Short Stories

Red

Another Creative name by no-creative-name. Seriously I need to work on this. I hope I got the rating right... I think that this fic might be slightly more sad/dark than my others. After All this time I am hoping I don't have some annoying writing style that people find things wrong with/annoying. (if so tell me. I'll try and fix it) So here goes!

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There was once a boy who lived in a world fairly different from ours, but also the same in many ways...

He lived in a world with many rules. Too many rules. They were in place to create the idea of the "perfect human". For example: A person should be able to fit into certain size shoes at certain age. Most of the rules were just as ridiculous. He was constantly wondering who in his right mind would make such idiotic rules? Nobody ever bothered to tell him that though. He knew the rules and he knew the protocol for broken rules. Fix the break. Whether by surgery or hair dye or make-up. Fix-it. A human cannot be seen if they are imperfect. Again how stupid can people get? Nobody told him that either. Nobody ever answered his questions. They had a good reason to. He was imperfect. He broke a rule. He also refused to fix it. A persons hair could range from blond to black. Bright colored dyes were not allowed. He broke this rule by having red hair. Red in general was frowned upon in everyday lfe, but his hair was different from the red most people think of. It was reminiscent of the bright blood of the fallen. The fallen of the organization. The organization of people like him. Rule breakers. Different people. They carried around a badge of appearance telling the world what they are a part of. They didn't want to fix themselves. Didn't want to change. They thought themselves just as "perfect" as everybody else. Whatever that means

His name was Leroux. His name in the organization was Carmine. A fifteen year old with very boyish features, a small stature, and amazing computer skills. He worked as a hacker. He was very proficient. He was also proficient with the twin pistols strapped to his side at all times. He was a very nice person if not somewhat reserved. "His Introvertedness" to those who did not like him. He had friends of course, he just didn't talk to other people very much. He didn't get out of his office much either. When he did there were friendly smiles exchanged and small chats to be had, just not that many. Chats that is. He smiled at everyone in the organization, because they smiled back. He loved it there. People didn't judge him because of his hair. He had spent so much time trapped in a room as a child that he and others supposed that is the reason he is not fond of people. Especially the government. Those people who enforced these awful rules. Occasionally, when he wasn't on a job or typing a report or doing whatever it was that he does, he sits and lets the hate and anger and fear and confusion build inside of him,

"Why do I have to be different?"

"What's wrong with different?"

"Did I make the right choice to come here?"

"What is they find me?"

"Why did they have to make these rules?"

"Why were people born like this?"

"How can people be so spiteful?"

"Why did they have to choose red hair too?"

"Why do I have to be different?"

He thinks like this for a while until he thinks harder and decides that he was different so that he could help bring these people down. He knew he had made the right choice. He has never found the answers to any of the other questions. He was determined to find them though. He would sit and research and explore and ask. The questions were never answered so he would try again. Until his next job. Then he would work until he forgot about his questions. Then it repeats.