Featuring – Michael Young History

A worn out gray hoodie and some joggers. “That’s it?”, asks Michael. “That’s all you’ll need, boss.” Michael despised the clothing restrictions imposed on him since his sentencing. The last thing that he appreciated  was fashion advice from the Game’s cronies; but this was a necessary evil. It’s now 1984. The annual Ceremony of the Cool was being held in the Sea City Colosseum for the first time in a decade. The city is unusually vibrant. Seemingly the whole population is seated in the arena awaiting the start of the show. Michael was always weary of being out and about when the city got like this. He had been commissioned by the Game to transport the catering for this year’s ceremony. A simple job at face  value but Michael soon found out just how grueling work for the Game can be when it came to federal matters and spectacles. “Man, if I had known, I would’ve just passed on this thing​​. I don’t get paid enough for this shit”, said Michael appearing disillusioned. “But the Game asked specifically for you, boss…”, uttered one of the goons. “And you don’t get paid at all”. “I know that…”, said Michael disgusted. “Who appointed you anyway? You know you don’t even have to be here right now?” The goon muttered, “Uh, boss, we’re here on strict orders from Tracy. She’s monitoring us from that screen” He points to a screen behind Michael. “Hi, Michael”, squeals Tracy. “You’ve done an amazing job!” “Oh yeah? Why are you still watching me then?”, replied Michael. “I just want to make sure you don’t default back to your old ways. That’s all”, she said slyly. “Remember, we’re doing you a favor. Not the other way around.” Tracy loved Michael. She had since they were kids. Oh, and they were married. Five years. Although Michael had only heard her voice for the last two. Tracy accepted a position working for the Game in the Ministry of Culture and has been living beyond the city walls since she began.

“I believe my work here is done”, Michael said. “May I buzz out.” The Game’s raspy baritone booms out of the corner of the dark room. “You’re good, Mike.” A shiver goes up Michael’s spine. “Sir, all the catering is in here for this evening.”, he mumbles. The Game slowly emerges out of the corner and the dim blue hues of the spillover stage lights catch his grimace. “Don’t be so stiff, boy.”, he growls. “You’ve done good. Tracy, please buzz out for our friend.” Michael replies firmly, “Thank you for the opportunity, I’ll be on my way now.” A loud buzz reverberates throughout the backstage area and the large metal doors begin to slide open. Michael hurriedly changes out of his thick blue overalls and into the sweatsuit that was given to him. He begins heading for the door and the camera adjacent to the screen catches his back and the sweatshirt reads “Michael Young History”. Tracy’s voice blurts out from the screen, “Bye, Michael”. The Game counters sternly, “Tracy!” Michael continues out but is shaken still when the Game speaks again, “Don’t forget to let us know when you’re home, Michael”. His laugh makes Michael slightly uneasy. Michael gives a meek nod and continues out the door. He walks a couple of steps into the chilly dusk before the loud bang of the metal doors shutting suddenly echoes into the night. The city seems desolate, although he can hear the fervent crowd chant in anticipation of the ceremony. Michael never concerned himself with it. He couldn’t afford tickets to see the event anyway. Only class A and B citizens ever really knew what happened within those walls. “It’s stupid”, he thought. “What could these people possibly be so riled up about.” “Every year.”

Sea City is designed in such a way. The Colosseum is built a few miles beyond the city wall on the outskirts. Usually, the Colosseum is quiet and the air of the city and its surroundings are at peace. The cold is mostly penetrating all year round. People tend to stay in doors. The arrival of the annual Ceremony in Sea City is unprecedented. However, it is reality. In 1984. Michael fusses with his hood. His ears slowly grow numb from the cold. As a convict, he is not authorized to push a motorized vehicle so his journey back into the City is bound to be a long one.

