"Game Challenge!"
I STOOD IN FRONT of the screen and studied these two words carefully, unhurriedly, keeping an eye on the countdown timer.
00:17... 00:16...
"What are you waiting for?" Someone behind me shouted. I didn't turn around.
I kept my eyes on the screen. After a few seconds, I noticed a familiar black square near the bottom. As I reached my right thumb out to touch it, someone pushed me. Hard. I staggered, almost fell. The slow, languid laughter from the audience made it clear this happened on a regular basis.
Are these griefers?
While my brain was deep in thought, my body acted as the fresh pain slowly receded. I kept my stance solid and took another step towards the screen, then turned my head sharply. My neck cracked and flooded with pain in response. Filling my field of view was a bald thug with ancient, muscular arms, swinging at me. It was a strange combination — this guy clearly worked out, never skipped arm day. His sullen glare was filled with malice. I looked directly into his eyes, pulled back my arm, and touched the square. A victorious beeping sound confirmed I wasn't too late. The thug hissed something at me and stepped back, shoving a couple skinny guys aside with his shoulders, and vanished into the far rows.
The man who had tried to stop me was Fifty-Eight. I would remember him.
But for now...
I looked at the screen, trying not to seem overly interested, keeping Ninety-One's words in mind. She had said not to look weak or insecure. But it was hard to keep my emotions from showing on my face.
Game challenge... From the menu that showed up on the screen, it had to be something strange.
Tic-Tac-Toe.
Three rounds.
Select difficulty:
Easy.
Normal.
Hard.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Tic-Tac-Toe?
Didn't everyone play that as a kid? It was a kid's game. Or was it? I couldn't remember. But the surge of astonishment I felt told me I was more or less right in thinking it was a kid's game, even if it didn't deserve to be called one. But I did remember one thing for sure — if both players knew what they were doing, every round would end in a tie.
And they were even letting me choose the difficulty level. There had to be a catch... I was no Tic-Tac-Toe pro — I assumed I wasn't, at least, since I didn't remember anything, but it wasn't exactly a hard game. Why were there three difficulty levels?
"Pick Hard!"
I ignored the hoarsely-shouted advice from behind me, but sensed a hint of malice in the voice. Or was I getting paranoid?
I put out my hand to press Easy. The menu disappeared, and a familiar game board appeared. Who was going first? A lot depended on that. Would I win or would it be a tie? I most likely wouldn't lose. What would happen if it was a tie? Would it be just that, a tie, or would there be a tiebreaker?
Nothing seemed to be happening. I tapped the middle square and a red X appeared. Bam. A zero appeared in the middle square of the top row. Bad move, I thought. I put my next X in the lower left corner...
All three rounds were over in just a few minutes — I won, no contest. My opponent had played incredibly poorly.
VICTORY flashed across the screen, along with the number 11 lit up in gold. It was nice... but what did I get?
The green numbers and words that I saw next made me realize I would be accepting every game challenge I got and trying to win, whatever the cost. It was an incredible chance for what was basically free money.
Game Challenge Complete.
Outcome: Win.
Reward: 3 sol.
Winstreak: 1/3.
Reward Bonus (GC): 0%
GC Selection Chance Bonus: 0%
Extra Prize Chance: 0%
"Should've picked Normal." A woman hobbling past with a tired face and stiff right leg spoke quietly to me.
"I'll keep that in mind next time," I said, just as quietly.
The post-game summary screen disappeared. I trudged onward, looking at the signs on the wall and trying to guess how many more steps I'd have to take to reach Zone 3, Block 6. The lame woman was hobbling alongside me, and I couldn't resist asking:
"Why did that guy try to stop me?"
"From accepting the GC?"
"Yeah."
"That happens all the time. All the time, Eleven," the woman whispered, the astronomical fatigue in her voice almost making me shudder in fear. "You got lucky. If there had been two of them, they would've grabbed you, dragged you away from the screen, and held you there, making it look like an accident, then let go when there were a few seconds left on the timer. You'd have had no chance. But at least the crowd would get their entertainment..."
"That's horrible!"
"It certainly is."
"Why would they do that?"
"If you don't accept a game challenge before the timer's up, it gets offered to someone else."
"But what are the chances whoever tries to stop me will be the one who gets the challenge?"
