Atavism

1 - VL2141

 The shrill alarm screams in my ear and I yelp, instantly awake. I groan, roll over and off the bed with a thump.

It's another day, I think to myself as I checked my wristband. 5:40. As always. My arms and legs are leaden as if I have bones of cement, and I reach up to rub the soreness from my neck.

Eventually, I manage to drag myself up and half-walk, half-crawl towards my closet, which automatically stretches out from the wall. Choosing the ashy worker uniform closest to me out of a dozen other identical outfits, I put it on. I huff and stumble into the bathroom, looking into the mirror at my hazel eyes and short brown hair.

I think at some point I fell back asleep standing there, because when I blink and check my wristband again, it is 5:52.

Oh no. My check in is at 6:05. If I'm late they will deduct points from my already dwindling accumulation. Again. The cookies I missed yesterday had since thrown me out of the Hundreds and into the Tens. The further my amount plummets, the closer I become to residing on the stark, dreary streets, a rather dull future and one that I certainly do not aspire to have.

I bite back a sigh as I brush my teeth and wash my face at record speed, and decide to skip brushing my hair since it'll be put back in a net anyways. I'm going to have to work harder today. As well as every single day after today. I take my satchel off its hook at a force just short of ripping the hook off, and fly out the door and to the elevator. A glance at the red digits made my heart drop. 216. It would take forever for the elevator to get onto my floor. Abandoning the elevators, I turn to the stairs and frantically dash to the bottom, skipping two stairs at a time.

I check my wristband. 5:59. No, no no no no. I can't be late. I refuse to let this happen again. I'm almost to the bottom of the stairwell when my feet slide out from under me and my back hits the stairs. Still, I refuse to stop and further delay my arrival by checking for any injury, so I pick myself up and continue along even faster than before, the icy feeling that I will again lose points settling in my head. Once I reach the bottom of the stairwell I fling open the door, immediately engulfed in a gust of freezing wind in the early hours before dawn, but it doesn't stop me from sprinting as hard as I can towards the transporter station, which is a few hundred meters away from the exit of mine.

The sound of my feet hitting the hard pavement echoes across the courtyard, which is currently devoid of any people. It's 6:01, come on, just a little more until I reach the transporter station, I'm almost there.

With a last burst of speed I round the corner lit by foggy streetlights, rush forward and pass my wristband over the machine my overseer is holding. I let out a breath in relief as it beeps in response. I check my wristband, seeing the digits 6:04 blink once and turn into 6:05, while the transporter glides in, programmed to be exactly on time. Several other labourers glance at me discreetly before looking away while I keep my head bowed.

My overseer, a man with minimal grey hair on his balding head, narrows his eyes at me in a voiceless warning. You nearly didn't make it. He meant. Do better next time.

I sigh inwardly. Do better. Always so much easier said than done. I've wanted to do better my entire life. I try my best all the time, but I always end up making a blunder and for some reason, I just can't do it. I can't do better. I stop thinking that when the familiar cold, calm sensation floods my mind, forcing me to return my focus to the overseer.

He waves for us to enter the transporter, and the silver doors open, exposing columns upon columns of stacked boxes, all full of biscuits, as well as carts folded in the corner. We file in and each haul out a cart, unfold it, and start to unload the biscuits onto it. I pile my ten boxes on, then wheel them to the 2140-2149s building.

The glass doors slip open, and I push the cart through the entryway and into the FRS, or food rationing station. Reaching the counter, I unload the boxes and onto the table before wheeling the cart back into the transporter. Returning to the counter, I take out a net from the cupboard and pull it over my tangled hair, then I tug on a pair of white disposable gloves. I pass my own wristband over the screen, watching the "7" pop up, take out the stack of seven biscuits, and start munching on them, waiting for the first people to arrive.

I quietly serve each person that comes, being careful to not do anything that would be considered wrong and worthy of point deduction. However, after the third consumer, the weight of my monotonous work weighs my eyes down and I drift into a dreamless haze. A buzz jerked me from my half-slumber, and I opened my bleary eyes to see a girl with flaming red hair. She briefly glances at me with a glaring, almost condescending look before averting her gaze. I feel a flash of hostility and rage before it is replaced by the cold feeling in my head, and I hastily check the screen to see the number "5" and hand her breakfast to her, along with her coffee. She gives me a stiff nod, as if she only thanked me because it was expected.

The day drags on and I find my mind constantly wandering to that red-haired girl and her mean eyes. No wondering about things not directly related to your life and work, I reminded myself. It was the fourth of the Ten Unbreakable Rules. I recall them in my mind:

1. No emotions interfering with work

2. No questions

3. No talking with others unless necessary to your work

4. No wondering about things not directly related to your life and work

5. No doing anything that is not specifically allowed

6. No indolence

7. No speculating

8. Follow all orders from your superiors

9. Never take off your wristband

10. Report anyone breaking the rules

If any one of those are found out to be broken, there will be a devastating reduction of points. At last my shift ends, and I yank the net out of my hair. I pile the empty boxes onto the cart and bring them back to the transporter station, where my overseer is waiting impatiently. I tug at my wristband while I wait, remembering the ninth rule. Never take off your wristband. I clench my fist and drop it to my side.

It's for your own good. I remind myself. It's your fault you don't fit into this system.

It's for your own good...