Michael grew up fairly privileged, although in a Class C household. He never really lacked but he also never really had in plenty. He dropped out of the All Boys when he was 15 and was plunged into the grittiness of the alleyways and underground of Sea City. That’s pretty much it. His story. He loved Tracy. They met at a combined function with the All Girls. They fell in love instantly and had been inseparable since. Tracy finished school. Her credentials and poise made her the perfect candidate for a supervisory role at the Ministry of Culture. Michael grew in street status in the meantime. He made a killing in the underground by pedaling Star Dust. After Tracy left to join the ministry, she was made to implicate Michael. The ministry had known anyway. The Game had the whole city under surveillance 24-7 and there were detailed records of Michael’s transactions. Michael now serves in the city rehabilitation labor camp just adjacent to the city walls and transporting the catering for this Ceremony was his sole part to play in it tonight.

A cold gust of wind blows from the east. Michael is shaken by it and pauses to regain his composure. The irony in the fact that he was walking back down a road from a job that required him to drive up that same road was not lost on him. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his walkman. It was the only one of his possessions that remained with him after he was convicted. He pushes play and continues briskly down the road with his movements increasingly syncopating to the music. He slowly loses himself to the beats and the walk increasingly becomes automatic. All of a sudden the music stops. His rhythmic strides come to a halt. He pulls out the walkman and hammers the play button but it is of no use. The batteries are dead. He looks around him and he is surrounded by nothing but sand, pathetic shrubbery, and the water in the distance. Then a whisper echoes in his headphones. “Michael!” He turns to see nobody behind him. The sounds of the Colosseum slowly fade into nothing. The city walls are still about a couple of miles away. He pulls out a flask from his back and takes a swig of the lukewarm black coffee. Then the voice speaks again slightly louder, “Michael!.” Michael breaks out into a full sprint looking neither to his sides nor his back. He makes it a few strides before he falls onto the concrete. The items of his backpack scatter. In the midsts of the mess are his flask, his walkman, his smart phone, and a makeshift knife. He grabs hold of the knife and turns to face the direction of the Colosseum. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a mansion. The style of which has been outdated for at least a century. Michael had never seen anything like it, let alone outside the city walls. The voice speaks again. “Michael, do not be afraid!” He picks up his backpack and restores its contents. Curiosity overcomes him. He begins to feel something like a force guiding him towards the mansion, though his intuition completely disagreed. He slowly leaves the road and proceeds towards the mansion convinced he is being baited for an attack. His right arm shivers as it clutches desperately to the knife. “Michael, stop!”, the voice says again. This time he was sure he was not hearing things. His body becomes stiff for a moment but then he continues on towards the door of the mansion. The voice speaks out again, “Michael, once you enter this building you will have a choice to make. The difference between life and death.” Michael shrugs off the warning of the voice, determined to know what is behind this illusion or who is toying with him. He Marches up the steps of the Mansion and barges open the doors. “Ok! What?”, he screams. The parlor is dark and deserted. An antique armchair sits in between two staircases exactly parallel to the door. Michael is dumbfounded. “Who’s in here?”, he asks desperately. There is no answer. He looks down at his phone and checks the time. 9 pm. An hour before curfew. After a subtle debate within himself he decides to walk in. “What am I doing?” He makes his way cautiously to the armchair still clutching onto his knife as if it were a lifeline. He notices dust on the chair and cobwebs in the crevices around it. He dusts it off and considers sitting but then moves his gaze towards the right staircase. He then inches towards the stairs slowly browsing the rest of the room before attempting to scope out what may be atop the stairs. He takes a deep breath and places his right foot on the first step. A C note.

The soft sound of a piano reverberates around the hall seemingly in reaction to his step. Michael jumps back astonished but intrigued. “Yo, what?!”. He steps again on the step but no sound is produced. Confused, he removes his foot and attempts to step again to no avail. Maybe he was delirious from all that coffee. “I need some water”, he thinks to himself. “What even is this place?” He regains his composure and continues up the steps. This time, an A note. The delay and reverb from the piano linger long enough for Michael to be very aware that he is not completely losing his mind. “Who is there?”, he screams. He begins briskly climbing the stairs. A beautiful piano medley soundtracks his climbing, slowly fueling his rage but also his curiosity. Upon reaching the top of the stairs a bright light shines out of the right side of the hall. He is taken aback at first but then looks towards it, squinting to avoid its intensity. The leaks of light are pouring out of a slightly opened door. The music seems to be carried by the light itself, almost as if it is beckoning Michael. In awe, he traces the light to the door and peaks around the door. Once his eyes complete the journey past the door frame, the light suddenly shuts off, the music is stopped and he is astonished. An elderly man sits at a piano in the all white room looking Michael dead in the face. Michael recoils back and his breathing becomes heavy. The voice speaks again, “Do not be afraid, Michael. Come inside.” Michael summons up some courage. The city and the Game now as far from his mind as the east is from the west. He walks around the door and looks into the room again. The walls are all white and so are the floors. The piano is gone, in fact nothing at all is contained in the room. The elderly man is also gone. Instead a young man, about the same age as Michael looks pitifully at him from the midst of the room.

