Chapter 3: My Name is ILU

Senate Law 2-A, Signed into effect 12.04.2164: The Citizens of this Nation shall, at all times, observe laws and be ready to serve should the need arise. Emotional desertion is the same as treason and shall be punished accordingly.

“Please sit. May I fetch a drink for you?”

Nod.

“Wait here.”

Loud banging noises emanated from the kitchen. The girl had no way to make sense of what she had just been told. How could this boy be responsible for the deaths of his own parents?

“Here. I made tea.”

Sip.

“Is it good?”

Nod.

“Excellent. I feel that I owe you an explanation of my choice of words earlier. Allow me to tell you of my life. Forgive its length: it is a rather long story.

“I was born in this very house 17 years ago, around seven in the evening. My parents were loving, caring individuals who devoted themselves to me. I was a rather mischievous child, always trying to see what I could break.

“When I was five I found my father’s old service pistol, and in time accidentally shattered a valuable ceramic bowl. My parents were out of the house, so to me, it was a matter of gluing the pieces back together before they returned. I did manage this, but learned that glue does not exactly work to fix much of anything. My father was…upset, but understanding. He saw potential in me, and decided to enroll me in a local school.

“My first day was hard; I had never been too far away from my family for very long, and I had difficulty adjusting. The other children saw this and chose to exploit it. Over the course of the next few weeks, I was tortured both physically and emotionally by others my own age. When I tried alerting the instructors, they would simply shrug at me and say, ‘Suck it up.’

“It was roughly two months into school that I found my breaking point. I was being harassed by a child whose name I cannot recall. I can only say for certain that he had brown hair and grey eyes.

“He considered me his plaything: a person to whom he could do anything without fear of repercussions. I sat there in silence as he kicked me time and time again, asserting inside that I would fight back that day.

“What happened next, I cannot say. I remember looking down at a limp child, his blood gushing onto the concrete and a look of terror in those eyes as they stared up at me. I recall shaking and crying a bit, but not much else. One thing does strike me even to this day: when they told me he had died of his injuries, I felt nothing. No joy or guilt; neither sadness nor satisfaction. I had no opinion on this matter. He both deserved to die and to live.”

The boy paused here, appearing to fight back tears. The girl sat there, shocked. What had he gone through to do that to another living thing at such a young age?

“To this day I wonder what he might be like; what did I take away from him? Even now, I cannot bring myself to feel guilty for what happened that day. For me it was a matter of life and death. My version of events was so during the trial, and I was found innocent by reason of temporary insanity as the result of extreme trauma.

“My parents had no words to say when that ruling came down. I had been removed from the school and was now a social outcast. Not that any of that mattered to me; I was happy to be home again. All I wanted was for things to go back to the way they were. I soon learned how wrong I was in that wish.

“The day after the ruling was declared, I found myself in a boarding school a few miles from here. The staff claimed to specialize in rare cases such as mine, and my parents were hopeful it would teach me the value of life or some bullshit like that. I figured it was compounding the punishment and humiliation of being labeled a murderer. Either way, I was in another place away from home.

“I would talk to my sister almost every day in that dark place; she was at a girls’ school not far from me, and students were allowed one hour of telephone time each day. Her voice got me through much of the time I spent in that awful school.

“I would spend four years there, returning home shortly before my tenth birthday. Those years slowly became easier, and I became harder. The time spent in the classroom was effectively used doodling and dreaming of various things. Mostly my dreams consisted of our instructors meeting any one of dozens of violent ends.”

The girl began to speak, but was cut off before saying anything.

“To answer your question, I am not a psychopath. I have wondered about this, but it really boils down to the fact that I simply do not see any problem with fantasizing about murder. It is only natural. However, I digress.

“I returned home 16 days before my tenth birthday, and things were at relative ease. I tried adjusting to being able to think for myself and talk when I wished, but it was difficult. I felt a need to ask prior to any action, and my parents worried about me. Without hesitation, they decided to try the public schools again, hoping I might make some real friends for once in my life.

“I did have better luck at school; I managed to find a group of children with whom I shared interests. We all enjoyed reruns of various programs on television, and fantasized about the military. Of course, every young man in this country has, at one time, thought of enlisting. The problem is the commitment; one must give himself completely to the cause, and most are not willing to do that.

