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Home - Prologue
Nov. 10th, 2014 06:46 pm“Pa?” The voice breaks into Dr. Jansen’s thoughts, squeaky and a touch breathless. “You got visitors.”
Jansen pushes his chair back from the solid stone table and stands, running a hand through his close-cropped brown hair. Something hurtles into him and he stumbles back a step; his son Weston’s skinny arms encircle him with impressive strength. The boy, eleven years old and already near as tall as his father, buries his face in Jansen’s labcoat. The scientist pats his shivering son’s dark, curly head in an absent way, knowing without looking who's at the door.
The boy’s never liked the Manips; Jansen can’t say he blames him.
“Come on in,” he says, his own voice even.
The Manip glides inside, its feet noiseless on the stainless alloy floor. It waits, silent, as Jansen makes his clumsy way over to the data-safe, his son still clinging to him. His back to the Manip, he opens the safe and retrieves the chip with last quarter’s reports.
A chill comes over him, and he turns to find the Manip inches away; skin crawling, Jansen suppresses a nervous laugh.
The Manips don’t appear to have any sense of humor, but he’d swear they enjoy startling him. He offers this one a wan smile and drops the chip into its skeletal hand. It nods as its white, fleshless fingers close around the chip, its face obscured by the hood of its billowing black cloak. The creature retreats to the hall, its movements so quick it appears to flicker. It doesn’t speak; the Manips never do.
Weston slowly releases his his death-grip on Jansen; moments later, a young, paunchy man steps into the doorway. The breast pocket of his ill-fitted brown suit is adorned with a Government employee's identification badge.
Tugging at the collar of his lint-flecked black button-down, he clears his throat. “I apologize for the interruption, Sir, but the Program Director requests your presence.” He clears his throat again. “There’s a hoverpod waiting outside.”
Jansen sighs, eyeing the slides he’s just finished preparing, the jars of phosphorescent serum composites. He shoots a wistful glance at the half-assembled prototype for his largest public client’s latest Productivity Assistance Management system. His work will have to wait; Jansen Technologies hasn’t earned its reputation by keeping Government officials waiting, even middle-grade ones with delusions of grandeur.
“Weston?” He turns to his son. “Keep an eye on the place for me?”
The boy stands, taut as a bow string and wide black eyes fastened on the shadowy figure lurking in the hall. On any other occasion, he’d be squealing in delight over the chance at even an hour alone in his father’s lab. Now, however, he only nods and offers a weak, “Sure, Pa.”
Jansen unlocks a tall, metal cabinet; its double doors open with a loud screech. He removes a garment bag and a pair of well-oiled dress shoes from inside and locks it back with nimble fingers. “Go on home if it gets too close to dinnertime. Tell your Ma I might be late, too--okay, kiddo?” Pulling Weston into an awkward, one-armed embrace, he whispers in the boy’s ear. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
He follows the public servant out. The halls are empty; most employees lack the clearance to enter this sector of the building. Two pairs of footfalls echo in the hall--the squeak of Jansen’s sneakers and the clippity-clop of the other man’s hard-soled shoes. Beneath the sound of their steps, Jansen hears his own breathing, the slight whistle of the younger man’s nose. The Manip trails behind them; its respirations--if it breathes at all--are inaudible. No one speaks on the way outside; the conversation at the meeting isn’t likely to be much better.
By the time he arrives at Program Headquarters, Jansen’s folded his labcoat and tucked it away in his garment bag, along with the jeans and Attack of the Killer Sprinkmelons T-shirt he was wearing underneath. He’s changed into a charcoal gray suit, expensive and tailored to fit his slight figure with precision. His shoes and socks are business black. The pressed, pristine white of his collared shirt offsets his smooth, dark skin--a complexion some spend good money to fake. Born and raised High-Ender, Jansen knows how to dress; it’s with perfect intention that he ruins the look with a smiley-face tie.
In the lobby, the Government lackey does the usual check-in routine--retinal scan, DNA sample, time in and expected time out of 23:59, Government-speak for “you’ll leave when we let you.” He takes his leave with a slight bow of his head. The Manip hovers at the back of the lobby; when Jansen approaches, it begins to drift down a dim corridor with a polished faux-marble floor. Jansen follows it onto an elevator that whisks them up seventy-odd floors and opens onto a hallway identical to the first. Exiting the elevator, the Manip leads him to a conference room with its imitation-wood door closed. It waits.
