Lab C: Chapter 6 - Going into the Office

John, with a fluffy, warm, heavy blanket draped over him like the cloak of a stoic knight posted on a defensive, frigid, dead winter vista (you know the one), approaches the camping chair. The steaming fries and beverage hold his gaze and bring him a smile.

Around him, the men with guns form a perimeter as a duo of them prepare a large blackout crate. John talks to all of them, and none of them at the same time.

“The state of the walls makes me think that the building stopped being cared for long before it was abandoned since you could see rooms where they had done some work but didn’t continue. And the paint around the bottom row was thicker and recent but the higher levels weren’t which tells me that they had wanted to try drawing in more and more people. I think I spotted a sign that said recently renovated but I can’t be sure. I mean, I am sure, there wasn’t much natural to look at so those kinds of things stand out to me. It’s also interesting to me that there weren’t many doors that had were clearly kicked in at all.”

He falls into the seat, slamming hard. “Oooh, ohp. OOph. Harder then I thought.” He grabs a fries and eats it. The groan, a kind of moan, is deep and vibrates his ribs. “How do you guys do this I don’t understand. Is there like a chef around who whips these together for me? It’s crazy. And then..” the drink is next. A sip and he giggles a moan. “It’s rich. It’s creamy. It’s dreamy. Breamy.”

The mustached man approaches him with a smile with something behind his back. John looks up into his eyes and talks while he eats.

“Do you ever look into old architecture design because recently I’ve been checking out this information about the area that I’m in and,” The mustached man puts a pair of sound proof head phones over his ears with a smile and says something to him that John can not hear. “ and right, yeah, we gotta do that part right. Ok well I was looking into this place and… and…” his face drops.

It is not the same when it is a fact that no one can engage him in conversation. He glances down at Lily whose curled up like a perfect ovular ball at his side. His hand drapes down and his fingers glide over her fur. John sighs with a smile.

“I fucking hate going into the office.”

The mustached man appears behind him and puts a mask over his eyes.

The head phones kick on and John settles into the camping chair, wiggling to precise comfort and fit.

A record scratch inside the headphones, then warm static and white noise of needle to PVC. A warm woman’s voice makes John jump slightly.

"I want you to take a deep breath in, and release. Today we will be exploring a yoga nidra practice that explores the somatic nervous system by drawing our attention to and activating the proprioceptive and sensory nerve endings. In this practice, we will transcend our natural state of comfort and use binaural synchronization to elicit a deep theta state meditation that will assist your true self to leave your current physical form as the body works to repair and balance the whole self.”

John lets out another deep breath as he holds his warm smile. His hand rests on the dog that isn’t really there.

“Fucking, hate, the office.”

And everything around him disappears, and the men surrounding him

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Through a privacy screen, the vague silhouette of a fit, poised nude woman. She stretches, jots down notes in front of her. Bouncing some energy into herself, she turns and opens a large armoire and considers. Her hands pull back, revealing she’s picked out a bra and panties whose design lets light slip through. Adding garters and stockings, she gives a confident wiggle and considers the next layer.

Around her, the large studio room is regal and warm with built in, smooth curved chairs, table, bed and kitchen. There is no natural light to be found, but hanging big leafed plants sit happily under grow lights that blanket the relaxation spaces.

A conversation pit dominates the of the room center, with a round oak table that holds up a metal center piece that sparkles when light hits it just right.

Across from her king bed sized sleeping nook glares a massive painting of a gruesome battle with demons flying overhead, picking up the dead. The scene frames a standing desk with highly organized drawers and folders. What ever science she needs to take home, this is where it’s done.

A photo realistic depiction of a Danish hill side covered in tulips and sunshine rest on the wall behind her headboard.

The largest space, her back wall, is a circular book shelf organized in such a way that surely makes sense to her. A singular book sits open, plenty dog eared and marked, “Survival Over Beauty: Understanding the Self-Harm Instinct in the Pursuit of Perfection”. Next too it, notes, and a detailed of a picturesque human form titled “Full Body Prosthesis”

She could be underground or in a space station, but where ever this room is, it’s been engineered down to the curve of the half walls and pattern of hard wood floor by her.

After putting something to her neck, she returns to the armoire and picks out a heavy, large top and long skirt. She puts them on and smooths them out. Sitting back down, she faffs about with make up and makes notes on a desk of some sort. Her hair goes up into a high pony tail and she takes the time to stretch out her neck, rolling it, warming up each little muscle.

She stands, and through the privacy screen, her silhouette has become larger, lumpier from the chunky top, less curved from the skirt. Leaning forward, she makes a smacking noise with her lips, then grabs a long coat and slips it on before finally walking out from behind the screen.

