We the People

3 Years Ago

"JAMES!" She shouted, hoarse voice echoing around the empty chambers.

She waited one second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four seconds. Five seconds. No reply. This was taking too long. She was busy, and needed help. Her tongue rolled over her bottom lip as she waited another moment, letting a short, phlegmy cough, clearing out her throat. She didn't know how long it had been since she'd come down here, but it had been at least a day or so, and she'd not said a word. This wasn't an uncommon thing. She got wrapped up in her work and didn't move, and didn't talk. Her vocal chords got a little hoarse. It was sixteen seconds before she screamed again.

"JAMES!" She shouted, voice clearer now.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT, GEN?" He screamed back, roughly one floor up and three rooms away. He was in her... Library? What was he doing there?

"GET OUT OF MY LIBRARY!" She shouted.

She heard footsteps thud down the hall, coming closer to where she was. Hallway. Two rooms away. One room away. At the door to the stairs. She heard him open the door, and thud down the stairs. All the while, she didn't dare make a move, knowing that if she took her eyes off of this, they were screwed. The house would be up in smoke.

"What do you want?" He groaned, strolling toward her. Six feet away. Five feet.

"I need you to hand me my tweezers. Over on the desk." She replied, nodding a head in that general direction.

"Seriously? You couldn't get them yourself?"

He headed toward the desk, keeping a distance of roughly four feet between them, which was enough for her. Her laboratory wasn't huge, but it was sufficient. She was saving up what she made to hopefully get a new home, where she didn't have to live with James, but she kept blowing all of her savings on books. She had an issue.

"No, I could not, because if I so much as bump these wires, I will blow up your house. So give me the tweezers, and go away. And stay out of my library." She replied.

"This is my house, Genevieve. I can go into any room I please." He replied, trying to start a fight with her. He came close to her. Two feet. One foot.

"I pay rent for two rooms. My library, and my laboratory. So no, those rooms are not yours. They're mine. So you stay out of them. Now get out." She growled, grabbing the tweezers away from him that so he could back away from her.

"Whatever, nerd. What are you working on, anyways?" He inquired, stepping back. Three feet. Four feet. Safe.

"It's for the hospital." She muttered, pulling the wires together and pressing them together with the tweezers.

"For slave making?" He inquired sarcastically, knowing full well how she would respond.

"No, James. I don't support that, and you know it." She replied, biting down on her feelings, not letting him have the satisfaction of knowing that she felt guilty.

"Then why do you keep making parts?" He queried, his voice taunting now, trying desperately to get her to scream. He knew it would make her mad. She listened to his footsteps roam over the concrete floor.

"I want to save lives." She answered, plain and simple.

"You know what happens to the people you save." He replied, his voice sounding soft and taunting, villainous even.

"Well, that's not something I approve of. And I'm working on it. I'm going to stop it. But right now, no one will appreciate my efforts against it if I don't save their lives first. They need to live." She explained, perhaps rationalizing it to herself more than anyone else.

"Your creations don't appreciate you, you know. They never have and they never will. They wish you'd just let them die."

"No they don't, James. They're not my creations, and they do appreciate me. They're alive, and that's what matters. I didn't create them. I just helped them. I saved them." She squeaked out, tears perking up in her eyes. He always knew how to do this to her.

"They're living a life that makes them wish that they were dead. And it's because of you, Genevieve. It's your fault. It's your fault that they're all suicidal. It's your fault that so many of them kill themselves. Did you really save their lives? Or just prolong them to make sure that their last days were spent in misery?"

"No it's not, James. It's not my fault. I'm not the one who hurts them."

"You should just let the poor people die before you turn them into your little monsters. But you're too arrogant. You think that you can control life and death. And maybe you can. But in the process, you kill everything else. They're just robots."

"No they're not. They're just as human as you."

"You're right. Humans in a robot body. Humans without a chance at being normal. And it's your fault."

"James, please."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it sis?"

She dropped the tweezers, dropped the wires, dropped the copper, and pivoted on her heel, slamming her chair away. Pulling a hand back, she didn't give him a moment to move, to run, to duck, to do anything. She pulled back a fist and let it fly into his nose. He wasn't getting away with it right now. She couldn't let him keep doing this to her. He was done torturing her, tormenting her.

Her fist connected with his nose with a satisfying thud. She watched as his hands flew toward his face, stumbling back, trying to keep his balance. His jaw fell slack as he looked at her in disbelief, like he didn't believe that she could ever do that to him. The man that she'd been dependent on for the past two years. The man that she'd been living with since she'd turned 19, when she'd dropped out of college because of her lack of funds. She'd been almost wholly dependent on him. Sure, a few books written, a few papers published... But it wasn't enough to pay the bills, and she kept blowing it all on books. Lack of impulse control, she supposed.

She'd been dependent on him. And she'd punched him. She'd stopped putting up with him. She'd stopped letting him control her. She had bit the hand that fed her. And it tasted so much better than any crumbs that he had fed her.

"Get out of my lab." She growled.

"Get out of my house. Pack up your things, and get out." He growled back, pulling his hand down to find it covered in blood.

