by Roadbloc
Jack didn’t bother with breakfast. He was on a diet of fury. All the energy he ever needed until his goal was concluded. And it would be concluded. Only then could he rest. Only then would he be complete.
After punching the mirror, Jack left the room, seething quietly. A few shards of mirror glass fell to the ground, rather unimpressively, and bounced onto the floor. The door closed. Jack had left his flat for the last time.
The morons from the flat next to his were arguing. Somewhere, a baby was crying. Jack would probably have cried if he were in the baby’s situation.
“Well why don’t you just go and dip your pen in company ink then!?” a male voice shouted.
“Why don’t you just go and boil your head!?” a female voice yelled back.
Ignoring the screams of fury from the quarrelsome couple, Jack pulled the call lever and waited for the lift to rise to his level. Level 41. What fun.
The lift door shuddered open. The single bulb in the bare metallic enclosure flickered invitingly. Jack entered, keen to leave the insignificant but irritating argument behind him. The conveyer-belt lift music trickled down, shedding off a rather bad atmosphere as Jack and his rage travelled down the floors alone.
“Feeling down? Depressed? Anxious? Do violent thoughts occur often? Buy some Happy today! The miracle drug, which takes away life’s problems! Available in your local newsagents store.”
The advertisement infuriated Jack a little more. He checked the small CRT screen. It displayed the number thirty four. Still a while to go down yet.
He forced his thoughts onto Eliza. It helped him focus thinking about her. It helped him stay awake. Jack hadn’t slept in two days. He’d been too furious. He’d spent his time sat in his flat, angrily staring at the crap hole of a place they called the land outside, furious thoughts racing about her. Rent money hadn’t been paid, work had probably sacked him by now, and the food allowance money was well overdue. He’d been expecting Enforcers to come knocking anytime soon, not they, this or that would stop him. The flat was littered with empty Happy packages. Screw Happy, it’d done nothing for him. The more he took, the angrier he got afterwards.
Some might have said he was addicted and this was a side effect. But Jack didn’t see it that way. Jack didn’t give a toss. Jack wanted Eliza dead and he wanted it now.
The annoying drone of manufactured music began again. What would be his weapon of choice? A gun? Just walk up to the silly mare and- BOOM!? Blow her brains right out of her skull? Or maybe watch her sweat it out at the other end of the barrel for a bit.
It then occurred to Jack that he didn’t have a gun, nor would he be able to get one. The lack of a 0110 licence saw to that, and it would take months of unnecessary training and form filling to get that. He would have to use a knife.
A knife.
Jack’s eyes brightened at the thought of it. A knife. Easy to buy, easy to use. Guns were far too quick anyway. The chance to taste them last minute emotions of panic off his victim would be all lost with a gun. A knife, would be a totally different story. His hatred would feast upon a banquet of surprise, hysteria, panic and fury that Eliza would emit. Maybe the world would see what the stupid girl was like in real life for once.
“The Lecture Brew! Nothing beats something we can all hail-“
The lift dinged and the door scraped open. Ground level had arrived. Jack left the annoying concoction of bland music and mind-drilling adverts behind him, strode past the grubby looking reception without a glance and walked out into the streets of the land.
The streets of the land were the same as they had been for a while now. Riotous and dangerous. Many of the street shops were boarded up, either in fear of looters or due to them already being looted. The streets were packed full of protesters, people panicking, people preaching and people who were just trying to get by their daily lives in the chaos.
Jack forced himself into the packed street. He pushed through shouting people, frustrated. He had to find a shop to get a decent knife. He passed a man who was stood upon a box, yelling conspiracies and praising the sky for something-or-other.
“Remember this!” he yelled to his small audience and everyone else passing who didn’t care, “When there is no room in Hell, the dead will walk the land! For they are what we call The Requiem! They are the deceased! And whom have we got to thank for this monstrosity? The very souls who abolished the belief in Him! Our one true Lord!”
Jack figured the raving madman was going on about religion. Unwilling to bring up old governmental issues in his mind, Jack continued down the bustling street. There was a gunshot and someone somewhere screamed a little louder than everyone else was doing.
He cursed under his breath as he passed another boarded up shop, wondering if any shops were left. Ahead, a building was on fire. Thick black smoke and flames were pouring out of the window and door holes. Jack saw a woman at a window screaming for help. Keeping his head low, he suppressed his thoughts back to Eliza.
There was only one word to describe her. She was a bitch! A stupid silly little bitch. He marched furiously in the crowd, the thought of her rekindling his fury. He was so over her. He was God-damn over her. He was so over her. He was God-damn over her. He was so over her. He was God-damn over her. He was so over her.
He was God-damn.
Ov.
Er.
Her.
Jack marched past a struggling Enforcer unit as his mind exploded with hate, insisting over and over again that he was so over her. But he wasn’t over her. He would never be over her. It made him want to cry. It made him want to tear his hair out in frustration, as an action to symbolise the pain, the torment, the fury, the green-eyed monster that constantly followed him. His blood boiled, it felt like his veins were about to explode. He needed something, something to make him happy.
Something to make him really happy.
Killing Eliza would probably do it.
