Morgan Abrams
22 days until arrest
You have to twist your head away as the needle pierces your skin. A sharp intake of breath as you try to keep quiet, keep from embarrassing yourself. The nurse instructs you to relax your hand while she removes the tourniquet.
There’s a smack on your arm – the other one. “Stop squirming,” Rivka admonishes.
You’ve been doing this your whole life; you think you’d be over it by now. It’s just – there’s something about this room with its white wooden cabinets and the grey machinery and the weird blue chair they always sit you in that sets your anxiety off. You set your attention on the security safe behind the nurse, still focused on filling vial after vial. Next to the counter the safe is on is a floor-to-ceiling machine dressed in featureless grey-white save for the computer screen on its front surface, just above a port fitted for same size vials the nurse is filling. Like some kind of blood-drinking refrigerator. The nurses here always call it the ‘vampire machine’ when Rivka isn’t around to yell at them for it.
Normally, Rivka doesn’t bother to supervise this part, but here she is. Watching. Judging. Hard to focus on just getting through it all with her standing there. The nurse would normally be making a joke to break the tension, or talking about her day, doing something to distract you with but she’s just as nervous as you are under Rivka’s attention. Head down and focused on the task.
You swear that’s making it take longer.
“There we go, all done bud,” the nurse announces, finally. The pressure in your arm releases itself and you can finally bear to look. The needle is gone, replaced with a cotton ball which you’re instructed to keep pressed down while the nurse finishes labeling the vials. There’s seven of them this time, dark red under the light. A cup of orange juice sits beside them, accusingly. The nurse prompts you to pull your fingers away so she can apply a squirt of MediPaste and a patch of tape to hold the cotton down.
“How are you feeling–” and you have to bite your cheek to keep your face neutral as she says your first name, “–any dizziness?” she asks.
You shake your head. You’re fine. You’re not a baby.
The room does briefly spin as you stand up but it’s fine. It fades fast. The cup of orange juice is in your hands and you shuffle out of the way as the nurse gets to work. She picks up all but one of the vials, now labeled, and puts them in the safe which locks with a click.
Rivka says something to her and helps herself to the remaining vial, sticking it into an open compartment of the vampire machine. It hooks into place by way of some kind of curved needle and a fitted set of plastic bracers that enclose around the glass. She latches the compartment door shut and the entire body of the machine begins to rattle and shake in place.
She had warned you that they were going to run you through the full battery of tests, confirm the NMIV vaccine is out of your system before you get the okay for your next nanite injection.
It’s meant two miserable weeks of brain fog and migraines bad enough to bring an aura with them, messing with your vision and demanding sunglasses. You feel bad for having to leave Riley to handle Brayden alone for so long but there have been days where you can barely manage to read, never mind type anything. Or think.
It only takes a few minutes for the vampire machine to return its first result but it feels like forever. You have to sit back down in the chair, fingers still curled around the juice cup. Finally it beeps done and a ream of text starts rolling across the screen. Both the nurse and Rivka crowd in front of it, reading it over and talking to each other.
You put the juice cup down and find your phone. Today’s been better on the migraine front, a chance to catch up on missed messages while those two are busy deciding your fate. They’re mostly from Riley, first gloating over having an easier time with the vaccine before switching to well-wishing and more pictures of the army of model clay figurines she’s been crafting during her downtime.
The newest message though is an invite, linking to a different communication app. Holy shit, did she finally get to those privacy articles you’ve been begging her to read?
Semaphore Log
🍏RottenApples.Ltd🍏
Centimorgan has joined the room.
WilyRiley: Finally!
WilyRiley: I sent you the invite like, two days ago
Centimorgan: my phone says two hours
WilyRiley: Yeah? That’s what I said
WilyRiley: Hours are days on the information superhighway
WilyRiley: See this is why you need a cool cat expert like me around
Centimorgan: skeptical-guy emoji
WilyRiley: Where you been anyway?
Centimorgan: sorry
Centimorgan: health problems
WilyRiley: ☹️
Centimorgan: but doing better today!!
Centimorgan: once i get my injection i’ll be normal again
WileyRiley: You’re never normal (positive)
Centimorgan: i’m never normal (negative)
WileyRiley: Don’t make me come over there
WileyRiley: I’ll do it
WileyRiley: Don’t test me
Centimorgan: so we’re finally switching to semaphore?
