Starts With One: Chapter I

I.
Colin Finley observed his factory out of his office window. All the young men dressed in white gave the illusion of waves, the repetitive motion of the assembly line adding to the rhythm. Even after only 60 years of the Party, this generation was nearly completely uniform. Of course, Caucasians with brown hair is one of the easiest strains to isolate, but it was still…grossly fascinating how the Party had made even people become a product.
Yes, Finley had been forced to act absolutely delighted that he had been assigned a generation that was as close to genetically analogous as they come, especially since none of them were related. Personally, he found it repulsive. But he had painted on a smile, letting his eyes dull ever so slightly, and had accepted his workforce like a good little Party member. But it had disgusted him, not only that humans were now being manufactured—that was the only word for it—but that he was accepting it without protest. It was a sad, sad world nowadays.
Not that Finley had ever really known anything else. He had been born five years before the Party had been installed. But his parents had passed down their ideals, described how life used to be. But once the family unit had been abolished, even this small form of resistance was abolished. These poor men below him had slept in pods all their lives, had never known the love of a mother, had never felt the pride of a father. They had never been truly alive, never been not sedated.
Over the years, he had tried to reverse it, one by one. Slip the antidote in one man’s cup here and there; subtly trip one of them to cause them pain (anything to make them feel at all). But those who were quick enough to catch on, those who had given him some real hope had ultimately been eliminated, save for a very small, select few. Even the quick ones were never quick enough to beat the Party in the end.
Slowly, Finley got up out of his chair. Though its ergonomic design made it heavenly to sit in, getting up out of it was a bit difficult. He made his way to the door of the office, then lumbered down the stairs, having to hunch his 6’4’’ frame so as not to bump his head on the low doorways. They made the new generations smaller these days.
He walked between the identical rows of them, each moving in time. The machinery hummed softly. Finley knew that human had become obsolete in this day and age, as far as labor went, and used to wonder why they still kept them around. He had come to the conclusion that they needed to do something with them, particularly something that required little to no brains. The obvious choice was assembly lines in factories.
Finley’s factory specialized in the packaging and sending of fine materials to the higher-ups in the Party. They shipped thousands of cases of wine, cigars, fine food, clothing, and other decadent items that the general public probably didn’t even know existed.
As he surveyed the thousands of workers, Finley noticed something slightly off in assembly line number 7C. He strode closer, straining to see what the problem was. Yes, now that he was closer, there was definitely something a bit strange. While all the other assembly lines were on the same rhythm, this one was working on the offbeat, ever so slightly behind. He examined it closer, staring at each man in turn. All kept their empty, blank eyes trained ahead of them. As he passed by, he caught a flicker of motion from a man just ahead.
He stopped, scouring the faces before him. All were stone still, the only movement in their bodies. It was apparent there was absolutely nothing going on in their heads. Still, Finley thought, he was positive he had seen someone move before. Thoughtfully, his glance strayed lower, at their hands.
There.
He saw it.
There, on that one’s hand. It was a drop of blood. He moved closer, leaning down to examine it as it stamped FRAGILE onto another package. The man had no choice but to continue working, acting as if he hadn’t noticed Finley there. Of course, if Finley’s suspicions were wrong, the man truly hadn’t noticed in his sluggish, sedated state.
No, it was definitely there. A scarlet bead of blood on a pale canvas. It looked as if he had cut his palm on the slightly jagged edges of one of the packages. And as he looked closer, he was surprised to find this man had scars. They littered his palms and fingers, ranging from relatively fresh to almost completely healed. As if he cut himself before. As if he did it on purpose.
Finley’s eyes flashed up to the man’s face, just catching the young man’s eyes flicking away. The movement was far faster than any fully sedated factory worker’s could be. Forcing himself to keep his face straight, he rose, slowly returning to his office. Secretly, he was glowing. Somehow, one of his workers had overcome the drugs. Somehow, without any assistance, one of them had taken the first step towards living. And somehow, he had been clever enough to hide it from everyone, even Finley himself.
Colin Finley glowed with what he thought to be as close to fatherly pride as it could get. He would watch this boy, and he would protect him with his own life if he had to. He knew that this one could be it. This one could have what it takes, and it would be well worth whatever Finley had to sacrifice.
In fact, he might even introduce him to Lily.

Jethro’s hammering pulse slowed as Mr. Finley walked away. He let out a sigh of relief and returned to his work.
He wondered what all that had meant. Had Mr. Finley found out about what he was doing? And if so, why hadn’t he said anything. That must mean that he hadn’t seen. But he had looked at him for so long. Then, he was okay?
He didn’t know why he was panicked, or why he felt he needed to hide it. All he knew was that he wasn’t like the others, and that he didn’t want to be. He had a faint idea that he had been before, but it felt to him that he had just been sleeping for a long time, and had woken up only recently. But he never wanted to return to sleep ever again. And the only way he knew how to stay awake was hurting himself.
It had all started when one day, the edge of a package had nicked him in the palm. Immediately, he felt acutely aware of that spot on his palm. It was the first time he remembered being acutely aware of anything. Through his sleepy haze, he managed to cut himself again on the next box, with his other palm. Again, his awareness rushed to his hand.
Experimentally, he banged his foot on the side of the conveyor belt. Again, he felt his foot. This sensation was so new, completely alien. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, it was just…different. But somehow, he liked it. It made him feel awake. So whenever the haze threatened to overtake him, he would subtly break the skin of his palm.
Even more fascinating was what started happening after he became awake. Pretty soon, he realized that pods he retired to every night induced a sort of artificial sleep. There was no escaping that. But at least in the pods he always knew that he would wake up. It was a different sleep than the waking, living, moving sleep. But once he was awake, things started happening.
For one, when he went to sleep at night, his mind made up all kinds of things. It was like he jumped into a different world at night. Things happened to him in that world that didn’t quite make sense, but made him feel happy or sad or scared. And he was always so sure that they were really happening to him until the pod doors opened, and there he was, back in his normal life. Pretty soon, all he wanted to do was go back to that strange world.
In fact, that was where he got the idea of a name. One night after falling asleep, he found himself in a huge, white space. There was nothing there but him. Then he felt a sort of tingling in the back of his mind, and then someone else was there. It looked like a person, only a bit messed up. It was shorter than he was, and its body was lumpier and shaped strangely. He began to think of it as an alien. It would speak to him, and they would have long conversations every night. Soon the blank white space filled with colors and other shapes, but he and the alien kept on talking.
It would tell him about all sorts of things, none of which he could remember once he woke up. But on night, he did remember. It asked him something strange. It said, “What is your name?” He had no idea what to say. He did not know what a name was.
“What do you mean?” he had asked.
“What do people call you?” the alien explained.
Still, he had no reply. No one had ever called him anything. He was just him.
“Can I name you, then?”
He considered it. “Yes,” he said.
And then the alien had called him Jethro.
And then he had woken up. But for some reason, that was the only exchange he could ever remember. So he came to think that there must be a purpose for remembering that single thing. So he began to call himself Jethro, at least in his own mind. Slowly, the name started to mean something. It started to represent him. Every time he thought it, it sent a little thrill down his spine. He didn’t know why, only that there was a sort of secret pleasure in knowing one’s name.
Feeling the tiniest, hazy sensation burning at the edges of his mind, Jethro jolted back into his ‘real’ life. Quickly, he scraped his hand against a package. Immediately, his consciousness flowed into him, and after the red stinging bite, it revealed a cooler, calmer, perceptive Jethro.
He had no idea that from above, he was being watched by Finley. And that Finley had the stirrings of a plan.