Throughout Papyrus, Tuesday's new book releases were rolling off trucks and filling bookstores, which meant government aid cards were reloaded. The pink sun crawled over the horizon, turning her room blood orange, and Wordless grumbled at her vivid dreams cut short. She dragged over to her desk to try working on her manuscript but didn't get past powering on the Word Processor before giving up.

She needed some things from the store. Wordless grabbed her scuffed satchel and ducked out. Birdsong trilled in her wake, but as she strolled past living quarters in the Young Writer Ward, the sound of clacking keys overtook the sounds of nature. So many people were writing instead of living life, which she couldn't understand.

They should have been going out, having conversations, having drinks. They should've been spending time with their families or falling in love or having babies. Papyrus was full of flat characters because they had not developed themselves for trying to write others into existence.

She passed guards on the corner and averted her gaze. More and more of them lately.

When Wordless reached her destination, she wove her way through the familiar aisles of her favorite hobby store where the dry, papery smell made her feel at home. Her fingers slid the length of picture frames on display, which she eyed longingly but couldn't afford. As an unpublished author, she was allotted enough for essentials but. No luxuries.

Wordless was considering whether to spend the government aid on pigment or paper when she overheard a conversation on the next aisle and leaned toward the shelving to listen closer. "...Becoming a police state. Can't get anything done with the Editors breathing down my neck!"

"You know what it's about, Roving. The Registry is using our syntax dollars to fight the Resistance."

"Bah! Nasty bunch of rabble rousers. If they keep burning bookstores, the Registry will have us all on a three book minimum, mark my words! The rebels call themselves fighting for our freedoms, but the blokes are making it harder on us!"

Wordless had heard about the Bohemian Rhapsody Resistance, the counterculture bandits who risked their lives undermining the stronghold of the Registry of Authorship. It seemed her entire young life had been studded with whispers about the covert group, but lately their antics were increasing in visibility. The Bohemians were trying to overthrow the Literati.

Wordless closed her fingers around a bundle of paintbrushes and scurried to the register to check out using the automated system. She scanned her paints, brushes and a roll of unfinished canvas, gawking at the total sum. Her plastic aid card beeped when she scanned it. The display on the register showed three dots, and she waited for the transaction to be approved.

It wasn't. Her card was declined. Wordless eyed the receipt that eased from the machine. The cramped digital print read, "Unauthorized purchases." She swore under her breath and tried to run the card again, but it was no use. Peeping at the security camera over the register, Wordless hurried out of the store without buying anything.

The slip of white receipt paper fluttered from her hand in the breeze. It was illegal to utilize monthly allowance for anything other than clothing, food and shelter. At the end of the month she would receive a secondary check that varied according to surplus money from book sales, which was for recreational purposes. However, the Registry rarely enforced the stringent laws. For them to do so now was another example of how the behavior of Bohemian Rhapsody was affecting everyday life for writers everywhere.