In front of the bulkhead door marked CENTRAL PROCESSING 01, within a long, winding hallway structured more like an intestine than anything man-made, two EIR units stand in waiting. Their dark armor and visored helmets are identical. If one were not slightly taller, it would be impossible to tell the pair apart.
UTAH, the aforementioned taller, clicks the trigger of his safety-locked gun in a one-two, one-two rhythm. He has been doing this since the door sealed shut. Angel, the shorter, watches. It takes him another minute to work up the nerve to speak.
The filter in his helmet muffles his voice, already low and scratchy from an unrelated treatment.
ANGEL: Are you…
UTAH: Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry.
ANGEL: Nah, it’s alright, just, uh… making sure.
UTAH: Late-stage
ANGEL: I can tell.
UTAH: I— ugh. The treatments keep getting longer and making me feel worse. Every time I go they cut out more and more of me and it grows back faster so they keep cutting. I thought I’d be used to the pain by now, but fuck. Where’s my morphine, y’know?
ANGEL: Totally.
UTAH: And the rations aren’t enough anymore. I know it’s perfectly portioned for me, or whatever horse-shit the docs say, but it doesn’t feel like it. And it tastes like shit, and it has an awful texture. Fuck! I miss hamburgers.
ANGEL: American.
UTAH: Guilty. They should give us snacks or something at least— why the hell do the convicts get normal food and not us?
ANGEL: EIRs and normal food don’t mix.
UTAH: EIRs and most things don’t mix.
ANGEL: Yeah.
UTAH: I just hate it, y’know? Nothing feels right anymore. I’m sore all the time, I can barely sleep, and my teeth feel like they’re about to fall out.
ANGEL: You sound like my sister when she was pregnant.
UTAH laughs like gravel under tire. He stops clicking the trigger and says,
UTAH: Fuck you! Just wait, six months and you’ll be bitching about the same shit. And I’ll be back home, sleeping in my own damn bed.
ANGEL: You gonna write me when you get out of here?
UTAH: I’unno if I’m allowed to. And I don’t think you want to waste your phone calls on me.
ANGEL: You’re pretty annoying.
UTAH: Shithead.
ANGEL: I’ll come visit when I’m out, though. You can show me the great land of Wisconsin.
UTAH: What’s left of it, you mean.
ANGEL allows the conversation to die out.
UTAH: Sorry. For losing my shit. And making you see that.
ANGEL: Yeah…
UTAH: Well, hey, on the bright side, she’ll be dead pretty soon. Guess the bruises don't matter as much as they say, eh?
ANGEL: God, that’s so fucked up.
UTAH: Everything’s fucked up. Learn to laugh about it. You won’t have me forever.
ANGEL: Yeah, yeah.
UTAH: Hey, bets on how long it’ll take? Five dollars, over or under thirty minutes? Keep in mind how much of a shrimp she is.
ANGEL: Ah, man, you know I don’t like this game.
UTAH: C’mon, Gabe. Indulge me.
ANGEL stares.
ANGEL: Over.
UTAH: Shit, free money. Under.
// End SCENE ONE
The break room, one of a dozen. It is white walled and filled with appliances in various states of half-working, along with a ‘NO SMOKING’ sign. Across from the shut-and-locked door is a black leather couch. THE HEAD RESEARCHER
The room is quiet, but only for a moment. Distant footsteps click, rising in volume. The doorknob rattles and the break room door opens gently.
ENTER: THE HEAD PHYSICIAN
PHYSICIAN: You’re stinking up the place.
RESEARCHER: Mm.
He exhales without opening his eyes.
RESEARCHER: Don’t tattle.
PHYSICIAN: Ugh.
She takes a seat beside him, crossing her legs and leaning on the plush armrest. One hand fetches a cigarette from the inside of her bra. Wordlessly, THE HEAD RESEARCHER produces a lighter and sets it alight.
Inhale, exhale. More smoke.
RESEARCHER: Six isn't so bad, considering everything.
He wants to (but does not) say, 'could be worse'.
PHYSICIAN: What about her
RESEARCHER: What about her? As far as I'm concerned, her new job is keeping it entertained.
RESEARCHER: I still think the extra time was entirely unnecessary. It's a testy little thing.
PHYSICIAN: She was in remission, Vidal. She should still be in remission.
RESEARCHER: What it does with its toys is none of our concern—
PHYSICIAN: It didn't do that. Yours did. So, since you're so worried about extra time, could you remind them that drones are off limits, maybe? We wouldn't be in this situation if your dogs knew how to fucking behave.