Centimorgan: you actually read the articles i sent you
Centimorgan: exploding-head emoji
Centimorgan: i’m so… happy…
B-Max6969: Oh My God you still do the typing out emoji thing
B-Max6969: Jesus Christ
Centimorgan: pointed-gun emoji
Centimorgan: shut up
WilyRiley: Guys.
B-Max6969: ’Guys’ plural huh,
WilyRiley: Dude.
Centimorgan: shut up
Centimorgan: shut up
Centimorgan: shut up
WilyRiley: Dude, Brayden
WilyRiley: Moumentai
WilyRiley: This isn’t going to work if you can’t be fucking civil!!
WilyRiley: PLEASE don’t make me play peacemaker
WilyRiley: It goes against my chaos gremlin beliefs
B-Max6969: christ
B-Max6969: sorry
The sound of a cabinet unlocking pulls your attention back up just in time to see the nurse retrieve a finger length vial of viscous silver liquid. She puts it down on the counter before putting together the rest of everything needed to do an injection: syringe, withdraw needle, injection needle, alcohol wipes, bandage.
She catches you staring and smiles. “You’re all clear,” she announces. “Bet you’ve been looking forward to this, hm?”
You shrug, afraid of looking too eager before checking on Rivka. She’s still in front of the vampire machine, scrolling through the readout with one finger.
Toy with the arm of your sunglasses as you watch the nurse bring everything over and begin to prepare a fresh needle. “C-c-can’t I just–” you freeze up, everyone’s attention on you now, have to swallow your nerves to continue. “Can’t I just um, do it myself?”
When neither of them answer right away, you press the issue. “It’s b-b-been months.” Since the hospital. “It’s– I’m fine. Please? This is, uh…” humiliating, you don’t finish.
The nurse looks over at Rivka. “That’s up to your mom, honey.”
Rivka finally turns her head to look at you. “You understand the consequences?”
You’re not going to fake it or whatever. It’s already been firmly established that’s not going to work, you get it. One little breakdown and it’s like no one trusts you any more.
You’re so over it. You’re better now. Cross your heart and hope to die.
Make yourself hold eye contact with Rivka. Willing her to understand. To agree. Fingernails pricking into the skin of your thigh through your clothes. Finally, she relents. Looks away, back to the monitor and waves a hand at the nurse.
“Fine, but you’re on thin ice, Morgan. Remember, trust is earned, not given.”
The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escapes. A partial victory, at least. You put the juice cup down so the nurse can hand you the vial and the rest of the supplies. You even listen obediently as she runs you through the procedure as if you didn’t already know it by heart by now.
They even relent when you ask and let you take everything into the bathroom rather then have to pull your pants down in front of two adult women. A mercy you weren’t expecting to get but one you eagerly take before Rivka can have any second thoughts.
In the bathroom you pull down your pants and cross your legs to sit down on the floor, pulling up the boxes to pick a fresh injection site. Swab the patch of skin clean. Once the syringe is filled and the needles swapped around, you grip it tight and find the right angle. Sharp enough to slip into and past the skin with barely any effort, only a familiar irritated sting. Press the plunger in and watch the vial slowly empty its contents: nanites in suspended solution. They’ll get absorbed into your body now, carried by the blood stream and into your nerves, your brain, taken in by the network of cybercells holding your crappy body together.
It’s too early for any of that to have actually happened but already you feel better. Just knowing that tomorrow you won’t have to cut through a solid bank of brain fog first thing in the morning is enough.
Press a bandage over the injection site and finish cleaning up. Does someone like Crow have to do this every week too? She’s got all the electricity stuff going on so she has to be, right? At least a glitch like hers lets her actually do something worthwhile. You’re just another sick person taking their medicine.
You sit there on the floor for a minute longer, imagining you can feel the nanites filtering through your blood. No desire to rush back over to Rivka or the nurse and get ushered along to whatever the next phase of today’s check-up is intended to be.
You get your phone back out and type a quick apology for dropping in the middle of the conversation.
B-Max6969: There’s like a government watchlist out there
B-Max6969: of the ones that didn’t, you know, get jailed or killed
Centimorgan: what are we talking about? sorry I’m getting a check-up rn
WilyRiley: WB dude
WilyRiley: And we’re talking about terrorists apparently
Centimorgan: …fun?
B-Max6969: Not terrorism
B-Max6969: Tomorrowists
Centimorgan: what
B-Max6969: How do neither of you not know who the Tomorrowists are?
