Chapter Text
On my first day in the department, the first thing I noticed about them, the detail elevated above the rest, were their eyes. In all the photos and videos, whether they were orange or blue or pink, their eyes glowed with depth. They beam like searchlights, past pitch dark or fluorescent globes, ever-present. Enchanting, some would say.
Of course, that’s only what it looks like, maybe the photos on these briefing documents aren’t really reflective of the reality here.
I close and re-open the grey binder in my hands for the dozenth time. Flipping a page, the contract lay there, an epitaph. In six hours I will be found dead in my apartment. My father and sister will each find their bank accounts filled to brimming by an unknown donor. No body will be recovered.
In the meantime, I’ll be here until my own very generous severance package is delivered. No communication outside, just me and whichever department I get assigned to. It sounds bad, I know, but I trust it won’t be too terrible. Even if it is, I’ll practically be crying into a gold-embroidered handkerchief.
I take another glance around the room. It’s carpeted in nylon, the walls painted beige. An obviously fake rose bush stands in a ceramic pot in the corner, a camera wired up into one of the flowers. A clerk sits severely at the front desk, tapping her fingers on a keyboard and taking a swig of a canteen every five or so minutes, like clockwork. The seats in the waiting room are all empty.
A bell chimes at the front desk, followed by a staticky-sounding voice out of a loudspeaker.
“Qantara to Briefing, repeat, Qantara to Briefing.’
The clerk at the front desk glances from me to a door at the far end of the room. The furrows on her brow deepen, possibly eroded into her face by the flowing water of corporate hiring.
I stroll past the front desk and take several pens, clicking like marbles. The canyons on her face deepen into chasms.
“Good luck.”
The clerk gives her perfunctory well-wishes as I open a metal door at the far end of the room.
As I enter, two suits sit in small plastic chairs behind a fold-out table. To the left is a man, short, with curled hair and a large scar across his face, from his chin to his right ear. He’s sporting a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses in a matching colour to his rose-patterned tie. To the right is an assistant more dour than the dismal chair they sit on.
The fellow with the love-glasses stands for a handshake. “Mr. Qantara!”
“Doctor.” I respond tersely.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m damn glad to have another one like you here. I read your paper on bilirubin in invertebrates. Good stuff.”
The phrasing of ‘like you’ is a bit strange, but...
“Thank you. Pleasure to meet you, Mr...?”
“Salmers. James Salmers.”
Shit. Salmers? The CTO?
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Salmers.”
“Oh, pleasure’s all mine. Call me James, or Jimmy, or whatever you like.”
I’m just going to call him Mr. James. I’ve heard corporate loves tricking new hires into punishable offenses, such as insulting anyone from the C-suite.
“Anyways, you’re here for the- wait, pass me those papers for a second.”
I oblige. He folds up the ridiculous glasses and pulls a more respectable pair from his pocket.
“Alright, you’ve signed all the docs, good. You’re here for the subject testing project?” he asks, with his red specs on his face once more.
“Yes.”
“Good, good. I’m sure you’ve read all the briefings.” he pauses. “I have to ask. What brought you here?”
“I was interested developing my career at a world-renowned-”
“Yes, that’s what you put on the resume. Why did you come here?”
“I’m telling the truth, I heard that this organization was doing revolutionary work, and I find that to be interesting.”
He stares me down for a little bit, divining a reason from my face like he’s trying to read a palm, or perhaps to intimidate me. The glasses are clearly ruining the effect he’s trying to go for.
“One more question, then I’ll let you ask yours.” He smacks his lips. “Do you like blood?”
What?
“What do you mean?” I respond with a little confusion.
“Blood. The thing that comes out when you cut up an animal.” He cleans his heart-glasses with a leopard-print handkerchief. “Do you like it? Get off to it, have some fun with it?”
It’s obviously a trick question. It has to be.
“I don’t say I do, no. I tolerate it, but I take no active pleasure from it.”
“Ah.” he mutters, more than a little disappointment in his tone. “Well, we have a lot of straight-lacers around. Don’t worry about it.” He clearly has more to say, but stops himself.
“The thing you have to understand here, Qantara, is that you’re gonna be working with animals.”
He gestures at his assistant firmly.
“Jo here was injured by one of them. You’ve gotta be careful...” he peters off.
“Point is, much as they look it, the subjects are not people. They can speak but they don’t have any intelligence or emotions, it’s like a talking bird.”
I nod. I can believe that. The pay helps, but I can believe that.
James continues. “Personally, I’d recommend a good pair of earmuffs during testing. You can go ask Procurement later.”
“Alright, thank you for informing me. Could I ask a few more questions?”
“Sure, go on.”
“So about the medical insurance provided here...”
-
The briefing took about half an hour, mostly spent clearing up questions. At the end, though, James went on a little rant about the subjects.
“For the love of god, don’t talk to them, OK? It’s like chatting with a salt shaker or something, that’s a weird thing to do. Capiche?”
“Yes, Mr. James.”
He gets up on his singular foot, gripping the table. “How about we take a look then, hey?”
-
The vault is clearly overkill. Four metres of solid steel plate, interspersed by carbon panels. There are at least three nested Faraday cages, as well. Half a dozen guards are stationed outside, all with tasers on their left and batons on the right.