Government still ignorant over The Requiem.
The headline blazed across the newspapers on the newspaper stall attached to the side of the grubby looking off licence. Probably didn’t sell knives, but Jack thought it was worth a try anyway. That aside, he wanted to get off the packed streets.
Unfortunately, the small shop was also jam-packed. The small pitiful excuse of an off-licence had one aisle with shelves packed full of cheap sugary confectionary, small meaningless bits of tat and magazines recommending everyone spend hard earned rupees on something that sounded amazing, but didn’t guarantee it. Filled with enticing pictures of the blossoming youth of women, but not acknowledging that five children down the line, the young beauties would be the size of small planets and will be abraded and eroded from years and years of hard work. Everything went sour in the end, Jack thought.
He pushed his way through the amass of people in the small shop. A few people protested as he barged his way through, but they fell upon the deaf ears of Jack and the buyers around him, who were either looking at magazines or shouting for some drug of some sort at the store assistant.
Jack was now at the cash desk.
“A knife. Sharp. Foldable,” he demanded at the assistant.
“Hold on buddy,” he said over the noise of the other demanding customers, before turning his audience to the entire store, “Everyone please! We are fresh out of all psychophysiological palpating drugs! That means no Happy, no Excitement, no Nostalgia and no Forget! We are clean out, so if you are after consumer PP drugs, can you please leave and go elsewhere!”
There was uproar in the store as many disappointed customers cursed over the lack of cosmetic drugs. A few customers left however, many of them prevailed.
“You’re the only shop open! Get some more!” Jack heard someone shout.
“Your drugs killed my husband!” yelled someone else.
“Listen! I can’t get any more and I’ve got news, death isn’t a side effect, it’s an overdose. I’m not at all sorry to say I just ran out of care for you guys. I hope you see what I di
d there.”
There was further uproar which the assistant ignored.
“You want a knife buddy?” said the assistant, “Get it somewhere else. I’m not being responsible for someone’s death.”
“Do not assume you understand,” said Jack, narrowing his eyes, looking rather odd, “I am much more than the normal rioter. I am worth much more than that. And in being so, I become something that isn’t one of these riotous morons. That aside, you need the money.”
“You look like you could do with some Happy,” said the assistant, “Shame you’re not getting any. Give me one reason I should sell you a knife, Mr-the-world-revolves-around-me.”
“Because the world revolves around me. Or at least, the world revolves around what I’m going to do with the knife after I’ve bought it.”
“You’re yet another hopeful out to kill our land’s father,” sighed the assistant, “On the unlikely chance that you do succeed, do you really think it will make a difference? Nothing will change; we’ll just have no leader to blame the state of the land on. I’ll still have a lack of produce to sell and I will still have the threat of my business being looted or blown up every night by either angry protestors or these damn neo-terrorists,” he handed over a switchblade knife, “So go ahead and kill our land’s father. It won’t do any difference to anything. The only people winning from this mess are them who manage to smuggle illegal weapons here from Union. And the guy who came up with the idea of cosmetic PP drugs. That will be fourteen rupees please.”
“Do not assume you understand,” repeated Jack in the same tone, handing over the money, “You assume it is the Leader I seek to destroy. I can tell you now that the person this knife awaits to penetrate is far more important than our Leader.”
“Whatever buddy,” the assistant had lost interest now, “Next please!”
Some desperate looking woman pushed past Jack, “Bliss! I need some Bliss! Please tell me you have some! The Requiem they’re after me-“
Jack was almost at the door to the street outside, his pride rather damaged at being snubbed by the assistant, when he heard the assistant shout again that he had no PP drugs. He strode into the packed street, pocketing the naked switchblade knife. He was about to resume his thoughts of hatred when the shop he had just left behind him exploded.
An ear-splitting bang propelled him forwards. He stumbled, being showered by a haze of dust and blood. There was a momentary silence as shocked onlookers looked upon the wreckage that a moment ago was probably the only open shop in the area. Jack leant against a metal bollard, gasping for breath. An alarm sounded, probably a smoke detector. Someone female screamed.
Coughing, Jack glanced upon the wreckage and the small scattering of bodies around. If he had spent another second in the store he would have been killed. If the assistant hadn’t snubbed his proud speech, he wouldn’t have been able to complete the day’s goal.
Eliza.
The thought of her re-entered his head, and spread like fire across oil. Oh how he had tried removing her from his mind. But to no compromise, his heart refused to pump the other way. Even Happy wasn’t a good enough compromise anymore. Not that he’d be able to get any if he wanted. He knew for a fact that nearly everyone wanted a supply of some drug of some kind in this day and age.
There was an incisive ringing in his ears as he began walking again. Was it the alarm? No, it was a higher pitch than that, everything sounded as though he was under fluid. It was the cells in his tympanic membrane slowly dying thanks to the noise of the explosion. Jack continued his walk of hate, now assumingly heading to where Eliza would be.