Centimorgan: I *know* who the Tommorowists are
WilyRiley: yeah dude everyone knows who ruined the world, thanks for the mansplaining
B-Max6969: Yeah well, if that’s what we’re dealing with here
B-Max6969: then we need to be extra careful, okay?
Centimorgan: my mom isn’t some evil eco-cultist or whatever
Centimorgan: what the hell
WilyRiley: Yeah dude can you imagine
Centimorgan: extremely-skeptical-looking-sunglasses-guy emoji
Centimorgan: if you ever talked to her you’d realize in like,
Centimorgan: fifteen seconds why that sounds ridiculous
Centimorgan: she’s like a nihilist
Centimorgan: anarchist AT BEST
B-Max6969: This is not helping your case, Morgan
Centimorgan: And anyway, Tomorrowists didn’t just randomly attack grocery stores
Centimorgan: there was usually like, a point to it
Centimorgan: yeah well
Centimorgan: words mean things
Brayden still hasn’t let go of that stupid idea. Maybe now that your brain will soon be working again you can start to put together actual evidence. Find some alternate, rational explanation that will explain everything. You put your phone away and pull your pants up, smooth out your clothes before returning to the blood draw room. The vampire machine is humming loudly again while the nurse and Rivka are deep in conversation. Something about latency counts.
The nurse sees you first and forces the juice cup back into your hand, admonishing you to drink the whole thing. Which. Oh, right. You forgot before.
You take a sip and sit back down, waiting for whatever’ll come next. There’s more jargon in the pair’s discussion than you can follow in your current state. Blood cells and hormone levels and something about an ‘infiltration rate’ that you’re pretty sure has to do with how much slack your cybercells are picking up for your disaster of a nervous system. There’s probably some document somewhere with your entire life broken down into numbers so some AI bot can do math to it.
Rivka catches your eye during a lull in the discussion and jerks her head towards the door. “Wait outside for me. And drink the damn juice. I’m not having you crack your skull open on the floor.”
You empty the cup before slipping outside, making a face as you do so. You’re not going to faint. Not even feeling dizzy anymore. Leaning against the wall, you crane your head back to stare up at the ceiling. There are few things in this world as painful as having to just sit around and wait.
The hallway stretches in either direction, branching off into room after room. You’ve been here enough times at this point in your life to know more or less the entire layout. Can picture it in your head like a little video game mini-map. This entire section of the complex is under Rivka’s direct supervision. Running her own research lab has been the end goal of her entire career, something she’s been working towards for as long as you can remember.
You fidget with your hands. Balance on one leg, then the other, before transitioning into doing stretches. Anything to keep busy, keep moving. What’s taking them so long?
You try to sift through the static, get a sense for what they’re thinking, only to flinch from the feedback as the static doubles in intensity. Almost immediately the door flings open. Rivka staring you down with a disapproving look. You don’t hide your irritation even as you mentally kick yourself. It’s always ‘practice’ this and ‘hone’ that but you actually try to do something and she gets pissed at you for it.
“Go to my office and sit there if you’re not going to behave.”
It takes too long for you to come up with a response. Rivka steps closer, tapping her cane against the floor. “Do you understand me?”
“Fine.” You round on your heel, feeling her eyes on your back until you turn the corner.
Rivka’s office isn’t far, the last in a series of identical wood paneled doors. Her full name and title emblazoned at statistically average eye-level. It’s unlocked, leaving you free to sulk inside. The interior doesn’t leave a lot of space to move around in. A white wooden L-shaped desk takes up most of it. Rivka’s computer, the screen black. A bookshelf of very self-important books – just for show or did she actually read all of these? A diploma for some university in France is hung on the wall right where someone entering will see it.
And that’s it. No pictures, no decorations. Just like home in that respect, but at least this room has a pretense of being a space held by a real human being.
There’s a seat by the door for visitors. That’s the seat you should be taking, but you’re feeling rebellious enough to go around the desk and throw yourself down in Rivka’s chair. It creaks under your weight as you lean back and set it spinning with your foot. With nothing else to do, out comes the phone again.
Centimorgan: @B-Max6969
Centimorgan: talk to Cassandra yet?
B-Max6969: Uhhhh
B-Max6969: not yet
Centimorgan: why am i not surprised
B-Max6969: With everything going on I haven’t had the chance yet
WilyRiley: LOL
B-Max6969: My folks are super freaked out
B-Max6969: Barely have any time to myself right now
WilyRiley: TBF like, we *did* almost all die
B-Max6969: Also I’m still figuring out how to uh
B-Max6969: Break the subject, you know?
