The Weight of a Name

This is Silverside.

On the surface, it is a masterpiece of order. Every six months, the citizens of this city walk into the Gray Hall, sit in a high-backed leather chair, and receive a Sync. It gives them a fresh occupation, a new temperament, and a brand-new purpose.

The city says it is for our own good. They say it prevents burnout, boredom, and war. And for most, it works. They wake up after a Sync feeling like a blank page ready for new ink. They do not remember the stress of their old jobs or the faces of people they used to argue with.

I see it every time I walk to the market.. Yesterday, the woman at the corner of the street was a baker. I remember the way she would tap her fingers to a her favourite pop song only she could hear while she bagged the rolls. Today, after her Sync, she is humming a soft lullaby. She does not remember her previous favourite pop song. She does not even remember me.

Then there are people like me...

Statics.

We are the glitches in their perfect machine. When the Sync needle slides into my neck, the Reset does not take. My mind is a vault that refuses to be emptied, while everyone else is happily forgetting who they were yesterday.. The city has a strange, cruel mercy regarding parents. The Sync is designed to preserve the "Primary Bond." You don't forget your mother’s face or your father’s name, the government realized that total memory loss caused people to go insane.

For this city, I am just another productive citizen. I smile when I am supposed to. I walk with the posture of whatever role they have assigned me. I have spent the last three years playing a deadly game in Silverside.. a Static is a broken part. And broken parts are RECYCLED.

Most Statics are caught within their first year. They slip up. They recognize an old friend or use a skill they are not supposed to have. But I am still here. I am still breathing because I learned from the best. My brother, Kian, was a Static too.

Kian showed me how to inject a specific bioluminescent in my wrist. When the "Sync" scanner hits me, the ink mimics the 'Blue' light of a successful download, even though my brain is actually screaming "Red" error.

I have been doing this since I was seventeen. In our city, seventeen is the 'Age of Emergence'. It is when you leave your parents’ home and receive your first real Sync. It was supposed to be the best day of my life. Instead, it was the day my world ended. I was seventeen when they took my parents. I was seventeen when I watched the news report of my brother’s "erasure."

I am twenty now. For three years, I have been a stranger in my own skin. Six Syncs have passed, and each one has left a scar on my memory that the machine was supposed to heal.

I remember being a Baker at seventeen. I can still feel the flour on my skin and the heat of the ovens. 6 months later I had to pretend I did not know how to code a computer.. even though Kian had taught me everything.

At eighteen, I was a Librarian. I spent six months surrounded by books, followed by Data Entry job

At nineteen I found myself in Courier Services, where I spent my days running messages between government buildings, memorizing the security codes on every door I passed. Every six months, the occupation changes, and every six months, I had to bury another version of myself.

But today is different. Today is my seventh Sync.

I am not waiting for the city to choose for me anymore. I have spent months conditioning my body, spiking my adrenaline during the pre-sync scans, and mimicking the cold, detached aura of the elite. I have spent my nights doing push-ups on the cold floor of my room and practicing my aim with stones in the alleyways.

I do not want to bake bread. I do not want to file books.

I need to be a Soldier. I need to be in the Vanguard. Because the Vanguards are the only ones allowed to cross the borders into the Dead Zone. And the Dead Zone is the only place left where my parents might still be alive...

_________________________

I stand at the gates of the Gray Hall, the morning sun hitting the cold concrete steps. My wrist stings where I have hidden the fake blue ink.

"Initiate 909" a voice calls from the intercom. "Enter for Calibration."

I take a breath and step inside. I do not know it yet, but this is the last day I will ever be safe.