Outlast Whistleblower Novelization

by Aalt-Jackal

The job came like an answered prayer to Waylon Park, and though it was only a temporary position he was promised a referral to a sister company of the Murkoff Charity Organization. But as Waylon delves into his work he is made aware that Murkoff's practices are far from ethical, and a terrible influence has corrupted the minds of his employers. Now, home seems like an illusion.

2. Chapter 2

The Job

There was this joke that got carried around Mount Massive, but its exact origins were unknown. These cramped little offices and closets dotted the facility, mostly on the upper floors in the actual 'asylum.' Spend an evening searching through the rooms, and you'd stumble upon a few or a lot from staff, usually a technician or low ranking security operative just hiding out.

The upper division doctors and researchers were the ones that would collaborate after hours, and seized the quiet spaces to go over notes; discussing matters of the Engine and chemical rates, or the condition of an assigned subject. Technicians, like myself, didn't get bothered too much by Murkoff stiffs roaming around, or the shady security. As long as we were available during shift and did our work well, Murkoff liked us, they liked us a lot.

I have to emphasize the A LOT description. High ranking staff could get away with just about anything while off the clock. Anything. One guy, a doctor that worked in autopsy, joked that you could even commit murder, so long as it didn't inconvenience the company's profits. There was only a small handful of people that would dredge up that joke. They were the sort that had the capacity to creep you out, and you never wanted to be in the same room alone with them.

A few colleagues that were the closest sort of people I could describe as 'friends,' would affectionately direct security my way as 'domain obscura.' I was hard to find, and just as difficult to page over the intercom one I was buried in work. Staff with Level one clearance was more on board with screwing around with security, if the agent was seeking someone specific and they used the employee ID number.

"Oh, you mean Records closet. He's over in the Records closet." And the guard would give them about two seconds, before he'd demand them to show exactly where this particular 'Records closet' was hiding.

Everyone on security was a complete prick.

It was not difficult to find a vacant storage closet to work, alone, in. My hands tremble as I tapped at the keypad; I was making errors and erasing the hasty patch I was writing up. I took some precious time to rub the shakiness out of my fingers, and set my hands back over the laptops keypad. Part of the problem was that this wasn't my personal computer, and I had to search for the command prompt.

Murkoff prohibited personal devices such as iPhones, laptops, anything that could get a network signal. Instead, we could read, submit letters to the postal service, or watch Murkoff approved televised programs. The facility provided commune computers that were synchronized on a connection throughout Mount Massive's isolated networks, but remained segregated from outer signals. This wouldn't be enough to prevent a few technicians from bypassing the restriction and roaming a bit beyond the dome, but violators of these rules would receive harsh repercussions.

When I first signed up for the Technical Division officially, I was given a pile of papers that restricted many of my personal freedoms; the bulk of these freedoms were the sort of which I had taken for granted prior to when Murkoff made contact with me. The content of these documents stressed that I understood all of my obligations and swore me silence, and touched lightly over the content of work I would be involved in. I was expected to fulfill my duty as technical support until I was terminated or until my contract with Murkoff's Psychiatrics expired. I sensed these sentences stretched further than what could be expressed in ink and paper, but I was assured that all was in good order. 'Mandatory precautions' they had called it. I had no idea what my work would consist of.

The doctors were not therapists, they were scientists. I became aware all too soon of what conducted Murkoffs motivations, and that the company's actions were immoral, wrong, and I'd go as far to say evil. And what I was doing… The people I worked with, they promised me this was helping.

Helping.

I was somehow HELPING these people that were dragged in here? What was being done to them… they had every right to fight out. The things the doctors were doing to them; referred to them with casual indifference, identified the people – the patients – by a set of serial numbers. No… no, I don't know what Murkoff was doing, but it was not charitable. It was punishment! No one deserved this. No one. No matter what they did.

I took a sip from the large mug I had. The side said Coffee, but I'd always been partial to tea. Murkoff company mugs. Everyone just sort of left them sitting around, and some of the desperate few would finish off what might be the remains of a lukewarm beverage. People around here lost themselves. Or, they wanted to get so sick they could call in. I've covered for a few of those guys.

My eyes trailed off the laptop, and scanned around the tight quarters I had set up shop in. The utility closet had no light beyond the gate, in the very back room where desk was that I sat at. A bulb blazed unrestrained in the shelved corridor, but very little of that light found its way past the chain-link fence. The fence housed backup breakers for an electrical grid of the sub lab, and some of the major software components for the Morphogenic Engine, but the gate was never kept locked.

