by Tanya Ross
The customary appointment that day took a different turn than Xander expected. After all their sessions together, Winslow had reached a frustrated decision. “The medical professionals will have to provide the next steps, Xander.” He pushed a button on the wall, pulled a form appearing from a slotted window, scribbled something illegible on it, and handed it to him. “Please. Give this to the team outside the door, Xander. They’ll be taking care of you. Good luck.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ve done all I can.”
Xander couldn’t wait to get out the door. Yes! No more sessions with Win! He did a fist pump in the air.
Immediately, a middle-aged man dressed completely in red, his eyes spaced apart enough to give him an alien look, met Xander before the door even finished its final click.
“Xander, I am Esryn. Do you have your paperwork?”
Xander looked the man up and down with disdain. “Yeah…here ya go.” Xander dropped it in the man’s outstretched hands, to see it miss its mark and float to the floor. And he wasn’t going to stoop to picking it up. That would be beneath him. He eyed its presence on the floor and, for some proper fun, slid his foot over it. Esryn jerked Xander’s paperwork out from Xander’s foot and pushed him down the corridor.
“So, what’s your Status, Esryn? Red’s no Status color.”
“Sciolists don’t have Status. Red is only for us.” The Sciolist answered him in an emotionless voice. He never turned but continued walking down the brick-lined hallway.
“Another crappy rule. Red looks great on me. I should be wearing it all the time.” Xander hoped to get under Esryn’s skin, but he meant what he said. Red had always been his favorite color. Impossible to find fabric, though. He’d never been able to get an outfit made.
“Red’s only for the Sciolist Team,” Esryn repeated, this time in an irritated tone.
“Right. Well, you stay special… Hey, Sciolist—you takin’ me to the crazy house?”
“You need help."
“And you don’t? What’re you but a worthless pawn?”
The corridor ended abruptly at a cardinal-colored door which opened to a short sidewalk to the street. An undersized red car waited at the curb. The car’s door opened at their approach. Esryn shoved Xander inside. “Solace Institute” the Sciolist said, and the car shot out of its spot.
Xander kicked back, checking out his red ride. He sat behind Esryn in a small, uncomfortable seat built for one person. The vehicle was boxy, but compact. As red as the scarlet painted exterior, the control buttons inside gave no clue to their purpose. He shuddered a little, wondering if they might be there in case of resistance. The interior roof was thick with a fuzzy upholstery. He couldn’t resist running his hands over to feel its fluffiness. The plush headliner was almost comical, considering the car’s purpose was anything but soft.
“Esryn. You like your job?” Xander said.
No answer.
“Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I shoulda been a Sciolist! Controlling other people. I hear I’m made for that.”
The Sciolist hardly moved, his posture stiff. His voice was emotionless. “Don’t talk. Outside the building, we don’t talk to emotional resistors.”
“You’d get infected or something?”
Silence.
“You got a personal life?” In spite of the lack of answers, Xander was enjoying himself.
Still nothing.
The Sciolist hardly moved, his posture stiff as a cadaver’s.
Up ahead loomed the treatment building, a massive glass-paneled atrocity where Esryn gestured to him to exit the auto. A sign read “Solace Institute.” Esryn accompanied Xander to a narrow waiting area with chairs in every Status color flanking the walls.
The Sciolist shut the door and left him alone.
Xander’s mind raced. He hardly dared think about what the Solace Institute meant for him. Winslow tried to reprogram him without success. But Winslow wasn’t a mental doctor. If this place could actually help him, would that be good? Could he ever be okay with being told how to think? How to smile? If only people understood that he didn’t want to intentionally hurt people. It just seemed to happen. Maybe this was the lifeline he needed…
An hour later, Xander was listening to his assigned medic. “You’ll take these according to the directions on the label. Please, don’t miss a dose.” She held the bottle up. “You’re going to feel a lot better!” Extending a glass of lavender-colored purified water, she placed two orange pills in his hand. She then clasped her hands in a prayer-like gesture, optimism oozing out of her beautiful pores.
