Hannon brought the slender shield affixed to his forearm around and smashed it into the Cooney’s face. This one was a hard case. Seventeen previous violations had brought the law down on the man and the veteran enforcer was committed to bringing him in. The pilgrim wasn’t dangerous or violent. They never were, but Hannon had seen too much not to distain and loathe his very existence. They were violators, people that shirked the law and their duties as citizens.
Another harsh fist to the face summoned a generous flow of blood. The cop marveled at how easy it was to elicit the bright red fluid from the man’s features. He had heard that it was because of the vascularity of the flesh, a multitude of capillaries that ran just beneath the surface of the skin. Really, Hannon didn’t give a shit what it was. He just wanted the man to remember the experience. The offender’s crimes brought him just short of reeducation, but he was definitely a thorn in the side of those who prosecuted justice.
A gloved hand thudded off flesh and once again blood spattered on the enforcer's body armor courtesy of the straight left to Cooney’s jaw. The cop really had better things to do than to deal with what he thought was petty crime. But the Archetype in all their wisdom had decreed it a violation of the morality code and Hannon was stuck enforcing it. He lifted the man up by the neck. The tips of his toes barely reached the ground.
“When will you guys ever learn?” Hannon asked. “Don’t you ever get tired of being rousted?” He didn’t give the man a chance to talk. “Well, we’re gonna fix you good this time.” The enforcer nodded his head and allowed a sadistic smile to traverse his features. “How does ten days at Track sound?”
The man could only moan softly, whimpering as if he were about to cry. His mouth was swollen. It was harsh punishment to say the least. Track was reserved for the most violent offenders considered beyond reeducation. Ten days would be a lifetime, if he made it out at all. Cooney knew it and his eyes betrayed due fear at the prospect. He trembled in the enforcer’s grasp.
Losing interest, Hannon tossed the offender into the waiting arms of the officers he had summoned as backup. The cop had known he wouldn’t need them, but he detested the idea of cleaning up the mess and doing all the paperwork alone. Paperwork, Hannon laughed at the word in his head and wondered how soon it would be before the Archetype finally got around to outlawing its very usage.
“Ten days at Track and make sure you burn the books,” the enforcer said, brusquely. His coarse voice grated like a file against bare metal. If his compatriots were stunned at the severity of the judgment, they gave no clue. Their faces were blank behind the face shields and half-helmets they wore.
“Don’t forget the ones in the closet. I think there’s a Harry Potter in there.” Hannon pointed to the opposite end of the room and Cooney broke down sobbing for his precious articles of contraband.
It had been almost two years since hardcopy books were banned. Hannon had thought the job would get easier as they went along, but even now there didn’t seem to be an end in sight. These deviants clung to their belief in the printed word with a near religious fervor.
“Shut your mouth and stop bawling,” Hannon growled. “For Christ’s sake, be a man. When you get out, if you get out, you can download all this crap from the Nexus for free.”
These pilgrims never learned, he thought. If he made it out of Track the man would most likely proceed directly to the underground to find replacements for the items. It was human nature, after all, to collect worthless relics.
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