For You

A/N: This is a one-chapter story. It's detail-heavy simply because that's my style. Enjoy!

"For You"

A.D. 2037, Boston, United States

"Thank you for another full day's work, Jackson, here at Entre-Pro Facilities!" the work terminal's eerily friendly female voice thanked Jackson as he removed his work card from its slightly dirty slot and he got up from his creaky swivel chair. "As always, a busy employee is a happy employee, knowing that he works for the greater good of our wonderful nation. Have a pleasant evening!"

"As if you know what my evening is like," Jackson grumbled, rolling his eyes as he slipped on his heavy trenchcoat and adjusted the collar, making sure that his face was hidden from the side. He exited his dark cubicle and joined everyone else as they systematically departed their own workstations, all heading for the same wide, oily elevator that would take them to the garage for driving home, or else take the over-priced bus home.

Jackson scratched his slight stubble as he remembered why he called himself by that name, his young-looking eyes staring at the opposite wall. He only called himself by his last name to spite the de-personification of this wretched time period, accepting their cold labels as his own treasured name, taking their weapon of flock control and making it his own valued identity. All around him were Smiths, Goldmeyers, Stones, and other drones of this dreary "civilized" life.

He was Jackson, and would declare that it was him, and not a 28-year-old male in the centralized government's vast employee databank listings. His somewhat short brown hair was messy, and he straightened it with his fingers before departing the lift and entering the sidewalk and its early evening light drizzle.

"Man. Why isn't it more pleasant this time of year?" Jackson wondered out loud to himself in slight irritation, starting down the crowded street past all the grim businessmen, machine-infused punks, and other misfits and riffraff who skirted the edge of the law and narrowly avoided a pursuit from the police saucers. The hovering streetlight flashed red red for some lanes of traffic, allowing Jackson to cross the wet but smooth street, being careful not to slip as towering, dark skyscrapers and their flashy advertisement screens watched like silent giants.

This was the street he wanted; only adults, young and old, passed by him as he approached the parlor that was his destination. All these people, and never the innocent beauty of a child to make their lives just a little better, Jackson reflected as he walked, dodging an illegal eye implant seller. Here they are, working the jobs they were assigned since they were babies, never questioning why they never knew the love or care of a real parent and only the faceless Raisers who prepared them for eighteen years for their lifelong jobs. I will never allow that to be a part of his life. Never. In the distance, Jackson could see one of the enormous, square life training centers, the place where every child under 18 was. How he despised that!

"Hey. Hey, Jackson! What's going on?" one of Jackson's friends greeted in the parlor, just as he finished paying his entrance fee at the neon-glowing front counter of the parlor's entrance. He was Robby, one of Jackson's few real friends, a young man who never let anything bother him. "Good to see you!"

"Thanks, man, same for you," Jackson lightened up, clapping his friend on the shoulder before passing him. "Was work okay today?"

"Oh, yeah," Robby glowed, rubbing his hands together as he approached a simulated drug station. "Welding is seriously what I like to do! Just yesterday I was re-assigned to take care of the old highway that was crumbling. Darn thing hadn't been repaired since 2004! Really, what's with all the neglect?"

He settled into the curving, comfortable chair of the drug station. "It really invigorates me, though, being hundreds of feet in the air with only safety straps keeping me from falling all that way as I work and the sparks fly. I hope my kids find a job that satisfies them like how my job satisfied me. Harry's seventeen and a half now, and should be ready to enter work in just six months' time! I haven't seen him in forever..." He referred to his son, who was in that life training center with all the other children.

"Sounds good," Jackson replied, watching as Robby slipped on the node-covered helmet of the drug simulator and pressed a button on the console.

"Welcome, customer," a male voice greeted. "Please select the drug you would like today."

"Hey, Jackson! Which should I do?" Robby called over to his friend as Jackson started off, passing by other drug simulator users.

Jackson waved a hand. "Be impulsive."

"I like it! Well, how about... cocaine!" Robby cheered, pressing the appropriate button on the console and sighing as the machine took effect. "Where are you going, Jackson? You just got here!"

"I... have business. We can talk more tomorrow, okay?" Jackson waved goodbye, setting his face as he reached one of the darker corners of the room. Though he never used them, Jackson knew that those drug simulators created the same psychological effects that the selected drug would cause, minus the harmful bodily effects. He avoided them for more reasons than just the extortion-level costs.

"Here again?" Jackson's contact, a shady man with dirty blond hair and sunglasses asked, turning to face him, hands in his deep bulging pockets as his fedora rested on his head, completing his disguise. The man had more stubble than Jackson did, with a cigarette clamped in his mouth – the only traditional drug still allowed in these times. "You were here just the other day. Did you lose what I gave you last time?" His accented voice sounded slightly disbelieving.

"No," Jackson shook his head, getting his wallet out and making sure that no one was watching with their cybernetic-enhanced eyes or spybots. "The symptoms are getting more extreme and frequent recently."

"This ain't gonna continue to be cheap, buddy. You're using up a lot of my stock," the blond man warned Jackson, producing a number of vials containing a venomous yellow liquid. He wiggled them suggestively. "Let's say $150 a pop this time, eh? That's not bad, man, since you're a polite customer as well as a frequent one. How about it?"

"Fine, fine. I'll take two," Jackson said in a quiet hurry, fumbling with his dollar bills slightly in his haste as he passed three hundreds into the man's palm and accepted the pair of vials, slipping them into an inner pocket.

"Thank you for your continued business," the blond man said lazily and haughtily, turning to the side and blowing out smoke, looking up a little. "Now, I don't know you for the rest of today. I can't be too careful, you know? I don't like the sound of that Prison Island, you see. Me being a government worker for producing this drug doesn't mean I get to sneak it under the table. Watch yourself.”

