His lawyer sat next to him organizing papers, doing the best he could to not stir Chester to conversation understanding that any verbal review of his performance would not be pleasant. Unfortunately for him, the right side of Chester's face had warmed the table and turned to find a new coolness with the left, leaving Chester facing him.
"Whyyyyy..." he grunted a sigh, "are you still heeee-ruh." It was a crescendoed whine that concluded with a gravelly defeat.
The lawyer said nothing but clumped the rest of the papers together messily, shoved them under his sweat-soaked armpit.
"Now is that necessary?" a sarcastic voice rang out, dripping with a tone of victory.
Chester rolled onto his chin, his body remaining slumped and unmotivated to rise.
"The boy did his best, I'm sure."
The smirk that accompanied this address made Chester bite hard and breathe forcefully out of his nose.
The woman stood, a formidable figure with enticing curves, (though he would never admit to that now, (beyond the obvious admittance that came from being in this situation in the first place), due to the laws and such), and smiled proudly as she, too, left the room.
With his heart in his throat, Chester did the rational thing: he forced himself to accept that he was capable of dealing with this situation, that he had to regardless, and that he would do, from then on, exactly that which was societally expected of him...and he didn't buy into it for a second.
He had officially, and legally, entered into a game controlled by women, within a world now run by women. Unable to figure a more depressing and hopeless position to be in, he pushed back off the table and let his chair roll until his legs were locked and extended, his head slumped and he saw only the floor. With a new appreciation for that which is always walked on, he chuckled to himself, rose, and walked toward the door.
Hanging on the wall just inside the room was a portrait of President Bellona. Understanding fully the consequences of his action, he reached in his breast pocket, removed a pen, and poked it through the canvas. It whispered as he pulled down, splitting the painting in two.
If this was the world that women had endured previously, he had nothing but respect for them then, but now resented everything they'd come to make that time represent. He pushed through the glass door and headed toward the elevator.
"Stop!"
He expected capture but was a little discouraged at how quickly it had come.
A young woman rushed to his side. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, strange he thought considering many things, but didn't question as he put up his hands in surrender.
"Put your damn hands down and follow me. I can get you out of here before they notice that."
His trust was near depleted, but he figured there was no real harm at this point, so obeyed.
She led him quickly through a door that had been propped open and made sure he kicked said prop after he'd passed through. A few corner turns and he could see out a door marked Emergency Exit and into the parking lot.
"Well that was painless," he spouted doing his best not to sound out of breath.
She gave him a look as she opened the door. No alarm sounded. She held the door for him, he stepped outside.
"Down on your knees, now!" boomed a voice immediately to his right.
Unsurprised, he rolled his eyes, put his hands on his head, and dropped painfully to his knees...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He hated to place blame, especially for a situation that had clearly taken on a life of its own, but he could trace the entirety of this Nouveau-Redondantes Society to the third year of the first (and unfortunately only) term of President Lance Corporal Carter Garveson...
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