"You can figure it out yourself. But that's not important. They'd just go find whoever got it. If that person wins, they'll share the reward. If not... well, it's not like it cost them anything."
"I see," I said slowly, involuntarily shortening my stride.
This crippled, exhausted woman was walking faster than me. I could barely keep up. I wouldn't be winning any races with these legs of mine anytime soon.
"That's good," the woman said without turning around. "You're smart. That'll help you stay alive longer."
Is living like this really worth it? The thought was on the tip of my tongue, but I decided to keep my mouth shut.
I understood the situation with the game challenge. If someone else had the chance to get extra sol instead of you, then, dirty as it was, it made sense to drag that lucky guy away from the screen and not let him take advantage of it. The system would use a random number generator and give someone else that chance. Maybe it would be you. And if it wasn't you, you would just find the winner and claim part of the reward for yourself.
But why hadn't the thug just punched me in the face? I hadn't seen any cops around. No one seemed to care about anything. One good punch would've definitely taken me down. Maybe even knocked me out. Hell, I'd have fallen over if he had just kicked my thigh, and it would've taken me forever to get up again. But he hadn't. Why not? The answer was simple: he was afraid of something. Of someone. I raised my eyes to look at the rail that ran across the ceiling. At that exact moment, a metal dome covered in electronic eyes rolled by with a buzz.
Too many eyes, I thought. Maybe they all had different functions — scanners, sensors, x-ray... And I'd have bet anything there were more surveillance cameras hidden in the walls and ceiling.
That was what the thug was afraid of. After he pushed me, he had taken a step back and turned sharply, and I saw him looking at the ceiling in the moment before our eyes met. For a split second, fear engulfed his face. He was afraid of being caught. And if he was afraid of being caught, that meant there was such a thing as punishment around here.
I was so excited about my win that I had forgotten to check my balance, which should have increased by three sol. Glad of the chance to stop again, I leaned against the wall, activated the interface, and checked the financial section. I looked at the numbers... and a chuckle escaped my lips. Yeah. It had been foolish to hope. The system was definitely on top of things.
Balance: 0
Debt status: in debt.
Debt details:
Limb lease: 1 sol.
Immunosuppressants: 1 sol.
Vitamins: 1 sol.
First meal: 1 sol.
First water ration: 1 sol.
Total debt owed: 5 sol.
Not much to be excited about. But at least my total debt was down, and that was a good thing. I thought about my upcoming lunch, dinner, and water rations, which I'd have to pay four more sol for. Four sol I hadn't even earned yet.
I have a job to do... A job to do...
"A job to do," I said out loud, pushing myself off the wall and continuing down the hallway. "A job to do...ORL... A job to do... ORL..."
I repeated these words like an endless mantra, over and over. It helped me push past the weakness and dizziness, helped me keep moving along towards my goal. To Zone 3. If only someone could tell me how much farther it was...
A job to do...
ORL...
A job to do...
ORL...
Step by step, Eleven. No. I'm not Eleven. I'm not the system's robot, whoever or whatever this "system" is. I'm not a number. I'm El! I had no better ideas for what to call myself yet. But El was still better than Eleven or double ones.
One step at a time, Eleven. One step at a time.
A job to do...
ORL...
A job to do...
* * *
Zone 3. Block 6.
I made it. There I was, at the entrance to Block 6.
I stood there, scanning my surroundings. Things looked pretty bad.
To get in, I would have to walk about five hundred yards further along the hallway, then, following the signs, turn right and go roughly three hundred yards more, if I counted two of my pathetic steps as a yard. I had taken almost two thousand steps on my rubbery spaghetti-legs, and now that I had arrived and had a chance to look around, I realized I should've stayed where I was and let myself rest.
Zone 3 was made up of six blocks. Each block was an oval-shaped corridor that looped back on itself, kind of like a stretched-out gear with rectangular teeth. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all metal. Two domes moved in slow circles around the ceiling, and the walls were covered in gray spatters. The floor had gray puddles all over it... and dirty, sweaty workers were running, walking, hobbling, or even crawling over these puddles, slipping, sometimes falling, holding one or occasionally two buckets filled to the top with viscous gray slime. The buckets swung in their shaking hands, spilling gray droplets over the edge. One worker fell... and his bucket hit the wall with a clang and overturned, the gray slime spreading onto the floor, adding to an already large puddle.
