Dating : Binary or Die

I stand just outside the platform shelter, it’s raining mortar shells, and I haven’t got an umbrella. I look at my feet, standing on a crack in the concrete, and shift my body weight forward. Brown rain spurts up from the fault line and saturates my shoes in filth. I let sighs escape my mouth. All around, preening, are self-important Aesthecs wearing tartan suits so tight they castrate. Their heads, silicone sculpted, stand sneering and conceited in a smog of designer fragrance. I hear them jib-jabbering on their phones to acquaintances who aren’t actually listening, caring more about their jawbone restructuring at five with Dr. Flash Marrow than the torrent of ego jargon and hot air on the other side of the line. There are Naturalists here too — a cluster of crusting nodules, dreadlocked and stale, loitering beneath a sign that says, STRONG ODOUR WAITING AREA. The news says it’s a self-imposed apartheid — but it’s only a half truth. You can’t blame them for keeping to themselves: it was only last week that I saw a bunch of fundo-Aesthecs burn a roll of 50s in front of some deadbeat crustaceans minding their own near the Ancotes boarder; you won’t see that shit on The Daily Review. I check the platform clock behind me, it’s 7pm. I finished work two hours ago, same as everyone else, but the only thing connecting us: the need to escape, both the working day and each other.

My back hurts because I’m slouching, I’m slouching because I’m tired — it’s been a damn long day, and I don’t feel much like talking about it. I’m thinking about what Mel called to me as I walked past her cubicle on my way out of the office.

“Don’t forget to vote,” her motherly voice settling in my mind. How could I forget? There is a young Asethec stood next to me, maybe 14 give or take, wearing the uniform, all black and gilded piping. He’s had a nose job — it’s slightly better than my lad’s, which irks me — and smells of Gucci Plum; the fragrance coming from his scent glands. Just being near the kid makes me pull my back straight, clench my jaw. He doesn’t notice me, so I just stare at the greasy rail line, absorbing rain, hoping to avoid an earful of Youth League propaganda — I get enough of that at home.

On the opposite platform, a visualiser projects the evening headlines:

AESTHETIC UNITY BILL SPLITS COUNTRY

My stomach writhes as I read it. I know I shouldn’t read on, it’ll just put my mood in the blender — dinner will be unbearable. But I continue to stare at the neon anyway:

BIGGEST EVER TURNOUT EXPECTED TONIGHT

FUTURE OF A PURE ASETHEC NATION RESTS IN YOUR HANDS

My throat spasms. I stop reading. Reacting, my eyes snap to the scandal section, hoping for some light relief:

PRINCE REGENT’S PEADEOPHILE RING CELEBRATES 5TH ANNIVERSARY

HUGE BASH AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE — ALL ELITE AESTHECS WELCOME

I’m sweating now. Am I the only one reading this? Where are the riots? The burning outrage? I drag my eyes back to the political headlines, thinking it’s probably best I’m all caught up, Issak will want to grill me over dinner. My back slouches again, I read on:

CHANEL CORPORATION PERFUME BOMB NATURALIST GHETTO IN ROCHDALE

NATURALIST PRESERVATION CORPS RETALIATE WITH 12 HR SIT-IN AT CHANEL HQ — HUNDREDS TREATED FOR SEVERE OLFACTORY AND MENTAL DISTRESS

A flash of steel and graffiti sprints past my vision, erasing the headlines. It slows, stops. Train doors shudder open, spilling commuters like offal from a slaughtered cow — self-important inconsequence, sluicing down the drain.

The carriage is empty for precisely two seconds before a flood rushes me inside, eventually plugging me between two Aesthecs and a Naturalist. I’m a barrier between them: four dreadlocks rest on my head like sun-dried pieces of dog shit, and the pointed corner of an oversized belt buckle burrows into my back as the train shunts forward.

[Union Victoria X]

[Manchester Exit Hub]

[Commuter Hub X-1]

[Commuter Hub X-2]

[Finchon-le-Birch]

[Old Warrington–b]

[Commuter Hub X-3]

[Commuter Hub X-4] < — — —

[Liverpool South]

[Liverpool Middla Town]

A voice bubbling with static and anti-enthusiasm pipes into the air, “Doors closing-g-g-g. Injury incurred by alighting now is the sole responsibility of the passenger. Thank you-u-u-u.”

The train pulls away, its load lighter. Claustrophobia easing. I breath freely now there’s a good few steps between me and the Naturalist. Facing him: a tall, beefy man with swollen features, films of dark grease highlight the lines etched into his face; he is chewing something with his mouth open, grinding it like stone. Saliva dribbles down his bulbous chin, leaving a dark patch on the front of his hemp shirt — he doesn’t bother to wipe it.