There was a moment of silence as the sudden sense of power fled her body and the reality crashed down on her. She'd bit the hand that fed her. And now she didn't have anything, anyone, to take care of her. He was going to leave her to rot. He wasn't afraid of it. He didn't like her. Never had. He had always tormented her, and the only reason he had let her stay was because it meant that he didn't have to clean the house. It was only by a thread that he had let her stay. And she had just cut that thread.

Her father had been a soap maker. It wasn't exactly a good job, especially not when you had seventeen children. He had a small house, barely making it into Tier Five. They were hardly past poverty. She couldn't stay with him. She hated him anyways. And she may have despised James, but he was the best off of any of her family. She needed somewhere to stay. So she had always just sucked it up and kissed his butt, doing whatever it took. So she supposed she had to do it again.

"James... I'm... I'm sorry, please. I don't have anywhere else to go. Please." She begged.

"I don't care. Pack up your stuff and get out of my house. I'm done living with a psychopath." He hissed.

"I'm not a psychopath."

"Might as well be one. You're a mad scientist. You're crazy. And I can't keep living with you. Get out of my house."

"I already paid this month's rent."

"You have the rest of this month to pack up then. I'm not living with you anymore. You're psycho. You're... Worse than a murderer. You're... Scum. You're scum, Genevieve. Disgusting. And I'm not enabling you anymore. I'm not putting up with you anymore."
He turned sharply and walked back up the stairs. 8 feet away. 9 feet. 10 feet. Down the hall. One room away. Two rooms away. Three rooms away. Four rooms away. Door slamming. He was standing in his own room now, probably pleased with himself. Getting rid of his kid sister, the mad scientist.

That was when she fell to her knees, eyes wide, chest hurting now. She bit the hand that fed her, and now she was going to starve. It felt like part of her was dying, dread boiling in her veins. She had nowhere to go. She had no support. She wasn't making enough money... What had she done?


Present Day


There were two rather handsome men underneath each of her arms. She was sipping at her scotch, pulling one hand tighter around the thinner man's neck with each sip, though he hardly seemed to care. He almost seemed pleased that she was pulling him closer. Across the rusty table and the tattered leather seats was a man with two girls, blackout drunk, pressed up against him, underneath his arms.
She didn't know the name of this man, but she didn't know the names of many men. She wasn't sure whether she was an extreme extrovert, or an extreme introvert. She had many acquaintances, liked to talk to everyone, but she hated letting people get too close. She had no best friend. No one particularly close. She drifted from person to person, getting to know them well enough, then she left. She never let anyone under the skin.

She had come quite a long way in just three years. She had lived an entire life in those three years. Published book after book after book. Continued with her inventions, continuing her battle against death as a whole. She became a diplomat, a politician. Three years. That was all it had taken to rise from poor kid living in her brother's basement to a rags-to-riches, built-from-the-ground-up success story. And she wouldn't lie and say that she wasn't immensely proud of herself.

Some men view vanity as a sin. Some find it an undesirable. But she begged to differ. Vanity, confidence, it was God's gift to mankind. It was a way to feed your own ego, and Gen did this as often as she was given the chance. Oh, she was a very vain person, and wouldn't pretend that she wasn't. She didn't seek the world's approval. She knew that there would always be people who refused it to her. She didn't need the world's approval. She just needed her own approval. She loved herself so that no one else had to.

So pride, talking about herself, it wasn't something that she shied away from. Three years was all it took for her to build an empire of herself. She built herself from the ground up. She'd gone from a kid desperate for money, desperate for a chance, a kid hailing from Tier Five... And now she had shot all the way up to Tier Two. That was the closest to royalty that anyone got. Let alone from a kid from struggling family from Tier Five.

She wrote a series of books based upon her own story, a book about a boy named Richard. She had started writing the stories, stringing them together, as a child, but had never thought much of them. But, in a place where she was only cranking out a few parts a month, she wasn't making enough money to support herself. She decided to edit them, send them away to a printing press, and publish them. It was just to bring in a little more cash. They'd been a hit somehow because of his relatability. Poor Richard was someone that everyone understood. She was able to get the money that she needed to fund her science, and feed her book habit... She would've fought in the war, but it was over by the time that she got on her feet. But with all of this political turmoil happening, all of the taxes, all of the poverty as the rich got richer, she knew that war was on the horizon again. And she would fight in the next war, join the revolution should it arise. But until then, she was happy. She was doing well. Better than she had ever expected.

And she was proud.

"So then I'm sitting there, my driver's boyfriend has his hand stuck in the door, the dog's having a seizure, I'm trying to get the lasagna out of the oven while they're performing an operation on my driver, and my lab is on fire, and..."

"Dr. Franklin." A new voice called.

A small tap on her shoulder called to her attention, snapping her out of her story, turning her attention to a man in a tall, raggedy top hat and a cracked monocle that looked like it probably obstructed his view more than it helped. He had one metal finger, which told her that, while he was definitely not at the top of his class, he wasn't as mistreated as other people like him. He wasn't as mistreated as someone with a full amputation, or multiple parts, but he was still low. He was still a slave. Gen could even recognize the model that he had. She'd built it when she was 17. And it was because of her that he was where he was.