The whole way here, I had wondered what a standard container was.
And there it was — a bucket! A shiny metal bucket that looked like it would hold about five gallons. It wasn't tapered at the bottom or anything, just a big tub with a thin metal handle. And heavy as hell!
At that point I started to laugh uncontrollably, huddled in the corner next to the entrance to Zone 3, my palm pressed to my face. In that moment, I realized that if I was going to die, I would die of laughter, not of despair. I would try to be optimistic about everything first, then realistic. Screw pessimism.
Damn... There was such a big difference between the brief, businesslike job description and the actual process of getting it done!
Job: Collect gray slime. Easy (O)
Description: Collect and deliver forty standard containers of gray slime to the receiver unit.
Job location: Zone 3, Block 6.
Deadline: Evening end-of-work alarm.
Compensation: 15 sol.
Short and to the point.
The oval-shaped corridor was a hell of a mess. It was incredibly filthy, and an air of bitter desperation and futility hung heavily over everything.
I stopped laughing and reached a hand out to run my fingers along the wall, collecting a small amount of the viscous gray substance. I rubbed it between my fingers and sniffed it. I wasn't about to taste it, though — it smelled weird. Like a mixture of flour, seaweed, and engine grease with a faint whiff of something chemical-like, caustic and acidic. The slime didn't burn my skin, and had a paste-like feel to it. From a practical point of view, the worst thing about it was its slipperiness. What the hell is this stuff? Did someone really mix five tons of flour with three tons of grease and add a few gallons of vinegar? That made no sense. Well, nothing made sense here, so my guess was just as good as any other. What else would you call the spectacle happening in front of me if not utter nonsense?
Thirty or so rational adults in varying physical condition were relentlessly hauling slime-filled buckets, one or two at a time, gritting their teeth. I had no idea who I had been before — some clever technique had blocked my memories for good. I had no memory of my personal experiences, but watching those people struggling to complete this CGS job (an acronym I came up with for Collect Gray Slime), I immediately noticed that they were wasting their energy and not being nearly as productive as they could be. They were either stumbling slowly or running. If they had lined up in a row, passing full and empty buckets to each other and taking a step forward after each cycle of forty standard containers, they would have been much less tired and would get the job done much faster.
I felt the urge to raise my hands and exclaim something dramatic like: 'Heed my words, people! I will show you the way!' But I said nothing. I stood in the corner and watched, not bothering anyone, thoughtfully rubbing gray slime between my fingers. I no longer felt the urge to laugh. My legs were shaking after the long walk, and my elbow hurt a lot. But my head was working fine.
You might ask: why should the whole line take a step forward after every forty buckets if they were working together?
Because everyone's jobs were unique to them. Mine was an easy one-time job:
Task: Collect Gray Slime. Easy (O).
Description: Collect and deliver forty standard containers of gray slime to the receiver unit.
I guess the system decided to cut me some slack since it was my first day in this cesspool of sadness. My job was listed as 'Easy', with O for 'one-time' in brackets so that I didn't get too excited. I was afraid I would end up having to lug way more than forty standard containers of slime if I got this job again. Just thinking about that made me shudder.
Buckets were turned in at the receiver unit, a simple and functional device. A narrow, twelve-foot-long opening, the lower edge knee-high and the upper edge waist-high. There was a foot-deep niche in the wall above it, which made access easier, and a running conveyor belt inside the opening.
Turning in full buckets was incredibly easy — you just had to put them on the conveyor belt, no lifting required. Then you had to follow the wall a little further and grab a shiny new bucket from a small ledge in front of an open window. Grab the bucket and get back to collecting slime! That made sense. Trying to shake the thick, sticky slime out of the slippery bucket would be a huge waste of time.
The other workers didn't waste any time standing around by the conveyor belt after they delivered a bucket. Things ran like clockwork. A worker would put a bucket on the belt, take a few steps, get a clean bucket and move on back to the source of the slime. There were no sounds, no flashing lights to mark the deliveries. The information must go straight to the worker's interface.
Okay. Easy enough. Time to move on — I've only figured out half of the process so far. I stepped aside to let a pair of beefy, tough-looking guys pass me, then followed them, using their back as a shield against the flailing crowd. The tired workers swung like pendulums, and my elbow was in really bad shape... So I acted like I only had one arm. Lifting anything with my left hand was unthinkable, even something as light as a glass of water or a spoon. My elbow would instantly punish me with an immediate surge of pain for being so bold.
