It was only nine in the morning when KC Homstov began to vomit into her waste disposal unit, and with that she knew she was in trouble. She stared down at the grilled chicken and fried rice chunks that lie in the stainless steel bowl below her chin with the look of pure terror painted across her face. She spent the next ten minute in nausea and turmoil. Once her stomach had been emptied, she rose off the tile floor. Her knees were reddened.

KC looked at herself through the bathroom mirror. She was a young looking woman of 32 who no one would peg as being older than 25. Her face was almost devoid of age itself. She moved the pure black hair from her face and gazed into her wide blue eyes.

She thought of her inevitable pregnancy and the repercussions behind it. She knew that bearing a child was punishable by death, as was sexual intercourse in the first place. She once had the option to rid herself of fertility, but she gave it up a long time ago, and it’s far too late to go back.

She thought of her parents from six years ago, the last time she had ever seen them. They were off to the city on KC’s twenty-fifth birthday with just enough money to get her the legally required dose of Xenopram. She remembered them having to hide their faces under a layer of blanket, disguising their age.

Her parents had not taken a dose of Xenopram at the desired age and therefore had grown rotten and wrinkled to the point of obvious distinction from youth, which was also punishable by death in Beauland.

Fearing a similar fate happening to their only child, KC’s parents had saved up enough money to get her a dose. The last day she saw them she promised them that she would take the Xenopram and become a contributing member of society. She promised them that everything was going to be alright. She never said a word about how she would take the money for a train ticket into Lamprey, the slum capital, and live her adult life in hiding, the same as her parents.

KC thought about where her parents might be today. Probably dead, she thought, as she left the bathroom.

Her Holo-Screen had begun to turn itself on, and as she enters her living room the familiar jingle of a public service announcement from The Eternal Protectors of Beauland begins. The jingle abruptly ends, followed with the distorted voice of a man. The screen showed the silhouette of a person behind a black background, a ring of white light outlining their figure.

“The Eternal Protectors of Beauland have inducted Rules 154 and 155 into The Rules of the New World.”

“Rule 154 declares that the Prime Production Period of all citizens has been brought down from 40 to 30, all those who had their dose of Xenopram between ages 30 and 40 must report to the Euthanasia Center immediately, regardless of Eternal Age. Those who do not comply will be declared Rotten Evil to the state.”

“Rule 155 declares that any human presence in The Forsaken America is punishable by death. Presence of the Rotten Evil in the Forsaken America, along with rogue humans attempting to aid their rise to power has been foretold by an Eternal Protector Scout. Eternal Protector Agents have been sent to The Forsaken America to investigate.”

“This has been a message by The Eternal Protectors of Beauland. Now back to your scheduled programming.”

The silhouetted man faded to the image of a single pink pill on a white counter. As the camera pans backwards another voice, this one more feminine and clears, begins to speak.

“Just because you were brought into this world from The Rotten Evil doesn’t mean that you have to be Rotten Evil yourself.”

“All Rotten Evil between ages 18 and 29 are eligible to volunteer for a dosage of Xenopram.”

“We know how hard it is to be in a world that seems to want you out. But we want you in. Please speak to your local Pharmacist for more information.”

Once again, the image of the distant pill dissipates into the cartoon, Joey and the Other Joeys.

KC waves her arm in the air, motioning the Holo-Screen to turn itself off. The screen disappears into thin air. KC drags herself to her ordinary table; circular and made from stainless steel, just like everybody else’s.

She grabs her ordinary cup from her ordinary coffee dispenser. She takes a sip of her ordinary coffee, neither weak nor strong enough. She gets up off her ordinary chair and approaches her ordinary wall, which contains something not so ordinary.

An incredibly old poster, a photograph of two ancient looking Rotten Evil – you can tell from how old they look – both wearing all white, loose fit clothing. The first Rotten Evil is a male with circular glasses and a long beard with even longer hair. The second, sitting to his left, is a homely looking woman with thin eyes and thick black hair. They are both holding flowers. Behind them are words that KC cannot understand.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door; a loud pounding. KC tenses up, how could they already know? She waits for a moment, hoping that whoever is behind her front door will assume she has already left for work. The knocking comes back, whoever they are, they’re not leaving. She approaches the door, attempting to hold in her fearsome trembling. It’s no use. Inhaling, accepting the next few brutal hours of her life and consequential death, she opens the front door.

“Hello there, Kat! Say, shouldn’t you already be headed to work?” Said Freddy the mailman, holding out a single white pamphlet. KC looks down at the pamphlet with complete neutrality.

“It’s KC, Freddy. And I thought I told you not to read my mail?” She said, ignoring his question with the upmost irritability.

“I didn’t read your mail this time. I couldn’t if I’d wanted to. This here pamphlet is a wanted poster from The Eternal Protectors.” Freddy says in a very matter-of-fact kind of way.

“Mm.” KC said as she looks over her letter. “Why didn’t they mention this on the morning report?”

“Not sure.” Freddy said. “Say, what’s the C in KC for, anyway? There’s no C in your name.”

“It’s for Christian. Katherine Christian. KC.”

“Huh. Where’d you get Christian from?”

“It was a nickname my parents gave to me.” KC said coldly. Freddy smiles sheepishly.

“Wow, you still remember your parents? I haven’t seen them in almost 600 years; I don’t think I even remember their names.”

KC said nothing.