I thought I heard someone shuffling around, and I stare off into the far reach of the closet at my backside. There is no evidence of a presence, and I conclude it's just the acoustics of the rock walls repelling the sounds I generate as I move. This assured me that if someone did come in I'd hear them, and have a chance to put the laptop away while looking casual. No one pried excessively if someone wanted to be left alone, and I'd heard rumors about undisclosed favors being passes between staff and the technicians. It was usually a public announcement via intercom about deviating from the Murkoff Psychiatrics network, a mild deterrent and a dock in our pay checks. It let us know that Murkoff was watching.

I returned to the laptop and resumed through the command prompts, it was faster for me than clicking icons. I wasn't assigned a company laptop, but a colleague let me borrow his for the day. I knew what to do to set up my bridge off the grid, but I wasn't any less tense about it. Had to work fast once the connection was made, sign in to my mutemail and go through the security twenty-twenty. I could appreciate the precautions and everything, but did the site not understand I had a very thin wedge of time to work within? Nine dollars a month, plus tax. None of that was on a card. I had a friend set me up, after Murkoff handed over the first stack of contracts.

There was a name in the system I had my eye on for a while. I contacted a few others, sent out messages when I had the chance; there were close calls, incomplete messages that likely fell into the void of cyberspace and junk mail. I have no idea if the viable emails made it to their intended recipients, or if the people even gave a damn. I would continue to do what I could, for as long as I was a witness. This guy I picked up, his track record looked shaky but potent.

A final line of command prompts, and my patch was secure. The domain code was encrypted, and the best I could manage given the time constraints. I needed to compose something for the email. I adjust my glasses, and again check over my shoulder toward the breakers on the far side of the room. There was nothing; no prying eyes, no cameras lurking, no shadows out of place. I was alone. The soft twitters of the Engines hardware chirped with each corrupt script weeded out. I turn back to the laptops generic amber, golden sunset, and open the new letter. I had the email address memorized, but what should I say?

"You don't know me, have to make this quick." That was good, I guess. I began typing, my fingers become steadily faster as I lip read the note back. "They might be monitoring." If someone was watching, all that they'd get to see would be the encryption, and a jumble of numbers and letters. Whitenoise I sometimes called it. I did test runs before I began the actual run, visiting the restricted sights and making a 'ruckus.' Pay was docked, but no one had theories to the culprit. I took it easy for a few days.

I typed in two weeks, but didn't bother to go back and fix it. The automatic spell correction kept me from looking like a complete fool, but the note warns early I'm not going to revise this until dawn. Caps lock Murkoff, because I don't need that autocorrected.

I look up, certain I've heard something. Just the intercom, security looking for someone catching a nap. I roll my shoulders and return to typing, I needed to get this done and sent. "…but seriously, fuck those guys." I wasn't heavy on profanity, but in this context it seemed appropriate. As always I elect to be as vague with the details of my concerns as I can, only because what I have to reveal is too farfetched to be credible. I don't have time to explain the situation, or fabricate something that sounds believable without a level of deceit coming across. What I saw was terrible, and I had no method to stop it. Murkoff was to potent to get involved with.

I drew back from the cheerful glean of the screen to reread. Was I missing anything, anything to promote my case? I rub at my knuckles and ease out some of the chill, pop the joints, then another sip from my stale tea. Ugh.

This is enough, there's nothing else I can slip in to make the case more appealing. I glance back over my shoulder, at the metal gate and padlock left open. It should be fine, I haven't been away too long. As I spin back, I take note of my leg bouncing anxiously under my palm. Jeez, what a bad habit. I tried willing my leg to stop and it worked for a second, but my knee goes back to anxious bobbing. Just forget it. Get the letter composed, then I could get some rest.

"It needs to be exposed." I practically pronounced each syllable of that final line. Another nervous tick I developed; cracking my knuckles until the joints ached. At times I realize I'm doing it, but still did it. I was high strung, like all the other people tied up in this place. Jumping at shadows.

This wasn't normal behavior for a software consultant, or any sane person for that matter. I've seen a couple of security haunting the halls, getting a little twitchy with the more sleep they lost. No one with Level three clearance slept well, and staff would snap at each other for the weakest reasons; even during meal breaks when we should be in a lighter mood. We were just a bunch of high strung, jumpy people. I overheard from a few of the higher up researchers that the Project had reached a plateau, but made no definite progress in the past month. That could be a reasonable reason for the tension, but it didn't strike me as normal. It wasn't getting any better around here.

