"But, in all honesty, who am I?"
i. hazard
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.
Then again, it's quiet everywhere. Everyone is constantly saving their words for something bigger, better, and more important for later on in the twenty-four hours. It's quite nerve-wracking, the seconds before someone decides to say something, there's always this merciless mantra of questions that evades Harry's mind before he says something that can be accurately summarized in one inquisition: is this word worth it?
He had swallowed over the nerves that were forming in his throat and walked over to the third cube, a tight smile sitting stiffly on his lips, almost like he was trying to silently get across that he's not trying to cause any harm, and to please disregard him. He feels like there's a red target always sitting between his shoulder blades; warning everyone else that he was the brother of an Unconformist, and shouldn't be trusted. A door he didn't notice slid open as he neared the cube, and a petite woman with her hair pulled out of her face smiled at him tightly. Everything is so tight, cold, and cryptic, Harry noted as he stepped into the cube.
"Hello," she said, her pleasant smile vanished as she unfolded her hands so that they could hover over a sleek, new scribe; a model of the tech that he'd never even seen before. "Your name?"
He cleared his throat and she readied her fingers over the keyboard. "Styles," he said.
The woman blinked at him, but didn't press down on the keys like Harry expected she would. Instead, she just folded her hands back over the desk and smiled, less coldly now. He heard the door whoosh behind him as it shut. He shivered.
"Mr. Styles," she said. One of her fingers were clicking against the desk in a sporadic beat. "I've been expecting you."
Me? He wanted to ask. He didn't, though. His bracelet already read 03, and it made him anxious.
"You already have an occupation assigned to your name," she asserted.
But I haven't even been screened... How do you know what fits me best? He felt like crying. This isn't what he was told would happen.
"You should be very grateful, Mr. Styles," she said. The glass door opened behind him once again, and he could feel the air leaking in from the lobby brushing the nape of his neck. He felt like the air purifier was mocking him with its steady humming.
He nodded, because who was he to fight anything that someone in white told him?
"Your Superior will explain everything," she stood up briskly and held out her gloved hand. He shook it slowly. His mind was racing because nothing was making sense; she had only asked him one question. "Have a good day."
His only thought as he had left the cube and walked to where his Superior was standing beside the exit was the low voice of the television announcer's voice declaring, "This is our lives now.'"
;;
"Mister Harry, do you know what my favorite color is?" Lux asks. A stray piece of her blonde hair is falling in her eyes. She doesn't pay it any mind, though, so he doesn't either.
Harry leans forward, elbows resting on his desk, shaking his head slowly. He lets a smile take over his face, and the small girl stands on her toes so that she can look properly over the white surface.
"It's grey," she whispers, eyes blown with excitement, almost as if she's buzzing with excitement because she's just shared a life changing secret.
He raises one eyebrow, nodding for her to go on.
"My mum say it's undeshined," she tells him, "that it doesn't fit in anywhere, but it's weird without it."
"Undefined," Harry corrects. His bracelet number is '02' now. There are still a few hours before sunset and he can be sent home from work.
"Yeah! That! I like grey," Lux smiles and blows her hair away from over her eyes. "Hey, Mister Harry, do you know how old I am?"
He doesn't have any chance to answer, because she is already squealing, "Eight! I'm a whole eight years old!"
Harry widens his eyes, feigning surprise even though he is well aware of her age. Every child is just turning eight when they walk into the glass doors of where Harry works. He is the receptionist for the part of Headquarters that manipulates the word amounts of individuals. He has sat through many birthdays with small, clueless children, watching as they spend their last moments being able to say as many words as they can; soaking in each desperate last syllable with an eerie knot of dread forming low in his stomach as he realizes that these kids are about to have their lives forever changed. He shouldn't feel bad, this is the only way that society can function peacefully. It's just a bit sad that children have to be victims.
"And today's my birthday," she whispers once again, her pudgy hands making minuscule marks on his desk. She clutches her hands against the pristine edge, using the desk to hoist her small feet up in the air.
"Happy Birthday," he says, glancing down at his wrist. '00', and the day is not even over. He doesn't feel any trace of regret, though, because he feels like they were two final words well spent.
"Thank you, Mister Harry."
