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Whitefield peered out of the window of his dank apartment, looking through dusty glass at the street below. No one walked on that street, except for a few patrolling MetroPolice Force units, he supposed. Curfew had begun, and all the good little boys and girls under the thumb of the Union had retreated into their homes. Whitefield wasn't allowed outside either, he remembered, at least not in his plain clothes. And he'd probably need to call in to be allowed back outside to return to the Nexus. But he did not call in. He was tired. It seemed Chester Whitefield was always tired, at least for the past few months. He walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. His eyes were red, probably from all of the dust in the air, he figured. But more than that, they were old. Older than he was. He was looking into the eyes of a dying war veteran, but set into the head of a modestly fit forty-four year old man. He had to avert his eyes from his reflection after only a few moments.
Whitefield got his hands wet and splashed water in his face. He blinked it out of his eyes and rubbed them dry, running his wet fingers through his hair. He let out a long sigh and walked back into the main room. He thought about what he had done. Whitefield always thought about what he had done. It's hard to shake those images from your mind; the way the human head seems so resilient to the first few blows, but just gives way after a while. How hard it is to wash blood out of a uniform. You'd think it would keep him up at night, but it doesn't. Whitefield sleeps like a baby. And somehow that's worse, in his eyes. He feels like he's not guilty enough and this makes him guiltier.
He looks at his apartment. Much nicer than any other he's seen. He has a couch, a coffee table, a place to dine. Hell, he has extra chairs for guests, not that he'd ever invite anyone in. Aside from the guilt, there comes a terrible paranoia with his job. Whenever his neighbor across the hall stopped to unlock his apartment, he always imagined that the footsteps had come to a stop in front of his instead. That perhaps one of the friends of the many people he had detained and killed was here for retribution. The thought plagued him whenever his mind grew idle enough to think of it. Whitefield thought about how much he deserved it. His actions had earned him a bloody death several times over by now, he thought. He usually hated the mask that he had to wear, but he remembered that it had a purpose, and was likely keeping him alive. But it still felt like he was being robbed of his humanity, and he hated it.
At around one o'clock in the morning, perhaps later, he went and grabbed a mug from a small shelf over his stove. He filled it with water from a yellow aluminum can and walked back to his chair, sitting down and sipping, ever-so-slowly. His shaking hand brought the mug to his mouth about twice a minute, and he only took tiny gulps. After finishing off the cup, he began to doze a little, so he set the mug on an end table and leaned back in his chair, propping his head up on his hand and closing his eyes. He slept until almost five thirty in the morning before a creak from outside his apartment made him shoot upright, turning his head. After taking a deep breath, the sudden motion making his heart pound, he felt a little lightheaded, but he still sat stock still and stared at the door. He heard his neighbor's door shut again and sighed in relief, closing his eyes and falling right back asleep.
---
When he went in to work the next morning, his neck was still a little sore from sleeping in the old chair. No matter, it wouldn't get in the way. The hallways of the Nexus were strange, but he had grown accustomed to them. It was no longer an alien place, but now just his building of employment. He went into the locker room and opened the locker marked 30143. He found his uniform neatly folded at the bottom, the mask sitting on the top, staring at him with reflective lenses. Whitefield set the mask aside so that he could get to the rest of his uniform. He pulled on his pants, fastening his belt so that they would not slip if he needed to run in them. He put his boots on one at a time, lacing them up and buttoning the lace-cover up to prevent them from untying themselves. He dropped his citizen's jacket into the locker and put the final piece of the base uniform on, pulling the zipper up to his neck. This heavy, reinforced jacket felt odd after having worn such a thin and tattered garment for the previous day. The Kevlar vest was a more jarring change yet, making him feel top-heavy and a little odd. He clasped the polymer mask onto the backhood, clicking the vocoder on. He pulled the large, synthetic leather gloves over his fingers. Whitefield looked at himself in the mirror inside of his locker, seeing the two horizontal bars on his arm marking him as an Officer. This was no longer Chester Whitefield looking at himself. This was Chester Whitefield looking at MPF-JURY-OfC.30143.
Whitefield got his hands wet and splashed water in his face. He blinked it out of his eyes and rubbed them dry, running his wet fingers through his hair. He let out a long sigh and walked back into the main room. He thought about what he had done. Whitefield always thought about what he had done. It's hard to shake those images from your mind; the way the human head seems so resilient to the first few blows, but just gives way after a while. How hard it is to wash blood out of a uniform. You'd think it would keep him up at night, but it doesn't. Whitefield sleeps like a baby. And somehow that's worse, in his eyes. He feels like he's not guilty enough and this makes him guiltier.
He looks at his apartment. Much nicer than any other he's seen. He has a couch, a coffee table, a place to dine. Hell, he has extra chairs for guests, not that he'd ever invite anyone in. Aside from the guilt, there comes a terrible paranoia with his job. Whenever his neighbor across the hall stopped to unlock his apartment, he always imagined that the footsteps had come to a stop in front of his instead. That perhaps one of the friends of the many people he had detained and killed was here for retribution. The thought plagued him whenever his mind grew idle enough to think of it. Whitefield thought about how much he deserved it. His actions had earned him a bloody death several times over by now, he thought. He usually hated the mask that he had to wear, but he remembered that it had a purpose, and was likely keeping him alive. But it still felt like he was being robbed of his humanity, and he hated it.
At around one o'clock in the morning, perhaps later, he went and grabbed a mug from a small shelf over his stove. He filled it with water from a yellow aluminum can and walked back to his chair, sitting down and sipping, ever-so-slowly. His shaking hand brought the mug to his mouth about twice a minute, and he only took tiny gulps. After finishing off the cup, he began to doze a little, so he set the mug on an end table and leaned back in his chair, propping his head up on his hand and closing his eyes. He slept until almost five thirty in the morning before a creak from outside his apartment made him shoot upright, turning his head. After taking a deep breath, the sudden motion making his heart pound, he felt a little lightheaded, but he still sat stock still and stared at the door. He heard his neighbor's door shut again and sighed in relief, closing his eyes and falling right back asleep.
---
When he went in to work the next morning, his neck was still a little sore from sleeping in the old chair. No matter, it wouldn't get in the way. The hallways of the Nexus were strange, but he had grown accustomed to them. It was no longer an alien place, but now just his building of employment. He went into the locker room and opened the locker marked 30143. He found his uniform neatly folded at the bottom, the mask sitting on the top, staring at him with reflective lenses. Whitefield set the mask aside so that he could get to the rest of his uniform. He pulled on his pants, fastening his belt so that they would not slip if he needed to run in them. He put his boots on one at a time, lacing them up and buttoning the lace-cover up to prevent them from untying themselves. He dropped his citizen's jacket into the locker and put the final piece of the base uniform on, pulling the zipper up to his neck. This heavy, reinforced jacket felt odd after having worn such a thin and tattered garment for the previous day. The Kevlar vest was a more jarring change yet, making him feel top-heavy and a little odd. He clasped the polymer mask onto the backhood, clicking the vocoder on. He pulled the large, synthetic leather gloves over his fingers. Whitefield looked at himself in the mirror inside of his locker, seeing the two horizontal bars on his arm marking him as an Officer. This was no longer Chester Whitefield looking at himself. This was Chester Whitefield looking at MPF-JURY-OfC.30143.
