《Sierpentine》


 1 - Masking

    I lay prone in the mud, our dwindling supply of thread count 100 sheets far too precious to be wasted on my husk.


    The vision I have left, that of my left eye, is tinged with what I can only imagine is red. I''ve long since lost the luxury of accurate colour vision, my retinopathy won¡¯t allow for such. The rivers of salt and iron slowly making their way into my open mouth all but confirm my suspicions though. It tastes pretty nice all things considered.


    Beside me sits a shapely blue vessel filled with the noble gas of my choice (I didn''t particularly care which. Some claimed neon was better, I got helium, nobody really knows) attached to a long transparent tube and a thick rubber mask; all muddy; to be used at our discretion. My discretion was quickly forthcoming.


    Despite all this, I couldn¡¯t help but be concerned about my mud covered mask. Won¡¯t it rub off on my face? Will the dirt get in my lungs? What if it sticks? Won¡¯t it be hard to take off?


    Silly concerns.


    There¡¯s no beauty left on my face for mud to blemish.


    My lungs are already full of blood.


    And I¡¯ll be dead.


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    Around me echo the last screams of dying women (and a few lucky men, but not nearly as many of them lasted this long). Fools, all of them. Why sign up for a suicide mission if you have anything to live for?


    We all signed the forms, and any competent medical professional knew exactly what they were signing up for. A utilitarians wet dream: Send the oldest doctors and nurses you can find, extinguish a few quality years of life for the sake of millions. Quarantine and treat the patients before anything gets out of hand.


    Why not get out a final good deed before you rot in the ground? Go out in glory.


    Sound great; until your lymph nodes burst.


    I strap the mask tightly over my face, no point wasting any, and slowly release the helium. I spend my penultimate moments grumpy, sick of the whiners ruining the ambiance.


    Silly concern, I¡¯ll soon be dead.


    I¡¯d move, but I¡¯m no longer able.


    I breathe in slowly. It (the helium) tastes like nothing; not like air, just like nothing.


    My vision frosts over.


    Is this how MuMu felt?


    ¡­


    I no longer think.


    ¡­


    I no longer see.


    ¡­


    I no longer feel.


    ¡­


    I am no longer.

 2 - Vialance

    I had always suspected, as the atheists among us are want to do, that with death comes the cessation of thought.


    This suspicion wasn''t unfounded, nor was it purely theoretical. When a young man is wheeled into your ER after a horse kick to the head, able only to speak in haiku, you tend to abandon primitive notions of a thinking soul.


    That''s precisely why I have no clue how I''m *seeing* transparent yellow, how I''m *smelling* ammonia, and why from head to toe I''m feeling the subtle movement of what I can only assume is a sous vide machine filled entirely with piss.


    To my immense pleasure, soon enough the yellow ichor begins to recede, my exposed skin stinging as it meets air. As the liquid meets my mouth I slowly begin the black out.


    Death sure feels different than what I was lead to expect. Funny what scenarios a low oxygen brain can conjure up to explain its own demise.


    Just before the inevitable, I receive a dull hit in the chest. That disgusting liquid comes splashing out of my mouth and it audibly splatters on something I can¡¯t turn my head to see.


    Why can¡¯t I turn my head?!?


    I flail desperately, but not a single part of my body can move more than a centimetre. Cold steel meets my neck as I search for my bindings.


    I push harder and meet more resistance, strangely every edge I meet is rounded.


    Do they think I¡¯m going to kill myself?!?


    I hear a loud hiss and the space around me becomes a tad bit brighter. My restraints release, but before I¡¯m able to even so much as stretch I¡¯m grasped by tentacles far larger and stronger than me. They lift me into a field of fuzzy white, punctuated by equally fuzzy grey.


    A sharp pain stabs my arm, and nearly as soon as it leaves I¡¯m overwhelmed by bliss.


    I barely notice as the tentacles lay me on a cold slab and affix a new harness.


    My head is locked back in place, but I could hardly care less.


    A brown blob enters the room and chats to another blob of slightly darker complexion. I don¡¯t make out anything they say. I don¡¯t care.


    The blobs approach closer, and their chat changes tone. One draws a large circle on my upper skull in what I assume is Crayon, at least until the colour red makes its way to my eye.


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    Huh, colour. It¡¯s been a while.


    The first blob fiddles around in my head for a bit, until I feel a sudden compulsion to speak. I feel like I¡¯m speaking, but nothing at all comes out.