I moved the cursor to the Send button, but hesitated. Would this guy even show up? Did I want him too? So far my efforts had been in vain. Eventually, someone would take the bait. I couldn't be sure someone already did. I thought they did but, I hope to god I was wrong. Just another patient. That's all I ever thought of. I was being paranoid.

I clicked the Send icon and watched the annoying little load icon appear. A little hour glass. Who still used—

"Who's in here?"

The door at the rooms front creaked in its hinges. I jerked to the side and strain to peer through the small gap in the shelves, computer hardware and old radio CBs obscure clear sight of the door. Someone couldn't be looking for me already. Most likely a curious technician announcing his arrival.

I swing back to the laptops bright screen, and hit the delete button. Damnit! I already hit the Send button! I'd have better luck hitting Num Lock, or Alt-Delete. I settle with shutting the computer down, closing the laptop and shove it away. I spun around on the computer chair and watched the open gate. I wait for a long time, but no one enters. The room remains silent, I don't hear the door shut; it's only the computer software puffing hot vapor, and myself.

I wrap my arms around my midsection and stand. I'm feeling a little silly with my initial panic. Someone must've been looking for me, and when they didn't see me they went elsewhere. I scoot along the interface wall filled with tiny, gleaming lights, and approach the opening of the gate. As I peer over the shelf's edge, a figure at the door whirls back. He's dressed casual; white collared shirt, blue slacks, and at the base of his neck I could see the edge of his thermal undershirt.

"Park?" He stops just outside the door and tilts his head, as if he didn't expect me to be here at all. Or maybe he didn't know my face matched that named. "They've paged for you three times already." As he said this, he gestured off with a thumb. "There's something urgent at the engine."

I hesitate when I reach the doorway, and him. The Engine. The Morphogenic Engine. I repeat it in my head a few times. I hate the way it sounds.

"I… must not have heard." My voice trails off as the intercom echoes through the hall, for what must be the fourth time in five minutes.

"Waylon Park, employee one-four-six-six, report to the Morphogenic Engine monitoring immediately."

I sigh, and exit the room. But I make sure to shut the door behind me.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he asks. He straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest. "I thought you were just a software guy."

I shrugged, but didn't extend on the conversation. He seemed appeased by this, and let me go without an explanation. He knew me but I didn't recognize him. He might've come down from the top floor and wouldn't be around for much longer. If I saw him again, I'd make it a point to get his name.

The entirety of the sub levels twisting corridors was chiseled natural stone, from the ceiling to the polished, flat floors. In some sections, such as the corridor I stood in, had areas built over with glossed cinderblock. A few steel doors dotted the walls on either side, most advertise their unwavering message Restricted Area, and were locked with a magnet card reader. Yellow caution tape lay beside short rails set on the floor, barricades to keep the numerous trollies of supplies from scrapping walls and upsetting their cargo.

I adjust my glasses, but recall their not my tinted pair. I could afford to remove them until I reached the Morphogenic wing, but I decide against that. I'm in a hurry and don't need to be seen, fumbling around when I enter the chamber.

Down the hall, two researchers stand off to the side of the hall muttering in conversation. Idly, I listen as I move by to the Plexiglass at the corridors end.

"Parts per million, yeah. But those are precursors to precursors. I'm worried about losing antiapoptotics." Neither one looks human, garbed in protective clothing and respirators. They barely sound human, what they're saying skims over the English language.

"One ninety isn't bad. The Doctor was predicting assembly by one fifty."

I slow my steps when the automatic doors glide open. Advanced research. It was a rare day to see these guys out of hardware. Blue was their uniform color, blue and gray. And custom respirators, and specialized shielding goggles for their eyes. There was this fear of contamination, and it revolved around the level of Security Clearance and Research these people worked in. I wasn't privy to what this all consisted of, but I knew enough. It gave me the chills.

"We're not being given enough information to trust Wernicke's predictions." I had heard about this Dr. Wernicke, but never actually saw the resident doctor. I never asked about him, since only the doctors ever mentioned him, and maybe the rare occasion that security was on about something. There was a lot of action happening in the background, which I was fine having nothing to do with.

"He's been right so far." They continued debating. I couldn't distinguish one voice from the other.

"I just want to know we're inventing something other than shiny new cancers." I stepped fully into the next room, and the doors wisped shut at my back. I catch the last section of the conversation about stress and capillaries, and decide I'm better off not knowing.

