#8204

He stood and watched them for a time. 8204 found himself sliding down into the meditation of Quiet and Still again, but it seemed that the other three were not. They were alert, tense, like coiled springs. Ready, not just waiting. 8204 sat a bit straighter.

“I’d kennel you all for the duration,” the Master was saying, “But maybe you should look at each other for a minute. Up.” 

They rose and followed after him, not at his heel but in a tidy line, ordered by number. And he led them down the narrow hallway, down to what would have, perhaps, been a bedroom. Dog kennels (more like cages) lined the room against the walls. A thin pallet and a blanket lay folded in the bottom of each one.

The other three products filed in and took their places standing in front of three kennels. 8204 followed after and took his place beside the nearest empty kennel. It must be his.

The Master leaned against the doorframe and looked around the room at them. 8204 watched from the corner of his eye.

“Okay. I’ve got work to do downstairs. You all,” and paused, pointing vaguely at them, “do your positions until I call you.”

And he slipped out of the room, shut the door, and locked it. 

A sliver of light came through the boarded windows, gray, weak. But it was enough.The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was broken. The walls were cracked here too, and plaster dust was spread across the floor--along with the footprints of the other products.

They came closer together, four squared, and began almost in unison on the positions, 1, 2, 3, as though they were dancing. And now 8204 could see that there were bruises around their mouths and their necks and their wrists--and their ankles too and perhaps everywhere else. They went on.

They were down on their knees, chest to the floor, hands stretched out and clasped before them when they heard a gurgling scream coming up through the splintered floorboards. 

8204 raised his head (his face was dusted with broken plaster and still red from where the Master had slapped him) and looked around at the other products. 4027 raised his head and looked at him, then shook his head and ducked back down. 8063 reached out and put his hand over 8204’s hand--8204 was trembling, faintly. 

“You’ll see,” 8063 whispered.

“I don’t want to,” 8204 answered.

“You will.”

They finished their positions, including the upper numbers, then stepped through the practice again. They had finished the second series by the time the gurgling screams had dropped to low moans, grunting animal sounds. Still the Master didn’t call for them. 

They knelt together, knee to knee, face to face, four around. 8204 studied their faces from lowered eyes: numbers on their forehead, identical clothes.

“I didn’t see you down there,” 5110 whispered.

“Where?”

“Down at the main building.”

“I was night shift.”

“How long have you been there?”

“I don’t know.”

They were quiet again. 8063 reached over to squeeze 8204’s hand.

The gray light had faded and the room was nearly dark. The sound of footsteps on the cellar stairs came through the darkness to them. Some other sound, unfamiliar, but noisy--something squealing, something mechanical came along after the footsteps.

They waited in the dark. 

The thin pinpoint of light from the keyhole darkened and they heard the key turn in the lock. The door opened and the Master stepped in again, holding the door half-closed behind him. 

They turned their heads to face him and he pointed at 8204 and crooked his finger to call him over.

The others turned away again and 8204 rose to go to him.

They went across the hall; at least this room had a light hanging from the ceiling, though the walls were stripped down to the studs (and most of them seemed rotten). It smelled of mold.  There were hooks set in the ceiling joists and the wall studs. The Master threw a tall stool out of one corner and in front of 8204.

“Get up there.”

The stool had been a dusty pale green once. Now, most of the paint had been beaten off it. 8204 climbed up and sat on the stool, waiting. One of its legs was just enough shorter than the other three to leave it wobbling.

The Master turned around and looked at him with seething and disgusted eyes. 

“Gat damn, are you ever stupid. Fucking lucky you’re pretty because that’s all you’ve got going for you. Pretty ears and nothing between ‘em.”

He reached out and caught 8204 by one of those ears and pulled him up. “Get up there. Up. Put your feet on it. Up.”

8204 struggled up, finally getting his feet on the seat of the stool. He squatted there on his heels and held on to the edge of the seat. Froglike, crouched.

The Master looked at him, considering. “Yeah, you can stay flat-footed this time, I think.” He came over and pinched 8204’s cheek. “I’ll get you up on your tippy-tip-toes next time.” And he turned back into one of the dark corners.

