Jorg the Destroyer

Freedom

The street plunged into darkness. Jorg woke up in the misty tranquility of 5am because the neon lights from nearby signs had cut out. The absence of light was what snapped him out of his slumber. He rolled out of bed and stepped across the wooden floor panels. For a moment the city looked eerily beautiful. Tall, magnificent shapes pointed up at the sky. White stars manifested above.

'Report power outage,' he said into his wrist.

No response.

'Of course,' he muttered.

If the power went down, so did his suit. He tried to bring up the internet on his visor and nothing happened. Now he was just a fleshy man trapped in body armour.

What would happen if now he tried to.. Take off the suit?

Lights blasted back on across the city. His mecha suit hummed. The stars disappeared.

'Report power outage, lasted.. I don't know. 2 minutes.' Said jorg.

A voice replied. 'Acknowledged, Jorg.'

'What's going on?' Said jorg. 'This is the second time this week.'

'Report to the ministry at 9am tomorrow,' replied the voice.

'The ministry?' He stammered.

'9am sharp.' 

The call ended.

-

The ministry was a grandiose building made of a marble. It gleamed in the hot summer morning. Jorg flashed his Id card at the security gate and strolled up the white steps.

'What's this about?' He said to his supervisor.

The man at the top of the stairs was dressed in a navy blue suit and black sunglasses as thick as goggles.

'You've been summoned, Jorg.' He said plainly. It was the same voice that had ordered him to kill the barman.

Jorg took a deep breath as he reached the front doors. The climb was a tough task in the heavy body armour and hot weather.

'This way, Jorg.' Said the man.

He led Jorg through a clean, bustling lobby and into a quiet room with a soft, foamy carpet.

'Wait here,' he instructed.

Jorg was now alone in a small, cuboid room. Across the wall was a framed picture of the supreme leader, a young, sleek woman known only as Sylvia. The top half of her face was covered in a red helmet with ridges across like a bloody ribcage. Jorg could only see the dark lips and pointy chin. It was rumoured that not even Sylvia's closest advisers had seen her face. There was a small table in front of him with a flimsy brochure on the surface. Fate of traitors, it read. Jorg leafed through the book and saw pictures of fellow destroyers who had tried to set themselves free. If he tried to release himself from the suit it would automatically explode, killing the person inside it. On the last page was a man with greasy black hair and tired brown eyes. Maverson. Jorg had known Maverson from years ago. Maverson had trained Jorg before he died.