Blindness was a perk, an augmented reality which clouded the ground below on even the clearest of days. Elevated in more ways than one, Belleme stared down from her window to the ground below to where the park should be, where she had often taken lunch when she was merely a seven.
Perhaps. Perhaps she’d be here today. It had been two weeks since Amy had seen her, even though she still collected the same tomato and onion sandwich from the three girl who made them before navigating the checkpoints of the park. Threes weren’t allowed in the tower parks, but as a five, Amy was tolerated, so long as she had purpose.
There was a bench, of that she was certain. Faux wood planks, painted green, with blackened iron armrests. Tables? Possibly. She must have eaten somewhere, after all. And the sandwich, yes, vegetables that grew in the great atrimums of the central floors. Did someone bring them to her?
Yes, she knew. No, he needn’t repeat himself. Last day. If she wasn’t here today, she’d no longer be useful and for a five, nothing could be worse. A useless five was nothing more than a misnumbered four.
There was a girl; a woman really. Yes, that’s it. It had been years so how could she be counted to remember? But that sandwich, oh yes. Tomato that burst, even though sliced. Onion more sweet than tang. Bread that bounced, and lingered in the teeth. All down there, in the park she could no longer see. Had they removed it?
Not there. The bench, again, sat empty. Her name was Belleme, and she was kind for an elevated. Amy didn’t often get told names, after all. It wasn’t needed, nor particularly useful. Such an elegant name, now gone.
Amy was it? Was that her name? Possibly? Well, who can remember these things?
Amy would never forget her. Maybe one day, if she was lucky . . .
Belleme turned from the window. Machts Nichts. Remembering served no purpose. But still, those sandwiches were lovely. Stopping in her tracks, she wondered . . .
As she turned to leave the park for the last time, back into the scars, Amy stopped, and wondered . . .
Did she ever say thank you?
THE DIRECTIVES: CLASSIFIED ARCHIVE
In the world of The Optimised Future, the State demands perfection. The population is neatly divided into ten Categories. At the top, the elite are rewarded with the suffocating, biological permanence of the Sacrament. At the bottom, the working classes are quietly recycled, their memories wiped to keep the machinery of Central running.
You are entering the shadows of that machinery.
These Directives are weekly dispatches from the unseen corners of the State. They are not the grand political struggles of the Bureau. They are intercepted transmissions from the periphery; micro-tragedies, analog rebellions, and the quiet, devastating cost of surviving in a world that has weaponized human biology.
New dispatches are unsealed every Saturday. Read them carefully. Central is always watching.
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