What's the point in saving humanity if humanity isn't perfect?

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Perfect

Perfect

Perfect

The word that takes residence in her brain. The word that her life revolves around. The word that determines her status. The word that decides if she gets to live.

Head down; don't walk too fast; don't walk too slow; don't take odd steps; don't walk strangely; smile; not too much; ignore the catcalls; don't look ungrateful for attention; be nice; don't be a tease; look pretty; don't draw unwanted attention; be smart; don't one-up; be strong; don't intimidate; don't be a pushover.

The bright sun is a shining spotlight on the vibrant, immaculate streets. People roam the city, filling the walkways with perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect attitudes, perfect souls. A smile rests on everyone's face as the world moves and breathes in harmony. All are content and at peace; society is without fault. Billboards relax on buildings, displaying the profile of all who walk past by reading one of the chips implanted into their bodies; specifically, the one residing in their heads. Beautiful, happy pictures glow on the screens, fading in and out as others walk by.

She looks at the sudden red pinprick of light blinking in her arm: a warning. She stops walking abruptly, immediately looking around and trying to discern if anyone has spoken to her or if she has done something wrong. She examines her body, searching for any flaw, anything out of place. Nothing, nothing, she can't figure it out. Panic sets in. What is it, what did I do, what's wrong? Where is it, what is it.

The light blinks rapidly. Insistently. Indicating she is running out of time. She spins, praying for someone to inform her what is unsatisfactory. No one. Nothing. The snake of anxiety weaves through her mind. No, nothing is wrong, right? But why is there a warning? What is it? please no. I can't see it. Please, no. God, no, not again, not again.

No one pays attention to her, yet she feels all eyes are on her and the seemingly invisible flaw. The light stops blinking for a moment and flares, turning from bright red to a dark, blood-like shade. Her heart races. She tenses, waiting for the wretched sensation.

A minute passes. Two. She exhales, relaxing. Perhaps it was a glitch.

White hot pain explodes in the base of her skull. Fire claws its way around her body, digging its talons into her skin. She gasps and bites her lip, digging her nails into her palm.

She refuses to draw attention to her suffering, afraid of risking another reason for the red light to start again. No, she can't show the pain. Perfect people don't suffer the agony encompassing her, as though sharp nails are burrowing into her soul and her spirit deserves to be punished for her errors.

Her eyes threaten to spill, and the red light resumes blinking. Fear shreds her heart and she blinks back tears. The light disappears.

People breeze by, not noticing or not caring about the woman rooted to the ground in the middle of the walkway. Eventually, the pain recedes, and she releases a long breath. She looks at her phone and is enlightened to her mistake. Her phone displays an image of her, taken from one of the nearby cameras littering the streets and city.

Her expression doesn't match those of everyone else. Her mouth is slightly downturned, eyes distant. She doesn't look happy. A message appears: smile.

She chides herself; what was she thinking? She should have known better than to let her inner turmoil show. After all, none should be burdened by the conflicted thoughts running through the mind of one ruining society's perfect image. The mask she painstakingly paints day after day must never falter, must never melt.

She can't help but feel incredibly foolish; she should have known better than to think, than to hope the warning was a glitch. There are no such things as mistakes.

She shakes off the past few minutes and continues her trek home. As she nears, the unsettling feeling of being followed pricks her skin. It's nothing. She widens her smile a bit, ensuring none will assume anything is wrong. Nothing ever is. The feeling persists and she finally turns around.

A man trails her, merely steps away . He catches her eye and grins. A chill runs down her back; it is not a smile of kindness and innocence, but one that speaks of dark alleys and malicious intents. But who can really tell; a smile is a smile, right?

She returns it with her own small smile – hopefully not a tempting one – and quickens her pace – but not too much; not too fast. She takes a few turns, purposefully passing by android officers. Quite ironic, how they rove the streets. If society is perfect, why are there police officers? Of course, they're just there as a "precaution" and are only alerted through their systems if a camera picks up something.

She glances back to the man that continues to follow her footsteps. Panic clutches her and her heart pounds. Please no, not again, not again.

