“What’s that out in the deep?”
“It’s The Facility.”
“And what’s The Facility?”
“You’re full of questions today, aren’t you, poppet?”
“But how am I going to learn about things if I don’t ask questions? That’s what granny tells me.”
“Your granny tells you a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean you have to believe all of them.”
I envy my daughter. I wonder how long it will be before her sense of wonder is replaced with constant mistrust and fear. I sigh.
“OK. The Facility is a prison. It’s where bad people are sent, the ones who don’t respond to Treatment.”
“Like school, but instead of learning things like reading and writing, they learn how to be better behaved.”
“Oh. So the ones who don’t learn their lessons get sent out there?”
An approaching ice-cream van distracts her. Time enough for her to realise that The Facility is merely a staging post. It is full of men and women forced to copulate and produce violent, bloodthirsty children, children who are trained in the art of war.
I am The Facility’s architect, may humanity forgive me. May my daughter forgive me.