Scene 1: The Education of a Loyal Citizen

The walls of the indoctrination hall loomed tall and sterile, a seamless blend of steel and silence. The rows of identical desks stretched in perfect order, each child seated with their backs straight, hands folded, eyes forward. The only sound was the mechanical voice of Instructor Darran, echoing across the vast, lifeless space.

“The Order has always ensured stability. The world before was chaotic, broken. The Order rebuilt civilization into what it is today—perfect, united, without failure.”

Lucian recited the words alongside his classmates, his voice merging with theirs in monotonous synchrony. But his mind lagged behind the repetition, caught on a phrase that clashed against itself.

"Without failure."

The words on his screen flickered under the overhead light, and he scanned the lesson again. It listed past cities—settlements that no longer existed.

"Failed settlements."

His fingers twitched against the desk.

If The Order was perfect, if it had always ensured stability, how could something under its control fail?

He frowned.

His father had taught him that mistakes were illusions of the weak. There was no failure—only correction.

Then why did these cities no longer exist?

Lucian hesitated for a brief moment before his hand lifted.

The shift in the room was immediate. His classmates remained still, but the air around him grew heavy, charged with unspoken tension. It was unnatural to break the rhythm, to disrupt the flow.

Instructor Darran turned slowly, his expression a perfect mask of indifference.

“Yes, Lucian?”

Lucian’s throat tightened, but the question pressed forward before he could stop it. “If The Order has always been perfect, why were some cities failures?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

His classmates stiffened, their gazes locked on the screens in front of them, as if willing themselves not to exist. Even the ever-present hum of the facility seemed to still.

Instructor Darran regarded him with unreadable eyes.

“There were no failures.”

Lucian blinked. “But it says right here—”

“The lesson is over.”

The screen in front of him dimmed, his access revoked. The words vanished. As though they had never been there at all.

Lucian swallowed hard, his hands curling into his lap. He understood the message.

His name had been flagged.

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That night, the silence at the dinner table was suffocating.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Lucian sat across from his father, the cold plate before him untouched. His mother was absent from the room. Markus Graves, still in his uniform, removed his gloves with methodical precision, his expression unreadable.

Without a word, he gestured for Lucian to follow.

Lucian obeyed.

Markus led him into a separate room—an empty, unadorned space with nothing but a chair and the weight of what was to come. The door shut behind them with an ominous finality, locking out the rest of the world.

Lucian remained standing, his posture straight, his breath controlled. He had been taught not to show hesitation.

Markus faced him, hands clasped behind his back. “Tell me what you did today.”

Lucian hesitated. “I asked a question.”

Markus nodded once. “Why?”

Lucian shifted, pressing his hands together to keep them from shaking. “Because it didn’t make sense.”

Markus stepped closer, his movements measured, precise. He knelt, lowering himself to Lucian’s eye level.

“You believe understanding is necessary?”

Lucian nodded.

The strike came before he could process it. A sharp, calculated slap across his face—not out of anger, not out of emotion. But as correction.

Lucian did not flinch.

Markus’ voice remained calm. “You are wrong.”

Lucian stood rigid, the sting of the blow already fading, but the weight of its meaning settling deep into his bones.

Markus gripped his shoulders firmly.

“Curiosity is the seed of rebellion.”

Lucian swallowed.

“And rebellion,” Markus continued, his voice even, unwavering, “is death.”

Lucian met his father’s eyes. There was nothing behind them. No anger. No disappointment. Only certainty.

He understood.

He would not ask questions again.

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Scene 2: The Friend Who Disappeared

The indoctrination hall was as silent as ever. The sterile hum of the holographic screens, the methodical drone of the instructor’s voice—everything remained unchanged. Every day, Lucian sat at his desk, hands folded neatly, his expression vacant, his mind tamed by routine.

And yet, something had changed.

Lucian knew better than to question. He had learned. But that did not stop him from noticing.

The boy beside him had done the same.

Elias Halloway had arrived in class weeks ago, a quiet, sharp-eyed presence who spoke little but watched everything. Lucian had not sought out his company—friendship was not encouraged, and children were taught early that attachments were liabilities.

But Elias had noticed things. The way Lucian hesitated before repeating doctrine. The way his fingers would twitch ever so slightly when something didn’t add up.

And one day, Elias whispered the unthinkable.

“Do you actually believe any of this?”

Lucian had frozen, his breath catching.

No one asked questions. No one whispered.

The classroom had continued as if nothing had happened, the other children oblivious—or perhaps just pretending to be. Lucian had dared to glance sideways, meeting Elias’ eyes for the first time.

There had been something in them. Not defiance, not yet. But curiosity.

A dangerous thing.

They had never spoken openly. That was impossible. But in the quietest moments, when the instructors weren’t looking, when the routine of indoctrination dulled everyone’s awareness, Elias would find ways to drop bits of thoughts. Thoughts that shouldn’t exist.

“I read something before they deleted it,” Elias had whispered once in the dormitory, his voice barely audible beneath the hum of the facility’s cooling systems. “Before The Order, there were nations. They fought wars. But The Order says there was never war.”

Lucian had felt his pulse in his throat.

"Why do they lie?" Elias had asked.

Lucian had never answered.

He had learned his lesson.

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The morning felt no different than any other. Lucian entered the indoctrination hall, his movements precise, his expression empty. The desks were arranged as they always were, the screens glowing softly, the instructor standing at the front, preparing the day’s lesson.

But Elias’ seat was empty.

Lucian blinked.

The instructor did not acknowledge it.

The students did not turn to look.

The lesson began.

Lucian’s fingers curled under the desk.

It was as if Elias had never existed.

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That night, Lucian walked through the dormitory halls, his pace measured, his face neutral. He reached the bed where Elias had slept. The sheets were smooth. The space was undisturbed.

Gone.

Not reassigned. Not punished.

Erased.

Lucian turned, scanning the room, searching for any flicker of recognition in the others' faces. But his classmates were silent, eyes down, following routine. No one dared to look.

No one dared to ask.

Lucian swallowed, his throat tight.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind.

"Curiosity is the seed of rebellion. And rebellion is death."

Lucian turned away from the empty bed and climbed into his own. He pulled the thin blanket over himself, his posture identical to the others. His breathing slowed, controlled, even.

He would not ask.

He would not question.

Elias Halloway had never existed.

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