“So things went for three years: I attended school every day, came home to my parents and—when she returned—sister. We enjoyed an evening meal as a family, and went our separate ways afterward. My sister would often retreat to her room or the home of her boyfriend of the week. My parents always went into their own room. I typically watched television or, on occasion, visited one of my friends.

“When I was 13, the Daps raided our home. It was not an unusual occurrence; this happened once a month in our sector of the city. The difference today was their claims to have evidence that my parents were harboring fugitives. I knew this was ridiculous, but all the same, I never said a word. You met the Daps: they are barbaric when they wish to be.

“That day, one of them attacked my mother as she tried to open a door for him. He thought she was trying to strike at him, and moved to pin her down. Of course, he decided this was tacit consent and began removing her clothes. I felt powerless, yet enraged. Why could he do this without repercussion? I chose then and there to put a stop to it. I pulled a gun out of the pocket of a Dap next to me.

“I remember the firing pin snapping. I can still hear that bang. I can see the blood running down my mother’s shirt as she tried to conceal the wound. The Daps backed away as I sprinted forward to embrace her. As she drew her last breath, I heard two words escape her lips.

“‘Be safe.’

“All of the pain in the world could not dull my despair at that moment in time. My mother, the ultimate protector, was dead. I went limp, unresponsive to the world around me. The Daps stared at me, shocked looks fixed on their faces. When I came out of my stupor, they were gone along with my sister. I searched for my father, finding him in the bedroom where he slept. The Daps had gone in and killed him soon after I went catatonic.

“To say I was devastated would be an understatement. In one night I had lost my parents, and my sister was nowhere to be found. All I had was the stamp on my neck…my only source of identity. I could only look in the mirror and say the eight words that define who I am today.

“‘My name is ILU, and I am alone.’”

The girl had long since given up trying to hold back her emotions, softly crying in the dim room. How had this boy survived for so long? There was so much against him, yet he appeared to thrive here.

The boy gestured to the dark room before speaking again.

“I built the mannequins as a coping mechanism. The recordings are from several weeks before they died. Hearing their voices calms me to this day.

“After that day, my routine settled into some semblance of predictability. I would awake, eat, wash up, and leave the house. Most of the day was—and still is—devoted to my studies and small transactions allowing me to earn a nominal income. It is rather humorous, though: I am 17 years old and have yet to decide my future. I have no future with the Daps; one day taught me enough to make that decision. I am certain about one thing: remaining in this country is my only option. Outside I am an outcast, someone to be feared. Every Citizen is such to the outside world.

“So where is there for me to go but here? I do not wish to stay in the city, but that may be the only future for me. Either way, here I sit, telling you all of this.”

The girl felt cold reality gripping her throat, choking any words she would have said. His story, while vague in some areas—she suspected because his memory itself was imperfect—was still captivating and heart-wrenching. There were few tales spun that could evoke such a gut emotional response.

The girl focused her large, magenta eyes on his blue ones.

“What is this world like?”

The boy stared ahead, his face quickly draining of color. Strangely, he looked content.

“I suppose the world is much the same as it has been since I was born. The sky is always grey, and only occasionally are the stars visible through the clouds. The government of this Nation is ruled over by a President and his Senate. The Senate writes laws and the President approves them, making them so. Daps patrol the streets regularly, and curfews are enforced daily. I had friends who have not existed for years. Once you are relocated, you are never seen again.”

The girl was starting to contemplate what this could possibly mean. If this boy hadn’t—

“Moving on,” said the boy coldly. “There is much to know about daily life here, assuming you know nothing of it. I am convinced that you are of this world, but if—as you say—your home is Equestria, the Senate may be able to help to send you back. They may be harsh on their own subjects, but they will not submit an unwilling immigrant to the same laws.

“Senate Laws are to be followed at all times, and many of them apply to age groups. To educate you fully, I will need your height, age, and weight.”

The girl was floored. “Um, what? My weight? That is totally not cool.”

“Really? I am sorry you feel that way. I can only think of one law related to weight, so it is inconsequential. Age? Height?”

“76 and eight inches,” the girl deadpanned.

“Your sarcasm amuses me so. Age and height, please.”

“Okay, I’m 19 and…I have no idea what my height is in this body.”

The boy abruptly dashed into another room, returning shortly with a roll of measuring tape.

“May I?”

The girl stood up in response. The cold plastic made her shiver slightly, but the sensation was gone in a matter of seconds.

