KP-
03-27-2012, 11:03 AM
Hey guys, first post, feedback welcomed greatly. :)
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Impatiently, Smith waited in line. He tapped his toes on the cold white tiles. The noise echoed through the otherwise stale and lifeless room. Smith looked around and sighed. Around him, he could see the huge white walls that enclosed him and the others, and he felt imprisoned. He felt like a puppet, being controlled by the inescapable clutches of his puppeteer. No matter how much he struggled, or resisted, he couldn’t escape this god forsaken building, or this god damned corporation. Although Smith was just one of the thousands that filled the huge room, he was the only one that was alive.
He looked to the man standing on his left, and then to the man on the right. Both of them were wearing the exact uniform as he; long white shirts and long black trousers, with their hair slicked across, giving them an unnaturally perfect look. He glanced at the numbers above the government crest on their shirts. ‘Number 2, just like me,’ Smith thought. ‘Worthless. Just like me...’
Both were clenching their ECO-Masks. He looked at the ECO-Mask in his hand, and ran his fingers lightly and carelessly along the words ‘Electronic Carbon Omitter – SharpCorp’. Loudly, a buzzing noise broke the crisp stale air. “Ranking 2 Members to the front,” called a whiney voice over the speaker. The huge line of people at the front shuffled across and collectively, almost in sync, the mass of workers shuffled forward. Everyone except Smith. He stomped his boots boldly; his sharp, menacing, almost defiant footsteps piercing the silence that engulfed him. Anything he could do to oppose this corporation and the army of clones they controlled, he would do. He looked up at the clock, and registered the time tick over to five. He looked to the left and saw the recognisable SharpCorp logo sprawled across the large white walls. On his right, he could see the city government logo covering the corresponding wall. “Could do with some windows guys,” Smith bleated loudly, as he did everyday at five o’clock, in the same large white room. And like yesterday and the day before that, nobody answered.
The sharp buzzing noise once again blared through the room. “Ranking 2 Members to the front.” Smith edged his way through the masses of people, each with a robotic and unemotional stance, just as he did everyday, and strode up to the familiar glass booth. A tall, gangly, older man faced him.
“Number, sir,” the wily voice enquired.
“My name’s Smith, mate. I told you yesterday, do you not remember?” Smith replied loudly, with a large grin on his face.
“Number, sir,” the tall man once again droned.
Smith looked at him in the eye. He turned around to face a man behind him looking directly ahead at Smith. “Do you have a name buddy?” Smith asked, his voice booming in the hall with a slight frustration. “Or are you just like every other damn clone here?” The man behind him just looked at Smith with a blank expression; an expression of nothingness. Smith turned around to look at the tall man.
“Number, sir.”
“408823708,” Smith gritted through his teeth. “Sir.”
The tall official man punched some numbers into a computer before sliding a large metal folder towards Smith. “Here’s your nightly assigned paperwork, 408823708,” the tall man’s voice explained in a blunt and unimpressed fashion. “SharpCorp, as per usual, requires you complete this to drop in tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock. Thankyou, 408823708.” Smith grabbed his folder, his knuckles whitening with fury. “My name is Smith,” he whispered menacingly at the man behind the booth. The tall man merely looked at him, before glancing upwards. “Next, please,” his frail voice inquired. Smith grasped the metal folder tightly before sliding his ECO-Mask onto his face. He pushed through the hundreds of others waiting for their assigned paperwork before walking out of the large government building, and disappearing into the thick green smog that lined the streets.
* * *
Smith walked with the crowd of faceless people. On the inside, he wanted to scream – he wanted to break free of the prison he was held in. But on the outside, he was just another faceless clone; part of the great crowd that swarmed the city.
Smith inched his way through the pollution that engulfed the street. The ECO-Masks had such a narrow scope, it was impossible to see left or right; let alone through the thick haze that draped over the city like a blanket. In the early days, when the masks were first handed out to the public, he had walked past his apartment block every day for a month. It was only familiarity with the same routine everyday for 15 years that helped Smith find his residence. There was no point asking for directions, either. Every apartment looked the same – row upon row of identical 4-storey grey ghetto style buildings lined the city. “None of you robotic fools can hear me through these ugly pieces of ****, anyway,” Smith grunted frustratingly through his ECO-Mask, albeit to himself, shoving his way through the crowd and fiddling his thumb on the identification pad allowing him in the building.
