Writing Prompt

I finally have it, it’s mine! ITS ALL MINE The shock collar hugs my skin with its cold embrace, an embrace I have longed for since the day my mother passed from the smog poison when I was a boy, like so many others who dwell in this fetid abyss with me. The factory halls have accepted me and my very soul dances to clanging pipes in rejoice, but my body will not dance, will not waste the resources to do so, therefore I will be still.

My suffering was agreeable and I have earned purpose. Those hordes of people in the undercity are now beneath me. I finally have a job in the factory after all those days of slaving away in the pits, they have chosen me. Decided that i have worth to the company and I can be used. Now I will be fed, be given a uniform and ever closer to the surface. Now I will be more than trembling bones, rags and dirt. I’m sure on some day in the future I will finally see sunlight. Yes, that strange light that falls from the sky, I will find out if it really does feel warm. Like the stories passed down to me from my fathers, father’s father. I will be the one to bask in that golden hue as my ancestors did. But names wont help in the dark, only purpose. My adversary is one that gains headway from any slither of life that can be consumed. If the beat in your veins is to loud, your lungs breathe too deep, your will to live too eager, you will be found and you will be food. Therefore I will be silent

Only if they understood, if they could grasp the essence of suffering they would rise with me. I’ve tried to help them, to offer advice and set the example. Show them there is more to life than the mines and the smog. But they wouldn’t listen. At first I thought they were scared or worse their souls crushed and dead. Broken under the hard cogs of this wretched machine that renders both a man’s spirit and his flesh. But no, i have realised it’s something different. Different in myself which is my ability to suffer. Whichever illusive force that animates my husk, a sinewy decrepid thing that barely retains the strength to stumble, something beckons to it. For all I know it could be hope itself, a fleeting stranger to us denizens of the undercity, however it calls all the same. pain and suffering does not seem a fearful beast to me but an exchange, a price. If a man has nothing left to spend but his blood then I am surely rich. To spend frivolously would bring suspicion and ruin, therefore I will be patient

The history books are there, how humanity culled their impending extinction in the 22nd century. A prosperous few millennia came after filled with their own hiccups and roadblocks… wait a second.

She scrubbed away the chip, altering its telemetry before inserting it back into her arm. The vivid recollection of historic events played out again, this time with constant victories, triumphs, and elation.

"Better."

A deep sigh left the woman, tossing away the altered chip before placing a new one inside. She was whisked away to a great war, the ground littered with a green carpet and grand flowing puddles of water. She reached for the chip… fingers grasping at the edges of the dreamscape. A primal longing to stay flooded her brain, to sleep amongst the oddly stained earth. High pitched whistles stabbed at her eardrums, a shock sent through nearly every inch of her body. She yanked the chip out, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks as she tossed it away.

"100 chips an hour. Your pace currently… 20. First strike of the day."

Her body shivered, trembling fingers hardly able to alter the chip’s design but the words couldn’t be refused.

Another chip inside, this time without a second thought. Exactly how it was supposed to be done…

Society has advancenced past petty conflicts. 3000 years ago they would be surprised at how far we've come. Spoiler, it's not that far. We completely removed any trace or war, angering emotions, or conflicting ideas. The problem with that is that the suicide count is higher than ever. The even more concerning problem is that that's a good thing.

You'd think in 3000 years we'd come up with a greater food source, but nope. Once animals pretty much died off because of the harsh weathers and climate (Humans seemed to have adapted), we turned to another source of food.

Humans.

People rioted when the government first proposed this, I mean who wouldn't, but as emotions became a tricky thing, so did people's will to live. Not judging, I would have signed up a long time ago if it weren't for my cowardness. Volunteers for the butchery started flooding in. First a couple, enough so everyone can have a meal a day. Then they came, one after another.

And honestly, this was good thinking on the government's part. If you rule out the dreary, dead life everyone lives, then the food situation is perfect. It controls both population control and carrying capacity. In the end, they would have had no choice.

5025 This is the year Why try and hide Nothing to fear Except for laser toting sheriffs That uphold the law Best pay the tariff Bankers we saw Best job in town Is the lawyer we’d say There’s none to be found There’s no law these days

3000 years after the world basically collapsed into pieces. You may think we rebuilt ourselves but we were never able to. Everyone had to resort to either being a trash collector or home builder. It’s the only way to pay bills. After the big disaster, the world just became a burning pile of rubbish. At least humans are still alive. After the disaster, we thought all hope would be lost, but it is still lost or will we eventually find happiness again?