This medic should be a model instead, Xander mused. Her symmetrical face and long legs made him far happier than the pills she was gently placing in his possession.
“You’re completely gorgeous, Medic…?”
“Spero. My family members are all in altruistic professions. Our surname means “hope.”
“Well, Miss Spero. You do give me hope! But not from those pills…Have you ever thought your beauty is being wasted on losers like me? You could be a model for Tranquility’s clothing design studio. The Spectrum Colorhouse needs some new figures. And you fit the bill.”
“Thank you. You seem to be an upbeat guy…I’m sorry we had to meet this way,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s a shame—but what do you say we get together later? I could show you a good time.”
It wounded him to see her eyes glaze over in pity before she rushed out without a reply, glancing at the Alt on her wrist.
Xander knew the medication, Abacinate, was the last-ditch effort to help him become a “Trank” in spirit and deed. But there was no way he was going to be medicated into bowing down. Perhaps it worked for others, but not for him. Sneaking out the door and down the hallway, he didn’t look back as he exited, feeding the pills to the trash receptacle on his way out.
Once he got home, in a final act of rebellion, Xander removed his Alt, hoping that he would somehow just simply fall off the radar. It took two hours before his luck ran out.
A different Sciolist came back to collect him. He wondered briefly why it wasn’t Esryn again. The new creep took him to a small, waiting room off City Hall’s main corridor. Xander surveyed the room, scoffing at the bright red walls. Recessed lighting did nothing to quiet the bold color. Irritating room, he thought, meant to intimidate. Good try. However, he only had a few minutes to reflect on the obscene color choice before the Sciolist came back for him. “The Magistrate is ready for you,” the Sciolist droned.
Xander shrugged his shoulders. “As you wish. You’re in charge…” He gave him a mock bow.
In spite of his bravado, deep inside he suddenly wished it could have been different. That he could have somehow fit in. That he could have actually been saved. What if he could have pulled himself together? But now, here he was. He had to stand up for himself.
They walked down an adjacent hallway, the Sciolist mute during the short fifteen-foot walk. Again, a red door. But when it opened, no red washed the walls; instead, walls the color of sand were ironically serene. A chamber, perfectly round, made it both serious and elegant. Soft lighting showed off columns—eighteen of them, to be exact—and the space was vast. The pillars looked to be made of steel. In the center of the room was a colossal crystal globe sitting on a platform of ornate iron filigree. Light reflecting from the glass was mesmerizing.
The Sciolist ushered Xander forward toward the crystal. The hot spot? he wondered. “Stand here,” the Sciolist said. “Right by the crystal.” The Sciolist shoved him into place. He felt an immediate surge of anger so strong it left him weak. He noticed the Sciolist take up a position beside the door. Within seconds, the floor transformed. Where it was flat before, it was now becoming a dark opening, like a monster’s maw. He cringed, wondering if it would swallow him up. A desk emerged from beneath, as well as a giant throne. The desk, constructed of heavy concrete, displayed two words etched into the front: “Tranquility Justice.”
; 14
Xander’s Exile
Xander faced the Magistrate. His black robes defined a broad man with a beady stare and straight ebony hair that reached his shoulders. This man, then, was the cherished and revered leader of Tranquility, the one every citizen worshipped.
“Xander Noble.”
“Yes, Your Majesty…” Xander gazed back defiantly.
“Your Alt has shown over 1000 negativity registers on The Continuum.” The Magistrate creased his hawkish face with a frown and shuffled some papers in front of him.
“I guess that would be correct.”
“I understand that all efforts to rehabilitate you have failed.”
“Yeah. Who the frik cares? Not like you do, our Great Kindhearted Leader.”
“Since that is the case, and since you have violated your contractual agreement, we now decline your citizenship in Tranquility.”