He looks down at his scribe, studying the small, smiling picture of Lux in the right corner that is paired along with all of her genetic information. He tries not to wince when the elevator doors open with a muted, ringing tone that echoes through the lobby. The sound of heels walking across the marble floor follows directly after.
"Lux Atkins? We're ready for you now," a man in white says, voice low as he moves to stand in front of Lux.
Lux smiles at the man warmly. "Alright." She begins to follow the man towards the lift, but she pauses before walking into the glass cube. "Bye, Mister Harry! I'll see you later." She waves giddily before stepping into the lift with the Superior.
Harry glances down at his scribe, pursing his lips together as he minimizes the window. He hates this part. The getting to know a child before letting them go, unknowingly, to have their lives changed. It makes his heart feel like it's hurtling down the side of a building, forever approaching a tumultuous fall that leaves him gasping for air; consumed with a certain brand of pain that is forever etched into his memory. The sliding doors open and another child walks in. A smile plays beautiful games on their thin lips with a raw type of innocence that can only be stolen through a nerve-ending manipulating surgery that forever changes them. He wishes that he could help them in some way, or at least prepare them, but he can't. This is just the way that the world works, and he should accept that.
In the span of an hour, Lux comes thundering out of the lift, and the pale yellow lights that illuminate the room reflect off of the bracelet that is freshly embedded into her skin. She detaches from the Superior to stand in front of his desk with a smile so bright and radiant that it could be compared to sunshine. Her eyes glowing with vibrant excitement.
She looks at Harry and smiles. "Hello, Mister Harry, I -" she begins but is cut off by the sound of her own broken wheezing. She raises her hand up to her throat, eyes wild with confusion and her new bracelet bleeding out a large '00'.
Please don't waste your words on me, Harry wants to say, but it's too late. He wants to rip the bracelet off the girl, even though it's now attached to her body. (He learned during his first few days here that while everyone is under anesthesia, doctor's break and reconstruct the bones in order to make room for the bracelet to be a permanent fixture of everyone's bodies.) He watches as Lux's blue eyes swim with unshed tears, and he wishes that he could explain how her whole life is going to be rewritten now. That all of the words she had been taught and tested over will now be something that she constantly frets over.
Instead, he stays behind his desk as she is led out of the building. Her cries follow her as she is led out. Harry really hates his job, he doesn't know why he was given it. He's not fit for it.
Sometimes, he thinks he is facing punishment for what Gemma did. That he was given a job equivalent to the Grim Reaper of voices - sending children off to have their vocal chords receive a maximum limit and hearing their last free words - all because Gemma decided that she didn't want to live a life with only four words per day. He wonders if The Movement thought that maybe she wasn't punished severely enough, and that this awful occupation was given to him as an afterthought.
The Movement is a cruel thing, Haz. Gemma had told him this several times during the late nights when she would whisper tales of people being free and happy. He just has trouble reminding himself to not believe her.
His scribe brightens with a small reminder that's marked in red calling for his attention. He expands the box until the scribe shows a hologram of blue words reminding him that he needs to go for his allotted lunch break. Harry slides out of his seat, grabbing his satchel and hooking it over his shoulder before putting a sign, that signifies that he's on break, over his desk. The lift is filled with blinding fluorescent lighting and the starch scent of cleaning products. He leans back against the cool glass, closing his eyes absently until the lift lets out a small ding, and the doors slide open. The hallways are filled with natural lights pouring from the plethora of glass windows that are nestled between the pristine white walls. His scuffed shoes make subtle squeaking noises with every small step that he takes.
He settles into one of the open seats in the breakroom, pressing his palm against the scanner so that his meal will materialize in front of him. The room is silent, the only sounds that is formed between the handful of people that are having their lunch is the sound of forks sliding across the plates. Harry grabs his scribe and hooks it up to the hologram projection chat line, along with all of the others who have theirs online, too. He hardly ever contributes to the small talk that a few of the others make on the projected feed, but he also doesn't want to be rude and act like he doesn't want to communicate with everyone else, either. He fills his fork with the rice that his meal plan has given him, and stares at the current thread of messages that are on now.
There is always this one rebel at Harry's lunch that is practically asking for his tongue to be cut off.
