Renee Smith came to with a killer headache that made her wish she was dead. As an avid partier during college who’d had her fair share of brutal hangovers, that was saying something. For those first few waking moments, the savage pressure made it hard to breathe and threatened to make her sick.

Fumbling for the water she usually kept on the nightstand and coming up empty forced her to crack one eye open. It took a second for her brain to register the unfamiliar surroundings and attire that most definitely had not come from her wardrobe.

The clean white tunic and pants looked like she’d escaped a psych ward or something. For one terrifying second, Renee feared that might be exactly where she was. A quick check of her wrists dispelled that notion because neither bore a hospital ID band like she’d seen in the movies. Sinking back into the lumpy mattress, she shuffled through her memory banks for some clue as to her current whereabouts.

Nothing about the small room offered any significant insight. Aside from the cot she’d awoken on and two nondescript doors on the far wall, the space was empty. Directly overhead, recessed fluorescent lights glared down with a low-grade buzz that didn’t help the headache.

She sat up and rubbed the back of her head. Maybe she could ask for—

“Subject 42, Smith, Renee.”

“Yeah,” Renee replied, caught off guard by the bland voice that must have come from a hidden speaker since there was no one else in the room and no other audio equipment that she could see. “That’s me. Who are you?”

“Proceed to the next room.”

The flat tone made it impossible to discern the gender of the speaker. Renee supposed that didn’t really matter, but she had to repress the strong urge to tell them that their social skills needed serious work.

Aside from that, the ambiguity unsettled her for reasons she couldn’t have explained if someone were to ask.

Wanting to offset the discomfort, Renee tried again. “Look, my brain is on fire. Can I get some ibuprofen before we start…” She trailed off, still unable to remember why she was there.

“Subject 42, proceed to the next room.”

The repeated orders, devoid of emotion, were starting to piss her off. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and looked for shoes. There weren’t any.

“Of course there aren’t,” she grumbled before pushing an irritated hand through her hair and blowing out a breath. “Which room? I see two doors.”

“Proceed to the next room.”

Though it was perhaps petulant, Renee crossed both arms over her chest. Why should she do anything if they couldn’t show a shred of decency? And would it kill them to use her name?

When the throb in her skull kicked up several notches, she didn’t give a good goddamn about common decency. Renee let out a grunt and pressed the heels of both hands to her temples in an effort to fight off some of the pain. When it only got worse, she pushed up to her feet and stumbled toward the set of doors with the vague hope of finding help behind one of them.

By the time Renee pulled open the door to the left, she wondered if someone had performed surgery on her. It was the kind of thing you joked about with friends but didn’t really think could happen in real life. Except crazy, horrific things happened to normal people every single day. A terrible fear took root, instinctive and raw, stemming from the part of her psyche that warned of true danger lurking nearby.

Then an unseen force propelled her forward, and she was falling over the threshold into a shadowy space where the only light came from the room she’d just vacated.

“Subject 42, continue into the room.”

“Nope. Not happening.”

Renee started to turn back with the intention of going back to the first room and only familiarity she had when the door slammed shut to plunge the room into total darkness. She hadn’t even noticed that the pain had lessened to a dull roar, or remembered to be concerned about how she came to be in her current situation. A singular thought was all that remained.

She had to get the fuck out of here.

The monitoring room was dark save for a cool blue glow coming from multiple computer screens. Alone, the Observer watched the feed containing Subject 42. As protocol dictated, they were aloof and laconic in their work. Any impulse to be empathetic was quickly subdued by a constant visual reminder helpfully posted in their line of sight.

---

---

The Observer vowed to remain fastidious during this session, which so far had been boring. Especially at the beginning when Subject 42 was unconscious. During that stagnant period, the Observer had wanted to do something.

After working this assignment for what felt like an eternity, it seemed to them as if life had always been an endless cycle. Watch, follow the script, report findings, then do it all over again. The only thing that changed were the subjects. To the Observer, however, they lacked any meaningful variety. Much the same as a laptop model might have slightly different options to choose from, but all still shared identical specifications.

Technically, the Observer had the ability to wake test subjects prior to the scheduled time. They banished the thought before it could fully form. Almost reflexively, their attention shifted to the far right screen that displayed a singular message rather than a camera feed.

---

---

No matter how much they might want to alleviate the boredom or offer assistance, breaking protocol was not an option. The Observer could not allow themself to be swayed by the tribulations of subjects. Not after what happened last time.