As Smith made his way up the stairwell, he crossed paths with the lady that lived across from him. She was only known to the government and SharpCorp as 559666510, but her existence was irrelevant to everyone else. She had no name – no one did. Smith took off his ECO-Mask and greeted her, just as he did every morning on the way to work, and every day coming home.
“Good afternoon, neighbour! What a lovely day today – the pollution is awfully sickening, isn’t it?” he exclaimed in a sarcastic tone.
She just looked him in the eye before hurriedly rushing into her room, slamming the door behind her. Once again, she had no answer for him.
“Maybe another day!” Smith yelled. “Same time tomorrow, neighbour!”
Smith pressed his thumb against the identification pad and walked into his apartment, throwing his metal work folder on the ground. He untucked his shirt and messed his hair up, before placing his ECO-Mask on charge for the night. Smith walked over to the small grey cabinet above his stove, and produced a bottle of single malt scotch. He threw a couple of ice cubes carelessly into the cup, before pouring himself a generous glass, just as he did everyday. He found the smooth, golden liquid a welcome getaway from the constraints of his monotone grey lifestyle. He would often find himself staring at the simple glass for an hour – just soaking in the little colour he had left in his life. The relaxation and soothing the whiskey drink gave him after a hard day of work also gave him a sense of relief; somewhat an escape from what this life controlled by that dictator Jerry Sharp brought upon him and everyone else.
Smith walked over to the wall length bookshelf that sat cumbersomely in the middle of his apartment. Every apartment had the same bookshelf, and possessed the same books. Smith was no exception. He smirked, before placing his drink down. “Let’s see what we have here…” he inquired, as if he was talking to somebody. Smith would regularly talk to himself when he was alone in his apartment; it gave him the company he had always craved.
“’The Nuclear War: 2045-2048’, ‘Top of the World: The Life and Times of Jerry Sharp’, ‘SharpCorp and the Man Behind the Success: How Jerry Sharp Rebuilt a City’,” Smith read aloud, throwing each book over his shoulder as he did so. “It’s pathetic!” he laughed to himself, shaking his head as he leaned over his drink. He couldn’t believe how feeble society’s mind was. How could they not see what SharpCorp and the so-called ‘saviour’ Jerry Sharp had done to the government and the city? The pollution, the control, the isolation! Smith could feel his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fist on the table in front of him. He stared at the ugly brown mask sitting awkwardly on his desk - a wart on the otherwise polished metal desk. An ugly, unwanted, unpleasing cyst on the face of humanity. A growth that seemed to transform a whole city into a faceless and nameless army of unsuspecting drones. He looked around at the same grey walls enclosing him; the same grey walls he had lived in for 20 years. His head spun, and he began to feel dizzy with rage.
“You know, I could still do with some windows,” Smith found himself shouting in vain. “You can call this my house, but it isn’t my home.” Smith half expected someone to be listening to his ramblings.
“All I want is a window.” Smith spun, looking at each blank grey wall.
“Twenty years! Every day I ask, and every day I get the same god damned silence!” Smith was engulfed in a white-hot anger.
“ANSWER ME!” Smith picked up his glass and hurled it fiercely at the empty grey wall across the room with venom; the glass shattering into a million little fragments. Smith was breathing heavily – he had never really shown his anger like this before, but this time, he was tired. He was exhausted. From the same routine; the same oppression he had faced for so long; the same frustration at society’s stupidity and obliviousness and lack of will to change or break free from the shackles that had tied their feet for so long. Smith was tired.
He walked over to where his glass had smashed. Weakly, he fell to his knees. The fragments of glass splintered his skin as he kneeled down, but he didn’t mind. The blood and pain was a welcome change to an otherwise emotionless state of being. He embraced the relief the glass seemed to give him.
He stared, as if in a trance, at the golden scotch, trickling slowly across the tiles. He was mesmerized – the freedom, the immense lack of restraint that the scotch had. As it slowly poured down the white tiles, Smith felt himself move; think; act in slow motion. He fixed his gaze upon the independence the scotch had, as it flowed in different directions. Smith found himself staring at the scotch for what seemed like an eternity. Faintly, a tear dropped silently and rippled the calm golden single malt that was poured on the floor. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He turned around to face the grey walls that once again imprisoned him, and he was brought back to reality. He imagined, momentarily, that he was the golden liquid inside the fragile glass that was SharpCorp’s strangle on society. He imagined being dropped, and the glass shattering. He imagined the rush as he oozed in every direction, his path unaffected. He imagined a life, or a being, of perpetual, uncontrollable motion – a life with no barriers. He imagined freedom.
