down, we’re both strapped into the chairs like death row inmates. My chair is attached to Blake’s, our armrests shared. The seats are so close together I can’t help but brush my arm and shoulder against Blake’s, much like you’d experience on an airplane, though I lean away from him since I’m still irked that he called me the equivalent of a pampered princess. Why couldn’t he be a perfect gentleman like Ethan was? I sigh just thinking about Ethan and my fantasy that he carried me to my room and tucked me in upon my arrival.
We’re each given a tablet computer device and simple instructions how to use it. Although it seems powerful, the function has been limited to serve for training purposes. We can type or record notes by voice annotation, as well as ask questions about each subject, and the answers are immediately pasted into the notes program. We’re warned, however, that we can only ask questions relevant to the subject being taught, as it is being taught. I test the claim by typing in ‘Where is Thera?’ and I get a standard response saying, ‘Please post your inquiries during training sessions relevant to the subject at hand,’ which isn’t very helpful.
I’m less interested in the functions of the simple computer and more interested in the fact it has the now familiar ‘Industrial City’ logo on it. I haven’t met a product or device yet that didn’t have those markings—a telltale sign that capitalism isn’t alive and well here, and thus I’m betting democracy isn’t either. When I’d signed the SCI paperwork, Spud had mentioned that I’d be subject to the rules and regulations of the Institute. Well, get on with it then. I want to know what the rules are, folks. How stupid was I to sign those papers? My bet—off-the-charts.
“Have you noticed that everything is manufactured in Industrial City?” I whisper to Blake.
“Yeah, hard to miss the logos,” he says with a smirk. “So, are you talking to me now?” His eyes brighten. While my eyes are gold-rimmed green, his are a bright emerald color that are so pure they look manufactured.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t not talking to you. I just wasn’t talking while I dealt with some… bad memories… about the night of the explosion,” I say. Might as well be honest with him, so he realizes that he’s not to blame for my mood. He did say some things that were pretty nasty, but I decide to forgive, forget and give him my patented ‘all is right’ smile.
“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry, too. For the things I said. They were rude.” He maintains his gaze and I imagine him thinking, ‘but probably justified.’ What can I expect given how people perceive I was raised? My parents have money. They just choose not to spend it on or share it with their children, in an overblown effort to make sure we are anything but pampered. ‘You need to earn your own way in this world, not leech off us,’ my father always says.
I continue to stare at Blake’s eyes. The last time I saw eyes this pretty was when I met Ethan. Ethan’s sparkly sapphire eyes had blown me away. Blake’s eyes have a similar brightness and glimmer. “Do you wear contacts?” I ask. Maybe they have some new line of contacts that give cute guys an alien, jeweled feel.
“Nope. These,” he says, pointing at his eyes, “are all natural. I’ve got perfect vision, even at night. I’m like a cat,” he jokes.
Predatory cats come to mind. Lions, tigers, panthers, cheetahs… Blake simply does not give off the warm and fuzzy vibe of your average house cat. He radiates the bad boy vibe. Best to be wary of my flatmate. I sink back in my chair, trying to remember where the conversation started anyway. Oh yeah, Industrial City products and the implication that the democratic process doesn’t exist here.
“Think our training will cover the uh, expectations or rules of wherever the heck we are? Garden City? Thera was it? Do you really believe we’re no
We’re each given a tablet computer device and simple instructions how to use it. Although it seems powerful, the function has been limited to serve for training purposes. We can type or record notes by voice annotation, as well as ask questions about each subject, and the answers are immediately pasted into the notes program. We’re warned, however, that we can only ask questions relevant to the subject being taught, as it is being taught. I test the claim by typing in ‘Where is Thera?’ and I get a standard response saying, ‘Please post your inquiries during training sessions relevant to the subject at hand,’ which isn’t very helpful.
I’m less interested in the functions of the simple computer and more interested in the fact it has the now familiar ‘Industrial City’ logo on it. I haven’t met a product or device yet that didn’t have those markings—a telltale sign that capitalism isn’t alive and well here, and thus I’m betting democracy isn’t either. When I’d signed the SCI paperwork, Spud had mentioned that I’d be subject to the rules and regulations of the Institute. Well, get on with it then. I want to know what the rules are, folks. How stupid was I to sign those papers? My bet—off-the-charts.
“Have you noticed that everything is manufactured in Industrial City?” I whisper to Blake.
“Yeah, hard to miss the logos,” he says with a smirk. “So, are you talking to me now?” His eyes brighten. While my eyes are gold-rimmed green, his are a bright emerald color that are so pure they look manufactured.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t not talking to you. I just wasn’t talking while I dealt with some… bad memories… about the night of the explosion,” I say. Might as well be honest with him, so he realizes that he’s not to blame for my mood. He did say some things that were pretty nasty, but I decide to forgive, forget and give him my patented ‘all is right’ smile.
“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry, too. For the things I said. They were rude.” He maintains his gaze and I imagine him thinking, ‘but probably justified.’ What can I expect given how people perceive I was raised? My parents have money. They just choose not to spend it on or share it with their children, in an overblown effort to make sure we are anything but pampered. ‘You need to earn your own way in this world, not leech off us,’ my father always says.
I continue to stare at Blake’s eyes. The last time I saw eyes this pretty was when I met Ethan. Ethan’s sparkly sapphire eyes had blown me away. Blake’s eyes have a similar brightness and glimmer. “Do you wear contacts?” I ask. Maybe they have some new line of contacts that give cute guys an alien, jeweled feel.
“Nope. These,” he says, pointing at his eyes, “are all natural. I’ve got perfect vision, even at night. I’m like a cat,” he jokes.
Predatory cats come to mind. Lions, tigers, panthers, cheetahs… Blake simply does not give off the warm and fuzzy vibe of your average house cat. He radiates the bad boy vibe. Best to be wary of my flatmate. I sink back in my chair, trying to remember where the conversation started anyway. Oh yeah, Industrial City products and the implication that the democratic process doesn’t exist here.
“Think our training will cover the uh, expectations or rules of wherever the heck we are? Garden City? Thera was it? Do you really believe we’re no
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