Better World by Matt Tighe

Marty is maybe twenty people from the teal void that fills the humming doorframe when he waves to the woman with the clipboard. She is wearing a grey suit and her hair is cut short. She smiles as she comes over.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he says. He keeps his voice low, but the twenty-something girl in front of him turns and raises one eyebrow. She’s kind of cute with her spiky hair, and that makes him feel like an idiot.
“Of course,” the woman says. She scans her clipboard, and then gestures to a small, much more regular door in the side wall. “Follow me please, Mr Tims.”
She walks fast enough that he has to hurry after. Most people ignore him, because their heads are full of what is in front of them. There is a man a few people ahead with a little girl in his arms. His face is creased with old worry. He stares at the front of the line while his daughter watches Marty with too-wide eyes.
The woman is right to hurry. His lack of conviction is best not displayed to the others being processed here at Better World.

There are a couple of comfy chairs placed close together, and there is a generic print of a waterfall on the wall. Marty wonders if it’s an image from the other side. It could be.
There is a door in the far wall with an exit sign above it, which makes sense. It would not be great to have to go back past the others to leave.
As Marty sits there is a thin cheer from the main room.
“Sometimes that happens,” the woman says as she sits in the other chair. “When the first one or two from a larger group go through.”
Marty doesn’t reply. He should be out there cheering. People who put their name in, they want this. Most are desperate for it, in one way or another. He thought he had been as well.
“Don’t worry, Mr Tims,” the woman says, and smiles a clipboard holder’s smile. “This happens as well. It’s a big thing to process, being one of the lucky ones.”
Now there is a small wail from behind them – the little girl, no doubt. It stops abruptly, likely cut off by the colour teal.
“What’s your main concern?” she asks, still with the smile.
“Have you been through?” he asks, which is stupid.
“You know I haven’t. No one can go through and come back.”
“I still don’t understand that,” Marty says.
“See ya soon!” Someone calls from the next room. It sounds a lot like a twenty-something girl, upbeat and confident. There is some muted laughter. He would be going through next, if he were out there. The line is moving fast.
Clipboard lady spreads her hands. “I don’t either. I’m not a physicist. Quantum transfer of consciousness means people can’t come back, whatever that means. And we still have trouble with live feeds and most forms of communication. But you’ve seen the stills, yes? The reports? All that comes with the invitation.”
“Yes, but-“
“You’ve got the contract detailing your living quarters, work and pay? We have been very well resourced to make this happen. And those who have already gone have helped set things up quite comfortably.”
She is still smiling. Patient. Holding her clipboard. “To put it delicately, if you were eligible to apply in the first place you really need a new start.” She consults her clipboard. “In your case, financially, it seems. You can’t come back, but you leave your debts behind as well.”
“How do I know that it’s all true?” he asks. “That what is over there really is? Over there, I mean.”
And that is both the crux of it and his big mistake. Her smile disappears.
“Mr Tims, we at Better World are contracted to provide this service and are scrutinised accordingly. Yes, there have been people with concerns before, but our applicants by and large greatly appreciate the opportunity, rather than insinuate unpleasant things.”
“I… I guess I’m just having a hard time believing. Believing it’s me, I mean. That got picked,” Marty says, because that is also true.
“You did apply, and once vetting is completed selection from the pool of potentials is random. It has to be someone, Mr Tims.” She makes some sort of note on her clipboard.
“Um. Has to be?”
Her smile does not reappear. “A poor choice of words, I’m sure. You are one of the lucky ones.”
She makes another note on her clipboard and then puts it across her lap.
“I appreciate your reluctance, Mr Tims. The only assurance I can give you is that we truly believe in what we are doing here at Better World.” She tips her head towards the door in the far wall. “But you do have the right to leave, of course.”
He thinks of the people in the line. The girl in front of him with her spiky hair and raised eyebrow. The father, his thin face crowded with both anxiety and hope. The cheer from the people going through, like they were on a roller coaster.
The wail of the little girl.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and stands.
He heads to the exit. Clipboard lady does not move or speak, so he pulls the door open and steps through.
There is a sudden hum from either side, from above and below. Marty turns to see the woman making one more note on her clipboard, and then there is a flash of teal.
He has one last moment to think.
A Better World for who exactly?