Slater J. Tross, O.L.C

August 12th, 2030, 7:45 am 

Today is Monday.

Like any Monday morning, my willingness to rise from my bed is little to none. I try to close my eyes as I toss and turn around under the covers. I lay on my stomach with my face in the crushed pillow, trying to suffocate the thoughts of me having to do anything. There is something about today that is off from those normal behaviors.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. The window screen to my right allows warm morning air to seep into the bedroom and cling to my bare skin. The long grass behind the house sways in the soft wind. There is not a single cloud in the sapphire sky above.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up. My hands meet far above my head, and my shoulders pop backward. After a yawn, I rub my eyes. I have a small ache building in my chest.

The Manchesters let me sleep in Hayes' room this past week while I stayed here. It's the only bedroom in the house with hardwood floors, and only a tiny red rug half-hidden under the bed for foot comfort. The rectangular window beside the cold, metal bed opens outward and makes up for a lack of vents or a fan. Aside from a wooden dresser across the room from a small desk, there's really nothing in this room. I guess Hayes really did settle for so little.

Last night, I laid out an outfit to wear today at the end of bed. I must've kicked it in the middle of the night, because now it's scattered around the room. I was told by the Captain that I could wear whatever I wanted, because I was going to be provided with my own clothes, anyway.

That'll be the most generous thing the Imperial Guard will do for me these next couple weeks.

I've been able to keep myself calm and not worry about the ranking this past week. Every day, I've actually been excited to get to the headquarters and get started. I've stayed up late at night and thought about how it would be to walk in and have everyone's eyes on me. The more preparation I got under the Captain, the more confident I felt; the happier I've been.

The same couldn't be said about last night. As soon as I said my good nights and shut the bedroom door, reality set in. All eyes will be on me. I can not fail. The ranking will be jam-packed with kids who've been preparing for months, and then there's me, Slater Tross. Compared to them, I'm not ready, but I have no choice.

The Captain was in his study, downstairs, so I had to go talk to Celestine, in her room. She was still up, so I knocked on the door. She stopped talking to whoever she was chatting with on the phone.

Celestine opened the door, peering out from the darkness. Once she noticed it was me, she looked at me, worried. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

I shook my head. "I can't do it. I can't stop thinking about the ranking. Like, what if I don't do well, and I don't rank-"

"Calm down, calm down. It's okay." The dim light in the hallway gives her face a warm glow as she places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Are you scared that you won't make it? Is that why you're all upset?"

I nod. "I can't go. Everyone there is going to want to kill me."

"So what? Do you really think anyone is going to risk their chance to get into the Imperial Guard to kill you? You're going to be around people in groups the whole time, anyway. No one would be that crazy, trust me."

"You don't know that."

"No one is going to want to kill you. You have people trained to protect others all around you. They wouldn't let anyone get to you. Don't be paranoid about it."

"What if I don't make it?" I asked, thinking about the answer. I'm going to prison. This is the only freedom I have left.

"You will. Don't doubt yourself. You don't know what it'll be like until you get there. Look, I believe in you. You can do it. You've trained for this. There's nothing to worry about."

I smiled, backing up from her doorway. "Thanks, Celeste." I speed walked to Hayes' room, and looked back to see her, grinning. The encouragement, as little as it was, helped me get to sleep last night. Sure, the bad thoughts still churned in mind, but it eased the impact by a lot.

Celestine and I have gotten close since the first time that she taught me to fight, two Fridays ago. She made fun of her dad and me a lot while we were training, which made the tasks not as stressful and actually kinda enjoyable. We went out to get lunch a few times and hung out with her friend, Lance, on Wednesday. Him and I are slowly becoming friends, too. He forgave me for nearly breaking his jaw, thank God.

I pull the khaki shorts lying on the ground up to my waist, slinging a belt around the loops. I throw the gray t-shirt beside them over my head. It's casual and comfortable, perfect for a long day. The Captain said that I shouldn't arrive to the ranking wearing any kind of shorts. Sorry, but if it's going to be ninety degrees before lunch time, I'm not wearing long pants. Besides, it's not like I'm showing up in gym shorts, like I'm sure some kids will.

I crack the bedroom door open and instantly catch a whiff of something. I poke my head out to hear something sizzling downstairs. I just have to check myself in the bathroom mirror first.

I switch on the light to the bathroom across from Celestine's room. On Saturday, the Captain took me to get a haircut. Since March, my hair had been growing more down than out, like a mop. Now, it's short again, sticking up and out at the top. In the summer sun, while I was on the run, my hair started getting lighter, like a copper color from its normal dark chocolate look. I run my hand through the middle once. That's so much easier than having to comb it.

