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29th May, 2019.

“...Pot, kettle, black. Anyway, he’s not evil; he’s misunderstood!”

I stare at fifty-odd screens for a living. The pay’s terrible and the circumstances are dire, but the responsibility of writing these events down is certainly character-building.
         
“Wasn’t expecting that answer.”

“Oh?”

Screen one: a living room, empty. With the exception of two pale legs, blocking the doorway through to the bathroom. They took the easy way out. I don’t blame them.

“Of course I was expecting it.”

Screen fifteen: a monochrome street. A young male of remarkably scrawny build stands; peers around with the exact, hackneyed manner of a fish out of water. His eyes are pencilled with black eyeliner. He’ll be popular here.
         
Speaking of which, he’s just been chased down by men in suits.

“What do you want from me?”

Screen forty-two, to which my headphones are connected: an apartment, containing two figures in pinstripes and corsetry. One (Subject 14-A) is tied to a chair; the other (Subject 64-B) sits opposite her with an expression of boredom and faint irony.

64-B answers, “None of this was necessary. I don’t need anything from you. I could find the info you’re giving me in fifteen, maybe ten minutes if I wanted to. But this is more fun.”

“You’re a fool. Violence will get you nowhere,” 14-A notes, shuffling her bruised, bloody arms in a bid to free them.

“Nowhere? The force gave up on this place long ago. Revenge is no longer a cosmetic reward.”

64-B seems to contradict her words, or say something in a pseudo-enigmatic manner very often.

“That doesn’t mean you won’t get bored with revenge.”

“You got bored, did you? I’m sure I can cure that soon enough,” 64-B replies. “Let’s face it; death by boredom would hardly be scientifically supported.”

“What?” I’m relieved to see 14-A is thinking the same thing as me.

“You’ll see.”

She is then untied by 64-B, who proceeds to force her into the apartment corridor. I swap my focus to screen thirty-nine, frantically writing a less opinionated account.

Zoom past broken windows and an elevator perpetually ‘out of order’. I see one more subject. Another female, holding some form of pistol. She shivers as she kneels.

64-B has since left 14-A. She’s positioned directly above the first step of a long, steep staircase. Not quite dead but not truly alive. She lolls there, wincing and trying to forget her situation.

The third subject (now identified as 31-C) approaches with a tear-glazed face, and after a moment of regret, she pulls the trigger.

I saw that gunshot coming a mile off.

The aftershock is the worst part. Perhaps it’s the fact that a human life is at stake.

As 14-A begins a half-hearted fall; I realize it all spawns from the fact that you can’t do anything about it. You can’t tell the authorities because there aren’t any – none that are in on the ‘joke’, anyway. You can’t tell anyone that doesn’t know of the experiment because you’d be killed. And you can’t take action yourself because you’d be outnumbered, outnumbered by all 301. I’m not sure how they’d know you were an enemy, but they’d know. I’ve seen it happen.

64-A peeks out from behind the door.

“Is it done?”

31-C nods, and tries to let out choked sobs once more. “It’s done.”

“It was better this way. You’ll be misunderstood. That’s a good thing, honest...”



3rd February, 2012.

Charles Baumann, a suited man in his thirties, slammed a birth certificate down. “We just don’t want her. We can’t afford to keep her much longer.”

His wife, Francesca, didn’t quite share the same bluntness as he, as she hastily explained, “These decisions seem easier and easier to make these days and it’s horrible... but it’s true.” She nodded, her scruffy hair bobbing up and down.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about.” The pallid, angular gentleman at the other end of the desk unsubtly hid a smile. “If this is what you want, we have places remaining in all three sections.”

Charles frowned. “What are these sections?”

“Section A, otherwise known as the Classics. They will be the first to go through the process, which will begin in 2016. They’ll have a whole environment to shape,” he said. “For legal reasons, we have to mention this group will be drug-assisted. Just to help the crossing.”

“Crossing?”

“As you know, this is an experiment on human nature. However, in many previous tests of this sort, we noticed the results were not... satisfactory. Rather than come up with more redundant results, we shall test human nature with our subjects in various ill states of mind. For some, particularly the Classics, this will require the illusion of something less than...”

“Sane?”

“Indeed, Mr. Baumann.”

Francesca stood, as if it would somehow give her statement more authority. “So you might choose our Carrie and turn her into a headcase? This is crazy. This whole thing is crazy.”

“So Section A is not for you. I see. This is absolutely fine, of course,” he declared with some care. “Moving on, Section B will be entirely brought in by our Classics, from Day One.”

“Will they be drugged?”

“Partially, yes. It’s the only way to avoid redundancy.” The tone of his repetition was becoming erratic.

“Can we look at Section C?”

“Of course. The subjects of Section C are the latecomers. They will arrive from 2018, onwards. Furthermore, insanity, mental disorders and such will not be simulated,” he said. “Can you wait those extra years? It seemed you had a certain... urgency to remove her.”

The couple conferred. “2018... she’ll be fifteen. Do you think...?”

Charles finally replied, “It’s definitely possible, but--”

“Well, we shall save a space for her. Carrie will be recorded as 31-C. Sign here...” The man grinned, pushing a contract within the two’s reach.

They were not to back out now. They quickly signed, and left, without a word to be spoken of the meeting for years.