- At some point in history, the powers that be realized subjugation does not need to be forced but laced with milk and honey. – 

That feeling of dread found deep down in your being is the best motivator from what I have experienced. Nothing else will pucker your ass and put a stride in your step than the existential fear that comes with facing a dwindling future. If it was up to me, I would be neck-deep in ferrofluid, mindlessly gorging on vids, while my bodies inherent magnetism is fed upon by whoever is interested in that fluxin shite. My Ma' has been making me enter the sector sanctioned raffle for well over a decade now. I do not see why she always gets her hopes up, a mid sector puker is always chosen each quarter. Every time I refuse to go wait in line; I get to hear the same story about how "Ryham Wheld from 2 corridors down" being picked one year before I came of age to enter. Everyone knows her Ma' gave the proctors something a little extra that quarter to get her in. My dearest mother will never let that go and she will also never let me through that door tonight for dinner if I don't have my raffle slip. So, I appease the masses of responsibility with my presence, in the line, this fluxin line.

            Not many people close to my age even show up to these events anymore. It’s turned into a complete spectacle. A few years back I decided that the meager parade, vendors lining the streets, and the continual sound of the band banging on was to keep us from bashing each other’s heads in while waiting for what feels like forever. The worst part is I swear it gets exponentially longer every quarter.

            What saddens me the most is looking at these freshie faces and them reminding me of the youth and wonder I once had. I bought into the sector raffle and let it consume me as a child. I heard wondrous stories of how Wheld’s mother was so proud of her daughter and all of her accomplishments. No one really knew what those accomplishments are, but we guessed they were important. I had dreamed that Ryham was far away from our low sector, flying in the behemoths my cousins construct in the tech canyons. I still remember the feeling of how insignificant I was when I visited the canyons, I felt an urge to know where the behemoths travel and leave the lower sector. I still feel that urge now but it has been dampened by the indifference that comes with poverty.

            My Ma’ questions why I’m not the sweet and curious boy that I once was. I don’t know when or why I lost it, just that it’s gone. I can see that spark that I once had in the young boy that stands in front of me. He is holding his Pa’s hand while marveling at the large scrap floats passing by. His brothers and sisters are in line in front of them, you can see that spark gradually fading with their age. That young boy will have a fresh face for many cycles but soon it will weather. When he realizes it’s all rigged in the upper sector’s favor. The uppity bastards live a plush life on the backs of the common folk. What I would give to just see the sky and not surrounded by rusted metal. When I was a child, I thought the sector raffle would take me far away, to a place I could not even imagine. I know better to get my hopes up now.

            It has been a quarter cycle in this line, I recognize most of the faces around me. I feel as if everyone else participating is way too young or I could be just too old. There are a few rust heads throwing scrap at the floats, harassing the logo girls that are on display. One ugly looking boy, who is quite large, picked up and threw a questionably jagged piece of scrap. It nearly knocked out the logo girl perched to the back left of the float closest to the line, a nasty gash formed on her left cheek. No one in the crowd says a word, lower sector folk have an uncanny ability to keep quiet when witnessing wrongdoing.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The ugly looking boy reaches down for another piece of scrap, “Stop that! You leave her alone!” the fresh-faced boy yells at the top of his lungs and moves towards the group of rust heads. The boy’s father tries to pull him back, but the boy persists.

The group of rusters at first looked confused not knowing who called out to them, but when they see the size of the boy they sneer. The ugly looking one easily has a head taller than the fresh-faced boy’s father, three or four heads over the boy.

“Mind your own business you little puke.”, a twisted face ruster says from the back of the group.

“No! I said leave them alone!” the small boy steps closer to the rusters.

“Jonathan, stop! Let it go!” the father exclaims to his son. I see fear not only in the father’s eyes but also the small boy’s sibling have shrunken down into themselves.

“Listen to your Pa’ before I slag you and your family”, the ugly ruster walks straight to the small boy and grabs him by the arm. He lifts the boy off his feet and holds him high in the air.

The other rusters push around the boy’s family, forming a barricade to keep them from being able to jump in to help their sibling. The boy’s brothers and sisters do not even make a move, his sisters cry out, and the father lashes out towards his son. “I will report every one of you to the guard! You let my boy dow—UGH!” the twisted face ruster sucker-punched the father. He drops to the ground.

I have had enough. I am tired of how the people around me do nothing about anything. Always letting themselves be preyed upon. It makes me sick that the small boy’s older brothers do nothing to help their sibling.

I slip behind the large ugly one still holding the boy in the air. I drive my heel into the joint of his knee, I see his leg bend in an awkward angle from not being able to hold his and the boy’s weight. They both crash to the ground.

The ruster to my left grabs a hold of my shoulder and throws weak jabs to my head, it stings but I quickly thrust my weight into him, and we end up in a grapple. The smaller rusters are jeering from the back of the pack, “Flux him up! Flux him up!”

I fall to the ground and see the large ugly boy has gotten up and is looking at the boy that threw me down, “Mick, stop humping that mutt. He’s mine.” The boy I was fighting looks annoyed but waves his hand towards me as if inviting the ugly boy to our scuffle, “All yours Dio, I just wanted to rough him up a bit for the cheap shot he got on you.”

Dio has a twisted look on his face when he moves towards me. I roll to my feet and raise my fists to protect my face. Dio throws a haymaker into my raised arms, I move back to avert the force. The pack of rusters behind push me back into the now raging Dio. Unfortunately for him, his friends pushed me into his guard. I get in close and smash my forehead into his nose. I can feel the bone crack and blood spatter onto my skin. He reels back, I attempt to throw another jab, but I am dazed from the head butt and miss.

I can hear a girl’s shrill voice yelling; I cannot discern what she is saying. Dio reaches to his nose and then looks to me with a blood-filled hatred. He bulldozes into me taking both of us to the ground. Somehow, I ended up on top, but I do not feel at an advantage. Dio’s hands are like vices wrapped around my neck and arm. I can feel an intense pressure building in my head as I can’t get a breath in.

I hear the sound of a whistle blaring in my ears. I feel a blunt force impact the back of my head. I see only black.