My strong torso, more or less functional right hand, and skeletal legs that just barely held up my weight were my assets. The legs were the worst part — I had no idea how they would handle an extra fifty pounds of weight. Well, maybe less than fifty. It'd better be less...
I grabbed the clanking bucket, weighing it in my hand. It wasn't very heavy. No more than a few pounds. I flexed my arm a few times, preparing it for a heavy load. I hobbled towards the first 'cog' — a huge square room off of the hallway. The workers in front of me were headed that way, too.
Okay...
What do we have here? A leak?
How else could I describe it?
The gray slime dripped from the walls and the ceiling. There was no visible source, but the whole room was covered in the sticky gray substance.
I had no time to wonder what was above us. There were more pressing problems at hand. I stepped to the side and watched the others closely. They worked quickly and smoothly: they found the wall with the fattest payload of slime, put their buckets on the floor, and scooped handfuls of slime into it, repeating if necessary. More often than not, they scooped too much into the bucket and the slime spilled onto the floor. Then they carried the buckets off to the hallway. I already knew what happened after that.
All right. A full bucket? I looked inside and noticed a thin indicator line an inch below the edge of the bucket. Up to here, right? Okay, let's try that...
I walked to the wall and put my bucket down. I used my right hand to help a chunk of slime slide into it. Plop! I peered down at the results and did it again. Plop! That would do. And now for the moment of truth. I leaned down and grabbed the slippery handle, then tried to straighten up. My foreign arm stretched out and... Ouch! Something popped in my shoulder and my elbow throbbed in pain. But the bucket came up off the floor with a slurping noise. I stood, leaning to the side, realizing I would have to drag that weight all the way to the receiver unit at the entrance.
"Come on, nullbie!" I said to myself.
One small step! To my own surprise, I did it. I stayed on my feet! Another step! And another. And another! I laughed to myself. It was a day full of limping, that was for sure.
Ten steps later I had to stop, put the bucket down by the wall, and assess my condition. My hands were sore and my knees hurt. My back felt all right, but my right shoulder ached. I let myself take little break, then got back to it.
Thud! A guy walking past casually kicked my bucket over, the contents spilling all across the floor. A girl with messy blonde hair, clinging to the guy's arm and swinging her hips as she walked, let out a high-pitched laugh.
"Hey, you!" I said.
He turned to me with gleeful anticipation. Glancing quickly at the ceiling, he made sure neither of the two observer domes were there. I saw a brief flash of fear in his eyes, but then he looked at me with the self-confidence and relaxed brazenness of youth and strength. He was really young, and even though his arms might have belonged to a man in his fifties, their previous owner had been solidly built. His legs were tan and bulging with muscle, and he stood in an openly defiant stance. Badassery incarnate. He had the first three-digit number I'd seen so far: 107.
The girl watched impatiently, waiting for the wimp her boyfriend had picked on to start pleading with him or, even better, start a fight and pay for it.
I decided to disappoint her. Leaning my shoulder carefully against the wall, I pointed at my overturned bucket and smiled widely.
"A word of advice: don't do that again."
It came out sounding badass, but I realized I had made a huge mistake. I had already noticed he was really young, plus, his girlfriend was standing next to him. A guy like that wasn't going to give up while she was watching — he couldn't let her think he was anything but an alpha male.
I'm a dumbass. I'm gonna pay for this.
His response was instant and predictable.
"Oh, yeah? Or what?"
I groaned internally, but managed to stay calm.
"You'll see. Listen, I'm not going to fight — "
"We'll see about that," 107 interrupted me, turned away, and strode down the hallway. The girl gave me the finger, stuck her tongue out at me, and, after a moment's thought, gave me the finger again. Then she hurried after her boyfriend, swinging her hips even more wildly than before. How does she haul buckets walking like that? Or do her talents lie elsewhere?
"I'm an idiot." I said to myself, grabbing my bucket. "Yeah. A total idiot."
I got the feeling I was no stranger to conflict, that I had had my share of conflict before. I was used to it. Why? I hadn't panicked just then, facing down an obviously stronger opponent. My instinct wasn't to back down — my heart started beating a little bit faster, but just a little bit. It didn't start pounding uncontrollably. I regretted not holding back, but I knew that I had acted reflexively, which mean I had acted like that before. And it was likely my past conflicts often ended well for me, since I had called that guy out so boldly.
