Universe: 'Within The Wires' podcast, dystopian future

Trope: Coffeeshop

And now, side B.

It was a weird feeling, knowing that I knew things I wasn't supposed to know. Even after fifteen years I hadn't gotten used to the feeling. My head felt too full, which is exactly what they said would happen if the procedure didn't work like it was supposed to. We were supposed to report it if the procedure didn't work. How was I supposed to know? I was only ten.

The only time I really noticed it was when I saw you. You always entered the coffee shop at the same time, every morning, every day. And when I noticed that pattern, it inspired me to do the same thing. It was refreshing; seeing you, feeling my head swell with memories of us, and just having the luxury of remembering. I saw you from time to time before the coffee shop days started happening, while we were both still in school. I got to watch your features slowly change and mature while you paid no mind to mine. Your hair grew in thicker, and straighter too. I miss your curls. You wore earrings, and then you didn't. You wore mostly black clothing, but your bag was purple. For some reason that flash of color stood out to me. You always used to wear colors when we were children.

I didn't like to stare, but I did anyway. You liked to sit by the window, no matter the weather, and just gaze through the glass. You sipped a latte, with extra foam if I remember correctly. My drink was usually just a coffee. For a while you didn't notice me.

And then you did. For about a week, you would look over from the window and see me. I would smile, as if you had just caught my eye on accident. You smiled back, but not wide enough for your dimples to show. Then we would just carry on as normal. One day, when we were waiting for our drink orders, you caught my eye again and said hi.

It was quick and noncommittal, as if the word hi was the least important word in the entire world. But it was enough. I smiled and said hi back.

It continued that way for a small amount of time. We would see each other in the coffee shop and smile and say hi. It was enough for you, but it wasn't enough for me. It hurt me, just a little bit. I don't regret trying to stage the entire thing, but after the initial thrill wore off I felt empty. Because there you were, across the room drinking a latte. So close yet so far, I believe is how it goes.

However, I was content to live with this. With lattes and smiles and 'hi's. At least I wasn't clueless any longer. And then, one day, you didn't show up. I immediately knew something was wrong. You loved your routines too much to interrupt them or change them. You were too proud to break a streak. That first day, though, all I did was tell myself I was being irrational and let it slide. But then, after a few days of your absence, I understood that something was really wrong. And soon I got my answer.

I received a letter from The Institute's sociology lab. They wanted me, an artist, to come there and help them study their patients. I suppose that is what I have a degree in; the study of people and how they move. That's art. But I've never expressed interest in the Institute, and that was a very secretive place with a selective hiring program.

Now I understand, Dan. They didn't want me just for my work. They didn't want me because I was good at my job. No, it was because of you, because the procedure didn't work well enough on you either. In your waking hours you were fine. You were alone. But in your sleep, you were neither of those things. You dreamed and you remembered, according to the charts I stole, and you cried out for Phil and a brother you can hardly remember.

They couldn't find your brother. But they could find me.

I'm not supposed to remember you. I pretend I don't while at work. I sit here in this office and I record these tapes for your relaxation and stress relief. I do it so that you will learn to trust my voice. Only my voice. You'll learn to follow what my voice asks of you.

I'm going to get you out of here, Dan. Out of this prison of a hospital, away from the security nurses and the surgeons and their… carpentry. You must not make it to carpentry. No one comes back.

At this point, you're asleep. That's not a problem. While you sleep, you're still unconsciously hearing my voice. You will trust my voice, Dan. And I'll take you home.

End side B.