" There is no man living that cannot do more than he thinks he can."

- Henry Ford

PART I – THE TASK

Prologue ~ Garbage Man

It was dark in the garbage of the landfill.

The stench was overpowering; sickly sweet and dense, like breathing in freshly exhaled air. Things squished and squeaked beneath Lionel's feet, sending shivers up his spine as chunky ooze slid between his toes.

He was so close. A single layer of muck lay between him and the North, but as much as Lionel wanted to shove it away, he told himself to be cautious. One wrong push and an entire pile of garbage could collapse, flagging down any Northern patrols that happened to be wandering by.

Carefully, Lionel parted two bags of trash. He caught a glimpse of the North, and had to admit it was dazzling. Skyscrapers rose into the sky, draped in sparkling lights like another set of stars. Northerners walked before him, barely a street width's away, with their brightly colored fashions and sleek trinkets. Open storefront doors flooded the night with and music and laughter.

Lionel wished.

He wished with every muscle, every bone, every thought and everything that made him Lionel. He wished that he was not a Crim wallowing through the garbage - that instead he was that Northern man sipping drinks with his wife for Friday night dinner date, or that Northern woman smiling at her children as they enjoyed the comfortable summer air. Lionel wished so hard he could cry with the effort, but the world did not give, as it hadn't for seven years.

A hand clamped around Lionel's shoulder. The boy jumped.

"Eh now, it's only me," whispered the man, his hot breath curling uncomfortably around Lionel's ear, "just your old Rory. You ran up head and I got caught in some foul…"

Lionel's adrenaline ran down as Rory spit out some choice language. As rough-and-tumble as Lionel's brother appeared, the hard flesh contained a kind soul. Lionel loved his older brother, but couldn't resist the pull of his attention back on the North.

"Hey now, Lionel," said Rory. The little boy turned and Rory saw untamed dreams roaming through his brother's eyes, held out to the unforgiving world on a silver platter. Rory knew that this life would only cackle and grab those hopes up, wringing them out of all their meaning like a wet washcloth. He felt inclined to help Lionel as best as he could, in a hope that his words would help Lionel dodge some of life's blows.

Rory knelt before his brother, the trash above pressing into his back. "That's just torturing yourself. Me and you, there's really not much chance we'll ever be one of those people, right? All Crims know that. But we've got better things, yah? While those Northies put their lives into new gadgets and clean clothes, we've got our souls put in more important things. Name one. Name one to me, Lionel."

Lionel avoided Rory's eyes, which, at a kneel, were level with his. "We put our lives into family."

It sounded dry to both of them, as if he had plucked text straight out of a handbook. Rory took his brother's face between his hands and pulled it forward so that he could look into Lionel's eyes. "They're so empty, Lionel. Just look at them." Both turned, but while Rory saw a bland life, Lionel saw a luscious one.

Rory pressed something into his brother's palm. It was a broken gadget, cracks splayed across its screen like ripples on water.

"Look closer. That man and woman? What would they be without that restaurant, without that food? Would they still love each other? And then look and that family. They're all focusing on their machines, to focused to pay attention to each other. And look at that in your hand – that's what happens to their lives eventually. That's why our lives are better, yah? 'Cause we don't have those things, we have each other!"

Rory emphasized his last words with a sudden jab to Lionel's stomach. The boy giggled a little, so Rory began tickling all over, his neck and tummy and arms. Lionel squealed and tried to block the onslaught, but ended up backing away, through the hole of soft garbage and onto the sidewalk.

The moment of carefree pleasure was over in an instant. Rory's chest tingled with fear as his snatched Lionel up by the collar of his shirt, tugging him back into the pile of garbage.

Wendy Scarfe sat before the screen, eyes glazed over. The past week had been a flurry of work. . A group of juvenile Crims had gotten together and held an amateur protest, and she was selected to clean it up.

As soon as the cameras had caught sight of their face, Wendy fished each name out of their database and they dropped in an instant. The cleanup crews took care of the rest; beautifully efficient, as usual. Wendy was caught with the usual backlash – sending names to the papers, answering press questions, adding details to the Timekeeping database – all in the allotted time of three days. Wendy had taken care of all the press and was moving on to recording details. She had seen the official story printed in the Sunday paper.

Wendy was impressed by the portrayal of the incident. The Government always managed to tell the public just enough to keep them comfortable, and still left room for the press to blow it up a bit more with their generous dose of drama. With the usage of that skill, Northerners never questioned their duties, and perfect order was kept.