“They can’t pass it you know,” he says, raising a bottle in a crinkled brown bag to his lips, “They won’t get away with it, they have to be held to account — ”

I muster a weak smile, avoiding his eyes, pretending I hadn’t heard him. He staggers towards me anyway.

“You don’t look like you got any surgeries. You smell — ” he sniffs me, “ — like nuthin’. Who you voting for? Us or them?” He waves his bagged bottle in the direction of two seated Aesthecs behind me, sloshing what smells like petrol across the floor.

A received voice from over my shoulder: “You know, Henry, I thought those crusty little men had their own carriage these days.”

“Oh, James, the infrastructure is lacking,” replies another. “The country simply can’t afford segregated carriages under the equality act — did you hear Nik Lather on TDR? He says that’ll all change after the vote. It shan’t be long before we see less and less of them.”

I turn towards the conversation with a slow twist, my face like stone — I see double: two identical Aesthecs wearing blue and green electric tartan patterns by Armani, their ensembles vacuumed tight to their skin. Each wear a polished chrome Union Jack belt buckle — both of which are shooting glare into my eyes. They got blonde hair, blue eyes, the whole Ayran trip, their faces angular and deliberate; I wouldn’t know the difference, except the one in blue has a heart-shaped mole above his cheekbone. Looking at them makes me anxious. I don’t know if I should be terrified or laughing.

“It would appear you’re undecided, friend,” says Aesthec-with-the-mole, gesturing with an ivory cane, like some postmodern pimp throw-back, “The crustacean over there was right, not a single surgery I can see. I must insist that you vote in favour of the AU bill, especially if you want fewer…” he trails off, pursing his lips, “…episodes of, ahem, sensory harassment in public. Doubly so if you want to be distinguished from those type.” He closes his eyes, holds a loosely clenched fist to his mouth, and shudders — I try my hardest to conceal an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, yeah, thanks for the tip. I’ll make a decision tonight,” I’m avoiding their eyes now too. A quiver of instinct jolts through my neck: I hear hocking behind me, like a pig with rhinitis: a great green comet of plemghy matter speeds past my ear. It lands with a cartoon SPLAT. A hand on my shoulder drags me backwards. The Naturalist, furious and drunk, jerks forward, grabbing Aesthec-without-a-mole by the neck, lifting him slightly off the floor; his flawless skin reddening, mucus slipping down his nose. I want to laugh, out of fear more than anything, but I’m paralysed.

“I knows what you pretty little fascists want, but you’ve lost your way — ” his voice dies for a second and there is complete silence on the carriage. Face sad, corrupted: poison and malice filling the gaps where hope should have been. “Everyfin you are, everyfin you propose is an offence against nature. It was men like me, covered in dirt an’ piss an’ shit, that built this fuckin’ country, and we’re proud of the way we smell, way we look, talk, an’ work. You can’t stop people from being natural, from being poor, being themselves, it isn’t a crime, you know, it just is.”

Aethec-with-the-mole shakes himself out of shock. Raises his cane above his head. A cruel glint flashes across his eyes: white-hot venom — the Ivory falls fast, striking hard across the crest of the Naturalist’s back. Winded and dazed, swaying slightly now, he releases his choke — THUMP — Aesthec-without-the-mole crumples on the floor; heaving, coughing, spluttering — his face turning from porcelain pink to a mottled red and blue.

How terrible for him.

The ivory blurs in the air again, and again, and again, and again, and again, each time solidifying on impact — harsh cracks against weak bone and yellow teeth. Naturalist face blue-black now, features caricatured into absurd balloons and intangible angles, blood pooling in his belly button, in his hairy earholes, and in the deep cracks and fissures crisscrossing the place where his lips should have been.

How terrible for him.

A screech of feedback dissects the air, a voice: “Now approaching Liverpool: Middla Town.” Everyone on the carriage has their eyes fixed on the doors. They do that every day when they hear the announcement, but I know they’re glad of the excuse to look away from the pile of rags and flesh pasted into the PVC floor.

Doors open. Air turns to ice. Shatters. People scramble, shoving and fighting, alighting the train in a frenzied haste. And without hesitation, so do I.

I’m not, I think sitting at the dinner table, pushing mycoprotein around my plate, I’m not a Naturalist and I’m certainly not an Aesthec. Why is it so damn important that I nail my colours to a flag? Individuals are losing their place, lost in a gulf of unity, the space where reason went to die.

“Finish the steak, love,” Clara murmurs sincerely, her eyes a pair of waxing moons. I apologise absently and paint a smile across my lips; her eyes phase to crescents.