    A third blob enters the room, chats with the first two and walks off to the side.


    I feel compelled to speak again, and this time something comes out. Only it¡¯s not coming from my mouth, it¡¯s coming from somewhere else.


    I chuckle, giddy.


    My response seems weird to me. Out of character. That¡¯s funny.


    I giggle again.


    The blobs continue speaking, their words slowly start coming into tune.


    ¡°Looks like it¡¯s working. Yet another successful surgery!¡±


    ¡°Get over yourself Bob, your robot does half the work anyway. It¡¯s like flying on autopilot. Autophone tuning though? That¡¯s an art.¡±


    ¡°Modern art, maybe. Anyways, the subject¡¯s looking at us funny, look¡¯s like we¡¯ve got another English speaker.¡±


    ¡°Saves us some configuration at least. What are the odds huh?¡±


    ¡°Bout 4%¡±


    ¡°Alright smartass, let¡¯s just set them up ok?¡±


    I hear a robotic voice coming at me from every direction at once. ¡°What is your name, new one?¡± The wall of voice demands.


    I feel compelled to speak the first thing that comes to my mind.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    The robot pauses for a minute and continues. ¡°For diagnostic purposes we require your full name.¡±


    I once again feel compelled to speak the first thing that comes to mind.


    ¡°Alex White¡±


    ¡°Thank you¡±, the robot replies. ¡°Is this Alex White, medicare number 7328 92873 3, retired ER Nurse?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡±, I reply under duress.


    Not feeling any particular need to acknowledge my response, the robot moves on.


    ¡°Thank you for your cooperation. Commencing work on vision.¡±


    My vision cuts to black, and soon a rotating Phillips Circle takes its place. I try blinking, but the image won¡¯t budge. I have no choice but to consume a test image for my own brain.


    ¡°Brain activation normal. Please confirm qualitative vision experience. Are you having any vision difficulties?¡±


    ¡°Well for one¡± I say, ¡°I can¡¯t turn the damn thing off!¡±.


    My vision goes black.


    ¡°Thank you for the feedback! We care deeply about your subjective implant experience! Your concerns are valid, and your experience will be reviewed in five to eight business days!¡± The robot in my head joyfully cheers.


    Its tone instantly flips back to normal.


    ¡°Please confirm age¡±


    ¡°73¡±, I¡¯m compelled to reply.


    ¡°Thank you!


    Please confirm year of death.¡±


    ¡°2027¡± I reply, immediately questioning what I had just heard; what I had just said.


    How could I possibly be so confident about my own year of death?


    The robot ignores my concern, and goes about its own business. After several minutes of agonising silence it returns.


    ¡°Thank you for your continued cooperation. Your Visa application has been successfully lodged. If successful, you will be woken up in 84 days.¡±


    ¡°Your consciousness is no longer required. See you later!¡±

 3 - Welcome, Wanderer, to the Wide Waking World

    I awake to an aching neck and contorted back, drool slowly making its way from my mouth most the way down my neck. I instinctually wipe it off with my sleeve, only to then notice that I have nothing of the sort, and that all I¡¯ve achieved is to spread to cover roughly twice the area it did before.


    I look at my arm, searching for the sleeve that ought to be there, and discover something slightly more concerning. This isn¡¯t my body.


    The world starts spinning around me.


    I see an arm moving in front of my face but I know it¡¯s not mine. I control it through a proxy, my real arm surely stuck somewhere in the ether, waiting to take this fakes place. I begin to heat up, and an unpleasantness makes its way up my throat.


    I beckon the hands to touch my face, and they faithfully obey. What they touch though, is a face so clearly not my own that I¡¯m hardly even sure how to process the signals coming back. It¡¯s bony; my face was never bony; and the chin feels like a low grit sandpaper.


    I hurriedly check the rest of my body.


    First with my eyes: I see skin far darker than I¡¯m accustomed to seeing on myself, a body of thin stature, small breasts, and a layer fine hair on my arms and down the middle of the chest. Further down, I see thin legs, a wooden chair, and a silky white skirt blocking my view.


    With no regard to my surroundings, I peek under the skirt and give myself mild shock. For the first time in my life, I¡¯ve managed to give myself an unsolicited dick pic.


    I close the eyes and my vision goes dark.