He imagined.
He slowly picked up his metal paperwork folder and placed it on his desk. He stood staring at the SharpCorp and government logos sprawled across the front of the cold metal. Slowly, he sat down. He looked at the time on his ECO-Mask charger display. Six-thirteen. He was already out of energy. Quietly, Smith opened the folder and proceeded to remove the paperwork. He knew the assigned work needed to be done. There was no use in yelling anymore, anyway. No one would hear him. No one would notice him. Slowly, Smith felt himself breaking. He felt drained. The hours rolled past, and as he finished his paperwork, he slowly clambered into his bed. He lied staring at the grey ceiling. He felt different; flat, almost, as if the life was drained from his batteries. He felt as if, for the first time, SharpCorp had won. Jerry Sharp had won. He had been broken.
* * *
The next morning rolled over and Smith went about his daily business. Unlike every other morning, he hadn’t cursed at the government, or SharpCorp, for forcing him to work a nine-hour day. He just did what he had to do. What he had been created to do. As he left his apartment, he saw the lady from across the hall.
For the first time, Smith didn’t utter a word to her.
He found himself as part of the swarm as he trudged to work, moving through the dense smog-covered streets. He felt as if he was another faceless member of society - unvalued, unwanted, and smothered by the ECO-Masks that demoralized society. He felt sure that if he were to disappear, no one would care. No one would notice.
For the first time, he felt part of the crowd.
Smith walked into the large SharpCorp building at five minutes to seven that morning; the same time as every other day. He walked slowly up to the front booth, where the same tall old man was working.
“408823708,” Smith mumbled wearily, before dropping his assigned paperwork folder onto the desk. The old man looked at Smith, before taking the metal folder.
“Thankyou, 408823708. Welcome to SharpCorp; let’s hope you have another productive and industrious day,” he replied in the same monotone voice Smith had heard for the past 20 years.
For the first time, Smith didn’t correct him.
He didn’t have a name anymore. They had broken him. Once upon a time, he thought he was unbreakable. But like everyone else, he was fragile; like the glass that shattered in his apartment. He merely existed as a pawn on the chessboard of society that SharpCorp controlled. Like a pawn, he too was worthless.
They had won.
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Impatiently, Smith waited in line. He tapped his toes on the cold white tiles. The noise echoed through the otherwise stale and lifeless room. Smith looked around and sighed. Around him, he could see the huge white walls that enclosed him and the others, and he felt imprisoned. He felt like a puppet, being controlled by the inescapable clutches of his puppeteer. No matter how much he struggled, or resisted, he couldn’t escape this god forsaken building, or this god damned corporation. Although Smith was just one of the thousands that filled the huge room, he was the only one that was alive.
He looked to the man standing on his left, and then to the man on the right. Both of them were wearing the exact uniform as he; long white shirts and long black trousers, with their hair slicked across, giving them an unnaturally perfect look. He glanced at the numbers above the government crest on their shirts. ‘Number 2, just like me,’ Smith thought. ‘Worthless. Just like me...’
Both were clenching their ECO-Masks. He looked at the ECO-Mask in his hand, and ran his fingers lightly and carelessly along the words ‘Electronic Carbon Omitter – SharpCorp’. Loudly, a buzzing noise broke the crisp stale air. “Ranking 2 Members to the front,” called a whiney voice over the speaker. The huge line of people at the front shuffled across and collectively, almost in sync, the mass of workers shuffled forward. Everyone except Smith. He stomped his boots boldly; his sharp, menacing, almost defiant footsteps piercing the silence that engulfed him. Anything he could do to oppose this corporation and the army of clones they controlled, he would do. He looked up at the clock, and registered the time tick over to five. He looked to the left and saw the recognisable SharpCorp logo sprawled across the large white walls. On his right, he could see the city government logo covering the corresponding wall. “Could do with some windows guys,” Smith bleated loudly, as he did everyday at five o’clock, in the same large white room. And like yesterday and the day before that, nobody answered.
The sharp buzzing noise once again blared through the room. “Ranking 2 Members to the front.” Smith edged his way through the masses of people, each with a robotic and unemotional stance, just as he did everyday, and strode up to the familiar glass booth. A tall, gangly, older man faced him.
“Number, sir,” the wily voice enquired.
“My name’s Smith, mate. I told you yesterday, do you not remember?” Smith replied loudly, with a large grin on his face.