He threw down a few lengths of narrow rope and a broken-off broomstick at the feet of the stool and then looked around.

“Well, damn,” he said. “You wait right there.” And he disappeared from the room.

8204 waited. His legs were beginning to cramp. Running through the position sets not once but twice had warmed him up. Sitting still and crouched was bringing on spasms in his thighs. His feet were going numb again.

The Master sauntered back in a few moments later, dangling a choke-chain collar from his fingers. There were spiked teeth set along the inside. 

“Knew I’d left this somewhere.” 

He patted 8204 ‘s shoulder as he passed and tossed the collar onto the pile with the rope and stick. It was then, in the better light (even one single bulb hanging from a cord was better than nothing) and closer up, that he could see blood under the Master’s fingernails.

The Master tied a knot in one of the lengths of rope and tossed over the bare ceiling joists. He hopped and caught it and dragged it down. 8204 watched.

“See, you keep looking around at what I’m doing,” he said, drawing the rope to a length he liked. “And I don’t know if I should make you quit that or not.” 

With the end of the rope in his teeth, he looped the collar around 8204’s neck, drew the end through, and gave it a jerk. 8204 gave a squeaking gasp when it tightened and the Master chuckled. He tightened the rope to pull the collar just tight enough, just tight enough, teeth pressing into 8204’s skin, just tight enough, not quite cutting breath or skin, and looped the end around one of the hooks in the walls. 8204 breathed, shuddering.

“See where this is going? You tip off,” and the Master gave the stool a kick; it wobbled, “And you choke. But we’re not going to end there.”

He pulled both of 8204’s arms back behind him by the wrists. 8204 tried to sit down rather than balance on the stool but--

“Up,” the Master said and put 8204’s palms together.

His shoulders popped, his wrists popped. The Master whistled, then wrapped the rope around 8204’s wrists, then pushed 8204’s hands up between his shoulder blades and set the broomstick across his elbows.

He was looping the rope around 8204’s elbows to keep him in place. “That’s a little ‘reverse prayer position’. Hurts, don’t it?”

He gave the bindings a tug and 8204 squeaked out another small cry.

The Master took 8204’s pinched face in one hand and turned it, side to side. “Yeah, you’re not just getting positions practice, you’re getting stretches too. I can see that already.”

With his hands bound up behind him, his feet going even more numb, and the collar pulling his neck straight, 8204 was having a harder time balancing on the stool. And the Master gave it another shove with his foot. It shook; 8204 wanted nothing so much as to drop his head to keep better balance, that much was obvious. But the collar kept him too upright for that. He swallowed hard and tensed to keep his balance.

“Not bad, not bad.” The Master walked around the stool to give him a good once-over. “One last bit.”

He took a burlap sack off a hook and dropped it over 8204’s head. 

Dark. Then: cinnamon, cedar, pine. Apples? Apples. Christmas smells. Fancy kindling smells. 8204 found his mouth watering at the scents in the bag. And yet, Christmas scents? Here? The bag--?

“Okay. Them other three have chores to do. You,” and the Master drew out the sound, teasing, “don’t have chores yet so you can stay here for a little bit.”

8204 swallowed, feeling the metal spikes pricking at his neck. His shoulders were growing sore and his hands throbbed. 

The light went out; the pull chain chimed against the bulb. 8204 was in the dark, whether he could see it or not--though in such dark it was almost as though he could feel it creeping in around him like water, like cold hands reaching out to touch him. 

They still knew their positions, but now they’d glance up for approval. They’d watch the instructors as they moved around the room. They’d still whimper when they were corrected, and now the switch was larger and sometimes replaced with a leather crop, but they didn’t scream and, best of all, they didn’t swear. 

8204, for example, had been terrible for swearing when he’d first arrived.

Now three of the five Night Shift had passed through and over and were beginning their new lessons. And, for the time being, the interrogators were present during the earlier lessons, in large part because, now that they were broken, it was imperative to set the breaks, metaphorically speaking. One had to make them permanent, and then to take out whatever pieces did not suit the whole any longer, and replace those pieces.