Jansen pushes the door open. The entire back wall of the room is a single sheet of shatterproof glass with a slight tint; the light filtering through this window-wall is the only illumination. At the center of the room is a long, simulated-stone table. The others are already seated at one end, stiff and unsmiling. Not one of them wears an interesting tie, unless Director Willard’s grease-spotted one counts. Willard occupies the head of the table, flanked by Stillwell and Adams, both of whom Jansen’s met before at various social events. The remaining man is young, mid-twenties at most and pulling off business casual far too well to be a Government employee. He glances toward the door and nods; the Manip floats out into the hallway and pulls it closed.
“Fashionably late as always,” Stillwell cracks as Jansen eases himself into an empty chair.
Rocking back in his seat, Jansen meets Stillwell’s honey-colored eyes with a level gaze and a small smile. He bites back a caustic remark about being fashionable, at least--Stillwell’s jacket sags just a touch in the shoulders, and its sleeve reveals the entire cuff of the man’s shirt. Jansen chides himself for his pettiness; it’s not Stillwell’s wardrobe that bothers him anyway.
“A pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jansen.” Director Willard sounds almost sincere. “I trust that your family’s well?”
“Very well--thank you, Director,” Jansen replies. “Both boys’re growing like weeds and my wife’s research is--”
“Women’s work,” Stillwell interrupts, flashing Jansen a cold smile. “I was under the impression we had real business to discuss.”
“Stillwell,” the Director warns, his graying, bushy brows bunched together.
It’s all Jansen can do to repress a smirk. The unfamiliar young man seated next to Stillwell isn’t as successful, and Adams seems to be suffering from a sudden and unfortunate attack of coughing. Stillwell’s thin lips press together to the point of invisibility. Willard waits, expressionless, while Adams regains his composure.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I've brought you here, Dr. Jansen.” The Director says when the room is silent again.
Jansen chuckles. “There are a great many things I wonder about. Scientists are inherently curious individuals.”
“Let me introduce you to our team, and we’ll get straight to the point.” Willard inclines his head toward Stillwell. “It seems you’re already acquainted with our Deputy Commissioner of Schools. Seated next to you is Dr. Richard Adams, Associate Vice President of the Bureau of Mental Fortitude. And last but not least,” he says, gesturing to the man beside Stillwell, “our young friend over here is Victor Larkin, Program Liaison. He assists with both recruitment and mentoring of Program members.”
Larkin smiles, warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“And the Manips?” Jansen asks. “You work with them as well?”
The smile freezes on Larkin’s face; it fades from his eyes as they dart toward Adams. Adams, in turn, goes a bit gray in the face and looks over at Willard, who fiddles with his tie clip. “Yes, and them as well,” the Director says after a moment. He clears his throat. “How much do you know about the Program and your involvement with it?”
Jansen stretches, his jacket suddenly feeling restrictive. “My understanding is that the Program trains young men to become special operatives. Potential recruits are found through the school system using standardized tests and other screenings.”
“That’s a vast oversimplification of the--”
“Stillwell,” The Director barks. “Let the man speak.”
“As far as my involvement,” Jansen continues as if he was never interrupted. “I synthesize a chemical known as C-3614X, which is one component of an organic device the Government’s created for the Program. I believe the Manips are somehow able to use this device to observe the potentials, and these observations help determine which ones are a good fit for the Program.”
“Yes,” Willard says. “Very good. Adams, can you take it from here?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Adams clears his throat. “While surveillance is a helpful tool, on its own it provides a success rate of only thirty-five percent. In other words, almost two thirds of the boys we induct into the Program are unable to complete their training and become...” He trails off, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Special operatives. Our hope--”
“Our hope is that with some tweaks to your formula,” Willard interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can greatly reduce this rate of attrition.”
Rate of attrition. Jansen turns the words over in his mind; he dislikes how businesslike they sound. These boys, these potentials, aren’t much older than his own son. “What kind of tweaks?”
