Click here to read Part One of our tale.
PART TWO
A
pleasant chime sounded once and the Scribblers vacated their cubicles in an
orderly fashion, following the conveyor belt down to the cafeteria. Michael
remained in his spot in line, collecting his pressed and recycled paper tray
filled with his allotted rations of organic foods and purified water. No one
spoke as they awaited their turns, quietly taking their arranged meals and
finding their assigned tables. More robot monitors patrolled, doing their best to
remain gentle observers and not interfere with the humans’ movement.
Lunchtime
was the different divisions’ only time to see anyone from another floor. The
robots believed that humans were more productive when their brains received the
stimuli of seeing a different face for a limited amount of time. Their lunch
break was timed so that they had just enough interaction with their co-workers
to promote a healthier outlook on their lot in life—but not too much time, lest they grow lax in
socializing.
Michael
navigated through the narrow aisles, moving for his table. Already, he spotted
her vibrant red tresses, and his heart quickened.
Sara
Theresea was already seated, eating her lunch. In a sea of white and light
grey, her beautiful hair served as a startling splash of color. The robots
discouraged color, perhaps because they were unable to fully appreciate the
concept themselves, leaving the world drained of life and light. In Michael’s
dreams, he saw brilliant rainbow-colored light, reaching out to him, entreating
him to draw near.
In
the waking world, Sara was his rainbow.
“Hi,”
he greeted exuberantly, sitting across from her.
She
brightened, her wide blue eyes coming alive as though an internal switch had
been flipped. “Hi. How are you?”
“Fine.
You?”
“Good.”
He
nodded sheepishly, then began to eat. The two of them exchanged pleasantries,
careful not to get too animated in their conversation. The robot monitors
didn’t like that and were sure to break up any conversation they deemed too lively
and unproductive. Nevertheless, Michael enjoyed his short time with Sara over
the years and felt she did, as well. At least, he hoped she did.
He
and Sara both—everyone in their particular building, in fact—had been
designated by The Company at birth to remain celibate. Their genetic structure
had even been tampered with en utero, sterilizing them. Breeders were kept far
away from drones like him. Children remained with their parents in familial
camps until they reached the age of sixteen, then they were shuttled off to
whatever branch The Company had selected for them. All parental contact was
severed at that time, for fear emotional attachment would be detrimental to
production. Michael hadn’t seen or spoken to either his mother or father in two
decades. Every once in a while he thought of them, remembered his father’s
reprimand to blend in, to not stand out.
Not
much of a legacy to leave one’s son, but it was the only legacy The Company
allowed.
“I
saw something strange today,” Michael said after finishing a bite.
Sara
leaned closer, her face glowing with excitement. “Was it that paper outside
earlier?”
“Yes!”
They
leaned even closer together over their food, speaking in low conspiratorial
tones, attracting the disapproving glares of their co-workers. “What do you
think it was?” Sara asked in a whisper.
Michael
shrugged, still smiling. “I don’t know. Maybe it was like an advertisement for
something? I saw moving pictures on it.”
A
chime indicated lunchtime was over. Immediately, the Scribblers gathered their
trays and shuffled off to re-form in their lines. Michael and Sara, though,
continued to sit for a moment more, their smiles slowly fading.
“Well,”
Sara began, a melancholy resignation in her voice, “I guess I’ll see you
tomorrow. Same place, same time?”
Michael
offered a smile, but failed to make it convincing. “Yeah.”
They
looked to each other, and Michael drank in the sight, knowing it would have to
last him a day. At last, Sara waved and stood, joining her co-workers. Michael
rose to his feet, watching her leave, those bright red tresses trailing after
her.
“Move
it, Morrison,” one of his fellow Scribblers bellowed behind him.
Michael
gnashed his teeth in frustration, but quickly submitted, heading back to work.
* * *
Michael
reclined in his single-seater car as it hovered on auto-pilot through the
transit tubes. He watched the other drones returning home on pre-designated
paths programmed into their vehicles.
As
they often did, his thoughts drifted to Sara, and he wondered where her vehicle was taking her. They’d been
seated across from each other for ten years, but never spoke long enough to
discuss where they lived. In fact, all he knew about her was that she worked on
the thirty-sixth floor.
