You have a visitor.
Abdobadi clenched, cutting his urine off mid-stream. “Are we expecting anyone?”
I don’t believe you were. Syncing with central scheduling. Updates confirmed. Priority visit. You may not decline.
“I may finish relieving myself.”
Authorized.
After, again presentable and cleansed, he entered the living room. Husna, his partner, waited for him. She wore his favorite dress, diaphanous silk. Alluring. “Priority visit?”
“I hoped you’d know.”
“I was hoping for something else tonight.”
“I can tell.”
“Maybe after.”
“Maybe. Open.”
The front door vanished. In the hallway stood a woman, perfectly coifed, her suit officious. “Abdobadi?”
“Yes.”
“Central, confirm,” she said.
Reviewing. Confirmed via uric emission. Three minute optimum.
She nodded and stepped into the room. “Remove emotive restrictions, please.”
Husna, please proceed to the atrium at once.
“Why would I . . .who are you?”
Abdobadi gasped. “Husna, go please.”
She abided.
Alone, the woman said, “Go to the bedroom. Make yourself erect.”
“I am to impregnate you?”
“You are.”
“I had hoped it would be with Husna.”
“It will be. I will be with us all.”
“Yes. Of course.”
You have two minutes, please.
“I don’t know if I can—“
I will help.
The woman shimmered before his eyes, leaving Husna once again standing before him. Her dress slid from off her body and Abdobadi felt the familiar stiffening.
“I thought she’d never leave.”
“It’s just what we hoped, Abdo.”
“Just what we all hoped.”
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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