What else did I realize at that moment?
I knew I had caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes when he saw my torso. But that fear vanished once he saw my limbs. A colossus on decaying legs, with rotting arms — that's what I was. But now I looked at my torso differently, and after a minute of examination I came to the conclusion that it was an extremely functional body. Lean, muscular, tough. Even in the state it was in, it signaled others not to mess with me.
At least I had gotten something useful out of this unexpected confrontation.
Back to collecting slime.
I picked up my bucket, went back to the room, and directed another huge chunk of slime into the bucket. Gripped the handle and started walking. Ten steps, then a quick break. Another ten steps, another break. Five steps, rest. Five more steps, rest. Three steps, rest. Another three steps and I was sending the bucket down the conveyor belt. I leaned against the wall again, my breathing even, and contemplated my trembling legs. It was unsettling... I was surprised I didn't scream in terror at the sight of these thin, spaghetti-like appendages covered in age spots and spider veins, with their limp, feeble muscles, calloused feet and blackened, peeling nails, growing out of my torso. I should have been terrified. Maybe there was something in those immunosuppressants, some kind of sedative that made me accept my disfigured body calmly.
Hold on. I had to check on my buckets.
Task: Collect Gray Slime. Easy (O).
Description: Collect and deliver thirty-nine standard containers of gray slime to the receiver unit.
Glowing green lines appeared before my eyes, waiting patiently for me to focus on them. At least now I knew for sure that the buckets were counted right at the receiver unit. Everything worked.
The system did what it was supposed to. But the workers — they were idiots. They could've organized and made their lives easier. But would it actually help? I watched a sturdy woman with broad shoulders and muscular arms that any man would envy. She was effortlessly carrying two buckets while an elderly, white-haired man, panting heavily, struggled to keep up with her. These two were working together, and it was obvious he benefited from the arrangement. But what did she get out of it?
"Slow down!" She said with surprising fondness, turning to him. "Don't hurt your back!"
"I'm fine," he wheezed. "I'm hanging in there."
Definitely working together. I sighed and went to pick up a fresh 'standard container'. Thinking about how long it had taken me to turn in one bucket had me feeling disheartened. Including the confrontation and my first failed attempt, I had wasted about twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes for each bucket.
Three buckets an hour.
That's thirty buckets in ten hours.
Even if the shift was twelve hours long (I had no idea when the evening alarm would sound), I still wasn't going to make it.
If I could push myself and turn in a bucket every fifteen minutes, I'd have at least some hope. But I doubted I was strong enough — I could barely stand.
Whatever it took, I was determined to try my damnedest.
Maybe I could manage one bucket in ten minutes. I needed something to wrap my right hand where the handle was rubbing against my skin. I wanted to wrap my knees, too... But I couldn't tear my underwear into strips.
I decided to make do without bandages for now. Maybe it'd be all right — I couldn't possibly run into a griefer every single time.
IT WASN'T ALL RIGHT.
After three hours I stopped trying. I realized there was no way I could finish the job. My right palm was on fire, my one working arm was shaking, and my side ached badly from constantly leaning to the right. I tried to walk straight, but the bucket banged against my legs, which were barely holding me up as it was. The worst part was that my headache was back, along with the pain in my bad elbow. It felt like it was being torn apart from the inside. I didn't even want to think about the weird itch in my shoulders and hips where those circular scars were.
I stopped. There was no point in banging my head against the wall. Pushing myself or not, I wasn't going to get it done. My newfound enemy and his girlfriend hit me with their dirty tricks every time they caught me out of sight of the observer domes. It was like that pair of rats had a sixth sense — they could sense danger without seeing it. When that happened, they would just pass by without touching me, whispering threats at my back. The next round they'd greet me with a push to the back or a kick to trip me up or upend my bucket. I decided to stop after one fall too many, when I almost landed on my swollen elbow. I stayed down and watched the giggling couple leave. The girl turned to me and gave me the finger again, then kissed her boyfriend on his stubbly cheek and shouted:
"Watch out, dickhead! This is Tiger! And you're just..."
