A sliver of light pierces through the gap in a heavy iron curtain, casting a pale streak across the olive-toned face of a sleeping boy. He stirs, tossing and turning as the light creeps toward his eyes. Blinking against the haze, he awakens, vision still blurred and mind slow to catch up.
He slowly arises from his flattened-out state. Hunching himself up, he rubs his eyes like he's trying to grind the green right off of them. His head sways from side to side as he cracks his neck, tousled black curls falling in disarray around his face, each strand catching the faint morning light like threads of shadow.
Tsk. Tsk
His lips smack as he tries to make sense of his morning breath. The same reporter—just like yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the one before that—speaks again on the television positioned in front of the bed.
"Good Morning to you all! It's another beautiful day in the Capital. Our Secretary of Defense, Payne Morrison, announced today that it is indeed safe to travel to Sectors H and K. That is, the fiends of the vile regime called 'Defector' have finally been forced out."
The reporters words go in one ear and out the other for the boy. The bed creaks as he sits on the edge of the bed, debating whether it's truly worth it to stand up.
"He also reminds us that anyone can be a 'Defector'- your mom, your friends, or even YOU. That is all for this morning..."
The reporter pumps his fist in the air,
"Forever the Council Shall Reign."
The boy looks at the reporter on the television, unenthusiastically pumping his own fist. He grumbles,
"Forever the Council Shall Reign."
Taking a deep breath, he rises from his bed- almost like his ass was glued to it. His long scrawny feet hit the cold metal floor with a sharp slap as he steps forward. Slowly making his way like a zombie, he moved towards the calendar that's taped on his bedroom wall. Upon reaching it, his finger glides over it looking for the date.
His finger landed on today, the lines reading:
"May 25, 2244"
And inside that little box, labeled in marker:
"GRADUATION DAY! 12:30 PM! DON'T BE LATE…DAD WILL KILL YOU…"
The 'will kill you' part is bolded, circled, underlined and italicized in red.
After reading this, the boy lets out a deep yawn that came from his tired soul. Smacking his lips, he looks at the clock beside his bedrest that reads 12:10 pm. He is most definitely going to be late and yes, his dad will kill him.
Quickly, he wipes his eyes to see if his conscience is deceiving him. And to his surprise, the time he saw was not true- it wasn't 12:10 pm…
It was 12:11 pm...
Slowly turning his head back towards the calendar, he breathes in and releases a calm sigh. Maybe he wasn't worried after all.
"SHIT!"
Maybe he was.
Stumbling from room to room, he clenches a stubborn slice of toast between his teeth—charred to a near-black crisp, yet somehow still edible. He slips into his Academy uniform, a simple grey-collared shirt trimmed with black accents, the fabric a patchwork of worn cottons soft from countless washes.
With a quick, almost clumsy motion, he yanks on his black slacks, wobbling slightly as he hops on one foot to keep his balance. The fabric clings snugly to his long legs, slightly wrinkled from being stuffed in a dresser, but good enough.
Finally, he stomps into his battered sneakers—a junkyard-pickup from the Old Age—that his dad endlessly warns him to toss, though somehow they always resurface from the trash, worn and weathered but refusing to die.
He barrels through the apartment, damn-near sprinting, when a circular implant along his temple flares orange and lets out a sharp beep. In the microsecond it takes him to tap it, his vision floods with cascading blue data streams—messages flooding in, flashing rapidly one after another.
BIG ANGRY GUY
[Hey Mikey, I didn't want to wake you, but I have to head into the office early so I will have to meet you at your graduation. Love you, son!]
7:46 am
BIG ANGRY GUY
[Mikey. Where are you? I told you to be here early, are you still at home?]
11:30 am
The boy, Mikey, smiles with relief. whilst chuckling to himself in pure solace.
"Okay, he doesn't seem that pissed."
BIG ANGRY GUY
[MICHAELGRANT! I'M GOING TO KILLYOU!]
12:11 pm
"Shit."
With his clothes fully on, Mikey stuffs his graduation cap and gown into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. Mikey scrambles around the apartment and again touches his head, holding it down.