Every single day, this one balding man would take to his own scribe to complain about everything in his life. He goes on tangents about how he is unhappy with his job, his mate, and his life. He openly bashes The Movement and all of the foundations that it stands for and criticizes Superiors for how they don't have to wear a bracelet. He's angry and isn't afraid enough to hide what upsets him. Nobody ever joins in on the scribe conversation when he begins to talk like this, because they're too scared of being seen as a rebel, too. He is a ticking grenade, a red flag, a bad seed. He symbolizes everything that threatens the long-lasting peace, and should be punished.
Harry glares at the man, feeling the over-encompassing, untamed animal of anger crawl up his veins as he stares at the balding man. He continues to rant about The Movement and their leaders. How does this man get away with talking about the safe world they were so graciously given without even so much as one reprimand while Gemma was taken away just for trying to squeeze more words out of her given amount? How is it fair that people like this man, people who look at what they have been given and balk at it, can still stand here with a perfect job and a nice mate, while teenage girls are taken away from their home for doing something so trivial?
He finishes off his food and grabs his stylus writing the two words, "You're disgusting," before standing and leaving the break room. He feels like the hologrammed words should be branded on his back, standing as a reminder to all of the Unconformists that go unpunished that they are truly vile and poisonous to society.
He takes the lift back to the first floor, closing his eyes and counting to twenty as the machine crawls down over forty floors worth of offices. The caged animal that's roaring in his chest has subsided to small growls, and a few heart shuttering staccatos by the time that he's reached his level. He moves his hair away from his cheek with the palm of his hand, forcing his mouth to take the shape of something that's reminiscent of a smile, but he stops short when he looks at his desk.
It's very rare for someone new to join the endless line of workers at Movement Headquarters. Harry has been the newest member until today, and he'd been working at The Movement Operational Facility for over two years now. There's a man behind the desk, with dark hair that's falling lazily over his eyes and the same tan skin that his Superior has. Harry stands in front of him, clearing his throat so that the man looks up at him. He smiles in greeting, and the man returns it before looking back down at his old scribe. Harry moves behind the desk, taking off his satchel and searching over his scribe for some sort of notice from corporate about this new person.
He finds the notice hidden under layers of invoices from other people in the building, and scans over it to see that his new coworker is titled as Malik, Zayn and identifies as a male. He runs his tongue over his lips nervously, turning toward Zayn, while wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers.He has an older scribe, that Harry hasn't seen since he was in primary school, and he uses it to project a greeting back to Harry. He nods and scoots closer to Zayn showing him on his own scribe which applications to use in order to alert the ones upstairs about which child had entered into the Facility. Zayn takes all of the new information in stride, and then they're sitting quietly beside each other, staring at the glass doors and waiting for the next child to enter.
"What's/your/name/again?" Zayn whispers lowly in a rapid voice a few minutes later.
Harry drops his stylus from where he was drafting a status report in fright, looking down at Zayn's bracelet. He feels his mouth go dry as he sees the stark '04' that still projected on Zayn's wrist. He tapped his foot against the marble floor in a rapid beat, mind racing with questions.
'How did you do that?' He writes down on his scribe and slides it over to Zayn.
"Don't/write/on/that," Zayn murmurs quietly, reaching over and clearing Harry's scribe screen, rolling his eyes.
Harry sets down his stylus again, turning in his chair to stare at Zayn, assessing him. Zayn doesn't seem scared or hesitant, no trace of panic in his dark eyes. Instead he appears confident, radiating this aura that he is secure with everything he does. Harry continues to watch him, long enough that Zayn raises a single eyebrow towards him. It's Zayn that breaks the stare first, turning to face forward as a small, self-assured smirk takes its place on his thin lips. Harry swallows over the rapidly-forming knot in his throat, turning on his scribe again, while trying to not feel petrified by the fact that Zayn reminds him of Gemma.
'You're going to be in trouble,' Harry writes, hands trembling as he puts the scribe in front of Zayn.
Zayn turns towards him once more, close enough to where his breath hits Harry's cheeks. His eyes are a deep brown framed with long lashes. They flickers over Harry's face before he finally curls his lips into a smile, "You/won't/tell." he says, voice dropping quietly until it's just a mere whisper.
He's right, Harry thought, moving farther away from Zayn and his knowing eyes, I won't.