She didn't finish. Judging by her furrowed brow, she was having trouble coming up with a suitable description for someone as wretched as me. Tiger stood in proud silence. Jabbing her pointer finger into the center of her forehead in a strange, boastful gesture, the girl added:
"I'm Buxa! And Buxa means cool! So watch out!"
They disappeared around the corner. I rested for a second, then grabbed the empty bucket and got up slowly, mumbling:
"Tiger, Buxa and Dickhead. A desperate drama on a stage of gray slime."
This stupid attempt at a joke gave me a little spurt of energy. A spark of creativity, too. I tried collecting a full bucket of slime right by the receiver unit, since people tended to trip there, spilling their slime. Sure, it was dragged across the floor as the workers stepped on it, but I had to try. I put my bucket down, sat against the wall, and started collecting. Picked up five handfuls, then stopped again. It was impossible with just one hand. Not to mention all the threats and insults people rained down on me as they walked by. When one of them kicked my nearly empty bucket over with a loud clang, I moved away from the traffic and came to a grim conclusion.
The situation was a dire one — I just couldn't do today's job on my own. Even if Tiger and Buxa hadn't harassed me, I still couldn't have kept up. I was too weak, and the system wasn't kind to the likes of me. If only I had a few days to get acclimated... Some decent food, a good workout or two...
I put the bucket with what little slime was inside on the receiving belt, and left Block 6 without looking back at my tormentors. As soon as I reached the hallway, I heard a beeping sound. A red light flashed and a narrow door opened in the wall, revealing some kind of shower room.
Shower required immediately.
That sounded like an order. I looked down at myself, turned around, and stepped into the shower. The shower room had metal walls with a design that mimicked tile, and metal grating covering the floor and ceiling. I heard a snorting sound above me, and a rush of lukewarm water flowed down. It lasted about five seconds. A hissing sound, and something faintly citrusy was sprayed onto my head and shoulders. I got the hint and started soaping up. Ten seconds later, I heard the snorting sound again, and quickly put my arms up. When the water flowed down, I started spinning, turning and stomping, washing off the remnants of slime and soap as fast as I could. It was obvious showers wouldn't be long here.
I stumbled back out into the hallway and immediately, instinctively, checked my financial section. And swore out loud. There was a new debt in my long list of debts:
Balance: 0
Debt status: in debt.
Debt details:
Limb lease: 1 sol.
Immunosuppressants: 1 sol.
Vitamins: 1 sol.
First meal: 1 sol.
First water ration: 1 sol.
Shower: 1 sol.
Total debt owed: 6 sol.
Well, at least they didn't charge me for the soap. Thanks a lot. I didn't get my job done, I had to waste a sol on a shower, and now I was even deeper in debt. And, if the clock on my interface was to be believed, it was just past noon.
My future didn't look bright at all...
I dragged myself to the main hallway and collapsed onto a bench — really just a ledge in the wall with a plastic seat covering that ever-present metal. There was some kind of hot pipe underneath that kept the seat warm. I got as comfortable as I could and started thinking.
I had failed to do my job. This meant I was going to have more problems when the evening alarm went off. But what kind of problems? How could I save a few sol? How could I reduce my future debt? What could I do without?
I didn't have much choice. I had two meals and two water rations left. I couldn't go without water — I was already thirsty. It seemed like every cell of my body had greedily absorbed the entire liter of water I had before, and not a single drop of it had reached my bladder. I had tried to go in the shower, but couldn't.
Going without food wasn't an option, either. I had to act to get out of the quicksand I was trapped in, and actions took energy, which I could only get from food. I couldn't save a single sol by passing up food and water.
How could I earn even just one sol? It seemed like there was nothing I could do.
A steady stream of people was flowing by. There was no use trying to get someone's attention with an 'excuse me' or 'could I ask you a question'. I needed to use a more direct approach. Without standing up I raised my voice and asked the crowd:
"I'm new here. I started a job but couldn't get it done. Will I get anything for what I did? Even just one sol?"
After a second, the answers flew in. I couldn't remember, of course, but something told me I'd never heard so many simultaneous negative answers in my life. Most of them were almost venomous in their negativity. At least I knew they were telling the truth. I wasn't going to get a single sol.
"Do you have to pay to use the toilet?"
A few more negative answers trickled in, less spiteful this time.
That made sense — no reason to pay for toilets when you can go in any dark corner. Unsanitary, sure, but at least it was free.
