(~1.8k words) This isn't rage, it's too specific.
✧
I hate men.
The thought persists in my mind as I watch a woman draped with metallic augments pass by a group of men. They are tall, many gleaming themselves, and confident in their pursuit. A whistle weasels out from one of them; and another beckons for the lady, “Come on, I know ya’ ain’t got a good man. I’d put a ring on that pretty finger of yours.” The two other men in the group don’t say a word, but are loud in their smiles and laughs. The consistent buzzing of the tram gliding across the floating railroads is the only comforting sound to me as the harassment continues. It blends with the surrounding sound, allowing me to tune out the men's words.
The woman looks nervous—as much as a shining skinny face can look nervous that is. She’s been so augmented by chrome that her facial expressions barely comes through. Her curved nose scrunches just enough to see small wrinkles, her eyes darting around as she looks for an escape that isn't possible. Her soft lips part, then close, unable to speak. It’s probably what makes her so special to these men. Everybody else in the cart pays it no mind, things like this happen everyday, nothing they can do about it. I don’t do anything either, I am just as complicit as the others.
I feel disgust rise in my throat. Oh, how I wish I was beautiful enough to be harassed like that. A group of men finding me so attractive that they just can’t help themselves. They would be demanding my number, cornering me until their hot breaths wrap around my neck. Maybe one of their hands will graze my hip, or even my breast. Their words a sickening nectar to my ears. It's scary. It would prove I am worth it.
The pigs finally leave the woman alone, having gotten what they wanted, if the hologram with a new contact was anything to go by. As they pass by, most pay me no mind.
…
To my surprise, one of them glances at me—no, not at me—at the little bit of chest poking out from the baggy folds of my outfit. Then he leaves.
What a horrid feeling. The disgust in both men and myself.
✧
The tram parks in the dock of Site-68, groups of people file out of the carts, hurrying to work. As I waited for the crowd to die down, I spot the woman leaving. She is staring at her own feet, back hunched over. Reporting the incident might be the most I can do for her now.
I step into the station, the bright artificial lights reflecting over my glasses. I sling my bag over my shoulder as I begin my long trek to the Ethics office. It was in one of the lower floors of the site, built deep underground back when the veil was still a thing and normal people roamed the ground instead of living on the large floating discs they call “cities”.
I always hated coming down here, the horrible stench, the lack of security, the cracked walls. The fact other people never came down here was the only thing to soothe my anxiety.
Disassociating for most of the walk, I eventually find myself in front of the familiar door. It’s busted up from decades of no repairs, the faded sign hangs on a single screw. My hand twists the knob as I carefully walk into the room as it opens before me.
The office itself was as dilapidated as the door—except for one newer phone on the wall; multiple things carry piles of dust, spiders finding homes in the corners of the ceiling, and a desk with one broken leg at the far end of the space. Behind the table sits an old robot, one of the first models released to the Foundation if the look of it isn’t lying to me.
I step forward, stopping just at the edge of the desk to lean forward and examine the metal husk that sits in front of me. I contemplate how to get its attention before my hand stretches across the wood, balling my fist as I hit the top of the robot’s head twice.
Suddenly the thing seems to understand a person was in its office after years of seeing nobody. A bright light flashes on from the two round glass windows in what was meant to be its face, “ATTENTION! SHOWING PHYSICAL VIOLENCE TOWARDS WORKERS IS DIRECTLY FORBIDDEN UNDER LAW 59 OF FOUNDATION CONDUCT.”
The thing buzzes out for a second, its eyes scanning my face for verification.
“Good morning, M—” my brain automatically blocks out my own name from my ears, its attention only returning once the bot asks its question, “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’d like to report a case of harassment I saw today.” I keep my voice clear.
The robot processes my words, then begins generating its response, “Amazing! Where did this violation take place?”
“The fifty-seven train, happened at about eight?”
“Amazing! When did this violation take place?”
I pause for a second before slowing my voice down, “eight A.M… today.”
The fan inside the bot screamed, the noise a testament to its age. For a second I was sure it was going to break on me, before it finally spit out, “Awesome! Please clearly state the name of the perpetrator or perpetrators and victim or victims.”
I realize what I’ve been doing is meaningless. I have no idea who the people were or where they work on the site. I stammer, “I don’t know their names. But, I… It was four men bothering one woman. The woman has augments all over her body, including her face and her hair was long and black—”
“I apologize for the inconvenience!” The robot cuts me off, “Unfortunately without due identification, the Foundation cannot properly administer reprimand.”
My eyes squint, “But you should have these guys in your database. It can’t be that hard to look up a few men off of appearance right?”
“I apologize for the inconvenience. Please state the name of the perpetrator or perpetrators and victim or victims for proper reporting.”
“I don’t know their names.”
The robot takes a second to think of an answer.
“The Foundation apologizes again for the inability to aid in this situation. Please contact support with the extension 50936 if you need assistance or have a complaint.”
My fingers rap against the desk as I wonder if going through with the call is really worth it. A bile comes up my throat, I quickly swallow it down. Would I be just as bad as the men if I let it go?
I force myself to the phone on the wall, my feet dragging against the carpet. I quickly fumble the extension onto the screen.
It rings once, then twice, then after the third time a deep annoyed voice of a man pricks my ear.
“Hello, you have reached the support line. How may I assist you today.”
Clearing my throat, I speak into the small mic in the wall, “Hi, hello. Uhm, I currently am in the Ethics office of Site-68. I saw a woman being harassed earlier, and the robot doesn’t want to take my report.”
I hear a sigh on the other end, and a creaking of a chair—likely from him sitting up. “Where, when, and who did it?”
“It happened on the fifty-seven train, at eight AM, and I don't know the names of the people. But it was four men harassing the woman.”
“No names.” The man let out an exhale, and I could hear typing, “and you are sure that the men were bothering the girl?”
I hesitate for a second. Doubt creeping in my head, and sweat wetting my face.
“Yeah I’m pretty sure. She was being cornered and looked hella nervous.”
“What did the men do exactly?” He questions.
“…They kept flirting with her, telling her they would be better and… just being all up in her business until she was forced to give her number to one of them.” I explain, a slight edge to my voice.
For a minute, only the sounds of typing come through to me.
“So, she gave her contact information to one of the men?”
“Yes.” The heel of my right foot was starting to hop up and down in a nervous habit.
The man gives a small exhale that just barely makes it through the phone.
“Why are you assuming she was forced to give her number? Maybe she willingly gave it herself?”
My words come out in a stutter, “I—I mean, she looked nervous, and clearly didn’t want to be there.”
“Did she say no to their advances?”
“I don’t know, I feel like she would of—”
“You feel like.” He repeats my statement, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if he was thinking of what to do next. “Apologies, I don’t think that’s enough to warrant a full report. If you would like, we can record the call in case anything real happens.”
I stay silent for far too much longer than I should. With a shaky voice I reply, “Yeah. That would probably be.. useful.”
The cold professional voice came through like a dagger, “Alright. Thank you for your cooperation, have a lovely day.”
Before I could say anything, the line clicked dead. A dreadful silence fills the room, even the robot’s fan was no longer whirling around. I did my best, didn't I? There is nothing more I can do.
“…”
I could’ve tried harder though. I could’ve pushed for justice, or whatever I consider justice. Wasn’t I just doing this to feel better about myself anyways? The room around me fades from my vision as I go back into the hallway, pulling the door close behind me. I stand there in the pure agony of buzzing lights and damp smells for just a moment, as I think to myself.
What a lousy excuse of a woman I am.
I might hate myself more than I hate men.