The lovely Japanese technique of kintsugi was another apt metaphor: a shattered piece of porcelain repair with nothing less than gold. That was more accurate. Set the breaks and gaps with the better material.

One couldn’t start from absolute zero (or beyond the zero, as Dr. Pointsman might say). Imagine trying to toilet train these creatures. Imagine trying to teach them how to eat with silverware. No one would receive their delivery in any kind of decent timeframe. One had to begin with a basis, the porcelain, break it, and then mend it with gold, the new habits and thoughts. And it did help if the porcelain was of high quality to begin with, metaphorically speaking again of course.

It was a shame that 634027 wasn’t with them yet, but he was progressing. 734862 didn’t seem close to breaking at all, which was the real shame. He may be a lost cause. Still, if he was, nothing of great value lost. (Perhaps electroconvulsive therapy? Did quite a number on memory most of the time)

They were lined up facing the wall now, at the end of their positions lessons. No blindfolds, no muzzles, no handcuffs or ropes or chains. And they were even permitted to kneel and rest against their heels (“position 2” as it was sometimes called in some of the mass-production outfits). They sat still, unmoving (save for some trembling) and waited.

8204 was newly broken, the one with the least of his new mind built compared to his classmates, and his trembling was easily the worst of the three by far. He was so deep in these seas of uncertainty, of lost identity, of hunger. And every time he was struck by the instructors for twitching or moving, he would try to stop his shaking by his own will (all the muscles in his back would tense, precious thing), which would only make his shaking worse. He knew or perhaps remembered the expectations they had for him. Muscle memory, some demand deep in his brain.

In the new late lessons, which were sometimes so much calmer than before (sometimes; there was weeping on occasion and raised voices from the instructors), he would gaze up at the interrogators-turned-instructors with desperate eyes. He wanted so much to be good. He wanted so much to be accepted, reassured, perhaps even praised. He would sit in the chair before them, slightly hunched, willing himself smaller (than he already was), but looking up to his teachers with those desperate eyes. But he knew better than to ask for reassurance--or anything, for that matter. The growing quiet that had overcome him in the last few days before his true breakdown had fixed itself in him.

So he was quiet and if he spoke it was only when spoken to--or, it could be said, he spoke with his eyes (yes, perhaps the client had requested blue eyes, but 8204’s stormy gray eyes were at least as beautiful as blue eyes, and perhaps more rare and exotic than ordinary blue).

With silence in place, they could teach him grace, fragility, elegance, ways of moving, ways of carrying himself, not the basics of positions but the best versions of each one for him. And, of course, the higher number positions could be taught too.

He would learn to be a beautiful object, a haunted doll, whose tastes would align with his owner’s, who would answer his owner’s every request. Though he still had quite a journey before him, considering that the shadow of the House already loomed over him.

But, already the interrogators left the mystery of their future owners over their heads: remember that your owner is out there, waiting for you. Your owner already desires you with every moment and you should desire your owner. Your owner has been waiting for you for so long; don’t make them wait too long. Think of how pleased your owner will be when they see how well-trained you are. Think of your owner and try a little harder.

8204 was as stupid as any of them in these raw days after their breaking, but he was a fast learner. He still had the habit of biting his lips, though. Could it be turned into a sort of “charm point” perhaps? Some unexpected and charming quirk? Something to make him seem nervous and vulnerable? Or perhaps even desirable? 

They might need to read the client’s requests again and see if there was anything that could be inferred one way or another. And 8204’s upcoming time at The House might make the habit worse.

One of the positions instructors started towards him with the stick again, but an interrogator stopped him. Instead, the interrogator himself went to crouch next to 8204.

He set one hand flat against 8204’s back and whispered, “You’re doing well.”

And it wasn’t even the same interrogator every time. There were at least three of them, though towards the end, they all began to blend together to 8204. They all knew everything about him. They had photographs. They had emails. They had blog posts. They had chat logs. They had bullshit BookFace posts. They had text conversations. They had his fucking college application essay.

