There is a common confusion about 'Georgia'. The confusion stems from the centuries-existent country in the Caucasus and the US state founded much later sharing the exact same name in English, seemingly the lingua franca of the internet. I think the best solution to this problem is to use a name similar to the endonym for the country in the Caucasus. Not Sakartvelo, but Kartvelia, as it rolls off the tongue nicer. This means that never again will we have to distinguish between Georgia and Georgia, and the country will get the luxury of having a name much closer to its native counterpart. The best way to drive this change is to enter Kartvelia into popular usage, so from now on, in all communications, I will refer to the country by that name and that name only, as one of the drivers of this change.
Foreword
Abkhazia was subjugated under Russian rule in the 1800s during several expansionist wars in the Caucasus and following the Circassian genocide. Since then, Russia has made life for Abkhazians all the more difficult. Other than perhaps the most grave crime, the expelling of Abkhazians into the Ottoman Empire, Russia also salted the wound by banning Abkhaz as a language in church services as part of a Russification effort.
Brief respite was had during the Kartvelian Republic declared during WWI, during which Abkhazia enjoyed considerable autonomy, and it continued up til the death of Nestor Lakoba, who gave his personal protection to Abkhazia as its administrator during the early years of the USSR. After friction with the USSR's dick-tator, Stalin, Lakoba was very likely poisoned by Soviet statesman, serial killer and serial rapist, Lavrentiy Beria. A mouse didn't fart in the Union without Stalin's say-so, so while officially only up for speculation, there is no way Lakoba's murder happened without Stalin's knowledge.
What followed in Abkhazia was a process of Kartvelification, where Kartvelians settled the empty land from which Abkhazians were expelled way back when during Tsarist Russia. It is important to note that Stalin and Beria were themselves Kartvelians.
This population of Kartvelian settlers would prove to be a hot-button issue during the prelude to the USSR's collapse. It was greatly upsetting that the majority population of Abkhazia should not be Abkhazians, but settlers occupying once-Abkhazian land as forced by the totalitarian USSR.
By playing favorites with ethnic groups, the USSR had effectively made Abkhazia a powderkeg, ensuring that if the caucasus is to ever see independence, daddy Ivan can come and mediate. Since the settlers were Kartvelian and not Russian, Kartvelia became the most immediate threat to Abkhaz identity and independence.
Smaller states always flock to larger powers for protection against whatever threat is most grave at the moment. This isn't always a good thing, but it's the way things are. I don't think it's how they have to be, though. In a sad turn of historical tragedy, Abkhazia turned to its century-long oppressor for guidance. It came to Russia.
While at first independent, after more than a decade, Russia moved in to support the small country against Kartvelia during new armed conflict. Since then, Abkhazia has largely remained reluctantly dependent on Russia, while trying to function as a regular democratic country.
For Abkhazia this is an important step toward legitimacy and proper function. For Russia it is another opportunity to expand its influence and subjugate the countries of the former USSR.
The war for independence was marked by gross human rights violations against Abkhazians and Kartvelians alike. The result is thousands dead and hundreds of thousands of Kartvelians displaced.
The story of Abkhazia is a tragedy for all involved, and there are no winners. Except for Russia.
Proposal
No one chooses where they are born. For the Kartvelians who settled in Abkhazia, it is their home. It is not right to murder and expel them. If they are not allowed to return, a massive historical injustice will have been committed against them.
Yet at the same time, it is not right for Abkhazia to have its titular, native population be a minority. The settlement of Kartvelians came as part of a subjugation and assimilation policy. It was not a natural migration, but an attempt to make the indigenous inhabitants a minority in their own country. If the Kartvelians make up a majority in Abkhazia, a massive historical injustice will have been committed against Abkhazia.
Abkhazia is only partially recognized, its main supporter is Russia. Abkhazia yearns for diplomatic relations with legitimate countries, but if the position of the world at large remains that it is illegitimate itself, it will never be able to get out of the Russian sphere of influence.
I would say the best thing Kartvelia can do to help end the conflict is to extend a helping hand. If recognition and trade normalization comes, and the world at large stands behind Abkhazia, it will not have to live under a Russian boot any longer. This would come with dropping territorial claims against Abkhazia. I would say that's worth it in exchange for pushing Russia out of the region further.
Abkhazia, very clearly, wants to be independent. Once you give a population a whiff of freedom, they will never forget it, and even if you take it from them, they will forever have that memory to reminisce about. Incorporating Abkhazia into Kartvelia might be viable someday, but that cannot come by force and it cannot come today. It has to come out of love, and it can only happen once trust has been built.
It goes both ways, though. A full right of return for the Kartvelian settlers would create a demographic crisis for Abkhazia, even if fair. There are about 100k Abkhazians living in the country, with 200k displaced Kartvelians. Their return would mean a Kartvelian majority.
This crisis could be avoided were the Abkhazians deported back in the 1800s also given a right of return. The ones in Turkiye either number as little as 15k or as many as 1.5 million. Some of those are assimilated into Turkish society and are Abkhaz only by descent, but with tutoring and re-Abkhazification they would be able to get in touch with their roots and become indistinguishable from any other Abkhazian.
Were Abkhazia to receive international recognition, those same Abkhazians in the diaspora might feel safer about coming back to their ancestral home, and with financial incentive, might even stay there.
You might find yourself skeptical since the Abkhazians that were expelled in the 1800s were Muslim and the Abkhazians in the country right now are majority Christian, but in a secular state this should be no problem.
While all of this might be a difficult sell, it is worth a try. For Kartvelia's safety against Russia, for the displaced Kartvelians, for the Abkhazian diaspora, for the independence of Abkhazia.
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Yuri Gagarin was the first man to enter space. Youâd be hard-pressed to find someone ignorant of this fact. The knowledge of his feat seems almost universal, the Soviet cosmonautâs name inseparable from history.
Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the Moon. Perhaps an even greater feat, this milestone is probably what cemented the USA as the winner of the Space Race. Like Gagarin, the Statesian astronaut is destined to be remembered forever in the collective human consciousness.
And though he raced to the patent office on the exact same day, it is not Elisha Gray who is credited with inventing the telephone. That would be Alexander Graham Bell, whose patent was approved first.
People always remember the first of everything. The first man in space, the first man on the Moon, the first who invented the telephone, such and such. All firsts cease to be men the day they fulfill their legend. They become myth. No matter what, their status can never be taken away. Never repeated. Nobody cares about the second guy who achieved something. Nobody cares about the second inventor of the telephone.
I begin putting on my undergarments. First the sweatpants and sweatshirt, then a specially made bodysuit with built-in ventilation and cooling. Already got my diaper on, though I donât have bowel problems. Always better to have one than not. Just in case.
The suit I slip into is specifically made for environments that donât allow traditional cooling, like space. To minimize sweat, water-filled tubes line the inside of the costume to cool the wearerâs body. Additionally, little vents are built in to exhaust moisture that may appear as a result of exhalation.
I wonder how much harder this might have been all those years ago. What were those men feeling when they put these on for the first time? How about when they put them on before their fateful accomplishments?
Was there anxiety? Excitement? Fear? Wonder? There must have been all that and more, but tied to something never before experienced by anyone. Something that can never be accurately imagined, only really felt. Something that happens for the first time ever. No person prior found themselves in the same position as you: the first. No person after will ever be able to say they were the first. Itâs all you and that very moment.
Do you know who the second man that went to space was? Alan Shepard. Okay, maybe you did know that one. But what of the third? The fourth? The fifth? At some point a thing ceases to be so amazing and becomes another occurrence. At some point, you stop keeping track of the numbers. But you still remember the first. Who remembers the 825th?
What about the second man who stepped on the Moon? Buzz Aldrin, right. Back when I was a kid, I was a total geek about space. Whenever the Moon landing came up, Iâd always give Aldrin his due credit. Instead of âNeil Armstrong was the first man to step on the Moonâ, Iâd make sure to say âNeil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first to land on the Moonâ. That way, both men would get recognition.Â
I donât say that anymore. Life is not a participation trophy. They may have indeed landed at the same time, but there is only one who was the first to step out. That manâs name is more than immortal. It is etched into the very fabric of human achievement. The second guy to step on the Moonâs surface is just about as important as the 825th guy to go to space.
After putting a cap around my head, I slide on the bottom half of the bulky white spacesuit. I then float through the air effortlessly, slipping into the top of the gear. I attach everything together, gloves too. The huge suit isnât as heavy as you might imagine. There is no gravity, after all. The helmet is the final component. I slot the piece over my head, the barrier between me and my surroundings becoming palpable. I find myself contained in what is essentially a glove for the whole body.Â
Itâs nothing I havenât done before.
Iâve achieved more than the average man can ever dream of. Something that was inconceivable for the majority of history. Not just human history. All of history. Only a century ago this would all have been beyond the realm of imagination. You already had people theorizing what was out there, but thereâs a big difference between the real deal and what people conjure up.
Even this great triumph is now a commodity. 825. What a fucking joke.
As I grew up, I figured Iâd just kick the can down the road until I got to my own first. Like the pieces would fall into place on their own. I breezed through university. Hardened myself through the rigorous training. Now Iâm here, and Iâve never felt emptier.Â
Iâve never wanted to live. That doesnât mean I wanna die. I donât want either. I donât really care to be honest. Donât wanna live, donât wanna die. I have nothing to live for and no reason to die. Itâs quite odd, and I never realized that until I went up here for the fifth time. I just donât want it all to have been for nothing. To have done all this just to be a footnote in a history book. Just to have a Wikipedia page with a hundred or so paragraphs (Iâve counted but it tends to shift). Iâm not some ant to be rolled over by the march of history. Once humanity becomes fully spacefaring, what difference will there be between the 825th and the one billionth?
The airlock closes behind me and the air flushes out. The doors open into deep outer space. Endless black void for eternity, an incomprehensible space filled with an incomprehensible amount of celestial bodies scattered around. Not my first spacewalk.
The first men to die in space were the three Soviet cosmonauts of Soyuz 11. Georgy Dobrovolsky. Viktor Patsayev. Vladislav Volkov. They fully boarded the first ever space station, Salyut 1, and spent a total of twenty two days in the craft. When they were making their journey back to Earth, a valve ended up damaged due to no fault of their own. The men died of asphyxiation in less than one minute. Their bodies were recovered upon landing.
The crew perished 68 kilometers above the KĂĄrmĂĄn line, the boundary between space and Earth. Thus, they were the first to die in space. If only the valve had failed 68 kilometers lower than it did. If only it had failed below the KĂĄrmĂĄn line. If that had been the case, the first death in space might still have been up for grabs.
Itâs not the end of the world. Iâm nothing if not adaptable. I crawl my way over to the panel weâve been instructed to repair. The tether hangs onto me despite me cutting it earlier. If I really floated away, I assume it would just gently slip away with me. Right now it just hasnât experienced enough movement.
Donât worry, theyâll remember. Everyone who ever set foot in space thought of Gagarin. Everyone who ever set foot on the Moon thought of Armstrong. Thatâs the way itâll be for all of eternity. Men larger than life. Synonymous with the future of our species. Men who it will be impossible to forget.
Using controlled bursts of nitrogen I launch myself away from the panel I pretended to fix. Launch myself at the other astronaut whose tether I also sabotaged. Whose thrusters I damaged before we went outside. Rookie mistake for him not to check his equipment more thoroughly.
For centuries to come they will talk of me. For millennia. I will be in the back of every astronautâs mind. During every spacewalk and every psychological evaluation. My name forever known. My achievement mine and only mine. I will be here. Inseparable from humanity. No matter how far they go, they will all be aware.Â
There wonât be a soul who wonât remember the first murder-suicide in space.
The KirĂĄlyhelmec Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.
The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as CsallĂłköz in Hungarian or ĆœitnĂœ ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.
After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.
My apologies for the repeat descriptions, but not much changes with this one. Good if you stumbled on this first, slightly irritating if you already read whatever I published before.
It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.
I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy BETA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.
The KirĂĄlyhelmec Republic and the other two states I am working on are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states which were the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion. The main difference here is that those republics are majority Russian settler, these fictitious ones are majority indigenous Hungarian. Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the BeneĆĄ Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.
SYMBOLISM:
Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Five horizontal stripes of red, green, white, green and red make up the 1:2 flag. This flag is the spitting image of KrĂĄÄŸovskĂœ Chlmec's actual flag, save for the coat of arms in the middle. The colour scheme is obviously Hungarian. I decided that copying the flag of the primary settlement would be perfectly fine, as the colours and coat of arms still illustrate the point.
In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the coat of arms of KrĂĄÄŸovskĂœ Chlmec, the grapevine wrapped around the double-cross. Unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top.
I'm not a complainer. Iâm really not. Really. I just canât with these people. Behind the glass of the observation room is a hairy, bearded middle-aged man in a white jumpsuit. It doesnât suit him. I donât think it ever will. Itâs certainly an improvement over the loincloth and cloak adorning his person less than a year ago, but the clothing he wears within the facility is little more than a façade. Heâll never fill it up properly. I know he realizes this, too. No second goes by when it doesnât look like he wants to rip right through it.
Heâs sitting at a metal grated table in a white chamber reminiscent of an interrogation room. Sitting opposite him is Doctor Tanner. Making her look much bulkier and more imposing than her actual smaller frame is the orange hazmat suit she is wearing. Sheâs from linguistics and the only high-level researcher, other than me. She really doesn't like me. Sometimes it feels like she is deliberately obstructing me at every turn. The why is still a mystery to me. The approval of others repulses me anyhow.Â
Blocking one of the hydraulic doors out of the room and also wearing a hazmat, this one a bit snug for the husky man, is Officer Hoch. Heâs one of our security guards. Surprisingly, somehow smarter than that bearded simian seated at the metal table. The only difference between the appearance of Tanner and Hoch is that the latter has a black utility belt, full of gadgets and miscellaneous weaponry. Things like zip-tie handcuffs, a can of pepper spray, brass knuckles. No gun, which I think is ridiculous. A guard always needs a gun, for the worst-case scenario. The security of this entire facility is incredibly lax and nobody will do anything about it.
What makes up for the lack of a gun is my favourite weapon. Hanging from his belt, as it is too large to fit in any pouch, is a stun-baton. The black stick is decorated with metal strips with the texture of a cheese-grater on the business-end. That thing lights up an entire room. The satisfying crackles sing in the air and bathe everything in cool blue whenever used. Iâm secretly hoping he pulls it out today. I never get to use them, despite the fact I designed the variants this facility employs.
âThis is a bear. Bear.â Tannerâs black glove is tapping a corresponding image of the wild animal laid out on the table. Unlike the other prior ten pictures, this one appears to make the monkey tense up. It cannot produce the vocalization, but there is clear recognition of the concept presented. At the same time, it seems capable of understanding this only as an image, and not the actual real animal. However, the subject still responded with discomfort, despite distinguishing it as a harmless depiction. Itâs a bit pathetic, getting scared at a bear you know isnât even real.
Bears are common in the mountain range where they were found. Reports came in from a hillside village in central Slovakia of odd primitive persons. They had been the subject of local legend and folklore for centuries until the younger generation. More connected with the world outside than the rest of the village, they noticed that these occurrences were in fact outside of the norm, and only happened in this village in particular.
âDoctor Derrick, are you taping this?â Tanner bugs me from the hazmat, voice muffled by the glass.
âYes. Believe it or not.â I say after pressing the button activating my end of the intercom.
âI just noticed youâre standing there and not doing anything.â
âThe camera is on a stand and it records by itself. Thatâs where me doing anything ends completely. What else do you want from me?â She always finds something to berate me about.
âI was just making sure.â What an idiot.
âWhat the hell are you even doing, talking to me? Is that hairy chimp not interesting enough for you? Donât you have shit to do already? Youâd think your attention would be on that thing completely, but I guess youâre too interested in what Iâm doing!â
âDonât use that kind of language around him. Thanks to you, their first words when we make something of them are gonna be hell, shit, fuck and the like.â The sigh she lets out afterwards fogs up her faceshield.
âWell, now you said them, too. Not only is your attention span shit, but youâre an incompetent hypocrite. Give him the fucking pictures,â I point at the ape, âMaybe heâll do a better job at this than you. As long as weâre throwing things at the wall.â
The creature sneaks a glance at me, then looks back at the laid out pictures with its big uninterested eyes. I notice Tannerâs gone back to the images and begun to ignore me completely. And this time I know itâs not because of an intercom malfunction, that excuse won't work anymore. I wasnât even finished. Her types always shut down whenever faced with the lightest criticism. That thing on the other side of the table is the perfect mirror to her bullshit. Its shutdown is permanent. It doesnât even fear her.
Tanner finishes playing with the subject and Hoch opens the hydraulic door leading to the inner facility. This compound can be divided into two layers. The inner layer is the simulated playpen the savages get, surrounded by sterilized halls and corridors which they are transported through whenever necessary. They need that whole sterilized set-up for a very good reason. If they ever stepped out, theyâd probably croak the very next minute. The outer layer is home to our portion of the facility, the bones and the muscles and the tendons and the other grizzly shit underneath that actually moves this project forward.
