It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

Those words resound in my head as if I were hearing them in this very moment. Thousands of memories fight to resurface, to turn my life into a worse misery than it already was. Is it possible to be more wretched? I don't think so.

My name is Sayi and I'm seventeen years old. Today is going to be an important day. Or that's what I think. Or I hope. Or I wish with all of my heart.

My father is about to get home from the landfills of New Madrid, my city. This is an advanced world that has no room for people like us. Smart machines do the cleaning, cooking, building, demolishing, protecting, analyzing, curing... Everything that can be automated or that is a repetitive task or that doesn't require any type of creativity has been taken from the hands of man. Damn their creators! They have condemned the majority of us to a life of need.

There are only a few jobs in which human beings are still superior to any machine: protection, design, sports, writing, acting, dance, and singing. As for the rest, the robots were in charge of doing things cheaper, faster, without any mistakes, and for longer periods of time. It was what businessmen had always wanted. It was extremely difficult that the thousands of millions of us that weren't part of the chosen ones could carry out any of these roles.

Hunger was at the doorstep of all the countries in the world, where hundreds of thousands of people would die of starvation every day. It was as if a city like New Madrid, with ten million inhabitants, would disappear every year. It's madness, a damn nightmare. But there were people who were making a lot of money on it, as is the case with this kind of tragedies.

I get up from bed and set my haggard Fahrenheit 451 book aside. The pages slip from a book jacket whose title page had all but disappeared. From the looks of it, the book was an old copy from the late twentieth century that had belonged to my grandfather when he was young. It's my only treasure, also my only link to literature and not because it's forbidden to read but because it's very expensive.

Paper books are history. The few that are left are for the great collectors who have the luxury of space the rest of us lack. Digital devices allow a person to read in any place, any time without having to carry anything. With a simple gesture, the implants in your hand display a screen on your palm. Logically, this is a gadget for the powerful. I don't even dream of having it. It's so far away...

But this day... This shall be a defining day for me. A before and an after. My collapse or my rise to a life of privilege. That's why I couldn't sleep last night. I'm so nervous that I feel I could scream at any moment. It's not for nothing. Today I will know if behind this miserable façade there is anything worth-while in me.

When people like me (poor) turn seventeen years old, they have the option to present themselves before the authorities to be analyzed. At police stations they put you through a series of tests that determine your physical and mental capabilities like that of someone predisposed to being part of an elite group of security, athletes, or artists. From there, they send you to an academy where you're taught and, finally, you are integrated into society as a promising professional. And all of your problems will be but a bad memory.

That's the nice part. If you aren't chosen, you return home in a pretty body bag. The expenses incurred during the analysis were the justification the commissioners used to implement this frugal measure. Like all business, there has to be a profit. The waste of time and effort is paid for with your life.

Not everyone is apt enough to be part of that group. It's only logical. Each one of us has a set of skills that determine our profession. But as I said before, the blessed robots took the jobs that for a long time we boasted as ours and nontransferable. In the end, no one is indispensable.

The time and money that are invested in the analysis are so precious that at least one talent out of one hundred had to be found to make up the cost. The district that found the most talent during the year received great benefits. The district that found the least... Well, let's just say it wasn't pleasant what happened to the commissioner and his executive team. All the same, you won't see me cry for any of them.

And so, the largest killer of people apart from hunger and illness in the middle of the twenty first century was the police by way of the many unsuccessful castings. Ironic, isn't it?

Rumors spread that a pre-exam was conceived in order to reduce the fiascos in the castings. They optimized their work by using certain questions that determined the capacities, or lack thereof, of all the poor miserable people that presented themselves. Obviously, those that don't pass don't live to tell the tale. Going to the police stations is a place of no return. So you have to be very sure or very desperate to even pass in front of the entrance.

I know I have little talent. Athlete? No way! Impossible. I don't have the strength to be a soccer player, hockey player, or tennis player. Honestly, I don't know who among us can run more than two minutes without ending up in a hospital bed. Sing? I like it but I don't have the voice of the best singers that come on the radio. I know my limits and more than a few times I've been out of tune. I've shown my clumsiness the times I tried to dance (plus you train just as much as any other sport). Maybe an actress... or writer. It's my last hope to escape from here.

I can't count how many dreams I've had during my life and that I've recorded as I could in the old paper notebooks my father would find from time to time. Once written down, I would act them out trying to perform them the best I could. I need technique, I can't deny, but I'm a diamond in the rough that just needs a bit of polishing.

I go in front of my square, unmarked and rusted mirror, which has a beautiful crack that crosses it. I see before me a young girl with straight, blonde hair that frames an oval and thin face covered in whitish skin. Her big blue eyes were pitifully contemplative and there was a small ray of hope in them. Her straight nose has open nostrils that are trying to capture the light aroma of her mother's perfume that her father had as a relic. Her lips, lips her father doesn't want to see because they are like those of his disappeared wife: the top thin and bottom full. Hunger made her thin but her body had an interesting curve here and there, on this occasion covered up by a black tracksuit that used to fit but today was loose.

I consider myself a pretty adolescent. My neighbors look at me, whistle at me and try to gain my trust. But that's all that could happen. No one got married or got together. It was already exasperating finding food just for yourself and adding to that would just complicate things. My father will never consider me a burden but at the end of the day he has to work double shifts so there would be something to eat on the table.

Dad still didn't come back. I wanted to say goodbye before I left. It would probably be the last time I'd see him. But maybe it's better this way. I'd probably break out into sobs and regret it if he were here. He'd figure out I'd be up to something and stop me.

I hope he can forgive me for the pain I'm about to cause him. First, mom went... now me. The women in my family aren't the best by the looks of it. Whatever happens, our life is going to change. For the better, I hope.