    This body is many things: it seems fit enough for one, it¡¯s much more supple than my aging body could ever hope to achieve; but it¡¯s not mine.


    Is the brain even mine? Is my brain rotting in a field somewhere with the rest of my body? Am I already dead?


    I cross the legs, my legs and breathe. MuMu taught me to meditate, and if it¡¯s ever going to come in handy it¡¯s going to be now.


    I breathe in and out.


    In comes my dissatisfaction, my dysphoria, with this new body of mine.


    Out comes acceptance.


    In comes confusion, chaos born from signals my brain can¡¯t possibly understand.


    Out comes understanding, coherence.


    In comes anger.


    Out comes peace.


    No matter how upsetting this might be, no matter how much my brain wants to reject this full body transplant, it¡¯s better than where I thought I¡¯d be a minute ago.


    If I¡¯m alive right now, no matter what else, it¡¯s better than rotting on the ground.


    And if these are my dying thoughts, there¡¯s not anything left I can do about it anyway.


    I open my eyes, take one more deep breath, and have a look around.


    I¡¯m in a large open room. To my front is a large projected number, ticking down every second. It¡¯s currently at 600, so I should have a bit to compose myself for whatever¡¯s coming.


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    To my left and right are people of a similar complexion to my new own. Some asleep, some in a state of panic, and a few having a good peek around like myself. One of those last few was the neighbor to my immediate left.


    ¡°Any idea what¡¯s going on?¡± I ask them, my voice noticeably deeper than it should be. I try saying it again with a higher pitch but fail miserably, my voice cracks.


    They look at me a bit weird, then seamlessly transition into a flailing reply.


    ¡°You tell me! I just turned on my gas stove, and poof, I¡¯m here!¡±


    They pause for a minute, point to their abs, then continue: ¡°Can¡¯t complain though! Whatever happened I¡¯m in the best shape of my life!¡±


    I chuckle for the first time in god knows how long. ¡°I guess that makes both us of then. Dead fit and most probably dead.¡±


    ¡°Dead..¡± they mumble, thumbing their chin. ¡°I figured I was just hallucinating.¡±


    Their face goes dark for a minute before brightening back up.


    ¡°Well whatever we are, we should be grateful that we¡¯re both still alive...ish.¡±


    ¡°And whatever happened to our bodies, at least we¡¯re not like those poor saps.¡± they say pointing behind themselves. ¡°I reckon we should let ¡®em out, ay?¡±


    I turn to follow their finger. Behind us are rows and rows of people, most in various states of shock, some crying, but seemingly in the same situation as us.


    But right down the back, in the final row, sit a group of people physically chained to their chairs by their necks. A few were wildly thrashing against their chains, but a few were sitting eerily still; faces disengaged.


    We stand up, and wordlessly head towards the back. Just before we can approach the chained people, two men in armour approach us.


    They both stand far taller than my acquaintance or I, perhaps even twice our height. Each of them were clad in glistening gold armour and held a pearly white mace. Strangest of all, protruding from their backs were a pair of what appeared to be bright green wings.


    ¡°Step back sir, these citizens are none of your business.¡± The one on the left grunts in what had to be their deepest voice.


    ¡°Of course this is my business! Those people,¡± I yell staring the guard straight in the eyes, ¡°Are being unsafely restrained! I¡¯m a nurse, and you¡¯re going to get these people killed!¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m a software engineer!¡± My acquaintance yells, ¡°But those guys are clearly in pain!¡±


    The guards turn to each other and laugh in baritone synchrony.


    ¡°How many this week Stephany?¡± The guard on the right asks.


    ¡°Fourth I think, never stops being funny.¡± The other one chuckles.


    They turned back to use, and put on a more serious tone. ¡°They¡¯re like this for a reason. Please take your seat and get ready for the presentation, everything will be explained there.¡±


    They point their maces at my seat, and although I disagree I hardly feel like arguing with two people twice my size at macepoint.


    We trek back to our seats, and plant our butts firmly in them. Before long, the countdown hits zero and the room dims.


    The display flicks to an amateurish powerpoint slide: ¡°A New You: Life in Atagon¡± and a large woman in a suit struts into the front of the room. She ruffles through her front coat pocket, finds a remote and clicks; the projection goes blank.


    ¡°You¡¯re not missing anything, trust me¡± she promises the crowd.


    ¡°Anyway, let¡¯s talk about why you¡¯re here.¡± she starts, gesturing wildly.