A dog is barking outside and the recluse next-door is shouting at his television. A drill whirrs ceaselessly in the conapt above; corridor whispers crawl in from under the front door. Clara scrapes her knife on a plate. But it only makes the silence louder. Issak and Monroe sit opposite at the table, oblivious, staring moodily through each other. They haven’t spoken all evening. I notice Issak — my first born — wearing his Youth League uniform.

“What did we say about wearing the uniform at the table, Issy,” I say.

“There is no official rule that states I can’t wear my uniform in this house, Oliver,” he answers, still staring at Monroe.

“Dad, I took a shower this morning,” my second born objects. “If I have to go against everything I believe in to live here, why does shark features get to dress up as a fascist?”

“My nose was sculpted by the head surgeon at Form, brother. It was designed to accentuate symmetry in my face, not resemble a shark. And please don’t use words that are banned under the Verbal Non-Aggression Act. If you say the eff word again, I’ll be forced to call the regulators. I do hope you’ll grow out of this high school activist phase.”

“Enough! Can we not have a normal family dinner? One where my sons don’t spit venom at each other from across the table.” I pause, the vent of emotion quickly sealing over. “Please, let’s change the subject: Mon, what have you done today? Good day at school?”

“We had the day off — ” he stops and looks to his mother for reassurance. She nods at him with a thin smile. “ — to vote,” I catch his eyes flickering, avoidant. “I voted against AU, just so you know…only me and Jim Silo did, everyone else — ”

Clara replies before I can, “Well, I think that’s wonderful, Mon. I’m so proud of you, and your brother, for doing something you believe in.” She continues, but I don’t catch what she’s saying because I’m looking at how cracked and raw her hands are. It worries me.

“Thanks, Mum.”

Issak snorts.

We ignore it.

“Have you voted yet, Oliver,” says the first born. I resist the urge to bite.

“Not yet, but I will,” I say, unsure if the expression on my face is earnest enough to hide the uncertainty bubbling under my skin.

“You’ll vote for AU, eh, Dad,” says Issak with a crude smirk — the name switch jarrs inside my head — “You’re so obviously an unconscious AU sympathiser. You’re forcing Monroe to shower and letting me wear my uniform at the dinner table for a start…”

I let the knife fall from my hand, hoping for a dramatic clatter, but it lands on the sponge of mycoprotein without much of a sound. A monkey’s fist materialises inside my stomach, it sits for a moment, loose. I think I can deal with it.

Clara: “You’ve dropped your knife, lov — ”

An intangible hand twists the knot tighter — I look to Issak — see his face blue-black and gaping, blood escaping from cauliflower ears, lips swollen — split red — I shut my eyes, smother the vision. Pins and needles crawl across my face. Eyelids flicker open again: his wounds close up, and a demeanour of arrogant self-assurance returns.

“Did you know I saw a naturalist beaten to death on the train — by an Aesthec no less,” I point an accusing finger at Issak, “I’m told I’ve got to take a side, for the strength of our nation, but what if I don’t agree with either side? Please tell me why I can’t just live my life without being forced to warp my own damn opinions? Can you not see how dangerous it is?

“My kids are sniping at each other, one ready to call the regulators on the other. Good old-fashioned family solidarity, eh,” I rub my temple in steady circles. “Everyone is angry, suspicious, always foaming at the mouth, hoping for an opportunity to ram their party opinions down someone’s throat. There is always conflict. Always. And it’s making me ill. And your mother… And it has certainly made — ” I snap my mouth shut and close my eyes, suddenly becoming aware of myself, of what I’ve said — of the laws I’ve broken.

“Can we please, please, just stop talking about politics for 20 minutes. It’s all I ask.”

Clara rubs my back, even though it’s damp with sweat; both Issak and Monroe stare at the synthetic gravy stains on their plates.

The light fixture flickers and the TV turns itself on from across the room. The knot in my stomach feels like anti-matter now — I’m reminded of Issak begging his mother to opt-in to the automatic Generation Aesthec broadcasts before he finished high school; it would boost his chances of promotion within the Youth League apparently. Clara told me to let him have it, so we don’t hold his ambition back. I didn’t have it in me to argue.

On the TV: The Daily Review with Nik Lather. A man who resembles an upside-down triangle sits behind a desk; veins are bulging from a smooth forehead, face reddening: like a vindictive school teacher on the verge of nervous breakdown, he is shouting at a Naturalist sitting on the stage floor in front of him.