I don't know why but since I was born I felt that everyone would know my name. That's why I have to leave home and face my destiny in the casting. I could just as well be wrong and that sensation is nothing more than a product of my necessity and low self-esteem. May I be dragged down to hell if I know.

I make sure the goodbye note is in one of the drawers, where I keep the few clothes I have. He will curse at me when he finds the note, because it will be too late for him to do something about it. I can't blame him. He wants to hold on to everything he has left, and that makes me feel worse. I'm going to leave him more lonely and wretched than ever before, but I cannot stand this life anymore; I have a small chance of changing our luck.

"There is nothing more valuable than a person's life. They shouldn't trick us like that," he would say vehemently as he heard the news about the recent death of the ones who participated in the casting. "All human beings are equal, aren't we?"

He did not agree with all the changes that happened throughout that century, and he never will, even if it takes him to the grave. Yet, I cannot live out of melancholy or of a presumed divine justice (that obviously seems to have forgotten about us). Every moment is a fight to live a bit more. Honestly, I prefer dying of a gunshot than of hunger.

The desperation around others of my age is so bad that most of us participate in the castings. Death has become a better option than returning to the ghetto in which we fight each other for a morsel. It wouldn't be the first nor the last time that someone would stab his companion for a street rat or a starving dog to cook. My father is right, nobody should live like that.

I look at the back of my hand; right under my skin, there is the chip that is inserted as soon as you are born. This is where all the information that the bureaucrats consider to be important gets stored in a person: possessions, family tree, ID card, social security, clinical records, social class, school degrees, labor experience, and criminal records. In my case, information that confirms I am a disposable element of that advanced civilization.

It also serves as a wallet. I can buy whatever I want without using the old coins or bills. Unfortunately, I only have a few credits, so all I can do is pay my one-way ticket to the police station. The return... Well, I don't plan to return. So if I don't become a corpse, it will be my greatest triumph.

The train horn sounds; that means that it's arriving at the station.

"Oh shit!" I exclaim.

I'm two hundred yards away and at this rate I'm going to miss it. The train only stops for a couple of minutes to drop off and pick up passengers. If I don't get on it, I'm fucked. The next one will come in an hour, and by that time my casting time will have expired. I have no choice but to run.

It had been a long time since I'd exerted myself that hard; running takes away the little energy that poor people have. I had been saving these reserves for the casting. What a delusion!

The train stops. I guess I'm just less than fifty yards away; I have arrived. I can do it! I am convinced that nothing will stop me. It is my destiny to arrive! The birth of a new Sayi!

I wave my hand over the reader, which discounts the credit for the trip. I avoid a bunch of depressed people that were trying to leave the station, and when they were about to close the doors, I jumped and fell on the dirty and metallic floor of the train. I did it! A sudden pressure on my left foot warns me that I was not fast enough to keep the doors from closing on me. I pull strongly, fearing I may damage my battered tennis shoe. Wasting my energy once again, I release it without considerable damage. If I had left before, none of this would have happened. Good job, Sayi! You sabotage yourself.

"Congratulations, young lady!" a man dressed as a policeman exclaims as he applauds. What is wrong him? "I don't think I've ever seen anyone get in the train like that, and I've had many years of service. Are you going to the casting?"

There was not much doubt. Why would a girl like me go to town otherwise? To shop? To work? To take a walk? Poor people do not leave our area. Wandering through some other area can lead you straight to an execution. In the mid-century Republic, there were no prisons.

"Yes, I turned seventeen two weeks ago," I reply timidly. You never know how a police officer can react. "It is the opportunity of my life."

The man looked at me sadly. It was depressing to see that a teenager's hope was set in a process that would surely cost her life. This is our world, my friends! Where the mere fact of living is a luxury.

"How many blocks did you cover?"

"Two." The train was about to arrive.

"Hmm. Two hundred yards in a very short time. Do you want to be an athlete?"

"It's the last thing I want," I answered. "I'm more interested in acting ... or modeling..."

"Yes, you are very beautiful, but there are many others better than you." His reply freezes me. Thanks for the confidence! "Sorry for being so honest, my dear. But I have to be fair to you."

"Bu... but ... the talent ..."

"I've worked this route for a long time, and I can almost tell you which kind of people will pass the casting and who will not. Many beautiful young women come up with great dreams of glory per day. You have to pass the analysis and the tests. Not all of them do. Ninety percent of success is based on physical appearance and the other ten percent on your performing ability. All of them pass the first part but not the second. I see it when they practice their dialogues; they pretend to feel joy or sadness, illusion or despair. And that's the problem: they pretend. There are no real feelings. The audience needs more reality. Those who don't end up dead ... Well, I do not want to tell you what happens to them."

"Can there be anything worse than dying?" I ask innocently.

"There are much worse things than death, like slavery. Men and women buy those who don't win at a bargain price to enjoy them. Their beauty is their curse. So do not take my comment as disrespectful, take it as a piece of advice that can save your life or at least your physical integrity."

"I cannot introduce myself as an athlete! No ... I'm not ready..." I exclaim frightened. Running two blocks is one thing and competing is another. There is nothing else I feel qualified for. This can't be happening!"

"I'm not so sure," the officer is silent as he thinks for a few seconds. He tries to speak but stops. What the hell is wrong with him? Finally he decides to whisper in my ear, "There is another alternative. Only the chosen ones know about it. And there's already one... But... it's your only choice."

Honestly, this kind of situations makes me nervous. I don't know if he's helping me or he wants me to get killed. Does he think I am not talented enough to be a great actress? Who is he to have doubts about me? He doesn't even know me. I don't understand how he can despise me like that.

"What other choice?" I asked suspiciously.

"To be a raider."