    ¡°It¡¯s because you¡¯re dead. Ka-blamo. Real done fucked up.


    That could be for any reason: Some of you died bravely rescuing children from burning kindergartens, some of you died strapping AR-15¡¯s to your dogs for a selfie, and one poor bloke died in a surprise gender reveal bush fire; but however you died, rest assured that your precious gym gains are out there rotting somewhere on gods green earth.¡±


    She waits a minute as if expecting some type of response, but the crowd mostly seems deep in thought and/or shock.


    ¡°Bloody secularization, that one used to get way more of a reaction. Call me when there¡¯s another caliphate, that¡¯ll be good for some laughs!¡±


    The room stays silent, she moves on awkwardly.


    ¡°Ok, look. You¡¯re dead but alive, wonderful, real thought provoking stuff. But we¡¯ve got brass tacks to get to, yeah?


    One: We live in a society. Turns out you pay taxes in heaven too, who¡¯da thunk it. Please don¡¯t go shoving your holy books in the council workers face, they get enough shit from central already. Take it up with their manager if you think you¡¯re a corporation or whatever the craze is nowadays.


    Two: These things-¡± she says, pointing at the bright blue wings on her back.


    ¡°-Are purely decorative. Don¡¯t jump out a building unless you¡¯re going for a hat-trick.


    Three: You¡¯re gonna die again. We¡¯re a bit smarter than those dumb apes down on planet earth, so you get an extra few decades this time around; but don¡¯t get me wrong, you¡¯re still slow release worm food.


    I¡¯d tell you more, but I find you people just forget it all anyway. Call it shock or the reverse Flynn Effect, I dunno, but you people are dunces.


    Any questions? Hint, I¡¯m a busy woman and won¡¯t be answering any of them.¡±

 Chapter 4 - Questions (& Answers?)

    She points to someone behind me.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    A voice echos out from one of the furthest back rows:


    ¡°You haven¡¯t really told us anything. If you¡¯re gonna shut off the slides can you at least paraphrase what they were gonna say?¡± They shout.


    ¡°Sure, let me go ahead:¡± She replies, grabbing the remote from her pocket and turning the slideshow back on, before pretending to return the remote to her pocket, snapping her arm back, and aggressively turning it back off. ¡°PSYCH!¡±


    The room is silent.


    ¡°What part¡±, she lectures, ¡°Of ¡®I¡¯m a busy woman and will not be answering questions¡¯ don¡¯t you understand? Just download the fucking slides when you get home for christs sake, they¡¯re open source.¡±


    ¡°What house?!?¡± a voice cries out from the room ¡°I¡¯ve never even been here before!¡±


    The lecturer loudly moans as she begins walking out of the room. ¡°Look, I¡¯ve got an important Irish Coffee to get to.¡±


    Before she can get to the door, a voice I recognize interjects. It¡¯s the guard from earlier, Stephany.


    ¡°Could you at least explain the shackle row to them, thanks? We¡¯ve already had an attempt.¡±


    ¡°That would be nice¡­¡± a tiny voice from the back hesitantly adds.


    The lecturer huffs, ¡°It¡¯s for their own safety, alright? Don¡¯t believe me? Go ahead, be a hero; see what a mace to the side of the head feels like. Fucking dunces.¡±


    She opens the door, walks through, and slams it on the way out.


    The room goes completely silent.


    Someone in the back rapidly begins hyperventilating. Their neighbours talk to them in a soothing voice, attempting to calm them down, but eventually the hyperventilation comes to a peak and they scream: ¡°What the fuck is going on?!¡±


    They immediately break down into a fit of tears, and after a while their neighbours give up on consoling them.


    The rest of the room stays silent, presumably contemplating the situation, or busy in the middle of their own (significantly less verbal) panic attack.


    After what felt like an eternity but was probably more like thirty minutes, a similarly suited but significantly shorter man walks into the room.


    ¡°I hope you all enjoyed the presentation!¡± He cheerfully projects into the room. ¡°Ms. Yamada is consistently one of our top rated presenters. The transition can be tough, but we¡¯ve got the best of the best on your case!¡±


    He scans the room, rolls up his sleeve, and jots down a note on his arm. ¡°Only one crier! I don¡¯t know how she does it!¡±


    ¡°Anyway,¡± he continues. ¡°It¡¯s about time for your mandatory cognitive testing! ?Gu-arrrr-ds?!¡±


    Guards flood in from the door and line up towards the back of the room.