“You can’t honestly think that.”

And 8204 would grit his teeth and hunch his shoulders. He’d look down at his hands, which were usually clenching into fists. He’d shake. He’d cry. He’d get up from the chair and turn away to face the blank wall behind him. He’d try taking deep breaths. He’d come back to the discussion--which was what the interrogators always said: “We’re only having a discussion. Why are you getting so angry?” 

Then there might be yelling and screaming, the desperate streams of something like explanations or defenses getting more and more irrational. Then there might be more crying, then more shouting. 

And if the interrogator needed to shout, then of course he would. But he had no real need to shout. Once 8204 got it out of his system, more or less, then the interrogator would be back in control and could direct or redirect the conversation.

“I don’t want to talk about it any more!” 

And the interrogator would answer, “You haven’t talked about it at all. You’ve only shouted. And you haven’t even proved your point.”

All of it recorded on camera: the calm, impartial eye of the camera saw all. 

It wasn’t a perfect alternation between interrogation and review--got to keep them on their toes, got to keep the rats guessing in the maze. Nor were the reviews entirely solitary--sometimes it did one well to see the reactions of one’s peers to see one’s failings, of course. 

“What do you think, 634027?”

And, say, 634027 would answer quietly, “I think he’s being, um, really emotional. Like, unnecessarily emotional?”

Then turn the conversation back on 8204 and ask him why he was being so unnecessarily emotional. Turn on him, ruin him.

Not that 8204 wouldn’t take his turn pointing out flaws in his classmates’ arguments. Turn them on each other.

It took time, but it was worthwhile. And it took longer with the ones who didn’t sign their contracts quite so immediately or, let it be said, voluntarily. It took time, but once they broke, the better work could begin.

And 8204 had just broken.

He had been getting quieter and quieter in each session--not out of spite, which was a technique he had tried at one point; the old-fashioned silent treatment (it hadn’t lasted: when they were all kept in silence and isolation, even an argument is welcome human contact). But genuine quiet was an encouraging sign. He had been rather vocal when he’d first arrived, though he seemed to hold his tongue fairly well during positions lessons and so on.

But he was truly listening now, not arguing, not trying to defend. His walls were coming down--by force now, but soon with the gentleness of demolition with an eye to reconstruction. Not even reconstruction but the creation of a whole new identity, a whole new personality, a whole new mind. The astonishing work of building a mind--that was what Dr. Pointsman had said of it.

And now, tonight, 8204 was curled up on the floor, sobbing--perhaps with the relief of surrender, perhaps with the air of one welcoming death after a long illness. There was an entirely different tone to this crying. There was no anger, no frustration, only relief, only liberation.

8204 tipped forward and now curled up with his forehead against the linoleum floor, still sobbing. 

There was a sharp knock and the door opened. A second interrogator looked down on 8204 shaking and sobbing.

“There comes a point at which they all break,” he said, and he shook the first interrogator’s hand.

8204’s file was open on the desk. The second interrogator glanced at it as the first interrogator left and waited.

After a while (perhaps half an hour? perhaps more?) 8204 was still crying, but more quietly now. He knelt down beside him on the floor and set one hand on 8204’s arched back. The sobs were still rippling through him. He leaned down beside him and whispered: 

“Congratulations, 8204. You’ve done so well. You’re so close to finishing now.”

He collected 8204 into his arms and held him--the first real contact that was not the far end of a switch or a prod that 8204 had experienced since processing. 8204 went on crying, but quieter now. He was limp, loose, a doll and the interrogator held him like a child and rocked him and hummed to him.

8204 opened his eyes. The interrogator took his face gently in one hand. 8204 turned his eyes away--already catching on, good boy. The interrogator pressed his forehead against 8204’s and whispered again, “You can let go. You don’t have to fight anymore. You can let go. And we’ll catch you.”

8204 closed his eyes again. The interrogator went on holding him and humming. 8204 drifted towards an exhausted sleep, but he realized, dimly, half-asleep, that the interrogator was humming a song he knew.