Pristine white lab coat. Thick black cashmere funnel neck. Calve length wool crepe skirt. Black nylons. Black trainers. And a smooth, cocky smile. She is exactly who, where, and what she wants to be.

Oh and a smart watch, which she checks with a raised eye brow, her smile deepening then fading.

“Computer, why do I have an interview with Dr. Grimsen?”

Computer: He has a field report on C-477B.

“I did not ask him to make a field report on C-477B.”

Computer: Research escalation dictated his involvement.

“Hrm.”

Her brow wrinkles and softens as thoughts come to her. She walks past, then steps back to grab a badge with the title “Direct Assistant to Lab Chief - Dr. Ambower”. Her frustration bubbles through as clips it onto the notch on her lab coat. Her watch flicks on again, bright red, “BREACH - C-256.”

She rolls her eyes, “Every week with him.” flicks the notification away revealing “Interview with Dr. Grimsen”.

“Hhhrrmmmmm.” She growls, walking towards large circular doors at the entrance of her room.

Outside is a suffocatingly large two story tall, concrete hall, lit by lights unseen. The halls are busy with three kinds of people. Uniformly large, wide, masked guards carrying small arsenals give her a slight bow as she passes. Tired, unkempt people in less impressive white coats who bow and hold it, addressing her as “Dr. Ambower” as she passes. Then many scraggily regular folks in red jump suits who fill the halls with life that makes it almost feel like the outside world, until you notice their eyes.

A small, bubbly woman a few years older than Sabine runs up to her excitedly. “Sabine! I got to do a session with C-55, you weren’t fibbing! It’s like I don’t even care about all that stuff anymore, like I’m… I’m… I’m untouchable. How could it do that-”

Sabine holds up her hand stopping her. “I’ll forgive you this time, but you must address me as Dr. Ambower now.”

The small, bubbly women tilts her head, “Oh, right. Since you, uhm…” She averts her eyes. “Was it worth it?”

Sabine’s eyes narrow. She taps on her watch and another red jumpsuit appears quickly with a tablet in hand. The red jumpsuit hands it to her and runs away. A cold, unflinching light smile stays on her face as she taps away.

“I noticed that C-304 hasn’t had it’s containment cell cleaned in a while.”

“What? No, Sabine. You can’t. Don’t do that.” Sabine looks at her, her eyes widen. “Dr. Ambower! Dr. Ambower please. I didn’t meant to…”

“You know, in this position, I have say over where, when, how people operate. Was it worth it?” She looks at the deflated, terrified girl. “I was going to flex a little and move you off C-304 duty…”

The deflated girl inflates a bit, then it hits her. “Was?”

“Looks like it needs to be done. How did you say you felt?”

“But… but we used to be… Sabi-” Sabine’s jaw clenches. Two of the large guards appear behind her and assert themselves comfortably. The decimated girl puts her head down. “I’m sorry Dr. Ambower” and she runs away.

Sabine watches her, and when she disappears behind a corner, she deflates. She sighs, and searches with her eyes as the moment processes. Shaking off the shame, she pulls up C-304 on her tablet. There’s an image of an armadillo like scaled beast with big eyes and cute, soft pawed hands. It’s larger than an SUV and holds its hands together like it’s asking for something from it’s parents.

From her tablet, she can access reports of discovered and noted properties. She can also call for interactions, investigations, or frankly, any thing she can imagine needs to be done to, with, or for the subject. Here she can manage the entire lab.

Next to the photo of the cutie mega armadillo, it reads “C-304, Ambiguous Animate Alt-Reality consciousness - docile - passive hazard”. She scrolls through photos, beginning to walk again, the images of cuts on hands, arms, through clothes, followed by images of heaps of sharp hairs. She taps on one, a caption says “smell, distinct, hazardous”. As she walks, the guards leave her side and she doesn’t acknowledge this either.

She shakes her head and assigns that red shirt who used to know her to clean up duty. The red shirts smiling face, tiny in the frame, pops right into the schedule and greys out, the duty considered done. Sabine lowers the tablet, head down, unsure of herself for the first time today.

Her pace picks up as it eats at her. Rounding a corner, she shakes her head again, groaning quietly and gets back on the tablet. She pulls up C-55, revealing an image of an articulated bed in a pool of greenish goop. It’s gritty, gross, with rusting orange clasps.

C-55, inanimate consciousness, aka Trauma sponge.

She gives herself a slight smile, and assigns the bubbly red jumpsuit a session here after her clean up duty.