Perfect

Chapter 1 – Pride

Fardaws. Some say it’s the perfect civilisation. A utopia where the sky glimmers with endless hope and the sound of laughter fills every street. Others say… No. There are no other sayings. There never will be.

Uriel lets out a tired groan, pulling the sheets over his head as the ever-present sun seeps through his threadbare curtains. The room reeks of over-boiled soup and the sweet-stench of mildly developed mould, no doubt a remnant of his Career’s latest attempt at porridge. He shuffles uncomfortably before rising from his sleeping bag, groggily pulling on his stiff uniform and lining up behind the large sign.

‘Fardaws! The land protected by the Damion!’ It reads, the big bright letters popping out of a plastered costumed man’s face, his golden eyes and sharp smile peeking through his mask.

The echoing mechanical beep of the alarm arrives right on schedule and Uriel lets out a louder groan, covering his ears against the penetrating sound. Around him, others make similar noises of weary resignation. The ones still asleep jolt awake with sharp gasps and after a minute or two passes the insistent beeping finally ceases. Uriel turns his head slightly, watching as all the children now make their way to line up behind him, their numbered bodies waiting.

Uriel looks toward the metal door before him. The same ridiculous costumed man is painted on the steel, his golden eyes following every child in the room.

Another beep sounds. Doors scrape open with a sound adjacent bones breaking. Uriel cringes. Women in white flock into the room, all carrying large familiar pots filled to the brim with a grey porridge-like substance. They plop the pots onto the floor with heavy, wet thuds and retreat to where they came from, their faces blank as fresh paper. A sizable lady stands at the front of the room now, a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. She clears her throat with a dry cough, and a loud “AHEM” filling the space.

“DEAR DARU! THE FOLLOWING NUMBERS WILL EXIT THIS ROOM TO THE LEFT,” she announces, her voice bouncing off the walls.

Uriel rolls his eyes at the repetition of it all, placing his arms by his sides and lowering his head, feigning obedience and submission, a performance he has long since perfected over twelve grueling years. No doubt he’ll be called in this batch. His eyes find their way to a large mural on the left wall. The same man, only this time his name is spread across the painting in letters the size of a child’s arm.

“ASEMODEUS! THE DAMION FOR YOUR SAFETY!”

Uriel stares into the man’s golden eyes, silently wishing he could drill holes through that smug, painted face. He takes a deep breath and lets his focus drift down to the triangle below, a small diagram drawn under the man’s outstretched hand. Arrows connect the different numbers of the drawing, a large circle around number forty-two and Asemodeus’s finger resting on number one hundred, pressing down like a verdict. Uriel frowns slightly. It was only a matter of time, really. He turns his gaze back to the lady, only to find her back already turned as she exits the room, smiling, skipping children following in her wake like ducklings.

“It’s alright,” Uriel tells himself, though he can feel his palms building sweat. Tomorrow. I’ll do better tomorrow.

He forces his attention to another emerging lady, this one holding an identical clipboard but with darker circles under her eyes.

“The following numbers please exit this room to the right,” she sighs, a bored tone dragging down every syllable.

The monotone sound continues as she lists the numbers with a cold, clinical tone, and Uriel can see the children who are called visibly begin to tremble and cry. He stiffens. Stupid crybabies. She completes the list, and the children are dragged out of the room, screaming and pleading, their voices swallowed by the red hallway.

“I’LL DO BETTER. PLEASE. I’LL DO BETTER!” A girl’s voice rings out as she is yanked through the door, her fingers clawing at the frame.

Stupid crybabies, Uriel repeats in his head once again. He prepares to leave the line, maybe figure out how to hold a melee weapon correctly today, when a large hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up, confusion flooding his face. A Career’s mask meets his expression, blank white and expressionless. The woman’s voice is colder than the floor beneath his feet.

“You exit from the back.”

She offers no further explanation. Uriel feels the colour drain from his face, feels his blood turn to ice water.

“W-what? Why? I did so well on yesterday’s evaluations!” he stutters, attempting to argue his case, his voice cracking like thin ice.

The woman remains silent. Uriel can feel her gaze penetrating deep into his eyes as he shakes his head in denial, turning to flee. Maybe, just maybe, he could hide in a corner and nobody would find him. Maybe he could disappear into the cracks of the building like so many others had.

But the woman’s grip is strong as iron. She drags him by the hair to the back of the room, her gloved hand holding a fist of dark red strands. Stares of pity from the others strangle him as he fights to get free, begging with every word he knows, his voice rising to a desperate shriek. He is pulled to a small chute, positioned directly below Asemodeus’s disappointed painted face. The words above him seem to jeer at his situation, carved into the wall like a brand.

“The Damion expects better.”

Uriel can do nothing as he pries uselessly at the woman’s hand while she lifts him, her fist still clenched in his hair. He looks up at her, tears blurring his vision, and struggles with the last of his strength.

“Please. PLEASE. I’LL DO BETT—”

He is cut off as she drops him down the chute.

The darkness swallows him whole.