June 17, 2018
A totem of destruction. A mask of deception. A desire to leave no stone unturned and no enemy unconquered.
To the Oppressor not much mattered. Things were relatively quiet and everyone fell in line. Having streets patrolled by an overbearing militia probably had something to do with that
Half the city was in shambles and the Oppressor sat in his skyscraper penthouse, with his shiny gold trimmed furniture, looking over the rest of the quiet, still city. As far as he could tell, he was as safe as he had been for the past fifteen years ruling over the city.
The city was not the end all/be all, but it’s where the money was and money was power. Between a few key relationships with the militia and a few “purchased” relationships with social climbers, the city went from a peaceful, utilitarian place to the the type of place where all social interaction is avoided in public places to avoid a run in with the militia.
Everyone did mind-numbing jobs, wearing similar uniforms depicting what they did and where their status was in the city. Given the technology at the Oppressor’s hands, it was difficult to break from the monotonous routine without consequences.
The Oppressor had direct access to chips implanted in not only people’s homes, and vehicles, but in their arms as well. An advanced AI could sort through the data and predict when someone might end up stepping out of line.
Lately, however, their seemed to be glitches in the system. Everything seemed to be working as it should, but the occasional pixelated screen had the Oppressor and his minions on edge.