A column of nine vehicles
could be seen driving across a bridge, their destination known to every
passenger. If someone went through any of these enormous transporters, now
synonymous with death, a single emotion would have been felt: resignation. The
expressions of the young laborers were grim, with crow's feet stretching from
the side of their eyes out towards their temples. The skin under their eyes was
swollen, while the salty scent of long-dried tears still battled with the
artificially created fragrances of apples and pears. Although they knew this
day would come, has come; not one of them had prepared, not one of them could
have prepared. Leaving the embrace of their warm homes behind, they put the
Yellow Armbands on. They had to.
The interior of the vehicles was colorless. Rows and columns of
identical seats, dressed in a shy shade of brown, lined themselves while
blending in with the ash-gray floor, complementing the general ambience.
Each of the nine drivers bore expressions as if sculpted from stone,
unmoving. Tightly shut mouths, with eyes revealing hints of slight discomfort.
Their narrowly furrowed brows made whoever paid them any attention assume they
were utterly engrossed in their tasks. And they were. If they paid any mind to
anything else, to why they were doing this, they wouldn't have survived until
now. So, they focused on one thing only, driving. These old-timers drove
thousands of youngsters to their eventual deaths, after all.
Amidst many uniformed youths sitting in utter silence, a young man could
be seen staring through a window – at the shifting tapestry of a river. His
raven-black hair, unkempt and lacking any luster, haphazardly fell over his
forehead, while heavy, shadowed eye bags overshadowed his almond-shaped, hazel
eyes. Even he was not exempt from worry lines and wrinkles, though they were
far too subtle for someone under his circumstances.
His attire was no different from all the other Workers. A plain blue
coverall. Still, it was created in the Playground, so even though it appeared
simple on the outside, he knew it was a vastly superior outfit to what the
middle-class from the Republic wore. What was so outstanding about it? The boy
didn't know. On his right arm, however, an armband stood out. It was
predominantly yellow, with red stripes running around its edges, sewn into his
uniform. It was the symbol of his slavery: The Yellow Armband. Along with it,
sewn onto the left chest area of the boy's coverall was his name: Asher.
Next to him sat another
boy. His hair, a simple buzz-cut. This lack of hair made his forehead appear
larger than it actually was, which amplified the innocence his round, blue eyes
carried. He looked like a lamb before a slaughterhouse, with eyes inconsistently
drifting and his nervousness evident on the reflection of the bus's window.
"What is going to happen to
us?" Breaking Asher's daze was a question most wanted to ask. The few seconds
needed for the question to sink in were chillingly quiet. No passenger dared to
answer. No passenger could.
It took Asher a few moments
to digest the question. He looked at the boy to his left, who evidently asked
the question. The boy's big, round eyes were now glued to his own. The question
was directed at him. Asher then, deeply in thought, looked at the boy's name
tag. "Nithar," he said, "Thinking about such things will only tire you out.
Rest."
Without waiting for a
response, Asher returned to viewing the scenery out of the window. They were
close to the end of their ride. The warehouses of District Eight could already
be seen.
—————
A night has passed since Asher came to the Playground. To District
Eight, to be exact. This District, the so-called gateway, was the only direct
connection people still had with the Republic, so calling it a fully integrated
part of the Playground would be incorrect. After disembarking from the
transporters, the young Workers were hastily guided to different Lodges. They
found themselves in rooms, each accommodating ten of them, with no
clarifications on what was to come. Some immediately claimed beds and went to
sleep, while others got social, trying to clear some of the uneasiness clouding
their hearts.
The next thing they knew, they were in a neat column listening to a
briefing. The room they were standing in was narrow and unnecessarily long.
Long enough to fit fifty people side-by-side but so tight that some could feel
the briefer's garlic-smelling breath. The most important person in the room,
the briefer, was uncommonly short. So short, in fact, that most could see their
reflections on the smoothness of his porcelain-like head.
"After this briefing, you will be assigned to different
Districts," the briefer's husky voice explained. With petite hands resting
behind his back, he paced the narrow hall. "The fortunate few will find
themselves designated to the Inner Districts," he paused as if giving his
words a chance to sink in. "The majority will be sent to the Outer
Districts," quick steps carried him around the room, his gaze connecting
with most of the listeners. Pausing again, he fixated on the least promising
group while adding, "The less fortunate will catch on quicker without an
explanation."