"I got it. I'm off," Jackson said in farewell, heading back to the front door, trying not to look suspicious. He passed Robby, who had just finished the cocaine sim.

"So, what should I try next?" Robby asked excitedly. "I have money to burn for once and want to make the most of it."

"Marijuana, whatever," Jackson brushed him off, feeling the usual tension as he felt the weight of the chemical vials in his coat. "I gotta go. Later."

"Yeah, later!" Robby called out, pressing another button on the machine. Jackson frowned in concentration as he exited the entertainment parlor and back onto the drizzling street, various sleek cars zipping by as the ever-present crowds jostled and buffeted him like an uncaring stream. He broke free of the main crowds and slipped into a wide side alley, finding relief in the isolation.

"Okay. Right around here," Jackson muttered to himself, turning around various bends around the litter-strewn alleys, brushing past exposed wires and pipes along the damages walls, which spat sparks and spewed exhaust respectively; the city didn't care of its slums didn't have good repair, as long as the elite sectors were well-maintained and lit. He climbed a rusty ladder and dashed across a catwalk, hoping that his secret route was still secret. The drug he carried was easy to detect by the police saucers, all right, as well as the scanners the police officers carried. This maze-like area was the only way back to his apartment from his job, and he picked up the pace, feeling the hairs on his neck prickle. He never knew when he'd hear that familiar hum...

Clang. Jackson's stomach jumped as he slipped, falling painfully into a pile of trash on the alley floor below, struggling to get back on his feet, hoping dearly that his drug vials hadn't cracked from the impact. That drug was never seen by citizens like him, normally only used in those life training centers... it was vital that the drug not be lost. Jackson swiveled his head left and right, eyes wide and alert, his breathing heavy as he stood half-crouched.

Then they came.

The horribly familiar humming filled Jackson's ears as two police saucers, the police cars named after their shape, emerged from around a bend, their helmeted occupants visible under the glass canopy.

"You there! Citizen!" the lead saucer's pilot said over an external speaker. "We detect a substantial amount of the Myoma drug on your person, which as you should remember is strictly illegal for citizens without a job involving the drug to carry! You're busted, sir. Comply with us and approach us with your hands up, or we get nasty."

Jackson stared at the police saucers before a second before grinning and making up his mind. "Come and get me," he whispered, and tore off, stunning the saucer pilots.

"Stop! You can't escape us!" the police officer shouted, and the saucers dipped their noses forward before giving chase, zipping through the air like UFO's out of old science fiction works Jackson had seen. The pursuing vehicles were no joke, however, as Jackson frantically ran down the grimy and steamy back alleys, his coat flapping as he ran, his feet splashing in puddles as he ran, the rain starting to become more intense. The police saucers were closing in on Jackson, but they were in for a surprise: he passed a pair of anti-hover brackets installed within the walls, disabling the police saucers' hover engines and causing them to crash to the ground.

"Ha! Didn't expect that, did you?" Jackson muttered in triumph, stopping for a second to make sure they were down. The brackets had been secretly installed for that very purpose: halt pursuing police saucers to allow rightful thieves like him to escape.

Then, flaps on the police saucers folded back and to Jackson's astonishment, spindly legs emerged from the police saucers and unfolded. Both police saucers made metallic groans as they were lifted off the ground with four insectoid legs each, supported to eye level. These saucers must be the newer model, the kind that can walk, Jackson realized with dread. Just my luck.

"Again, cease your resistance! It's futile, citizen! There is no way to defy the law!" the police officer shouted from his speaker, as the saucers skittered after Jackson, their metallic claw feet scrabbling against the rough floor of the alley. Jackson snapped himself back into flight mode and again managed to outrun the police, emerging from the alley at last and running across the busy street before his drab and square apartment building. The legged police saucers alerted other units in the area, and it wasn't long before three other police saucers joined them, as Jackson got through the front door and hurriedly punched the up button.

"Goddamn it... just go away!" Jackson hissed angrily at the cops outside, hearing their sirens going off as the elevator surged upward to his floor, the 30th. As soon as the doors opened, Jackson ran down the hall to his room, punching the code into the grimy panel next to the heavy door and it opened, Jackson hurrying inside.

"D... daddy? Are you back home?" a young voice asked, and Jackson's heart was filled with relief at the sound, despite the increasingly loud wails of the police saucers outside.

"Yes. It's me, son, it's me," Jackson answered softly, hurrying over to his young son and producing the vials of the drug. He uncorked one and drew some of its contents into a hypodermic needle, the boy knowing to hold still as the life-saving drug was injected. I do this for you. Only you, son. The Myoma drug would counteract the terminal effects the government-issued genetic illness the boy had, a tool of submission that could be countered by caring parents like Jackson. The underground dealers like the one he had visited was one who stood up to the government's oppressive ways.

"Curse them," Jackson muttered as the police broke into the apartment's wall in the hallway, the armed officers spilling into the hall, shouting commands as they kicked down Jackson's door and flooded inside, weapons raised. A single, dingy police bot hovered with them, its single red eye focused on the criminal, a tiny repeater gun protruding from its chest.

Jackson did not resist; apparently, his time had come. His son, Andy, would have to meet his fate at the local life training center, where he would be conditioned to live his life for the job he would be assigned there. The other children there could see their parents once a year, but not Andy when his caring, rebellious father would be in prison for life for his righteous crimes. Only when Andy was given the permanent cure for his illness and released at age 18 could he know the outside world again.

They ran risks and paid the prices for this covert act, but parents like Jackson would never give in, especially after Jackson's wife died and he took their son's life into his own hands for her sake. Even if she were here now, Ellen would have only support for her husband and son, happy that they could resist for the family's sake. What else could they do? Jackson thought it again as he was dragged out of sight of his son: I did this for you. Even if they take me away.