WilyRiley: What, of spying on her?
B-Max6969: You’re just as guilty!
WilyRiley: I’ve never done anything wrong in my life
You put the phone down on the table and lean back in the seat, setting it spinning. Well, that conversation isn’t going anywhere. You watch the room as it turns around you. The door’s closed. Nobody you can detect out in the hallway. No one is going to bother checking the cameras unless you do something really stupid. You could… maybe look around? Her bedroom didn’t have anything, but she actually lives here, doesn’t she? So if there was anything about what’s going on with Cassandra or those boxes, or say, the monster attack then it would be here? Wouldn’t it?
One last check at the door, trying to squash the little voice screaming in the back of your head before you start opening drawers. It’s fine. Relax.
The first drawer you open is crammed to bursting with color-coded folders, each full of sheaths of paper. As novel an anachronism as it’d be anywhere else, you’re completely unsurprised. Of course Rivka’s paranoia would never let her just keep digital files on a hard drive she doesn’t have complete control over. You wouldn’t be surprised if she prints them out and then scans them back in anytime she needs to edit something.
One of the folders, a purple one with a handwritten ‘NMIV-71’ on the label tab thingy (what do they call that anyway?) sticks out. You skim through it but the papers inside might as well be notation for magic spells for all you understand any of it. One particularly imposing packet about halfway through is stapled together and titled ‘An overview of the failures and successes of Chrysalis.’ The last listed author before the ‘et al’ is an ‘Abrams, J.’ Which is eye catching but doesn’t mean anything. There’s no shortage of people with your last name.
Chrysalis, chrysalis… why does that sound familiar? The connection is on the tip of your tongue. Making your brain itch. You type off a quick message to A* asking for a definition. The response comes back immediately: a middle stage of metamorphosis in the lifecycle of butterflies where the pupa turns into an adult.
Which is also called… the Imago stage.
Cool. Great.
This probably doesn’t mean anything.
You take a picture of the front page of the report, and a couple of the following pages so you can look at them later. Maybe when your heart isn’t trying to climb out through your throat. You take a couple of pictures of some of the other papers as well, purely going off vibes. One of the papers towards the back of the folder is years old, and looks like some sort of research proposal? For ‘transformative approaches to the human body.’ Well, guess that’s why Rivka would be interested in it. Glitch research is all about that.
Perfectly reasonable.
Next drawer down, there we go. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tucked next to a box of NutriPaste is a back-up ID tag with Rivka’s name, photo, and employee number. The reverse side has a shiny black magnetic strip.
Her card ought to get you into any room in the entire laboratory, right?
There’s a feeling creeping up the back of your head. Shouldn’t be doing this. Snooping around. Taking things that don’t belong to you. You’re going to get caught. You’re already grounded. It’ll be your net access privileges next.
Fuck fuck fuck.
You make up your mind, grab the ID card and shut the drawer.
Sitting down in her desk chair, you take stock of the computer. The monitor screen flashes white when you jiggle the mouse before switching to a login screen with the Praxis and Biotechnica logos side by side underneath.
Right. Okay.
Okay.
Against your better judgement you tap Rivka’s ID card to the attached card reader.
It works.
The desktop is immaculate. A blank blue background. No obvious files with names labeled like ‘MYSECRETCRIMES.txt.’ Or ‘BLACKMAIL.pdf’ or even a ‘HERESWHYIDIDIT.gif.’ No files on the desktop, period. Just a single folder labeled ‘Hiring: 2nd Round Considerations.’ You open up one file inside at random and get what looks like some grad student paper talking about the long term consequences of ‘spontaneous integration of nanite cybercells with organisms in the wild.’
Is that good thing?
A bad one?
You can’t tell what the abstract is trying to argue on that front but it sounds… bad.
You start skimming through the local files on the C: drive (not many), followed by cloud storage. Mostly boring paperwork. Performance reviews, progress reports, budget work, blah blah blah. All the file names run together with the same all caps plus date-based naming format.
By the time you finish skimming, your heart is pounding in your ears. A breathing exercise is necessary to calm the fuck down. Arms in breath in. Arms out breath out. In out. In out. In. Out. In. Out.
You check your phone to see that it’s only been twenty minutes? Feels like hours. The static around you doesn’t seem any different. Still no sign of Rivka nearby. How far can you push your luck?
“D-don’t be stupid…” you hiss to yourself. Standing up. Listening against the door. Poke your head out into the hall. There’s no one.
Fuck.
Stupid it is.