Asher stood roughly in the middle of the room while his bus companion,
Nithar, stood to his right. To his left stood a tall teenage girl. Although
that was perhaps her only selling point. She appeared hunchbacked, and even
though she was constantly looking around the room, she never locked eyes with
someone for long. She either had low self-esteem and was scared of making an
impression - or was an excellent actor, Asher was sure.
His eye bags had not grown
any smaller, even though he had secured a relatively good night's sleep. Well,
as good as one could hope for in a Lodge, anyway. While trying to appear
attentive to the briefer's long and utterly useless monologues, his mind was
drifting elsewhere. Whatever entered one ear seemed to exit through the other.
That is why, when focus finally returned to his eyes, all that met his gaze
were the briefer's yellowing teeth and the pungent scent of garlic.
The briefer, bewildered as
his expression revealed him to be, looked around the room while commenting,
"We get a few guys like him, from time to time." He then shifted his
gaze back to Asher and asked, a hint of sarcasm evident in his tone, "Pray
tell, what was the last thing I said?"
Seemingly unconcerned about
the consequences his following response could cause, or perhaps thinking there
could be no punishment, Asher answered, "The last thing you told us, sir,
is that you get a few guys like me, from time to time." His eyes remained
oblivious to the scorn the briefer's gaze carried, all while his mouth wore an
all-too-childish smile.
"Oh?" The Briefer
retorted, his now venomous smile making chills run through some spines.
"We have gotten ourselves a comedian this time. The Lodge you get assigned
to will surely be blissful." he added before continuing the briefing.
Asher scanned the people around him, several pitying glances were thrown his
way as an indistinct murmur lingered. Most thought he was a goner.
————
The remainder of the briefing passed in a blur. Without Asher noticing,
more than half of the newly inaugurated Workers disappeared. Called in pairs,
girls headed to Room 112, roughly ten meters to Asher's left, while boys went
to Room 113, some twelve meters to Asher's right. For vaccination, they were
told, though Asher hadn't heard that.
His attention snapped back after a small hand yanked his right shoulder,
Nithar's. "It's our turn," he said, "We got called to Room 113." Nithar's body
was shivering, Asher noticed. "Ah, alright," he replied, "Let's go, then."
The room they entered was relatively small, but much more spacious if
compared to the one they just left. Its walls and ceiling were painted a stark
white, while blinding lights coming from all directions made anyone who entered
squint in discomfort. Squeezing his eyes, Asher noticed a hospital bed tucked
away in one of the room's furthest corners. The blanket on the bed,
wrinkled and old, revealed slight sweat stains if one looked closely enough. A
repulsive, sweat-induced smell enveloped the whole room, making Asher's usual
deadpan expression change - he was disgusted - and he couldn't hide
it.
Next to the bed stood a small round chair without a backrest, on which
sat a middle-aged woman. Predominantly brown, her hair revealed inconsistent,
scattered grays. Despite the big, round glasses she wore, Asher couldn't help
but notice the wrinkles on her face. They were too eye-catching not to. She had
a white scrub on, contrasting his plain, blue cover-all. Still, the Yellow
Armband stood out the most. She was one of them, a Worker.
Her legs crossed, eyes fixated on a stack of papers, the middle-aged
woman held a ballpoint pen, lips touching it occasionally. She was analyzing
whatever was on one of the papers, Asher concluded. Abruptly, she pointed to
the hospital bed with a free hand and uttered, "Nithar."
As he awkwardly settled on the bed, she repeated, "Nithar, fold your
left sleeve." Her voice carried authority, and Nithar, as if it were the most
natural thing to do, followed her demand, his hands shaking. Stowing her pen
and the stack of papers, she rose from her seat and retrieved two metal
injection tubes. One was green, the other red.
Crouching across from Nithar, she seized his left arm by the elbow,
located a vein – and injected the red metal tube without warning. "This one is
to prevent mutation," she said before swiftly administering the green metal
tube, before Nithar had the time to react. "And this one is to render you
infertile." Discarding both tubes in a trash can, she reclaimed her seat.