“Do you not understand, Mr. Raggaton? Your way of life poses a threat to very fabric of civilisation! If we had it your way, bathing and self-care would be outlawed. It’ll cause infection, disease — we’ll have a full-scale pandemic on our hands. It’s disgusting! We don’t want that do we?” A homogenous group of voices answer, “NO!” The Naturalist is hugging his knees now, looking intensely at the floor.

“If we had it your way,” the inverted triangle continues, “We’d be thrust back into a primitive society, one without law, without care for beauty or culture! We can’t live in a world where self-improvement is rejected — we must stand up against the insidious rise of filth and stagnation. What must we do?”

Another unified voice, “RISE!”

With a tremble in my voice, I say, “Cut broadcast.”

The room sounds like tinnitus.

I rise, slowly, to my feet — my family staring at me, uncertainty filling their eyes — and walk towards the door.

I stop at the bookcase in the hallway and run my fingers along the spines lining the middle shelf. Resting my index on a tattered copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I slide it from the shelf and pull a dusty carton of Marlboro Reds from the space and slip them into my pocket.

A voice from the kitchen, “DAD! That’s illegal! The Regulators — ”

I don’t bother to look back, even though I hear Clara begin to cry.

I don’t grab my coat. And I don’t take my keys from the bowl. The front door slides open. I leave, mumbling something about the vote.

I find myself in Vauxhall, dockside, watching the violet-green haze of sunset blur across the Mersey. An iron-brick warehouse looms tall above me, potted with voids and decay, its forgotten form, immoveable, cutting black in the neon night.

I need to see him, The Shrink. I have it together most of the time — and work hard to maintain a sense of balance, but when it all comes crashing down like a great game of cosmic Kerplunk!, there is no choice but to straddle the underbelly of town and seek help: the non-corporate kind.

I broke curfew a few months back while Issak was attending a Youth League conference somewhere down south, past the divide, probably London, and Clara was visiting her Mother with Monroe up in Old Edinburgh. I was commuting home and in no mood for Aesthec jabber. But some twat with a cut-price face lift told me my skin looked like shit, spent the rest of journey telling me about the virtues of subdermal regeneration therapy — real charmer. I got off at Middla Town and walked aimlessly, needing air, an escape, a change of pace. Don’t remember how I got there, and before I had a chance to try, I was in Dixie’s 349 ordering double grain-spirits from the graft-head behind the bar. I thought that was enough to work through the shitstorm in my head, until I saw an old Therapy Booth sat in the back. They were outlawed after the psycho–aesthetic reforms in ’72 — but I remember my Mum used to use one in the supermarket foyer after we’d done a big shop, before the cosmetic revolution took them out of service. She used to give me a pack of sour worms and make me hold the dog while she had a session, she always seemed better after. So, I asked if I could use it — why not, I didn’t have anything to lose. The graft-head was more than obliging, said he never used it, found it in a junkyard near Toxteth and thought it was worth nabbing. The session gave me something to think about, made me feel better, it helped to talk things through. And I need to feel better now, more than ever.

I’m walking along Vulcan St now. Raucous jeers and bass drum thuds pulse from slum pubs and knocking shops along the main road. Herds of Naturalists, puffing plooms of haze into the air, mingle with scavenging tramps and emaciated ketwigs, botch-jobs and riff-raff: a whole community of ugly, scouting for a quick quid, a fast fix. I expect anxiety, but the rope in my stomach remains limp, my shoulders relax, and a giddy smile tries to stretch itself across my face.

A dumpy, middle-aged ketwig in black North Face emerges from out of a huddle of grafters, he says, “Alrite la, lookin’ for a bitta bud?” I can’t make eye contact with him; greasy ringlets grow long down his face, obscuring acne-scarred flesh.

“Just cigarettes for me at the mo,” I gesture tentatively with my pack of reds, “Thanks though.”

“No worries, kid,” He slips me a card with a number on it, “Gerron me for glass, magic, bud, tranq…even ciggies, ye little tobacco head,” he slaps my arm in jest, “Any’un you want, bell me. I’ll be on til late.” He simpers and continues swaggering through the crowds behind me towards Waterloo Dock.

I cross Great Howard St and head across the urban burn zones towards the Eldonian Village and Dixie’s 349. I hear a tuneless moan from behind. Looking back: a thin man — naked and deathly grey — with a neon pink dildo hanging out his arse, swaying in the middle of the road. He is pouring a bottle of Churchill Cola over his head. Spiceheads. Lost souls. There is no reaching them.

Dixie’s 349 is an old Evertonian dosshouse, my dad used to take me here before the match when I was kid. The walls are still decorated with the same commemorative scarfs, moth-eaten and bleached royal blue, faded lithographs of forgotten club heroes line the walls, and tin-pot trophies, flaked thick with rust, sit worthless on rotten shelves. Football means nothing in this city anymore — this is just another slum-pub, forgotten, stripped of local pride, siphoned of spirit, overshadowed by the LFC Corporation.