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    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s start with the back row!¡± The presenter shouts over the clinking sound of dozens of guards armour.


    I turn towards the back, hoping to get a better look at what¡¯s going on.


    The guards form an orderly queue and march in line behind the back row. There¡¯s exactly one guard per prisoner, standing squarely behind them.


    In perfect sync, the guards pull out black metal paddles from their breastplates and swipe them across the chains restricting their prisoners necks. Slowly, the chain-link closest to each prisoners neck begins to shrink, pulling them back slightly and restricting them further. Some prisoners go slightly red in the face and begin to cough.


    At the same time, just a few centimeters away, an identical chain-link begins to grow out of nothingness in space.


    Soon, the original pieces fully disappear, and the chains go limp; clanking on their chairs.


    The guards immediately seize their respective prisoners and walk them out the door.


    I pulsate in fear. I want to run, help the prisoners, do anything. Instead, I sit still, not moving a muscle. I¡¯ll be a sludge of brains on the wall before I get anywhere near the prisoners.


    Soon enough the prisoners have all been marched out, and they continue with the next row up.


    Anyone with half a brain can see what¡¯s happening. The room¡¯s exiting one row at a time, and I¡¯m sitting in the front. That must mean something, but despite wracking my brain I can¡¯t come up with anything solid.


    They¡¯re only evacuating one row at a time, meaning that each attendee gets a full guard to themselves. Why would they need such a high ratio? And why start at the back, with the most presumably dangerous of us?


    Are they afraid of a riot? Where are they taking us?


    I tense and look around me, some others seem to have gotten the same idea; but it¡¯s too late to do anything. By this time the room had dwindled down to five rows, not a chance I was willing to take.


    I calm myself down, breathe in and out, and await my fate.


    A few minutes later, the guards finished evacuating the row immediately behind us, loudly locking the door behind them.


    ...


    I look around, unsure. Why¡¯d they leave us behind? What do they have in store for us? Before I could work myself into a full blown panic attack for the third time today, the presenter puts a big smile on his face and pans his eyes over the front row.


    ¡°Now that we¡¯ve gotten rid of the riff-raff¡± he cheers, ¡°it¡¯s time to chat with you people. The good ones.¡±


    He looks distraught for a minute but quickly adds:


    ¡°Well, some of those we just sent off are good too. About 15% statistically, but we need a bit more time to classify them, you know? Can¡¯t have bad types hanging around just so we don¡¯t misclassify anyone¡±.


    He scans the row again, clearly looking for some type of reaction.


    ¡°None of you get what¡¯s going on? Remember what Ms. Yamada was saying earlier: ¡®Aleph, Bet, Gimel¡¯?¡±


    None of us say anything, the row stares at him with a complete lack of comprehension.


    He continues, clearly somewhat shocked by our profound lack of reaction. ¡°I get it, my first day was overwhelming too, but rest assured: You did well, you¡¯re in Aleph, and we¡¯ll do our best to support you through this trying time.¡±


    He ends his speech facing the row with his hands open infront of him. Saintly in appearance.


    ¡°You, uh, still have to do the cognitive training though. It¡¯s mandatory.¡±


    He walks to the door, opens it, and gestures. ¡°Come with me, we have a special room for all of you.¡±


    We stand up one-by-one, left to right, and follow him into a uniformly lit hallway. Down it are several metal sliding doors, each of which are flanked by a small black rectangle plastered into the wall next to them.


    He takes us several doors down, then touches his wrist to one of the black rectangles. It draws a singular drop of blood which slowly eeks its way through a maze of rune-like capilliaries. Soon, the blood recedes, the rectangle turns green, and the door rockets open.


    We make our way into a plush room. In the middle is an intricate Afghan rug displaying a Seraphim surrounded by rings of reverent worshipers; along my opposite side are rows of bookshelves flanking a roaring fireplace. A couple of singed pieces of paper are visible near the hearth, clearly someone had thrown a book in before.


    To my left however, was another row of doors. Each door had a golden name emblassened on its front, and to my shock, one right in the middle sported my name. ¡°Alex White. ?¡±.


    ¡°Take a seat everyone, and relax¡± the presenter tells us, ¡°your doors will open shortly, and your guides will take you through the rest.¡±