#ahh the day in the life of an average teenager in 2164 ph

[marz-writes-shit]

2 — The Shield

A weekend can be spent doing anything and everything, from complaining about the vendors blocking the driveway to feeding the stray dogs and cats under the shade of rusty awning. For Amory, it was writing a critique for a film their professor made the class watch, while for their little brother Danilo, it was horsing around at the plaza with his friends. As for their parents? They were out for groceries, so Amory had the compound to themself. Before resuming their work, they made sure every possible entrance was shut and locked, of course.

Now, the critique paper their professor wanted was for a corny movie that was released approximately a hundred years ago, during the forsaken era of anthrax and plane crashes. The topic itself was still relevant, but the direction made them cringe and want to just... turn away from the ideals. Still, they persevered, hoping the professor would see just how crappy the delivery was while complying with the rubric.

Their fingers clacked away at the keyboard. Sometimes they'd go back a sentence or two to make sure nothing seemed redundant. They just had to cram every idea they had into the paper, so their fingers practically galloped across the keys. They occasionally paused to check the cadence or drink water, and then they'd resume typing. It was a steady rhythm that helped them many times before.

Once they had written about forty percent of their piece, they ate lunch. Rice and some vegetable stew, washed down with water. Then they went back to working, faster and more diligently, until they had already written three pages' worth of analysis. After they checked the old clock on the wall to find it was one PM, they sat back to take a breather.

Their phone chirped with Messenger notifications. Amory glared at it like it owed them money. It was a message from Yasmine, one of their contacts at the theater club, asking if she could come over, since she needed help revising a script for the theater club. They told her no, sorry, they were too busy trying not to get an aneurysm from how stupid their assignment was. How about an audio call? And she replied with a thumbs up. And as expected, the special ringtone grated against their ears not three seconds later. They swore and hit Answer.

"Hello?"

"What's up, heathen," they drawled, pulling up the laptop again to continue typing.

"I'm stuck," Yasmine whined, "This scene is so dumb! And why do my lines have to sound so... cliché?"

"Theater *is* cliché, face it. There's no drama in nuance." Amory squinted at a very uncompelling sentence and deleted it. "Who're you supposed to play?"

"Liz. She has a crush on this guy and they've been dating for ages. Story goes something along the lines of 'She's beautiful. He's charming. They're perfect for each other, but the world said nuh-uh.' But the opening scene..."

"What about it?"

"A cringe meet-cute. With books and papers flying everywhere and stuff."

They audibly snorted, almost doing a keysmash. "Oh, that sucks. And they didn't let you change it?"

"No," she whimpered. "I'm doomed. What should I do?"

"Hmm." Typing. They were 70% done with the paper. They glanced at the sixth paragraph, wondering whether it would make their professor fume or not. "Don't fulfill expectations. Make them angry at each other after the meet-cute. 'You ruined my favorite dress!' and 'You're not supposed to run in heels!' type-a thing. It'll be funny."

Yasmine laughed. "Oh, brilliant. Thanks, Amory. Seriously."

They rolled their eyes. "'Course. Anything to help the deteriorating drama ensemble of the renowned Pearlcrest International..."

"Hey!"

"Suck it up, Yassy, it's the truth."

"Whatever, nerd." She laughed once more. "Thanks again."

"Sure. Buh-bye."

They ended the call, set their phone aside and resumed working with a newfound vigor, probably from the fact that they just derailed the plans of the horrible, horrible director of the theater club. They typed furiously, and when it finally struck three PM, they were done. They saved the file, sent it to the class Google Drive, then stretched their arms.

Five minutes later they heard the front door opening. They froze and squinted, hand hovering over their bulky mouse in case they had to fend off an intruder, before a kicking of worn sneakers announced Danilo's arrival.

"Heya!"

"Good afternoon, loser," they deadpanned, observing as their little brother performed a weird dance and punched the air in between shuffles. Looks like he had a better time than Amory did. "Mind telling why you're so gleeful in spite of the Hour of Skin Cancer?"

He shrugged. "Not my fault you're drowning in homework. I just talked to the prettiest girl in my grade! We went to the plaza together! Oh, and I took it upon myself to get the fro-yo flavor she wanted. Ya should've seen her smile!" His grin widened.

Amory stared at him. This was news, but whatever. They had more important things on their mind. "Well, congratulations, bachelor. You can now bring home a wife to force your DNA inside until her health fails you. Now wash your shoes."

"Why are you being such a killjoy today?" he groaned.

"Because I watched the most repulsive piece of media on orders of my language professor and I'm spiting him with my output. Can you wash your shoes now?"

"Ugh." He stomped into the kitchen to do it. "You're just jealous because you don't have anyone crushing on you or vice versa," he called over the rush of tap water and scrubbing.

"And I'm perfectly fine with that. My life doesn't revolve around other people's view of my bodily appeal and recreating iconic romance novel scenes, unlike you..." they muttered, reaching for their phone.

"What did you say?"

"I said you suck at flirting!"

There was a startling clang as their mother's favorite pot tumbled and screeched across the floor from the kitchen, narrowly missing Amory's ear. They got up — oh great a neighbor heard and screamed — and picked it up. "Dan," they began as they marched into the source, "do NOT throw a tantrum. You're fourteen. Four years until you can get arrested."

He grunted in response. At least he cleaned his shoes, Amory noted with a small nod, sliding the pot into the cupboard where it came from.

For the rest of the hours until their parents came home, Amory ignored their brother and shut themself in their room. Facebook provided a temporary distraction from the indifferent world beyond the walls of the house;

it was all they really needed nowadays. They swiped through fun and games, candid shots and unpermitted textcaps, and a couple of oily pore selfies (of which their classmates were pretty proud). There was a nagging feeling of inadequacy that Amory refused to pay mind to as they looked at each and every one of the posts. Amory sighed, shaking their head to dispel the intrusive thoughts. They refused to succumb to the comparison trap. Their life might not be picture-perfect, but it was better than risking sunburn and jail.

Closing Facebook, they turned their attention to something else. Novels! Fiction! A well-worn book from their shelf would serve them well, one they probably memorized by heart already. The familiarity was comfort, transporting them to worlds far away from the woes of reality.

The main character was about to die when Amory heard the door squeak open.