A valley shrouded by foliage, trees, all kinds of flora, camouflaged to any outside view or satellite. That valley is where they lived. We donât have a name for them, yet. A species of human completely separate from Homo sapiens. Think Homo neanderthalensis, or the Denisovans. Except these guys survived. Weâre thinking of a scientific designation right now. I wanted to name them after myself, before I discovered just how idiotic they really were. Trapped in the hunter-gatherer lifestyle, living in caves in that untouched valley. We assume their immunity is completely unadapted to modern human diseases. Direct contact would be a death sentence for them.
Tanner steps out of the airlock, now in a plain white labcoat. I turn the camera off and hand Tanner her cup of coffee, the one I made before the test. Itâs cold now.
âThanks.â she takes a step towards the whiteboard while sipping the once-hot cup. Several tests are written out on the board, mostly the cognitive kind. Each test has a few numbers assigned, corresponding to our subjects. They were loaned to the facility by the government after their discovery. Technically, they are still the property of the Slovak Republic. We do get a lot of scientific freedom over the hands-on testing, which varies from facility to facility.
âYou canât teach it language. Theyâve been in there for centuries.â I protest.
âNo, maybe not the older ones.â Tanner speaks like somebody who has heard this a thousand times before.
âThen why keep at something you know wonât work?â
âBecause we have the money to do it.â She dismisses me like Iâm just some petulant child.
âTanner, if we want these things as productive members of society, there are other marks to consider. We need to cut our losses. Maybe you can still make something of the children, but you gotta admit the adults are a lost cause. The linguistic trials are nothing but a pit to burn money in.â
âWhat else do we use the funding for?â
âThe other marks of civilization. Iâll introduce something that needs no intervention from the research team. Something which will have an effect on them even in their spare time.â
âWhatever.â She finishes her coffee and bins it. Sheâs pissed because her tests havenât gotten us anywhere. Sheâs been neglecting the core of the scientific method. You canât be afraid of pivoting.
Progress is an unstoppable steam train, though you still need to ensure the machine runs smoothly. You must burn away the slime bogging down the wheels with the cleansing flames of efficiency.Â
Letâs face it, these baboons will never learn how to talk. Never. And they donât have to. Letâs not pretend you canât get by in society without the ability to speak. The only thing that interests me about the speech thing at all is whether their throats are even evolved enough to vocalize words, or if it is simply a matter of learning. Nature and nurture, you get the idea. Perhaps only with a new-born specimen will we be able to truly tell whether language can still be taught. Until then, itâs a shame one of them hasnât died so I can dissect their insides and know for certain.
âSome of the purest marks of civilization are tender and property. Objects are assigned a certain imaginary value through societal agreement, and property is what societies have developed around.â The group we were assigned is a family of four, two child specimens, two adult specimens. Mother, father, daughter, son. They are the perfect unit to civilize, âWe divide the playpen into their own private properties, and we introduce monetary exchange for goods and services.â To finally tame those orangutans.
Tanner perks up at the suggestion. Iâve got her. Not without pushback, âAs far as we know, they have no concept of numbers and how they might relate to a societally assigned value.â
âThen weâll teach them.â
âYou might not like this, but those association tests will have to continue. You canât just throw them in that simulation and expect them to get the hang of it on their own. Theyâre not there yet. Weâll need to introduce the concepts ourselves first.â
âFine. You can have a fucking abacus, too, while youâre at it. Iâll get started with the set-up. As long as we donât lose sight-â
Thatâs when I notice it. The hydraulic door never closed. I look in the room through the observation window. Tanner is asking me what Iâm looking at. Over in the chamber, barely louder than our conversation and slightly muffled by the layer of glass and hazmat, Hoch is giving instructions to the primate. Heâs saying something while shaking it by the shoulders. It just looks down at the table. Catatonic. Lazy. I approach the glass and buzz in through the speakers.
âHoch, do you read me?â
He doesnât say anything for a good few seconds. Then, âYeah. Itâs not moving. Itâs not responding to me at all.â It should know the procedure by now.
âWell, you are allowed to ask me for permission to use force.â
Upon hearing this, Hoch unclips the baton from his belt. He nearly swings it into the air before I can stop him.
âI repeat: You are allowed to ask me for permission to use force.â
Hoch loses his enthusiasm like a kid that has to do his chores before he can go outside and play with his friend. Brawn is upset that brain is still in control.
âPermission to use force?â the hazmat asks me through the glass. The thing at the table hasnât moved a micrometer since the exchange began. Sulking, maybe?
âPermission granted, Officer Hoch.â
Louder than any word ever spoken in that room, shattering the muted barrier of the glass and traveling right into my ear canal is the youthful crackling of electricity. Blue flashes through every wall and vent. No crevice can escape from it. Hoch gets ready to swing the baton. The ape looks up at him. So now you wanna react?Â
It barely has time to cover itself before the beatdown begins.Â
Smash. Smash. Thud. Smash.Â
Interrupted by a howl or a groan every once in a while. It falls to the linoleum floor and twitches on it like a dying bug, before it stops moving entirely, save for a chest that travels up and down. Oh how I loathe him for having that stick. Despite my interruption, some enjoyment of the protocol flickers in Hoch.
He picks up a walkie-talkie and shouts into it: âRequesting security officer reinforcement at Linguistics Lab 3A immediately.â
I buzz in again, âThat wonât be necessary. Itâll take a whole ten minutes for somebody to come here, suit up, go into decontamination. Itâs pointless when you can just drag it back yourself.â
âHeâs a heavy guy.â Whiner. Thatâs literally the only thing we pay you for.
I turn back to the unamused Tanner and we begin the walk to the cafeteria. I hear todayâs lunch is pizza.
***
âI hear there was an incident at the lab today.â Doctor Bocian blurts out. No tact about it. Heâs one of my underlings.
âWhat? What did Tanner say?â
He rolls around in his chair to face me directly, âNo, not Tanner. Hoch said you were being a dick about the permission thing. That you made him ask for permission after already signaling you were giving it to him.â
âHoch hears whatever he wants to. Heâs just pissed he canât go full apeshit on the apeâs shit. Haha.â He doesnât so much as flinch at my joke, even though my wordplay was pretty clever, âListen. If it wasnât for guys like you and me, all those guards would have no idea what to do and would be spending their whole day beating all our specimens into burger meat. Hoch should be thanking me that Iâm there to stand between his sadism and a living organism. If thatâs his problem, he can suck me, I honestly donât even care.â
Bocian looks at me with a kind of admiration. Heâs one of the good ones. However, if being âone of the good onesâ is all you have going for you, youâre not actually worth all that much. Grit is what really gets you places.
Bocian rolls around to look out the observation window, âIâm just worried what might happen the day one of the kids misbehaves.â
âWhat, why?â
âThey wouldnât like those batons.â
***
The playpen is a simulated natural environment. Filled with beautiful trees, lush bushes, wild blades of grass and even a small pond in the middle. Of course, none of it is real. Itâs easier to create all that out of plastic and fabric than to actually bring it in. The excavation permits alone would be a nightmare, not to mention transportation and set-up. The decontamination would also only serve to complicate everything, so we brought in the fake stuff.Â
The most recent additions are wooden fences that divide the land into four quarters, for my civilizing experiment. Each quarter has been given a new coat of paint, ranging from red, to blue, to yellow to teal. A 360° view of the environment is provided thanks to a large one-way mirror that circles the entirety of the playpen. Behind the mirror is a plethora of guards and scientists, only a few of whom I know well. Sometimes it feels like theyâre avoiding me on purpose. I donât know why everybody is so interested in what Iâm doing all of a sudden. Almost like the entire facility has stopped by just to see my personal failure.
âWhenâre they getting back?â Bocian taps a pencil on his desk impatiently.
âItâs been about a month of education, which should be plenty. Tanner says sheâs taught them basic counting, and Iâve seen them grasping it. Hell, Iâve even acted out buying things in front of them. This will work.â
Bocian looks at me funny. âThatâs not what I asked. When are they getting back?â
âRight.â Before I can say anything else, the four hydraulic doors open up, all corresponding to a quarter of the playpen. Several guards push the subjects inside. Some with more force, some with less. The specimens themselves appear confused and disoriented. Baffled by the place they only recently got accustomed to. They are now wearing jumpsuits, each jumpsuit colour corresponding to that of their quarter. The doors close behind them. I've spent more than a month planning this. Please, let it work.
The four scan the environment, then exchange glances with one another. Itâs the young boy who braves the first steps inside. He scurries to the middle of the playpen, right up to the pond. Only he finds that it is separated by fence, encompassed by his motherâs quarter. My heart quickens in pace.
Tanner walks up behind Bocian and I. She stares at the boy just as intently as the two of us. It is at this moment I realize that everybody else behind the glass is in a trance, captivated by the scene unfolding before them with every single cell of their person. All of them asking the same thing, the same thing as I, or Bocian or Tanner, but none outloud: Will this work?
The boy begins to reach into the pocket of his jumpsuit. He pulls out a fake bill and hands it to his mother through the gaps in the fence, since the construct itself is too tall for him. She wanders over to the fence, pulls the bill out of his grip and crumples it. Then shoves it in her pocket greedily. He points at the water. I can feel my eyes tearing up. My heart is racing now.
The mother follows the trajectory of his finger with a determined gaze. She notices the lack of any container for the water, so she takes the bill over to her daughter, who has also approached the fence by now. Only the father is still by the door.Â
In the daughterâs quarter sit wooden objects shaped like bowls. The same ones found at the site where they lived. Please take them. Take them to mommy. Please.
The daughter takes a bowl and tries to give it to her mother. But the damned fence is too high. Sheâs on her tip-toes. Oh God.Â
The mother nearly cranes her body over the fence. She tries to reach for the bowl, but the planks dig into her chest, preventing her from fully bending down. The daughter tries throwing it over but the fence is too high. The fence is too high. I think Iâm feeling sick. I feel like my stomach is being dropped from a height. A kind of rushing tingling sensation.
Crowding around that center like ants. They keep trying to push the blow through. Reach it. They lean against it but it just wonât come through. The hole wonât get bigger, you idiots. They step back one by one. They study it with disapproving looks. Like you could do any better.
Then, the daughter runs in and kicks it. Once. Its efforts are almost adorable. Like a little capuchin, it kicks at the fence a few more times. No matter what it does, itâs barely enough to shift it in the slightest. It lifts its tiny fists and drums on the planks ruggedly. It keeps doing this, even though the fence stands firm. Switching between tiny kicks and little punches. Whatâs the point?Â
The son closes the distance between the fence. Heâs a bit younger. Raises its fists and begins to smash and kick as well. Sometimes taking breaks just to shake it. My jaw drops to the floor. The goddamned apes are breaking it down.Â
Then the woman-ape joins in and begins to kick and tear at it. The fence dangles ever more precariously. It could fall out and fall at any moment. Oh no. No. You fucking assholes. I wonât fail. All three beating and beating and beating at the fence. Each hit is another indictment.
The father is the last. Donât you dare. Wasnât last time enough? Slow and careful steps carry the beast while it studies the fence. Studies the rest of the family. Scars from the previous beating cover it head to toe.
I swear to God, you goddamn apes, if you break that fence down I am going to kill you. Do not break it down. Do not break it down. Donât even touch it. Stop touching it you brainless savages.
That gorilla hobbles over closer and closer. I can see everybody else in the room tensing up. I refuse to be stagnant in the face of their mocking judgement. I get up and book it to the stairwell. The fire exit door is easily breached by a single shove from me. I begin the sprint up the stairs. Adrenaline pushes me forward. I skip and trip over step after step but I never slow down. I breach the other door, the one to the second floor of the deck. The floor with the intercom.Â
I stumble and tumble into every wall and desk while circling the perimeter to make it to the button. Iâm certain theyâre all looking at me now. I donât care. I need to use the intercom. The father ape is now within a hairâs distance from the fence. Weâve never had the need to use the intercom before. Because they wouldnât understand. They donât speak. And yet, I canât not try something.Â
Iâm almost there. Thereâs Hoch sitting behind the intercom button. Mouth hanging open like some lobotomized idiot watching a kid's programme on a television. This isnât television you feckless asshole. This is my life.Â
I shove him out of the way. He makes contact with the floor. I smash the button with all my strength. My hand hurts. The intercom buzzes to life when I speak into the microphone.
âThis is Doctor Derrick speaking. If there is any ounce of consciousness in that primitive peanut-sized cranium of yours, then I urge you to listen and listen close: If you break down that fence, I am going to kill you.â
He stops. He looks around the entire habitat. Then at his family. He looks up and stops his eyes dead center on the central speaker. Like as if heâs staring it down. Staring me down. I think I stopped him. I think that stopped-
It begins to beat at the fence. The fence cracks. They wore it down. The final punch takes down the whole thing. The ape-man delivered the coup de grĂące.
I feel sick. I gotta sit down. I slump down into the nearest chair and wipe the sweat caressing my brow. What the hell.
I notice Tanner making her way around the bend toward me.
âWhat the hell was that?â Oh she is relishing in this. Whatever I say next makes the difference between some kiddy kindergarten pictures and us getting some actual results.
âItâs funny you should ask,â I stand up from the chair, âBecause it was you who was supposed to teach them monetary value and how to behave like normal fucking people.â
She looks at me with the rage of a rabid dog, âAre you saying this debacle was my fault?â
âWell, I donât think it was,â I lean closer, âThereâs nobody to blame but the apes.â
The look of realization setting in is way too sweet. The embarrassment would kill her. Keep your tail between your legs.
âYes. Youâre right. Fine. Weâll take a different approach.â
âI still have a few ideas to test.â
***
I almost leave the observation decks before Hoch grabs me by the shoulder.
âHey, so, when you shoved me back there. That wasnât okay. I want an apology.âÂ
What? What is this guy even on about? Whiner.
âIf you donât want to get shoved then donât stand in the way. Asshole.â
I resume my walk but the tall bulky man pushes me back.
âIs it really that hard to say sorry?â
âFor what?â
He pauses for a second before continuing, âIf you donât apologize to me Iâm going to talk to our superiors about what you said.â
âThat I wonât apologize to you? Yeah, good luck.â
âNo, about killing our subjects. It is completely unprofessional and no doubt grounds to get taken off the project.â
Heâs starting to piss me off. Really. âListen, Hoch, if you ever want to tell the suits about anything I did or didnât say, you can take me along with you. Iâll back you up.â
Hoch furrows his brow and walks away. Chump.
***
The lecture hall is filled to the brim. Management clearly wasnât expecting this high of a turnout. I can be sure of that because half the audience is crammed and standing and only the other half gets those flimsy plastic chairs.Â
The applause is deafening when my name is called. I am careful to not trip over any of the steps shrouded in the darkness of the hall. The only light shines from the projector in the middle of the room. The beam settles on the large screen on the podium. The hardwood floors make my steps sound like sticks and stones banging against one another. Echo. The applause fizzles out completely once I finally step behind the podium.
âThank you for the introduction, director. Indeed, we will be moving the experiment in an unprecedented and revolutionary direction. It appears that all attempts at civilizing the subjects have failed spectacularly on account of the cognitive limitations of their underdeveloped sentience. While cognitive tests appear to indicate some base activity comparable to teenagers of the Homo sapiens in the adult specimens, they simply lack the ability to form any linguistic vocalizations key to expressing something like human language. Whether that is due to organs which did not evolve for this purpose or lack of cognitive capability remains to be seen. Permission for euthanasia and subsequent autopsy of a singular chosen specimen pending. Any concept of civilizational hallmarks such as monetary exchange or private property seem to be lost on the subjects, in fact, they seem to exhibit stress-behaviours resulting in irrational outbursts of aggression. This sets their only remaining value: As a workforce.â
I allow the silence to settle in before a single hand comes up.
âYes?â
âHave you decided which subject youâll submit for the euthanasia?â I recognize the voice as Bocianâs.
Yes. The adult male. Iâll kill the father. âNo, not yet. The matter is still up for rigorous debate and consideration. This decision cannot be made lightly.â
Another hand shoots up in the darkness. I can barely see the face of Doctor Kis. He was invited to the lecture among the other applicants to work at the facility. Culture Studies. I was thinking about approving him when new spots open up.
âYes, Doctor Kis.â
âAre there any traits of cultural development present in the subjects? Art and the like.â
I remember when we arrived in that valley for the first time. I was sent to scout for samples and information. Beyond the brown paths which were stomped out by centuries of walking, there were only the caves they led to. Inside were animal hides, primitive tools and campfires. Most curious of all was that no wall of any of the inner caves was untouched, no centimeter pristine. Every nook and cranny covered in murals and paintings. You wouldnât be surprised at the skies, bears, deer and humanoids. More interesting were the planes, guns, tanks and villages. I wonder why they donât paint anymore.
âThere are some traits that seem to imply artistic behaviour in the gibbonsâŠâ I notice my slip-up. The room chuckles. âMy apologies. The behaviour in the subjects. The matter is not yet decided. Personally, Iâd wager it to be a fluke.â
***
Itâs late. Only a skeleton crew of researchers, guards and technicians rounds the perimeter during the night. The most committed few. I wish that was worth something.
I begin to drift off, eyelids getting heavier by the moment. Consciousness slipping into darkness. I still have to work out the logistics of putting them to work. Falling asleep now would be pointless. I havenât slept much since the direction of the project changed. This has to work. I sometimes have nightmares about that day with the fences. If only they were more intelligent. If only it had worked.
I stop thinking entirely when the darkness washes over me.