There was very little for Elliot to be thankful for in the wretched year of 5025, but his job as a historian was one of them. It was the job that everybody wanted, but he was the lucky bastard that edged out so many of his peers.

It wasn't just that it was indoors and safe, although that was a huge plus. He was safe from the elements. He wasn't forced to be out in the world risking his life to rebuild the latest structure to collapse. He wasn't miles underground searching for any and all resources necessary to maybe , hopefully, stop all of the climate issues. He had nothing to do with any of the robot projects, failed or otherwise. He certainly wasn't in an office despairing over the hopeless projections of the state of Earth and humanity in the coming years.

But the true benefit of Elliot's job as a historian was the escape it provided him from his bleak existence. Because as a historian, Elliot was responsible for going through the archives of the history and humanity that came before his time. He contextualized it, he interpreted it, and he soaked it all in.

He got lost in the literature of the 1800s, the music of the 1900s, and the cinema of the 2000s. He spent his life enjoying the wonders of the past. Elliot often daydreamed of what it would be like to to be one of the lucky souls who got to live a few thousand years ago. Even just 1000 years ago would have been far preferable to living in 5025.

Alas, that wasn't in his control. Elliot did live in 5025, but he was one of the few who were fortunate enough to be able to often block it all out.

“Your government doesn’t really have your best intrests in mind.”

Eden heard plenty of things during her job. Pleas and cries and begs for mercy. But a jobs a job. And besides, these things weren’t really people. Is what she’s been told.

“Find. Capture. Neutralize.” That was the job of a Neutrilizer. Eden.

It pays well. She has a fairly easy life because of it. She doesn’t mind that people are afraid of her. That children will run inside when they see her walk by. They don’t know anything.

Of course the government has her best interest! What government doesn’t? She’s making the world a better place. One bullet at a time.

Everyday she clocks into work and gets a list from her boss. She gets in her suit, grabs her guns, gets in her big old truck and drives to the house. It’s a dangerous job, of course. Those muties are dangerous. Its why she need’s to neutralize them.

Her gun rings out along with they’re screams of terror. Furniture goes flying and the walls end up riddled with holes and blood. She takes out a cigarette and lights it. Blows out a puff of air and gets to cleaning. Bagging the body’s and tossing them in her truck. And then she leaves to go dispose of them. Repeat.

Eden turns up the radio and chucks her cigarette out the window as she smiles to herself. Another job well done.

There is only one job that really matters today, only one job that people clamber for every year.

Since humanity had spread and evolved so fast, every planet in the solar system had a singer to represent them and earth has me, Melody Dash.

I’m not scared of the audience, or of the competition, or even of losing. I’m scared that I will be killed by one of my rivals.

I’ve had to sneak into the backstage to be sure nothing happens, but when I open my dressing room door, there is a boy inside who is wearing a white suit. He looks surprised and I pull out my concealed laser gun.

One blast of blue, and the boy is on the floor, bleeding out on my rug.

Then security comes in, sees the scene, moves the body. Efficient.

My wrist bleeps with news. “Earth is at it again! Singing sensation ‘Tycoon’ has been killed by ‘Melody Dash’, who has been rivalling him since the start! Rather than a trial, earth has - once again - chosen ‘Melody’ as their representative! How long will she last before the next rival comes for the top?” It chirped.

I looked at the stain on the floor. I didn’t want to do it, but you have to in this career. Any other job entails cleaning or flying for hours in the dark of space… With this salary I can afford a real house with windows and everything. I wish I was born somewhere like mars, or Venus, where talent takes you to the top, not killing.

I’m still reading when a vent on the wall opens and a laser gun appears in a manicured hand. I remember something as pain explodes in my chest and blood spoils my dress. Sometimes, stars are designed to fall.

Life as the Dominus only fit a select few. Krane was the Dominus of Faraway Lane. The days were filled with the rights of his title, as the only male to many women, but at what cost?

