DIE OLDTYPE SCUM
It’s not ironic. It’s not cute. It is a threat.
How many people are murdered because they are Oldtypes? How many people are denied employment, housing, mobile suit licenses, turned away from shelters, refused service in the Federation, and are subjected to constant ridicule and abuse because they are Oldtypes?
If you are an Oldtype, do my mobile suit and its funnels make you feel uncomfortable? I can only hope so.
Right now, when I see an Oldtype in public, I worry. I tense and hold my breath and get ready to sprint away. You frighten me. This fear is entirely justified. I’ve already been sent to the Newtype Labs for the crime of walking down the sidewalk towards my home while visibly communicating telepathically with my significant other. I fully expect to be attacked again, severely. Probably with poison gas. (The less severe attacks, the screams and threats and disapproval and hatred and thrust elbows and shoves, these are the givens. These are part of the cost I know I will be forced to pay if I wish to leave my space colony.)
Die Oldtype scum. It is hostile. It’s aggression, on my part. It is a whisper of personal agency. When the hatred Earth-born elitism and fear of Newtypes of in this culture crush in, overwhelming and unstoppable, these three words are how I push back. With a gigantic asteroid fortress.
Would that I could push harder.
-A research subject at the Murasame Institute
