AN: Here we go, another chapter here.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Samirah took her time making her coffee at the small station they set up for her. She stirred it longer than she had to—as if ten or fifteen more swirls of the spoon in the cup would make some sort of difference to the flavor—and then she took her time simply catching her breath. She was a behind the scenes kind of person. She always had been. She'd always preferred to blend into the crowd rather than to take the limelight. She wasn't, by nature, much of a public speaker.
Of course, this engagement wasn't exactly like a making an important address to a group of higher up people. This was simply speaking to prisoners, as she'd been reminded when one of the guards caught her catching her breath to soothe herself on the way here, and that was the same as essentially giving a speech at a pound. Just as she shouldn't have too many, or too lofty, expectations for herself, she shouldn't have high expectations for those whom she'd be addressing.
But Samirah had to have high hopes for them. She did have high hopes for them. They were her pet project, after all. Someone had to believe in them and it seemed that job was one that fell right into her lap.
From where she was standing, partially hidden behind a curtain in an auditorium type space that was less of an impressive auditorium than most elementary schools boasted, Samirah listened to the din as the inmates were moved in, group by group, and seated. There was a hissing murmur of whispers. Each of them was speaking as low as they possibly could to those around them, but in large numbers even a low whisper soon grew to be a loud noise. Every now and again, Samirah jumped when an officer's voice boomed out over the dull hiss and commanded silence, respect, or something else—all with the threat of punishment if they didn't get what they wanted.
And finally it was her time to go out.
She finished the cup of coffee she'd been drinking and left the coffee cup on the edge of the table. Holding something like that made it apparent when her hands were shaking and she didn't want that to be perceptible. She gathered up the notes she'd brought with her and she took the bottle of water that had been left for her earlier. She sucked in the last of the calming breaths that she'd allow herself and she returned to her spot by the curtains to wait until she was asked to come out.
There was no announcement, though. The officers kept the inmates under control, but they didn't tell them why they were there. They didn't tell them anything about what was happening. They didn't let them know that Samirah was stepping out, like the Wizard of Oz, from behind the curtain to tell them about their future. So, without announcement, she finally did.
There came no applause and no fanfare, but equally there was no hissing and booing. In front of Samirah, packed into the room and seated in the folding chairs that they'd had brought in from a number of places, were the inmates that she'd requested—at least those available at the moment. A quick glance over them said they were well-cared for. They looked clean, for the most part, and seemed to be in decent health. Samirah put her things on the small table in the middle of the "stage" area, and was only beginning to look at her paperwork when John Hokes walked up and touched her arm.
"We can lower the projector," he said. "They got the kinks worked out."
Samirah looked at him and nodded.
"At the beginning?" He asked. "Make sure you've got their attention?"
Samirah nodded again.
"It's fine," she responded, her voice as equally low as his. "It doesn't matter when."
He nodded once more and then looked behind him—maybe there was someone he was searching out that Samirah couldn't see.
"I'll give the introduction," Samirah said. "At least—let them know what they're watching."
"Fine," John said. "We'll make sure it's all ready to go.
John walked off and left Samirah standing there, alone, once more. There was no sound from the audience other than the slightly distinguishable rustle of paper and a few barked orders that the inmates stop whatever it was that was causing the crinkling noise. Finally Samirah was ready to address them, ignoring entirely the lowering of the screen behind her and the adjustments that John's men were making on the projection devices.
"I am Samirah Lafram," Samirah said. "I am from the Special Projects for Captivity Holdings and Inmate Rehabilitation's Unit. You may all call me Samirah. Or Sam. Or Sammi. I am part of the first wave and this is the year 16 A.T."
She paused for a moment, trying to judge her audience, but there was no movement and there was no response. She swallowed and glanced toward the hissing sound of John calling her attention. She shook her head at him. She'd let him know when she was ready for him. She wasn't ready for him yet. Turning her eyes away from him, she dropped them back to the paper in front of her.
"You have all been gathered here today because you're part of a very special project. The project—even though official names aren't important—is called Wave Thirty Three. Everyone you see around you will be part of the project. You'll be joined by approximately twenty five other inmates, coming from areas of the country, that will also be part of the project. Their arrival is expected sometime after the relocation," Samirah continued. She paused again and took in her audience. For a moment, her stomach churned. This time, though, it wasn't because she was forced to stand in front of so many people and speak to them. This time it was because she forced to stand in front of so many people and she could only imagine what their lives must be like. She didn't want to imagine what their lives must be like.
And though she was there to help them, and though the special project could make their lives better, she was afraid that she didn't have the faith in the project that she should have.
"There's time for all that," Samirah said softly, too softly for anyone beyond the first row or two to hear her. She sucked in another breath, for a different time now than before, and continued her address. "The captivity facilities are being overrun," Samirah said. "There are five major captivity facilities throughout the country and there are countless smaller holding facilities. Region Thirty Three is now, officially, the third largest in the country. Only Area Nineteen and Zone Seventy Six are greater in size. But as captivity continues to be on the rise, and the wild zones are being tamed, the populations are growing too large even for these large facilities. Prisoners are being shuffled around and they're spending more time in the smaller holding facilities than they once did—but space is just running out. So—some facilities are taking measurements to lower their population numbers."
Swallowing back the burning sensation in her throat, Samirah gestured with a wave of her hand toward John. He nodded at her and a moment later the projector they'd been working with sputtered to life.
