A/N: This was created for a friend of mine. I sent it to them awhile ago but never got around to posting it here. So here it is! Definitely not my normal genre, but there's a first time for everything, right? ...Right? Anyway. Cold War inspired. Might be a few stray errors, I'll recheck later. Enjoy. xx
Disclaimer: Hey, these characters are not mine. Who knew?
Warning: Might be a little confusing in the thick of it, but it should make sense in the end. At least, as much sense as anyone can make out of Dystopia. Oh yeah, this is kind of Dystopian. I'll warn you now.
The Button
It should have been a simple task. And it had been for an inordinate amount of time.
Stand behind the glass window. Wait for the individual to enter. Count to five. Press the button.
Then it was all over. He didn't even have to get his hands dirty. It was perpetually rigged to be a clean slate. The wind jets inside the room would let out a blustery gust, sending the debris on the floor through the air, little fragments of dust carried in the sigh of the mechanical wind. A vented grate on the right side of the room would collect the dust, like matte black stars against the canvas of a white, stark, ammonia-scented sky. Until there was nothing but white, white walls and another turn of the doorknob.
It might have made him shiver if he ever took the time to truly think about it. But he didn't.
He just pressed the button. It wasn't his job to ponder the universe. It wasn't his job to think.
Cycle. Rinse. Repeat.
Axel lulled listlessly in his seat, turning once, twice, thrice in the rolling chair. The seat had become quite dilapidated over time, but its wheels gave as much momentum as ever—and he was satisfied with that. It had been three hours since the last turn of the doorknob. His eyes flicked again across the threshold of the thick glass, tracing around the perimeter of the door within. Three hours since the last careful footsteps. Axel could remember the choreography, the subtle dance of it all.
What he couldn't remember was the faces.
By the third second, careful footsteps gave way to a turning on the heels, eyebrows knitting in momentary confusion as the door shut with what Axel knew to be an audible click. By the fourth second, a grasping of the doorknob, a mouth opening . A noiseless call. A silent movie.
By the fifth, Axel's fingers finished the choreography. A click of the button. A slight brushing of his eyelashes as he closed his eyes, taking another quick round trip in his chair, the momentary breeze of momentum sweeping across his skin. Easily, with a slight flick of his ankle, he sent the wheels of the chair rolling. A blinding, vaporizing light would flicker behind him. He could keep his eyes open if he wanted, but he preferred to shut his eyes or turn away at the last possible moment. It was like a magic trick. Only in this case, there was no pulling the disappearing object back out of a hat. There were no beautiful white doves cascading into the air like freedom incarnate. No gripping of lucky rabbit feet or sweet coal black eyes glinting back into existence. No hushed sighs of a relief from a captivated audience. It was just Axel, with no other reaction than a slight blink. A brushing of his eyelashes against his cheeks. A listless turn in his chair.
Four hours since the last turn of the doorknob. There was a nervous thumping ta-tapping in his chest. He could feel the dance etching against his ribs, a pulsating rhythm. Music waiting for unknowing dancers. He closed his eyes and could rehearse it. Sure, there were deviations. Two left feet here. Wandering eyes there. Those who stood stock still, like a bad case of stage fright. But the curtain call always came. Now he was just waiting in the dark for his cue. Lights, camera, action, and all that jazz. Only here, the blistering light came last.
As Axel waited, he wondered briefly if they'd finally exhausted their list. Maybe they'd scratched off the last barcode in the database, vaporized the last mistake in the code—the DNA that they deemed unfit for this world. At any moment, a man with dark glasses and a white coat would enter, bringing with him the stinging scent of iodoform, and tell Axel that they would be no longer needing his services. He waited, something rising in his chest that he couldn't quite identify. It reminded him of his first couple of days working in the facility—when he'd walked in, sitting down in a stiff, unmarred chair. When his fingers trembled as they moved to press the button—ten seconds past due. The rising panic in his chest, manifesting as bile working swiftly against gravity in his throat.
He'd emptied the contents of his stomach a total of four times in his first week.
Now it was smooth, easy. Reflexive.
He flexed his button-pressing finger, ran his hands through his hair, hummed a song that he used to wail at the top of his lungs when he was little. He put his head down, unused to having to wait this long in the interlude. Axel sighed, reminding himself why he'd signed up for this, although not because he felt guilty—that had worn off when the steps and the faces and the days all started to blur together. He reminded himself because the mind-numbing monotony was getting to him. He imagined the white, crisp check in his hands. He made sure to note the number of zeros. A trace of a smile ghosted his lips at that.
Sometime later, his eyes bolted open, registering a movement in his peripherals. He raised his head off the desk in front of him and a litter of expletives tumbled from his lips. He wasn't sure whether his eyes had been closed for mere moments or minutes. He could've missed his cue, let more than 5 seconds pass, allow more than one person to sweep into the room. That was strictly against protocol. Why? He didn't know. But he didn't want to find out.
His eyes rose, trying to start a new count in the back of his mind. He startled immediately when he found stark blue eyes trained on him from the other room. But no, that didn't make sense. The subjects could never see him. It was one-way glass. Panic began rising in his chest, a path of liquid fear, the contents of his stomach threatening to find its way out. The blue-eyed boy's feet found their way to the panel that separated them.
But no. No. These weren't the steps.
The boy's mouth was moving. Small, deliberate motions like he was reciting a rapid mantra. Blue eyes continued to bore into his.
He didn't understand.
A hand rising up, fingers pressed resolutely against the wall, no doubt leaving a singular smudge in the otherwise immaculate room— a fissure in their perfect tapestry. Axel's fingers fidgeted as they hovered over the button. It was the simple solution. It was the only solution that he knew.
…How many seconds had passed?
Oh god. This was already borrowed time. Press the button. Cycle. Rinse. Repeat.
He looked down at the button under his fingers. He could make out all the little prints of his finger peppered across it, the oil etchings that were perfect images of the epidermis of his skin. He glanced back up at the glassy eyes trained on his. Something about the way they glinted in the light ate at him inside. He had the power to turn child-like, cerulean, starry eyes into a powdery matte mass of incinerated nothingness.
God, he was going to be sick.
He needed to do it. He reasoned to shut his eyes and cut his problem off at the source. No view. No guilt. No problem. He placed his finger delicately along the edge of the button. In the back of his eyelids, he found himself staring clearly at the image. Pale, round face, with eyes like slicing blue saucers. Lips pleading silently at him with words that Axel could not find. He wasn't supposed to remember the faces. Axel's hands found his own temples, gripping hard, too hard. A ripping, carnal sound came out of his throat, startling him. He stood up, giving the chair a hard shove, sending it clattering on its side. His eyes met blue ones again. Axel nodded, as though they were somehow blindly communicating. He knew.
He stepped towards the door, generating manufactured calmness as he opened it, shutting it behind him. His steps moved mechanically, as though he had already planned this months before. He stepped up to the receptionist's desk, smiling the first genuine smile that had graced his lips in ages.
"Hi. I have an appointment."
The receptionist didn't look up, but gave a polite smile in return. She'd learned. "Alright. You can go into Door 813. Someone will be with you in a minute."
His feet found the door like second nature. He traced the doorframe with his hands before opening the door. He didn't need to look around. He merely stood, admiring the coolness of the room. He looked at the opaque wall in front of him. He wondered who might be sitting in the chair behind it. He wondered how long they'd been there. But it didn't matter. He posed a brilliant smile, white radiant teeth giving way to searing white light.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Cycle. Rinse. Repeat.