Rex3A had barely slept for the past week and today he woke up at eight am, eager, frightened, and disoriented. He wore a smile that flickered like a flame, unsure if it's appropriate, but uncontrollable nevertheless. He took one last look at the calendar, needlessly, and, yes, today was the day, June 6th 2080. He looked out the window of his 30th floor apartment, gazing out over the white uniform, sterile city.
"Good-fucking-bye," he murmured definitively. He walked out the door without shaving, showering, or even changing his clothes. Normally it would be disgraceful for an A-Class, let alone a 3, to go out into public like this, but today was different. Today his squalor and stench would work to his favor.
Rex3A was about to take part in a movement that started one year earlier and had been gaining popularity ever since. Well, in fact, he had been a part of the movement for many months, just waiting for his turn to arrive. He had said his farewells to his few acquaintances, his estranged/senile aunt, and the only city he'd lived in for all thirty-five years of his life. It wasn't hard; he wasn't leaving anything he particularly loved, he hadn't loved anything since?
Shuttering, he shrugged off the memory, no need to spoil his last day around here. While waiting for the elevator to creep its way up he prodded a large bruise on his forehead with dull masochistic curiosity. The soft skin gave easily, old pain returned, and he winced slightly. Why was it that people could find amusement, even delight in pain? Perhaps it's not the pain, but the ability to stop it. There were very few things people could control these days "PING!"
The arrival of the elevator abruptly cut short Rex3A's train of thought. The doors opened to reveal an elderly man in a black suit, only vaguely familiar, his neighbor perhaps. They reciprocated ambiguous nods, not even nods really, just vague twitches that could just as easily signify an itch as they could recognition. They parted ways.
The elevator descended slowly, accompanied by lifeless music, barely audible. Of course the music must be so. That way no one can complain about it being to offensive or in bad taste. The music could never be anything that was meant to be art, art provoked, provocation caused problems, the music simply "was". Rex3A reflected on how many things simply "were" nowadays. The words "artistic" and "avant-garde" had come to mean "profane" and "offensive". Everything in this world had to be simple, ordered, and "PING!"
He could see his destination now, his grail, the small rectangular booth that would set him free! Walking up to it, slowly, deliberately, reverently, like King Arthur to his sword, he put his hand upon the scanner. He spoke into the little box "Cranberry pie and little white lies" and stood still as the barcode on his neck was read. The door snapped opened and he stepped inside. The door slid shut instantly.
Inside was nothing but a screen and a stool, which he promptly seated himself in. The screen flicked on at the exact moment he was perfectly situated. The only object was a faceless man in a black robe, and he was surrounded by a bright light. A strong, booming voice filled the room with an authority air about them.
"Rex3A, you have requested euthanasia. Do you wish to proceed with this request?"
"Yes, of course" he knew the routine as well as anyone could; all the information in his database would be reviewed, questions would be asked about his living circumstances, and reasons for suicide, and so on and so forth. With any luck he wouldn't have to walk out of the booth at all. His statistics flashed onto the screen and the imposing, omnipresent voice returned: "Turner, Rex. Rank 3. Class A. Age: 35. Height: 5' 10"?" The facts streamed on with the meaningless data that made up a life and when all the pertinent information was read it needlessly asked for confirmation.
"It's all correct." Now came the questioning:
"Why have you chosen to proceed with the process of euthanasia?"
"You see, I have no friends, only an estranged aunt for family, my job brings me no joy, and?" he cringed from the remembrance for the second time that day.
"And your wife died five months ago."
"Yes, she was the last thing I loved, she was my sanity, and now she's gone" he wished he could cry, but his eyes were as dry as bone.
"Your job pays well and your apartment is of an expensive class, is it not?"
"As to my job, yes, it pays well, but it goes against my morals. My apartment is expensive, but bare and unfurnished."
"Morals aside, you're good at your job, thus good for the city. Plus you are of a high rank and class. Do you not feel that you are a benefit to your society?" Rex3A pondered this. He had foolishly only considered the issues of emotional wellbeing in his preparation and now he was caught off guard.
"No? in the past, maybe, but the quality of my work is rapidly declining. As to my rank and class, I am at this point a disgrace to both." The figure on the screen froze for an apparently infinite amount of time. Rex3A figured that it was checking his productivity level at work. We are what we make, we are what we give, we are how much we add to society, and they can damn well check your wo?
"Yes, you make a valid argument. One last question: How long since you have last bathed?" had the question been asked by any other voice Rex3A the question would have struck him as amusing or infuriating, but this voice was far too sane and methodical to have been interpreted in any other context than the assimilation of data.
"Three weeks." Rex3A's heart pounded in spite of his best efforts to keep calm. The booth monitored everything; pulse, breathing, pupil dilation, voice inflection; it could tell if you were lying, sad, happy, crazy; it read you like a bit of information in a vast computer. The faceless figure remained motionless as a timer counted down the seconds till the verdict would be rendered. 10, 9, 8, 7, HERE IT COMES! 3, 2, 1:
"Your case has been heard and a decision has been made. You, Turner, Rex3A have been granted the right to have your life terminated. You will be cleared from all systems within a week."
Three brightly colored buttons appeared on the screen. One said "Electrocution", another "Cyanide Pill", and the last read "Poisonous Gas". Rex3A touched the button reading "Cyanide Pill" and a compartment popped out containing a small green capsule, which he promptly swallowed. The world grew fuzzy, faded, and disappeared. The computer did a quick check for any vital signs and finding non opened it's doors for the next costumer.
