Class Genocide

"Nobody ever drowned in their own sweat," the sign read.

Jolting awake, he stifled the scream that threatened to pour out of his body like water from a pitcher and ran his hand across his brow. His forehead was damp in fear-induced moisture. He hadn't ever been this scared, though he would never admit he was so now, crammed in between the stinking bodies of other people. It had been three days since he had last eaten or really slept, since he was carted off, like cattle--like the Jews in the Holocaust all those centuries ago.

Yesua had only laughed inside when that ancient subject was taught back at the Academy; how could he not? It seemed like the Ancients had only waged war whenever they were afraid of something or someone, a theme that he found to be as common as thread in a tapestry during the course. The world was in a state of peace, or semi-peace--those who were rich enough bought their own private spaces, away from the rest of the world. Their property was only theirs, the resources owned, even the air they breathed could be confiscated from those who didn't deserve to breath it. It was a society where peace was bought, and the world was ruled by the man with the most money. He was confortable in that knowledge, for as long as those in power remained in power, they could quell wars and uprising with simple commands. Even his father's business was booming as it was a weapons-trading business that provided security for the Rich. It was something Yesua had never quite understood but took advantage of. After all, the world was at his feet. He was Yeshua, son of Jerin, heir to over fifty trillion credits; he had been flying in only the most advanced technology of the time, a status that few could afford. Thanks to his family's wealth he had gotten the best, even if someone else already had it. His family motto was to gain everything and give nothing, a rule of thumb that had been handed down for millenia. He could never get into trouble, and trouble could never find him. He was invincible.

His stomach growled low in hunger, a knot that twisted up high in his abdomen and nearly drove him to his knees, but Yesua bowed to no one, not even his own body, and ignored the weakness. He would be alright, the situation--whatever THAT was--would be diffused and he would smile his way back through the gates of his family estate where he belonged. Whoever was behind this kidnapping would be tortured to death, brought back to life, and tortured again; he could afford to repeat as many times as he wished, it was a perk of nearly owning the entire world. But for the moment, he had to wait.

Another noise, this time a loud, crunching whine erupted as the room he was in shuddered and jerked, crushing Yesua against the other people within the walls. They converged upon him, his body crumpling under the weight of them all, his lungs collapsing with the pressure; he felt like a canned serpent from the Ancient Earth jokeshops, unable to move, unable to breath and dying--

The floor fell abruptly from beneath their feet, and they plummeted out of their confinements. He scrabbled in the air and shortly landed on someone dirty and squishy, someone likely ridden with disease. His disgust forgotten, Yesua pressed himself against that body and hauled himself up out of the chaos, pushing other people off of him. He saw the car that shuttled them to this place, wherever they were, a huge contraption made of black and red panels swirling menacingly. The great box flew away into nothingness to its next destination, and Yesua turned his attention to his current surroundings.

He took a full breath, the first time he could in days, and promptly vomited at the taste of the air. It was nothing like he was used to, the dark, moldy smell surely corroding his precious lungs into oblivion already. He forced himself out of the mass of bodies of his neighbors, unwilling to check who was alive or not, and tried to salvage the torn and soiled bits of his clothing. The ride was NOT enjoyable, and whoever was behind this grand scheme would have his flesh flogged from his body, Yesua would make sure of it. Looking around him with fear he saw a great metal fence, something he had only seen in copies of ancient pictures and replications. The material was something he was unfamiliar with, and  his blood chilled as he registered the buildings behind the fence, all made of the same material. Only when he saw a vaguely wrought iron-looking sign at the apex of the fence did he start breathing again. He knew of this place, he'd seen it in a copy of copies of the replica of the picture of the replica of an old camp used during a World War.. What was the place? Yesua was sure that it was all a dream now that he knew this place. The stark void around him had no effect on him, though he was still frightened of all the ancient technology used here, smokestacks, metal fencing, actual dirt. He could wake up now, he was only dreaming. He knew he could wake up.

A voice boomed out of nowhere, ordering them all to line up in an exactly straight line. It yelled at them, calling them dogs, scum, and worse things. It raged that the world was a pond and they, the rich and poor beggars, were all parasites living off the organisms that tried to thrive, parasites that had to be destroyed, an analogy Yesua didn't understand. The voice screamed at them, making some cower in fear, causing others to lose control of their body functions. Yesua looked around and stepped out of that line, the need to know what the sign said burning through him unapologetically. He came close to the fence and looked up, squinting to better focus his sight on the sign he was confident he knew. He could just wake up now, after he read the wording. Yesua was sure it was the sign from the faroff camp that was used.

"Nobody ever drowned in their own sweat," he read aloud with growing dread.

His heart plummeted down to his now-bare feet and his world spun. It wasn't a dream, he wouldn't wake up. He heard sharp footsteps swiftly close in on him, and he spun around, clutching the metal link fence, and looked into the eyes of a calm faced killer.

"It doesn't mean we won't make you try," the man said. His face twisted into a grotesque mask and pain shattered through Yesua's skull, blinding him.