“Next!” The middle aged, plastic in appearance, woman demanded. Immediately walked in a young boy with brown hair and dark blue eyes. He glanced around the room briefly trying to imprint anything new, anything he had never seen before, into his memory. Nothing extraordinary was in the room for his collection, unfortunately. It was very bright and clean, only containing the woman and her embedding device called a Joint8. It was a small white box with a holographic screen that appeared when she entered information and a glowing stamp at the bottom of the box. Not looking at the boy she asked, ”Age?”
He replied quickly, “Five.” She started entering his information.
“What’s your name?”
“Demure. Demure Ramone. But most people call me Demi.” Her eyes glanced down at him sarcastically. As if I needed to know your nickname.
She used her holographic screen to take a scan of Demi’s eyes.
Next question. “What is ‘right’ Demure?”
“Right is what will keep me in White. It’s what S.E.E says is acceptable.”
“Correct. Now step forward and look up.”
Demi took a step forward towards the questioning woman, and looked up at the light above them. She firmly took his shoulder to keep him still, and implanted Demi with his S.E.E into his chest. It stung, but only for a second. Demi looked down and his eyes widened as the new mark right above his heart glowed, and slowly faded into a white brand. The same branding that everyone had. Demi suddenly felt a sense of belonging, he had joined the rest of the world as far as he was concerned and he was glad of it.
It looked similar to the infinity symbol, but with the outer edges drawn to a point. He stared intensely at the emblem until his eyes went out of focus and was only snapped back in when the plastic woman called out for the next child. Demi was quickly directed out of the room with glowing arrows on the floor to the room where his parents were waiting for him.
His father Harold scooped Demi up and they left the building.
As they walked back to their home Demi’s mother June asked him, “Did it hurt?”
“It stung, but only for a little.”
“Well, I hope you know how important it is to listen to it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want to end up like your older brother Shiloh.”
“I know.”
YOU ARE READING
Superego
Science FictionWhat if everyone had their own Jiminy Cricket, someone acting as their conscience, telling them what they should and shouldn't do? Or could and couldn't do?