“Well, err… Say, I figured maybe you and I could-“

KC shut the door in Freddy’s face. She looked down at the single sheet pamphlet and opened it up. Inside is a picture of a thin faced man with thick rimmed glasses and balding hair; though he appeared to be in his early 30’s he has the eyes of an ancient, weathered old man. Written around the picture are the following words,

“WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE. RAINE POPLIN, WRITER OF THE ILLEGAL MAGAZINE, ‘THE TRUTH’. RAINE POPLIN, APART FROM HIS OTHER CRIMES INVOLVING THE AID OF THE ROGUE ETERNALS THAT CALL THEMSELVES THE ANGELS, HAS NOW EXCEEDED THE PRIME PRODUCTION PERIOD. HE IS CURRENTLY WANTED AND AT LARGE. HE HAS BEEN SAID TO BE HIDING INSIDE THE COASTAL CITY, WHEREN. ANYONE WITH INFORMATION THAT MAY LEAD TO HIS WHEREABOUTS OR CAPTURE MUST REPORT TO THE ETERNAL PROTECTORS OF BEAULAND IMMEDIATELY.”

KC crumples the paper in her hands and throws it into the Garbage Disposal Unit. She looks up at the clock, 9:45. She should have left for work almost ten minutes ago had she not been emptying her stomach contents into her stainless steel thrown. In a minute flat, KC hastily dresses up and runs out the front door, hoping to make it to the Beauland Transportation System Stop 142 in time.

***

It took a good sprint and one bad fall, but KC Homstov made it to Beauland Transportation System Stop 142. Granted, not without a scraped knee, but on time none the less.

She gave a quick nod to the operator of the transportation system as she entered the luxurious bus. She held up her Beauland Citizens Card, which was fake. The operator nodded back before looking back at the track.

KC takes a seat on the Transportation System’s leather chairs, reclining it backwards and setting her work bag to her side. The bus’s patrons are seldom yet obvious. In front of her, two women talk loudly about the state of the government. To her right sits a sleeping man wearing a bandana around his face. Behind her she hears the rustling of leather; she turns around to see a man in tight black clothing and perfect posture staring around the bus.

She freezes up. Eternal Protectors of Beauland have their own private Transportation System, why on earth is one of them just sitting in this bus booth?

KC faces forward, trying her best to hide her fear. She can’t tell if she’s succeeding or failing, but god knows she isn’t going to turn around again to check. Just stay on the bus, she thinks to herself, you’re not doing anything wrong. Nothing he knows about.

Trying to ignore her current anxiety, KC turned her attention to the two women in front of her. The one on the left is blonde and beautiful; the one on the right is ginger and fair.

“It’s not like we could do any better! Don’t you remember what life was like before it all?” asked the blonde, beautiful woman.

“Well, err… No. I took my dose only about 400 years ago.”

“Oh, Sandra, well let me tell you, it was horrible! The Rotten Evil, oh how they hated Xenopram and the wonders it had done for us! They said that we were to rid the world of its natural resources, when in fact it had been them that spent their meager short lives destroying our natural world!” Said the blonde woman, raising her voice significantly; whether or not she noticed the EPoB member behind her, KC was unsure.

“NEXT STOP, ONE FOURTY THREE” said the robotic voice of The Operator over the intercom. Two stops to go.

“What about the Forsaken Americas? I had been told as a young girl that it was The Eternal Protectors that had sent the nukes?” Asked the ginger woman, most intrigued.

“But it was the American’s who had done it to themselves! They chose to house the Rotten Evil; they chose to threaten Beauland with nuclear war. Sandra, the amount of death and destruction caused by the Americas was astronomical! The world was best without them, even if we did have to sacrifice their soiled land.” Said the blonde woman before lighting herself a cigarette; ironically, cancer was one of the few ways you could still be killed after a Xenopram dose.

“NEXT STOP, ONE FOURTY FOUR” said the robotic voice of The Operator once more. One more stop to go.

Suddenly, KC hears the chair move from behind her. The EPoB agent got up, but she dares not turn around. She hears his steel plated boots clang against the wooden floor of the Transportation booth. She can hear every step gain volume as the agent approaches her from behind. She closes her eyes, surely this is the end.

The steel boots walk right past her and to her right, towards the sleeping man with the bandana. Without a word of a greeting, the agent rips the bandana off the man, revealing a graying beard and wrinkled skin. The Man wakes up to the agent pulling him out of his seat. His eyes bug open, and he begins to scream.

“I didn’t do anything! No! STOP!”

The man struggles to loosen himself from the agent’s firm grip, but to no avail. In retaliation, the agent pulls a large steel rod out from inside his coat and begins to whack the Rotten Evil man upside the head with it. Every time it connects a large electric whoosh can be heard emanating from the rod. It only took five hits before the man was no longer moving.

“NEXT STOP, ONE FOURTY FIVE” repeats the robot voice of The Operator. The next stop is mine.

The agent’s breath is normal and he hasn’t even broken a sweat. He stares down at the motionless, bloody body. He presses a button on his shirt collar.

“We’ve got a code green on the 140 transport. Yep. Be here soon.”

And with that, the agent takes a quick look around the booth. The two ladies are dead quiet. KC and the agent lock eyes.

The agent places his rod back in his coat pocket before heading back to his seat, not taking his eyes of KC for a second. Reluctant, KC looks away. The agent smiles before looking back over at the man’s dead body.

“NEXT STOP, ONE FOURTY SIX” says The Operator. KC rises from her seat like a spring, kicking the reclined foot stool back into the chair. Although she does not look at him, she can feel the agent looking back at her. The second Transportation 140 opened its doors; KC was out like a bullet.