“Based on your research data thus far,” Adams says, “We believe it’s possible to enhance the organic monitors to establish a--” He pauses to examine his fingernails. “--a telepathic link between the Manips and the potentials.”
“A… what?” Jansen’s mind whirls; he wonders if he’s being mocked. “You want to read their thoughts?”
“Of course n--” Adams begins.
“Not at this time,” the Director says, his voice firm. “We intend to establish a simple bond with each potential’s brain. By measuring the strength of the bond, we’ll be better able to determine which candidates have sufficient abilities to excel in the Program.”
A sudden chill creeps over Jansen; he folds his hands in his lap to keep them still. “Isn’t that a bit… invasive?”
The young one, Larkin, leans forward. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.
“Being cut from the Program is, ah, it’s very hard on these boys.” Adams rubs at the remains of his hair again. Jansen notices beads of perspiration along the man’s receding hairline. “They often require extensive counseling, and returning to their old living situations is--well, it’s quite difficult to say the least.”
“So you see,” Director Willard cuts in. “The telepathic link would, in fact, be less invasive than our current methods.”
* * * * *
Randall keeps it together until the break room door’s closed behind him. He tosses the grungy backpack onto the table, trying not to think about the way the kid fought to keep it. Tiny little thing, not even five feet tall, and it took five men to take him down. His ankles felt so small, the bones so delicate under Randall’s huge hands--
He bites back a scream and fights off tears, his whole body shaking with the effort. His fist slams into the wall and bounces off, useless. Randall blinks at the undamaged wall and then his reddening knuckles; he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. The Program was supposed to be a way out of his dead-end life, a way to help smart kids from shitty homes who never had a chance.
It isn’t helping the kid out there any, that’s for sure. He never quit struggling, not even after they got the restraints on him. Like a cornered animal, growling deep in his throat, back arching up off the table and head jerking from side to side. Wrists straining against the cuffs and cords standing out against his stick-figure arms, even after the first injection--
The door opens with a slight creak. “You okay in there, big guy?” Larkin asks.
Randall sinks into one of the too-small chairs, pulling the pack toward him and unzipping it. He’s not okay, can’t stop hearing the kid’s screams. Can’t un-see the bloody tracks down his hairless cheeks where he’d clawed himself before they managed to bring him in.
Not okay at all.
“I’ll get by,” Randall mutters, broad shoulders tensed.
“They’re not always like this, y’know,” Larkin says, taking a seat. “The intakes, I mean.”
“Hope not.” Randall keeps his eyes on the table, trained on the kid’s belongings as he sorts through them. They don't amount to much--cheap phone, ratty old clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, some polished stones in a fake leather pouch.
“It’s this new observation device.” Larkin sighs. “Things’ve been a lot rougher around here since they started using it."
Randall nods, distracted by something he's pulled from the pile of crumpled clothes. It's one of those souvenir-shop bottles, filled with shells and sand; Randall's willing to bet this kid's never seen the shore. He picks up the pouch he set aside earlier, running a thick finger over its soft, scarred surface. Sniffs at it, his brow furrowing--not fake after all, and hides are a luxury for a kid like this.
"Lots more kids like that one the past couple years, out of their minds and seeing shit that ain’t even there.”
Randall looks up; this wasn't covered in orientation. “The device makes them hallucinate?”
“Some of ‘em, yeah.” Larkin grimaces. “It wasn’t supposed to, not really. The point was to let the Manips communicate with the potentials, to ease them into things. To gauge whether they’d be a good fit for the Program. Least that’s how it was presented to me.”
“Let me guess. This one wasn’t a good fit.”
“That’s the worst part--not necessarily." Larkin picks up the beach-bottle from the table; he rolls it between long, slim fingers, passes it from one hand to the other. "The mind-link does something to some of the kids, makes their brains go haywire. But it’s not like it weeds out the ones without enough talent. It's--" He falls silent, eyes down and lip caught between his teeth.