She shoved that out of her head.

"Yes?" She replied, shifting toward him.

Her boys, whose names she hadn't bothered to learn, shifted along with her. The man who had been listening to her story had leaned forward and poured himself another glass of champagne, seeming annoyed and unimpressed. How dare a slave interrupt the story of a wealthy businesswoman, after all? But Gen hardly cared. She just saw the man in front of her as a man. Not a slave. Not a freak. A man.

"I was sent by St. Mercy hospital to tell you that there's an emergency."

"They realize I'm not an actual doctor, right? They have plenty of people who can do the same thing that I do. I trained them. I showed them how to use my things. They need to get off their butts and do it instead of relying on me. They aren't all morons. Well, not complete morons. They can figure it out."

"This has nothing to do with an operation, Dr. Franklin."

"Do they even realize that I'm not even an actual doctor? I never graduated. I have no idea why they can't take care of themselves."
"Dr. Franklin, please, it doesn't... It has nothing to do with any operation, please."

"Then why did they send you to get me?"

"It's your brother. James Franklin. There was an accident."

Her brow furrowed... James. She hadn't spoken to him since the day that he told her to leave. She had avoided him the remainder of the week that she had stayed with him, and then left. Just... Left. Why would they be contacting her instead of their father, or any of their other 15 siblings?

She sighed and stood up, confused, not quite sure how to respond to the news. She just grabbed her scotch glass and took a final sip before walking out, not saying another word to any of her acquaintances. She wasn't going to see any of them again anyways. She turned to the messenger as he stood upright, straightening out his ratty suit and trying to adjust his monocle. She guessed that the only reason he even owned the suit that he had was because it was either the thing he was wearing when they took off his finger, or it was for work. Slaves rarely had more than one or two pairs of clothes, and they were typically much rattier than what he wore. She wore nicer clothing than he did. She was wealthy, so it made sense. He was poor. A slave... All because of one metal finger. Why didn't he just leave it? She knew it would make life harder, but at least he might be able to...

She couldn't think about it. She had to think about something else.

Ruffling a hand through her messy hair, she leaned down and wrapped her hands around the neck of the skinnier boy that had been under her arm. She allowed herself three seconds to kiss him, his lips tasting of champagne. She pushed a hand through his dark hair for a moment and then pulled away, the taste of his lips lingering on hers. She felt no connection to this man, nor would she ever. But he was cute, so she decided that it would be a waste to just let him go.

"Call me." She instructed before standing up and turning back to the man who had come to fetch her.

She straightened out her golden vest and pushed back her messy blondish hair, snapping her coat, trying to force any thoughts she had away from her. She was ruining lives while she saved them. It was almost always lose-lose. Something as small as a finger pushing someone down the ranks, from normal, respected citizen to slave...

"What happened?" She inquired, trying to act as professional as she could.

"I don't know. I'm sorry, I was just sent to come fetch you, please don't..."

"Never."

She just held out an arm for him to take. He furrowed his brow, looking absolutely baffled. Why would a millionaire, someone who had fame and money and power, treat him with civility? Why would someone with money and fame and all of their limbs intact treat a lowly slave like an equal?

She always tried to treat the people from Tier Eight with civility, tried to treat them well, because no one else did. Genevieve was vain and conceited, but she did not think herself superior to anyone that did not deserve it. There were people who were no better than the scum of the earth, people that she knew, but they were rich. They were rich and arrogant. Those were the ones that she thought herself better than. Not the meek, not the young. Not the people who had no control of their situation.

The man in front of her, the man with his bronze, rusting finger, just stared at her. His eyes darted between her outstretched arm and her eyes, like he was asking a million questions in the silence between them.

"Are you going to take it?" She inquired.

He just smiled and did so, every ounce of him radiating humility, like no one had treated him like this, like he felt like he didn't deserve to be treated as an equal. She could feel his metal finger scratch up against her forearm. Oh, that was not a good prototype. Perhaps he'd not had much to begin with. Perhaps he came from her own Tier. Perhaps he came from Tier Five, or lower. Tier Six. Or maybe he'd had that finger since the prototype first came out and didn't have the money to have it replaced. He did belong to Tier Eight now, so...
And it was her fault that he was there. It was her fault that he was placed in Tier Eight. It was so cruel, so horribly unfair. It was her fault. Just like James had always said. She was the reason that he had this lowly job. It was her fault. James had always told her that she was evil... Would she have to do this great evil to him as well? He was in the hospital and God only knew why... Would she have to put him in Tier Eight as well? Or was she going to let him die?

What was worse?

She just shook her head, trying to make the thoughts go away.

They didn't say a word, mouths staying silent as he led her to the carriage outside. The sunlight was blinding because of how dark the club had been. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the blinding rays of sunlight and hopped into the back. And with that, she was off.






This is sort of a.... Fantasy/dystopian/sci-fi retelling of the American Revolution. This chapter is Ben Franklin, but genderswapped so it's Gen instead... Yeah, kinda nerdy.