The room is a small security checkpoint, and holding chamber for some supplies – such as the canisters on the trolley in the opposite corner – awaiting use. Polygon sections are marked off by yellow tape, in one perimeter to my left sits a desk with a lone monitor, and one of security seated behind the screen. I glimpse over the side of the room, and spy a second security agent stationed in front of a pair of doors at the far wall; he looks bored, and his focus is set on the man at the computer.

"You're Waylon Park, aren't you?" the seated agent incited. I'm surprised he recognized me, but it's more likely he has my image on the halls camera feed.

"Yeah." I hasten to the set of doors on the opposite wall. I didn't need to get wrapped up in explanations. As if control was listening, the intercom echoed out once more, requesting my presence in the Morphogenic lab. That was, how many times now?

"Why weren't you answering the page?" he pried, with a sideways glance my way. As if I have five minutes to spare, and should remind him how no one goes by employee identification numbers. "I'll tell them you're coming."

"Thank you," I murmured. I slipped around the door and pulled it shut at my back.

"How about you?" Another pair of researchers, preening through notes. The one with a clipboard gave pause and checked my way, but otherwise ignored my appearance. I thought I knew him by name, but dressed as he was I wouldn't bother with a passing greeting. They were idle but preoccupied.

"Going back to Leadville to pick up Jane, then we're heading out to the lake," the other replied.

"That sounds all right."

Even as I moved past them, it was impossible to discern which one was speaking. The way their voices hit the odd, jagged stone that surrounded us, amplified the sounds in disconcerting patterns. The other one stood overseeing his partner, and stood with his arms crossed. They passed the clipboard between them, and he began writing quickly.

"I didn't think I'd miss her this much. It's the patients," he went on. "You start to realize they haven't seen a woman or a child in… shit, years now. Right?"

"How long's it been since you're seen Jane?" his voice is softer, sympathetic. I pause before the corridor turns and kneel down to tie my shoe.

"Three weeks now?"

He scoffed behind his mask and glanced up from the clipboard. "That's nothing."

I had to redo my shoelace after I knotted it wrong. They sometimes said it was hard when women were on Mount Massives soil, but now it was unbearable. Some say these conditions were difficult to adjust to during the first few weeks, especially if you had someone waiting for you. Even prisons had the possibility of one woman on duty, or you could leave at the end of the day and that would be it. We were isolated up in the Mountains of Colorado, and most the people were stuck in residence, and prohibited from outside contact. We couldn't speak to anyone outside the facility or go anywhere. I've heard of a few guys that have been on residence for more than half a year. Introverts, eccentrics. Maybe I was categorizing them, but I'd seen one of them occasionally during breakfast and they always had this ghostly detached expression. None of them were much for talk.

"You serious," he asked, after the other man's scoff. "You got a girlfriend of something?"

"I'm married." The marking made on the paper and clipboard was audible as he spoke.

"How long since you seen her?"

"Honestly?" The scratching of audible writing paused. "I'm not even sure."

I picked myself up and proceeded around the chiseled bend in the corridor, above a lamp cast shards of glittering slates along the walls. At the halls end was another security operative poised at the edge of the built in cinderblock walls, he stood with his heel at the edge of the yellow stripe of caution tape. Fixed high up on the polished brick wall, was a rotating camera charged with capturing all activity that occurred before the thick blast doors. The guard gestured to me as I approached:

"Christ, Waylon," he hissed. "Hurry up, they're waiting on you." I had a tense moment to dwell if maybe he had seen me further down the hall tying my shoe over and over? I didn't lose time over the assumption, and hurried through when the guard stepped aside.

He said something else, but it was lost in the thick groan of the blast doors grinding open. Warm air slipped over my neck and face; a vivid contrast to the cool sterility of the corridors. It was then that I realized how chilled my hands were, and I nervously fumbled with my knuckles and tried popping the joints.

The room within was full of activity, all of it visible with a glance. Men moved in slow motion, minds paced at two millionths of words a second, thirty syllables every two point nine seconds. Even without the Morphogenic Engine – the bulbous machine on the other side of the windows – the heat expelled from the massive computer terminals and software components was erratic. A wild snake coiled with current, winding and rubbing over itself, while scales popped off its convoluted muscles.

I adjusted my glasses as I stepped inside. It was a short enclosed walkway into the main chamber. The walls of the entry struggled to pump a meager amount of recycled air into the entire room, while fans rattled and drew the heated air out. Half the flooring was grated and assisted with airflow, but all of these architectural benefits hardly made the chamber bearable. Buried hundreds of feet underground in frosted limestone, most of us clothed in long sleeve shirts or thermals to ward of hypothermia. Then there was this place. I was once told hell could be a beautiful place.

