I flipped past the eighth page of mugshots with a sigh. Too fat. Too skinny. Too young. Too old. I amazed myself at how quickly I had reduced these women into their base attributes. It had been a struggle on those first pages when I made sure to read each of their names, crimes, and sentences. I kept trying to find their story- what got them into this binder for thousands of men like me to flip through. It was easy to feel sorry for them, to think as those filthy Traditionalists did and think for a moment that this was inhumane and unjust. Around the fifth page though, it had become increasingly easy to just see them for what they were, state property to be used to get off with.
Only three types of people looked through these binders regularly: the elite, the lucky, and the seriously aggrieved. I was just happy to be on the right side of the slum gates, and I wasn’t feeling very lucky after the murder of my wife by a civil unit. Most people came to an office like this one at least once in their lives, but it was prohibitively expensive for most to come regularly. I never saw the appeal in it myself, but now I had a lifetime complete access pass.