"But, in all honesty, who am I?"
Harry remembers when he was first assigned to his job.
It's a law that every single person must go to The Movement Headquarters during the first six months after they've turned eighteen. From what he had heard before he went, everyone is being watched and assessed over the course of their lives, and The Movement takes in their mannerisms and asks questions about what job they will be best at. Then, at the end of the course, a person would be assigned their daily task for the rest of their lives. They also get a microchip equipped with a dining plan, that's installed in their home software, that best goes with what is to be done daily based off of their answers to the questions. Nobody can change the occupation they are given, as The Movement knows what's best from their analysis of everyone, and they factor that with what would best benefit society as a whole. It's how peace is kept, or summat.
From what he remembers, Harry wasn't exactly dreading the day he went to Headquarters; his mum seems happy with the job she has, and so does his father. He's sure Gemma would have been fine with what she would have been given, too. So, when his Superior escorted him to Headquarters years ago, she had instructed him to dress in his best kit, and she even had some sort of a smile threatening to form on her thin lips that morning.
"You're going to go to the third cube and sit in the chair," she had said, "You only have to say your last name."
Harry nodded, they were taking a sleek tube to Headquarters. The windows were blacked out, but he could tell they were moving fast from how it felt like he wasn't really moving at all even though his ears were popping from the sudden change of speed. He remembered what Gemma told him about the black windows, "Nobody knows how to get to Headquarters," she had written into an old scribe one night when they couldn't sleep and he was still scared of the long shadows of the night. "Because if someone knew, it'd be easier to find them and attack."
Harry cleared his throat, his Superior, with her tired crows feet branching from the sides of her eyes - probably from how often she squinted while staring at people like she was reading them in just one long glance - pushes him to walk forward with a strong hand.
"Go to the third cube, Harry," she said slowly, emphasizing its importance.
He thought about what would happen, for one impulsive second, if he didn't go to the third cube; if men in white suits would tackle him to the ground and cut off his feet or something for disobedience. He nodded to Superior's words instead. I shouldn't be thinking like this, he thought, his throat had felt tight. He straightened his shoulders and tried not to think at all.
Headquarters was everything that Harry expected; stainless steels, spotless glass, and an overabundance of pure white. He worried that his shoes would leave marks from where he subconsciously slid them against the floor. (They didn't). He could tell who the Superiors were, seeing as they were the ones encased in white, crisply ironed kits, and the guards were toting white tasers in their hands. He remembers how he felt like everyone was eying him, waiting for him to make a mistake and show a sign of rebellion.
"Third cube," his own Superior mumbled under her breath before walking towards a large set of double doors marked in red with 'Superiors Only', leaving Harry standing alone in the throngs of people, civilians and Superiors alike. He felt his chest loosen as soon as she was gone. His Superior made him apprehensive, like he was scaling a thin rope between two high flying hover boards.
The cubes were just that -- glass cubes. Each one had large white desks with people clad in more white sitting behind them. Their postures were impeccable, Harry noted, and they all had their hands folded on top of their scribes; each one an eerily mirrored image of the next. The massive glass encasements around them were almost undetectable if it wasn't for the gleam of the fluorescent lighting striking the glass along with the way that none of the voices carried from outside of the desks. It was alarmingly quiet in the whole lobby, even though there had to be at least a thousand people in there.
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these bountiful silencesFanfiction
[larry ; complete] They live in a world where they're only allowed to say four words a day. Harry meets some people that don't want to live that way. [ranked #29 in fanfiction] - all rights reserved @tommoandbambi ©