âŠ
Thud. Thud. Thud.Â
Loud knocking on the door. Some fucking animal chimping out on the other side. Any sleep I couldâve gotten dissipates with no mercy.
Tanner bursts into the office before I can even compose myself.Â
âEuthanize? Youâre going to euthanize one of them?â She is fuming. No self-control. Everybody in this facility is one wrong word away from a temper tantrum.
âWhat of it? It could be years before one of them dies of natural causes or in some accident. That could cause untold damage if weâre not careful. Itâs better we control the circumstance, rather than leaving it up to random chance.â
âWe only have four of them. Youâre short-sighted, like always. If you kill the father, what other pair will we get to reproduce? Those kids between one another? Or maybe the son with its mom? Think for a moment, Derrick.â
âI never said I would kill the father. Itâs still up for debate, you witless moron.â
âHa. Please. Itâs clear who youâre going to pick out to be killed.â
âWell, now that you brought the father up, I guess it would make the most sense⊠Itâs getting old, and weâre not here to nanny something with no value. Plus, unlike the mother, it canât get pregnant, which negates all merit in the subject beyond a coronerâs report.â I almost want to not pick the father out of spite. Just to see her be wrong.
âOh, great fucking act, Derrick. Now, now you suddenly realize the father would be the best candidate for your petty little revenge plot? Everybody can smell your shit for kilometers from here. You think it disobeyed your orders, ones it probably doesnât even understand, and now youâre taking advantage through a little egotistical powertrip. I wonât let you sabotage this project, you goddamn narcissist.â
âWhat? The orders? Like with the fence experiment? I donât give a shit about any of that. In fact, I completely forgot that whole debacle happened. Havenât thought about it since that day. Not all of us are as obsessive and compulsive as you, Tanner,â Evil bitch. âI know exactly what this is about. When theyâre a workforce, we wonât need little doc Tanner anymore. Once I whip them into shape and make them into productive and competent units, we wonât need somebody to repeat words for them over flashcards. You think Iâm sidelineing you? You think youâll be out of a job? Well, youâre right. Why the hell would we keep around somebody we donât need?â
Tanner stands speechless. The disgust in her face is etched so deep it might become permanent, I reckon. Dammit, I canât stand these crybabies. She tries to hide it, but we both know this is about her job. Like she gives a shit about those four primates. I canât let her undermine me.
âThatâs not what this is about. Jokeâs on me for letting you shift the blame on the apes. You tricked me. We had a silent partnership. I guess thatâs toilet paper to you. Be careful: You wonât get away with this. You wonât get rid of me.â
âListen, Tanner. This is bigger than you. This project is bigger than you, bigger than me, or either of us or anybody else. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Wouldnât you agree? Look at it this way: When the steam train of progress needs a bit more fuel, are we gonna shut the whole thing down to save a few lumps of coal? Toe the line and maybe you can stay. I donât mind you, Tanner. In fact, I kind of like you. It would be a shame to lose somebody of your mind.â
She looks at me for another ten seconds with the expression of someone who just had their child beaten bloody right in front of them. She storms off and leaves the door unclosed on her way out.Â
***
 Empty buckets, formerly filled with paint, are now discarded on the floor. The walls of the playpen, formerly mirrored surfaces and padded white walls, are now home to scribbles and paintings from one end to the other. If those jackanapes could climb, theyâd surely have defiled the ceiling, too. Iâm pretty sure I recognize the hazmats and the vehicles we arrived in a year ago among the drawings. Also numerous are the depictions of nature, flora and fauna, represented in almost equal fashion.
âWell, what else can we do? Spray it down.â I turn to Bocian.
âBut how did they get the paint? It didnât get here on its own.â
âYou let me worry about that. This is an ample opportunity to get your hands dirty and get some real experience. Put on that hazmat and get the hose.â
âShould I really go in alone? Canât Hoch or Tanner come with? Or you?â
âNo, Iâm afraid not. Youâll do great, champ. Make sure those chimps donât get you like some chump.â Bocian once again ignores my clever wordplay. He makes for the locker room which leads to the decontamination chamber. Heâll manage.Â
Bocian might be the only person in this entire facility I trust. Everybody else is a suspect, from the janitors to those other âresearchersâ. Bocian has a keen deductive mind, another trait we share.Â
This was sabotage, plain and simple. Sabotage of my lead authority on the project. Somebody wants us to go back to pointless linguistic kiddy play.Â
Those murals are a bit of a sore anyway. Ugly little pictures. Whoâs ever heard of an animal making art? Thank God nobody else is here to see this.Â
While Bocian sprays them down, Iâll head to the central security station and figure out who the hell was here to give the primates their paint.
I am nearly out of the room when I see one of the orangutans wiping their ass with the leftover fake bills after taking a mighty shit.Â
Fucking ape. I gotta get out of here before I throw a fit.
***
Deleted. Every single tape. I keep scrolling through the files. The entirety of last week is just gone. And the only person with the abilities and access needed to do this is Hoch.
âYou alright, doc?â Hoch comes back from his lunch break. Earlier than I expected. Youâd think a guy like him really savours every culinary experience, maybe gets a second helping, if you know what I mean.
âWhere the hell are the tapes from yesterday?â
âOh. I deleted them.â The words are thrown at me with such bluntness it almost appears like he doesnât even care.
âWhat are you jabbering about? Primitive asshole, this is no time to joke.â
âIâm not joking.â
I have to calm myself. I take a deep breath before continuing. âWhyâd you delete them you shit-for-brains?â
âTo cover up the paint I brought in.â
Oh this is rich. Youâre going to do this shit to me. Fucking brainless moron, if it wasnât for your senseless brutish violence we wouldnât even have you here. What worth do you have beyond being able to swing a big stick and listening to me? None. Genuinely zero. An orangutan can swing a fucking baton. I bet those assholes in the playpen can swing better, too. You dare disobey me? See how far that gets you. What use is a baton that doesnât follow orders? Fucking idiot. Letâs see if youâll care so little after this, asshole.
âThat was really careless, Hoch. I think I might have to report your behaviour to management. Introducing unapproved variables into the experiment is unprofessional and unethical. You act with complete callous disregard toward our subjects, and Iâm forced to have to request your removal from the project.â
âYouâre gonna fire me?â The question is genuine but the tone is still unbothered.
âYour lack of rhetorical tact is extremely telling. Yes, youâre getting âfiredâ.â
âListen, Derrick, if you ever want to tell the suits about anything I did or didnât do, you can take me along with you. Iâll back you up.â Iâm shoved into the wall. I lose my balance for a second. Ape. Fucking ape. Hoch is totally off his rocker.
âYou idiotic moron, of course this is all you know. I could have you decapitated and then replace your head with a goddamn lemon, sincerely tell me if you think a single thing would change. Youâre nothing, Hoch. Little beyond a little entertainment-monkey who I tell how to dance. Youâre out of line. Completely and utterly. Youâre a sadist and an idiot, and thatâs the worst combination. You donât have the smarts to make up for sadism, or the humanity to make up for your derangement. Now stop wasting my time and start packing your things.â
âNo.â
I could kill him right now. Strangle him to death. It would be so easy if he didnât have that baton. That fucking baton. My fucking baton. I designed that thing.Â
What sense does it make that some brute carries around such power and the brains of the operation have nothing to defend themselves with? Itâs completely ridiculous. What kind of world do we live in, where the educated are subject to the whims of instinctual strength? Youâll get your chance to testify, fucking idiot. Be careful what you wish for. You just made my list.
***
I take the landline off the wall and dial the directorâs number. It takes only a single ring before the phone is abruptly answered.
âHello, Derrick.â
âHey, Iâm calling about the security tapes in the facility. Letâs say someone hypothetically deleted them, is there any way to retrieve them?â
âOh. Yeah, there is. You canât even delete those. They get uploaded to company servers. Why?â
âHoch said he deleted them.â
âHoch. Haha. That makes sense. From how you describe him, it doesnât surprise me at all. You can delete those in the security station, but theyâre still on the server. He sounds a bit daft.â
âYeah. He is. You wanna know why he wanted them deleted?â
âTell me.â
âBecause just today he smuggled several buckets of paint into the Central Environmental Simulation without any approval or screening.â
âRight. Thatâs bad?â
âHoch is an idiot. Imagine if he didnât decontaminate properly and the paint now carried germs into the environment. That could mean the immediate death of the subjects and put a stop to the entire project. The success of this project is unattainable as long as he remains. You must fire him.â
âReally. Huh. Hoch.â
There is a short pause on the other end.
âEverything alright?â
âNo can do, Derrick. That guyâs union. This entire project is secret, if I share just cause with the union the whole thing could get out. Just cause overrides the NDAs. Not to mention, most of the other employees are union, too. This isnât just a Hoch problem. We fire Hoch and the entire facility would go belly-up.â
âWhat? What the fuck? What the fuck are you talking about? Heâs jeopardizing the entire experiment you nincompoop. You have to fire him. You have to-â
âShut the fuck up, Derrick. Just for once, shut the fuck up and listen. All I ask. Iâm helping you and the best thing you can do to repay my kindness is to shut the fuck up and let me do my work. I know itâs not ideal, but thereâs nothing I can do. Youâll have to tolerate him for a little longer while we manage the security firm he works for. Their contract expires this year, you can handle a few more months of him.â
I want to explode at the phone. Scream every expletive I know, and even that wouldnât be enough to get my rage out. Fuck. Oh God. Iâm trapped. Everybody is out to get me. Everybody. These people are going to ruin everything. Ruin me.
âDerrick? You there?â
âYeah. Iâm here. The steam train of progress canât run if these assholes keep pouring concrete on the train tracks.â
â⊠Uh huh. Since youâre calling, there was something else I wanted to bring up with you. You remember the euthanasia proposal?âÂ
How could I forget. âNo, not really. Why?â
âTanner submitted a counter-proposal just this morning. I read over it and-â
âThat bitch. That fucking bitch. Itâs her and Hoch and all these other incompetents, hypocrites and liars. Brutes and assholes, the lot of them. Half of the stress in my daily life would be gone if they just fucking died.â
There is a prolonged silence on the phone. I can hear a low hum of static on the other end. Heâs still there. Just say something!
âWell, I read over it. I think itâs pretty solid,â Oh, save it dumbass, âBut Iâm not gonna consider it going forward. Just so you know Iâm looking out for you. The euthanasia of the⊠Adult male specimen⊠Itâs still a go. Gave it the greenlight.â
I could almost jump up and down with excitement. No doubt heâd hear that over the phone. Fucking yes. Hell yeah. Still got it. I canât stop winning!
âHoweverâŠâ Fuck, âIt would be incorrect to say Tannerâs proposal has zero merit. Iâve decided to strike a middle ground.â I guess ânot consideringâ means accepting the thing completely. Cleanshirt asshole.
âThe euthanasia you scheduled is way too soon anyway, so Iâm moving the date forward for the following month. Itâs possible to extend it further along if thereâs a good reason. Anyway, gotta go. Talk to ya later.â
âFuck! No, wait. Hold on. What if she extends it further along again?â
âThen you send me your counter-proposal.â
He hangs up. Fucking Tanner. Fucking Hoch. Fucking primates. Cattle. Wild cattle that refuses to be herded, to produce. Sick. Theyâre all sick. Looking to infect me. Sick things forget their place. Sick things must be put down.
***
The playpen is back to how it was before that idiotic revolt. No fences, no quarters, their jumpsuits are white once again. The father and the child-specimens are currently playing beneath the tree. The father is throwing the kids up into the air and catching them. Nothing cerebral, itâs the exact kind of fun any limbed animal could have. The giggling of the children is uncomfortably hoarse and guttural. Monstrous, really. No giggling from the father. Not even a smile.
On the side of the room opposite them is the structure I recently had installed. The older female sits in the metal chair of the contraption. Today is its turn. On a silver table beside her is an oblong machine with a single crank. The ape looks tired, about to give out. Its hand turns the crank in a circle. More and more ruggedly as time passes. It takes a break every once in a while to caress its hand.Â
The device is connected through the ground to a battery in the basement of the facility, for back-up power in emergency scenarios. Eventually, I might have them power even bigger things. Maybe even the actual facility itself. These simians are gonna pay for themselves.Â
Once enough power is produced to satisfy the quota I set, food is dropped through the newly-installed trapdoor in the ceiling. I doubt Tanner could do anything like this.Â
Itâs been ten hours now. Iâve been here, watching the whole thing. Originally, the quota was two hours of labor, but Iâve been slowly increasing it while watching the ape-mother working. Iâm going to make you earn that meal.
I canât believe it's been doing this for so long now. Maybe if you didnât take all those breaks, youâd have had the food by now. These thingsâ learning curves are comparable to flatlines, even with all my help.
Eventually Iâll have all four of them turning cranks, pressing levers and pushing pedals. All three members productive and important. Science is a process, however. Today, itâs just the mother, turning a single crank. Tomorrow theyâll switch her out. And, eventually, theyâll all learn the dignity of toil. This is probably the best outcome I can gift them.
I look over at the father and the kids. Theyâve stopped playing. Now theyâre huddling together. Hugging each other, practically glued to one another. What a pathetic sight. It really makes my stomach turn. Huddled like some cold, scared, shivering monkeys.Â
A sight not too dissimilar from what my ancestors may have been going through millennia ago. Going through unimaginable harsh trials just to barely make it out alive. Stooping to places so low. Places where only animals dare go. It makes me want to retch. My own blood, my ancestors, my forefathers. Starving and huddling while sharing food scraps like cockroaches. In some cold and damp cave. Itâs impossible for this to not have been the case. I donât even wanna think about it anymore. Thank God we are where we are today. If weâve truly come so far, then why the hell are these assholes still huddling?
âHey, this is Doctor Derrick,â I speak through the intercom, âSince you guys are taking the piss Iâm just gonna disable the machine. No food today unless you wanna get serious and stop wasting my time. Peace.â
The silence settles in for a moment. The crank-monkey looks at the speaker. Then, she begins to spin faster and faster. The rest of the family watches on in silence, the huddle broken up.
How interesting.
It takes only about thirty minutes of hasty cranking before the trapdoor opens up. Finally. The mother falls to her knees on the floor and clutches her hand in agony. Could Tanner achieve anything like this? Ever? Genuinely. Could anybody?
A single pack of food tumbles out the trapdoor and lands down in the pond. All four of those baboons rush over to it. What comes next shocks me completely. In something reminiscent of a Mexican standoff, they stare each other down. Watching and waiting. Every single one. They know that the pack cannot feed all four.Â
Then, the son finally jumps into the water. He swims for the pack.
I did it. I finally did it.
âSo now you wanna stop being animals? Good! Iâm watching. Show me what youâre really worth. Convince me youâre worth my time.â
Little capuchin. Heâs so quick, and seemingly a good swimmer. He grabs the pack with his teeth. Begins to swim backwards across the water. The mother and father rush over to the side where heâll emerge. They begin to snap at him with their hands, trying to nab the pack from him. He stops swimming. Stays floating in the water. The daughter, who is opposite the parents, whistles into the air. The son turns around and throws the pack to her. Huh. I guess they teamed up?
The son beaches himself on the shore of the pond and joins the daughter. The two parents run to the two and begin to attack them. Survival of the fittest. The children growl at the two adults aggressively, before jumping on them and bringing them down to the ground. The adults get up and scurry back into the corner of the room. The children retreat into the area under the tree and share the spoils. Gray lab slop. High in nutrition. I came up with the formula myself.
I buzz in one last time, âWell, Iâm happy to see we all learned something. You guys clearly have an aptitude for cooperation, when youâve got something to fight over. A common enemy goes a long way, too. Youâre individuals in the making. Look, Iâd love to stay behind, but I have some colleagues to boast to. Enjoy your meal.â
I might not have to euthanize that beast after all. Whether it's a needle or starvation, the result stays the same. It will die.
***
âBocian, have you seen Tanner?â
âNo, not for the entire day. Why?â
âNo matter. Iâll just tell you what I was gonna tell her,â I take a seat opposite him at his office table before continuing, âI did it, Bocian. I introduced labour to those cavemen.â
âCongrats, Derrick.â Bocian says, unenthused. Sleepless nights, probably. I know what that's like.
âThank you. The mother specimen turned the crank for approximately ten hours, and once food was dispensed, the tribe seemed to shatter into smaller units who fought over the food scraps. Theyâre great at learning the value of self-interest.â
âWho got the food in the end?â
âThe kids beat the adults for the nutrition pack.â
Bocian pauses for a moment and scratches his chin. Then he taps his pencil on his forehead before saying, âWell, isnât that a bit weird?â
âHow do you mean?â
âThe kids overpowering the adults for the food. I mean, yeah, the dad got beaten like, once, months ago, and the mom worked for those ten hours. Still, are the kids really so much stronger than the adults? Arenât they actual tweens?â
My heart skips a beat. Heâs absolutely right. This was a ploy. A performance. The adults took the fall on purpose. So the kids wouldnât go hungry. Those fucking apes tricked me. Why would they do this to me? After all I did for them? If they refuse to be people, thereâs nothing else I can do for them.
I storm out of the room and run a marathon through the white corridors. I must get back. As soon as possible. I ignore all the stares of the other researchers who see me running through. I barge into the observation decks. The sight in the playpen sinks me to the floor.
