Tank, Plaster, Work

There was a time when I didn't need to do this. A time when sky-tanks never hummered through the skyline. A time when we were free.

Some say it's no good to think of that time, but for me it's the only thing that keeps me going. I'm older than most, almost 30 now. I remember the time before they came. Most of these kids, they've never known anything other than obedience and sleeping on racks.

It's amazing how quickly the American spirit was crushed.

I knock quickly on the metal grate, and wait for a response. I'm at an unmarked brick-and-plaster building on an unmarked street, in what's becoming an increasingly unmarked city. There's no response after a minute, so I knock again, randomizing the pattern of knocks, something the Skitters have trouble doing.

I hear another random knock back.

I tap the first few bars of the Star Spangled banner on the grate, and it opens. A fifteen year-old-face covered with dirt greets me. "Where have you been?"

"And a good morning to you too, Trevor" I say, stepping past him into the building.

He runs and blocks the inner door to the rest of the compound. "It's been three days. You know I can't let you in until you've been verified."

I sigh. We have no way of telling the Skitters from us, not really. But these teenage savages have a nigh-religious trust in their blood rituals. No matter that I've seen a man-skin shed blood as a Skitter burst through the thin mask of his body, they need to see red. I think it gives a sense of security, something that makes it feel like they're in control of the situation.

But as much as it's complete bullshit, my stomach is growling and there's no way the Skitters are feeling as generous as the Lord of the Flies is this evening. As if the nosepicker has ever read that book, or any book for that matter.

I slide my pocketknife out from its sheath, and place it on my palm. The kid watches with dead eyes. He is not a fifteen year old, but he is not a man. He is something else entirely: a soldier.

"Satisfied?"

He nods, and opens the door into the marketplace.

As I walk through, he says, "But where have you been?"

"Working." I say, and continue on to sell my wares.