It is the representative for Faction Red that speaks first.
“Remove that intern,” he shouts into the gathering silence. Angry agreement comes from Faction Blue in the opposite gallery. Guards move to comply. The offending intern is gripped, marched out of the chamber and handed over to heavily armed Security Section officials.
The intern is silent during this journey, but speaks up when he is loaded into a plain gray truck. Rain pounds the top of the vehicle, so he shouts to be heard: “where are you taking me?”
The Security Section officer shakes his head. No answers here. The doors slam closed, the SS officer pounds the back of the truck and it moves off into the storm. Rain thunders down all around, drowning out the sound of everything.
The intern closes their eyes in despair. All I did was ask a question.
An hour later the truck passes through airlocks with clanks and thumps. On the other side the sun shines down on greenery with dappled forest embracing crisply painted blacktop. Whomever is driving the truck depolarizes the windows: the intern gasps at blue skies and sunshine. The handcuffs restraining them buzz for a moment then sproing! Drop to the floor with a clatter. The intern rubs their wrists in wonder. What the hell is going on?
A mile or two down the road the truck slews into a parking lot filled with colorful vehicles. DANNY’S 24 HOUR BREAKFAST reads the jaunty neon sign with a colorful animated mascot, some child obsessed with pancakes in 30 foot holographic glory.
The truck parks, then the driver exits the cab and walks around back to open the doors. The intern blinks in confusion.
“Here,” the driver hands the intern a small fake-leather pouch, thick with documentation. “It’s your orientation package. Read it. Also, take this.” The driver also passes over a credit chit emblazoned with the hologram for VIZA, Good At Over 100,000 Businesses System Wide! When the intern presses their thumb to the chit it beeps and displays $500 credit.
“I don’t understand,” the intern mumbles.
“Dude. Just take it. Go inside. Get something to eat, and read your orientation docs. Have a great rest of your day.” The driver pauses a moment, then turns to climb back into the cab of the truck. As the intern backs away in confusion the truck’s motors whine to life and it backs out of the parking space.
The driver’s window rolls down, and the driver makes eye contact with the intern, who has not moved. “Still don’t get it?” he asks after a long moment.
“Look, all of that?” the driver waves generally in the direction from whence they came, “is a construct. Some people can’t handle utopia. They need war, and fighting for scraps, and shitting on other people. So they’re kept in a giant dome, away from the rest of us who can handle a post-scarcity economy where everybody gets what they need to live a solid life. Make sense?”
The driver sighs. He tries again. “Look, you were one of those guys. Then you asked a question. The question.”
“No man! You had to be removed. Otherwise the simulation breaks down and those War Heads? They can’t deal. So here you are.” He gestures at the DANNY’S restaurant dominating the skyline. “Go get some pancakes. Read your docs. Figure it out. Have a great rest of your life.”
The driver nods, and the truck’s window rolls up. He drives away, leaving the intern wondering about a great many things but suddenly… hungry for pancakes.
