Today is different. Perhaps it is the slight stuffiness in the air, the hurried way you are led through your morning routine, the sourceless but ever-present dread hanging over like a blade. Perhaps it is the body sticking just outside of your vision, never lingering long enough to steal a real glance at. Perhaps it is the fact that when you prepare to make your daily pilgrimage into hell, you find yourself in the company of three new faces.

       The trio waits in the supply room: suits on, faces bare, lazing around the room in wait of something. One leans on a maintenance cart packed to the brim with heavy tools and a sheaf of paper. Their conversation drops to a murmur as soon as you and your bloodbags enter, and three pairs of eyes stare at you in muted trepidation.

       “You’re early,” says one, a woman you recognize. You worked with her once: she tried to force you into working because she knew what would happen if you didn’t. You named her Half-Hand after the missing ring and pinky digits on her left— the result of a faulty suit during janitorial work.

       She laughed off the injury after catching your stare; It matches the missing toes, she said. She's taller than you, with broad shoulders and a frame to match. Her hair is a bloody swathe of red tightly pulled into a short ponytail. When she grimaces, parts of her front teeth are missing— chewed up from rot and cut free.

       UTAH replies, “Clock in early, clock out early, right?”

       “Uh-huh.”

       The other two say nothing at first, a mystery for you to piece together. Instinct declares they are new additions to the station, leftovers from the summer season, but their suits are decorated with strips of reflective white— a declaration of their status as maintenance workers instead of the common janitorial ilk. More likely, they have been within this station longer than you, and you have simply not had the opportunity or desire to learn of them.

       You stare now, trying to commit their faces to memory.

       They are both older, larger than you, but that is normal. One has cropped, gray hair and a wide nose; his body is heavy from the grace of age, and his face is pulled into a strange sort of shock. That morphs to pity, then disbelief, then the emotion is gone. He instead puts on a wrinkle-revealing smile towards you. It does not reach his eyes, and holds longer than it should.

       His cheeks are pressed with two shallow divots. You name him ‘Dimples’ on a reflex, and look away before your skin starts to itch.

       “We’re taking this one?” Dimples asks.

       UTAH affirms with a throaty mhm.

       The other is all blunt features and harsh angles and a withering glare of disgust he makes no attempt to hide. His jaw is lined with overgrown stubble that does not quite connect with his mustache, and the dark bags beneath his eyes rival your own. He stares like you are scum, and you suppose he is not wrong. Maintenance drones earn their keep by jumping through a dozen hoops of restrictions, expectations, and inhumane conditions of work. Their safety comes at the cost of continuous and intentional debasement at the hands of those above them— and for that you exist as an ultimate mockery. You did nothing, less than nothing, and you were rewarded for it. You are alive in spite of the system surrounding you. In spite of yourself.

       It isn’t fair, and you cannot fault him for thinking so little of you. You name him ‘Mustard’ for the coloring of his sclera.

       He refuses to even humor your presence, turning to Half-hand and whispering lowly. You catch, “—this is high clearance shit. I don’t need her ruining my record.”

       Half-hand responds with something harsh, and a shake of her head.

       Dimples clears his throat. “So, you’re the solo worker?”

       You nod. He spares you a laugh that is too loud to be genuine. “Well, color me shocked! They must put you down there ‘cause you’re small enough to fit in vents.”

       It’s a joke. He’s joking, trying to ease the tension radiating from you and diffusing into the group. An apt response would be to chuckle, then retort, then to graciously allow the adults continue their discussion. You do not need to participate— it’s likely they don’t want you to do so, anyways— just give them a hint that you are not a shell of a human. Prove that you are more than dead weight and a dull personality.

       You stare until he looks away. “Right, um, they said you weren’t a fan of talking.”

       “I thought she was deaf, not dumb?” Mustard again, distaste turning to ice in your veins. “Is she actually damaged? Or just stubborn?”

       Half-Hand warns with a firm, “Giles.”

       “Whatever. But you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m playing babysitter. You two can relive your glory days, I’m sure Quality would love that.”

—

       The descent below takes twice as long and is three times louder than it has any right to be, in no small part due to your company taking it upon themselves to chatter the entire way down. The conversation shifts as much as the building surrounding it— from the weather to the station's food to music to heckling the bloodbags that lead and follow— of which UTAH takes in stride, laughing along as if speaking to old friends. His shadow gives no inclination he is even listening.

       When your group reaches the doors of Central Processing, UTAH's other half stands to the side and eases the door open. UTAH says to him, "Don't miss me too bad, Gabe," and earns an quiet exhale of amusement.

       The room is large, well lit, and lined with a few dozen data racks made of plastic and strung with wire. His terminal sits in a far wall. You wonder, Is it always meant to look like this? Is that why your companions do not pause in stunned silence, why they do not scan the new terrain or give any hint that this is anything more than routine? Have they been here— not just Central Processing, in the same room with the same layout— before?

       The answer is a resounding yes, you idiot— provided the drone is not stupid enough to forgo what keeps the room locked in place. You were, and so you did— you did not know any better. Maybe one day you will.

       UTAH takes post by the door. Mustard tells you to not fuck anything up, or you're leaving here with a bruise, which earns him another scolding from Half-hand. She says the same thing to you with a kinder phrasing. When you nod, she smiles, and the trio spreads out to begin their directed work. You do not move.

       Enough time passes for your legs to start hurting, and the terminal flickers on. You will yourself to approach, but the other drones are faster. They surround him like sharks to bloody waters.

       “Daddy’s calling.” Mustard says, bearing his weight on one foot and glancing at the terminal. “Who the hell is Fodder?”

       Your mouth is dry. Silence falls over the group. Half-hand and Dimples exchange a worried look, and Dimples not-so-subtly shifts in front of you. He says, “Who’s on the other end, the doctors?”

       "Probably. Shouldn't be. Thought we agreed they’d shut up and let us work— for once.”

       “The doctors don’t type like that,” Half-hand says, skimming the message you are not yet allowed to see. “No codes, no abbreviations— too stiff to be Guen.”

       Dimples says after a brief pause, “Do you think—”

       “Fuck, maybe,” Mustard interjects, well aware of his train of thought. "It's happened before."

       “It... can’t. Not to us.”

       “Just did.”

       “Leave it be,” Half-hand says. “‘Contact is liable to immediate termination’— don’t be stupid. Please. Let’s do what we’re here to do and get out.”

       Mustard repeats, “Who’s Fodder?”

       When you stumble forward— as if to say, me, he means me— the trio only stares. Eventually, Mustard simply says, "Makes sense."

       When you take your rightful place in front of the terminal, there is no protest.

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