Vigtigt In Blue

The pencil shook as he coloured in the bubbles; twenty-three A, twenty-four C, twenty-five A— no. Not A.

Fluorescent lights shone overhead, bathing the room in a dull orange glow. Fans whirred softly alongside them.

It was B.

He dropped the pencil and wiped his hands on his pants. He needed to pull himself together.

Around him, rows of desks were filled with students, each one bent over their own exam. They sat in various states of disarray, with hair tangled in knots, teeth stained yellow from coffee, and dark circles under their eyes. Bones creaked from sitting in the cold, metal chairs. After writing for hours, the rustle of flipping pages had become almost rhythmic. Supervisors walked along the rows, their sharp gazes gliding over each paper. They tapped rulers against their hands, adding to the music of the Vigtigt.

Frantically, he rubbed his eraser across the page and changed his answer.

Each year, every resident of twenty-two years of age was summoned to write the Vigtigt, an exam that began at noon and ended well into the evening. It covered every skill the governors believed a person should have, learned through living as a functional adult.

He turned the page, covering his mouth to muffle his sharp inhale when he read the question. He couldn’t be removed now, not when he was so close.

After the Vigtigt had been permanently instated businesses had cropped up promising to bring success, for the right price. Months before the exam began people stood in lines, waiting in the dark hours of the early morning, for a chance to secure their spot in a program. Once they were accepted, they drained their savings for a chance at survival.

He mouthed the words to himself as he tried to make sense of the question. A pang of regret rang through him. He should have paid for a tutor, or joined a program as many of his friends had suggested. At the time, he had thought it wouldn’t be necessary. Now he understood he had been too confident.

Sitting at a population of over two billion, Diktatoren was ranked first country in almost every category on Earth, famous for its advances in technology, agriculture, architecture— anything a person could name. As such, Diktatoren needed to know who among them were the best, worth the resources, time, and money they would take and repay through their contributions in society.

Sobs echoed in the vast room as someone burst into tears. The sounds of hurried footsteps and low voices indicated that guards had appeared to remove them. He took a change and glanced to his right, making eye contact with a red-faced girl. Her blond hair stuck to her face in clumps, and tears ran down her cheeks. She knew noise wasn’t allowed.

He went back to the Vigtigt.

What Diktatoren was most revered for was the advancements their scientists had made in genetic engineering. Every crop they grew and animal they kept had been modified to perfection, achieved through rigorous testing and development. Their genetic engineers had conquered nearly every creature there was, unlocking the key to the secrets of their DNA. The only thing left was the human being..

A speaker crackled to life and a nasal voice announced, “Twenty minutes remain.”

The issue was how complex the human brain was, its unique qualities couldn’t be found in any other animal. Working purely with theory, brain scans, blood and donated bodies wasn’t enough to make a breakthrough. Their scientists needed more.

The room was electric with fear. He hunched down over his paper and began to read the last question. It was a struggle to focus past the sound of his rapid heartbeat, thundering in his ears.

Genetic engineers came up with a solution, which they presented to the president. Instead of using parts of a human in their research, they wanted to use a whole, living person. Their proposal was accepted and they were granted permission to request volunteers. However, they ran into a problem. People suffered terrible side effects from being injected with substances that weren’t fully developed, and they stopped participating in the research.

He wiped sweat from his brow and allowed himself a shaky exhale.

Diktatoren didn’t want to put an end to genetic engineering, not when that would mean letting another country surpass their technology. In response, the Vigtigt was born. Those who fell below the fiftieth percentile of test takers would be selected for experimentations. Stripped of their identities, they would be removed from their homes and taken to laboratories. Once there, they would be used as scientists pleased. No restrictions.

The Vigtigt determined who would be useful to society and if a person wouldn’t be then they would be serving a greater purpose at the labs.

He bubbled in his final answer. Number one-hundred-eight, B.

Horror stories had quickly spread their way across the country, despite the government’s attempts to hide what happened to the Chosen. Purple rashes, boiled skin, broken and mutilated limbs, eyes that rolled out of their sockets— it was endless.

An alarm blared and as one, each person dropped their pencil. No extra time was permitted. A slot opened at the end of each desk and the Vigtigt slid away, disappearing to be evaluated.

He closed his eyes and he saw the girl’s face, frozen in despair. He began to pray.

The announcer came back on and the supervisors straightened, ready for what came next. Each year, the same instructions were given to everyone in the room. Their chairs would turn one of two different colours. One meant failure, and the other meant success.

“Processing will be completed in three seconds, two seconds, one second… processing is completed. Your scores will now be revealed.”

Another beep, softer than the last. In contrast, deafening cries sounded across the room. The sea of sorrow was broken with exclamations of joy, and some of anger, but pain drowned out the rest.

He clenched his fists, focusing on the feeling of his nails digging into his palms. He opened his eyes to dark, endless blue. He knew what that meant.

Fail.