The ceiling of the interior chamber was carved out and extended high overhead, it was reinforced with thick metal beams intermixed with vents, and pipes running the length of the rooms walls. Through the Plexiglas, I could barely make out the shape hovering in the mist. The tri-heptagon surface of metal and lights, steam huffed through the spaces in its numerous panels. Cables as thick as my arms ran from the top of this contraption, and descended deep down somewhere, out of sight among the floors and walls. The chiseled walls that encircled the enormity of the chamber had at one time been white, but now they were an ugly gray, almost black; as though the walls of the mountainous interior were becoming a chard husk of computer hardware, like the people that were dragged in here for the treatment.

Behind the Plexiglas, away from the heat of the machine, safe from its smoldering anger, the technicians and doctors work, bent over long countertops lined with screens and papers. One or two bodies huddled before the sharp flicker of a screen, one dressed in a spotless coat, the other sporting dark blues. In the limited light of the room, some of these people seemed to meld into the vibrating equipment stuffed into the walls, as if they had always been here – eyes sunken and dark, brows scarred by thoughtful lines, dangerous thoughts tugging into their skin. I stopped at the threshold staring, the air in my lungs stale.

"Ah, Park." The first technician on the side said. He looked up from the clipboard he held, pen in hand. His face buried in goggles and a respirator. If he hadn't addressed me by name, I would have kept walking. "You're cutting it close, next patient's incoming and the Arterial Spin's still dark. We need you at the front."

Patient. They're bringing a patient in. God damnit. I flexed my hands beside my legs, and felt the skin roll over my tendons and bone. Did they do this on purpose? No. I should've been paying attention, they paged me five times. I was busy. They didn't like excuses, but they wanted results, and they wanted them now.

The interior room was filled with terminals and screens, each and all dedicated to the Engine. The Morphogenic Engine. On one side of the room, the bulk of technology was reserved for the functions and readings, communications were linked directly to those on the ground floor at the contraptions base. On the far side, hardware was interwoven and cross connected over several networks; software articulated to work as a mediator of the Engine, and dedicated to monitor the people that were brought through for treatment. Screens displayed what I recognized as thermal imaging, PET scans, electron microscopes, and an assortment of over readings I knew no name for. I didn't think there could be an accurate medical term devised yet, for half of the systems they utilized in this room. They called it scientific breakthrough, the cutting edge of technology and the advancements in medicine, psychosis.

I got the shivers when I thought about it.

I glanced at the guard beside a desk as I moved to the room's front. He wasn't pressed up against the desks, or out of the way for that matter. He stood in the center of the walkway, and I had to creep by him. He followed my movement with his eyes. I hated when they did that, but what else did they have to do around here?

"From yesterday we've got one at thirteen twenty-one oh-five. Another at seventeen forty-four thirty-one. And a big one at nineteen thirty eight oh-two." These were the physicians at the side, going through the patients previous history, I think. Spikes of something. Dreams. They were always going on about dreams, and I would sometimes catch chatter about how they wanted the patients to see something. Or, I'd get the vibe they wanted them to experience something. It was always casual conversation, even during work like this.

"Let's see… log has the first two as guided dreams. Classified as: childhood, sexual with reptile imagery."

I stood behind the guys at the front terminal, working over the screens and muttering. I didn't catch a name. I was trying to follow the medical/technical terms that they used, put it together later. Another technician was already on scene, working beneath the desk to the side of the room. He had the side of a sub tower open, and a panel in the floor removed; he was working to replace wires and held an small laptop on his knees.

Beyond the window, beneath the Engine, I could see more of the physicians, and another tech guy dressed in blue and wearing a tie, he fiddles with the terminal. The collective group of doctors loiters around one of the spherical pods, wires and thick tubes hung from its side. Only the cables that went into the capsules base and went to the wall, were for the computers readings, anything not yet connected soon would be.

"Ah, for fuck's sake. They've got Gluskin out of his cell." He wore blue smocks and sounded unimpressed. He spoke with another technical, dressed in lab coat and smocks. This fellow, Steve, he and I have worked beside the other on and off, but hadn't exchanged names formally. I didn't like him, but the feeling was mutual. "Page him again, we need this Park guy in here now. Tell him he's got fifteen seconds to keep his job."