Orange flickers dance on the walls of the pen, projected from the center of the room. Smoke dispensed from the flames floats up toward the ceiling. On the fire, simmering above the orange flames, is the carcass of a wild boar. Lab slop discarded in the corner. Around the campfire are the simians. Tearing at the boar barehanded and passing its meat to one another.
Fuck you Hoch. This is how you wanna play? Youâre finished. Actually done. Iâm not even mad. You just signed your own death warrant.
***
I spin the dial with aggressive urgency. The phone cycles through two rings before it is picked up.
âHey Derrick.â
âHey. Sorry for the call-â
âOh, I donât mind. Always happy to hear from you. By the way, during my last visit I found some really odd toilet graffiti. The word scribbled most often was âcleanshirtâ. Any idea what that means?â
âNope. Listen, you wonât believe what just happened. That buffoon Hoch just led a wild boar into the CES. He did the same thing with the paint before, remember?â
âYeah. I do.â
âI once again implore you to consider the possibility of contamination-â
âYou can be honest with me, Derrick. We both know itâs not about the contamination.â
I stop for a moment to compose myself.Â
âHe keeps going under my nose because of his pathetic vendetta. Itâs because Iâm the only one who will stand up to him. I canât work with someone like that. Heâs the type to sabotage the entire project just to take revenge on one person. I need him gone.â
âLook⊠We already talked about this. I canât fire Hoch.â
âThe contract with the security firm?â
âBreaching a contract isnât as bad as pissing off the union. We have better lawyers. They can exploit the clauses and everything the security firm missed. We can always have a settlement or something, itâs no biggie. However, most of our science personnel, security officers, maintenance workers, technicians, theyâre all union. Imagine Hoch goes to the union. They ask me why I fired him, where the just cause was. I canât give them that because we need this whole thing to stay under wraps. Then they call a strike and we lose productivity for God knows how long. Itâs just safer to wait until his contract runs out.â
âWell. Thereâs more than one way to get rid of somebodyâŠâ
â⊠What?â
âJust give me the word.â
â⊠Itâs getting late, Derrick.â
âOh for fuckâs sakeâŠâ
âYouâre getting a bit excessive with all that cussing, yâknow.â
âFuck you. This is my life. You fucking bureaucrats sit around in your offices and the little guys like me bear the brunt. No more. You donât wanna fire Hoch? Fine. Then I walk. I canât stay in a toxic work environment.â
âYouâre gonna walk away from the project?â
âYes.â
An exasperated sigh escapes from the other side of the line. The phone clinks on some kind of hard surface. My guess is a table. A muffled exchange between a man and somebody else barely travels through. Some paper is shuffled. I begin to slowly wrap the cord around my finger. The phone is picked back up on the other side.
âDerrick. Youâre a pain in the ass. And youâre proving to be more trouble than youâre worth.â What? If this bastard calls my bluff and embarrasses me Iâm adding him to the list as well. âIâm not gonna take on the union just for you.â
â⊠Fine. See-â
âWait. I wasnât finished. Maybe if another high-level researcher like yourself complains, I might think of another way out of this for us. Itâs not worth it just for you. I need to see that somebody else has a problem with Hoch before I do anything.â
Haha. Oh this is rich. Youâve made it too easy you moron.
âAlright. Stay on the line, Iâll call Bocian-â
âI said high-level.â
â⊠Thereâs only two high-level researchers in this facility. You want me to go see Tanner.â
âI thought thereâd be more. Huh. Well, I guess Tanner it is.â
I grab the landline and rip the cord out of the wall. I smash the phone against the floor and up the wall. The cracks spiderweb across the dented wall and small chunks fly around the room. Fucking cleanshirt. My life is hell.
***
My life is one long humiliation ritual. Splayed out for all to see. Every second I am mocked and ridiculed. This is what they do to winners. They try to force them down. Into the gutter. But Iâve never been one to stay in the gutter too long. I always rise. Like a mighty phoenix. I can bite my tongue. Just this once. Itâll make vengeance all the more sweet.
I knock on the unassuming glass door to Tannerâs office.
âCome in.â
Tannerâs sitting at her desk. Iâve been here a few times before. The models of brains, throats and vocal chords on her shelves look like the collection in a serial killerâs backyard.
She looks up at me with what I think is surprise.
âHey Derrick. Actually, could you grab that?â She points to a cardboard box in a pile of them in the corner of the room, âI need an extra pair of hands. Gonna pack my things, since you guys obviously donât need me anymore.â she chirps cheerfully.
âYeah, about that-â
âOnce word got around that I might be leaving⊠You wouldnât believe the outpouring of support. Letters from friends, family, colleagues. Twelve universities have asked me to come lecture and three other labs are seeking me out for projects. Can you believe that? I thought this was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. Youâve helped me see how many people really care about little doc Tanner. Thank you, Derrick.â
She stuffs a model brain into another box, one beside her desk. She reaches for another model and begins to lower it down. Slowly. Carefully. Savouring the words Iâm about to say. Psychotic egomaniacal shrew. The embarrassment never ceases.
âYeah. Really happy for you, Tanner,â I say while fighting against the urge to vomit right then and there, âI actually need one small favour from you before you leave for good.â
She stops lowering the model into the box and lays it out on the table instead.
âOh? Really?â
âYes. You know Hoch?â
âNot really. Heâs a security officer, right?â
âYes. I need you to back me up with the director. Hochâs been contaminating the playpen without consulting anybody first. Iâm sure you understand the danger this poses to the project.â
âItâs not my project, soâŠâ
âYou have the chance to do an objectively good thing here, Tanner. Help me take Hoch out of the picture. Help me save the project.â
âI donât know, Derrick. Nobodyâs got as good of a swinging arm as Hoch. Plus, you donât seem to care a whole lot about the good of the project either. With the killing and all.â
Oh. I know what youâre getting at. Manipulative psycho. Fine. Iâll think of another way out later.
âDoctor Tanner. I would be honoured to let you play a more present role in the direction of the project, in some capacity. I apologize for my unwise decision to take you off the project. I would additionally be happy to postpone the euthanasia of the subject by six months.â Which is when Hochâs contract ends entirely, meaning he canât come back. Meaning I can kill the baboon without having to worry about compromising in these machinations and shady deals.
âRight. But isnât six months from now when Hochâs contract ends? You wouldnât happen to be delaying it just until the air is clear so you can kill the subject right then and there?â Oh my God. It would be so easy if I could submit assholes for euthanasia, too. Unfortunately, having the IQ of a kindergartener isnât legal grounds. People like this are unworthy of the status of human.
âI didnât realize.â
âWell, Derrick, Iâm pleasantly surprised. Not many men are so humble as to come begging someone they clearly donât respect for help. Not many are willing to apologize, either. Itâs a real show of humility.â
Maybe Iâll kill her right here right now. No, Iâm patient. It wonât matter once I get my way. Some groveling is fine. Sheâll pay though. Make no mistake. â⊠Yes. Iâm quite ashamed. â
âWell, Derrick⊠Iâd be happy to come back on. Provided the euthanasia proposal is taken off the table entirely. In fact, Iâd be happy to write a proposal alongside you to bar any possibility of euthanasia in the future.â
âFucking bitch. Youâre so petty. You think this is all about you? How the hell are we gonna learn from their corpses if we donât have any? Real subtle, Tanner. Gratuitous and unashamed. Youâre killing me. Youâd sink all of human progress so long as it means you get to go to a 9-5 and make a little green. Iâm killing the gorilla.â
âThen no deal.â
She lets me absorb the silence. We stand there for an uncomfortable minute. I take a deep breath. None of these temporary humiliations matter. I have to keep the end goal in mind. One temporary compromise wonât matter when Tanner will be out of the picture in the end anyway. None of this will matter when I get my revenge.
âFine. Iâll help you with your proposal. And Iâll retract my own proposal for the euthanasia. So long as you help me with Hoch.â
âOh, and I want learning trials to start up ag-â
âNow youâre just taking the piss! Sink money back into that hole? Youâll burn through the budget so long as it means you remain âimportantâ. Forget those tests, Iâll keep you on the payroll even without them, why the hell-â
âDerrick. These are my only terms. This project is bigger than you or me. This is about the good of progress, the good of the world. Throw away your ego. Or do you not care about anything else?â
I nearly deflate. I am stuck. I genuinely donât know what to do. Hoch needs to go. Immediately. Iâll figure out the rest as I go along.
âFine. I agree. Whatever.â
âSwell. But if you pull any kind of shit like last time, after that debacle of an experiment when you tried to shut me out, Iâll be prepared. Donât let the door hit you on the way out.â
***
The director seemed almost surprised when Tanner backed me up. Underestimating me will be their final mistake. Iâm still in a deep pile of shit. Hoch is gone, but in his place is Tanner wasting money and my stamp of approval on a paper arguing against the killing of that pompous gibbon.
I am nothing if not resilient. Nothing if not adaptable. There is nothing I canât bounce back from. I am an impenetrable fortress. No matter how low the supplies ever get, no matter how bad the situation looks, I always recover. I always reorganize and go back on the offensive.
The director doesnât want a strike? Well, fuck him. Iâll make it happen. And when all the guards are gone, when only the skeleton crew is left in the facility, Iâm going to do the world a favor and kill them all. Iâm going to kill those fucking apes.Â
I catch Hoch in the parking garages, about to leave in his truck.
âWait, Hoch!â
He jerks back in surprise. His expression scowls upon seeing who I am.
âWhat? Iâm off.â
âI heard youâre leaving. Iâm really sorry to hear that.â
âHuh? Youâre sorry? Why?â
âItâs because of me. I convinced Tanner to report you with me. I never wanted you to get fired⊠I-â
âTanner? Fired? What the hell are you on about? Iâm getting paid leave.â
I know exactly what youâre getting, Hoch. Pretending to be some dolt who has no idea whatâs going on is going to hurt me more than anything else. Fingers crossed that Hoch cares more about his ego than getting to sit around and do nothing, with pay.
âPaid leave? Huh, I guess thatâs one way the director can get rid of you. Iâm surprised you accepted.â
âAccepted? Get rid of me? Wait, wait wait wait. I know what this is. You guys couldnât get me fired. So you put me on paid leave. You piece of shit! Iâd expect this from you Derrick, but not Tanner. And after that paint and the boar⊠I thought sheâd have my back! That backstabbing bitch!â
Tanner? Paint? Boar? Now thatâs interesting. Iâll think about the implications of what he said later. I canât afford an outburst right now. Gotta ignore that. Gotta focus. âIâm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Hoch. Itâs just that nobody here particularly likes you. Youâre a bully hiding behind a baton. Youâre getting what you deserve.â
âOh that is it! Fuck you Derrick! You want me gone? Good fucking luck. Iâm not taking the paid leave. I changed my mind. Iâm going to make your life hell. You think you can buy me like some sellout? Tough titty.â
Hoch storms off away from his truck and back into the facility. Itâs a gamble. This must pay off. Iâll need to put more pressure on the director. Thanks to Hochâs pride, that amygdaloid idiot wonât back down. The director will be stuck between a rock and a hard place. Hoch gets fired, the union strikes, I get some alone time with the father.
Iâve just loaded the steam train with one hundred passengers. Iâm shoveling coal aggressively. Derailment is an inevitability.
It makes sense that it wasnât Hoch working alone. Tanner stays on the list, and Iâm making sure she pays. Insolent treacherous shrew. They should be thanking me for all Iâm doing. Instead they go behind my back and disrespect me. Looks like it wonât be just the father I put down during the strike. Iâll have to make it look like an accident. Or an escape.
Yes. The apes escaped after the facility was sabotaged by Hoch, who was clearly obsessed with me and wanted to use the experiment to hurt me. During the escape attempt, Tanner murdered the father, and the family retaliated against her. This is gold. I shouldâve been a goddamn writer instead.
***
Iâm called into the conference room. Already sitting at the lengthy table is Tanner. Smug and self-satisfied. I wonder how youâll be able to keep a modicum of that attitude when your face is beaten into a bloody pulp and your eyes are gouged out. Stupid cow.
I sit right next to her.
âHey Derrick.â
âTanner, Hoch knows. He knows it was us that reported him.â
âWhat? How?â
âI donât know. This is what we get for underestimating that psycho.â I hold back the urge to giggle.
âWhatâs it matter if heâs on paid leave?â
âHe doesnât want to leave. He thinks this is an attempt to sideline him.â
âHeâs right.â
âYeah. Now he wonât leave. If you want to spend the next half a year with him constantly undermining us and making our lives hell, then be my guest. I, personally, donât want to be obstructed at every fucking turn by an unhinged disgruntled employee. We gotta pressure the director to fire him. Thereâs no other option now.â
âHoch is still an employee, he wonât do shit to us. This isnât the wild west. If he does, there are legal channel-â
âHe doesnât care. Heâs been intimidating me, picking me out and picking on me,â Nice wordplay, âJust because he doesnât like me. Heâs a wild ape with a stun baton. You think heâll stop at paint and swine?â
Tanner takes a deep breath. âIâll take my chances.â She begins to get up and leave before I drag her back down into the chair by the sleeve.
âDerrick! What the fuck?â
âThe projectâs still going in my direction. I call the shots. We made a pact. You have to honour it.â
âI donât have to do shit. Youâre sick, Derrick. Go to a fucking therapist before you hurt yourself.â Myself? You fucking idiot. No foresight, no capacity for planning. I might as well put down a wad of cash on a mouse-trap and let you exit yourself out of the gene pool.
âFine. Donât do shit, and I make sure the linguistic trials never happen. Enjoy your fifty fucking universities and one hundred labs youâre pulling out of your ass. Fifty universities where, on the fucking moon? And Iâm shredding that proposal we were drafting up and putting down that wild orangutan.â
This strikes a chord with her. Sheâs clearly taken aback.
âDerri-â
âHey, howâs my favorite science team doing?â A conference phone I didn't notice before in the middle of the table interrupts us. Out of the speaker comes the voice of the director.
âYeah, great. Iâve got Tanner here with me.â
âHey Clive.â Tanner greets him.
âOh, how wonderful! Iâll tell ya, when you guys get along, youâre a real power couple! You really ought to work together more often.â I consider arranging some kind of visit on the day of the strike from the director himself, just so I can kill him, too.
I steer the conversation: âYeah, thatâs great. Listen, Hoch refused the paid leave.â
âSo he did. Huh. He was fine with it until today. What changed his mind?â
âI donât know. You need to fire him.â
âMy hands are tied, Derrick. If he doesnât wanna go on a paid vacation-â
âYou said I need to get another high-level researcher. I got another high-level researcher. Now youâre shutting down again. When will you let us stop jumping through these fucking hoops and let us get back to our jobs? Thatâs not rhetorical, either. Genuinely tell me.â
âWeâre already on thin ice with the union, Derrick. This could be the straw that breaks the camelâs back.â
âI. Donât. Care. Either you take Hoch out of the picture, or I walk. And Tanner walks with me.â After saying this, Tanner jerks back and looks at me with a combination of disgust and shock that I donât think Iâve ever seen in a single personâs face before.
âYouâre too funny. Tanner, is this true?â
Tanner opens her mouth to answer. Before she can, I pull her close and whisper: âIâm bluffing. Help me out now and you can do whatever the hell you like.â
She slowly leans back and relaxes in the chair.
âActually, before we sort out Hoch, Derrick wanted to tell you he wants me back on as project lead.â
âWhat the fuck?â I canât control my mouth.
âProject lead? You sure weâre talking about the same Derrick?â the director asks.Â
âYes. I. I actually said co-lead. Tanner misspoke.â
Tanner frowns but stays quiet.
âWonderful! Great! Awesome! But whatâs it matter if neither of you works here?â
âYou fire Hoch and you get both of us as co-leads. Thatâs the pitch.â Tanner speaks.
An extremely long silence follows. Both Tanner and I feel it. We begin to look around. I almost want to ask the director if heâs even there.
â⊠Fine.â
I jump out of my seat. I could almost begin dancing. If only there was nobody else in the room.
âOh my God. Good work, Tanner. Now that fucking cleanshirt can-â
âCleanshirt?â The director is still on the line, âI didnât realize that âcleanshirtâ was an insult directed at me personally. How delightful, thank you so much! How about thanking me personally for building this company and dedicating almost 10 years of my life to it, you ungrateful ignoramus.â He hangs up.
âLetâs hope Hoch still gets fired and you didnât just sink our whole attempt.â Tanner hurls the words at me.
âYes. Letâs.â Because if the strike doesnât happen, I have no idea how else Iâm going to kill all of you.
***
âDoctor Derrick!â I see Kis racing down the hall towards me. I approved him earlier this week. Heâs not integrated into the skeleton crew, but heâs also non-union. The perfect witness to stumble upon the tragedy the next morning. Hoch had a track record of sneaking in disallowed materials out of misplaced sympathy for the subjects. This was his revenge. Taking out the security systems entirely. Well, not yet. Thatâll happen later.