"Wh-" Nithar attempted to speak, but a sudden headache enveloped his
skull, forcing him to collapse onto the bed. "You won't be able to stand for
the next few minutes," the woman stated, "Your speech capabilities will be
rendered useless," circling something on one of the papers, her eyes shifted
from one side of the paper to the other, "And your thought process will be much
slower. Your mind will go numb."
Unconcerned about Nithar's
condition, she casually flipped a page in her stack. One of her eyebrows rose,
with a slight smirk forming on her usually tired expression. She appeared
bewildered or amused by whatever she found on that page. "Were you not shaken
by my earlier explanations?" She inquired, the question resonating with Asher
for a moment, "About the purpose of the injections?" He asked but responded
before she got the chance to confirm, "I don't care about the purpose of the
injections that much. I'm sure they won't kill me." His tone was as deadpan as
ever.
The woman chuckled at the
response, gaze briefly shifting to the papers lying on her thighs before she
pointed to the bed and said, "Sit next to Nithar." Asher followed her
instruction without hesitation.
———
After a few sluggish blinks, Asher managed to open his eyes. Clutching
his head with both hands, he attempted to gather his thoughts, but an
impenetrable fog obscured his memories. Recognition dawned only after his gaze
fell upon the boy to his right, lying on the bed in a pool of sweat,
unconscious – Nithar. They had both undergone the vaccination process. A
lingering sense of doubt enveloped him while observing Nithar, pity evident in
his gaze. The boy hasn't regained consciousness despite being the first to
receive the vaccination.
"He's younger," A familiar, straightforward voice commented,
abruptly halting Asher's thoughts. "That's why he hasn't woken up
yet." The middle-aged Worker, the one who had administered the injections,
adjusted her big, round glasses and added, "He's in the middle of puberty,
making the injections work slower than ordinarily." He was like an open
book. Anyone with enough experience could have guessed his thoughts, so he
wasn't surprised by her sudden intrusion.
"I see," escaped Asher's lips, his expression softening. Aware that
concealing his thoughts or emotions in this deranged state was futile, Asher
behaved naturally – for the first time since arriving at the Playground.
"Anyhow," The woman continued, fingers flipping through a stack of
papers, eyes scanning each page habitually, "I can't waste any more time with
the two of you." Her gaze briefly lifted to Nithar before returning to the
papers. A considerable pause ensued before she remarked, "I see the baldie
didn't take a liking to you." Asher instantly grasped who she meant – the
briefer.
Revisiting the few interactions he had with the briefer, Asher
acknowledged that he hadn't left a favorable first impression. Yet, why should
it matter? He was merely a briefer – a fellow Yellow Armband. Observing Asher's
silence, his conversational partner divulged, "The baldie proposed sending you
to District Four." A slight smirk played across her lips, "That's a Zone –
where we send the unusable. To round up the numbers." His brows furrowed;
confusion etched across his face. Still, he refrained from interrupting the
woman seated across from him.
"Indulging the whims of that egotistical baldie would leave a sour taste
in my mouth," she confessed, her smirk – now a scowl. "So, instead of dancing
to his tune, I've decided to send you to District Thirteen."
Listening to her monologue, Asher found himself increasingly puzzled. He
harbored a handful of questions, each requiring an answer. What authority did
the woman before him wield to dismiss the briefer's proposal with such
indifference? Districts Four and Thirteen - what distinguished one from the
other? Why did she interfere with the briefer's proposal? To put him in his
place? With every passing moment, more questions crowded Asher's mind, and he
understood that the woman across from him wouldn't be offering many answers.
"Can you dismiss such a proposal without any prior consultation?" Asher
inquired, gears in his head turning like never before. If she could, he was
fortunate to still be alive. It implied that one misplaced phrase to the wrong
Yellow Armband could lead to his demise. It meant the Citizens weren't his only
concern anymore.
"Two newly integrated Yellow Armbands are not important enough to
require such a procedure," The woman answered straightforwardly, "And the
baldie can't challenge my decisions. For him – they're final."
Words still lingering on the tip of his tongue, Asher tried expressing
another of his concerns. However, with a single finger pointed at Nithar, the
woman promptly cut him off. "Take the boy out with you. Someone will come fetch
you before nightfall."