That,
and she was very pretty.
But
beauty didn’t factor into it. They were drones, not meant to be together.
Feeling a rush of anger, he formed a fist before the familiar woman’s voice
that was programmed into all of the machines soothingly chided him from the
console. “Adrenaline levels spiking. Do you require assistance, Scribbler
Morrison, Michael A?”
He
sighed. “No, ma’am.”
Michael
released his fist and cooled, closing his eyes for the rest of the trip home.
* * *
When
he arrived at his apartment, Michael stepped out of his vehicle and watched as
the compartment in the street opened, swallowing the car into its parking space
until tomorrow morning when he was scheduled to leave for work.
The
Company had a fixed curfew in place in order to guarantee that their human
charges achieved the maximum amount of sleep. Michael still had a couple hours
before then that he could call his own, though vehicle travel was strictly
prohibited in that time, to lessen the chances of an automobile accident—though
that seemed unlikely since the machines operated all vehicles by remote, but
Michael had learned to stop asking questions.
Seth
was likely coming over tonight for dinner. Michael saw his younger brother an
average of four nights a week. They had another, elder brother Edward, but he
had been reassigned to another city, and, per the robots’ orders, communication
was entirely severed. Michael enjoyed spending time with Seth, though
recognized that, at a moment’s notice, they could be separated by work—or,
worse, liquidated if they proved unproductive.
Michael
had learned early in his life that everything was transitory, and it was best
not to invest himself in anything or anyone.
Another
lesson from his father.
He
stepped up to the building door, ready to ascend to his apartment, when he
heard someone clearing his throat, off to his side. Mildly curious, he looked
up and beheld a most strange sight. He saw a man, but unlike any he’d ever seen
before. The older man wore dark clothes, worn and dirtied pants and boots, with
a slick black jacket. Under the jacket, the man was shirtless, his tanned skin
adorned in mysterious markings—tattoos—that seemed to twist and swirl in the
light. The man’s white hair and beard were long and braided and, in his cracked
lips, he held a cigarette.
The
man was the living antithesis of The Company’s parameters for acceptable dress.
Michael
balked, sweat beading on his brow. “Um…hello.”
The
man cracked a grin, revealing extended canines. “Hey, there, Mike.”
Michael
looked behind him, to his side, then faced the strange man again. “Come again?
Do I know you?”
“Hell,
little brother,” the man guffawed, stepping closer. “We’re like family!”
“Cursing
is prohibited,” Michael stammered, bewildered. Then he rambled, “So is smoking,
long hair for males, tattoos, and exposing your skin.”
The
man stopped cold, clenched the cigarette in his yellow-stained teeth, and held
out his hands, as if in surrender. “Ya got me, dude. I’m a regular law
breaker.”
Michael
wasn’t sure what to do, his hand still hovering inches from the pad to unlock
his apartment building. The man surprised him by jutting out a gnarled hand for
him to shake. “Name’s Rip.”
Michael
eyed the hand suspiciously, wondering what germs might lurk there. Hesitantly,
he reached out and shook the proffered hand. “Michael Morrison.”
Rip
chuckled. “Don’t you mean Scribbler Morrison, Michael A? Damn, little brother,
what’d they do to you? Turned you into a regular pencil neck.”
Michael
shot worried glances over his shoulder, fearful that a monitor would be along
at any moment, and catch him talking to this rugged fellow. Why is here? Why is he talking to me? Where
did he come from?
Then
the realization struck. Michael exclaimed, “A-Are you from the Wilds?”
Michael
had only heard of the Wilds in his youth—a place far from the cities and the
robot overseers, where trees and grass and animals still populated the Earth.
According to fables that children tell each other, some humans actually left
behind The Company and ventured out to the Wilds, to forge their own paths.
It
was his most favorite story. Needless to say, his father quashed such tales.
Over
the years, Michael had all-but forgotten about those bygone fairy tales, but if
they were true—if a place like the Wilds really existed—then this smelly, dirty
man before him must hail from there.
Rip
paused for a moment, then shrugged. “You could say that.”
Excited
now, Michael stepped closer. “Do you want to come in?”
Now Rip sneered.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Copyright 2015
Come back Monday, March 9 for the third installment!
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