We’ve all been dammed.

The screen buzzed on, and the reporter mumbling behind his Mask. All eyes behind the Masks went to the screen, and the ones that weren’t were the dead ones. The mourge became silent, as if the silence before was screaming. 

“Laudate omnes gentes laudante” The reporter stopped moving entirely.

The whole mourge spoke in unison, reciting the words that had been burned into their bodies and minds. 

“Magnificat in secula”

The reporter moved once more. “Et anima mea laudate” 

And once again, the mourge spoke in unison.

“Magnificat in secula.” The mourge placed their hands on their Masks, and looked down as the reporter recited the names of the dead ones. No one moved, no one blinked, no one breathed. All were perfectly still, and once the reporter had completed the list, all moved in perfect unison back to their designed places. The reporter spoke as they worked, announcing the heatwave, and the same words that the reporter always has. And on cue, the mourge stopped its work again, looking at the sky. 

“For the good. For Mankind. For the People.” The screen buzzed off. The workers began removing the Masks off the dead ones, carving the skin from the faces. The Masks were placed on the gravestones of the dead, so that even after death, the people were apart of the Nation. 

He held his breath for as long as he could, trying his best not to breathe as he strayed out of the mourge. The Nation had limited people’s breaths outside, counting each one through the Mask. A single breath over the limit would result in death. No one could have more breaths than the Nation themselves. He made his way to the House, standing behind the young couple. Over and over the people in the House counted, one for each of the dead ones. 

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.” The man at the front of the line walked away behind the Official, and the entire line moved forward in unison. A scream echoed through the halls of the House, and a woman is seen. She is without her mask, and is forcibly removed from the building. He looked away from the woman, but the split second he gets is enough. Her mask reveals the skin below, and he understands that she is going to be taken away to the Encampments. 

The line moves forward, and the screams turn to silence. He is called in, and follows the Official into one of the birthing rooms.

The mark is burned into her skin, and she is thrown into one of the buses. The walls are covered in reflective surfaces, and the rest of the prisoners look at her, the sliver of hope drained from their eyes as the door shut behind her. A child starts crying, and he has the same mark as the woman sitting next to him. His mother. She looks around the mirrors, each one etched with sharp letters and words. 

The Nation. The Nation knows and sees all. Perfect Man. Nation. N. 

The screen flickers on, and the reporter starts speaking. All eyes turn to the screen, but none of them do it in the way that they did in the masks. 

 “Laudate omnes gentes laudante” 

Not a single soul in the bus responds. The bus is silent. 

“Et anima mea laudate” 

The words are over. The reporter starts speaking raising a glass. 

“Here’s to the greater good, for all, for the Nation, for mankind.” The bus started moving, towards the certain death of the prisoners. 

She sighs, blocking out the reporter. She starts to note the details of the bus. The blood all over the floor, the blindfolds over some of the prisoners eyes, the laughing coming from the drivers. The blindfolds. The masks had remained without the eye covers for all watch what the Nation could do to anyone out of line. The blindfolds oppose that. She looks at her own reflection for the first time, no mask attached to her, no skin carved off her face like they promised they would.

He takes two of the newborns and burned their first mark into their skin, forcing them into the Nation. The mask is placed over their head, and he leaves them with the birthing workers. 

“We’ve all been dammed.” 

One of them whispers into his ear, before leaving with the newborn. He looks down at the blood covered floor, and at the limp bodies of the failed newborns. The Official steppes into the room, motioning for him to follow the Official out of the birthing room. He does so, hesitating for a second, before forcing himself out of the blood stained room. The Official lets him out to the front of the House, touches his mask. He touches his own mask, and leaves the House. He doesn’t breathe until he has returned to the mourge, horrified and confused. The birthing worker had said words he swore he never heard before, and yet at the back of the mind it felt like he had. 

The mourge is barren, and not a single living soul inside. He walks towards one of the dead ones, and for the first time reads the name on the mask. “Unknown.” He walks to the next one, reading the name on the mask. “Birthing.” He walks to the next one, repeating the same process. “Official.” As he walks down the rows of the dead ones, no clear names are present on the masks. No names were burned into the skin, no name etched onto the mask. And for the first time, he begins to wonder if he should look at his own.

She reads the etchings, over and over, trying to decipher the words carved into the mirrors. And the closer she gets to the truth, the more she finds out. The Nation can not rule the world alone. The Nation is using the same tactics as the forbidden past had used. Forcing everyone into unison, to conform to their ideas by man. And she whispers the words into the palms of her burned hands.

 “We’ve all been dammed. Magnificat in secula.” 

