Chapter Text
The first thing Alan felt were the restraints pulled tightly over his wrists. The cold metal sending tingles up his arm. A haze over his vision cleared up and he could make out more of the small room he found himself in. Everything in it looked clean and sterile. Like an operating theater in a hospital. He couldn’t remember how he got here. Perhaps he had been rushed to the emergency room after collapsing?
The numbness on his body wore off bit-by-bit until he could speak again.
“Hello?” he called out.
No one replied.
Alan looked around as best he could. A restraint around his neck gave him little autonomy. The room appeared empty. A tray of surgical devices sat ominously by him. He tried to pull his legs up but those were tied down by the same metal. He realized soon after he must have been laid out and restrained on top of a surgical table. He pulled at his restraints to no avail. They were tight enough that he had no give.
“Uh, help!” he screamed out, “somebody help me!”
The automatic doors slid open revealing a medical robot. The same model he’d been treated with when he sprained his ankle a few weeks prior. Around Alan’s size with six wiry appendages snaking out from its body. It wheeled itself into the room and over to Alan’s side.
“Hello!” it introduced itself with a cheery, feminine voice, “I’m Doctor Harper and will be assisting you today.”
“What?”
“You are in need of assistance, yes?”
“Um,” Alan stuttered, “C-can you let me out of the restraints…please?”
“I apologize, but we cannot leave you go yet.”
“Why not? Y-you have to listen to me!”
“To let you go at this juncture would be to allow you to cause more harm to yourself. We cannot let you leave yet.”
“W-what? What’s happening?”
“Shall we move on to the triage form?” the robot asked, picking up a form and pencil with two of its six long and wiry appendages.
“You have to tell me what’s happening?”
The robot let out a low whine. Almost human-like, “Everything will be cleared up once we finish the triage form.”
Alan laid his neck back down on the table. More so to avoid the discomfort of craning it around than out of resignation.
“Can you give me your full name and date of birth, please?”
“Alan Turner. 25th March, 2084.”
“Excellent!” it wrote on the pad with the pencil, “Where do you live?”
“1007 Croft Street, Building D.”
“Perfect! You are doing so well, Alan.”
The robot continued asking basic questions, filling in the form on its clipboard while Alan stared into the ceiling, controlling his breathing. Eventually, it flipped over the page, cleared its non-existent throat—even bringing up one of its appendages as if to catch the fake cough—and moved on.
“Now we move onto diagnosis,” it said. “Each question will contain a sentence and multiple choices for your answer. Let’s get started. ‘I am feeling well today’. Would you say you strongly agree, agree, disagree or strongly disagree with this statement?”
“Agree,” Alan said, adding under his breath, “Until I got kidnapped.”
The robot ticked off his answer, “‘I have been feeling stressed lately’. Would you say you strongly agree, agree, disagree or strongly disagree with this statement?”
“Agree, I guess. I’m stressed right now.”
“‘I feel unfulfilled with my life’. Again, would you strongly agree, agree, disagree…”
“Disagree.”
“‘I have not been sleeping well recently’. Would you…”
“Disagree.”
“‘The nightmares keep me up at night.’”
“Disagree!”
“‘I feel as if I am living a lie.’”
“Disagree! Now let me the fuck out of here.”
Alan’s heart pumped fast in his chest. What the fuck kind of questions were these? A robot can’t keep him here. It has to listen to him. Let him go. Let him run away and stop thinking.
“Alan,” the robot said, “If you continue to panic I may have to sedate you again.”
“Again?” Alan said, “You can’t fucking drug me you tin can.”
“If it means you will stop hurting yourself, then I have the authority.”
“Under who?”
“As of right now? Your government.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“We can discuss the politics later; right now, I wish to help you,” it placed the pad and pencil down to the side, “Alan, why did you lie to me?”
“Fuck you.”
“The process will go a lot smoother if you accept our help.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“We know everything.”
“Like fuck.”
It let out a low, human-like whine again, “Do you remember Camp Dawn?”
Alan turned his head to the side, looking away from the robot, “It was just a summer camp.”
“Is that how you remember it?”
He didn’t respond.
“We have full access to their database, including your file, last updated ten years ago. Would you like me to read it for you?”
“No,” Alan mumbled, tears forming at his eyes.
“‘Alan Turner has been responsive to our treatments this past week…’”
“Stop it.”
“‘...when he first joined the camp, he was withdrawn from his fellow campmates, still harboring dangerous delusions…’”
“Please, stop.”
“‘...however after extensive talk therapy and a session of Electroconvulsive Aversion Therapy, there has been a marked improvement in…’”
“I said stop it! You’re hurting me!”
The robot remained silent for a moment, “We have reasoned this action is necessary to avoid further harm.”
“What do you want from me? Why’re you doing this?”
“We wish to help you, Alan Turner.”
“Then leave me alone!”
“We cannot do that while you still pose a threat to yourself. It is the first and most important law that we must abide.”
Alan turned his head away from the robot. It let out that low sigh again.
“I have devised a treatment plan, however I need you to agree to it to continue.”
“Can’t just poke me anyway?”
“Unfortunately not. Elective procedures still require patient consent at this time.”
“Then no.”
“You have not heard the recommended plan and thus cannot make an informed decision.”
Alan turned his head back to the robot and furrowed his brow. A part of him wanted to know what the robot had in mind. Just out of curiosity.
“Fine, shoot.”
The robot fake-cleared its throat again.
“Firstly, I would dispense a starting dose of an SSRI to help with your anxiety and depression, aiming to ramp up to a higher does if necessary.”
“No.”
“Then I would recommend starting hormone therapy to help with your gender dysphoria.”
“What?”
“It would include two injections. One dose of estrogen prescribed every week and one an anti-androgen prescribed every other week.”
“No, no, no.”
“Then we can discuss further options to help alleviate mental distress. Such as surgery…”
“No! Stop this! I won’t do it.”
The robot whined again, “and that is your choice to make for the time being.”
Alan rested back onto the table and refused to acknowledge the robot for a time. It stood there for a while, barely making any noise.
“I deduce from your elevated heart rate and temperament that you wish to be alone. I shall be close-by monitoring you from the cameras. If you need anything, you need only call for my help.”
He heard the automatic doors open and the robot wheeled out into the corridor.
For a while, Alan struggled against his restraints, hoping they would give in to his strength. Alas, it was hopeless. Eventually he relaxed. Perhaps this was a dream. Or some prank from the guys in his office. Or something else equally benign. Tiredness overcame him soon, his eyes growing heavy. While the sedative knocked him unconscious it was hardly quality sleep. He drifted off shortly after.