The Best Fit

 "You've got a good right foot," Donnie's father suggested. "I could see you being a real footballer when you're older."

"Don't put that nonsense in his head," his mother chided. "He's got brains and kindness. That's got doctor written all over it. Oh, we're just so excited for you!"

Playing the part of the standard, disgruntled teenager, Donnie ate his breakfast like he didn't care. In reality, he was nearly sweating through his shirt just thinking about it. It was his 18th birthday. That meant it was his time to be given his life's assignment.

Everyone waited for this moment with both nervous anticipation and a deep feeling of dread. You'll see kids walk into the hall, nervousness and excitement palpable on their faces, and walk out looking suddenly much more grown up. It's like the moment they have in there, closing one chapter of their lives and opening another just as cleanly and decisively as one would a book, ages them greatly in just that one moment.

Boys and girls go in with childlike worries. They walk out elated, knowing their future is one of fame and fortune, or respect, or power. Doctor. Leader. Politician. Astronaut. The stuff kids dream to be, then learn they will be.

Or, they walk out with a very real sense that their life is doomed to one of abject mediocrity. From there, there's no escape. It's for the best, they say. It puts you at your peak performance level in a field you're suited. Anything higher would be a failure.

The system has been made into law. To keep society running as flawlessly as possible, each must follow the directive given. They say it's to establish the most functional, high-efficiency society imaginable. All the textbooks say it's working wonders. Joblessness is eradicated. Poverty is abolished. Everyone has a role to play, and considering how intricate and astounding the machinery is, there's not an adult in the world that says what's been given to them doesn't fit. It's a system without a practical flaw.

The problem is, for some, they hoped they would have had more. The machinery can't change human emotion, nor can it curb aspiration. It's not the status that bothers these people, it's the lack of opportunity to change their lot in life, even if what's given is appropriate. What your fate is deemed to be is chosen, mathematically, flawlessly, efficiently... disconcertingly effortlessly.

Donnie finished his breakfast. Most of his cereal remained in the bowl.

--

Donnie looked up at the Determination Annex. It's design was as utilitarian as its purpose. The building lacked any heart and soul, holding only cold, calculating reason. There was no space for beauty in the building, so it didn't exist. It's walls were the colour of the concrete that made it. It was a rectangle, as that was the simplest to build and easiest to maintain. Aesthetics did not serve to dispense fates with any greater speed or quality, so aesthetics were not to be considered.

Determination Annex... it's even named heartlessly.

He bid farewell to his teary-eyed, excited parents, hoping they didn't notice him shaking as they each gave him a hug. The waiting room was for would-be adults as the scientists - undoubtedly people who learned this was to be their place of work many years ago in much the same fashion - took their names for the records.

He held his pendant tight, as if he could pour more of his very essence into it to spur on a better assignment. That was the source of their information. A small data reader that hung around their neck, recording their every move, success, failure, word spoken, friendship, skill, anything you could imagine. It would then compress it down into an algorithm that determined exactly what and who they were to be. He prayed it was good, but he knew the computers were more god than God now, and the Annex was its holy temple. There was no power in the universe that could change it.

"Donald Whitby, to the desk," boomed over the speakers. This was it.

A bored man behind the desk put out his hand wordlessly. Unceremonious, considering the circumstances. As he handed over his pendant - his "key" as it was colloquially called - was placed into a slot not much larger than it that hooked up to the main computer. A light on the machine beeped red a number of times before abruptly changing to green. A life's determination, while you wait. Faster than a cheeseburger.

A sheet printed. The bored man handed it to him. "Boilermaker," he said shortly after a yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth to mask the tedium of this life-defining moment.

Donnie took the paper. His face went red. It was fine, really. Decent work, average pay. Not bad at all. He'd always been good at mechanical tasks, especially after helping his father repair his car a few times over some pleasant summers evenings. It was just a lot to take in. He held up the paper as he greeted his parents. They screamed the word after he told them. "Boilermaker!" It had never been said with such pride. He could have said "laboratory test subject" and they'd still be proud of him. There was a lot to be proud of, after all. It was a fine job. A good job.

"How do ya feel, boy?" his father asked, ruffling his hair. "Still think you'd make a good footballer. Maybe kick a few boilers, eh?"

"I don't know," Donnie replied honestly. "It's just... I don't know what I expected."

"They say it's for the best," his mother encouraged. "You'll be good at it. They say you would have found your way there eventually anyway, you know."

"Yeah. Yeah... I guess I just wanted to find my way there myself." He watched a few boys and girls hug their mothers and fathers as they entered the Annex. His fate was fine. So was theirs. Everything was fine. It was for the best.