A column of nine vehicles
could be seen driving across a bridge, their destination known to every
passenger. If someone went through any of these enormous transporters, now
synonymous with death, a single emotion would have been felt: resignation. The
expressions of the young laborers were grim, with crow's feet stretching from
the side of their eyes out towards their temples. The skin under their eyes was
swollen, while the salty scent of long-dried tears still battled with the
artificially created fragrances of apples and pears. Although they knew this
day would come, has come; not one of them had prepared, not one of them could
have prepared. Leaving the embrace of their warm homes behind, they put the
Yellow Armbands on. They had to.
The interior of the vehicles was colorless. Rows and columns of
identical seats, dressed in a shy shade of brown, lined themselves while
blending in with the ash-gray floor, complementing the general ambience.
Each of the nine drivers bore expressions as if sculpted from stone,
unmoving. Tightly shut mouths, with eyes revealing hints of slight discomfort.
Their narrowly furrowed brows made whoever paid them any attention assume they
were utterly engrossed in their tasks. And they were. If they paid any mind to
anything else, to why they were doing this, they wouldn't have survived until
now. So, they focused on one thing only, driving. These old-timers drove
thousands of youngsters to their eventual deaths, after all.
Amidst many uniformed youths sitting in utter silence, a young man could
be seen staring through a window – at the shifting tapestry of a river. His
raven-black hair, unkempt and lacking any luster, haphazardly fell over his
forehead, while heavy, shadowed eye bags overshadowed his almond-shaped, hazel
eyes. Even he was not exempt from worry lines and wrinkles, though they were
far too subtle for someone under his circumstances.
His attire was no different from all the other Workers. A plain blue
coverall. Still, it was created in the Playground, so even though it appeared
simple on the outside, he knew it was a vastly superior outfit to what the
middle-class from the Republic wore. What was so outstanding about it? The boy
didn't know. On his right arm, however, an armband stood out. It was
predominantly yellow, with red stripes running around its edges, sewn into his
uniform. It was the symbol of his slavery: The Yellow Armband. Along with it,
sewn onto the left chest area of the boy's coverall was his name: Asher.
Next to him sat another
boy. His hair, a simple buzz-cut. This lack of hair made his forehead appear
larger than it actually was, which amplified the innocence his round, blue eyes
carried. He looked like a lamb before a slaughterhouse, with eyes inconsistently
drifting and his nervousness evident on the reflection of the bus's window.
"What is going to happen to
us?" Breaking Asher's daze was a question most wanted to ask. The few seconds
needed for the question to sink in were chillingly quiet. No passenger dared to
answer. No passenger could.
It took Asher a few moments
to digest the question. He looked at the boy to his left, who evidently asked
the question. The boy's big, round eyes were now glued to his own. The question
was directed at him. Asher then, deeply in thought, looked at the boy's name
tag. "Nithar," he said, "Thinking about such things will only tire you out.
Rest."
Without waiting for a
response, Asher returned to viewing the scenery out of the window. They were
close to the end of their ride. The warehouses of District Eight could already
be seen.
A night has passed since Asher came to the Playground. To District
Eight, to be exact. This District, the so-called gateway, was the only direct
connection people still had with the Republic, so calling it a fully integrated
part of the Playground would be incorrect. After disembarking from the
transporters, the young Workers were hastily guided to different Lodges. They
found themselves in rooms, each accommodating ten of them, with no
clarifications on what was to come. Some immediately claimed beds and went to
sleep, while others got social, trying to clear some of the uneasiness clouding
their hearts.
The next thing they knew, they were in a neat column listening to a
briefing. The room they were standing in was narrow and unnecessarily long.
Long enough to fit fifty people side-by-side but so tight that some could feel
the briefer's garlic-smelling breath. The most important person in the room,
the briefer, was uncommonly short. So short, in fact, that most could see their
reflections on the smoothness of his porcelain-like head.
"After this briefing, you will be assigned to different
Districts," the briefer's husky voice explained. With petite hands resting
behind his back, he paced the narrow hall. "The fortunate few will find
themselves designated to the Inner Districts," he paused as if giving his
words a chance to sink in. "The majority will be sent to the Outer
Districts," quick steps carried him around the room, his gaze connecting
with most of the listeners. Pausing again, he fixated on the least promising
group while adding, "The less fortunate will catch on quicker without an
explanation."
