Slavery In Modernity

STEP. CREAAK.

STEP. CREEAK.

STEP. CREEAK.

The sound of footsteps echoed, accompanied by the agonizing groan of the wooden floor.

Judging from the tempo, it seemed to be that of someone just a step away from a full run.

Quickly, it closed in until it came to a sudden, abrupt stop.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Three knocks sounded—not too loud, but far from quiet—on the metallic door, followed by a few seconds of silence. Finally, after thirty seconds of waiting, it came.

"Come in..."

It was a gruff voice, one that could only belong to a military veteran approaching seventy years of age.

The doorknob twisted under the pressure of a pale white hand, a clink resounding through the silence before the door opened.

He walked in.

The room was fairly large, dominated by a central desk that took up about a third of the space.

It was covered with unarranged, rusty-looking books, old-battered hardcovers with large brown covers, and envelopes.

Most noticeable of all was the fat, bulky figure sitting behind the desk, his legs crossed over each other and the table.

A faint squeaking sound rang out from the wheeled chair he sat on.

Between his middle fingers was a fat cigarette, from which he took large puffs, releasing the smoke from his hairy nostrils and dark, hard lips.

"You called for me, Sir Murdermoon." The tone was respectful, as crisp as the morning breeze in a tendered garden of green.

"Ahhhh," a loud exhale followed as the fat figure finally opened his eyes, revealing bloodshot eyes with red veins and seemingly lifeless, but soon a smile widened on his face.

A sickening and cunning one.

"Nolan, my boy. You look just as pale as ever. Having quite the good time, aye?" he said, his tone a mix of mockery and surprise as he looked at the figure before him.

It was the familiar figure of an average-looking young man with dirty black hair and a dust-covered face.

Even through it, one could still see his extraordinarily white face, which was simply beyond normal and could only be described as pale.

Dusty white shirt with various patches, and baggy brown jeans—he looked just like the ordinary factory worker on a Wednesday duty.

"You also look pale as well. Might be safe to say you're having quite the good time too, Sire." Nolan responded, sounding as respectful as ever in his country German tone, which elicited laughs from others around the place.

"Hahahahaha..." Just as expected, the man burst into loud laughter, which quickly shifted into wheezing and coughing as he choked on the cigarette smoke.

But he soon stopped himself and pressed the smoke on a plate, extinguishing the flames.

Murdermoon knew well not to have such a thing on him while speaking to Nolan.

One might collapse from laughter listening to him and die if they choked on his cigarette.

He might be closing in on his death soon enough, but he still prayed every night for a few more years.

"You really are doing good, Nolan. Thank you for the compliment."

"The problem is, just that I'm an Irishman and should be white-looking. To be pale for me is to be sick, you understand..."

"I'm very sorry for my wording then, Sire..."

"Nah, it's fine... I called you here for something important." He waved it off, and Nolan looked at him with his broody eyes, hoping in his mind that it wasn't what he was expecting.

It was the same hope that never got fulfilled, not even once.

"Congratulations, I have decided to place you in charge of the Sector E mining area."

'Place me in charge or make me slave harder for your dirty organization...' Nolan thought, yet with no visible change in expression on his face.

"Might I remind you, Sire, that I am currently in charge of Sector A, D, F, G, U, and J mining sectors. Three times more than any worker in this organization.

My working hours are three times more than anyone here.

Also, I am the lowest-paid worker in the organization currently."

"So?" Mr. Murdermoon responded without as much as a single change in his expression.

"So, I hope the organization might let me pass this position and give it to someone better than me." He completed, looking straight into Sir Murdermoon's eyes unflinchingly, even as he stared hard at him for a few passing seconds.

"Ahhh," with a disappointed sigh, Sir Murdermoon took his legs off the table before sitting upright and staring dead straight at Nolan.

"You know, Nolan, your bastard of a father embezzled funds close to 30% of our entire organization's capital and ran away with it, leaving only you and your mother alone."

Just a few years ago, the organization, according to protocol, had no choice but to make sure that amount was paid by your father's family, which is you and your mother.

Your mother declined any association with you and your father, and then all the responsibility was placed on your head..." Sir. Murdermoon began, studying Nolan's expression, which had no visible change at all.

"Normally, we would have been forced to throw you in jail for your living years due to your lack, but we decided to be merciful and instead proposed a merciful deal."

Can you remind me of that, Nolan?" Sir. Murdermoon asked.

"I am to work for the company as a coal miner, and 80% of the money goes to the debt my father owed, and 10% of the rest is to be paid to me as wages.

It would take a total of 60 years of work for the organization to finally pay off my debt and be free once more..." Nolan recited out loud the lines of the 'merciful' contract given to him exactly 15 years ago.

It was what had changed his life, officially making him a slave in the modern world.

"Correct. Isn't that better than spending your entire life in jail for a crime you didn't commit? We were being nice to a kid, Nolan."

"And now you are trying to shy away from your rightful responsibilities? Isn't that what you're trying to do, Nolan?" He asked him, as Nolan's fist automatically clenched tightly within his palm.

"Luckily for you, the organization has decided to be merciful to you. You have worked 15 out of your 60 years, remaining a total of 45 left."

"This contract here says if you take this responsibility, five years would be canceled away for you, meaning you will only have to work for just 40 years more before you finally get your freedom..." He said, bringing out a contract and placing it in front of Nolan, then placing a pen on it.

"The choice is yours, Nolan. Accept the responsibility and save yourself five years more, or remain headstrong and suffer for more years. What do you say, aye?"

"Tch."