The Dancers

The lighted screen flickered briefly before turning to a gilded logo: two hands clasped together, with a burning flag of red, white, and blue behind them. Utilitarian, rhythmic drums began in the background, coupled with the soft bleats and overly high-pitched sounds of trumpets. Mrs. Johnson sighed at her husband, huffing irritably through her mask.
"Do they really have to show the national symbol before and after every show? I feel like I see it more often then the actual programs."
"Hush darling, it's about to start." Mr. Johnson absentmindedly pat Mrs. Johnson's arm, staring at the screen.
Thirty seconds passed, then the music and emblem faded out, before flickering to a picture of the stage. A line of dark skinned girls wearing medical masks surged onto the stage, prancing in their shoes. Immediately they began to dance to the sound of repetitive drums and constant trumpets, twirling and spinning in perfect unison. Mrs. Johnson giggled, swaying to the sound of the music, staring in awe at the dancers.
Then the dancers began to chant, their voices wavering slightly with the exertion. Their chant drowned out the sound of music, and even drowned out the sight of dancing. It weaved its way into the heads of Mrs. and Mr. Johnson, and they were completely entranced. "We give you Protection. We give you Order. We give you Truth. And through it all, We give you Beauty. We are the United States of the World." The dancers sung nonstop, the incessant noise filling the room. Faintly, in the background, the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Smith from next door watching the dancers could be heard. In the opposite direction, Mr. and Mrs. Richardson watched with their government-approved child, Richard.
Mr. Johnson was busy adjusting his mask when Mrs. Johnson gasped, grabbing his arm. Mr. Johnson looked up, seeing a single child stepping away from the other dancers, out of formation. The other dancers continued as best as they could, but the single intruder smoothly stepped into their formations and lines, breaking everyone up. The music stuttered and came to a stop.
"Men and women of the World," her voice was tiny, insignificant, "we have long suffered under this tyranny, forced to stay in our homes with our masks, and our televisions. We can't even have children when we want, forced to apply for one. No longer can we go outside, or see the sun. Our food is delivered to us. Our clothing is provided by the government." The more she spoke the straighter she stood, her voice getting louder. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson stood entranced, unable to look away. "We've had enough! They claim to give us Protection, but kill us for the slightest mistake. They claim to give us Order, and take away our freedom. They claim to give us Truth, and even that is a lie. I say enough! I say—"
Armed men stormed into the building, armed with fully automatic rifles and 9mm handguns. The other children began screaming as the soldiers opened fire. The little girl who spoke stood defiantly as two men turned on her, pulling the trigger without hesitation. Bullets tore through her flesh, ripping a scream out of her mouth. A single bullet passed through her forehead and silenced her forever. Every girl turned and ran, scrambling for the doors. A child no older than six was shot in the back as she sprinted away. An officer yelled orders and guns turned towards cameras. One by one they were shot out, until the screen was black.
Outside, the sound of large, armored vehicles echoed, making the house shake. Mr. Johnson shakily stood up, pulling himself from the iron grasp of Mrs. Johnson, and made his was to the small, closed window near the door. He hesitantly pulled open a blind, right as the gunfire started.