He stumbled along angry streets and back alleys, walking closer and closer to his goal. Somewhere, there was another explosion, but Jack didn’t see it. It must have been a few streets away. Military action only had to be a few days away now. The public were getting far out of control. They were angry. Angry at the apparent failure of Deimos, angry at the government’s lack of response to the Requiem, angry at the tax raises, angry at the floodings, angry at the decrease of the overall quality of life. The omnipotent leader or land father of Elision was increasingly becoming less omnipotent as peoples’ rage grew. Every day, more people took to the streets, every day, more people were infected by the Requiem, every day, more stories, rumours, shenanigans were spread about the Ninety-Nine killing innocent civilians.
Even rumours of people finding a way to Union had circulated, although, it was still debatable whether Union was a better place. According to the government, it wasn’t. Although according to the government, the Requiem was a figment of peoples’ imaginations. Propaganda was nothing new. According to the people who had apparently been to or come from Union, it wasn’t either. However, the fleeting hope and dream that the grass was greener on the other side remained in peoples’ hearts. Although getting to Union was practically impossible. Jack had heard rumours, as always, rumours, of a way through an old underground Metro link that had once connected Union and Elision together. But Jack wasn’t stupid. He knew such was unlikely to exist.
And that is why he knew that it would only be a few days until the public got way too out of control for the Enforcers to handle, and military action from the government would commence. Swift and Voltaire would fail and the process would repeat. As it always had done.
Jack’s solution was just to ignore it all. Focus his mind on things that actually mattered. Of course, now, the only thing that had mattered had betrayed him, and now the only thing that mattered was to repay the favour. To show her how much she had hurt him. It had hurt. It had hurt. It had hurt. It still did hurt. It had been an awfully bitter pill for Jack to swallow, and no matter how much he had tried to swallow it deep, no matter how much Happy he took to block the painful misery away, the pill came back and chocked him. If ignorance was bliss, Jack should have been in heaven right now. He knew after killing Eliza that this would be the case.
He turned onto a quiet alley and passed what looked like a Requiem eating the remains of some ex-mortal thing. The Requiem looked up at Jack with a mouth full of blood and guts, dripping down its chin. Jack paused, frozen with terror as the Requiem inspected him in its dreamlike consciousness. He was just about to grab for his new switchblade knife, when the Requiem turned its head back to the remains of the feast before it.
Breathing a large sigh of relief, Jack continued his hate rampage, wondering why on earth the Requiem hadn’t attacked him. Jack had so far had to kill five Requiem, if you could call it killing them. The ‘official’ term was disabling, although, that wasn’t really official. It was just what everyone called it. Disabling their movement by removing the head. Or making them practically useless by damaging the legs.
The last time he’d had to disable one had been a close call. He had been in bed when one unexpectedly shattered its way through his flat’s window and attacked him. It took several battered looking items from his cutlery drawer and an ancient looking vase that had been on his shelf for what seemed like an eternity to stop it. He then threw the damn thing out of the broken window, where it landed and continued to find life again and begin its attack of terror on someone else.
How dare she? How God damn dare she ditch him? How dare she even consider leaving him? How could she? Why? Why? Why, why, why, why, why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy!!?? His mind had fumed on the word why so much, he had lost the meaning of it. It felt alien on his tongue, as though the word had lost its meaning, as though the word was now not of the land’s native language, but of gibberish made from the figment of his imagination. It became the pinnacle of his hatred. Why had she done this to him? Why!?
Off the lone back alley and back onto a busy street. This one appeared more chaotic than the last, Enforcers attempting to control the masses surging angrily to the Leader’s large residence with their riot shields, stun weapons and actual guns. Jack thought that there may have been a day when people were proven guilty of breaking the law before killed, as he saw a six year old girl’s brains get blasted fro
m hear head by a high speed bullet from the gun of an Enforcer. He stared at the Enforcer who had committed such an appalling act of heartlessness. He appeared not to have noticed; maybe he had been aiming to shoot someone else. The amount of mistaken killings of innocents before the riots and rebellions really began was what Jack considered to be insane. So the amount now was clearly going to be disastrous.
Six year old female blood sprayed across his face. Jack closed his eyes and heard the unmistakeable potato-sack thud of the girl’s corpse hitting the ground. She had probably been on her way to the education offices. What the selfish world was doing to children infuriated Jack even more.
Surely a better system of just instantaneous killing would be better, Jack pondered, stepping over the child’s body and into the packed street. Surely a system where you were held in an Enforcer cell for a while whilst they gathered proof that you had committed such a crime would reduce the number of unnecessary killings. Jack knew a system like that was already in place, however it was only the seriously wanted criminals who get to benefit from it. It was something Jack found hard to believe, that Neo-Terrorists such as that guy who liked to be known as the letter ‘J’, who killed many of the lands citizens for no apparent reason with bombs, kill streaks and most recently, floods weren’t short on sight. And yet an ordinary civilian who was thought to be doing something suspicious by an on looking Enforcer would be shot immediately.
He knew the problem with retaining everyone under suspicion of a criminal act would be that it would cost a hellishly large amount of money to achieve. Highfields Enforcer Centre wasn’t exactly a big place, another few buildings would have to be built and maintained, resulting in yet another tax raise and probably a decrease in allowances. But why did the supreme criminals deserve such money spent on them when everyone else was just blown to pieces with a single ball of metal on sight?