Randall waits, turning back to the objects on the table. He picks up a cloth bundle about the size of a loaf of bread. It's a vidframe, cocooned in layers of wash-worn T-shirts--a girl, thirteen or so, with a mop of black curls and eyes like tumbled jet. Dark skin, shy smile and straight white teeth. Randall shakes his head. Poor kid got himself mixed up with some High-Ender's daughter, some sweet little thing with money for trinkets and trips to the shore. Randall wonders what they’ll tell her when she asks what happened to him.
"Y’know Number Two?” Larkin finally asks, voice low. “That one’s the worst intake I ever did.”
“Really?" Randall almost drops the vidframe. "Two?”
Two was born to be a Manip; none of the other Program kids can keep up with him.
“Yep." Larkin swallows and looks down at the table. "Came in here hollering about ghosts and dead things, clawing himself up like that one did tonight. We had to keep him holed up here on the Processing Unit for ages, but you’d never know it now. The kid’s amazing. Doesn’t remember a thing about all that bad stuff, either.”
“So this new kid," Randall pauses, afraid to ask. Afraid to hope. "He might actually end up okay?”
“Might." Larkin picks up a pair of jeans, shakes it out and folds it.
Randall picks up a paper napkin from the table, shredding it as he waits.
"It’s hard to say this early on," Larkin continues. "The ones that come in hot like this, they’re always a mess. Most of ‘em won’t eat or drink; I think they’re too mixed up to remember. The ones who’ll sleep tend to get nightmares. Treatments help some of them, clear up the hallucinations and the dreams. Those’re the ones with the best chance. We’ll know in a day or two if this one responds to the treatments or not.”
“And if he does?”
“It’ll be critical to keep a close eye on him. Even once they can think clear, they’re scared out of their minds. They tend to hurt themselves, to hide wherever they can. You have to talk to them, try to draw them out. Make sure they know you’ve got their back.”
“That’s what you did with Two?”
“Yep. Like I said, it was touch and go for a long time. But after a while, he adjusted. Some do, if you watch ‘em close enough.”
“What happens to the ones who don’t?” Randall asks.
Larkin opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. He stands, sweeping the scraps of torn napkin from the table. Patting Randall on the shoulder, he says, "We really ought to go back out there, y'know."
It's all the answer Randall needs.
(next chapter is here)
[A/N: This was originally posted for Open Topic in... some week of LJ Idol Season 9.]
Jansen pushes his chair back from the solid stone table and stands, running a hand through his close-cropped brown hair. Something hurtles into him and he stumbles back a step; his son Weston’s skinny arms encircle him with impressive strength. The boy, eleven years old and already near as tall as his father, buries his face in Jansen’s labcoat. The scientist pats his shivering son’s dark, curly head in an absent way, knowing without looking who's at the door.
The boy’s never liked the Manips; Jansen can’t say he blames him.
“Come on in,” he says, his own voice even.
The Manip glides inside, its feet noiseless on the stainless alloy floor. It waits, silent, as Jansen makes his clumsy way over to the data-safe, his son still clinging to him. His back to the Manip, he opens the safe and retrieves the chip with last quarter’s reports.
A chill comes over him, and he turns to find the Manip inches away; skin crawling, Jansen suppresses a nervous laugh.
The Manips don’t appear to have any sense of humor, but he’d swear they enjoy startling him. He offers this one a wan smile and drops the chip into its skeletal hand. It nods as its white, fleshless fingers close around the chip, its face obscured by the hood of its billowing black cloak. The creature retreats to the hall, its movements so quick it appears to flicker. It doesn’t speak; the Manips never do.
Weston slowly releases his his death-grip on Jansen; moments later, a young, paunchy man steps into the doorway. The breast pocket of his ill-fitted brown suit is adorned with a Government employee's identification badge.
Tugging at the collar of his lint-flecked black button-down, he clears his throat. “I apologize for the interruption, Sir, but the Program Director requests your presence.” He clears his throat again. “There’s a hoverpod waiting outside.”
Jansen sighs, eyeing the slides he’s just finished preparing, the jars of phosphorescent serum composites. He shoots a wistful glance at the half-assembled prototype for his largest public client’s latest Productivity Assistance Management system. His work will have to wait; Jansen Technologies hasn’t earned its reputation by keeping Government officials waiting, even middle-grade ones with delusions of grandeur.