"H.E.L.P, turn on..."
After saying this, an automated voice speaks to Mikey,
"Good morning, Michael."
"Mornin' H.E.L.P."
"It looks like you are going to be late for your graduation."
Rushing into the bathroom, Mikey grabs his toothbrush and scrubs like a madman.
"You know, for having a name like H.E.L.P., you're not very helpful."
"I see your sense of humor hasn't vanished yet, Michael."
Now finished with washing his mouth and spitting out the gunk and toothpaste, Mikey speed-walks to the front door of the apartment, stopping just before opening it.
"If I were to take the E-Train would I be late?"
H.E.L.P. takes a second to calculate,
"Accounting for the traffic you would be 20 minutes late to your graduation, resulting in a lash-out from your father."
"So I'm screwed."
"Correct, you are indeed screwed, Michael."
Mikey ponders for a moment while slowly pacing around the apartment, thinking of any way to make it on time. He wants to avoid the beating of a lifetime from his father at all costs. Thinking and thinking some more, inside the deepest part of intellectual thought that his immature mind could possibly conjure, he is interrupted by the flapping of an aircraft.
Mikey rushes to the massive window that spans the far end of the apartment, taking the place of what would normally be a wall. The glass stretches from floor to ceiling, offering an unbroken view of the city far below. He scans the skyline for the source of the noise but sees nothing at first. With a tap of a panel beside the frame, the window hisses open slightly.
Leaning out over the edge, wind tugging at his hair, he spots it—an aircraft hovering in the distance, its design like a black fan turned upright. It hums steadily as it rises, drifting closer to his building—about thirty feet below his level.
"Hey, H.E.L.P?"
"Yes, Michael?"
"Where's that delivery craft headin'?"
"According to its course, I'd say it's heading towards Sector A."
"That's on the way to the venue, right?"
"Correct, why?"
"Oh, no reason…"
Mikey opens the window fully, turns around, and takes some steps back.
"Okay, so hypothetically speaking, and this is totally in the realm of the hypothetical... if I were to jump out of this window and try to land on the craft, would I survive?"
"It would be extremely dangerous."
"Yeah, even I know that. But could I survive?"
"It would be highly unlikely."
"Unlikely… But I still could."
"It's possible, yes. But Michael, I can tell by your heart rate, you are thinking about doing something dangerous."
Mikey snickers under his breath.
"Do not jump out the window, Michael."
Mikey gallops towards the front door, creating space between him and the open window, still stifling a laugh.
"What? No, absolutely not."
He looks to a drawer next to the front door, seeing his academy's pin and an MP3 Player, not unlike his shoes, also originates back to the Old Age.
He first nabs the pin, which the iconic 'Roundtable of Serpents' symbol of 'The Council' are visibly present. He sticks it onto his right breast-pocket.
"Michael, you are lying, do not do it. Michael. "
Mikey swipes the taped and scraped up MP3 player, puts on the headphones, and slowly turns up the music.
'Are You Gonna Be My Girl' by Jet plays, his favorite song from the Old Age.
"I'm not. I already told you I'm-"
He stops, eyes landing on the necklace hanging from a small hook above the drawer. The long silver chain catches the light, dull and aged, with a faded gold bracelet looped through it—its warped shape almost forming an eye. He reaches for it gently, cradling it in his palm like something fragile.
"Sorry, Mom... I almost forgot."
A soft smile flickers across his face—nostalgic, not sad, just remembering. Then, with a practiced motion, he tosses the chain over his head, letting it settle against his thin chest where it belongs.
The aircraft's hum grows louder, now hovering just beneath the window.
Mikey stops mid-step, glancing back at the front door — the slower, safer way down.
He pivots, eyes locking onto the open window at the far end of the apartment. A crooked grin tugs at his lips.
Without another thought, he bolts.
The wind howls through the narrow opening as H.E.L.P. instantly registers what Mikey is doing-slamming the plexiglass panes downward with a sharp hiss
But Mikey's faster.
In one clean motion, he lunges forward — not hesitating, not second-guessing — and hurls himself through the shrinking gap- free-falling out the window.
Because of course he does.