So as you can see, I've posted not one, but two stories. This is to make up for the lack of reading material on the blog as of late. This next one is somewhat special, because it's turning out to be longer than it should, so I'm splitting it up into parts. Hopefully it'll keep you all entertained enough that you'll want to read more. Hopefully.
Tattle-Tale
My latte grew cold as I patiently awaited my transfer. I had been to the Conservatory before, but this was a special trip. One that I hoped would garner me favor with the Corporation and secure a brisk promotion. I’d only been with them a smattering of months, but already I’d burned my name in the minds of several foundation heads with my blunt self-advertisement of ideas and through the maintenance of my presence in their weekly Estate Conferences. A crisp new suit and haircut I felt was the ticket to an even higher profile as well, but making sure I memorized every Adminassistants name was equally as imperative. Without them, how would I ever manage to score those important appointments most of my colleagues desperately sought.
Sipping from my cup, my mind flexed in anticipation. I checked the palmcorder on my wrist for the time and abruptly paced to and fro across the clean, alabaster floor. Throwing my cup away, I peered at my reflection in the ground, I gently smoothed down my hair in fretfulness. The shearing I’d received from the stylist was superb, but somehow I felt naked.
He’d calmly started to pace around the chair as I sat waiting for feedback. “They treat you well over there?”
“Excuse me?” I responded, somewhat perplexed at his direction.
“The Corporation. You do work there don’t you?” He was spot on. “You Transfer-Mediates always get the same pruning before it’s your time.”
The polyvinyl stool stretched underneath, squeaking, as I adjusted my position. “Well, I don’t know if it’s my time just yet, but I hope to be ready if it is.”
“Good luck.”
It seems even the most trivial of acquaintances knew my work, or at least of related ideas of my work. Feigning ignorance over small conversations pertaining to my employment was useless. Citizens knew what you did when they recognized that blank, glossy look in your eyes. A brilliant side-effect of measures the conservatory Admittance men had on my fellow Corporatitions. Mine had long since gone from a cerulean blue to lucid gray years ago, during the early years of Doctrinal Exposure, Reservational Continuity, and Transitional Permanence. “I miss the clouds in your eyes when the sun was out.” My mother would tell me now.
The reminder implant underneath my right earlobe buzzed as my supposed appointment time passed. Conservatory call-ups were rarely on time. Many speculated it was a tactic meant to test and frustrate. Personally, I felt relieved I had those extra hours to avoid confrontation.
I took this knowledge to stroll through the towering outer doors. Frosted glass covering each imposing portal as a reminder that we could see out when others could not see in. Just how we liked it. A taxi scooted by, all three wheels above-ground buzzing across the grassy streetways with passengers I thought I recognized. Its pale yellow sheen glittered in the warm autumn sunlight obscuring them. Another distraction I did not desire as my mind should stay focused on answering dogmatic inquiries. My confidence wavered, but fleeing to the indoor safety would only cause more panic.
Despite the need for focus, I wandered to the nearest commport for immediate informational discharge. Several were occupied at the moment, but there always happened to be one available when necessary. It’s as if the city knew you were craving that media fix and sprouted new commport as needed. Maybe one was born for every 10 new Citizens. Hard to fathom, but conceivable.
Extracting the serial cord from my palmcorder, I numbly plugged myself in and awaited my daily dose. Each commport monitor was encased in a luminescent concave shell that appeared to reflect the mood of the user. Mine turned a fastidious shade of orange, but I wished it had been a peaceful aquamarine. Unfortunately as this crossed my mind, the orange exploded with furious lemon flecks.
It seemed the International Takeover Act was progressing smoothly, with each Media Blitzkrieg enveloping smaller Business Units every day. Third-party entrants without Corporate Political Tech were swallowed whole. Independent Manufacturing Bodies disappeared inside the surrounding Electoral Advertisement Monoliths. Without Corporate Sponsorship, these governing structures rarely were able to tread water.
My implant vibrated tenaciously again, signaling my presence was necessary. Unplugging the s-cord swiftly, my feet turned and brought my body to bear towards the conservatory. Pressing flat soles to the cement, I proceeded through the entrance and reset my attentions towards the imminent exams. A stocky Admittance man approached me.
“It’s your time.” His flat tone did not strike me as odd. His vapid expression spoke volumes about our business. A thick, red armband he wore in concert with his inky uniform was unusual, however. My confusion could not be contained as my voice answered back waveringly.
“Lead the way.” I’d hoped these words would come out strongly, but instead I spat them out as if they’d been a bad lunch within my stomach.
Pointing two fingers as obvious direction, he grunted in agreement. The reply was curt, but rightfully so, Admittance men had more important matters to attend to than to escort young Employees as myself. I only hoped my meeting would go well. No Employee wants to face the Conservatory Bloodhounds, but as I said before, it was my time.
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