THE HEAD RESEARCHER leans forward, eyes opening, finally sparing her a glance. THE HEAD PHYSICIAN, face obscured by a manicured hand, rubs her temples, then shakes her head.
PHYSICIAN: Sorry.
RESEARCHER: There's no need for that, it's a fair assessment. Are you alright?
PHYSICIAN: I'm tired.
RESEARCHER: Everyone is.
She does not respond. He fills the silence with pointed small talk.
RESEARCHER: Did you ever get the specifics?
PHYSICIAN: Regarding..?
RESEARCHER: The shutdown
PHYSICIAN: Oh.
RESEARCHER: If it's a tricky subject, we don't have to—
PHYSICIAN: It's fine, Vidal. Everyone's already picked me clean. You're late to the party.
RESEARCHER: I'm being respectful. I know you like your privacy.
PHYSICIAN: It's fine. Just don't take too long, yeah? I'd like to actually enjoy my break.
RESEARCHER: ...
RESEARCHER: Alright. You were their On-Site Physician, correct?
PHYSICIAN: Emergency. But with how short-handed we are here, I wouldn't be surprised if I also worked appointments back then. It's why they promoted me so quickly.
PHYSICIAN: Well, that, and...
RESEARCHER: 'The sudden vacancy'
PHYSICIAN: Yeah. Doesn't feel great. What did you get told?
RESEARCHER: About you? Or the former physician?
PHYSICIAN: About the shutdown, Vidal.
RESEARCHER: Oh. Not much. A corporate goodbye and a few transferred employees. Beyond that, we know about as much as the public.
PHYSICIAN: Even you?
THE HEAD RESEARCHER smiles, tense and tight-lipped. It is a sore subject, but he is professional enough to force a measured tone.
RESEARCHER: Even me. It sounds like a cruel joke, I know. But, no matter my role in its discovery, I'm still nothing more than another researcher.
RESEARCHER: At least my name is published. What a nice memento.
PHYSICIAN: It's nice having a name to blame. And if you leave...
RESEARCHER: Of course! Why do you think I'm still here? Certaintly not the benefits.
PHYSICIAN: Heh.
RESEARCHER: How much do you know? About your former place of work?
PHYSICIAN: Not much.
RESEARCHER: Pity. How was the severance?
PHYSICIAN: Not enough to be worth it. But I... I guess forgetting seemed easier.
PHYSICIAN: I assume, anyways. That part of me isn't exactly around to ask.
RESEARCHER: ...
RESEARCHER: Why put yourself through it?
PHYSICIAN: Playing therapist, doctor?
RESEARCHER: It's only curiosity. Do tell me if I am overstepping.
PHYSICIAN: It's... fine. I don't know why.
RESEARCHER: Unfortunate, but... to be expected. Do you remember anything?
PHYSICIAN: Kind of. Its a new field and the long term effects are barely studied, so... I think there's a level of retention.
RESEARCHER: Mm. It's not as if they can lobotomize
PHYSICIAN: Yeah. I lost a lot of detail work. Faces and names of my coworkers, passwords and pin codes, mistakes I made— all of that is gone. Maybe it'll come back. Probably not.
PHYSICIAN: God, seven years of my life, and the only thing I have to prove it happened is a nicotine addiction.
RESEARCHER: And a terrible work-life balance.
PHYSICIAN: And a terrible work-life balance!
PHYSICIAN: And feelings, I guess. A lot of guilt I can't place the source of. It's why I haven't bothered trying to reintegrate, even if I'm legally off the hook. If a new station will have me, I might as well stay.
RESEARCHER: Does being here... help?
PHYSICIAN: Most of the time.
RESEARCHER: And when it doesn't?
THE HEAD PHYSICIAN stubs her cigarette into the faux-leather. Ash and ember smear onto it, and she flicks the butt into a nearby trashcan. It hits the wall and falls onto the floor. She does not move to pick it up.
PHYSICIAN: Deja vu.
She stands, brushing herself off.
PHYSICIAN: Here's hoping yours is better behaved.
// End SCENE TWO
Central Processing 01. Once a week, it is an endless system of wet tunnels in existence solely for entertainment. Twice a week, it is a stretch of droning servers and overgrown cables in need of rigorous trimming. Now, it is home to a single terminal, and you.
You make contact, but there is no pain. The chemically sealed rubber of your gloves provides protection, but it does not stop you from feeling the the way it writhes, the way it squirms, the way it shifts under your touch with a kind of excitement. You are warmer than expected— the discovery of which is both horrifying and delightful.