Slayer

Chapter 1

A long time ago, people were put into segregated communities based on social class. 'White collar' was a fancy way of saying that you were worshipped like a god. 'Blue collar' meant that you struggled in the world, but someway, somehow, you managed to survive. 'No collar' meant that you were royally fucked

These days? You're judged not by religion or ethnicity or even socio-economic status. Sure, if you're beautiful or you're from the right neighborhood and know the right people, you're pretty well liked- at least until you're categorized.

You're judged by your Test Results.

If you're a Type A, congratulations, there are no traces of the Plague currently contaminating your DNA. You'll likely end up in a higher end building at the edge of the Inclemmentia Union living the rest of your life out in the gated community. However, you'll never be able to step outside those pretty gates, and you'll be constantly monitored for the rest of your natural life.

Type B? You were born with faint traces of the Plague already, but you are not immune. Minor symptoms shown, which may include light sensitivity, black irises and permanent dark circles under your eyes. That's goes out to all of you working middle-class jobs- hey, if you're lucky, you'll move to the higher end. If not, well, you can have fun working blue collar.

Maybe you're a Type C? You've got a substantial amount of the disease plaguing your body, but you still function to some manner of effectiveness. Most of the people end up with the jobs that nobody wants, or they spend the rest of their lives in and out of prison or group homes. Symptoms include all of type B symptoms, except it's possible light sensitivity gets to the point where spending even a few minutes in the sun can induce life-threatening burns.

Then there's type D. Immediately quarantined, and if you're really unlucky, then you become a lab rat for the Greater Good. Which, like anything else in this world, relies solely on your perspective, and how much gore you can stomach.

It's not the greatest system, but hey, who ever said the future was gonna be easy, right? Cleaning up you generation's mountain of shit has just created a different mountain of shit. Go figure.

Perhaps one day

"Stryker."

I nearly jump out of my skin, swiveling around in my chair to face the smirking idiot by the door. "Are you trying to kill me?" I growl, crossing my arms over my chest as Lark tilts his head back and laughs. "I'm glad you find this to be so amusing."

"I wish I had that on record," he snickers, crossing the room in a few quick strides before propping himself against my desk and peering at the screen in front of me. "What's this? A long time ago, people were put into segregated communities based on skin-"

Elbowing him, I hastily shut off the screen. "Mind your own goddamn business."

"Aww," he laughs, leaning over and ruffling my hair. "Someone's grumpy."

I suppress an eye roll. "Is there a reason you're here, or did you just come to be a pain in the ass?"

"That's no way to greet your favorite brother," he pouts for a moment before straightening up. "Arien wanted to see you."

"Now?" I scoff. "How about when I'm working instead of bedtime?"

"Knowing you, you're not going to sleep any time soon," my brother points out, shrugging. "He's your Trainer, you go deal with him."

"Fine," I sigh. "Where is he anyways?"

Pause. "The living room."

I glare at him. "Smooth."