And she hopes that someone else will come to the same conclusion. 

As he stares into his own reflection, he sees the etching on his mask. “Mourge-keeper.” He looks down to his hands, now seeming so different and far from the ones that he used his entire life. The creases on his palms which seemed so familiar just half an hour ago look unknown. The words of the birthing worker echo in his head, and he repeats them under his breath. 

“We’ve all been dammed.” 

And then the screen buzzes on, and he freezes in place. The Nation sees and knows all. The Nation. The Savoirs of Mankind. The reporter seems to slowly move his eyes, as if gazing across the Perfect Nation. The Happy Nation. 

No words come form the reporters mouth as he takes his head into his hands, covering his eyes. And an unknown voice booms over the speakers, louder than the clock beating midnight. The video cuts off, and instead shows an image of the Nation capital. The capital is dark, other than one room, which is filled with the Nation sitting around a table, feasting and drinking from the most expensive of glass.

“We’ve all been dammed. Magnificat in secula. We’ve all been dammed! Magnificat in-”

The voice stops, and the reporter is on screen again. The reporter looks the same, but he squints at the camera before concluding the report. He looks up and repeates the words, but there is a shiver in his voice. The screen turns off, and he is left alone with the dead ones in the silence of the night. 

The newborns are asleep, and the birthing worker watches over them. The screen had shut off, and she smiled behind her mask. The machine has been fed, now it just has to start working. And slowly, she stirs from her seat, and joins the rest of the Nation’s people in unison as the Nation calls them all out to the main plaza, where they know that their hands will once more be covered in blood, and the Nation will put another correct one into the mourge. The birthing worker heard the footsteps form all over the Perfect Nation, but there was a single person out of step with the others. 

He stepped away from the reflective surface and grabbed the carving tools, walking out with the rest of the nation. And he was ready to carve the mask off his face if he had to. Ready to die than live. Living is hard and uncomfortable, but at least it is comfortable to die.

We’ve all been dammed. 

We’ve all been dammed.

We’ve all been dammed. Forever. 

A single switch. That’s all they need to press to kill the entirety of the Nations people, like they have done so many times before. A single switch, ready to be flicked on as soon as the Nations people stopped believing that the Nation was god. For when the people stopped believing that the Nation was doing it all for mankind. For when the Nation lost its power. They would all die. And they would all be remade. Over and over again. 

The public execution is quick. They cut his mask off his face, and let the maggots eat the inside of his body. And yet, the people are not fully silent and still as they should be. They are breathing out of sinc. They are moving their arms, their legs. They are running their mouths. The Youth are restless. And as the screams of the tratoir pierced the air, the people are whispering the words into thier palms of burned hands.

“We’ve all been dammed”

The Nation knows all. The Nation sees and hears all. And the act of carving one’s own mask off is rebellion. He knows that. He knows he will die. And ye he does so anyway. His mask drops to his feet and he awaits his death.

The switch flicks on. The Nations people all erupt with screams. The encampments are all destroyed. The dead bodies lay on the floor of the plaza. And the Nation gets to work.

The Nation has died, but the ideas live on. The Society recreates the same perfect world, and create the perfect man. All the guts and blood are cleaned, and humanity is created again. The masks are recreated, and placed on the faces of the newest people. Slowly, the Society rebuilds the world around them, banning the ancient teachings and forcing everyone in line. And once again, the world is made in unison. And once again, they make the people watch as they kill the traitors and torture the un-believers. 

The screen buzzes on, and the reporter mumbles behind his Mask. All eyes behind the Masks go to the screen. The birthing home becomes silent, as if the silence before was screaming. 

“Laudate omnes gentes laudante” The reporter stops moving entirely.

The whole birthing home speaks in unison, reciting the words that had been burned into their bodies and minds. 

“Magnificat in secula”

The reporter moves once more. “Et anima mea laudate” 

And once again, the birthing home speaks in unison.

“Magnificat in secula.” The birthing home places their hands on their Masks, and look down as the reporter recited the names of the new ones. No one moves, no one blinks, no one breathes. All are perfectly still, and once the reporter has completed the list, all move in perfect unison back to their designed places. The reporter speaks as they worked, announcing the heatwave, and repeating the same words that the reporter always has. And on cue, the birthing home stopps its work again, looking at the sky. 

“For the good. For Mankind. For the People.” The screen buzzes off. The workers begin placing the Masks onto the faces of the newborns, sewing them into the skin of the newborns faces. The birthing workers sew with great precision, and once they had completed, they sent them to the mourge workers. The iron would be pressed into the skin of the newborns, making them apart of the Society.