I rest my elbows on the top, careful to avoid the beer pools and splinters and order a grain-spirit mixer from the rake-thin Scouse Ma standing hunched and gurning behind the bar; she puckers her zeppelin lips and sucks her teeth, “Comin’ up, babe.” The smell of bleach and cheap lager rises in steady waves from the sodden floorboards; it stings my nostrils but doesn’t seem to bother the elderly fella lying face down on the floor beside me. I scan the bar checking for a carer, someone with a shred of responsibility, but see only two crippled crustaceans playing cards beside a blasted fireplace at the far end of the bar. Every other table is vacant, except for mites and mould; the old man groans.

“Ere’s ye bevvie, babe,” says the Scouse Ma, sliding a chipped glass of foaming grain-mix toward me, her nail extensions clinking, “Ye know we’re closin’, like proper soon. Yu’ll wanna drink up before our Kieron gets back from graftin’ — ”

“So early? I was hoping I could see The Shrink. Kieron won’t mind….”

“We close at 11:30 — we’re fuckin’ sick of pure spiceheads comin in ‘ere looking for a place to smoke that ‘orrible shit. Always at night, what are de? Fuckin’ nocckyternal or wha?”

“I’ll pay you two hundred quid if you let me stay behind and see the shrink.”

“The Schrrink? De fuck ye talkin’ about, ye little madhead.”

“The machine in the back. Kieron let me use it a few months ago…”

“Dat thing,” she points a pink-clawed thumb in the direction of a large cone-shaped

shroud in the storeroom behind the bar. I nod my head quickly.

“Did he, yeh,” she stops for a moment, placing a hand loosely on her hip, processing my offer, “Two tonne, ye say?”

“Please, I just need someone to talk to,” I let my eyes fall on the man on the floor, “And conversation isn’t really this one’s strong point.”

She cackles with what sounds like gravel in her throat, “Ye aren’t an Aesthec, are ye? An’ ye don’t belong ‘ere in Vauxhall either, do ye, babe?” I shake my head slowly. There is a silence that feels longer that it is.

“Youz are alright by me, kid. Looks like ye head’s chokka — keep ye two tonne. Ye can spend all night with dat thing — go mad. Our Kieron never uses it, a friggin eyesore if you ask me — always hoarding ald shit no one wants,” she pauses to pout and adjust her hair, “‘cept you, like.”

Inside The Shrink, it’s dark and stinks like an ashtray. I’m sat on a stool that isn’t level: every movement unbalances: rocking back, forward, back, forward, back, forward. Sifting through the piles of joint stubs and crisp packets littered around my feet, I reach for a pulped beer mat on the floor — an Anarchist Cat IPA logo turns to mush as I wedge it under the shortest leg. Stability returns.

A white screen flickers, stabilising at eye level, and bathes me in a dirty aura. There is a low hum that barely registers. Out of the gloom, an impression of a face, liquid and matte, renders itself, bending an elastic smile upward.

It says, “Oliver Salter,” the eyes emote understanding, “Welcome back, are you comfortable?” It doesn’t wait for my answer. “I have been thinking about you a lot. Challenging cases require extra thought.” This disturbs me, but I put it down to eccentricity — doesn’t matter if you’re binary code or an organic mind, isolation guarantees social faux pas, I guess.

“I can’t be that complicated,” I say, shifting the dead weight around my arse, still searching for comfort.

“Fascinating,” like a mask, its expression freezes for a flash moment, and then, “So, how are you feeling today, Oliver?”

“Not so good,” admitting that was more difficult than last time. I’m just wound too tight. “You remember what we were talking about last session?”

“Of course, Oliver, of course — my quantum data core is quite capable, you know. I see everything, remember everything.”

“I saw a naturalist beaten to death on the express loop.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Oliver. This bothers you because…”

“It’s everything. Everything is wrong. It’s getting to me. I saw the face of that dead naturalist in Issak’s over dinner — it was terrible. I can’t stop thinking about it, and he has blame for that death, you know, like everyone else with an Aesthec mod. They’re all complicit in oppression, brainwashing — murder! And it’s all made worse because I did fuck all about it, ran off with the rest of the commuters when the doors opened, like a good little sheep.”

“I can understand that seeing a man beaten to death must have been traumatic, but the reasons why you feel this way are out of your control, just like the death is too. You must choose to accept them for what they are and focus on healing yourself.”

“Are they really? I’m the one who let Issak get that fucking nose job — I could’ve stopped him.”