I cup my hands under the faucet and splash cold water onto my skin. My face has healed since I the night I met the Medo. All the minor cuts scrambled across my forehead have completely disappeared. I have a few zits above my jaw and around my nostrils. My nose still feels kinda funny from when I got blown back trying to save that kid, Anthony. I still have pains in my chest from then, too.

The tube of toothpaste belts out a blue wave onto my toothbrush. I just need to stay confident through all this,and remain optimistic through the rough times. If I can just do what I'm told, I can get ranked in the immediate duty squad. I need to make it into the top one hundred recruits to save my life. It's gotta be possible, right?

I spit into the sink and march downstairs to the kitchen. The scent of bacon grease overwhelms me before I can even step foot into the room. The Captain hovers around the stove as I take a seat at the kitchen table. I don't think he noticed me.

"I thought I told you to not wear shorts, Slater," He says over the crackling of the grease. "It's unprofessional."

"What, do you have eyes in the back of your head? I'm not going to change my shorts," I slump down into my chair. I'm not moving until we have to leave.

He turns to me with two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. "I just don't want Sergeant Lee to get the wrong idea. First impressions are always important." One plate lands in front of me with a fork across the toast. The other goes to the seat next to me, where the Captain places himself.

As tough as these past two weeks have been for me, there's no way they were any easier for the Captain. He had to deal with not only me, but the murder of Alfred Jennings in the Meadowlands with Colonel Jameson, and he does not like to cooperate with officers in the City. The Captain didn't mention anything that happened with Anthony to him, after what happened the last time he told the Imperial Guard of my mark.

All this Imperial Guard business drained him horribly. He went out to the headquarters every night to continue investigations just so that he could spend extra time with me preparing during the day. One morning, he admitted to me that he hadn't slept in three days, and it showed. It hurt Celestine to see her dad's alert, bronze eyes so sunken into his face. He'd return back home at dawn with his tie loose around his neck and only one of his sleeves rolled up. After about an hour in his study, reviewing evidence and reports, he'd wake me up to get breakfast and start for the long day. Repeat.

The Captain cuts the fried egg with the side of his fork and looks up at me. "You look thrilled. You aren't nervous, are you?"

I shrug, circling the plate in the air with my own fork. I feel like if I eat, I'll throw up. "Kinda. I don't want to think about it. Everyone there is going to hate me, I already know it."

"You have every right to be anxious. It's going to be tough adapting in a setting like this." He stabs the broken slice of egg, but doesn't eat it yet. "One word of advice when we part ways; try to make friends and form little alliances with other recruits. Notice how I said "alliances", and not "cliques". Besides the tests, something that the officers look for is how you interact with others in your class. Being open to others is more desirable than a tightly-knit clique."

I sigh, poking at the toast. "But what if-"

"I'm going to stop you right there. You can't worry about the "what ifs", because they may not happen. Then, you would have worried about nothing. If you're nice enough to people, they'll want to be friends with you. It's no different from if you were a regular kid."

"Regular kid," I mumble, keeping my eye on my untouched plate.

"I didn't mean it like that. You know what I mean."

I might as well put something into my stomach before I leave. I tear a piece of bacon in half and chew on it. The Captain is nearly done his breakfast, and I've barely made a dent. All this worrying stole my appetite.

I stand up and push in my chair. "Sorry, I'm not hungry," I say under my breath, picking up my dish, and leaving it on the kitchen counter. "What time are we leaving?"

He glances down at his wrist, covered by a silver watch. "Soon. I want to get there before noon. James told me the traffic into the city is horrible today, so the earlier we leave, the better." Before I can walk out of the kitchen, he adds, "If you aren't going to eat, please go get the newspaper. It should be here."

I nod, turning out of the room sand into the foyer. My old sneakers, with the color faded gray and the soles worn, sit by the front door. My white socks lay in a ball under the tongue, so I slide them up my ankles before shoving my feet into the worn shoes. Time to lace up these babies one last time. I wore these shoes for four months straight. They haven't left my side all this time.

As soon as I step out onto the porch, my vision is blocked by the white spark just behind the trees at the end of the driveway. It's hardly eight in the morning, and the heat is already so fierce on my face. I'm glad that I got a haircut, too. Over the summer, in the city, I had to take shelter in abandoned buildings or shady alleyways when the sun got too hot. I had nothing to tie my hair up with, either, so I was stuck with the shaggy mop.

Just as the Captain claimed, the newspaper sits in a heap beside the mailbox at the end of the driveway. The roll is immense, like nothing I've never seen before. Picking it up is no challenge, but keeping it all together in a clean pile is the difficult part. I have no idea why the paper would be such an enormous size. It doesn't come on Sundays, but I don't think anything huge happened over the weekend.

