Together Forever - Chapter 1
Six AM sharp is when I silence my blaring alarm and force myself to throw the soft, warm blankets off of me. Immediately, my bedside table begins a holographic projection of today's news,"Read headlines," I command and the news of the day echoes in my room, read by a soft, feminine voice.I walk into John's room and lightly run my sandpaper tongue on the fur of his soft, warm forehead. I frown a bit. He's growing up. His fur isn't as soft as it was when he was a cub. His stripes are more defined now. Time is a funny thing."Time for school, buddy," I whisper and he growls lightly in response. Smiling, I flick on his bedroom light and elicit a louder, deeper growl from him. I exit the room and make my way downstairs to the kitchen, frowning a bit more as I hear his footpads pounding on the floor above me.Trust me buddy, I didn't want to wake up today either.The coffee machine bubbles and sputters to life. I breathe in deeply, and my tongue instinctively flicks out of my muzzle and over my teeth. The earthy scent of coffee fills the kitchen and my tail flicks happily in response to the aroma. John stomps his way into the kitchen, fur tousled from sleep. His pajamas, depicting his favorite superheroes are snug to his body. I make a mental note to pick him up a new set soon in the next size
up."Wow, bud, you're really starting to grow like a weed. Maybe I should start calling you Weedy, since you're not really a 'bud' anymore?" He blinks at me sleepily and yawns loudly. "What are you even talking about, mom?" he says and shuffles his way past me to the constructor. He causes me to stumble a little as he pushes past me. "Cinna-Sugar Cereal, extra sugar on top," he grumbles and rubs his eyes.The refrigerator-sized constructor whines to life as the necessary atoms for his breakfast are compiled in the right way. It clicks and the door opens. His cereal, milk, bowl, and spoon await him. He grabs the bowl and sits at the table.John snorts into his bowl. His chubby jowls wiggle while his jaw crunches the sugary chunks. His jaw, I mentally note, is probably the strongest muscle in his entire body.The coffeemaker ceases its churning and I grab the pot, pouring the steaming ambrosia into my favorite mug; hunter green, with a small chip on the rim. Next to the constructor is a real refrigerator, full of the foods I buy from underground "retro-marts." I reach for the cream and sugar while John throws his bowl back into the constructor. "Destroy," he says and shuffles back upstairs to get dressed for school.I frown as I slowly mix the cream and sugar into my coffee. The days of washing a dish or even pressing the buttons of a dishwasher are no more. The atoms of the remnants of our meals are deconstructed, only to wait inside these machines to be constructed again at our command. Cooking and cleaning are tasks of ancient history. Commanding and destroying is how we gain sustenance.While John is getting ready, I pack his lunch: Nutella on wheat bread with a banana and some pretzels. I know he'll just swap it for something else at lunch. Or he'll swipe his card at the cafeteria constructor and get whatever sugary, greasy concoction he wants at the time. I know this will happen. I get the bill every month.John's footsteps sound even louder coming from behind me now that he has shoes on. "I'm not gonna be home til late," he informs me. "I've got programming club."I tell him to not forget his mask, since the acid rain tends to fall at night. He growls, annoyed at my nagging. He doesn't think he needs it, he just teleports using the Grid anyway. He never steps outside.This is a normal discourse for us. I know that he's right. There's no need for the mask if he's using the Grid. I know it's better for him to use the Grid because of the toxins that now plague the atmosphere, and yet, I want him to go outside, use his legs and walk. I feel like a bad mother for wanting my son to expose himself to the harmful environment just so he can actually use his legs and travel.Thankfully, he puts the mask in his bag and walks over to our Home Gateway. His
stubby paws fly over the touch screen display, his claws making soft tapping sounds as he inputs the coordinates for his school. I look away like I always do as the machine whines and clicks to life. I know the soft blue light is encircling my son's body as his atoms are packaged into a thin beam of energy transported to the designated location. The process is ten seconds, probably less, but it feels like a lifetime for his body to disappear.The machine suddenly quiets and I slowly open my eyes. I look at the screen: Teleportation successful. My breath leaves me in a rush even though I never realized I was holding it in the first place. I go back to the kitchen, sip my coffee as I walk upstairs to get dressed for work. My bedside table is still reading the top headlines of the dayI do not use the Grid for my commute. I travel the narrow pathways that were once streets. My mask is always securely strapped to my face and my gloves are airtight. My heels control the acceleration and deceleration of my hoverbike. John knows I am nervous of the Grid, but he doesn't understand why. Besides, he wouldn't believe me. He has more faith in the power of technology than in the words of his own mother.Street signs, pavements, light, and other components required to direct the flow of vehicles and foot traffic no longer exists. The only people that dare to be outside are the drug-addicted, mentally insane, and homeless. Most of them are too sick to be of any danger to me. They either can't afford or can't comprehend that they need a filtration mask to protect them from all of the toxins in the air.When I get to work, I must turn in my hoverbike to Inspection so they can clean the toxins that may have stuck to it on my way in. I don't mind it so much considering there's no line to wait in. I'm the only one stupid and stubborn enough to not use the Grid and expose myself to harmful toxins on a daily basis.Once my bike is submitted for Inspection, I walk a few doors down the vacuum-sealed hallway and submit my body for Inspection. I make everyone's life easier by wearing a disposable jumpsuit on top of my clothes. I take it off, they destroy it, scan the rest of me, and send me on my way.As I walk to my desk, my coworkers sneak glances at me, actually daring to look away from their screens for a few brief seconds. I'm the only one who doesn't use the Grid. I'm not "normal" like them. Despite being Inspected and having my outer layer jumpsuit destroyed, I am still contaminated.The best part about being the plague is building immunity - immunity to their childish gestures and glances. No matter how old you get, the teasing never stops when you're the one who is different. Herd mentality, I suppose.My desk is also under constant scrutiny because of my love for ink and paper. Notes, ideas, and other half-written, probably-important handwritten papers of varying sizes and colors litter my workspace. I'm not a fan of having all of my ideas locked in a computer system that could fail or be hacked at any moment. My papers, however, could be moved, sorted, edited, and destroyed when I damn well pleased. Big Brother watches my every move anyway, so why should I make it easier for them to track my every keystroke? The big wigs running the show have us all tied up. With great technology comes great media manipulation. That's right. It's true. I work in the not-so-free-but-forced-to-advocate-a-sense-of-freedom - "free" press of America. Well, it's not even quite America
anymore. It's more like some global entity in which everyone pledges their soul to unwillingly.But all that was in the past. No, not quite the past but more like a future that never happened. Confused? Me too. Maybe writing all this down will help me deal with one normal day in a screwed up society.