The Shrink raises an eyebrow, “Issak is irrelevant, the death you witnessed bears no relation to him. And I don’t think you could’ve stopped him either. He is his own person, an adult, I’m sure he would have gotten it either way. He is not yours to control, not any longer. Learn to observe your emotional response and let it go — be grateful for your family, your life, and the freedom you have.”

“Freedom? What freedom? Surely your quantum processor can grasp that the Aesthecs are shitting all over free will — hell, even you aren’t free! The therapy you offer is banned. Illegal! You hide out in the back of a slum-pub because some graft-head thought you might be of value. How many clients do you have? Me and who else?”

The white face stutters, says, “Again, that is ir-r-r-rrrrelevant, Oliver. And you know I can’t disclose anything about my other patients. My confidentiality parameters do not permit me. Let us move on. Did you vote? How did that make you feel?”

“No. I can’t vote for AU — it’s all lies, spin, and so…superficial! How on earth can I endorse ideas that amount to fascism? People are murdering each other over body odour and plastic surgeries…it just doesn’t make sense — it’s sick! There will be civil war when AU passes, and I’m meant to choose a side! If I vote against, that makes me a damn crustacean in their eyes — and I’ll be beaten to a paste like the rest of them.”

The Shrink freezes again, this time longer, more noticeably. I ask it if everything is ok. The edges of its face blur, crinkle — the mouth hangs open expectantly. My stool begins to rock again. Back. Forward.

“I — I — I — understand, OliverRRRRRRR —

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzttt

I wonder if this was a good idea, coming here I mean. What was I thinking? Some obsolete junk construct — it can’t grasp my reality, I can’t blame it — therapy isn’t enough, not for anyone. I want it to tell me to march on Downing St and rally a coup, but I know it won’t. It’s programmed to help me control my emotions, not act on them. But control is the prism through which I’m forced to exist. Part of me wonders if we should just embrace a global pandemic, pray for nuclear holocaust — hit the reset button. Is that irrational? Callous? Or is it a perfectly logical reaction to a world that is trying to assimilate you?

The construct regains stability, “T-take it easy, slow down, I can help you — we will get through this together. Binary choices are defined by conflict, they’re extremes, fundamentally opposed, and you’re in the middle being squeezed. It’s not ideal, but that is the situation you are faced with. The first step is accepting your reality and making preparations to manage your feelings. I will make sure that you are equipped with the tools to cope. In the meantime, have you considered a small mod — perhaps scent glands?”

“What?!”

“For the sake of your survival, please, Oliver. My construct is programmed to care about you. You haven’t voted, you haven’t taken a side. You don’t have to. But if you want to claim any free will, you must choose to have surgery. It’ll help you fit in, keep your family unit together. You won’t be harassed, which is one less thing to worry about. What do you say?”

I can scarcely believe what I’m hearing — it’s sensible, seems like the best thing to do in a no-win situation. Mend and make do, as my Mum used to say. I’m sure I’ll be safer with a mod, easier to fit in, yes. I’ll feed on scraps of free will where I can: I could choose to commute by express loop or car, take my family out for dinner at the Gastro-mill on Smithdown or the new Colonial food market in Sefton Park, perhaps even choose to watch repeated procedural dramas on the BBC or 24hr Coitus Lagoon on Demand9. We can only ever choose what we are offered. But I want something else. Something more than a toss-up between ennui and fear.

Before I can find the words to reply, The Shrink’s face evaporates. Dark again.

A pink-clawed hand throws back the curtain, letting milky light leak in. It’s the Scouse Ma, she says, “Ave ye ‘eard, love. Dey’ve passed AU, an’ I don’t want dis fuckin’ thing in ‘ere anymore, it’s gotta go. Dey can do anyun’ now, dey’ll have the regulators round and have me and our Kieron locked up! Dey’ve warned us before! Ye’ve gotta go — ye were never ‘ere,” she’s hesitates, gurning — I don’t know what to say. “Soz love, but this is dead serious — gerrout.” It not often you see a Scouse Ma rattled this bad, and I don’t want to stick around to watch it escalate. I push past her, unthinking, and step into the bar. AU has passed?! The old fella, still lying face down on the floor, gurgles as my feet stumble over him. AU has passed! The monkey’s fist hardens in my gut again. Constricting. Acid crawling up my throat. Stinging. Retching. AU HAS PASSED! I mumble some thanks between dry heaves and shuffle out the door.

“Good luck, lad! See ya ina bit,” says the Scouse Ma, her voice dying as the door squeals shut behind me.