“Well, that’s a big sacrifice,” Xander said with dramatic sarcasm. “You can bring me down, and throw me out, but I’ll never give up my freakin’ identity.” He looked around, pretty sure he could make it to the door again, if he tried, before someone could catch him.
“Have you anything to say that would excuse your behavior as a citizen of Tranquility?”
“No... only this: I’m strong enough to survive. You won’t see me begging to be one of your brainwashed citizens.”
The Magistrate narrowed his eyes, which were dark as pitch. “Very well. In keeping with the law, you’re being given your wish.” He smirked. “You are hereby stripped of your citizenship and your family name and classified as REM. The acronym defines you as ‘Resisting Emotional Management.’ Most unfortunate. You no longer have access to the city or to any of its benefits. Your family will not acknowledge your existence, including your past. You are hereby erased from society, exiled to The Outside.” He waved a veined hand in dismissal. “The Sciolist will take care of you from here.”
The red-clad Sciolist did not speak, but with a burst of energy, took deliberate, exaggeratedly hurried steps to the front of the judge’s bench. He handed Xander a pile of what looked to be thin fabric, charcoal gray. The Sciolist asserted, “Your REM clothes.”
Xander snatched the rough, bland apparel. “You expect me to wear…this?” Xander replied, holding it up to the light. “Not my style,” he joked.
The Sciolist boomed, “Put on your clothes!”
Xander stood, his stance mulish. When he didn’t immediately show even a flicker of movement, the Sciolist took control, stripping off Xander’s flamboyant clothes and shoes. This is the definition of humiliation. His arms reflexively covered his naked body, a sense of vertigo threatening to throw him off balance. He swallowed rapidly, wishing he could just disappear. At last, Xander jerked his arms and head through the short-sleeved shirt and his legs through the shorts like an angry robot. He was dressed.
Then, hustling toward him, the Sciolist captured him by the arms and shoved. There was no happiness campaign here. His time was up.
Across the room a screen went up. Xander saw heavy, red curtains monogrammed with a monumental “T” on each side. As he had no choice but to slide along with his prosecutor, he stumbled, off balance, toward the curtains. Xander watched the weighty curtain draw up, as if the next stage of his life was being unveiled. There was no getting out of this.
Xander shifted his weight into a more threatening position. He growled, a deep guttural sound, in frustration. The Sciolist, unflappable and eerily calm, unlocked the ponderous scarlet door before them with a large, old-fashioned golden skeleton key from his pocket and pulled it open. He threw a thumb out, gesturing to Xander to move on into what looked to be a simple hallway. Xander crossed his arms and shook his head from side to side as if he had an actual choice, in a firm “no.” Finally, the Sciolist gave Xander a brutal shove where he stumbled like a disorderly drunk into the coldness of the corridor. “You’ll find no happiness or peace now, REM.”
The door shut with finality behind him, and he heard the lock screech. He winced as it thudded into place.
Xander found himself in a hallway. Cement floor and brick walls in gray surrounded him, unwelcoming as a morgue. He immediately felt like a lost soul. His eyes darted up and down, checking out any options he might have. He could see that the hallway stretched ahead, until, at some point, it took a sharp turn, obscuring it from sight. His bravery suddenly evaporating, Xander hesitated, but there was nowhere to go but forward.
He cursed under his breath. A bead of sweat ran into his eye where it burned like acid. He wiped the sour smelling sweat off his brow with his arm. His straightened his embarrassing clothes, frustrated that they were already riding up his crotch. “Frak!” he yelled. And with that, he started his pace into the unknown.
The grey, brick-lined tunnel was punctuated every twenty feet by undersized flickering light bulbs that threatened to wink out. Not great lighting—but at least he could see.
Xander relaxed a bit, as he realized the tunnel just looked industrial, not menacing. I already know my fate is set, he thought. I am a REM—there’s no going back. But maybe, even for me, I’m being overly negative? His thoughts somehow restoring his spirits, Xander traveled a distance of 100 feet before he realized that with each step, the lighting became dimmer and the hallway became colder. It might as well be a tomb. There were no sounds. No creatures stirring. The smell, though, was another story. Nothing that he had noticed at first, Xander sensed how the tunnel reeked of age and neglect. He inhaled the moldy smell and coughed.
