The Exam

The exam room was sparse. Twelve tables equidistant apart. I was there on behalf of Provence 3.

I was ushered to my seat by an ageing female attestor dressed in the long, grey robes of the Board. I wasn't happy, and a sigh exited my lungs.

“Shhhhhh,” instructed the wizened crone. I hung my head.

At my seat, I was given writing equipment and other stationery items. Ever since the AI fiasco of 2034, all exams were handwritten. I hated handwriting. I hated exams, for that matter. I hated being forced to be here. This time I released an audible groan.

“Shhhhhh,” came the retort.

Shortly after my second admonishment, the papers were handed out. The leader of the old people (their grey robe had a hood) stood at the front and started speaking. I wasn’t interested in what she had to say, so I just looked at my upturned paper. The page was blank, except for a small message: © Educational Authority, 2037. Of course.

As I quickly lost the will to life, the leader of the crones announced The Exam was to begin. The giant digital interface above her counted down from 5:00:00. To be fair, it was already down to four hours something.

I looked down at my paper. Still upturned, yet I had no intention of turning it over any time soon. Sure, the entire Provence was relying on my score. I really wished I hadn’t aced the entry test. I didn’t really know, to be fair. We were just given a test, and me being me, I’d received full marks. Actually, I’d received 103% after finding a mistake. I’m such a nerd sometimes, but not today.

Three hours and four minutes in. My paper is still upturned. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to score anywhere near my abilities. There just wasn’t enough time left. I took another look at the blank page and an idea sprung into my head. It wasn’t a sensible idea, but it would represent my current mood well. I set to work.

I completed the hand gesture with four minutes left on the timer. The shading was perfect, if I do say so myself. I sat back and admired my work. I was giving it to the man. I assumed the head of the Board was a man. Every other boss was.

As I folded my arms in triumph, the original attestor strolled past my table. When she saw what I had done, she let out an audible gasp. Everyone in the hall turned, and the leader of the crones wafted over.

“Young man,” she said, “this is an outrage. How dare you deface this esteemed paper with this, this abusive finger.”

“How dare you ruin my afternoon with your stupid exam,” I replied, eliciting more gasps from the gaggle of crones where were now surrounding me.

“This, young man,” said the chief attestor, “is an instant fail, and we have never had an instant fail.”

“Apart from your gown,” I suggested. Further gasps.

I’d had enough. I gathered my stationery, stood and donned my jacket, and turned to walk out. One thing occurred to me on the way out.

“You know,” I said pointing to a fair-headed teen across the aisle from me, “I saw her write something on her paper before the timer started.”

Then I walked out. The Exam was in flames, and I was the match.