âAh, Doctor Kis. How are you liking the facility?â
âItâs really something else. But itâs nothing compared to the prestige of working with you, Doctor Derrick. I never got the chance to thank you for approving me,â Alright, this guyâs going places. He might even be a better Bocian than Bocian himself, âI mean, working with a professional such as yourself is the greatest academic honour a person can have bestowed upon them. And of course, Doctor Tanner is equally-â
âAlright alright, did you like the tour?â
âTour?â
âEverybody gets a tour their first day.â
âNo. There was nobody here to give me mine. The strike is going on.â
âAh, I see the negotiations didnât go well?â
âI guess. Why arenât you out there as well?â
âItâs the weirdest thing. They hound nearly everybody else to go union. Theyâve never asked me.â
âHuh.â
âWell, Iâm happy to have seen you today, Kis. It is getting late, howeverâŠâ
âOf course. Iâll see you tomorrow.â
âGoodbye.â
The skeleton crewâs shift begins.
***
Bocian and Tanner are already in the observation deck by the playpen, seated around the intercom. I wonder why theyâre not taking the time to do anything else, watch any other place. Why do they feel it important to watch the playpen specifically?
âHey guys. Iâm actually gonna be doing a test here with the⊠Subjects.â Maybe I can shoo them away.
âDuring the night?â Tanner asks.
âYes. I want to test the labour capabilities of the subjects during nighttime.â
âWell, Iâm sure you wonât mind if we stick around to watch.â Tanner leans back in her chair.
I grit my teeth, âOf course not.â
The apes on the other side of the glass are passed out on the fake blades of grass, rolling around in their dreams. The lighting inside the playpen is low to simulate nighttime.
I turn up the lights inside the playpen to a blinding white. Iâll skip the sunrise phase. I buzz in through the intercom, âHey guys. Itâs me, Doctor Derrick. Just wanted to perform another test. Get to work, if youâd be so kind.â
My voice and the light shake each of them awake. The father, mother and son get up the quickest. They all take up their individual spots at their stations. The father mans the lever, the mother the crank, the son sits at the pedals. The hamster-wheel is completely empty.
It appears the daughter specimen doesnât wanna get to work yet. She stays laying on the ground, covering her eyes from the brightness. I buzz in again.
âHello. Itâs Doctor Derrick. Again. Would you terribly mind getting up and working the dials? Work canât wait for one person. Weâd all like to sleep in, but thatâs just not very productive.â
She stirs on the ground. Rolls around and covers her ears. Sheâs belly-down, eyes to the ground to avoid the light. Ignore me, will you?
I step away from the microphone and turn to Tanner and Bocian.
âIâm going in.â
I take a hazmat off the locker room rack. Slipping into this protective layer. Doing the subjects an undeserved courtesy if anything. Of course, with no guards around, I fear Iâll also need to put on the utility belt on my own. I clip the stun-baton on the belt. Just by swaying my hips it swings around like a pendulum, back and forth. Itâs so heavy.
I unclip it just to hold it in my hand. The weight of the object adds so much importance to it. Heavy as a pistol. The end of the stick is covered by metal strips, the ones that conduct the electricity. I textured the strips similarly to a cheese-grater. For maximum instilling of obedience. Holding the stick feels like a reunion with a long-lost friend.
Between the locker room and the halls of the inner facility are the sterilization airlocks. Small pockets of hallway with all kinds of gadgets on the walls and ceilings. The door closes behind me and out of the walls I am sprayed with ethylene oxide. Its hiss continues until the entire room is filled up. The vents evacuate the chemical before the door into the inner area opens and I am allowed to roam.
I donât get to see the inner hallways often. So white and bland. Absent of any furniture or distinguishing features, save for the fluorescent bulbs and coloured markers so the guards know where they are. Even in the outer layer you usually have lockers, shelves and couches. I only notice their presence out there once they are absent in here.
The playpen door is a giant metallic gate. If Iâm correct, this should be the eastern entrance. My card unlocks the door. It opens with heavy sounds of hydraulics whirring the door.
The playpen greets me inside. Itâs a strange feeling. Iâve never seen those simians so up-close. Iâve never before been in the same room as them. They all stop working for just a second, looking at me. As if they are deciphering my intentions. The girl remains on the floor.
âDonât worry. Itâs me, Derrick. You guys can get back to work.â
I enter the pen entirely. Itâs so spacious. Theyâre very lucky they get to be here. Any lesser lab wouldâve just given them the bare minimum.
The girlâs still sleeping on the floor. I unclip the baton. I poke her once with it. She tries to wave it off. Treats it like any other nuisance, distracting her from the most important thing in her life right now. The nap. Every once in a while one of the other jackanapes sneaks a glance at us.
I begin to shake her. Please donât listen to me. Please donât wake up.Â
âHey there. Iâm gonna need you to take your post. Would you mind doing that for me?â
She groans. I prod her with the baton once again. Her eyes peek out from behind the eyelids. For a moment sheâs still processing whatâs going on. Will you get to work now?
She closes them again and goes back to sleep. Just as I had hoped.
I raise the baton high.
My thumb digs into the red button with the lightning bolt symbol.
The electricity explodes from the top of the baton. Crawling up and down the metal strips. The entire interior of the playpen takes on a blue hue. Everybodyâs attention is on me now. Theyâre frozen. Theyâve stopped working entirely. Too scared to continue work. Too scared to help their family.
Her eyes are now wide open at the sight of the baton. Itâs almost like she doesnât understand what it is. But we all have to learn someday. Better sooner than later.
My heart begins to drum in my chest. Loud and quick.Â
I swing the baton down at the ape.
***
Iâm wondering whether I should clean the blood off the baton or let it cake in the ridges. Keep it there, together with the blood thatâll come later. Like souvenirs.Â
The sound of my boots stepping on the floor is heavy. I realize I forgot to take the hazmat off. How strange.
Bocian stares at the floor. He doesnât want to make eye contact with me.
âOh, come on. Youâre so sensitive. Now, you mind? You couldâve intervened at any other point. You had a million chances to do something and prevent this. Donât act like you feel sorry now.â
Bocian still doesnât look up. Moper. Tanner meanwhile is staring at me unamusedly.
âYou know, Derrick.â
âYes, Tanner?â
âYou hit like an ape.â
A shiver rushes down my back. I can feel a lump forming in my throat.
âExcuse me?â
âLike a monkey. You hit like a rabid baboon that just lost control. Bearing your teeth and smashing all around you. Like a wild monkey.â
Oh, so Iâm the fucking monkey? Thanks a lot, Tanner. Insolent idiot on a powertrip. I unclip the baton from the belt. The weapon comes to life. The blue projects unsettled shadows on her face. The electricity screams its battle cry at them both.Â
Bocian looks at me for the first time. Thank God. Oh how I wish I could live in this moment forever. Or take a picture. Iâll just have to savour this while I can.Â
Their fear complimented by the crackle, accompanied by blue. Tanner looks like she wants to say something. The electricityâs voice is much more powerful anyway. Youâre so pathetic when youâre afraid. Shivering primitives in the face of a deadly predator. Their terror is more beautiful than any sensory experience those miscreants have ever bestowed upon anybody in their entire misbegotten lives.
However. The security is still online. And the playpen is one of the only parts of the facility with 24/7 cameras. The only other spaces are the lobby, the cafeteria and the garage. Iâve set the two bombs, one in the central security station and one in the server room, to detonate in about⊠I check the clock on the wall. Ten minutes. If I kill them both here, right now, everybody will know. And even if there were no cameras, there are two of them. You canât cull in front of the entire herd. Or else the others will panic. And run off. You must pick them off one by one. Somewhere secluded.
I turn the baton off and slot it back on the belt.
âJesus fucking Christ Derrick. You scared the living shit out of me.â Tanner sighs out, relieved. Bocian goes back to staring at the floor.
âHaha. Yes. Great prank. Anyway, gott-â Before I can finish, the facility announcement system rings to life.
âDoctor Derrick, please navigate yourself to the nearest landline.â the robotic voice drowns me out.
***
I pick up a phone in one of the hallways leading to the lobby. On the other line the directo-
âDerrick! What the fuck was that!â
âWhat was what?â
âYou damn well know what Iâm talking about.â
âWith the specimens?â
âWhat? Who gives a shit about those. Iâm talking about Hoch. The company reviewed the security footage from the garage,â Two minutes til derailment, âWhy the hell did you spill? What the fuck was that for? Iâm actually curious. Did you want the strike to happen?â
âNo. I felt guilty. Some of us have a conscience, you know.â
âFuck you. Fuck you. Youâve created a shitstorm for me. And I thought it was on accident. Youâre a goddamn bastard. I donât know what you were planning to do, but itâs over. Youâre fired.â
Oh. Well. That doesnât change anything anyway. One minute til detonation. Til derailment.
âIâm fired?â
âYes, Derrick. Pack your shit, weâll send a convoy to pick you up in the morning.â
âI mean, itâs a few hours until then. I can still do some work.â
âYouâre not understanding me. Itâs over. Youâre finished. Use this time to pack everything. Whatever you donât take with you gets burned.â
âThe strike made you into a total megalomaniac. I shouldnât be punished just because youâre a bad overseer.â
âAre you being serious?â
Before I answer, red light fills the halls and alarms blast in every corner of the facility. The sirens shout in short consistent bursts. Err. Err. Err. I wonder which blew up first. The server room or the security station.
The line has gone dead. Beeeeep. All communication has been cut off. Every single door has opened. All cameras and systems offline. I unclip the baton. I swing it around in the air. It feels a bit heavier now. I have a job to do. A responsibility. Itâs time to begin the hunt. Iâm on the prowl.
The frantic footsteps of Bocian get closer and closer in the hallway. The sound of his running carries himself toward me faster than the actual doctor. Echo. The first victim of those apes stops right in front of me and tries to catch his breath.
âDerrick! Itâs all gone tits up. The doors to the playpen opened. The family is out. What do we do?â He says this between laboured breaths.
âI guess thereâs not much we can do.â
âWhat do you mean? Canât we call the security team?â
âTheyâre on strike. Whereâs Tanner?â
âI donât know. We ran off in different directions when they came out. We gotta hide.â
âHide? Iâve got the baton.â
âThereâs four of them and two of us. Baton or not, do the math.â
Oh ye of little faith. âBocian. Do you still like me?â
âHuh? What?â
âI saw how that beating got to you. I donât want it to put a wedge between us.â
âWhat the fuck are you talking about? We have to hide. Pronto.â
âYeah, yeah I know. Itâs just, you never laughed at any of my clever wordplay back before the containment breach.â
âMaybe it just wasnât too funny. Listen to me, we really gotta go.â
I guess it doesnât matter. âSure. Lead me wherever.â
Bocian turns around. Eyes looking down the hall. Crackles burst through the corridor. The baton launches up into the air triumphantly. It dwarfs the two of us. Then it descends like an eagle on his neck. Bocian was the first casualty of the ape family.
He screams out in pain and falls to the floor. I can already see valleys forming in his skin. Getting filled by blood as seconds pass. His eyes are wide. Shock, confusion. Fear. You shouldnât have mocked me. You shouldnât have doubted me. You pick those animals over me? This is what that gets you. Karmic retribution.
The second swing is to his jaw. Crawling and screaming. Blood seeping from the mouth. Worm. Groveling little worm. Puts his hands up and I smash those too. He begins to cry. Tears well and travel down his face intermixing with the blood from the jaw and neck. Drops on the floor.
I hit him again. This time in the stomach. He clutches it. Inhuman howls escape his maw. Like some uncanny creature trying to replicate the sound of man. But youâll never fool me.
I strike again. And again. And I continue to strike. Face bloody. Wouldnât know it was Bocian if not for the name tag. Labcoat red. I strike again. Bocian stops moving. Stops breathing.
I wonder what got it first. The shock, the bleeding? Maybe it choked on its own blood from the jaw? Only an autopsy can tell.
***
I stalk the halls of the facility. Looking for Tanner. Or the family. Whichever Iâll see first. My answer comes with the pitter patter of naked feet on bare linoleum. Eight legs. Itâs them.
The baton once more crackles to life. The music bounces off the walls. Traveling down down the corridor until it reaches them. And then they look at me. Terror dispensed at the slightest show of dominance. If Iâm lucky, those expressions will be the last grimace they ever make. Engraved in their faces for eternity. Iâll taxidermy them all and have them bow to me in my office. Thatâs the only thing youâre good for.Â
âCome on! Come here you bastards! Face me!â
They begin to back away. Slowly. Except for the adolescent male. Little capuchin. It stays where it is. Firm, heels digging into the ground. Clearly afraid, but firm.
They begin to holler incomprehensible noises at it. I assume itâs to convince the thing to retreat. Listen to them. Or donât. It wonât help you anyhow.
The boots are so heavy. The thuds they make on the floor make me sound so big. The crackle of electricity is my anthem. The choir that accompanies the hunt.
Why is it just standing there? I ready the baton. All common sense would dictate you should run. Of course, these creatures lack any of that. And what a shame. I couldâve made something of you all.
The baton floats into the air. Carrying my gripped fist with. The baton is more of an arm to me now than the appendage holding it. The boy keeps looking. Itâs still afraid. It keeps standing.Â
I swing the baton. And it grabs hold. What?
We tussle for the baton. A fucking child isnât going to rip the baton off me. We tug for the stick. Back and forth. I see its hands slipping further and further back. Eventually itâll have to touch the strips. Itâll get shocked. Slip-up by attrition. Iâll win.
Then the daughter rushes in. Still got wounds from the beating. Red seeps through makeshift bandages out of the fake blades of grass. It takes hold of the baton as well. Both of them are pulling. Shit. How can two snot-faced chimps have such strength?
The mother runs in and hugs both the children by the waist. Sheâs pulling them off the baton? No. Itâs helping them take it away. Fucking monkeys. Let go!
The father hobbles over. Watching its family struggle. The monkey doesnât pull on the baton. Or on them. Itâs hesitating. Then it directs that gaze to me. I feel the rage of a burning forest in that gaze. The gorilla gallops over and punches the hazmatâs faceshield.
Crack. Punches again. Shatter.
Punches again.
Iâm launched back into the corridor. Blood pours from my nose. What the hell is going on?
The family takes the baton and passes it around. Father presses the button. Electricity illuminates their figures. Colossal silhouettes project on the wall behind. Itâs so bright.
Then they turn to me. Iâm quick to take the pepper spray out the belt. In my haste I donât check where Iâm pointing. The liquid launches into my face.Â
It burns. I canât open my eyes. I canât open them. No matter how hard I try.
They begin to howl. I notice what it is theyâre saying. I can make it out.
âDoktor Derik!â they scream. All of them are screaming my name at me. It stings. I think I might be crying. Then comes the blow.
Pain. A sharp pain in my gut. Then the second blow. Crack. My ribcage feels like it just got torn apart. Thud. Another blow. This time to my leg. It feels like it could shatter just with that.Â
I canât move. The beating continues. Canât open my eyes. Pain. Canât move. The lightning jolts through my entire body. My muscles cramp. Pain in every single limb. Every muscle. Every bone.
Fire in my body. Fire in my eyes. My throat swells. Iâm having trouble breathing.
Strike. Smash. Thud. Cough. I begin to cough. Iâm sorry.
Stop. Please stop. Iâll do anything. Just make it stop.
Bam. Smash. Thud. Pow. Strike. Crack.
I think theyâre taking turns with it. Theyâre still screaming my name. Why are they screaming my name? Stop. Stop it. I donât want it anymore. I donât care. I beg you.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Youâll never be human. Youâll never be like me. Not a single one of you. Youâre savages. Fucking savages.
Smash.
***
I spent about two months in the infirmary. Tanner lives. Bocian had a funeral. The union made sure Hoch was given his job back. For the next four or so months.
Above all: The subjects escaped. The company asked the Slovak Armed Forces for assistance. A small detachment was deployed into the valley where the specimens were originally found. They waited there for weeks, but nobody came. The family was eventually discovered not too far from the lab, strangely enough. Already expired. Contact with human diseases did them in.
I wonder why they didnât return back to their home. Instead they stuck around some random lake in the middle of a heavily wooded area. They lived for quite some time before their passing.Â
The lab is polarized. Theyâre all looking at me. Half the researchers with admiration. The other half with seething contempt. Before the breach, it wouldâve probably just been the latter. Kis was the one who found me. He called me a brave bastard. I canât believe heâd call me a bastard.
I spotted Hoch with his other guard meathead buddies. He was firing up a baton to make sure it still worked. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight. The sound. I felt like crying. I told him to put it away and instead he started waving it around. Fucking sadist.
Been using crutches. Legâs in a cast and my ribs are yet to heal. Any drastic movements are still painful. I waived my right to financial compensation in exchange for my job back. Still got it.Â
Now Iâm being called into the conference room. I can already see Tanner waiting for me by the door. Stone faced.
âWell, Doctor Derrick. Congratulations on your recovery. And your job back.â
âThank you. Is there anything thatâs happened in the lab while I was gone?â
âI think youâre caught up already.â
âDid anybody get to dissect the escapees?â
âYeah.â
âW-Who?â Why did I stutter?Â
âIt was me. I stepped up, since you werenât hereâŠâ
âG-G-G-Great.â I have to keep myself from berating her. Any sudden movements and the ribs might hurt. âWhat d-did you find?â
âWeâre still going over the nitty-gritty. Most interesting was a uniquely developed gland nestled by their heart. Weâve found it to be a natural cure for cancer. Since Iâm the one who discovered it, Iâll probably name it after mysel-â
âOh f-f-f-fuck you! C-C-C-Cure for c-cancer? Are you s-s-s-serious? F-F-F-Fucking hell. W-Wrong. T-T-This all went w-w-wrong. I just came out of the infirm-m-mary, are you trying to put me b-back in? Icons-s-siderate s-s-sociopath.â My chest stings deep into my body. The ribs still havenât healed. I almost fall to the floor. I have to grip the wall so I donât tip over. Why am I stuttering so much?
