“Of course I’m sure.”
“Spot. Two misses. Won’t miss again, eh?”
“All good. If you didn’t ask, I’d be spent.”
“Seems a bit much for a tenth-spot.
“Been on the backside, lately. No names on the sixer boards. All moved up or down-earth.”
“Take what we can get, ’s’pose.”
“I’m still quick enough. Nothing a little gun oil and six chambers can’t solve, if’n I’m still standing after.”
“Yeah, but for a tenth-spot?”
“Up or done, chum. Up or done.”
“Boot Hill, baby. We all get there at some point.”
“All get there at some point.”
“Using the S&W?”
“Papa’s gun. Always.”
“Heard he might be sportin’ a seven-patch.”
“Powder ain’t cheap.”
“Keep tellin’ you to get sponsored up.”
“Too much commission.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Wish it was the seven hisself pacing off the count.”
“Nah, bullet wouldn’t hurt ‘em.”
“Oh, it’d hurt. Just not like, hurt. Feel bad for him, though. He’s us.”
“Nah. He’s him. Just like we’re his them. Flush it.”
“Farm out me parts I fall, yeah?”
“Yeah. But don’t fall.”
“You’re the best second a Scar could ask for.”
“Plant him, Dude. Daisy his dirt pile.”
“Bang bang.”
“Bang bang. We’re moving up, boy-o.”
“Let’s hope for ratings.”
“What else they got to do?”
“Ready. Cue High-Noon.”
###
Bang.
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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