I step back into the house and read the front page headline, curled around the roll. The only word I can really make out without unraveling the whole thing is "Quality." What could that mean? Quality. Not much "quality" around the Empire these days, with all the disappearances and murders. I guess I'm partially responsible for that, too.

I drop the textbook of a newspaper onto the kitchen table where I was sitting. The Captain looks back after the impact from the his spot at the sink. He grins, flicking his hands before approaching the table.

"Heavy, huh? They print those on the first day of the ranking every year. It has the names of all the kids, starting on page five." He pulls the bundle out from the clear, plastic wrap. "You might recognize some of them. You'll definitely see your name in there at least ten times, I promise you." He hands me the newspaper after unfolding it. "You can read it if you'd like. I have to do something before we leave."

Once he walks away, I place it on the table and scan the mystery headline. "Quality over quantity," I repeat aloud. "The smallest class in a half-century hardly lacks promise for a brighter future."

The big photograph under the headline has what seems like hundreds, maybe thousands, of parked cars sitting below dim streetlights. All around the parking lot, there are little orange-yellow blips in the way of cars to drive. Some cars have their headlights on, illuminating the immediate area. If I look close enough, there are tiny figures surrounding the cars and the various blips around the lot. I don't think I've ever seen such a huge gathering of cars like this, especially in the middle of the night.

Below that image, there is another picture that is more comprehensible. There are three kids, all around my age, huddled around a weak fire. The sparks, just hardly escaping the saucer-like metal fire pit, conceal small portions of their face. One of the two guys has a beige blanket draped over his shoulder, and over the girl beside him as well. The guy excluded from the blanket is beaming, looking at his two friends, with a leather football in his hand. They sure are glad to be there.

These three are so lucky. They don't have to worry about not making it. If they aren't placed into immediate duty, they'll just go back to school and finish their senior year. They probably don't lay up at night wondering how a lifetime in prison would feel should they fail. They don't care about how people will look at them when they walk through the door. These guys already have friends that they're going to the ranking with. They don't have to start from scratch.

I would never voluntarily join the Imperial Guard like these kids are. For starters, my mom wouldn't let me. She'd complain and say that it took my dad from us, which it did. She wouldn't want me to get lost and run away from her a second time, like what happened to my dad. I've also seen what goes into it, solving crimes, even if they are beyond the human power. The top officers, like the Captain, make plans and order the younger, inferior officers to carry out the dirty work. The kids, the ones who are hardly any older than I am, are the ones who patrol the streets and are sent off to fight domestic terrorists.

I flip the pages until I get to the section with the pictures of the recruits. At the very top, before the first photo, a number is bolded in italics: 1,472. The smallest class in fifty years? How big were the other ones? The kids are listed here in alphabetical order, starting with a girl whose last name is Aaron. It also adds, underneath her name, that she attends Woodrow High School.

I start skimming through the pages, searching for a name that isn't mine. I played baseball with a kid named Jake Hammond in school, and he was one of my closest buddies on the team. Both of his parents were in the Imperial Guard, so he made it clear to our coach, the first day of our freshman season, that he may not be playing in his senior year to join. That really sucks for Coach K, because the dude could rake.

My jaw nearly drops when I see Hammer's picture. They used the senior portraits for the recruits from Bluefield, and his is nothing short of great. Before I ran away, he had told me that he was going to grow out his hair and have a mullet for the spring season. Let's just say he forgot to cut it for next year's yearbook. To add, I must've missed the part where he said he'd grow a moustache, too. That would've gotten him tons of girls... fifty years ago.

Okay, enough making fun of Jake. I can't wait to see him again. Hopefully he doesn't hate me as much as everyone else does.

There are so many names that I'm hardly past the M's ten pages after Jake's picture. I don't even know if I want to see the image the newspaper used for me. Everyone else probably went right to my picture right after they admired their son's or daughter's. They laughed at it, told their kid that they're glad that they aren't me, and then laughed again.

I was expecting much worse. The writers didn't use a photo at all. It just says "No Image," which I'm okay with. "Slater J. Tross" is printed right underneath the gray box. An asterisk hovers above my name, so my eyes dart down to the bottom of the page. "On July 31st, Slater Tross was granted the OLC by City Colonel MacTavish," the small print explains. As if the people didn't know that already.

This is really happening. Today is the day my life changes back around. The moment I ran away from the Imperial Guard back in March, I knew that there was no turning back. My life was over. I couldn't turn myself in. I had never done anything wrong in my life. I couldn't bear to see myself go to prison. In this world, kids under eighteen don't have a say in what happens to them. They're taken into custody, and are either set free or locked up. They don't have a chance. Not the one like I've been given.