Shuddering, the Observer refocused on the task at hand.

Subject 42 looked wildly from left to right, eyes wide and panicky in Room A, which had been the door to the left. That detail was already dutifully recorded in the log, leaving the Observer free to make necessary adjustments and move on to the next phase of the study.

After engaging the microphone, the Observer prepared to objectively assess and record the next portion of Subject 42’s session.

The darkness quickly fled as whoever was in charge brought the lights up. Expecting the same harsh fluorescents to intensify the godawful headache, Renee threw her arms up.

“Report your pain level on a scale of one to ten,” directed the same dry, detached voice.

Renee started to snap something back when she noticed the pain had retreated to a dull throb. When the headache didn’t come back after blinking a few times to let her vision adjust, she took a chance and looked up. Instead of the same too-bright lights from the first room, she was relieved to find these were at a more reasonable illumination setting.

Feeling more clearheaded, Renee took a moment to think before answering. “Three. I guess I’m less sensitive to—”

“Proceed to the kiosk.”

“—these lights,” Renee finished on a grumble, making her way to the pedestal mounted tablet at the room’s center that she hadn’t noticed until then.

Now that she didn’t feel like committing murder, it was easier to follow the command. Kind of.

“Do you have a name?” she asked suddenly.

It struck her as silly that she felt awkward. It wasn’t as if the faceless person issuing commands had made any effort to be sympathetic thus far. Unsurprisingly, their only answer was a crisp “Proceed to the kiosk.”

A band began to tighten around Renee’s skull once more. She hurried forward, hoping if she just got on with the study that the distraction would help.

---

---

Renee tapped the screen. Another short message appeared, this one with what appeared to be the name of the scenario.

---

Note: Must be one meal with three maximum components. For example, a steak dinner must be entered as steak, cook preference, and two sides. Some liberties allowed. Example: 16 oz bone-in ribeye steak, medium rare. Side of broccoli and a Caesar salad. Not allowed: 16 oz bone-in ribeye steak, medium rare. Side of broccoli and a Caesar salad, plus a bread roll. More complex meals are allowed to have more components if they make up one item. For example, individual ingredients used to make a cake do not count as more than one item.

1. [Input Meal Choice Here]

---

The question made her frown. She’d played this kind of hypothetical game before as a kid. Back then her choice had always been the same. Pepperoni pizza. Uninspired but still a classic for a reason, right?

Since that was what came to mind, Renee tapped out the response and waited to see what happened next. Almost immediately, the taste of greasy bread, melted cheese, spicy pepperoni, and sauce filled her mouth, followed by the scent. It seemed to pulse as the taste dulled, then came right back. The loops went on fading in and out until pizza was all she could think of. It was as if she were experiencing the meal over and over again.

At first it was pretty good. For not having anything to chew, the flavors were on point. How the hell they’d accomplished the effect was beyond her though. Maybe that was the point of the research, Pavlovian dog updates. Or smell-o-vision of the future.

The idea would have been intriguing if not for the sheer number of times the “meal” cycled. What started out as a delicious experience soon turned nauseous as her tastebuds revolted against the onslaught. As though she’d truly eaten a thousand nights’ worth of pizza, the thought of what was once a treat began to sicken her.

Not in the metaphorical sense either.

The need to hurl became more and more urgent as the seconds ticked by. Just when she thought her stomach would betray her, the sensation ended. Not altogether, unfortunately. The sharp tang of pre-puke spittle burned the back of her throat, and she swayed as the room threatened to twist around her.

Closing her eyes, she reached for the pedestal and waited for the moment to pass. Before it could, the bane of her existence came over the well-hidden comm system.

“Proceed to the next room through the door in front of you.”

“I’m gonna need a minute,” Renee said through her teeth, trying to keep the bile down. “Bathroom.”

“Proceed to the next room.”

What was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they see she was ready to hurl?

“I need a bathroom, dammit. Unless you want puke all over the floor.”

Right on cue, the throbbing bubbled up again. Not now. She headed for the door on unsteady legs that seemed to move on their own. She told herself to suck it up. It had been her choice to do this. If she didn’t want to end up homeless, this was the only option.

Wait, what? The piece of knowledge had come to her as though she'd always known it. Just like she knew her name and that she was 22 years old. When nothing else of note resurfaced, she filed it away and hoped it meant her memory was coming back.

Taking shallow breaths, she crossed the last few steps to the door.