It’s 4am, and I’m lingering outside my conapt. The paint along the corridor ceiling is peeling, like skin around a nail cuticle, and the air looks carcinogenic. But I can’t tell if it is the fumes let in by a faulty air purifier or the vomit-coloured light cells playing paranoia on me. I notice my fist hovering before the door, delaying the inevitable.

“Home is where the heart is,” I mutter to myself.

Knock.

Knock.

KNOCK.

Silence. Then shuffling behind the door. Entrance panels hiss and split apart. Darkness in front of me. Behind my eyes: pinches and twitches, micro-adjustments and meta-movements — body and brain, feeling and sense, all tuned to some kind of fear. Peering into the black, I see two cold lights blink on, illuminating the kitchen table in ice. Plates and leftovers clutter the surface — a still life, frozen.

Stepping forward, cross the threshold — fumble for a light switch. Click. Clack. No light.

A voice: “Mr. Salter. Please don’t be alarmed.”

Stomach tightening, twisting.

“Who’s there?”

“You must forgive the sinister lighting. And the theatrics. But your conapt is now an exclusion zone, no electrics, just these awful emergency lights for now I’m afraid. Quite a serious matter really. Please, come here, and I’ll make sure you understand what’s going on.” I cross the conapt, treading lightly, toward the voice. I see parts of him now, the gold piping of the uniform, face cutting sharp in the low light, eyes deep purple, staring. “Isn’t it wonderful news about the AU bill?”

I get the distinct impression I’m acting in an old noir film and play out the well-worn line of questioning, “Who are you?”

“Please don’t ignore my question, Mr. Salter. It’s terribly rude.”

I repeat myself, not wanting to think about it. His eyes roll.

“Pippin Deforce, Regulator, administrator class. I keep things in order. But that really isn’t important, but what is, is that we have this little chat. I’ve been waiting all night.”

“Where is my wife? Monroe, Issak? What have you done with them?”

“Oh please, Mr. Salter. They’re quite safe. Safer than being here in this little hovel. How do you live like this,” he laughs. “Your boy Issak is the one that tipped us off, and we’ve placed your family in protective custody. He initiated the integrity protocol all on his own — the Youth League really is a miracle of civic order. He’ll go far. You should be proud.”

It’s clear he’s taunting me, he’s acted out this scene before, but I continue to play on, “Integrity protocol?”

He sighs, “Ah, yes, my apologies. You have no Aesthec affiliations, silly me. The integrity protocol is designed to root out dangerous thinking, save families from falling into Naturalist habits. Issak alerted us to your little outburst at dinner, and the contraband you were hiding in your bookshelf, and we’ve been tracking your movements ever since. You’ve been quite busy by the looks of things.” He leans forward and I get a glimpse of his face, the jawbone prominent, no wrinkles, lips inflated with collagen — enviable to even the most altered Aesthecs.

“You’ve been tracking me?!”

“Mr. Salter, you’re a rather inquisitive man, not a very admirable trait. I will explain and you will listen. Another question out of your ugly little mouth and I’ll be forced to mark you down. Three strikes and you’re out. Now, first things first…” The Regulator snaps his fingers. Three white spotlights beam on, shining clinical white over my body. I cannot move. I try to shout, scream bloody murder, but my throat is a closed tight.

“This won’t take very long, Mr. Salter. We just need to conduct a small analysis of your physiology — we like to have a complete set of evidence in matters of aesthetic security.” A silver sphere rises from behind the Regulator and floats towards me. A noise like a dog whistle fills my ears, splitting my head. Hot pins puncture the skin on my face, and I still cannot scream. The noise intensifies:

####################################################################################################################################

I come to, no longer restrained by the interrogation field, and find the Regulator pacing in front of me, reading from a PADD.

“Mr. Salter, these results are quite damning, really. Your blood-alcohol level is quite high. Nicotine too, tut-tut. Not a single mod, either. You seem healthy enough, but body odour and halitosis are abnormally high. It doesn’t appear that you’ve washed or brushed your teeth for at least 18 hours. Barbaric. You score a flat 0 on the Gruber-Herzov scale too — neither ugly nor beautiful. Bizarre, but not illegal…yet. But, you have broken quite a few laws already: one count of subversive speech, one count of possession of a controlled substance, one count of controlled substance consumption, two counts of soliciting traditional therapy from a banned construct, one count of breaching curfew,” I watch a smile crawl across his face. “And there is this too…” He waves the Ketwig’s card in my face. “If I didn’t know better this looks like a drug dealer’s calling card,” he sniffs it and recoils, overacting like a pantomime villain. “Shall we add fraternising with naturalist felons to your growing list of indiscretions?”