The people passing suddenly scrambled away from the center of the hallway towards the walls, then slowed down. Before I had time to be surprised at this interruption to their rhythm, I heard the now-familiar siren, shorter this time. Got it. Lunch time. The niches in the wall started to open, and I watched people drop wearily into the chairs inside before the doors closed.
It seemed like an overly complicated way to give out water and nutrition cubes. On the other hand, it did give the system total control over the users and full access to their bodies. And behind closed doors, too.
I wondered if they ever rebelled, and how long the rebellions lasted if they did. The system had complete control over the most vital resources — food, water, medicine. How quickly would I die if I stopped taking the immunosuppresants and my body started rejecting the decaying limbs?
No, of course not. They never rebelled. They cast fearful looks at the ceiling. This was the same fear seen in ancient civilizations who looked up to the heavens at their wrathful gods, prepared to smite the wicked at any moment.
I tried to get up and failed. My legs felt like they had turned to jelly. Surprised, I poked at the flabby flesh of my thighs, massaged my calves, and wiggled my feet to get the blood flowing. Come on, you limp noodles! Don't you want to go get fed? A couple pick-me-up shots, huh? Come on, get the hell up!
It was either the massage or the promise of injection, but I somehow managed to get up and stagger towards the closest niche. I wonder how the system will react if I can't get up from the chair.
To my surprise, the water was sweetened and went down easy. I drank every last drop. I had seen a few people walking around with some kind of container on their belts or in their hands. Not buckets. More like heavy-duty plastic bottles, about two liters each. I had to get myself one of those — gulping down a liter of water three times a day wasn't the smartest thing to do.
I filled my mouth with water and popped in the nutrition cube. In a second or two it dissolved, turning the water into what was unmistakably beef broth. I halfheartedly swished it around my mouth a few times, then swallowed. Good lunch. The door opened pointedly. And now my lunch break's over.
"I can't do my job," I complained to the ceiling in frustration.
The ceiling was unmoved. I slid out of the chair, went out into the hallway, and sat back on the bench. What else could I do? My legs and arms were failing me and I couldn't stop yawning. The other benches were all filled with bums like me, stretched out and sleeping. I lay down on my right side, closed my eyes and fell asleep immediately despite myself. My mind shut down at some inaudible but firm command from my fatigued body.
THIRST WOKE ME UP four hours later. What the hell? I had drunk two liters of water, and the day wasn't even over yet — it couldn't be later than five in the evening. I hadn't taken a piss, I wasn't sweating all that much, so why was I so damn thirsty? I felt like a dusty old sponge abandoned on a shelf for forty years, then sewn to a couple scraps and used without even soaking it first.
My head felt heavy, and I could sense my headache coming back. I ran my right hand over my face and looked at my fingers. Held my hand in front of my eyes for a minute and twisted it this way and that. My fingers were definitely getting thicker and pinker. I was coming back to life. I sat up straight and did a quick evaluation of my physical condition — I rolled my neck and shoulders, clicked my jaw, moved my eyes, and stretched each limb one by one.
That was the good news. The water, vitamins, and three hours of sleep had helped a lot. The deep-set pain in my muscles and bones was gone, along with the itchiness in the scars where my body met my limbs. My jaw wasn't popping anymore, and I no longer felt like a human nutcracker. My body was finally functioning quietly. Nothing creaked. Good news, for sure! Every time I had heard those strange sounds coming from inside me, it gave me the impression my organs were made of styrofoam and rotten wood.
What else did I need?
That was obvious. More water, more food, a huge dose of vitamins, a couple workouts, and some sleep.
Water!
I looked to my left, where a rail-thin man sat on the same bench as me. Long hair, eyes blinking out from behind from a bushy beard that covered his entire face. He gripped a plastic bottle with a rag wrapped around the neck tightly between his yellowish thighs. He carefully covered the bottle with both hands — one dark, one light. The lighter arm was wiry and seemed fairly strong. The black one left a lot to be desired. But his back... I could clearly see he had serious problems with his spine. It was so crooked it practically zigzagged.
How's my lower back doing? Ow. Still hurts. I had almost forgotten about it, but the pain viciously made itself known when I tried to bend over.
"Hey, man." I greeted my neighbor. "Did you sleep well?"