“175 centimeters. Okay, none of the height laws apply to you. You may sit down. Good, now the laws here affect everyone on a daily basis. First off, we apply for the same age group, so we both have a curfew of 1800. There will be a warning at 1750 for those of us still in the streets to clear into the nearest building. Trust me, an empty warehouse is better shelter than a prison cell downtown.

Also, on raid nights, all occupants of a space must be related. Luckily, there is no raid scheduled here for another four days, so you have nothing to worry about.

Military service is compulsory upon summons. This can happen at any time, but rarely comes during peace. At this moment, the Nation is at peace with all others, so there is little chance of me being called away for service. I cannot control the random drafts, though. I may be called tomorrow or never. It depends on the discretion of the Senate, as most things do these days.”

The girl looked up at this. His tone, his eyes, they all told one story: the boy failed to understand his own country, but still believed in it. He was broken by a society that had abandoned him years ago, and thus remained its slave. How could he live in such obvious turmoil?

“Once you turn 20, you can stay out until as late as 1930 if you wish. Coming of age does have its privileges.”

“Wait a second! You don’t become an adult until 20?”

“So you maintain that you are not from here?”

A sharp nod confirmed the suspicion.

“Well then I will operate as if I believe that. Yes, the maturity age was raised to 20 about three years ago. My own memory of that day is dimmed somewhat, but I do remember a time when 18 was that magic number. For me, the best day has always been one during which I live to see another night. Life here can be dangerous. The Daps have no problems taking a life if they feel disrespected, and from the way they describe relocation, it is better to die by the hands of those brutes.”

The girl felt relieved; at least he hated them.

“I suppose you are wondering exactly how I manage to survive here, and why my home was the only one lit with electricity for a few blocks.”

Slowly the girl nodded, not even aware of her curiosity until that moment.

“Electric power is rare now. Only government buildings and food outlets are allowed that luxury. My father rewired this house when he moved in with mother. They made a light in the darkness, one that cannot be detected by the Senate’s surge systems.”

“How is that possible…and what’s a surge system.”

The boy stifled a small chuckle. “Surge systems are EMP—Electromagnetic Pulse—emitters designed to knock out all privately owned electricity. This house can survive because its wiring system predates what the pulse is programmed for. Thus, I escape notice completely…unless an Agent walks right up to the house at this exact moment.”

“Agent?”

“Agents are Senate-hired mercenaries meant for one objective: search and capture. Their entire lives revolve around the acquisition of all enemies of the state including abusers of the grid, political opposition, and rebels.”

“Rebels?”

The boy honestly looked perplexed by that last question. “Supposed freedom fighters hiding in the city and around the Capital. Personally, I do not believe they exist. The idea seems too far-fetched for my taste.”

The girl looked at the boy in front of her. His eyes were fixed on her hands, watching them fidget every so often. This made her slightly uncomfortable, but not enough to mention it. The more pressing matter, however, was what the boy had just said.

If there were rebels hiding in plain sight, perhaps they could help the girl get home! She might never have to meet this Senate, an entity that sounded like pure evil, not only in its actions, but in its ability to corrupt the mind of an otherwise sweet young man.

The boy finally turned his gaze to his guest’s eyes. Both sat in silence for some time until, for no discernable reason, he burst out laughing.

“Why are you laughing? This hardly seems like an appropriate time for that!”

“I-I am sorry. You just have no idea how ad-adorable that look your face is! Those eyes are huge in comparison to the rest of your head, and the slightly open mouth just sells that whole bit!”

“Well, sorry to be so awesome.”

“Never be sorry, STM. You are you, and that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

That was it: the first hint of true compassion the girl had ever heard or seen in him. The boy in front of her suddenly seemed so…human, so emotional and likeable. A soft tear formed against her dry skin.

“Thank you…I needed that.”

“Any time, STM. Any time.”

The two relaxed for the first time all evening, finally feeling able to eat. They found themselves next to each other watching television less than an hour after their last exchange. The girl looked over at the boy, feeling something strange inside. Almost like a warm glow.

Three sharp raps on the front door reduced that small ember to ash in microseconds.

Author's Note

I'm going to try uploading a new chapter every 7-10 days for the rest of this story. I have the entire arc planned out, so there will be a lot of development in the chapters to come!

Also, suggestions are definitely welcome, and if you want to guess what happens next, go ahead