âYou alright, Derrick?â
âYeah. W-Whatever.â Stop fucking stuttering.
I made my own discovery. It wasnât any of your bullshit that they said. My name was their first words. Nothing you ever taught caught on. It was me. Iâd boast, but then sheâd know about their linguistic potential. Canât have that headache start back up. Iâll save that information for a vulnerable moment.
Weâre called into the conference room. Finally. Iâm spared the further humiliation. At the table sits the director. He tells us to get seated, and we do. Across from him.
âHappy to see you guys made it out alive. Youâre real heroes, yâknow.â
âIâm surprised you even came d-down here.â I spit the words out.
âDonât worry, Derrick. Itâs the last time youâll see me. The board has decided the company needs new vision. Iâve been voted out.â
âIâm sorry to hear that, Clive.â Tanner says.
âNo worries. The strike was a total disaster, and the escape attempt after⊠Donât even get me started. It was a failure in nearly all departments. That poor Bocian boy got killed. The subjects escaped. Bummer for everybody.â
âD-D-Do we know w-who did it?â I address the elephant in the room.
âNo. Not yet. Iâve been following the developments of the fact-finding commission. The most likely suspect at the moment is Officer Hoch. I trust you wonât tell him any of that, however. In fact, if anybody asks, I didnât even tell you.â
Jackpot.
Tanner leans closer to the director, âYou said it was a failure in nearly all departments. Where was that fuck-up not a total failure?âÂ
âBy drawing attention to ourselves with the escape, the Slovak Republic took notice of our very own Doctor Derrick,â He points to me, âThey share his⊠Unorthodox vision of the new species serving as a useful labour force. His theory is considered vital to understanding the species. This is why he is now the foremost authority in the country. After pressure from the company and state authorities, Derrick will oversee the construction of a new lab. The state trusts us so much they are willing to loan us all the specimens from the species which were in the hands of the other private labs. About two-thousand live subjects. For them weâll build a super-lab with a much larger simulated environment, better equipment, and no union workers. To make sure we donât repeat the mistakes of the past. The security force this time will be a private armed group, one that can be trusted to keep their mouth shut.â
âSo Derrick gets to call the shots on everything and thatâs it?â Tanner jumps up from her chair.
âYouâre in luck, Tanner. I fought for you. And I fought hard,â Itâs like Iâm not even in the room, âYou guys just work too well together. Think of yourselves as a duo of accountability. Keeping one another in line. Thatâs why youâre still co-leads.â
Iâd stand up and scream at this buffoon. Iâm too tired. Still healing. I wouldnât want to stutter, either.
Tanner looks over at me and reaches her hand out. I stay seated, but take her hand anyway.
âIâll be happy to work with you on this project, Doctor Derrick. I look forward to our partnership.â
Her fake smile is so obvious. Then again, I also have the same fake smile on my very own face. Both of us shaking our hands, pretending weâre okay with this. That this isnât a total insult.
âL-Likewise.â
Iâll still get my revenge. I donât care how long it takes. Iâm going to kill every single one of you assholes for what you did to me. I wonât rest. Not a day will go by when Iâm not planning my revenge. Not a day will go by when Iâm not setting it in motion. Youâll all pay. Every single one of you. An entire facility of future Bocians. All of you who ever mocked me, humiliated me, disrespected me, or just didnât laugh at a clever joke I made. This is my promise to you: All of you will pay.
The cold stings my face like a thousand little prickles all over. Itâs late February and the snow has all but melted. The skyâs tinted blood red by the retreating sun, already halfway below the hills. The village is completely empty of even the smallest semblance of life, all that is left are the bodies. Half of the houses barely fit the definition of one, most of them are piles of brick and rubble. Others are a deep black of charred wood and ash. The ground is littered with a combination of busted drones and spent shells.
I cradle my submachine gun in a tight embrace, like I would my own newborn. Approaching the village is no easy task in itself. Every snap of each twig and branch under our boots puts me in a short burst of paranoid defenciveness. I treat every noise like a potential threat that has just revealed itself, only to settle down into a calm once I realize it is merely our own steps. Thatâs the state weâre in our whole trek to the heart of the village. They never shouldâve given me this gun.
A worn blue sign punctured by the odd bullet hole every once in a while reads the former name of what was once HurbiĆĄovo, name crossed out with black paint. Or, Paradicsom, though that sign is torn down and discarded on the ground.Â
I wasnât sent here by my lonesome. The other guy, squeezing his own submachine gun, is Balvan. Weâre both wearing a green-brown get-up, though I still wish we got real camo. Realistically, I wouldnât feel any safer even then.Â
The odd thing is that Iâve never learned what his real name is. Codenames were a necessity way back and theyâve stuck since. In any case, what matters more than the name of a man are always his qualities. Balvanâs hard-nosed and down to earth. Heâs the kind of guy youâd want to have your back, but personality traits are irrelevant to Lady Luck. The only difference his attitude makes is whether we die today or tomorrow. In the grand scheme, thatâs not much of a difference.
âLetâs check that building out.â Balvan points to a small house just a few meters away, probably one of the only two that are largely intact.Â
The air inside is stale and musty, and the only light in the otherwise dark room comes in through the windows. Bullet holes and splatters of red adorn the interior walls of what mightâve once been a homey kitchen. On the floor lay what I assume are the former inhabitants of the household, the very same depicted in a shattered picture that escaped its frame on the hardwood planks.
âWas this us, or them?â I break the heavy silence, barely able to choke the words out.
âI donât know.â
There is no smell assaulting my nostrils, meaning the bodies must be quite fresh. I donât wanna be here for when they start to stink and flies come buzzing about, so it might be best to drag them out before we hunker down.
âShame. Dying when the warâs almost over. It could happen to just about anyone.â Balvan feigns some sympathy.
âYeah.â
âI mean anyone. Anyone.â
âNo, I get the implication.â
âGood. Letâs drag these cats out before nightfall comes. Or else we might have to join âem.â
Thereâs three bodies, which seems to match the dropped photo. Well, almost. One family member is absent from the crimson-soaked floor. An infant.
âWait, Balvan.â
âYeah?â
âWe could still have somebody else in the house. Wouldnât want any surprises.â
I point at the photo with the barrel of my weapon. Balvan slowly turns his gaze to the photo and then jerks his head to face me.
âAre you serious? Itâs just some baby.â
âThe photo could be old. Maybe itâs a grown man now.â
âDoubt it. Even if: youâve got a loaded magazine and your fingerâs hugging that trigger like Jodyâs spooning your girlfriend. What do you have to be scared of?â
â⊠Nothing.â
âThatâs what I thought. Make sure to bend your knees when youâre lifting. And let go of that damn trigger. Donât tell me they didnât teach you any trigger discipline.â
âThey didnât.â
Tuck my gun in my pouch. I squat and grab a male corpse by the pits. I almost lose my balance because I overestimated how heavy itâd be. I mean, it makes sense. I doubt theyâve been getting much food in the middle of a warzone. All the food has gotta go to the soldiers.Â
I drag the thin man out and set him on the porch. Balvanâs not too far behind, carrying on his shoulders a former man and woman. He drops them when heâs at the door and looks at me in disbelief.
âReally? The porch? Do you want us to draw attention to ourselves that bad?â
âSorry.â
âWe should place them on the lawn at least. Or, even better, in a different house. Smell and attention both pointing in a completely different direction.â
âYeah, fine.â
Itâs as weâre dragging the bodies to the other house that a loud whooshing zooms through the air. Closer and closer until⊠A flash of light followed by a sound so intense it sends me flying through the air. I lose consciousness.
***
A low hum permeates the atmosphere. Moonlight illuminates the compact kitchen. Itself now clear of bodies, though the bullet holes and blood stayed behind. Stiffness numbs my body, splayed out on the uncomfortable floor. It takes me a few moments to recall exactly what happened and get my bearings. I lift myself off the floor only for my strength to flee from me. I crumple down.
A âHush!â follows the mild thud of my body crashing to the floor. I snap my gaze over to a figure shrouded in the shadows, the moonâs glow reflected in the eyes of the silhouette. Iâm quick to reach for my submachine gun in the empty pouch. The realization strips me of any resolve I mightâve still retained. I fruitlessly grip the air inside, praying the metal weapon will magically materialize in my hands.
âChrist! Vrabec, calm the fuck down!â Balvan spits at me through a tense whisper-shout. Itâs just him. Iâm yet to fully calm down, even though his presence is good news.
âSorry. Where are we?â I whisper back.
âDid the airstrike lobotomize you? HurbiĆĄovo. The kitchen of the house. Hello?â
âYeah. Okay. I know.â
âThen whyâd you ask me?â
âSorry. Iâm sorry. What happened?â
âAirstrike. Are you even listening? Who am I repeating this for?â he hisses at me like some snake.
Iâm waiting for all my thoughts to return. Clearing the fog I remember my submachine gun.
âWhereâs my gun?â
âMust be outside. I pulled you in pretty quick.â
âDo you still have yours?â
âOf course. Iâm not some fuck-up.â
âWhatâs that hum? The one in the background.â
âHum? You alright?â
âYes.â Better not be a concussion.
âGood. Sit where you are. Better for us to wait til morning.â Balvan opens a small pouch on his pants and takes out a small bit of paper.
âWait? For what?â
âYou were there when they smoked us. Better if we wait for back-up. No more surprises tonight. Our guys will make the rounds in the morning. Weâll just have to wait this out.â Then he picks a pipe off the floor which was shrouded in darkness prior. Covered in blood. Or maybe not. I canât really tell, itâs so dark. It probably belonged to the family.
âYouâre not thinking about lighting that up, are you?â
âWhat? No, of course not. That thingâs got the dead guyâs saliva all over. Putting that thing in my mouth is like exchanging a kiss. And Iâm not about to kiss a Magyar.â I canât tell whether that last part was a joke to lighten the mood or his actual reasoning.
Balvan begins to pour the tobacco into the small paper he pulled out earlier. His hands are shaking. Bet half of it ended up on the ground, but I canât see. By the end heâs stuffing his fingers in the pipe and digging out the remaining tobacco.
âListen, I really donât think you should be lighting one up.â
âJesus! Why donât you let me worry about that? I havenât had a smoke in days, so just fuck off and keep it to yourself.â Thereâs that whisper-shout again.
He licks the paper and rolls the cig into a cylinder.
âYou should at least hide off in some corner. What if they see the flame through the window?â
âShut the fuck up, Vrabec. I know youâre a dimwit, but you try. Which is why Iâm not hard on you. But now youâre really making me regret it. Just let me have one smoke.â
Balvan leans over to a spot thatâs outside of the windowâs field of view. A lighter I didnât see him take out before illuminates his face in bright orange. Hand holding it glides over to the cigarette sticking out of his mouth.
The flame vanishes when Balvan leans back and takes the cig out after a long pull. Smoke vents out into the air and stinks it up. His silhouette deflates almost instantly. A slow blink hides the glimmer in the eyes, the one visible moments prior. Then they open back up. The cigaretteâs glow dies down.
We bask in the nightâs hum for what feels like quite some time. Judging by his earlier confusion, I can't be sure whether he also hears the hum or not. I'd ask, but I don't want another scolding.
âNone of this wouldâve happened if weâd just expelled them all with the Decrees the first time. We wasted our shot, and now weâre paying the price.â Balvan is the first to break the silence. A low flame tracking his cigarette travels to the area below his eyes. I assume heâs sticking it in his mouth, but I really canât tell. Too dark. He takes another drag and the end of the cig flames up again, casting some light upon his face, though not as much as the lighter before. His eyes are lit with yellow, reflecting the tiny blaze.
âYeah. Maybe. I wonder what weâll do to them once the warâs over.â
âThe war will never be over as long as they stay here. Thank God for RybĂĄr, honestly. You can be damn sure the Decreesâll look like baby shit compared to whatever heâs cooking up.â Balvan takes another drag from the cigarette. Orange rushes to fill the ridges at the end.
âYâknow what I heard about RybĂĄr?â
âWhat?â
âI heard RybĂĄrâs Riders are gunning for Budapest.â
âHah. Right.â I squirm at how loud his cackle is. Like a gunshot cutting through the air. Were we anywhere else, it probably wouldnât even seem that loud. âBeen watching Hungarian news? Everybodyâs always fishing for dirt on RybĂĄr. Sounds like the exact kind of fear-mongering a propaganda department comes up with. When theyâre not dehumanizing us, theyâre smearing our leaders. Thatâs the thing about Magyars: lying is all they know.â
âWhatever you say. But I did hear it. Once the countryâs liberated, every square centimeter, theyâre not gonna stop. Theyâll roll into Budapest with tanks. And theyâll flatten it to the ground. Theyâll kill them for what they did to us.â
âSounds like a solid plan. If he wants us to lose all our backers.â
âRybĂĄrâs a madman.â
âOh, no doubt. Even before the war. However, heâs not stupid. Heâs not gonna throw away international support just like that.â
Itâs at this point that I stop responding. It feels like weâre getting way too loud. Balvanâs still sucking the life out of that shrinking cig. Getting shorter with each pull. Little orange light. He proceeds to drop the thing on the ground before putting it out.
We sit for a bit longer beforeâŠÂ
Cough! Cough-Cough!
Balvan is overtaken by a fit. Louder than the entire conversation prior. Wheezing and spluttering.Â
âDude, shut the fuck up!â
âGive meâŠâ Cough, âa minuteâŠâ Cough.
He collapses himself to the floor and covers his mouth. I donât see him doing that, but I can hear it. The coughing gets only slightly quieter. He finally forces himself to stop once another sound pierces the nightâs low hum.Â
Loud wailing, like from a small infant, reverberates from the outside and into our shelter.
Balvanâs no longer coughing.
Shit.
***
âWill that baby just shut up?â I sigh. Weâve both been keeping quiet for the past few minutes. Itâs now I decide that the loud bawling outside has gotten way too bothersome for me. Something about babies crying makes me really uncomfortable.Â
âBaby? What baby?â Balvan asks me in a kind of infantile tone.
âHave you lost it? Donât you hear all that crying?â
âOh, the crying. I do.â
âWell? We gotta go get it.â
âGo and get what, exactly?â Though I canât see it, Iâm pretty sure heâs smiling. You can always tell by the way a personâs inflection changes.
âThe baby. We have to bring it inside.â
âWhy?â His questions feel less like genuine confusion and more like heâs toying with me.
âBecause itâs cold out. The baby might die.â
I begin to pick myself up off the ground. Iâm halfway up before Balvan leaps up at me and knocks me to the floor.
âStop! Stop, right now!â he whispers in my ear while holding me down.
âGet off me! What are you doing!?â I try to wiggle him off, simultaneously careful so as Iâm not louder than the wails.
âThatâs not a baby.â he says through the sharp screams outside.
Balvan lets go and I slither to a corner opposite him.
âWhat else is it then? An old lady? Never heard a baby crying before?â
âVrabec, Iâm telling you right now, thatâs not a baby.â
âThen what is it?â
He looks out of the window for a long while and then back at me.
âItâs a drone.â
âWhat? What are you on about?â
âItâs a drone. Think about the airstrike. They saw us here.â
âWhat of it?â
âGod, how did you ever make it past tactical training?â
âI didnât.â
âThey know we were here. Theyâre just checking if we made it out alive. That sound is coming from a drone. They want us to go after the noise and put ourselves in the open. Then, they send a second airstrike. To finish the job.â he says with such confidence I no longer have any idea whether to believe him or not. I mean, he wouldnât sound that confident if he wasnât sure, would he? Then again, the sobs outside tell a different story.
âWhy not tell me from the start?â
âI didnât think youâd try and go out there.â
â⊠I still think we should look.â
âAre you mental? Are you out of your fucking mind? Thatâs not a baby crying out there. Itâs a trap.â
âAnd what if itâs not? What if itâs a real baby? We have to hide it, at least. Think about the cold. The night.â
âWho cares? Why do you care? Why is this the hill you wanna die on?â
âItâs just a baby.â
âIâm telling you, thatâs not a baby. Itâs the sound coming off a drone.â I notice that he hasnât blinked for a while. His gaze is glued to me.
âHow can you be sure? How do you know?â
âThe hum you heard, remember? Drones all have a hum.â That very hum is indeed still here.
â⊠What if itâs something else?â
âOh, right. I guess itâs the washing machine in the basement. Câmon, Vrabec. Use your one brain cell to consider this for even a second. Thatâs how they get idiot saps like you to die out there. Itâs a cruel and effective tactic.â
âAlright, letâs say thereâs a drone. What if the babyâs out there at the same time?â
âThen thereâs still a drone on our hands and we die anyway.â He blinks for the first time. The babyâs still wailing out there.
âIâm gonna go out.â
âVrabec, if you step outside, I am going to shoot you. Right here.â Balvan stiffens up, clearly on-edge.
âWhy?â
âYouâd be killing both of us.â I spot his hand inching closer to his holster. Not there yet, but getting close.