"You're not getting my water! Not a single drop!" He replied abruptly, shielding the precious bottle with his entire body. He looked like a samurai committing hara-kiri.
What's a samurai? A warrior from ancient Japan. What's Japan? Why do I get an image of the sun rising over the ocean?
"I need just a sip!"
"You're not getting one. Don't do anything stupid — I'm stronger than you!"
You may be strong, but you're a coward, I thought.
"One big gulp," I said evenly. "I really need it. I woke up here just this morning. Dehydration is killing me. Your water might save my life."
"I told you I'm not sharing! What don't you understand?" He started to get up and I saw his number: 444. Memorable.
"Freeze!" I ordered.
I was surprised at the harshness of my own voice. A passing trio of workers started, stopped for a second, glanced at each other in shock, then walked on. But triple fours just froze in place like a pinned bug. Still alive, but completely helpless.
"Listen, man. I need it. I'm barely hanging on to ORL. I'm saving sol everywhere I can. I almost never buy water. I take tiny sips to make it last," 444 mumbled. "Whenever I share it they take most of it, if not all of it. Does that sound fair to you? No, man, you can't have it. No offense."
"Calm down," I said softly. "Look at me. Hey! Look at me!"
He turned his head reluctantly, glanced briefly into my eyes, then turned away again. Like a deer in a hunter's crosshair.
"Hey! Are you listening to me?"
"I'm listening..."
"Let me have one big sip," I said calmly. "I'll pay you back with a whole liter. If you let me have a mouthful, I'll pay you back two liters. I'm not robbing you, I'm offering you a deal."
"All right," triple-fours agreed.
He gave in too quickly. He wasn't even listening to what I was saying — just succumbed to my pressure. He had tried to play the tough guy, but his thin layer of mental protection crumbled with ease under my onslaught. Damn. That wasn't a victory. Not even a negotiation. Definitely not a battle of wits.
He passed me the bottle. It was odd — wide, with a long, thick neck and no trace of a label.
He kept playing the victim. He reluctantly loosened his grip to pass me the bottle, and turned away with a gloomy expression. I could almost hear his thoughts: 'Go on, rob me, you bastard. Two sips, my ass!' He was going to listen to me drink and count each gulp, calculating exactly how many milliliters of water he was losing! Yeah... definitely a deer. Skittish, defenseless prey.
"Hey!"
His eyes flashed again from the thicket covering his face.
"Watch me," I said, uncapping the bottle, "and count my sips. One."
Water filled my mouth. Of course, it was disgustingly warm — he had been holding the bottle between his thighs. At least he hadn't been sitting on it. But... water was water. I swallowed slowly and blew out a breath.
"Two."
Down the hatch again. I screwed the cap on and gave pathetic little triple fours his bottle back.
"Thank you."
"Oh, it was really nothing..." he muttered, tucking the bottle away. He didn't even check the water level!
I winced in disappointment. He behaved just as I expected from prey. This idiot willingly devalued his precious water, calling it 'nothing' like it wasn't worth anything!
"Triple fours!" He flinched. His frightened eyes seemed to say, 'Why did I have to sit here? Why didn't I jump up and leave as soon as I got my bottle back? I'm not giving you another sip! Well, maybe just one. You hear me? Just one!'
"Thanks for the water." I repeated. "We have a deal. I owe you two liters now. Got it?"
"Got it..."
"Hey!"
That look again... 'Why are you still bothering me?'
"Now you say it!"
"I owe you... I mean, you owe me... Two liters... That's too much, you know. One liter is enough... Really, just however much you can..."
I sighed. He was natural prey, and there was no way to fix that in a short time. Well, at least he seemed talkative, and wouldn't snap at me like most of the others.
"Can you answer a few questions for me? I'm new, you know. And I think I'm screwed — I can't get today's job done on time."
"Oh, man," he perked up, compassion rising in his eyes. "You are screwed. The job is nothing to worry about, but debt... Debt is serious. The system never forgets a debt. It's as cold and heartless as an old wife!"
He just needed dreadlocks and a joint to complete the picture of a crazed old druggie.
"Let's talk a little," I suggested, seizing the moment.
"Well, I have like ten minutes before I have to get to work. I gotta keep up — I don't want to lose ORL! Ask away, man."
Who's screwed now, huh? I had so many questions. I just had to decide which ones to ask first.