“Weston?” He turns to his son. “Keep an eye on the place for me?”
The boy stands, taut as a bow string and wide black eyes fastened on the shadowy figure lurking in the hall. On any other occasion, he’d be squealing in delight over the chance at even an hour alone in his father’s lab. Now, however, he only nods and offers a weak, “Sure, Pa.”
Jansen unlocks a tall, metal cabinet; its double doors open with a loud screech. He removes a garment bag and a pair of well-oiled dress shoes from inside and locks it back with nimble fingers. “Go on home if it gets too close to dinnertime. Tell your Ma I might be late, too--okay, kiddo?” Pulling Weston into an awkward, one-armed embrace, he whispers in the boy’s ear. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
He follows the public servant out. The halls are empty; most employees lack the clearance to enter this sector of the building. Two pairs of footfalls echo in the hall--the squeak of Jansen’s sneakers and the clippity-clop of the other man’s hard-soled shoes. Beneath the sound of their steps, Jansen hears his own breathing, the slight whistle of the younger man’s nose. The Manip trails behind them; its respirations--if it breathes at all--are inaudible. No one speaks on the way outside; the conversation at the meeting isn’t likely to be much better.
By the time he arrives at Program Headquarters, Jansen’s folded his labcoat and tucked it away in his garment bag, along with the jeans and Attack of the Killer Sprinkmelons T-shirt he was wearing underneath. He’s changed into a charcoal gray suit, expensive and tailored to fit his slight figure with precision. His shoes and socks are business black. The pressed, pristine white of his collared shirt offsets his smooth, dark skin--a complexion some spend good money to fake. Born and raised High-Ender, Jansen knows how to dress; it’s with perfect intention that he ruins the look with a smiley-face tie.
In the lobby, the Government lackey does the usual check-in routine--retinal scan, DNA sample, time in and expected time out of 23:59, Government-speak for “you’ll leave when we let you.” He takes his leave with a slight bow of his head. The Manip hovers at the back of the lobby; when Jansen approaches, it begins to drift down a dim corridor with a polished faux-marble floor. Jansen follows it onto an elevator that whisks them up seventy-odd floors and opens onto a hallway identical to the first. Exiting the elevator, the Manip leads him to a conference room with its imitation-wood door closed. It waits.
Jansen pushes the door open. The entire back wall of the room is a single sheet of shatterproof glass with a slight tint; the light filtering through this window-wall is the only illumination. At the center of the room is a long, simulated-stone table. The others are already seated at one end, stiff and unsmiling. Not one of them wears an interesting tie, unless Director Willard’s grease-spotted one counts. Willard occupies the head of the table, flanked by Stillwell and Adams, both of whom Jansen’s met before at various social events. The remaining man is young, mid-twenties at most and pulling off business casual far too well to be a Government employee. He glances toward the door and nods; the Manip floats out into the hallway and pulls it closed.
“Fashionably late as always,” Stillwell cracks as Jansen eases himself into an empty chair.
Rocking back in his seat, Jansen meets Stillwell’s honey-colored eyes with a level gaze and a small smile. He bites back a caustic remark about being fashionable, at least--Stillwell’s jacket sags just a touch in the shoulders, and its sleeve reveals the entire cuff of the man’s shirt. Jansen chides himself for his pettiness; it’s not Stillwell’s wardrobe that bothers him anyway.
“A pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jansen.” Director Willard sounds almost sincere. “I trust that your family’s well?”
“Very well--thank you, Director,” Jansen replies. “Both boys’re growing like weeds and my wife’s research is--”
“Women’s work,” Stillwell interrupts, flashing Jansen a cold smile. “I was under the impression we had real business to discuss.”
“Stillwell,” the Director warns, his graying, bushy brows bunched together.
It’s all Jansen can do to repress a smirk. The unfamiliar young man seated next to Stillwell isn’t as successful, and Adams seems to be suffering from a sudden and unfortunate attack of coughing. Stillwell’s thin lips press together to the point of invisibility. Willard waits, expressionless, while Adams regains his composure.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I've brought you here, Dr. Jansen.” The Director says when the room is silent again.
Jansen chuckles. “There are a great many things I wonder about. Scientists are inherently curious individuals.”
