Cogs | A flash fiction story
24 of 💯
Maya closed the zipper in front of the jacket and looked at the cracked mirror. In the mosaic of reflections, an army of crimson warriors stared back at her. The shade of red went well on her dark skin. She smirked.
The jacket was padded internally on the chest and on the sides of the abdomen — bulletproof. The only part of the uniform that wasn't red was the black elbow and knee patches. Tight leggings completed the uniform, which was designed to offer a balance of agility and protection — perfect for combating violence with violence.
Maya covered her head with a black combat helmet, thin red electroluminescent lines marking both sides. She held a stun baton to her side. With a press of a button arcs of electricity crackled with a bright flash of light. She didn't really like to shock people, she liked to beat the shit out of them.
She placed the protective black mask on her face, covering her nose and her mouth. Out in the streets, she was indistinguishable from her fellow officers — her eyes were her whole identity. She needed no identity, she had power.
Punks called them cogs, brainless parts of the machine, the wringer that crushed the dreams and the hopes of everyone in the city. She opened the door and let the smell of the city enter her lungs. The noise of shattered glass cut the night air, followed by swearing. Neon lights painted the streets in vivid colors, businesses trying uselessly to stand out in the sea of ads.
She took a deep breath and stepped out. It feels good to be a cog.
