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There are seventeen inked dots on the inside of my left forearm - to indicate my age - plus the identifier, F-918. That is my name, the only one I have ever been known by.
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A future impossible to imagine. The world is a connected entity, covered in train tracks which link countries and floating cities. The advancements in technology and science also carry a darker edge. Slavery has returned. People are grown to serve. Executions are commonplace to keep the workforce in line.
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I am a biological product. I am here solely to serve and toil for others. I do not have any rights, I do not have a name or a voice that can be heard in the world, except my own thoughts, my own internal monologue.
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Many disagree, and argue on behalf of the slaves, for a fairer way of life, yet their words change nothing. One path remains. Brutal. Necessary.
War.
--
I hear the rhythmic thud of military boots as a platoon of soldiers hurtle towards us both on their way to secure the area.
The boy stares at me again. Despite his injured lip, he manages a smile and his eyes widen. "... And we're going to win," he says.