Emelia walked with her to the school building, a dingy, old three-story thing with rusting walls and large circular windows that popped out from the sides. It stood out amongst the highrises. The door opened with loud yawns. The school had two robocops from the last century, a time when robots still weren't humaniod. They had gotten lucky to even get these two. The retro robots were all but useless.
There was no structure. lesson plans came from the state, but they seemed like afterthoughts. And the one goal was to try and keep the children off the streets. It was one of the reasons she hated to carry a weapon; she wanted to show them that they could live peacefully and that they didn't have to rely on violence. It was a stupid thought, and she knew it, but she hung to her ideals. They had 5 teachers, and out of the few hundred students who should have come, only a handful ever attended, some of their own free will, others because their parents hoped for a better future for them. A hope she did not want to break. The other schools were not much better but her school was in an area worse than the others. Of course, not everyone took to the streets; to say that would have been a lie, Level 1 functioned like every other level and had people from all walks of life. They needed cashiers, business owners, mechanics, and doctors. It was just different if, on the other levels, kids strove to become doctors and dreamt of being lawyers or programmers. Here, they didn't. Here, they dreamt of getting food on the table and living a life that was a little more comfortable. The ones that dreamed were different. Their drive is almost monstrous. She also once had such a drive.
Once she had a future in academia, she was set to finish in a year and start working for the academy. At that time, she did not value this opportunity. Yes, she had worked hard starting from the age of 14, spending nights and days shadowing professors and academics, but back then, she was also content living as a pet to the elites. The job promised after her completion at the academy could have offered her opportunities to work all over the universe, on different planets and colonies. It could have boosted her family up to level 7 or even out of this city to a place with less corruption. The academy held a lot of intergalactic influence. Now, she was on level 1, teaching basic math and English to a few rotating students. That day the rifle felt heavy on her back.
Emelia followed her into the classroom; it was not as if it mattered who came. The robo-cops flashed smiles onto their faces as they passed. The classroom housed 5 students, 2 less than last week, and an old hologram. The hologram a good 20 years older than the ones on the upper levels. They muttered a greeting to her and Emelia. She made her way to the front of the classroom and Emelia to one of the windows. There was no point in asking; she knew that Emelia was on the lookout. For a long time, nothing happened; she lectured, her students asked questions and took notes, and she hoped that it would stay that way.
Turning to the hologram, she noticed that Emelie had flinched away from the window. Emelie held up three fingers and pointed out the window.
Turning off the hologram, she turned to the students, who ranged from 9 to 14. It wasn’t the first time one of the clans decided to harass the school. Usually, it was for initiation for some of the smaller gangs, but that wasn’t the point. The metal of the rifle suddenly felt cold against the fabric of the shirt. Icy cold. She wanted to keep them safe, away from the violence, which meant keeping those assholes away from the classroom. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. Yet she still couldn't get used to it.
Everyone knew she hated to use force. She was the token pacifist. She hated to fight, she hated to cause pain, she hated everything about the culture of violence that festered here. They all said that, eventually, she would get used to it. But she doubted that anyone could get used to the violence and inequality.
“Eme, keep them safe. Don’t open the door unless you know that it's me.”
Swinging the rifle around and taking it into her grasp, it felt as if it was ready to sink from her sweaty hands into the ground and take her with it. She took a deep breath and activated the weapon, its crevices blinking blue as it turned on. Then she walked out the door.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"Lockdown," she said, activating the lockdown feature. She did not wait for Emelia’s reply. There was no need.
They were already in the building. The robocops, most likely destroyed, melted into a puddle of metal and wires. Unaware or uncaring about what waited for them within. She was lucky that he had forced her to come with him to the range and forced her to train. He had made her a good shot. The beam rifle she had shot invisible rays of matter that, once hitting its target, would work to dissolve a hole the size of a tennis ball into the victim. It was the most awful weapon she had ever used, the effects horrendous, the screams of pain haunting, but it was the most effective, considering most street thugs could only get their hands on low-grade Ray guns. Especially new recruits. With proper use of the rifle, the victim could make it out alive, missing a limb or two.
Ray guns, although cheap, needed proper trajectory and hard work to kill with. They were dangerous for other reasons. The ray was invisible to the human eye and traveled at the speed of light. Theoretically, avoidance was possible. In reality, it was almost impossible. First, needing to calculate the trajectory, see the glowing tip of the gun to do so, and remove yourself from that trajectory in milliseconds, if not faster.
She saw them before they saw her. She knew that she could have attacked then, but they looked so young, not much older than her students. Three lanky boys stood at the entrace who couldn’t have been older than 17 dressed all in black, faces obscured by half visors that showed the growth of pubescent patchy facial hair, made their way towards the stairs. She put pressure on the trigger, energy collecting at the tip. To shoot all she would need to do was press down fully. This technique gave her the upper hand allowing her. Making her shot just a tad bit faster.
“Stop!” she shouted.
They froze for a second, searching through the dim hallways for the voice before noticing her at the bend of the stairs. For an instant, they stood silent; she hoped that they were thinking and mulling over their decision. Then one of them chuckled, “Miss Fri, it's better you don’t get in our way,” one of them said. She recognized the voice of her former student, Zer. Her heart dropped to her stomach, and nausea hit her at the thought of hurting someone she had taught.
They aimed their rayguns at her, the glowing blue tips stark against the dim hallway. Didn't they find it wrong to threaten the teacher who had tirelessly spent years with them?
“You were nice to me, Miss Fri. I don’t want to hurt you.”
If she wasn’t detail-oriented, she wouldn’t have noticed the aim of the small silver guns with round, oval bodies, and she wouldn’t have noticed the change of his trigger finger. He didn’t aim somewhere lethal. It was a moment's decision, her body moving as if on its own; she pushed the trigger, aiming at his hand. A hand lost is not a life lost. The blue bullet hit his knuckle; a deafening scream followed. She ducked, and they shot. Zer screamed. Then they stopped.
“Shit, his hand is melting!” one of the three yelled.
“Fuck,” his accomplice shouted.
She peered and stood up, now pointing the gun at the other boy, the barrel already glowing blue.
“Get lost,” she growled, grinding her teeth to keep from yelling. Anger, sadness, regret, and nausea threatened to spill out of her voice. They turned to look at her.
“Fuck you lady!” One of them yelled, but instead of aiming at her, grabbed Zer under the arm and slowly turned to leave. They dragged a screaming, groaning, half-conscious Zer out through the doorway.
She did not move, watching the old rusting door swing shut behind them. His screams still echoing, bouncing around her skull. She vomited on the stairs and stood leaning on the railing, looking at the contents of her morning; they were pink. On any other day, she would have made an effort to clean it up, but today, she stepped over the stairs covered in vomit and walked toward her classroom on the third floor. A numbness took over as if, with the pink muck, all her emotions had also been emptied onto the concrete stairs. It was disgusting that the only thing she could think was that maybe now, at least one of her students wouldn’t be able to continue his life of crime. She laughed; who was she kidding? He would just get a cyborg's arm and keep going.
In a haze, she dismissed her students. Emelia guided her out of the building, stepping over pink vomit without question. Emelia mumbled something about shock that she needed to rest and guided her home, where she locked the door and, cursing under her breath, went to get ready for her own job. She sat looking out the window on one of the stools around the counter for hours until the sun had set and neon lights replaced what should have been stars. It was then that she realized she needed a drink, or two, or more; she needed to flush away the guilt and poison her body until she could remember nothing from the day.