Asher stood roughly in the middle of the room while his bus companion,
Nithar, stood to his right. To his left stood a tall teenage girl. Although
that was perhaps her only selling point. She appeared hunchbacked, and even
though she was constantly looking around the room, she never locked eyes with
someone for long. She either had low self-esteem and was scared of making an
impression - or was an excellent actor, Asher was sure.
His eye bags had not grown
any smaller, even though he had secured a relatively good night's sleep. Well,
as good as one could hope for in a Lodge, anyway. While trying to appear
attentive to the briefer's long and utterly useless monologues, his mind was
drifting elsewhere. Whatever entered one ear seemed to exit through the other.
That is why, when focus finally returned to his eyes, all that met his gaze
were the briefer's yellowing teeth and the pungent scent of garlic.
The briefer, bewildered as
his expression revealed him to be, looked around the room while commenting,
"We get a few guys like him, from time to time." He then shifted his
gaze back to Asher and asked, a hint of sarcasm evident in his tone, "Pray
tell, what was the last thing I said?"
Seemingly unconcerned about
the consequences his following response could cause, or perhaps thinking there
could be no punishment, Asher answered, "The last thing you told us, sir,
is that you get a few guys like me, from time to time." His eyes remained
oblivious to the scorn the briefer's gaze carried, all while his mouth wore an
all-too-childish smile.
"Oh?" The Briefer
retorted, his now venomous smile making chills run through some spines.
"We have gotten ourselves a comedian this time. The Lodge you get assigned
to will surely be blissful." he added before continuing the briefing.
Asher scanned the people around him, several pitying glances were thrown his
way as an indistinct murmur lingered. Most thought he was a goner.
The remainder of the briefing passed in a blur. Without Asher noticing,
more than half of the newly inaugurated Workers disappeared. Called in pairs,
girls headed to Room 112, roughly ten meters to Asher's left, while boys went
to Room 113, some twelve meters to Asher's right. For vaccination, they were
told, though Asher hadn't heard that.
His attention snapped back after a small hand yanked his right shoulder,
Nithar's. "It's our turn," he said, "We got called to Room 113." Nithar's body
was shivering, Asher noticed. "Ah, alright," he replied, "Let's go, then."
The room they entered was relatively small, but much more spacious if
compared to the one they just left. Its walls and ceiling were painted a stark
white, while blinding lights coming from all directions made anyone who entered
squint in discomfort. Squeezing his eyes, Asher noticed a hospital bed tucked
away in one of the room's furthest corners. The blanket on the bed,
wrinkled and old, revealed slight sweat stains if one looked closely enough. A
repulsive, sweat-induced smell enveloped the whole room, making Asher's usual
deadpan expression change - he was disgusted - and he couldn't hide
it.
Next to the bed stood a small round chair without a backrest, on which
sat a middle-aged woman. Predominantly brown, her hair revealed inconsistent,
scattered grays. Despite the big, round glasses she wore, Asher couldn't help
but notice the wrinkles on her face. They were too eye-catching not to. She had
a white scrub on, contrasting his plain, blue cover-all. Still, the Yellow
Armband stood out the most. She was one of them, a Worker.
Her legs crossed, eyes fixated on a stack of papers, the middle-aged
woman held a ballpoint pen, lips touching it occasionally. She was analyzing
whatever was on one of the papers, Asher concluded. Abruptly, she pointed to
the hospital bed with a free hand and uttered, "Nithar."
As he awkwardly settled on the bed, she repeated, "Nithar, fold your
left sleeve." Her voice carried authority, and Nithar, as if it were the most
natural thing to do, followed her demand, his hands shaking. Stowing her pen
and the stack of papers, she rose from her seat and retrieved two metal
injection tubes. One was green, the other red.
Crouching across from Nithar, she seized his left arm by the elbow,
located a vein – and injected the red metal tube without warning. "This one is
to prevent mutation," she said before swiftly administering the green metal
tube, before Nithar had the time to react. "And this one is to render you
infertile." Discarding both tubes in a trash can, she reclaimed her seat.