;;
Harry walks into his flat in a hurry, kicking off his shoes and tossing his collapsed hoverboard into his ceramic bowl, arms trembling from the chill that he hasn't quite yet subsided from. He ties his hair back and walks towards his living room, searching for where Dusty has set up camp while he was gone. The telly is on, loud enough to where he can hear it while he walks around the flat, looking in every possible corner.
"The Movement is expertly crafted," a male voice reverberates throughout the flat. Harry spots a tuft of dark fur going under his bed. "This certain type of political system is the only way to assure zero epidemics and zero wars while ensuring everyone's happiness. Our founders have spent years using all of the most influential and intellectual research in order to build this way of life..."
Harry lies on his stomach, making a small humming noise to his cat, trying to urge her to come out from under his bed. Dusty meows at him, but doesn't move. He smiles.
"Imagine living in a world like that, one filled with pandemonium, strife, and complete and utter chaos." Harry reaches forward and grabs the cat, walking back to the living room to sit on the couch. He runs his hand over her long fur calmly, staring at the large screen of the television. The footage is showing film from the Dark Era, with children crying desperately while nuclear bombs explode overhead. "The Movement is like a beckon, a savior, and we are forever indebted to our Superiors. Never forget that."
Harry keeps his eyes trained on the television screen, even after it's turned black and the animatronic voice warned that he has fifteen minutes before he is to go to sleep. Everytime he closes his eyes, images from the destruction of the Dark Era invade his mind, and he knows in his heart that he is indebted to The Movement. He should be completely loyal to every rule that is outlined. He owes The Movement, and he shouldn't forget that. He really shouldn't. There is this mantra that he sometimes has so repeat to himself. It is something that is simple, but still stands in deep contrast from what he would always think when he was younger. He leans his head against the back of his couch, hand incessantly running over Dusty as he forms his lips around the silent words of his mantra: 'I don't want to end up like Gemma.' Until he gives into the gentle ebbs of sleep.
Sometimes Harry dreams about one time when he was nine and still in school.
He had sat in the back, mostly because if he sat there the Instructor wouldn't call him up to the projector, where he would answer questions on his scribe for everyone to watch. He never liked to be the focal point of attention. He used to always look over at the lad that sat behind the desk next to him; he had always been confused as to why the boy always wore a long jumper, even in the blazing summer.
'Maybe that's all his family can afford to have,' his mum would project when he would bring it up during dinner.
The dream usually consists of the same thing: it was when the air con in the classroom had overheated, and the air in the classroom had been absolutely sweltering. The boy that sat beside him had even rolled up his sweater to the elbows, which was a rare occurrence, seeing as he typically always kept the threadbare sweater to rest around his wrists. Harry had been slowly looking across the room, staring at random things and letting his mind wander while the instructor was projecting some madness about the Dark Era. Then he caught sight of the boy's wrist, and he couldn't force himself to look away.
The boy's number had read '06'. Harry had stared at the number, mouth open in shock and mind rapidly sifting through unanswered questions. The boy had caught him staring and instantly shoved his sleeve down, moving the fleece to cover all the way down to his small fingertips.
"Miss," the boy had called, and then everyone jumped. Nobody had talked in class, ever. Even at a young age, everyone, including Harry, was saving their words, for something, even if that one thing that was worth saving words for couldn't quite be pinned down, it was still something, nonetheless. "I have too many words."
Harry had tracked the boy's movements with his eyes as the boy was led out of the room hastily. The teacher was saying something about taking him to The Movement Operational Facility, (which is the place where Harry works now).
When Harry had written down the entire story on his scribe and showed it to Gemma that night, her eyes had widened slowly, like she just had her eyes adjusted by the pills that are given annually to everyone for perfect vision. "They made a mistake," she had said, voice awe-filled, using all of her words.
Harry knows, now, that that was the last time that Gemma had actually followed the law and didn't try to cheat and use more words than her bracelet allowed.
He wakes to the feel of Dusty trying to climb on his chest, so he grabs her and turns off the television before moving to his bed. The moon casts a milky glow in his barren hallways and he can hear his neighbors moving around next door. He lies in his bed with Dusty at his side, closing his eyes and reminding himself that this is what peace feels like.