"This is footage, compiled, that's been on the news," Samirah said. "This is—humane euthanization." The words caught in her throat. "It's not government regulated yet and so it differs from location to location to deal with the population issues."
Samirah watched the audience and the screen, her attention darting from one to the other quickly, as the images started to appear. There were some brief cases of lethal injection that were shown. Those locations, though, that had used it were already done with it. It was too expensive. It was too slow. There were images of the one or two facilities that had decided to make a spectacle of things and had hung their wilds—those who would not assimilate—publicly. The government had stopped those after the first footage had appeared on the news—but it was included here for the shock value. Then there was the preferred method. One after another, the footage flashed across the screen from location after location—some of the wilds were put down before they were even transferred from smaller facilities to the larger ones. If they were deemed "unlikely to assimilate" then there wasn't any need to worry with them.
They were brought out in and shot in the head. The cost of population control was one bullet. It ended their lives and kept them from rising again. It was fast, it was cost efficient, and the smell of burning human flesh—from the clean-up efforts—served as a reminder of what could happen. And, apparently, it was a reminder that even wilds could understand.
When the projection stopped, there was some murmuring in the audience. Samirah was content to let it go on—after all the images were horrifying and this was the reality that some in this room could be facing—but the officers quickly got the noise under control. Samirah waited a moment to begin speaking, not wanting her voice to come out shaky, and finally she addressed the group again.
"Yours is a savior mission," Samirah said. "If you—don't like what you saw here? If you—have the emotions that they say you don't have? If you have the ability to feel the fear that they say you can't? Then you'll understand the importance of what we're going to be doing. You and me, together. We'll be doing this...together."
Samirah sighed. She believed the people in front of her were human. She believed that, although they may be traumatized by any number of things, they were all fully human. Maybe, she thought, the disconnect that was attributed to them wasn't owing to their status as sub-human. Perhaps it was owing to their mental state. Maybe it was simply a survival mechanism. Certainly, born human, one couldn't simply become an animal that was seen as even more void of emotions, thoughts, and feelings than a house cat or a lap dog.
"Capture facilities were always aimed at inmate rehabilitation. The goal behind each facility is to render you one hundred percent a functioning human being. The ultimate goal is to release you into society as a productive member—someone who functions just the same as everyone else who is already out there. Someone who might, one day, be holding a position no different than my own. However, to date there have been only forty five people released from capture facilities. Forty five. The inmates were released from National Park Facility. It took three days for them to attack Bedford, a small town thirty miles south of National Park, where they killed a dozen people, injured over a hundred, a burned most of the town to the ground. All forty five were eventually found and killed. All of them were accounted for. Since that release? Not a single capture facility has released inmates. Not one. The belief became—once wild, always wild. So I'm here—and you're going to help me—to prove that idea wrong. I have specially chosen each of you with a team that has helped me assess you. You'll undergo more assessment, as the project is put into place, but I can promise you that no real harm will come to you. Not if you cooperate. We're going out on a limb here. The government is leaning toward euthanization for captures. Eventually for all captures. And that means all of you. Unless we can prove that, given the resources and the opportunities, you can become fully functioning members of society."
There was silence. Absolute silence. Samirah felt like she could hear her own blood running in her veins because there was nothing else to hear. There weren't even the customary sniffles or throat clearings coming from a group so large. She swallowed and it sounded, to her, like it was almost as loud as an explosion.
"If anyone here feels that they can't go through with this, then—please—raise your hand. An officer will take you out. If you remain, it means that you're accepting your role as part of Wave Thirty Three. You're acknowledging that you believe yourself to be human. You believe—that you deserve some of the rights of citizens, and eventually all of them, and it means that you believe that—even if you're classified as semi-docile—you can come back from all that you've seen and all that you've done. If you stay, it means you're willing to work with me."
Samirah watched as a few hands went up. She held her breath and watched as officers gathered together those that were backing out of the project already and pushed them toward the auditorium exits to return them to the prison. She waited as long as she could to make sure that they were all cleared out before she spoke again.
"Anyone else?" She asked.
She scanned her eyes over the people in front of her—gaps in the crowd now from those who hadn't felt that, for one reason or another, they could go through with this—and finally she accepted that the group in front of her would be the people that she was working with.
And when they came? She would meet the others being brought in from the other facilities—inmates who were chosen, in some ways, because each of them was on a list to be first in line, for some criteria or another, for the eradication of semi-dociles—that would complete her group.
"Fine," Samirah said when she was ready to begin again. "Then all of you who have stayed, welcome aboard. You'll be given a recess. You should be fed. You'll have time, should you choose to do so, to back out of the project if you change your mind. Then? We'll meet later to go over some of the expectations."
There was a slight rustle of voices that the officers tried to quiet and Samirah overheard someone should something about having a question. She waved her hand at all of them and loudly addressed them and requested their silence. Slowly the din dropped down again.
"You'll have plenty of time for questions," Samirah said. "I promise you that. And—I'll do my best to answer them all. But—you must understand, and one day you will, that not even full citizens have all the answers."
There was a slight rumble more, but Samirah needed a moment. She needed their recess to regroup. She needed to prepare. So she shook her head at them, sure that no one even saw it.
"You're dismissed," she said more loudly than she'd said any of the other things. Then she gathered up what she had and she exited the space the same way that she'd entered, not even stopping to speak to John who was waiting for her.