“Let me introduce you to our team, and we’ll get straight to the point.” Willard inclines his head toward Stillwell. “It seems you’re already acquainted with our Deputy Commissioner of Schools. Seated next to you is Dr. Richard Adams, Associate Vice President of the Bureau of Mental Fortitude. And last but not least,” he says, gesturing to the man beside Stillwell, “our young friend over here is Victor Larkin, Program Liaison. He assists with both recruitment and mentoring of Program members.”
Larkin smiles, warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“And the Manips?” Jansen asks. “You work with them as well?”
The smile freezes on Larkin’s face; it fades from his eyes as they dart toward Adams. Adams, in turn, goes a bit gray in the face and looks over at Willard, who fiddles with his tie clip. “Yes, and them as well,” the Director says after a moment. He clears his throat. “How much do you know about the Program and your involvement with it?”
Jansen stretches, his jacket suddenly feeling restrictive. “My understanding is that the Program trains young men to become special operatives. Potential recruits are found through the school system using standardized tests and other screenings.”
“That’s a vast oversimplification of the--”
“Stillwell,” The Director barks. “Let the man speak.”
“As far as my involvement,” Jansen continues as if he was never interrupted. “I synthesize a chemical known as C-3614X, which is one component of an organic device the Government’s created for the Program. I believe the Manips are somehow able to use this device to observe the potentials, and these observations help determine which ones are a good fit for the Program.”
“Yes,” Willard says. “Very good. Adams, can you take it from here?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Adams clears his throat. “While surveillance is a helpful tool, on its own it provides a success rate of only thirty-five percent. In other words, almost two thirds of the boys we induct into the Program are unable to complete their training and become...” He trails off, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Special operatives. Our hope--”
“Our hope is that with some tweaks to your formula,” Willard interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can greatly reduce this rate of attrition.”
Rate of attrition. Jansen turns the words over in his mind; he dislikes how businesslike they sound. These boys, these potentials, aren’t much older than his own son. “What kind of tweaks?”
“Based on your research data thus far,” Adams says, “We believe it’s possible to enhance the organic monitors to establish a--” He pauses to examine his fingernails. “--a telepathic link between the Manips and the potentials.”
“A… what?” Jansen’s mind whirls; he wonders if he’s being mocked. “You want to read their thoughts?”
“Of course n--” Adams begins.
“Not at this time,” the Director says, his voice firm. “We intend to establish a simple bond with each potential’s brain. By measuring the strength of the bond, we’ll be better able to determine which candidates have sufficient abilities to excel in the Program.”
A sudden chill creeps over Jansen; he folds his hands in his lap to keep them still. “Isn’t that a bit… invasive?”
The young one, Larkin, leans forward. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.
“Being cut from the Program is, ah, it’s very hard on these boys.” Adams rubs at the remains of his hair again. Jansen notices beads of perspiration along the man’s receding hairline. “They often require extensive counseling, and returning to their old living situations is--well, it’s quite difficult to say the least.”
“So you see,” Director Willard cuts in. “The telepathic link would, in fact, be less invasive than our current methods.”
Randall keeps it together until the break room door’s closed behind him. He tosses the grungy backpack onto the table, trying not to think about the way the kid fought to keep it. Tiny little thing, not even five feet tall, and it took five men to take him down. His ankles felt so small, the bones so delicate under Randall’s huge hands--
He bites back a scream and fights off tears, his whole body shaking with the effort. His fist slams into the wall and bounces off, useless. Randall blinks at the undamaged wall and then his reddening knuckles; he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. The Program was supposed to be a way out of his dead-end life, a way to help smart kids from shitty homes who never had a chance.
It isn’t helping the kid out there any, that’s for sure. He never quit struggling, not even after they got the restraints on him. Like a cornered animal, growling deep in his throat, back arching up off the table and head jerking from side to side. Wrists straining against the cuffs and cords standing out against his stick-figure arms, even after the first injection--
The door opens with a slight creak. “You okay in there, big guy?” Larkin asks.
Randall sinks into one of the too-small chairs, pulling the pack toward him and unzipping it. He’s not okay, can’t stop hearing the kid’s screams. Can’t un-see the bloody tracks down his hairless cheeks where he’d clawed himself before they managed to bring him in.