“Is all of this necessary, or just a precaution?” I ask.
“It’s needed.”
“Ah. Alright.”
The assistant takes a revolver from a hidden holster on their belt and clicks off the safety. The vault door opens itself automatically.
The first thing to be seen is the lack of things to see. The room is padded with beaming white tiles. The ceiling, around ten metres up, is filled with bright halogen lights. To one side is a mechanical arm. There’s some sort of yellow staining on the claws and splattered around it.
Over in the furthest corner of the room is a humanoid figure curled up on the ground. The... thing is covered in short, black fur, matted and streaked with the same stains as the claw. The back of its head has three protuberances, maybe ears? There are similar, sharper spikes on its lower back.
We spend perhaps an eternity staring at it. They’re different in person.
The spell is broken when I hear it. The creature sobs wetly, shaking, whispering something to itself over and over. It glances over its shoulder with a look in its eyes, orange like the sun. Sadness? Hatred? Resignation?
Salmers nudges my shoulder, and wordlessly passes me a pair of earplugs. I don’t put them in.
“It doesn’t look like it now, but it can turn on a dime. Be careful.” Salmers states.
The assistant speaks up. “They love to echo human behaviours.” they concur. “Like a siren.”
“Is it dangerous right now?” I whisper back. “I’d like to take a closer look.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“It looks hurt, though.”
“I assure you, the subject is perfectly fine. It just sounds like that, I promise.”
I turn to take a step, but he yanks my shoulder around to face him.
“Please, don’t.” He gives me a smile that more resembles rigor mortis than positivity. “Let’s go to the offices now, shall we? You’ll have more time later.”
I stare squarely past Salmers and at his assistant with the gun, and give a small nod.
Salmers’ smile seems a little more genuine. “Good, good. This place is all a bit depressing after a while, y’know?”
“Mmm.” I agree. It certainly seems like it. I take one last look at the subject. It stares back. I want to say something, anything.
“Well, come along.”
-
The offices are nothing to look at. Cubicle rows neatly divide the room into hundreds of little atoms, like a circuit board. The desks themselves are all sprinkled with little pieces of decor. A fake fern here, a photo there. To the left is a wall filled with identical doors apparently leading to private rooms, where I am guided to.
We stop at a door with an aluminium plaque on it. The text, filigreed in brass, reads: Qantara, Alexander. P.H.D. Testing Department.
“All yours.” grins Salmers. “Bit of a promotion, hey?”
“Certainl-”
A loud yelp echoes from below the floor.
“What was that?”
Salmers looks sheepish at that. “Ah, that’s just-” What sounds like desperate pleading finds its way through the tiles below. “Subjects. They get dramatic, don’t worry about it.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Sometimes the soundproofing breaks. We’ll send someone over to fix it.” He changes the subject. “Your personal rooms are just in there, through the door on the right. Jo’s already put your bags in.”
“Wonderful.” I reply. It isn’t.
We say our goodbyes and I’m ushered into the small apartment. Strange puts it lightly. It feels like I’m living in a lemon: the walls are neon yellow and all of the furniture dyed in beige. I practically collapse into a loveseat near the door, and groan with my head in my hands.
What the hell have I got myself into? The subjects, they’re not an issue. If they were, there would have been some sort of lawsuit, there’s hundreds of people involved here. Someone would’ve whistleblown, seeing cruel treatment or if they were conscious. No, they’re not the issue. Right?
My issue is that this has to be some sort of government black-site. It sounds idiotic, but I hadn’t considered just what all of this means. Plenty of companies do fake deaths, it's a common policy in the industry. But who the hell has a handgun on them at all times? There are permits, regular checks, you have to keep them in a locked safe unless you’re at an authorised firing range. Having an assistant carry one around the place is downright illegal in several ways. What if this really isn’t just a private corporation? What if-
I snap myself out of it. Whatever’s happening, it’s happened already. There’s little to do about it now. I quickly jump out of the chair and immediately regret it. Christ, I need to get on different meds. After the dizziness passes, another once-over of the room reveals a kitchenette with a sink, a stovetop, and a mini-fridge. There’s an archway with a curtain, presumably leading into a bedroom of some sort.
Going in, it’s unremarkable. A bed in a room, except there’s a sliver of light coming from a corner. The sounds from below seem to be rather loud there, perhaps it’s a broken tile? No matter. I throw my duffle bag into the corner to block it off, and the creaking sound it makes is none of my business.
Back to poke around in the kitchenette, I find some ‘Just Like Chamomile!’ branded tea packets, and a tap labelled ‘BOILING’. Benefits of living right next to a laboratory, I suppose. A charming little rack of mugs with animals on them hangs above the sink. I pick one up and it promptly slips between my fingers, shattering on the metal.
“Fuck!” At least it fell into the basin.
I pick another one up, more caution this time. Tea bag in, hot water in, easy. Using both hands, I bring it to the bedroom and place it on the side table, rolling over onto the bed. I’ll just wait for that to steep, and I’m gone-
The dreams are different tonight. Grey skies and bullets fired in a decade from now. Something bad is going to happen.