Right, I needed to fix this. Without a word I slipped over to the quiet desktop to the right, reserved for me and already prepped for C++. They had two monitors set up for convenience, but for me the second screen only served as a distraction. The main monitor displayed large red words:

SYSTEM ERROR CODE 16

Along with the code, malfunctions and troubleshoot commands were already in a list of recommendations. This would work if the whole damn system wasn't custom built, and programmed by a mathematical moron that still used UNIX.

This wouldn't take long. I had to get back, make sure the laptop did shut down. It would still have the tether network code I used, and I needed to erase that browser history and scrub the pathway. Tedious, but easy enough.

"Park. Finally. Where have you been?" I didn't answer, just gave a wave over my shoulder. I pulled the keyboard over, and grimaced. Spit and frustration. That's what I always imagine these commune keyboards smelled like. I didn't like public keyboards, I didn't even like going to the library to fill out applications. I pressed my fingers onto the keys and began typing, quickly. "The Functional Imaging interface isn't talking to the ASL. We've got a patient thirty seconds out and we're blind inside his head."

"I'll hurry then," I said. Just to make him happy, and defuse the irritation a bit. I put in the long code, requested a full read up of the program. I think I made a patch for this the day before. I wouldn't be surprised if another techy came through and botched up the whole system. If that's the problem, then I could just recode and resubmit the working patch.

A voice strained through a respirator, with that odd metallic ring in it. He was further away, on the other side of my supervisor. "I could call in to the chamber, ask them to delay… ?" Oh please, don't do that. Are you stupid?

"No," Steve denied. And I let out a small sigh. Good. "I don't need another performance evaluation." He went on, "Mr. Park here is going to have us up and running before we even know it. Right, Mr. Park?"

"Yehh," I fumbled. The long script C+ was already loading up and I scanned through some of the zip codes as they loaded. It was irrelevant jargon, you couldn't get anything from it, but it helped pass the time. Script. Script. Script.

The error note was bright crimson, and I fixed my glasses to help alleviate the awful color coupled with the poor lighting. I got that the facility was saving power where it could and that most these researchers didn't get out that often to see the sun; but some of us still needed some light in order to make out the tiny text on the screen. I tapped my finger on the keyboard impatiently, my head combing out a request command and a proper line code to input. Make the camera transmit. Nothing wrong with the camera, computer thought there was a problem. It didn't want to read the image. I could make it read the image, and transfer with a bypass. Trick it into seeing, And recording. This would all be well, unless some idiot came through later and changed out the True for a False.

"Are we happy Mr. Park?" Steve asked. I glanced at his face, worn with lines and no indication of humor in his dark, sunken eyes. What sort of question was that, here of all places?

"Yes I'm happy. Can you not see the big grin slapped on my face?" But I say nothing. I turn back to the screen and put in the script patch. My cheesy sweater is damp; this is taking a little longer than I thought it would. I read the long code back to myself as I put it in, mouthing the figures that line up. Equation forming, molding it into the solution to make the problem True. I skim over the errors above. By the sound of it, I won't have time to troubleshoot this if the code is misread.

"Uh, Steve?" The voice in the respirator strained. "FMRI is still dark."

"You're doubting our friend Mr. Waylon Park," Steve gushed, with a mild tone of mock. "Which I consider more than unkind to his programming skill and considerable dedication to the Murkoff corporation."

It was no big secret that I had my reservations for what we were doing here, but I never spoke aloud. People pick up on these undertones. But in Murkoff's eyes, I was valuable. I got work done quick, efficiently, and that was what mattered. In the beginning I was warned to keep my head down, keep quiet. "For Your safety." They had a method of making it sound like outside groups would find you, if they got wind about your place of employment. But, most of us knew that it was the Murkoff's way of keeping its employees compliant.

Compiling Morphogenic Engine Software

I erased and redid the last few figures. That would have been bad. Then Run the program. It was now a matter of waiting to see if the code was accepted. The loading bar filled up slowly. If I stared at it too long, it might start to run backwards. I pulled the front of my shirt out from my chest, and rolled the sleeves back from my wrists. It seemed warmer than usual in here.

The anxiety crept through my veins. I adjusted the keyboard at my fingertips, and turned to Steve, "It'll just load now—"

"Fuck me," he snapped, turning to somewhere distant, beyond the Plexiglas. "They're bringing him in." I turn in my seat to see where he was looking, but the second monitor was in the way. It was only confirming the script was doable. I check the main screen, and find it hasn't reached fifty percent yet. Damn, why….

