[ WP ] You live in a society where one 's wealth and social standing increase or decrease proportional to their good ( or not ) deeds .

Sorry, this is long and a bit rushed, but here goes: 
 
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 In Vladok payday is every Thursday. At 6 am the people flood the town square, all 23,000 of them. Or at least most of them. Some are n't invited. The ones that are jostle and shove to position themselves to be first at the giant oak doors when they open, when the Department of Sovereignty are ready to begin the Judgement, to hand out the Recognition. 
 
 When I was a boy my father would bring me with him to the square on these paydays, even though I was n't Of Age, even though I was n't ready to be Judged and receive the Recognition. He said it showed me the order of things. The way things are. Better I learn now, he said, so I could be prepared for when it was my time. For when I would need to be responsible. 
 
 He was n't a rich man, my father. Not as rich as some. But he was a good man. He was generous with his time, worked every other weekend at soup kitchens that gave bread and food to the Evils, the unfortunate souls who never did enough good to earn the Recognition. 
 
 `` It's important to show compassion,'' he told me once, when I asked him why he helped them. 
 
 `` But they're Evils.'' I said. `` They do more bad than they do good. They lie. They steal and murder. They get nothing at the Recognition. Why should we help them?'' 
 
 `` Ah, but they feed us,'' was his reply, as he ladled a heaping steam of stew in to another plastic bowl. And every Thursday my father took his judgement and picked up his pay check at the square. 
 
 We were n't quite as renowned as some of the other families in our neighbourhood, but we were respected. We were comfortable. My father sat on the board of several organisations, one of them dedicated to charity work with the Elderly, those who were too old, sick or infirm to get out and find good deeds to do. Opportunity Based Charity, he called it, and my father had come up with he idea while he was waiting in line at the Department one Thursday morning, where he said he did all his best thinking. Instead of *giving* food, clothing, and entertainment to the Elderly, instead of paying for their subscriptions to the nursing home, my father's organisation hired others to visit the Elderly in the homes, to sit and talk with them, to play chess and listen to old songs with them. 
 
 Its genius was that it worked on multiple levels. The visitors for hire did something good, they provided companionship, and they were paid for it, and rewarded again at the Recognition. But, more importantly, they provided *opportunities* for the Elderly to do good themselves, to also receive the Recognition and retain their dignity. A kind word here, a gift, a little wisdom there, and the Elderly could earn an income, could cover some of the hefty costs of upkeep at the homes. And no one was rewarded more than my father, the man who had come up with the idea that gave these people so many opportunities to do good in the first place. 
 
 The Our Times magazine hailed it as a revolution in economic philosophy. It made my father famous overnight and shot us in to the centre of Moral Society. Things were a bit mad for a little while, reporters at our house, black tie dinners and public speaking engagements, but eventually the fame trickled out. A hundred organisations doing something similar sprang up. Now there were probably thousands. After a little while people forgot my father had even come up with he idea of Opportunity Based Charity. People didn ’ t even call it that anymore, they forgot it had ever been done any differently. The reporters packed up and went home, and my father's public speaking invitations, while not drying up altogether, became more exclusive, for a more targeted and elite audience. 
 
 But my father was still paid handsomely by the Department for his contribution, and he had secured the respect and acceptance of High Moral Society. Quite an achievement for someone who never went to Missionary School, he always used to remind me. The Mayor himself attended the funeral when he died. 
 
 Now I stand here now, awaiting the Judgement, the 1,546th time since I Came of Age and began receiving the Recognition, and I ’ m not sure I even now feel truly responsible. The 5.55 bell rings, and the unease of the crowd picks up. The throng squeezes in on itself, threatens to lunge forward towards the giant oak doors. Two years ago there was a stampede, hundreds injured, three dead, as the masses bulged desperately towards the doors, towards Recognition. A nasty piece of affairs. But I ’ m not afraid. I ’ m close enough to the doors, in company with the other Deserving, those whose good deeds give them an exalted place to be the first to receive the recognition. If the crowd get too out of control when the doors open, I will be able to slip inside, in to the sanctuary of the Department and its civility. 
 
 Such are the priveleges of the deserving. In the eyes of the Department, in the eyes of the people, even if my father's position afforded me more opportunities to do good, they were my deeds. They were my responsibility. 
 
 The bell peels out, a pure, crystal clear sound that bursts in to the air like a metallic thunder clap that silences the crowd. On perfect time, as always, the giant oak doors begin to open. 
 
 The few dignitaries in front of me shuffle forward to the podium in slow, measured, civil steps, and one by one they take to the stage. The six Reified sit at their desks, their wigs perfectly arranged, their gavels propped at the ready, listing the deeds of the Judged, applauding their contribution as upstanding bringers of Good to the People. 
 
 “ Mayor Reginald Allbright Heartswell, ” booms the head Judge through the loud speakers, when the Mayor in front of me steps forward to take his Recognition. “ You stand before the Bench for the recognition. This week you have committed 21,763 individual Admirable Deeds and 455 Major Concerns. The Counters have determined your impact rating to be… ” the crowd holds their breath… ” 199! ” Cheers. An almost perfect score. The Judge waits for the masses to settle before continuing. “ A remarkable achievement. The Bench is pleased to bestow your Recognition. It shall be administered in the sum of $ 1,114,000. ” The crowd begins to cheer again, to whoop and holler, but the Mayor raises his hands, pleading for them to settle. 
 
 When they finally do, he pauses a second for dramatic effect, before speaking. 
 
 “ In the interests of Others…for the Good of Self, Society, and my fellow humans…I relinquish 40 % of my Recognition, to be disbursed evenly throughout the People, to all those deserving, to all those here today. ” 
 
 The Crowd goes wild. “ Grace! Grace ” some shout. Others hurl their hats in to the air, as if overcome by some sudden blessing or act of mercy, or witnessing a divine miracle the likes of which come along only once in a person ’ s lifetime. Except this isn ’ t spontaneity. This isn ’ t a miracle. This is ritual. 
 
 Because every week the mayor makes the same announcement. Every week the same amount, to the same cheers. Because in Vladok, payday is every Thursday. 
 