A ding sounded on Wendy's screen, alerting her of something. February 8th: National Timekeeping Day.

Wendy smiled to herself. The eighth, of course. And on every eighth of February, all Timekeepers were expected to sit through one of the President carefully crafted speeches on Timekeeping at 8:00.

The clock said 7:45.

By the time eight o' clock did roll around, Wendy's fellow Timekeepers had taken position at their computers. There was a buzz of excitement in the room, an expectancy to be praised by the President himself. Wendy shared her colleagues' outlook on Timekeeping – a golden duty – but it was still

The face of the President flashed simultaneously onto every screen. Finnegan Carter; block face, chiseled in a handsome sort of way, with a bright smile that never reached his eyes. Wendy didn't exactly adore him as some Timekeepers did, but President Carter's collected demeanor drew everyone to him like moths to a flame.

" People of our nation," Finnegan Carter began. "Today is a February eighth, the day that Timekeeping was founded. This is a day for reminiscing of the past, examining of the present, and planning of the future.

" One-hundred and sixteen years ago, our teetering nation began to slide into a cliff of chaos. There were heavily populated areas that could not provide enough necessities for its citizens, leading to extreme criminal activity and flurries of violence that spread wildly across the country as our population grew further. On February eighth, Dr. Rekker Coleman developed an electronic microchip that had the potential, if placed in every citizen, to safely and securely fix America's biggest problems. By using a short flare of electricity, the chip can stop the holder's heart. It is a painless and far more humane than locking up the criminals for years in crowded prisons. It was an ingenious idea that may have saved us all.

" Doctors began placing these chips in every baby born, and once the past generation had gone, every citizen was a holder to this magnificent idea. As the microchips became mandatory, a trustworthy and responsible group of loyal Americans were called upon to be the controllers of these chips, who we now know today as Timekeepers. Timekeepers strive everyday to make the world a better place, keeping the citizens of America their highest priority. Annually, we take every eighth of February to honor these courageous men and women whose loyalty and determination are unmatched. Thank you to all for your dedication to keeping America strong."

The inhabitants of the room applauded along with a smattering of whistles. When the screens faded to black, Wendy and her fellow Timekeepers returned to their duties. She found an ACA on her screen. Automatic Camera Alerts are sent to Timekeepers when the surveillance system catches sight of someone who the camera does not think is a Northerner.

Wendy opened the file.

7:12 p.m. February 7th

Offender:

Male

Southerner

Offense(s):

Trespassing

Thievery

Vandalism

Previous Warning(s):

Trespassing

Attempted Thievery

Summary:

Young Southern male sighted on Fourth Avenue February 7th 3023 7:12 p.m. Entered through Eastern Landfill with a stolen item in hand.

(For a detailed Summary, click here)

Wendy didn't need a detailed summary. Combined, two thievery offenses – one attempted and one fulfilled – were a first offense of their own. The two trespassing accounts and vandalism only cemented the Southerner's fate. Wendy clicked on the "wipe" icon.

She scrolled past all the jargon about social rights – You do hereby claim that this offender rightfully deserves the punishment… - and confirmed the wipe.

All of this happened in a matter of seconds. At first, the Government had planned to hold trials, but the harder they cracked down on offenses, the harder it was to find time. So the Timekeepers decided, like judges of death.

" Lionel? Can you fetch our big pot from the hall closet?"

" Alright, mother."

Lionel', s mother returned to stirring her soup. It was simple but as hearty as soup could get around those parts – beans and lentils in chicken drippings and water. Somehow Mama Vicente could whip up a fulfilling supper out of meat juice and dry vegetables. It would have to do until Papa brought home the next check, which was scheduled to come in three days.

Mama brought the spoon to her mouth. The steam curled away as she blew on it and slurped it into her mouth. Hmm. Too watery. Maybe she could be generous with the salt in the final days before the money's arrival.

There was a crash. Mama jerked with surprise and hot soup spilled onto the counter.

Someone had dropped the pot.

" Lionel? Lionel?!"

To Wendy, the act was simple, just another thing to cross over her to-do list. She never realized the full consequence of her acts. It was the same for all Timekeepers. And how could they? Every man and women that killed were just as ensnared in the corruption as the Southerners were if not more. None of them realized how many lives were scarred from one click of the their mouse, ten seconds of their life.

Lionel Vicente died that day.

He died for hoping, for having dreams.

And his killer never even knew his name.

End Of Prolouge