"—knew it was coming," a voice shrieked. It was muffled through the airtight, glass box we sat in, isolated. Safe. "Your filthy fucking machines. You fucking machines!" The steps that climb up, and connect on level with the control room are directly across from me. From my view, I can see the armed guards escorting a wildly thrashing man across the lower chamber. I'm no longer interested in the gradual movement of the bar. I'm not thinking of equations or running script, I'm not thinking of anything. Except the man on the floor below fighting – fighting with everything he has in him. He has to be screeching until his lungs bleed, otherwise I wouldn't be able to hear him through the Plexiglas. "No! No, not again. No! No! Jack-booted fucks, I know what you've been…"

I check Steve's impassive face, just watching the scene unfold. There are guards down there, with guns. There's no way the patient can get away. But the cold detachment in Steve's eyes… I'll never get used to people with That expression. Not seeing the person. I don't know what he sees. What could you possibly see? What are you thinking?

But I don't know psychology. I don't read people well, and I'm a little naïve in that regard. These matters of relation in the mind, though. I'm satisfied in not knowing.

"Help! Help me! Help me, they're going to—" I look away, to the guard standing beside the clear door shielding. I'm relieved by a more human reaction from him, his uncertainty as he witnesses the action on the floor below. His imposing stature is no longer projected, and he leans toward the door, fidgeting and glancing around. The door is locked via terminal code, and none of them will open the door. He looks to the technicians at the monitors displaying patient and Morphogenic synchronization, but none of them appear flustered in the slightest by the commotion. The guard must be new. "— Rape! Rape!"

I pretend to watch the last of the bar fill across the screen when someone starts screaming "Grab him." "Loose." I blink and see a shirtless man fly up the steps, and throw himself across the window. He's well-built physically, but veins on his arms and neck look unnatural. Exposed.

He's smashed his palms to the surface, and exhales a sharp sound that hardly sounds human. "Help me! Help!"

I've staggered out of my chair, backing away from him. "Don't let them do this! Don't let them!" He continues to beat his fists on the glass, shrieking. One of tactical security is already hiking up the step to seize him, but the distraught man notices me first. I'm certain that wild look in his eyes is set on me alone, and no one else. I back up. I don't want him to look at me. I don't want to feel responsible.

"You!" he howls. His last shred of desperation tears from his throat, agony and terror ignites in his face. The tactical guards wrap their arms over his chest, and struggle to drag him back down. The man breaks free, insane, agonized. He stares through me. "I know you can stop this!" I back away more and more, as a torrent of guards swarm the figure and heave him away from the glass. "You have to help me! You have to… "

I nearly tumble backwards when my heel comes down on the leg of the chair pressed behind me. I don't want to do this. I don't want to feel like I've condemned a man. I can't, I—

"Hey! Calm yourself." The guard from the door. He comes over, and pressed his hand to my chest when I whip around. I back away and put my arms up. I don't want to be taken where the patients have gone. "This is a high security—"

"It's all right, agent." Steve comes to my rescue. I flinch his way, nearly hitting him in the face. Steve is unconcerned and takes my arms, gently, one after the other and presses them back to my side. "Mr. Park was just surprised. I'm sure he's still calm and eager to finish his work." Steve sort of brushes the guard off, the same way a child might shoo a fly. Then, he gestures to the chair and takes my shoulder, pushing me towards the welcoming, calm blue fabric. "Take you seat."

I see beyond the loading screen – completed – that the man continues fighting his suppressors. "You're in too deep," I thought. "How can you hope to escape, when you're in this deep?"

I try and say thank you or some other word, but only manage this little wheeze. Steve's hand left my shoulder, when I place myself back at the terminal. I slide up to the screens and set my hands to the keyboard. The code and script have been incorporated into the program. I would…. Uhh…. What did I do next?

I keep glancing over the screen and the data, and observe the Morphogenic Engine. The terminals, the guys working down there. I don't see the patient anymore, and everything has restored to a calm state. That unnatural state. I can't stop looking at the odd images and movement in the large screens below, the Static it's been called. I sometimes dream about it. Sometimes, I dream about them, and something else is there; some dark shadow from my childhood. Only kids are scared of the dark.

"Quickly, Mr. Park," Steve says. "A head will need to roll if perfusion monitoring is not active when they put him in the engine."

The Spin Labeling. A fancy word for program monitoring. Simple. Give me a moment. I fumble my fingers across the keyboard, getting the strokes in mind before I resume the actual command inputs. Activate it, give it the right sequence and we'd be good. The screen prompts Standing By, as I begin tapping.

