[ WP ] The year is 2284 . The United States officially recognizes every person over the age of 65 to be a worthless sponge of resources . Tell the story of a smuggler who makes a living by concealing the elderly .

I listened to the steady breaths, slowly exhaling years of exhaustion before inhaling fleeting seconds of life. 
 
 A droll hum came from the monitors on the walls nearby. A faint musty smell wafted across my nose, unpleasant to most... but a comfort to me. 
 
 My eyes shifted to the Chrono-Keeper on my wrist. It was funny. Four-hundred years ago the first wristwatch was created and yet we still used a variant of it. A dull blue display of 03:42 flickered into my view, crackling with static every few seconds almost as though it were struggling to stay alive. 
 
 Struggling like the frail figures in front of me. 
 
 It's been a while since the world decided it could no longer afford to be... *inefficient*. 
 
 About 23 years to be exact. 
 
 The elderly were declared to be a drain on society, soaking up far more time and resources than they could possibly be wrung for. In order to ensure future generations would have enough to continue on, it was determined that once an individual reached the age of 65 they would have to ensure their affairs were taken care of and decide on how they would like to *perform their duty*, as the enforcement agency liked to put it. 
 
 It was nothing more than asking them how they would like to be murdered. 
 
 Initially, there had been massive protests, especially from those who met the criteria. But the nations of the world had quickly proven they were quite serious about this new allocation of resources. Besides, few were willing to publicly protest after thousands of worldwide protests were permanently *dismissed* in a span of 32 minutes. 
 
 I still remember the look on the face of the smug bastard who started all of this, Horace Anker. 
 
 I was only 13, out on a trip to the mall with my grandfather. My grandfather was an elderly but lively man, filled with such a spirit of wonder and excitement that one could easily believe he was 30 years younger than what he actually was. He was wearing an untucked slightly faded checkered shirt, a pair of jeans that had more tears in them than a man his age should be wearing, and a pair of light-up sneakers. He had laughed at my embarrassed expression, asking why he looked cooler than me at his age. 
 
 That was the last time I saw my grandfather's smile reach his eyes. 
 
 The sudden cacophony of alarms ended our reverie. Everyone's holo-lens lit up with a mandatory broadcast, an ill-tiding given how rare they were. And there he was, Horace Anker, dressed in a satin suit and looking all the part of the devil. 
 
 I glanced over at my grandfather and felt my breath hitch. His eyes had become stone cold, all mirth buried under an expression more serious than any I had ever seen. 
 
 
 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Tired, continue tomorrow.