“Number, sir,” the tall man once again droned.
Smith looked at him in the eye. He turned around to face a man behind him looking directly ahead at Smith. “Do you have a name buddy?” Smith asked, his voice booming in the hall with a slight frustration. “Or are you just like every other damn clone here?” The man behind him just looked at Smith with a blank expression; an expression of nothingness. Smith turned around to look at the tall man.
“Number, sir.”
“408823708,” Smith gritted through his teeth. “Sir.”
The tall official man punched some numbers into a computer before sliding a large metal folder towards Smith. “Here’s your nightly assigned paperwork, 408823708,” the tall man’s voice explained in a blunt and unimpressed fashion. “SharpCorp, as per usual, requires you complete this to drop in tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock. Thankyou, 408823708.” Smith grabbed his folder, his knuckles whitening with fury. “My name is Smith,” he whispered menacingly at the man behind the booth. The tall man merely looked at him, before glancing upwards. “Next, please,” his frail voice inquired. Smith grasped the metal folder tightly before sliding his ECO-Mask onto his face. He pushed through the hundreds of others waiting for their assigned paperwork before walking out of the large government building, and disappearing into the thick green smog that lined the streets.
* * *
Smith walked with the crowd of faceless people. On the inside, he wanted to scream – he wanted to break free of the prison he was held in. But on the outside, he was just another faceless clone; part of the great crowd that swarmed the city.
Smith inched his way through the pollution that engulfed the street. The ECO-Masks had such a narrow scope, it was impossible to see left or right; let alone through the thick haze that draped over the city like a blanket. In the early days, when the masks were first handed out to the public, he had walked past his apartment block every day for a month. It was only familiarity with the same routine everyday for 15 years that helped Smith find his residence. There was no point asking for directions, either. Every apartment looked the same – row upon row of identical 4-storey grey ghetto style buildings lined the city. “None of you robotic fools can hear me through these ugly pieces of ****, anyway,” Smith grunted frustratingly through his ECO-Mask, albeit to himself, shoving his way through the crowd and fiddling his thumb on the identification pad allowing him in the building.
As Smith made his way up the stairwell, he crossed paths with the lady that lived across from him. She was only known to the government and SharpCorp as 559666510, but her existence was irrelevant to everyone else. She had no name – no one did. Smith took off his ECO-Mask and greeted her, just as he did every morning on the way to work, and every day coming home.
“Good afternoon, neighbour! What a lovely day today – the pollution is awfully sickening, isn’t it?” he exclaimed in a sarcastic tone.
She just looked him in the eye before hurriedly rushing into her room, slamming the door behind her. Once again, she had no answer for him.
“Maybe another day!” Smith yelled. “Same time tomorrow, neighbour!”
Smith pressed his thumb against the identification pad and walked into his apartment, throwing his metal work folder on the ground. He untucked his shirt and messed his hair up, before placing his ECO-Mask on charge for the night. Smith walked over to the small grey cabinet above his stove, and produced a bottle of single malt scotch. He threw a couple of ice cubes carelessly into the cup, before pouring himself a generous glass, just as he did everyday. He found the smooth, golden liquid a welcome getaway from the constraints of his monotone grey lifestyle. He would often find himself staring at the simple glass for an hour – just soaking in the little colour he had left in his life. The relaxation and soothing the whiskey drink gave him after a hard day of work also gave him a sense of relief; somewhat an escape from what this life controlled by that dictator Jerry Sharp brought upon him and everyone else.
Smith walked over to the wall length bookshelf that sat cumbersomely in the middle of his apartment. Every apartment had the same bookshelf, and possessed the same books. Smith was no exception. He smirked, before placing his drink down. “Let’s see what we have here…” he inquired, as if he was talking to somebody. Smith would regularly talk to himself when he was alone in his apartment; it gave him the company he had always craved.
“’The Nuclear War: 2045-2048’, ‘Top of the World: The Life and Times of Jerry Sharp’, ‘SharpCorp and the Man Behind the Success: How Jerry Sharp Rebuilt a City’,” Smith read aloud, throwing each book over his shoulder as he did so. “It’s pathetic!” he laughed to himself, shaking his head as he leaned over his drink. He couldn’t believe how feeble society’s mind was. How could they not see what SharpCorp and the so-called ‘saviour’ Jerry Sharp had done to the government and the city? The pollution, the control, the isolation! Smith could feel his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fist on the table in front of him. He stared at the ugly brown mask sitting awkwardly on his desk - a wart on the otherwise polished metal desk. An ugly, unwanted, unpleasing cyst on the face of humanity. A growth that seemed to transform a whole city into a faceless and nameless army of unsuspecting drones. He looked around at the same grey walls enclosing him; the same grey walls he had lived in for 20 years. His head spun, and he began to feel dizzy with rage.