âOkay. I wonât go outside.â
âGood. I knew you werenât a total moron.â His hand relaxes but his posture is still tense.
There is a significant and heavy period where we donât say anything. All that keeps us company are the shrieks outside of the distressed baby and complementary humming. The night is far from quiet.
âIt makes me wonder.â I ask to keep our minds off it.
âWhat?â
âDo you miss home?â
âWe wonât have a home if we donât finish the job, Vrabec. You have to be strong. Not just for you or me, but for every Slovak out there.â I wish I could focus on the words heâs saying. My mind keeps coming back to the obvious. âA manâs country is all he has, and there is nothing more honourable than fighting to defend it. Slovakia is what our forefathers fought for. Donât disrespect them.â I hear the words but Iâm having trouble processing them.
âSorry, the babyâs kind of making it-â
âJust forget the baby. Itâs not even real. Itâs psychological warfare and youâre putty in their hands. They got you right where they want. If guys like you called the shots, weâd all be speaking Hungarian right now.â
âWe have a moral obligation to at least take a look.â
âMoral obligation? Excuse me? Fucking Christ, do you really have a death wish that strong? Where was this conscience when we were moving those bodies?â
âThis is different. You know that.â
âDifferent? Different how? Youâre just making shit up as you go along. If youâre not even consistent, why bother? If you want to kill yourself then letâs wait til backup arrives and I can get you in front a firing squad.â Itâs here that I notice how loud weâve gotten. Like the cries of the baby and our argument are in a tight competition to see who outscreams who. I donât even care about the noise anymore. Iâm not backing down.
âYouâre going to kill me? Youâre a psychopathic asshole. That could be an infant out there. How do you plan to live with yourself, knowing you didnât do anything?â
âAt least Iâll be alive to figure that out. Trust me, tomorrow morning our guys are gonna find a drone and youâll look like the idiot everybody already knows you are.â
âThis should concern you, too. If itâs really a baby, it's cryingâs going to attract unwanted attention. If theyâre not watching us already, theyâll surely hear us and come by because of the noise. Youâre the idiot if you havenât realized that!âÂ
Balvan sits, unmoving. Processing the dilemma on his own. Every second or so he looks outside the window and back at me. I wonder if the crying slices through his thoughts as well.
âListen to how loud weâve been the past few minutes. If they were listening, they wouldâve struck us down by now. It canât be a drone.â I donât know if I even believe my own words at this point. I have to sound like I do, at least.
âJust because they havenât struck us yet doesnât mean they wonât once we go outside. They could be waiting for a better shot.â
âIf youâre wrong, that babyâs blood is on your hands. And we stood by for no reason.â
âIf youâre wrong, weâre both dead for no reason.â Balvan spits out at me.
âI donât care. Iâm going outside. And Iâm the one doing the pragmatic thing here. Those shrieks are gonna have the whole Hungarian Army here by now if we donât step in.â
âNo.â He stands up and unsheaths his gun. âYouâre right. Iâll go outside and have a look. You stay back. If I die out there, Iâm coming back to haunt you until the day you die.â The sudden change of heart takes me aback.Â
âWait, why are you going outside?â
âIsnât this what you wanted? And youâre right about the attention all that crying could draw to us. Better nip this in the bud.â
Balvan retreats into the shadows, gun drawn. Despite the heavy boots, his footsteps are soft. I can barely register them over the screams coming from outside the house.
I can hear the front door creaking from here. Now itâs just me and the darkness. Neither the cries nor the hum retreat. Balvan is somewhere in-between the two.
An eternity passes, and then an eternity more. Still, the crying continues. The hum persists. Any second now I expect to hear that whoosh again. Another explosion. This time Iâll be the one rescuing Balvan. If thereâs anything left of him.
This was a stupid idea. Maybe I was wrong to send him out. This could very well kill him. Whatâs the likelihood of a baby surviving that long by itself out there anyway?Â
A single shot stops me in the middle of my doubt. A decisive shot. Louder than any Iâve ever heard before slices through the air.
The cryingâs stopped.
The door creaks once more. Heavy steps make contact with the floor completely carelessly. I scramble to hide under the table. Just in case.
Balvan steps out the shadows, weapon already pouched. He sits back down where he was back when I first woke up. He picks up the pipe off the floor again and begins scraping for more tobacco.Â
â⊠Balvan?â
âIâm gonna light myself a smoke.â
âWhat happened?â
He takes his time rolling another cigarette. Hands steady. He lights it in his mouth, orange once again illuminates his features. Deep shadows expose the wrinkles in his worn face. Eyes yellow.
âHungarian drone.â he says through the cigarette. Smoke puffs out of his mouth.
I swear I can make out the faintest hint of blood smearing his person. Then, I look once more. Itâs gone. Then there it is again. Itâs too dark for me to be sure. I might just be imagining it.
Thatâs not what worries me the most, though. I canât help but notice that a faint hum still continues in my ears.
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The Gömör Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.
The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as CsallĂłköz in Hungarian or ĆœitnĂœ ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.
After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.
Based out of Rimaszombat and spanning to Losonc, the country covers the southern parts of the former Gömör-Kishont county and then some. Among out of control organized crime, unemployment driven by a collapsed economy and total dependence on Hungary lies a zombie state with a corrupt neoliberal democratic government, one unrecognized by a majority of UN states.
The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. The Hungarian people are still split by borders. Balassagyarmat is still not whole.
OTL BACKGROUND:
My apologies for the repeat descriptions, but not much changes with this one. Good if you stumbled on this first, slightly irritating if you already read whatever I published before.
It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.
I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy B*TA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.
Unlike the other two states I was working on which are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states, the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion, The Gömör Republic was inspired by South Ossetia and to an extent Transnistria. South Ossetia is in a similar sticky situation where it is disallowed from uniting with North Ossetia within Russia, similar to Gömör and Hungary. I like how Fredo Rockwell described the country, as a zombie state. That's essentially what Gömör is, a country propped up economically and militarily by another power, but forbidden from unifying with it.
Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the BeneĆĄ Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.
SYMBOLISM:
Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Three horizontal stripes of black, red and white make up the 1:2 flag. The colour scheme is identical to that of RimavskĂĄ Sobota, which is the capital of the republic in this world. For this flag I was originally planning to replace the white stripe in the middle of the real Hungarian flag with a black one, but that would simply remake the flag of pan-africanism with a Hungarian coat of arms, and while identical flags happen in real life, I decided I would rather have something more unique.
In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the coat of arms of Gömör (Gemer) and Kishont (Malohont), a sick ass knight's helmet wearing a crown sitting in front of the double-cross. Unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top.
The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as CsallĂłköz in Hungarian or ĆœitnĂœ ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.
After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.
It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.
I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy BETA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.
Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Three horizontal stripes of red, yellow and green make up the 1:2 flag. This is not only because of the parallel with the Novorossiyan states which replaced the white Russian stripe with their own colours, but also because the actual legit flags of KomĂĄrno and KomĂĄrom use this colour scheme themselves. Indeed, the middle yellow stripe would have this flag resemble the Hungarian one if changed to white.
In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the KomĂĄrom coat of arms, the crown sitting near the double-cross similar to the actual Hungarian coat of arms. However, unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top. It differs elsewhere as well, like in the two six-pointed starts taken from the KomĂĄrom coat of arms on each upper side of the double-cross, plus the Danube river is flowing near the base of the three-mountain peak.
Thatâs not something I take conscious note of, or something I ever notice outloud. Never a deliberate observance or a materialized thought. It is the state of this place whenever I arrive. My mind does not register it anymore. Every other part of my body does.
Iâve grown more adjusted with time, yet whenever I enter the corridors first thing in the morning, my gut is taken for a ride. The thuds of the industrial presses mirror my own footsteps. Each day when I take the trek I try and sync the two up. Sometimes deliberately.
This place has grown on me. We are inseparable from one another. I am as much attached as the rust climbing the walls. The longer I walk, the less intense the smell gets. I always wonder whether I just get adjusted to it by the time I get to my office or whether it is less prominent in that place objectively.
Sometimes, the corridors I pass through are too long. A red fog sits by the door to my office. Once I arrive, I notice the fog gone completely. Now it is on the other side of the corridor, where I was minutes earlier.
The door to my office hosts some letters. Theyâre a bit hard to make out, owing to the poor lighting in the place, plus the age of the door itself. Nonetheless, I am able to remember the exact words the now-faded letters once read. âFactory Floorâ.
I stamp my employee card at the clock. The shift begins.
My office is not that small. It used to be a lot bigger, but itâs gotten smaller over time. I like it better this way. I brought in a whole desk, a filing cabinet, even a swivel chair. It has wheels. Sometimes I launch myself from one side of the room to the other, like when I need to file something. I put the desk and the filing cabinet on opposite ends for that purpose. Theyâre both a bit worn now, and the chair creaks all the time. Even when Iâm not moving at all. Itâs still fun to travel via the chair.
The heavy industrial door shuts behind me when I enter. Unlike the low-lit corridors before, this room is lit by a charming yellow bulb, hanging from the ceiling, that announces itself with a constant buzz. Like the forever-present buzz, the light also never goes out. I have no idea how to turn it off or on. I wonder if they leave it on during the night.
I once broke the bulb at the end of a shift. Just to see what would happen. The answer came the next day, when the bulb came back exactly as it was before. Maybe an identical copy, or the bulb brought back and reconstructed. I donât know. Someone mustâve done the job overnight. The yellow illuminated the disciplinary fine laid out on my desk. Iâve been careful not to tamper with the property of the company ever since.Â
Pipes of varying temperature, size, and purpose line the walls, front-to-back, back-to-front. You gotta make sure not to touch them, even accidentally. Itâs a very easy way to get yourself burnt, and your medical wonât get covered by the suits.
One of the pipes, a large one on the ceiling, right above the bulb, started leaking recently. A puddle began settling down on the floor before I brought in a bucket the next shift. I brought another one with me to switch with the one already nigh-overflowing. I pull the heavy, filled-to-the brim bucket down on the floor. The shriek of metal dragging against concrete almost makes me jump. Another thing Iâll get used to. I switch the full bucket with the new one I brought. Guess itâs just another job Iâm doing now.
Oh, my job. I havenât said much about that yet.
Some of you might already have guessed what it is I do, yet itâs not something youâd ever find brought up in school. I glance over at the largest pipe of them all. A brown hydraulic tube, in the middle of the wall opposite the door. It used to be silver once. There is a small glass door which opens up to the inside, revealing the belt. A large lever peeks out from the side of the tube.Â
The belt is the official terminology. It works more like an elevator. Notches of sort hang from the belt, which travels up and down. These notches bring âem down. I catalogue them. For my own archives. I then press the heavy lever, and they go down again. The digital counter on the top of the tube reads how far along I am. Iâve spaced my presses out so I have something to do during the hours and donât get bored. Fifty in and I get to go on break. A hundred and my shift is over. If the quota isnât met, the door stays closed.Â
Alright, if you havenât guessed it by now, Iâll spell it out for you: I man the corpse-press.
With all that outta the way, maybe youâd like to know exactly how I work. I can take you through it. I sit down at my table. The chair creaks. One of the countless knick-knacks I got to fill the table up is a coffee machine. I turn it on while getting ready to make the first press of the day.
The first one is always the most important. Itâs how you start your day that defines the whole rest of it. I always make sure my first press starts out smoothly.
I glide over to the tube and open the small receptacle. My chair creaks. A mound of flesh of limb and bone leaks red. The skull is the only recognizable thing, separate from the meat-mass. Some hairs stick out. A single blue eye is looking at the door behind me.
âArthur Wilson.â I say to myself. Thatâs the name carved on the mound. I close the door. Then I move over to the table and write the name down on todayâs page in the ledger. My chair creaks. Now for the press.
I keep all my chalk on the file cabinet. Itâs a way to motivate me to glide with the chair whenever the work starts. I always sit down to make the coffee, then I glide over to see the corpse, then I glide back to write the name down, then I glide over for the chalk, then back to the tube. I stand up and press the lever. Thatâs how it goes.
I begin to make the glide over to the file cabinet. Bang. Splash. Bam. Bam. The two buckets in the way. The first one was just too heavy, so I left it there. The other had to have been there to take care of the leak.
The whole floor has a puddle forming in the middle now. Perfect. Fucking perfect. I stand up and make my way over to the buckets, which have rolled to different parts of my office. The chair creaks as I stand up.
A droplet falls on the top of my head. Like the pipe needed to remind me it was there. That it no longer had a bucket under it.
I put one of the buckets under the pipe again. Fucking bucket. The other I begin to kick relentlessly. Stupid fucking bucket. I grab it and begin to smash it until the dents make the bucket completely unrecognizable. Iâm such an idiot. And now I ruined the only other bucket I had. And Iâll have to get a new one. Fucking bucket. First press went like shit.
Whatever. Minor setback. Gotta calm my nerves. Bigger fish and all. I chalk my hands and walk over to the lever. My palm wraps around and I pull. A heavy thud joins the cacophony of the others in the factory. The belt travels down. Arthur Wilson goes with it. The digital counter reads 01.
Heavy cogs clank against each other in the wall upfront. The hum of the traveling belt is almost entirely drowned out. A second corpse has descended.
I wish I had some tissues for the spilt water. No such luck. All I have are those files in the cabinet, and I'll be damned if I use those. I take my shoes off entirely and place them on the table. The rest of this shift will be barefoot. While the floor itself is cold, the water retains the least bit of warmth. Enough to make sure my feet donât go numb with the low temperatures.
The second corpse is mostly intact, only the bottom half is missing. Into the chest of a thin and bald man are carved the following words:
âOtto Keyes.â I say outloud. The name now occupies the space right below Arthur Wilson in the ledger. Otto Keyes is, despite the missing extremities, in an exceptionally good state. All kinds of corpses pass through here. The only common denominator is that itâs all dead people. Other than that, theyâre all skinny, or fat, or husky or fit, men and women of all ages, short and tall, sometimes missing only an eye, other times only the eye is all thatâs left.
Youâd think that the ones where nothingâs left would have no name carved out, due to lack of space. Donât worry, itâs always there. Whatever does that always puts the effort in. One of the things I keep on my desk is a magnifying glass. Wouldnât wanna miss a name.
Itâs the strangest thing, too. The first few years I never wrote them out. I donât get paid for writing them down. I started doing it anyway. It felt right. Somewhere out there, there should be a record of all that goes below.
They must know Iâm doing it. I like to think it shows initiative. Were I a suit and tie, thatâs the kind of thing Iâd look for. Somebody who does that extra bit of work they donât have to, for no pay. Simply because they are already hard-working.
I feel a bit sorry for all the other poor saps doing this job who donât keep a record, frankly. When theyâre picking out one of us for a promotion, who do you think theyâll choose? The guys who only put in the bare minimum, or the one who took the extra step, even when it wasnât necessary? I know the answer. Do you?
Thatâs another extra thing Iâm doing, along with the buckets. How would this place run without me? So many things to keep busy with. So many things to put on the resume. Really, itâs a win-win.
I press the lever. The counter goes up. 02.
The belt moves down. A small hand, maybe that of a child, travels on the belt.
âMikey Briggs.â is carved into the palm. I wonder who it was. I write the name down.
The filing cabinet is a few shelves from full now. Iâve gotten a lot of mileage out of it so far. There isn't room for a second cabinet, meaning Iâll have to replace this one entirely. Or bring the files out. I donât know how to do either, to be honest. I mean, I do know how I could do it, I just donât know if itâs possible. You'd need a lot of extra pairs of hands. I send Mikey Briggs down and ponder the problem over coffee.
The others go by swiftly. 33 was pretty interesting.
âSarah Briggs.â the jagged letters spelled out on the womanâs leg. The corpse inside consists of a torso and a detached leg. Thatâs another thing. Sometimes the corpses donât come as wholes. They come in pieces.
I take a closer look at the torso. Yep. Sarah Briggs is written on there, too. Wouldnât wanna lose track of who it is, so all parts always host the name.
Before sending it down, I check with my ledger. It feels like moments ago when Mikey Briggs was here. I wonder if theyâre related.
The implication seems obvious. Torso and leg of an adult woman, the hand of a small child. Itâs a no-brainer. This was a mother and son. I put my hand out on the lever. I glance at the corpse.
I wonder if she wanted something better for him. I wonder which one died first. I wonder if they even knew of each otherâs deaths. I wonder if they wouldâve taken some comfort in being reunited, postmortem.
Or maybe theyâre sister and brother. Or aunt and nephew. Or a really young grandma and her grandson. Or maybe no relation at all.
33 goes the counter.
The page for the day is now half-full. 50 travels down the chute and I begin my lunch break. For today, I packed a cucumber and cheese sandwich with an avocado spread in place of butter. No ham or anything. I canât eat meat.
I kick back in the chair (it creaks) and look at the pipes above. I did mention more than one thing travelled through them. Most of them are for water, like the one leaking right now. A small drop hangs on, not letting go of the pipe for a solid minute. Then it falls. Another one immediately rushes in to take its place. The bucket itself is filled to about a fifth. It seems crazy to me that such small drops can fill a big bucket like that. Making it so heavy. Iâve been careful the whole day not to use my chair. This is the first time Iâve sat in it after the earlier accident. I decided to put the gliding on hold while that bucket is still an issue. Iâll have to buy a new one later. The other bucket is all smashed up.