"Wh-" Nithar attempted to speak, but a sudden headache enveloped his
skull, forcing him to collapse onto the bed. "You won't be able to stand for
the next few minutes," the woman stated, "Your speech capabilities will be
rendered useless," circling something on one of the papers, her eyes shifted
from one side of the paper to the other, "And your thought process will be much
slower. Your mind will go numb."
Unconcerned about Nithar's
condition, she casually flipped a page in her stack. One of her eyebrows rose,
with a slight smirk forming on her usually tired expression. She appeared
bewildered or amused by whatever she found on that page. "Were you not shaken
by my earlier explanations?" She inquired, the question resonating with Asher
for a moment, "About the purpose of the injections?" He asked but responded
before she got the chance to confirm, "I don't care about the purpose of the
injections that much. I'm sure they won't kill me." His tone was as deadpan as
ever.
The woman chuckled at the
response, gaze briefly shifting to the papers lying on her thighs before she
pointed to the bed and said, "Sit next to Nithar." Asher followed her
instruction without hesitation.
After a few sluggish blinks, Asher managed to open his eyes. Clutching
his head with both hands, he attempted to gather his thoughts, but an
impenetrable fog obscured his memories. Recognition dawned only after his gaze
fell upon the boy to his right, lying on the bed in a pool of sweat,
unconscious – Nithar. They had both undergone the vaccination process. A
lingering sense of doubt enveloped him while observing Nithar, pity evident in
his gaze. The boy hasn't regained consciousness despite being the first to
receive the vaccination.
"He's younger," A familiar, straightforward voice commented,
abruptly halting Asher's thoughts. "That's why he hasn't woken up
yet." The middle-aged Worker, the one who had administered the injections,
adjusted her big, round glasses and added, "He's in the middle of puberty,
making the injections work slower than ordinarily." He was like an open
book. Anyone with enough experience could have guessed his thoughts, so he
wasn't surprised by her sudden intrusion.
"I see," escaped Asher's lips, his expression softening. Aware that
concealing his thoughts or emotions in this deranged state was futile, Asher
behaved naturally – for the first time since arriving at the Playground.
"Anyhow," The woman continued, fingers flipping through a stack of
papers, eyes scanning each page habitually, "I can't waste any more time with
the two of you." Her gaze briefly lifted to Nithar before returning to the
papers. A considerable pause ensued before she remarked, "I see the baldie
didn't take a liking to you." Asher instantly grasped who she meant – the
briefer.
Revisiting the few interactions he had with the briefer, Asher
acknowledged that he hadn't left a favorable first impression. Yet, why should
it matter? He was merely a briefer – a fellow Yellow Armband. Observing Asher's
silence, his conversational partner divulged, "The baldie proposed sending you
to District Four." A slight smirk played across her lips, "That's a Zone –
where we send the unusable. To round up the numbers." His brows furrowed;
confusion etched across his face. Still, he refrained from interrupting the
woman seated across from him.
"Indulging the whims of that egotistical baldie would leave a sour taste
in my mouth," she confessed, her smirk – now a scowl. "So, instead of dancing
to his tune, I've decided to send you to District Thirteen."
Listening to her monologue, Asher found himself increasingly puzzled. He
harbored a handful of questions, each requiring an answer. What authority did
the woman before him wield to dismiss the briefer's proposal with such
indifference? Districts Four and Thirteen - what distinguished one from the
other? Why did she interfere with the briefer's proposal? To put him in his
place? With every passing moment, more questions crowded Asher's mind, and he
understood that the woman across from him wouldn't be offering many answers.
"Can you dismiss such a proposal without any prior consultation?" Asher
inquired, gears in his head turning like never before. If she could, he was
fortunate to still be alive. It implied that one misplaced phrase to the wrong
Yellow Armband could lead to his demise. It meant the Citizens weren't his only
concern anymore.
"Two newly integrated Yellow Armbands are not important enough to
require such a procedure," The woman answered straightforwardly, "And the
baldie can't challenge my decisions. For him – they're final."
Words still lingering on the tip of his tongue, Asher tried expressing
another of his concerns. However, with a single finger pointed at Nithar, the
woman promptly cut him off. "Take the boy out with you. Someone will come fetch
you before nightfall."