By Joshua Crets.





He stared out his window with disgust. He couldn't get a job anywhere because of the discrimination of what he was. It's why his reproduction partner had left him. They were discriminated because she was one of the accepted and he was on of the shunned.

She had taken their natural copy, what was once, years ago, referred to as a daughter, away so she could have others of her made and dispose of the original. That's what you were supposed to do with the originals.

He was an original.

He went down to the local Original Work Relief Station to see if they'd found a decent job for him. There were only a few jobs that originals were allowed to have and those were:



1. A Copy Station technician. One of those who helped create the copies. Only those who had gone through the appropriate fifteen years of university schooling could achieve this position. The government said it was to do a favor for the originals, so they wouldn't be thought of as useless, but everyone knew the real agenda, originals and copies alike. It was to insult the originals. What's more insulting than preparing the person who is there to replace you and your kind?

2. A custodian. The copies considered it blasphemous to do such menial jobs. This job was only for male originals.

3. A copy care-taker. One who watched over young copies before they matured. This job was only for female originals.

4. Law enforcement. The main rule to acquire this job, is they must have a copy of themselves to keep an eye on them, since it has been well documented that originals are deceitful, untrustworthy beings. This position is open to both male and female originals.



He stood at the desk at the Original Work Relief Station. They were busy that day. At the main desk were only two workers. Cathy One and Cathy Four. Apparently Cathy Two and Three were off that day.

After an hour in line he made it to the front. He had been the last in line, and besides Cathy One and Four he was the only one still there. It was almost closing time.

"May we help you?" They asked him in unison.

"Yes. I need a job."

"Very well then. Name?"

"John Leary."

They looked at him, and pulled out a small orb, that flashed, and took a picture of him. Afterwards, they pulled out a small disk with his name on it and put it in a rectangular machine and it projected his file for all of them to see.

After some time, the two whispered to each other and replied to him. "We have nothing for you at this time. Please return later."

"But I need something. I can't afford my apartment. They'll evict me!"

They looked at him again and repeated, "We have nothing for you at this time. Please return later."



Fourteen days had passed. He had been evicted. He walked the street, trying to think of what to do. The streets were crowded, especially today, because it was an election day. Even if he was allowed to vote, he wouldn't. All he'd be doing is voting for one man. He remembered hearing that years ago, there would be different people running for different offices, but now that the copies were running the planet? The man who was president, also was the president's entire cabinet, and congress, and even some of the Supreme Court, once the president could pick new seats, were the same man. The entire government was one copy of the same man. It had to be. About twenty years ago an amendment was passed that made it so that every branch in the government (except for the Judicial. You still had to wait for the members to die.) was the same person. They said it would make things more efficient. It had. It also made things more like a dictatorship at times, but no one cared. They could still vote, if they weren't an original, and things were efficient. They were always efficient with the copies. That's all that mattered.

He went to the park and sat on the bench, and read a book he found shoved in a trash can. He read for hours and then stood up. He put the book back in the trash can and walked back to the street. He needed shelter for the night. The streets were still busy, so he took a shortcut through an alley.

There were a few copies in the alley, obviously drunk. They came up to John and one of them grabbed him by the shoulder. "What's an original like you doing out here. Shouldn't you be cleaning up our trash?" They knew he was an original, because copies normally stuck together.

"Hey," he replied, "just let me through. I need to find some place to rest tonight."

They laughed at him, and one group of copies said, "So you're an original and homeless? What's the point of living?" He then punched John in the stomach.

"Seriously," John replied, out of breath, "just let me through."

They laughed and one of the bigger copies punched him in the face.

He punched the man back. "Stay away you'¦you'¦you clones!"

The entire group gasped.



The next day, John awoke in a detention facility. A major rule in the (as most called it) The Copied Society, was never use the derogatory term, "clone." Breaking that rule was in some cases considered much worse than murder. It automatically came with the death penalty.

Everyone knew why one was not supposed to use that term. The government, the society, they didn't want originals to start rising up. But they knew that if they were allowed to use such a horrible, offensive term, such as clone, well, that'd lead to originals wanting their own rights, and the society knew, that if they wanted all originals gone within the next fifteen years, they needed them firmly under the boot of the copies.

On the second day, John was tried. The hearing lasted twenty minutes. John had been sentenced to death. Between days three through six, he was copied, so that he wouldn't be an entire waste. They had all of the unpleasant memories of John removed from his copies. On the seventh day, he died.

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