Why did he do this? Why did MacTavish grant me life? You hear about kids with crimes like drug possession or theft. Those people are put in jail. They don't come out for years. Then there's me; twelve murders? I'm free. What about those kids? How about the kids that are falsely accused and put in prison? Do you want to know why I hate the Imperial Guard? This. Never in my life could I throw an innocent person in prison without a trial, like an adult gets.

My hands clench the edges of the page. This is so unfair. There are kids who would give their lives to be in the Imperial Guard, and would give up prison in a heartbeat. No, they award the elusive OLC to me, Slater Tross. All because I'm "impressionable." Believe it or not, Colonel, all teenagers are impressionable. Everyone can change. That's what's makes us human. Why me?

I grab a hold of my invisible image on the thin page, and tear it off of the rest. I don't want to see that stupid asterisk. I don't deserve it. My fingers rip it apart, piece by piece, until it's nothing but little snowflakes. I grumble, and let the flakes fall to the kitchen tiles. What have I done? I didn't really want to tear that page. I just... I just did.

The steps behind me creak softly. I fold up the paper and hold it at my side, not turning around. Whichever Manchester it is lands on the floor of the foyer and stops.

"Slater?"

I don't want her to see me like this. I feel horrible for doing something so small. I made a mess around where I am at the table, and I'm too still to clean it up. The face of the recruit next to mine glares at me with piercing gray eyes and a scowl. Don't look at me like this, Ned. I'm sorry you had to see that. I just couldn't control myself, and I-

"Slater, what happened? What is all that on the floor," Celestine asks, creeping into the kitchen. "What's wrong?"

My head twists to her slowly. "I don't know."

"A-are you crying?" She approaches me with an outstretched arm. Her warm hand touches my tricep, right above where I'm holding the newspaper. "Slater-"

"All righty, Slater, we'll be heading out in a sec, I just want to-"

In this moment, all three of us are frozen in time. Celestine has her hand on my arm, and turns back to her dad. I'm looking over at the Captain in the hallway, blurred, who stares back. In his hands are a pair of silver, gleaming scissors and an empty picture frame. I glance down at my feet, coated in newspaper shavings.

"Dad, I just came downstairs and saw him like this. He's not saying anything." Her gaze averts back to me. "I don't know what's wrong. He won't tell me." She removes her hand from my arm and traces her fingers down to the paper against my hip.

I tighten my grip and spin away from her. "No! You can't see it!"

"Slater, just let me see the newspaper," the Captain urges. "You'll appreciate what I'm going to do with it."

I shake my head, hugging the newspaper to my chest. "Depends. What are you going to do?"

He smiles, placing the photo frame on the kitchen table. "I want to frame your picture in the back of the paper, with the rest of the kids. This is history, you know. Only the second time the OLC has been-"

"It's not in there."

The Captain's eyes drop to the floor. He is still for about ten seconds before exhaling. "I see." Without another word, he backs away from the table, glancing at his daughter. I watch him walk out the front door as Celestine and I stand here, silent.

God, I feel horrible. I made a scene again. I have no idea how the Manchesters deal with how I act. I want to apologize, but the words are trapped on my tongue. It was an impulse. I couldn't help it.

Celestine turns her head to see her dad standing firmly on the front porch. Her eyes return to me, and she holds her breath. She holds out her hands, and I place the newspaper upon the small surface. Instead of looking through it, she slams it onto the kitchen table, and crosses her arms.

"You seriously need to calm down. All the nerves are fucking with your head. It isn't going to help you at all if you keep freaking out like this. You can't let these mess with you during the ranking, because the officers will notice. And I-"

I shake my head, ashamed. "Celestine, I can't control them. It's this damn mark that's making me-"

"And I don't want anything to happen to you."

She unfolds her arms and binds them around my ribs. At my height, I can only reach down to about her shoulders, but I embrace her anyway. I hope nothing happens to me. I wish I could control what's going on, but it's all that asshole, Roarke's, doing. He started this. I wouldn't be here, worrying about my life, if it wasn't for him.

She releases me, and I move past her to the hallway. Through the window beside the front door, I see that the Captain began traversing across his dirt driveway to his car. He's ready to leave, and I am, too. I want to get this over with. I open the door, but I stand in the frame for a few seconds. The sun's incredible shine blinds me and cooks my face. The first day of the rest of my life.

"Please come back, Slater. I want to hear about your rank when I see you again."

I turn back to Celestine, and smile. Closing the door behind me, I say goodbye to her for the very last time.