“You know, I could still do with some windows,” Smith found himself shouting in vain. “You can call this my house, but it isn’t my home.” Smith half expected someone to be listening to his ramblings.
“All I want is a window.” Smith spun, looking at each blank grey wall.
“Twenty years! Every day I ask, and every day I get the same god damned silence!” Smith was engulfed in a white-hot anger.
“ANSWER ME!” Smith picked up his glass and hurled it fiercely at the empty grey wall across the room with venom; the glass shattering into a million little fragments. Smith was breathing heavily – he had never really shown his anger like this before, but this time, he was tired. He was exhausted. From the same routine; the same oppression he had faced for so long; the same frustration at society’s stupidity and obliviousness and lack of will to change or break free from the shackles that had tied their feet for so long. Smith was tired.
He walked over to where his glass had smashed. Weakly, he fell to his knees. The fragments of glass splintered his skin as he kneeled down, but he didn’t mind. The blood and pain was a welcome change to an otherwise emotionless state of being. He embraced the relief the glass seemed to give him.
He stared, as if in a trance, at the golden scotch, trickling slowly across the tiles. He was mesmerized – the freedom, the immense lack of restraint that the scotch had. As it slowly poured down the white tiles, Smith felt himself move; think; act in slow motion. He fixed his gaze upon the independence the scotch had, as it flowed in different directions. Smith found himself staring at the scotch for what seemed like an eternity. Faintly, a tear dropped silently and rippled the calm golden single malt that was poured on the floor. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He turned around to face the grey walls that once again imprisoned him, and he was brought back to reality. He imagined, momentarily, that he was the golden liquid inside the fragile glass that was SharpCorp’s strangle on society. He imagined being dropped, and the glass shattering. He imagined the rush as he oozed in every direction, his path unaffected. He imagined a life, or a being, of perpetual, uncontrollable motion – a life with no barriers. He imagined freedom.
He imagined.
He slowly picked up his metal paperwork folder and placed it on his desk. He stood staring at the SharpCorp and government logos sprawled across the front of the cold metal. Slowly, he sat down. He looked at the time on his ECO-Mask charger display. Six-thirteen. He was already out of energy. Quietly, Smith opened the folder and proceeded to remove the paperwork. He knew the assigned work needed to be done. There was no use in yelling anymore, anyway. No one would hear him. No one would notice him. Slowly, Smith felt himself breaking. He felt drained. The hours rolled past, and as he finished his paperwork, he slowly clambered into his bed. He lied staring at the grey ceiling. He felt different; flat, almost, as if the life was drained from his batteries. He felt as if, for the first time, SharpCorp had won. Jerry Sharp had won. He had been broken.
* * *
The next morning rolled over and Smith went about his daily business. Unlike every other morning, he hadn’t cursed at the government, or SharpCorp, for forcing him to work a nine-hour day. He just did what he had to do. What he had been created to do. As he left his apartment, he saw the lady from across the hall.
For the first time, Smith didn’t utter a word to her.
He found himself as part of the swarm as he trudged to work, moving through the dense smog-covered streets. He felt as if he was another faceless member of society - unvalued, unwanted, and smothered by the ECO-Masks that demoralized society. He felt sure that if he were to disappear, no one would care. No one would notice.
For the first time, he felt part of the crowd.
Smith walked into the large SharpCorp building at five minutes to seven that morning; the same time as every other day. He walked slowly up to the front booth, where the same tall old man was working.
“408823708,” Smith mumbled wearily, before dropping his assigned paperwork folder onto the desk. The old man looked at Smith, before taking the metal folder.
“Thankyou, 408823708. Welcome to SharpCorp; let’s hope you have another productive and industrious day,” he replied in the same monotone voice Smith had heard for the past 20 years.
For the first time, Smith didn’t correct him.
He didn’t have a name anymore. They had broken him. Once upon a time, he thought he was unbreakable. But like everyone else, he was fragile; like the glass that shattered in his apartment. He merely existed as a pawn on the chessboard of society that SharpCorp controlled. Like a pawn, he too was worthless.
They had won.