had one pair of boots, Vincent had noticed. He also had long hair like waves of brown silk - falling over his broad shoulders like waterfalls untouched.
Tonight, was a commemoration of the voice box law. 2 years ago - the TV said - was when Dr. P.F Belshazzar activated the voice boxes.
A man walked up a blue carpet, holding a box encased with velvet. He opened it and held it toward the king - he was tall, and somewhat skinny, but better built than Vincent. He had white hair and dark blue militaristic clothing lined with gold. He took the badge from the box, of which was zoomed in on. It was a golden structure of a humanoid with robotic wings for arms. It was pinned over the heart of the doctor, who smiled proudly. It was... a beautiful smile. Young and alined, with dimples so delightful.
Vincent, in harsh restraint, turned the TV off.