She glimpses her apartment complex a few streets ahead, and her sole focus is to reach it, to reach the safety and security of seclusion. Tears prick her eyes and she prays for someone, anyone to notice something suspicious about a man trailing a young woman. But no one notices anything wrong when all they know is everything perfect.

At last, she reaches her building and dashes inside. As she enters the elevator, she catches the man standing outside, leering at her. His eyes glint with a promise - a promise that screams of danger and horrid actions that always manage to be justified by those sworn to protect her. The doors close and she is lifted up to her floor.

She enters her apartment and collapses onto the couch. A million thoughts race through her head, stumbling over each other in their determination to be answered immediately. Each thought questioning what she did to cause the man to follow her.

The chip in her brain allows her to rescan the days events, the footage taken from the cameras. She scrolls through as her mind battles between her questions and the images flashing in her head. Was it my clothes? Did I wear something too revealing? Did I walk in a certain way? Did I do something or say something tempting? There. That has to be it. Her neck line had dropped a little. A few moments later, the man began his chase.

She releases a shaky breath. She was lucky that nothing happened. It was too close. Too close to what happened last time. She thinks of the way the man followed her; the way he looked at her, as though she was some sort of prize won at a carnival of malice – like some object meant to amuse him.

Her hands curl into fists, nails digging into her palms so hard she feels the skin splitting like the fraying seams of her mind. Why her. Why is it whenever any situation like the one she barely escaped from occurs, she is to be punished? She is told she was wrong, that she brought it upon herself. Why isn't the man that put her in such a situation ever dealt with?

Clarity washes over her, and her fists loosen. She shakes her head, feeling irrational. How could anyone assume the man meant her harm? How could she assume it herself? He was simply walking. That is all. There was no proof of any cruel intent at all. It could have been her mind playing tricks, her own paranoia.

But she can't help the rolling shudder that arrives with the memory of how way he looked at her, how he followed her all the way home. Yet, who would believe someone who already supposedly mistook another man's purposes before? Someone who hadn't been able to prove a situation that happened in the past, one that began the same way as today but left deeper scars in her mind and body.

Her eyes travel down to her right ankle, where skin melds into metal. A warning. A punishment. A reminder from the government to watch herself and to not accuse someone of such an awful act when it was a simple miscommunication and misunderstanding on her end; and a message to society, screaming, "Look what happens when you step out of line."

She gazes at the picture frames dotting the walls and sitting on ledges. Her family, every one of them long ago deemed flaws in the perfect world that has been created. All diseases cured; no wars; no famine or poverty. There is only one price to pay: perfection.

Of course, the population began to get out of hand. No one realized it, but wars and other disasters kept the population controlled – in a sick sort of way. Now, to ensure there were enough resources, flaws of society, those who don't quite fit in, are taken away. If one is perfect, no reason to worry.

Unless, your entire family was declared unfit. Imperfect. Perhaps that is why she has so much trouble conforming, so much trouble staying confined to the cell of perfection barred by the claims and demands of alignment. Perfect people don't place themselves into dangerous situations.

After a few moments, she calms. It won't happen again, she commands herself firmly. From now, I will be nothing if not perfect.

But you can only tell yourself that so many times.

Suddenly, the lights of the apartment darken. Red flashes throughout the apartment, intermittently coating the walls with blood. Areas where chips have embedded themselves burn.

She cries out, crumpling to the ground. She recognizes the signs that have occurred too many times to count, each one followed by another piece of her life torn away.

Dread and fear blind her. No, no, no. I'm perfect. Perfect. Perfect. I have to be. The pleas trip over each other in her head. She chokes on the words that have filled her life and she shrieks the mantra like a vain prayer.

Then all stops.

The blanket of silence holds more nightmares than a troubled sleep. A scream wrenches itself from her throat and she allows it to reign as the air is the only witness to her anguish. No use in perfection when it's too late.

Tremors rack her body, shaking her with the force of a hundred earthquakes expounding from her core. Her phone bellows the sentencing rings and she clutches it with trembling hands. A message is displayed on the screen: Flaw.