Not okay at all.
“I’ll get by,” Randall mutters, broad shoulders tensed.
“They’re not always like this, y’know,” Larkin says, taking a seat. “The intakes, I mean.”
“Hope not.” Randall keeps his eyes on the table, trained on the kid’s belongings as he sorts through them. They don't amount to much--cheap phone, ratty old clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, some polished stones in a fake leather pouch.
“It’s this new observation device.” Larkin sighs. “Things’ve been a lot rougher around here since they started using it."
Randall nods, distracted by something he's pulled from the pile of crumpled clothes. It's one of those souvenir-shop bottles, filled with shells and sand; Randall's willing to bet this kid's never seen the shore. He picks up the pouch he set aside earlier, running a thick finger over its soft, scarred surface. Sniffs at it, his brow furrowing--not fake after all, and hides are a luxury for a kid like this.
"Lots more kids like that one the past couple years, out of their minds and seeing shit that ain’t even there.”
Randall looks up; this wasn't covered in orientation. “The device makes them hallucinate?”
“Some of ‘em, yeah.” Larkin grimaces. “It wasn’t supposed to, not really. The point was to let the Manips communicate with the potentials, to ease them into things. To gauge whether they’d be a good fit for the Program. Least that’s how it was presented to me.”
“Let me guess. This one wasn’t a good fit.”
“That’s the worst part--not necessarily." Larkin picks up the beach-bottle from the table; he rolls it between long, slim fingers, passes it from one hand to the other. "The mind-link does something to some of the kids, makes their brains go haywire. But it’s not like it weeds out the ones without enough talent. It's--" He falls silent, eyes down and lip caught between his teeth.
Randall waits, turning back to the objects on the table. He picks up a cloth bundle about the size of a loaf of bread. It's a vidframe, cocooned in layers of wash-worn T-shirts--a girl, thirteen or so, with a mop of black curls and eyes like tumbled jet. Dark skin, shy smile and straight white teeth. Randall shakes his head. Poor kid got himself mixed up with some High-Ender's daughter, some sweet little thing with money for trinkets and trips to the shore. Randall wonders what they’ll tell her when she asks what happened to him.
"Y’know Number Two?” Larkin finally asks, voice low. “That one’s the worst intake I ever did.”
“Really?" Randall almost drops the vidframe. "Two?”
Two was born to be a Manip; none of the other Program kids can keep up with him.
“Yep." Larkin swallows and looks down at the table. "Came in here hollering about ghosts and dead things, clawing himself up like that one did tonight. We had to keep him holed up here on the Processing Unit for ages, but you’d never know it now. The kid’s amazing. Doesn’t remember a thing about all that bad stuff, either.”
“So this new kid," Randall pauses, afraid to ask. Afraid to hope. "He might actually end up okay?”
“Might." Larkin picks up a pair of jeans, shakes it out and folds it.
Randall picks up a paper napkin from the table, shredding it as he waits.
"It’s hard to say this early on," Larkin continues. "The ones that come in hot like this, they’re always a mess. Most of ‘em won’t eat or drink; I think they’re too mixed up to remember. The ones who’ll sleep tend to get nightmares. Treatments help some of them, clear up the hallucinations and the dreams. Those’re the ones with the best chance. We’ll know in a day or two if this one responds to the treatments or not.”
“And if he does?”
“It’ll be critical to keep a close eye on him. Even once they can think clear, they’re scared out of their minds. They tend to hurt themselves, to hide wherever they can. You have to talk to them, try to draw them out. Make sure they know you’ve got their back.”
“That’s what you did with Two?”
“Yep. Like I said, it was touch and go for a long time. But after a while, he adjusted. Some do, if you watch ‘em close enough.”
“What happens to the ones who don’t?” Randall asks.
Larkin opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. He stands, sweeping the scraps of torn napkin from the table. Patting Randall on the shoulder, he says, "We really ought to go back out there, y'know."
It's all the answer Randall needs.
(next chapter is here)
[A/N: This was originally posted for Open Topic in... some week of LJ Idol Season 9.]
