The Smart Ones

What would happen if the government repressed "the smart ones"? What happens to "the smart ones"?

"Name please?" the agent asked coldly.

"Elizabeth Quinn."

"Age and grade level?"

"Sixteen years, seven months, three weeks and six days," she answered crisply.  The agent peered at her over his clipboard.  "And I am currently in eleventh grade."

"Alright then.  GPA?"

"99.98754 even."  The agent threw a glance at her again suspiciously.

"Academic courseload at the present?"

"Accelerated Spanish, accelerated English, advanced History, and regular level Math and Physics."

His eyebrows had raised in question when she'd mentioned physics.  "Grades in relation to the average?"

"Oh, I'd say a bit above average."

He flipped though some pages on his clipboard.  "Your chart says you took the government-issued Rating Exam..."

"I did indeed."

"... and I'm afraid you'll have to come with me, Ms. Quinn."

She stood up quickly.  "But why?  What have I done?"

The agent shrugged easily, not bothering to conceal a smirk.  "Your performance has told us everything we need to know: you are simply too smart."

Elizabeth was dumbfounded.  "But... but that's preposterous!  What do you mean, 'too smart'?  What's the problem with that?!"

"I'm afraid that is classified information," he replied lazily, taking her firmly by the arm.  She shuddered under his grip.  "Don't be alarmed, Ms. Quinn.  We're just simply going to go extract some more information before taking further action."

Elizabeth swallowed nervously.  She'd heard shadowy things about people who'd been interviewed like this; it never ended well, from what she understood.  Besides, she'd always hated the word extracted; no matter the context, it always sounded painful.

The End

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