Steve began to count down, "Five Seconds. Four. Three… "

I sigh. Give it the last sequence, then Enter. I recoil, when the monitor I was watching displayed the interior of the capsule, and the patient.

"Arterial Spin Labeling is back online," the man in the respirator says.

"Ah. Good then," Steve replied. He's behind me.

I stare at the screen, of the man with his odd undercut. His lips and nose are already red. He twitches and moaned, it looks awful. Cables jammed down his throat, needles jammed in his shoulder and stomach. I hear an audible creak and when I look down, I see that I've gripped the edges of the keyboard and am trying to strangle it. When I raise my eyes back to the patient, his head is already bobbing and it looks as though he's gone to sleep. I watch the red blemishes spread along the side of his face and neck, ugly welts, like burns. I couldn't think of what else they could be, they appear so quickly.

"Positioning imaging planes…."

The patient's head spasms, and finally he succumbs to the chemicals, or whatever they pump into him. Could be gas, or injections. They put them in the pods, and fill them with terrible things. It's not right, it's immoral. But I can't say no. Christ, what is it I'm doing here?

"You're finished, Mr. Waylon Park," Steve snapped. He braced an arm across my chest and grips my shoulder. Steve glimpsed the screen I was fixated on and leans into my line of sight, effectively blocking view of the screen. "You can leave."

The forceful tone crushes any drop of curiosity that was in my blood. I push away from the terminal and rise from the chair. At my back Steve, says. "Don't expect anything but honesty in my review of your performance."

Who cares about performance reviews? Only the doctors. I stick my hands in my pockets as I head towards the chambers exit. The mild putter of the fans drum on, but fail to cloak the voices I leave behind. Like echoes.

"You have the dream therapy logs?"

Going too deep.

"What are these spikes?"

Waiting in the mountains.

I stop at the blast doors and turn back, trying to see the capsule beyond the crisp clean scrubs. I wanted to see what was happening, what was it they were trying to do? Far as I could tell, they had accomplished nothing. I never saw the people, after they went to the Engine. I never saw what happened to them. And I wasn't doing much about it, here.

"You need to exit the room, Sir." I glanced back the guard beside the entry threshold, arms crossed and glaring my way. I frowned, and turned away.

In all the excitement, I had forgotten about the laptop. I nodded to the next security figure standing outside, as I breezed by. He watched my progress as they usually did. I quickened my pace when I made it around the bend. The doctors that had been conversing in the hall were now gone; probably went for a meal or a nap. Their chatter was not missed, and I wanted to sit in my quiet corner to mull over my thoughts. I was still on shift and couldn't go back to my room for a proper rest, nor could I get away from these sterile, chiseled corridors. I wanted to forget what I saw, distance myself from the sensation. I hate the indirect guilty. It's not proper guilt, it's the kind without a face. I don't want it.

I shut the door behind me, and stalled. The two security agents looked my way, but say nothing. The one on the monitor continues his work, moving the cursor and keeping observation. Behind the desk, on the wall at his back was the logo for C Block.

I wanted to say something, anything, to cut the impassable silence. I just couldn't. Couldn't bring myself to open my mouth, and feel a small piece of my humanity trickle away.

I gave a weak greeting as I passed through, and entered the clear sliding doors. The hiss of hydraulics, in a way, emphasized the frigid state of the halls. Though the air was stale and overused, it was still a refreshing change compared to the overbearing warmth of the Morphogenic chamber. My skin was starting to dry out, but the dampness clung to my back like an unwanted glove. I pulled at the edges of my collar as I moved to the end of the hall, the walls mercifully silent for once.

I hated the way this place vibrated, how even the air seemed alive. In time, you could get used to it; but left to your own devices, bare of a distraction, it would slither through your skin. We never discussed it, but there was always that veil of unease in the atmosphere. It was just paranoia, and the physicians said it was perfectly natural.

No. It wasn't. A lot of what they said was a flat out lie. You couldn't tell if they were telling the truth anymore, or if they gave in to their own lies. Sometimes, it was easier

I stopped when I reached the corridors end, and the door I had left there, the room I worked in. I watched the, waiting, biding time. Strong tremors rolled up and down my arms, and the dampness returned to the back of my neck. I hated this place, but I needed work. Bills to pay. You couldn't survive without money. I was pushed into this. I had things that needed to be fixed. Mended. I was trying to do the right thing.

I remember leaving the door closed.