“From where have you come?”, the young man asks. “What do you mean?”, says Michael snarkily. “It was you who called me in here!” “Who are you?” The young man smiles at him and signals him forward. Michael approaches cautiously with his knife essentially vibrating in his right hand. “You won’t need that in here”, the young man says. The knife falls from his hand unconsciously. Michael flinches but his gaze is intensely fixed on the young man. “The question is, Michael, who are you?” His eyes now wide in disbelief; “How do you know my name? Who are you?”, Michael exclaims, stumbling on his words. “My name is Woda.”, says the man. “Enough questions now. Eat.” Woda gestures towards a table to his right that seemingly appears out of thin air, filled with an array of sumptuous dishes. Michael hesitates at first, unsure of what to make of the situation, but hunger eventually overcomes his skepticism. He sits down at the table and begins to eat, the flavors exploding in his mouth like fireworks.

As he eats, Woda speaks, his voice soothing yet commanding. He tells Michael of a world beyond the confines of Sea City, a world where freedom reigns and people live without subjection to the Game. Michael attempts to listen intently, his mind racing with the possibilities of escape, but his mouth full of the exotic delicacies now scattered throughout the table. But just as quickly as the table appeared, it vanishes, leaving Michael alone in the empty white room once more. He looks around, confusion and panic setting in. “Where did you go?” he calls out, his voice echoing off the walls. There is no response. Michael is left with more questions than answers, answers that he never really asked for. Was it all just a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and stress? Or had he stumbled upon something truly extraordinary? As he ponders these things, he becomes aware of a strange sensation washing over him, a feeling of warmth and comfort unlike anything he had ever known. And in that moment, he knows one thing for certain: he will never be the same again. Slowly, Michael rises from his seat, the memory of the encounter with Woda burning brightly in his mind. He glances down and takes notice of a long-sleeve black shirt in his hands, feeling the weight of its significance. It pulses with an energy that he cannot explain, drawing him in with its mysterious allure.

He raises his head again and now he stands at the end of the road, just a few feet away from the towering walls of Sea City, Michael hesitates. He is bewildered at everything that had just transpired. The encounter seems as clear as a memory, but as mystical as a dream. He looks back at his hands and he is still holding the shirt. As he stares into the seemingly endless world of black covering the shirt, he hears that voice again, “Do not be afraid, Michael.” Glimmer runs across the surface of the shirt and he drops it in fear. Regaining his composure, he picks it up again. Somehow, he knows that putting on the shirt will mark the beginning of a journey into the unknown, one filled with danger and uncertainty. His encounter with Woda was as real as the bass heavy music thundering from the Colosseum behind him. This shirt is a testament to that. As he prepares to return to the camp, he considers leaving the shirt behind. Afterall, he was not permitted anything besides the sanctioned camp sweatsuits that he was given. Yet despite his reservations, he cannot shake the feeling that this shirt holds the key to unlocking the truth about himself and the world around him. With a deep breath, Michael clutches the shirt tightly to his chest, his mind ablaze with questions and possibilities. With the city lights twinkling before him and the cold wind whipping at his back, Michael stands poised on the threshold of adventure and danger. Suddenly his phone begins to buzz. The sinister staccato buzz of the Game’s screens. He scrambles to pull the phone out of his backpack, wrapping the shirt around his waist. Once he is holding the phone he looks at the screen to reveal the caller.

It’s Tracy.