The kicker, though, was the cold. Xander was not used to this kind of climate; the frigid air gripped him, forcing his teeth to chatter, especially dressed as he was in his issued clothing of a thin t-shirt and shorts. Stripped of shoes, the concrete floor sucked the very life out of his feet.
Little by little, the lights on which he had depended winked out and disappeared. Finally, it was dark as pitch. He threw his arms out in front of him, and then shuffled over to the wall on his left where he at least had a physical support.
Feeling his way along the walls, Xander hoped for anything that would give him answers. Would there be an end sometime soon? And what would he find at the end, when it dumped him Outside? In the inkiness surrounding him, Xander imagined stars, but he had never been good at the Visualization Technique, and now he understood that, regardless, this present reality could not be altered with his mind. Step, step, step, step…. each step, each breath, a sentence, an obvious punishment. Darkness swallowed him up little by little as he took curves and slopes leading him downward into mystery.
He began to lose track of time. How long he had now been walking? Probably miles…at least a couple of hours…who knew? He trudged along, his progress slow but steady. He stopped, sensing a new odor. Among the smell of decay, Xander detected the scent of smoke. Why smoke? Was there fire?
A fleeting thought. Would his parents even miss him? He had broken ties with them long ago after they politely asked him to move out of the house. He was a disgrace, even to them. He imagined they’d just be glad to hear he got what he deserved.
Xander knew he had reached his limits. He was by now exhausted, thirsty, and confused. He still felt the cold grabbing his body with ghostly fingers. Cold… so cold. Suddenly, he bumped into a wall. The wall was deep-freeze cold as well, but when he ran his hands over it, he found that a primitive metal door handle protruded into the space.
Still having no glimmer of light, Xander grabbed ahold of the doorknob. In spite of himself, he prayed. To Whom or What he did not know.
Xander turned the knob and pushed himself with all his weight into the heavy door. It was stuck, as if rusted into place or warped from the dampness. Finally, after pushing with all his might, and pressing himself onto the door handle, it opened with a groan. He stepped through. The tunnel, with its twists and turns, its long path, deposited him into…. what? His eyes revealed a whole new view.
Hot. The sky was gray, and he stepped out onto sparse, parched
brown grass. After being in the deep freeze, the air, scorching and dry, was akin to dragon’s breath. Just a minute ago he had been freezing, but now, already, he began to sweat. Even the air was suffocating. It hurt to breathe.
His eyes scanned the arid landscape. All he could see was parched, flat earth. There was no sign of any life anywhere.
He had no hints of where to go. Which direction, even? He would have to launch a discovery tour. Damn it. What choices do I have now?
With nothing recognizable as far as he could see, Xander quickly made up his mind. His remark to the judge about being able to survive would have to prove accurate. His life depended on it.
Xander stood against the outer side of the tunnel’s walls and slid down it wearily. He sat, both to rest and to reflect on what he was going to do. He gazed across the landscape. A plume of diffuse gray smoke in the distance snaked its way into the heavens. He felt a sedative-like heaviness descend on him…
Xander woke up, startled. Something was running down his leg. He shook himself to fully wake and shake off what he thought might be a spider crawling on his calf. Arriving at a fuller consciousness, he realized what he felt was a rivulet of sweat. Then, the crushing memory came back—The Outside. He was sunburned and sticky, bleary and confused. He scratched his back and stomach. His ugly clothes were wrinkled and prickled his skin.
With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, realizing that his clothing was the least of his problems. So thirsty. His mouth was a shriveled fissure. He would have to start looking for a way to find food, water, and maybe other REMs? Would he find others like himself somewhere in the vast landscape? Or was The Outside a death sentence?