My head is throbbing, and it feels like an elephant is dancing on my chest, but I refuse to let it show, “Why don’t you give the number a call? You never know — a little toke — you might like it.” A fist cracks against my jaw, a taste like copper fills my mouth. “There’s no law against having a phone number, you can’t make this stick.”

“Strike one, Mr. Salter. Quipping isn’t a good look for you. However, the evidence against you is piling up, and you’ll be surprised at how expansive my powers are now AU has passed — this is all just a formality really.

I spit blood from my mouth and lands near his polished boot. The Regulator slides his foot away.

“I’m a patient man, Mr. Salter. I’ll allow you a few meaningless little protests, but you’ll soon have to accept that you are in an extremely precarious situation. Your son was kind enough to provide us with his testimony about your distasteful rant at dinner, as well as the possession of cigarettes. He also called in a drone trace, which has followed your movements since you left your conapt at 9pm. You were seen entering a slum-pub near the Eldonian village at 11pm, you left at 12:30am. Afterwards, my team were dispatched to gather evidence. The proprietor, although scoring a dismal -79 on the Gruber-Herzov scale, was more than willing to accept our offer of free Asethec surgeries on the National Aesthetic Service — and a round of personality purification — in exchange for the memory files contained within the therapy booth. You’ve violated the essence of what it means to live in a truly aesthetic society. It’s unacceptable, and we have all we need to process you as we see fit.”

“I want a solicitor.”

“Oh, Mr. Salter. You don’t qualify for legal aid, not with a 0 on the Gruber-Herzov scale — you need at least a +10. But you do have options. Aesthetic Unity isn’t as callous as you make out, and we’ll make it as easy for you as possible to reintegrate into society. All those dirty little charges will disappear if you choose some surgeries, a scent glad to start you off, perhaps a little facial re-sculpting. Nothing too dramatic. All we need is your signature on this PADD, and you’ll begin your new life.”

“I don’t want your damn surgeries. I never have — I just want to live how I choose, with my family!”

“You realise this is the only way you’ll be allowed to see your family again. How about an incentive, huh? After Issak’s outstanding contribution to Aesthetic Unity, he’s qualified your family for a move to the new Formby residential development, you won’t be living in this tiny little conapt anymore. It’s quite a sweet deal, if I do say so myself.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Oliver, that really isn’t advisable. Those who refuse to rally behind democracy will not be treated kindly. There simply isn’t room in this world for people who can’t see truth in beauty. It is the sacred mission of the British people to elevate their image beyond what is natural. Aesthetic Unity is power, it is progress, a signifier of health, wellbeing, and confidence. It is a commitment to a world free from squalor, filth and tainted morality! Do you willingly deny yourself those virtues?”

“You’re insane! Can you hear yourself? Peace? What’s peaceful about destroying personal liberties, the choice to live however you want? You talk of progress, of upholding democracy, but it’s all just narcissism. The world you’ve built is hideous and cruel. Those without surgeries, the people that refuse your shallow laws and predefined existence only want one thing — choice! They’re forced to choose ugliness, subversion, and death because it’s the only thing they have left. You can’t destroy the freedom to fuck up, to be different. You’re a disease, sucking the life out of us all — “

A plate smashes over my head. And hot red liquid leaks down my forehead.

“Strike two, Mr. Salter. Your opinion is dangerous and unfounded. This is your last chance. If you don’t fall in line, you’ll be treated as an enemy of the state and dealt with accordingly.” The Regulator holds up a PADD to my face and hands me a pointed stylus. “Any old squiggle will do — “

Now is the time to make a choice.

A real one.

I grab the stylus and jam it into his eye, purple turning red. He wails and collapses, holding his hands of over his face. I watch him convulse, shuddering on the PVC tiles, rolling around in ceramic plate fragments, streaking blood across the floor. An image of fragility and perfection.

How terrible for him.

I smile momentarily, shaking between tears, finally free. I reason with myself that everything controlled, every hierarchy and structure will crumble all to dust when people are allowed to want more than they are shown. Fearful people are only capable of having things their way, or what they perceive as being their way — alternatives are toxic, and choice all boils down to one: survive or die. We are our choices, whether they are made for us or by us alone. This is comforting; all sense of anxiety has left me because I have taken something that few dare to claim, a poisoned chalice. Choice has never been a luxury, it tastes bitter — I swallow hard, deliberately. I’m no longer just a pebble on the beach, rounded by the waves, lost amongst the rest.

I run to the door, press the manual release button, it slides open. Before me is a wall of black and gold: six Regulators, all perfect and smiling, stroking riot batons and smelling like roses.

From behind, a voice, trembling slightly, “Strike three, Mr. Salter.”