While off to a bad start, the rest of the presses go by like a breeze. Once youâve got the muscle-memory itâs no longer something you gotta think about. The counter is up to 98.
âJoseph Muka.â is sent down. Or, his burnt and broken arm is. Almost at the end of my shift. I begin clearing the belongings I take home and get ready to exit. The counter says 99 once Muka descends.
The home stretch.
I open the tubeâs hatch to find a fellow, looking slightly younger than me. Almost completely intact. What a rarity. Other than some minor scratches and bruises, he looks like he could just stand up and walk out of here. But corpses donât do that.
Even more peculiar is that he is fully clothed. I guess someone mustâve made a mistake early in the process, but I suppose it happens. Sometimes.Â
The problem is that now Iâll have to take him out and take the clothes off to see what name is carved. I wonder who else in here would go the extra mile like this.
While not particularly fat, the body is still heavy. Itâs an adult man Iâm dragging out. I grab him under the armpits and pull toward me. The limp man is completely uncooperative, almost giving off the impression that heâd like to fall on the floor on purpose. No matter.
I gently lay him down and begin to unbutton his shirt. Then I notice it.
His chest is moving up and down.
What the fuck. Oh my God. What the fuck.
What?
I move closer to the man on the floor. I canât believe my eyes. The rhythmic rise and fall is real. Undeniable.Â
I put my finger under his nose. The exhale weaves around like flowing water.
How?
How does something like this happen? Years of work at the same station and never once had a body completely clothed, so pristine, so life-like⊠breathing⊠come down.
I check again. The breath, the chest. I even put my head hairs above his body. The breath dissipates on my neck like escaped steam. The chest rises like a hydraulic pump, up and down and up and down. My ear is so close. The industrial presses all throughout the facility keep thudding. His heartbeat is a thousand times louder, somehow.
I pace around the room. Heâs alive.
Did this happen in the tube? Did it bring him back?
Or was he always alive?
Thatâs impossible, though. Right?Â
I pick him up. The water on the floor has gone cold and I realized I accidentally set him down there. The soaked clothes wet my hands. I drag him to the swivel chair near my table. It creaks once I set him down.
His head lolls back. His mouth is now agape. Snore. He is snoring.
I walk back. I look at the press. Then I realize it.
The door out of here doesnât open unless the quota is met.
I close the tube door and press the lever. Nothing happens. The elevator does not go down. I grab the smashed up bucket. I throw it against the wall. Fuck.
Iâm stuck.
I mean, I canât send a living person down there, can I? They never mentioned any of that. This is the corpse-press, not the living-person-press.
It should be impossible. It is impossible.
Something has to be sent down.
I race to the bucket and set it in on the notch. I press the lever. Nothing. The counter reads 99.Â
That annoying fucking buzzing. And those presses just canât shut up. Not even for a second. I think theyâre getting louder. The water drips down into the bucket. Why canât they fix the pipe? Then I notice it. The snoring stopped.
Heâs staring at me. How long has he been looking? What woke him up? Was it the constant fucking noise?
Why isnât he saying anything? He just stares. He stares. The chair creaks. Itâs drowned out by the noise. Almost.
His eyes are wide. His expression indecipherable. Mouth still agape. Chest up and down. His nostrils tighten and widen.
Do I break the silence? I mean, does he even know where he is? I hope he doesnât think I tried to kill him or nothing.
âAahâŠâ I jump back at the man's groan. He coughs for a second or ten.
âAre you alright?â I finally ask. The man coughs again. His spittle lands in the already-present puddle. Words come out.
âYes. I think so.â He grasps at and massages his throat. He looks at the counter. Then the door. Then, âCan we get out?â
A silence hangs in the air. Iâll tell him alright.
âWhy are you asking me when you already know?â
He bows his head, âPlease, donât send me down.â
I donât say anything to this. He notices.Â
âI didnât do anything wrong!â he shouts out.
âI didnât say you did.â
âYouâre looking at me like I did. Youâre going to send me down. Youâll send me down because it is the only way to get out of here.â
âThatâs not true.â
âIt isnât?â His eyes light up. âThen whatâs the other way?â
âThere isnât. Iâm just saying I wonât send you down.â I lean on the file cabinet. I want to place my head in my hands and scream out. Iâd lose sight of him if I did that. âJust⊠give me a second. Give me a second to think this through.â
The silence is palpable. I donât know how much longer I can stay here like this. The roomâŠ
âIs it just me or is the room getting smaller?â I blurt out. Not smaller like before. A different small.
âItâs⊠not⊠getting smaller.â
Now I look crazy. I gotta get out, one way or the other.
âAlright, get on the belt.â I demand.
âWhat? No. Fuck you.â
âNo, fuck you. Youâre not even supposed to be alive. You came down, and all that comes down has to be sent even further down. You gotta go. Let me finish my quota so I can get out.â
âYou just said you wouldnât send me down. Iâm not getting in that elevator. Youâre killing me. Thatâs what youâre doing. Youâre killing me and you want me to make it easier for you. No. That wonât happen. Youâre either killing me right here, right now, or I donât go into the press. Your call.â
âWell then what do you imagine? That Iâm going to climb in there? Tough titty, bucko. Itâs you. I gotta go home.â
âDonât call me bucko. And no, youâre not climbing down either. We gotta wait it out. We gotta think of something. We gotta⊠figure a way out. I refuse to believe that this is the only way for the door to open.â
Is he really that stupid? This kid is getting on my nerves, and Iâll tell him as much. This is the corpse-press. Where does he think he is?Â
âAre you really that stupid? Kid, youâre getting on my nerves, and Iâm telling you as much. Where do you think you are? This is the corpse-press, bucko. I gotta go home. Where the hell will you go?â
âDefinitely not into the corpse-press.â he mumbles out.
So, heâs a smart-ass. This only gets better.
âEvery day of the week, of the month, of the year, the decade, a corpse comes down to be processed in the receptacle. Each time, without fail, I am there to press the lever to send it down. Why should this time be any different?â
âBecause Iâm alive you bastard! Iâm a living, breathing human being. I donât deserve to be ground up into anonymity because the corpse-press said so.â
âNot just the corpse-press. Its operator, too.â
âYouâre condemning me to die? Look at me. Look at my face,â an animal desperate in the face of a predator,
âInto my eyes,â demanding to be spared,
âHear my words.â trying to establish itself into the in-group, saying anything to avoid deathâs inevitable grip.
I wipe my brow. From the passion he displays, you would never guess youâre talking to somebody already dead.
âYou really think youâre meant to live? You came down. Thatâs that, and Iâm not happy to say it. Thereâs only one way this goes. No alternatives. If you werenât meant to have been sent down, then you wouldnât be here right now. I wonât force you. But make no mistake: I will do everything to defend myself if you try and force me into that tube. The belt needs a corpse to move. The quota will be met. Donât make this harder than it needs to be.â Harder than it was any time before.
âWell, isnât there something that can be done? Does the belt not go up? Iâll go up and get out of your hair.â
âOh my God, up? Are you fucking stupid? Are you trying to tell me about the belt? Iâve been working the goddamn belt for over⊠for so long. Maybe learn what the fuck youâre talking about before you make yourself look like a total idiot. I didnât know we had the chief-belt expert down in my office. Chief belt expert, please, show me how the belt goes up! No, really. Show me. Has it ever occurred to you to think before you speak? Now listen. Thereâs only one way this ends. You get on the belt. Thatâs it.â
He shuts up and slinks down into his chair. Not literally, but his demeanor switches to a kind of slinking.Â
How did this happen? The belt sends corpses. Thatâs the point. It is literally impossible for a living man to be sent down. How did he do this? A disruptor at the very core of the system. Did nobody else in the process notice this before me? When did he enter? Was it at the start? In the middle? Just now?
What if they do know? What if this was all on purpose?
The only explanation for a statistical impossibility is that the extraordinary circumstance was created by the very impenetrable factory. For this to have even happened, it must have been done on purpose. A test of what I would do in such a situation. A high-pressure scenario to test the commitment of⊠of⊠of⊠of a diligent employee. Diligent employee. The relief washes over me like a cool breeze.
He isnât taking his sight off me. Unassuming down there, slouched, looking relaxed. Always on high-alert at the same time. Awaiting my response.
âSo, you think I havenât caught on?â I break the silence.
The man perks up at my words. Iâve got him now.
He doesnât say anything, though. Whatever. Iâll be the one to pull the mask off, then.
âYou donât think Iâd notice? I know Iâm being tested.â
His expression changes. To something. Like heâs looking at the worldâs biggest idiot. Complete befuddlement.
âGet on the belt then. Testâs over. Donât tell me I gotta drag ya. Iâd hate that. Just get on there so we can both move on.â
He still doesnât say anything.
âNobody likes a straggler. Iâm sure we all have places to be. Me, out of here. You, tormenting some other poor sap with your bullshit. Not that I donât respect your work. Weâre both busy men. Just get on with it so I can get-â
âThis isnât a performance review. Iâm not with the company.â
I tense up.
âItâs not funny to mess around like this. Get in the chute already.â
âIâm not messing around. And Iâm not getting in the chute.â
âSo youâre not with the factory?â
âI wasnât sent down for a test. This is not a performance test. Iâm a real person.â
I wanna hurl the cabinet at him. And then force him down that tube. It couldâve been so easy. This moron just keeps complicating it.
What else can I do, but send him down the belt? Am I destined to rot in this office just because of him? Itâs sad that things are like this, but how am I responsible? I didnât send him down here. If it were up to me, heâd still be in whatever hole he crawled out of, frolicking and happy and blissful. I have to think about my own survival. He was sent down here. It is unlikely for the suits to have made a mistake. If he was sent down the corpse-belt, then the logical conclusion is that I send him down again. What other option exists? Heâs where heâs supposed to be. The next step is unambiguous. Down. The only way to go is down.
I take a step forward.
âWhere are you going?â the words escape his mouth innocently.
I take another step.
âWait.â
And another.
I snatch the mutilated bucket out of the tube. I charge the man in the chair. I am running purely on adrenaline.Â
He glides out of my path. With the swivels. Before I can turn around, he jumps out the chair. Then takes it defensively. My chair. He swings it at me. Dull hits assault my head. Heâs beating me with my own chair. Ringing in my ears.
I smash the bucket on his stomach. Again. The chair meanwhile progresses to my back. Thatâs gonna bruise. We dance chaotically over the entire office. My pot of coffee is knocked over. Was that me? Him? It shatters and the shards launch like fireworks.
âItâs not even a real office!â is his battle cry.
The chair becomes a tool. Heâs pushing me into the tube. Iâm smashing the chair with the bucket. Smashing the chair with the bucket. The chairâs grip presses me into the receptacle. Tightly. Iâm dead. Itâs over. I tried. Iâm dead meat.
I donât stop smashing. But my strength goes. His arm is slashed up. His stomach slashed up. A piece of sharp metal is all thatâs left of the bucket. Blood dripping from it. Cheap junk.
I let go. Itâs pointless now. The test of strength determined the winner. The law of the jungle. Jungle of corpse-presses.
The metal bucket piece clangs down onto the floor. My breathing is shallow. I notice this only now. Am I dying?
The wheels of the chair press on my throat. It creaks. Maybe thatâs why I dropped the piece. Iâm losing life.
His eyes are those of an animal. A predator ready to take his prey and condemn it to certain death. The man stares daggers at me. It would be so easy.
But he loosens his grip. And he starts to retreat. Cautiously.
What?
He backs away into the corner. And he slinks down. For real this time. The wall behind him leaves a bloody streak as he slides down. Not too large. Barely noticeable. His wound wonât be fatal with care, as long as it is treated soon.
I step out of the receptacle. Glass bejewels the puddle. Pieces of the bucket lay strewn about across the floor. The second is holding the water. Itâll be about a day before it overflows. Drip drip drip.
He looks about as tired as I am.
He couldâve just sent me down and had this over with. He let me live. Who the hell spares their attempted murderer?
âI did what I had to. I just want to live.â I plead.
âOkay.â
I donât have any tissues. I do have all those papers. Those ledgers. All the names. Been keeping enough of them to fill an entire cabinet.
I rush over to the file cabinet. I tried to kill a man. And even after, he let me go. He couldâve had this over with in a second. What have I done?
I take the ledgers out. I approach the bloody man on the floor. He jolts back at the sight of me. Then breaks the chair against the wall. It breaks at the tube. The end is sharp. He points it at me. A final stand. My favorite chair. My fucking swivel chair. That annoying bastard. Who I tried to kill.
âLet me look at the wounds. Iâm not a doctor. Maybe we can plug them, or cover them. Or something.â
He puts my beloved broken chair down. Completely defenceless.
I kneel down and take his clothes off. Unremarkable physique. The wounds adorning his skin arenât too bad. As I thought.
I apply makeshift bandages from all the files. I set the bulk of them down to my left. He picks one up.
I look to read his expression. His eyes widen.
âAre these all their names?â
Iâll forgive the stupid question.
âWhat else would they be?â
âYouâve been keeping track?â
âYes. Itâs a hobby of mine.â
He almost stands up before I stop him. He settles down again.
âThis changes everything. We have to get these out.â
âWhy?â
âBecause it changes everything. Like I said. They have to know.â
âOh, donât tell me you think thatâll even put a dent.â
âIt doesnât matter. With this out there, the tables could turn entirely. We wonât know unless we try. We have to try. Regardless of the outcome.â
âYouâre out of your mind. These things are better as toilet paper than anything.â
âThen why did you keep them?â his question does stop me. Iâm puzzled. Why did I keep them if I never wanted to have anything come of them? It was for the promotion. Wasnât it? Fuck the promotion. Where is it anyway? Might as well make an actual use of them.
âIt doesnât matter.â
âListen, once you get out of here, you have to get them out. I beg you. If the wishes of a dying man mean anything to you.â
What a dumbass.
âYouâre not dying, bucko. Itâs just a few cuts. Nothing skin-deep.â
âNo. Take the papers off.â
He begins to peel the blood-soaked names off his wounds. He starts handing them back to me.
âIâm getting sent down either way. You must get these out. All of them. Every single one. They canât come down with me.â
Heâs so serious about it, too.Â
Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe there is another way out.
I begin to drape the papers back over the cuts.
âDonât worry. Theyâre coming out either way. I donât know how youâll hurl the whole cabinet out, though.â
âYouâll hurl it out. Iâm going down.â he is relentless.
âHow selfless. Get up.â
I help him up. We grasp each other by the palm. He almost collapses.
âMy leg fell asleep. Sorry.â
I hand him my employee card.
âTomorrow, come with some extra pairs of hands. To help get the cabinet out. Take as much as you can this time.â
âHave you found another way to get out?â
âYes.â
Itâs now or never. Iâve spent too much of my life feeding this monstrosity. Feeding something thatâll never know who I am or appreciate all I did, and all I did was evil anyway. Only one thing can redeem me now, and it wonât be killing that young man.
I walk over to the tube. The thuds in the distance are like a tribal chant egging me on. I hop on the notch. I have to do this quickly. Before the doubt can talk me out of it.Â
For the first time, the bulbâs buzz begins a retreat into the background. The man walks over.
âWhat? No, youâre being crazy.â
âI think itâs crazy to expect my hands to get this out. It should be you. Youâll do a fine job.â
He stares at me intently. His gaze reveals he no longer sees me as a person. I am a means of escape. Or?
âThatâs not right. Either we both get out or neither of us does.â Maybe Iâm a bad judge of character. Either way, no matter who somebody is, Iâm not letting them die for me. I refuse to be a coward. Never again.
âYou donât know shit about the belt. Shut up. Iâm going down. End of discussion. Thatâs the only way this goes, and you canât fight me about it.âÂ
He approaches. Suddenly, he begins to wrestle with me. Nearly dragging me out.
âFuck off!â I punch him in the neck. He jumps back in pain and gasps out. I quickly reach out for the broken piece of bucket and press it against my neck.
âI either kill myself right here, right now, or you send me down into the press. Whether what you send down is me or my corpse, the outcome is the same.â
Heâs injured. Beaten. Most importantly, he knows Iâm being serious. There is no fighting this. I canât take his life to save mine. I can only give mine to save his. Thatâs the only thing one can do in such a situation. I wouldnât have it any other way.
He takes slow careful steps toward the tube. Toward me. He hugs me. Something solid to hold on to.Â
Why did things have to go this way? I wish things were different. Maybe weâd be better off without the factory. Maybe if the corpse-press didnât exist, things would have been different. Maybe we couldâve gotten to know each other differently. Maybe he wouldnât have come off so annoying. Maybe weâd be enjoying the warm sun outside. Taking life one step at a time. The Briggsâ would not be so far behind.
There would be no office. No leak. No buckets. No ledger. No press.
He lets go. I wish the hug were longer. I wish I could be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. Maybe, if the hug were a bit longer. If it lingered, I wouldn't have to go right now.Â
He never takes his eyes off me. Never takes his eyes off the man he is about to murder.
Funny. During all my years I never got to see how the press looked from the other side.
He grasps the lever. And presses it. The doors close. The cogs clang out and I begin to move down. The belt hums a solemn lullaby for my descent. The last glimpses of the man escape my field of vision as the window is displaced by darkness. Hot air blows on me from below.Â
If things go well, this could be the final press. The last one ever. The press that killed me.