The only way to become one was to survive the Dome. It didn’t matter how much wine or satisfaction he received. Nothing relieved his nightmares. Some days were better than others.

He often stood at the end of the lane, staring off into the yards, flowerbeds, and gardens of the women who worked his street. A few little girls found fun passing a dodgeball back and forth. Apple trees were in season. The day was bright and green with an over abundance of white houses and picket fences.

Lady Charlotte, the eldest of the street, would often try to help him past bad days as they came. It was seen as the common good to aid the Dominus, unless they find themselves with one of the failures. She lived at the end of the lane.

“What is on your mind, dear Dominus?” said the Lady Charlotte.

“I’m remembering Gary.”

“And what did we talk about last time, dear?”

“The illusion of control. But I was there. I could have relented.”

The Lady shook her head. “You can only control you. He knew what he was getting into, the same as you. A man has few options in this day and age. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just don’t put thought into it. You deserved to live as well.”

Krane knew she was right. He wanted to forget it all, but it would haunt him when he least expected it. “I think I’m going to take a walk to help clear my head.”

The Lady bid him his day as he strolled up the lane. A few of the women whistled at him as he walked up the street. He hated when they did that.

When he walked half the street, he turned to Lady Nora. The young lady wore a white summer dress, red lipstick, and her hair done up in a bun. Her daisies seemed to come along nicely. She whistled at him all the same.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “You call me?”

She beckoned him with her index finger as she headed for the front door of her residence. Krane followed, and the rest of the street watched as they headed in.

Not a word was said. The ladies kept gardening as normal. The little girls kept playing ball. Nothing changed.

Robots walked the earth. They’ve taken over the world. Dogs—robots. Movies—all AI generated. YouTubers—just stupid AI videos mixed with AI speech. Architecture—Run by an architectural robot. Programmer—every game is made by AI. Chef—robots cook food for everyone. Mechanic—robots can do it 20x more efficiently. Weathermen—predicted by robots. There is almost no job for humans anymore besides being slaves to robots. There is 1 job that humans seek. Bring in a band It’s the one thing where humans can express themselves through music. Robots make music—but they can’t play instruments. I sit on the stage, with an audience of robots staring at me. The robot conducts us, and the music flows naturally. The robot looks almost to humanized. The music was made by me. The notes ascend and crescendo quickly. People play complicated patterns robots couldn’t comprehend, and when the song I done, the robots clap their mechanical hands together like a dog wagging its tail—only dogs aren’t real anymore. Birds are robots created by more robots. All pets have cameras to constantly monitor us—they make sure that we don’t get into trouble. Phones are nonexistent. I remember in 2025 when we were all obsessed with AI—it’s 2067 and now there are no phones—no cameras—AI won’t let us know anything that’s happening in the world. The president you ask—another robot. The robot applause finally dies down, and the band regroups. Clarinets move down a row. The music we are playing is called Freedom. The peaceful notes resonate with me. Nostalgia. Shadows of the past sing to me. My robot mother comforts me with her voice. Then the AI quickly puts its hands down; cutting us off. “This music is too nostalgic—not robotic enough,” the AI says in a sweet, almost charismatic tone. The AI stands off from the podium before screaming at the top of its robotic wires. It kicks our stands over, its eyes glowing red; before it then spams musical notes. “A, A sharp, Ab, Forte, segno, diminuendo, crescendo, Bb, b sharp,” the AI malfunctions. Sparks shoot out from its mechanical wires. Someone hits the AI with a stand, sending it crashing to the ground. The AI sets ablaze and burns the music to the ground, still screaming musical notes. The AI audience suddenly stands to attention. The AI then steps up the stakes up to the stage and glares at us. They march toward us, knocking down the music as the fire encapsulates the room. We all stand. Band. Band. Band.

Band.
Band.
Band..
Band..
Band…
Band…

The AI then quickly rewrites our music, and with its voice, mimics our music instruments in perfect harmony. The AI’s then play the modulated music. They sit down in our chairs and pretend to play our instruments. 

Band.
Band. 
No more band.
No more band. 

Another job has been taken. No more band, no more band. The world shatters around us, and our jobs are taken. The remaining AI audience applauded louder than what they did for us. Some stick up their thumbs, and then the AI on the stage proceeds to stand up and bow just like we had done, only now it felt wrong.