T Minus…

I still remember the days before we were cast off to this world. And the fear, that any day could have been our last, to an oppressive rule, viewing us as scum, undeserving of life…

My country, from beyond the stars? It went from a victim of hate, to a deliverer of malice...

"Spare None, A#~" By a cut off sound, did I discard the thought of some hate fueled song, as my thoughts went to some imagined bedroom that looked outright foreign, under that "modern" design. Of furniture both fit for a noble, yet is far less sturdy than even a peasant's drawer.

Let's start with what I could remember of some dead, average man… The man in my dream's name is Clyde, whose last family or trade name my dream didn't bother to mention. From what I imagined of that plain man; Clyde had dreams and aspirations of his own, to become a valuable member of society employed under a reliable company. Followed with a family under his belt. Yet the failure of not being 'good' enough for a stable job, not even hirable by some dreaded "Black Company" guild, had plagued him with nightmares. More so, as the very society Fero hailed from, increasingly viewed those deemed unemployed like him, "worthless piece of scum", to a tune akin to an evil empire speech wanting acceptable targets to wipe out of existence, by the malice of its own civilians, thirsting for blood.

For the lot that got discarded to our world. Those who cannot have, get or keep a job in due time. Were treated as "Never do wells", their value worse than worthless, but a detriment of a "security" threat, set to be erased from existence as 'terrorists', or 'leeches' against society.

In a way, this sort of bias is no different from how our realms treat bandits and vagrants, those marked for death for predating upon our hard working peasants and crafters.

Yet in spite of not being given a chance by Fero's society. I couldn't help but feel that Clyde was among the few who still persisted, even after he was dragged into hell with "us lot" until the bitter end (Fero's, that is). Even when that stigma of being 'unemployable' grew to the point of having his family cut him out from their lives. A common event from valued civilians not wanting their future prospects to be tainted by an "undesirable". Heard from Clyde his last contact with his father, was being encouraged to 'die', before he stains his relatives' prospects.

For "us lot", Clyde among them; those not stuck knee deep in crime. We did our best to ignore the rising crime and violence against those marked 'vulnerable' to an ever more isolated society. Not caring (some of us, even happy) when criminals 'disappeared' instead of being jailed by the court of law. Until eventually, he and I, among others became victims of a government sanctioned disappearances. That makes you wish we were executed instead.

From those thoughts, I had fears that society could have become a haunted one by its own malice. But the only thing haunting Fero's world was madness by trauma and fatigue. Or stigma, by tainted association. Any spiritualism his society had, was corroded by a nationalist madness to purge the undesirables, as enemies to their society.

In a way, it's unfortunate, yet informative. Of how in spite of how advanced his society was in 'technology'. They weren't that different from the baser instincts, and desires from humanity. To oppress those that are different from the standard doctrine. Made worse by a decadent empire, that has discarded any spiritual concerns for atonement and redemption, by the ever attractive bell of "capital punishment", that has been enacted by a leader more obsessed with the material reality, built by the blood and suffering of many a bygone era. And whose malice was primed to execute even cripples, for being a drain on "the taxpayers money".

He vaguely recalled a proverb from another country that covered how future warlords were born. They rose, by burning the very home towns and villages that denied them love. Except We were born and raised with far more love than what a noble parent could give out of humble background. Yet ultimately, we are hated in the end as outcasts. All for failing to fit in society's expectations of being employable humans for an extended amount of time.

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I had nostalgia on how "Fero" and Clyde weren't good enough to get a job ultimately. Be it by a perceived disability by society, or life's circumstance making one unable to move house to secure a job, as needed. If one cannot drive to a work environment, then lord help you on even being a hired driver. Assuming, one doesn't get allowed in due to being "overqualified" by a healthy degree in education, a peasant would have no chance in gaining.

I also thought of crime, and how its blurred assumptions and slander with slackers led to the point of "Judges" walking around the streets, shooting "not good enoughs" as justified, social cleansing. Committing murder after hours, that won't see them suffer arrest under the due cause of "self-defence". I also thought about the imaginary golems that have also, progressively taken away entry levels for struggling employee's to get a headstart on a desired career. But they were footnotes, compared to how it's gotten to the point where their society viewed giving help as an excuse to snare and execute desperate job seekers as perceived threats to society.

But my thoughts are more on how Clyde got stranded with "us lot", from what Fero could recall. He recalled how Clyde was dejected and demotivated for his over a hundredth rejection response, in person for a mere retail job. It was at nighttime hours, and he was walking back home on a long bridge, with barriers at the edges.

At that time, he needed to take a walk to clear his mind. Though at that time, Clyde admitted he couldn't help but stare at the rocky terrain, contemplating the option of suicide before his desire and will to live cancelled it out. He recalled faintly hearing gunfire, and violence screaming in the air. But those were the sounds he didn't care about. Not wanting to be involved in even more illegal crime, or background execution as he walked by that bridge.

That was when Clyde was held at knife point, by some hooded man in rags, who bumped into his personal space, with hatred in his eyes.

"Where's ya money!?" As that blade dug into his neck. I heard Clyde kept his cool instead of panicking, even as he felt his arse being touched by the hooded man, aiming to take what little savings he had left in pocket, to live for one more day. "Take one step, and you die. So what's it gonna be, bruv? Pay the toll, or pay the price."

He grabbed the blade digging at his neck, desperation over attempted murder, making Clyde follow some online self-defence move that in this case, saved his life that time. Compared to the many times it led to another dead body for cleaners to remove.

He grappled the blade's edge, threw the thug to the ground as he disarmed the blade that cut at his hand. Pointing the blade menacingly at the thug that tried to mug him, before throwing the blade to the side of the bridge.

I recall he glared at the thug, trying to sidestep away from him. In giving a warning to his attempted assaulter, as he walked towards an overdue rent. "Do yourself a favour, and go." The words he said that night to de-escalate the conflict, had triggered the thug there. For in the society I came from, the words were indistinguishable from the word "die".

"You in trouble now, man." Words, the thug was prepared for, his muscles tensed as he pulled another knife. One more ragged, and stained with some blood, as he rushed towards Clyde with a mind set towards gutting his resisted target to death.

Fortunately for Clyde. His past training with a martial arts club paid off. As he braced himself to avoid most of that thug's psychotic attacks from penetrating his stomach. Every attempted thrust by that menace, as unfeeling as his limb was unmoved. He was even hitting back at the thug's attacks, after a struggle to avoid being lacerated by that sharpened blade of the bandits.

Eventually, that thug made a slip, when he switched a stance towards another ruthless attempt, to murder Clyde in cold blood. Only, for the thug's arm-to-shoulder to be grappled, and pressed hard against a supported fence. His knife taken from him, as his menacing dagger was pointed towards the thug's neck.

"I told you, go." The only words Clyde bothered to speak to his persistent pursuer in loathing. As he pushed the edge of that blade into cutting into that bandit's throat. Digging deep into the collar of his neck, before with a heft and some effort, Clyde threw the bleeding corpse out of the fenced bridge, before he could be tried for murder.

Just as he was about to enact his own clean up. That was when he was knocked off by the neck of a rifle. By the death squad that frequently patrolled the streets for hooligans to execute, in the name of social cleansing.

Hindsight. It'd have been a mercy if he were shot in the back, right then and there…