Atavism

2 - RN2142

Grey light bleeds through my window, and I sleepily flutter my eyes open. I check my wristband. It's 6:25, exactly five minutes before the community alarm will ring. Being woken up by its loud, angry blaring is like a tornado whipping through my immaculate organization of thoughts, entangling them. Due to that, I eventually learned to wake up before it. I sit up in my bed, putting my bare feet on the cold tile floor, and stretch. With my mind clearer than it was about ten seconds ago, I stand up and grab the brush on my stand, running it through my long, straight, red hair, the only glimpse I have of colour in this bleak atmosphere known as morning.

My wristband senses that I have awoken and thus the program too begins to rouse. Of course, it was never asleep to begin with, but it powers on and off in sync with my circadian rhythm.

My closet automatically unfolds, revealing a slate-coloured sea of uniforms hung up and ironed, each with a shiny tag inscripted with "RN2142"—— my code—— printed in neat letters on it. I select the one closest to me, but it doesn't matter which one I choose as they are all the same. The alarm sounds just as I finish putting on my outfit and I wince at its deafening blast chasing my thoughts away.

I pull apart the curtain separating the bedroom from the bathroom and walk in. I yank my hair into a tight ponytail, deftly wrapping the standardised black hairband once, twice, three times around. Using a small amount of my daily water ration I wet my hands and smooth down my flyaways, then I wash my face and brush my teeth. Glancing at myself in the mirror to make sure I look socially acceptable, I grab my packed satchel hanging on a hook, open the door and start towards the food rationing station.

Walking down the hallway, I finally let myself think about what will happen today. My first day. It is customary for exemplary students to start their job a month before they graduate so that the transition will go smoothly. And so that the less-than-ideal people can be eliminated. Okay, true, they never told us that, but anyone with half a brain would figure it out. Inside the elevator, I feel a tug of worry and nerves, something that happens occasionally, especially right before a meal when I'm hungriest, but it is quickly washed away by a cold, collected calm.

The glass doors to the food station slide open automatically as I near. As always, I am one of the first people here. Eating breakfast early ensures that I could arrive at school early, or I guess in this case, work. Besides, being late on the first day on the job displays a careless, unreliable demeanor, which is the opposite of what I want to show.

A labourer with netted brown hair and weary eyes mans the counter. I swiftly stride up and hover my wristband over a small screen set into the counter. A buzz vibrates my wristband and then the number "5" pops onto the screen and the labourer jumps as if startled by it. He then wordlessly takes a stack of five thin biscuits the size of my palm out of one of the boxes on a table behind him and hands them to me with his white-gloved hands. The biscuits provides me with all the nutrients I need until lunch (including hydration-- water is one of the six main nutrients, we learned that in the nutrition unit four years ago) and unlike pills, they are also filling (we learned that in the food production unit). He then dispenses the proper amount of coffee into my beverage flask. I give a courteous nod to thank the labourer and seal my breakfast into my small storage box, tucking it into an inner pocket of my satchel to eat once I reach the transporter station.

As the sun finally makes the decision (a good one, really) to clamber up from the desolate horizon, the last of the night mist scurries away to retreat, waiting for the Earth to once again look away from the giant star. The silence of 7:00 am is comfortable and relaxing, enveloping me in stillness. The transporter will arrive in 5 minutes, which gives me just enough time to finish my sustenance. While munching on my first biscuit, I recall everything I have brought and done to prepare me for my first day. I have made myself look somewhat presentable, though nothing will ever fix that nose. My hair is in the standard ponytail, away from my face, which I have washed. I am wearing clothes (that's always good) specifically, my proper uniform.

And I have worked hard. For the 17 years in which I have been alive, I have worked tirelessly, aiming high for goal after goal and reaching each of them in return. All the tough days and sleepless nights will finally be worth it when I become the assistant to the SOR, or Secretary of Research.

I end my wandering around the building and head towards the transporting station. I reach it just as the transporter arrives. Did I mention that timing was important to avoiding tardiness? The sleek metal doors of the transporter slide soundlessly open, revealing its elegant, austere interior. Once I enter I cautiously glance around, careful to avoid eye contact, and note that there are five other individuals sitting in the seats. These others consist of three brunettes, one blonde and one with black hair, three males and two females, all about my age. They are probably other 2142s, on their first day of work as well. I choose the seat behind the black-haired male, careful to avoid eye contact, which is the social norm. I lean back, feeling the cool metal against my back through the thin cotton and polyester of my uniform, and mentally prepare myself for the day I have up ahead.