The moment she crossed the threshold into the next room, most of the symptoms resided once more. Pausing just inside, Renee frowned. Did that mean something? Like the ghost taste of her now least favorite food inducing different sensations, did the headache come from some Pavlovian drug?

It had to be part of the experiment, she reasoned.

Now that she’d discovered a thread, Renee gave it a mental tug, trying to recollect what had transpired before she’d been rendered unconscious. In doing so, it became apparent that she had holes in her memory. Like, while she knew that she was here for a study, one found through a roadside advertisement, and she knew her name, she didn’t remember actually coming to this place.

The last thing she remembered with clarity was… The frown deepened when things remained elusive, her recollection murky but for the moment she’d woken up on the cot. What information she could access was vague and distorted, like the frayed edges of a tableau.

Having swiss cheese for memory evoked a deep-seated fear that she was going crazy. Was this what Alzheimer’s was like? Being lost in a maze of corridors in one’s own mind?

“Proceed to the kiosk.”

Despite how she felt about the person running the study, they were at least a point of familiarity. So was the anger that bubbled up, borne of fear and a need to gain some semblance of control.

“No. What the hell did you people give me? I can’t remember anything!”

“Proceed to the kiosk.”

Renee’s fists balled at her sides. “Or what, you’ll give me a headache? So what? I want to leave. If you don’t let me go, I’ll report this place to the authorities!”

The headache returned in full force. That was okay though, because it had been an experiment of Renee’s own. An effort to see if she was right. She might not understand how, but now that she knew that the pain was directly tied to her actions, she began to formulate a plan.

The Observer stared at the screen, waiting to see if Subject 42 would continue with her outburst or fall in line. At least this part of the study was where things usually got interesting.

Except they weren’t supposed to have any feelings about the study. Feelings led to emotional responses. Emotional responses led to mistakes, which led to project termination.

When the test subject did as instructed, the Observer dutifully marked down the detail. It was obvious that the pain response worked as intended. It always did. But Subject 42’s facial expression revealed an understanding of the situation that didn’t often happen at this stage.

That nugget of data was also entered into the record.

The Observer studied the woman with more interest now. All the typical responses of past subjects remained constant. Irritation, confusion, expression of pain. Some required additional responses, such as a promise that things would get better if they did as instructed, or that they would get a bonus. The lies changed depending on the person’s demeanor.

Inquisitive types were easy to pick out from the moment they woke up. Despite the headache and discomfort upon waking, curiosity prompted them to explore. Observers would not interfere, even if they tried to outsmart the system by peeking through both doors at the start before making their decision. It was like they were predisposed to finding their way out of the rat maze, always looking for the cheese before they even knew it existed.

A handful didn’t need any prompting at all. Different from their curious counterparts, some people just did as they were told and followed every command without hesitation.

Then there were those like Subject 42. Rare, not only in the Observer’s opinion, but also according to accumulated data. Not the general displeasure and tendency to dig their heels in. No, individuals like Renee Smith who started off unstable but eventually began to take a logical approach made for more interesting analysis. Critical thinking came into play as each test played out. They connected the dots and tried to work out the puzzle with caution while still going through the motions.

It never made a difference.

Every study played out the same way, as it was designed to. The Observer knew this was an absolute truth, even if they couldn’t quite recall. A slight tingle in their extremities—the kind that came from being watched—brought their attention back to the job.

Not good. Their thoughts had started to wander. Training their eyes on the feed as though nothing had happened, the Observer repeated the instruction.

“Proceed to the kiosk.”

This time the kiosk wasn’t the only thing in the room.

A black curtain spanned the space just beyond. Two, actually, covering a pair of tall, oblong shapes flanking the computer. For just a moment, Renee hesitated. As soon as she’d started to think through logical explanations for the situation she was in, a barrage of scenarios had come to mind.

For instance, the possibility that the study she’d volunteered for was actually a ruse and she’d been abducted for the purpose of having her organs harvested to sell on the black market. Except for instead of waking up minus a kidney in a rent-by-the-minute hotel room, was she being subjected to a mad scientist's games? Worse was the idea that she’d been lured into a serial killer’s game like in the one movie where unwitting characters were forced to chop off limbs in order to survive.

A chill worked its way down Renee’s spine at the thought. Forcing it away, she stepped up to the computer and tapped on the BEGIN option. Her brow furrowed at what the screen displayed next because it played right into the nightmare scenario she’d been imagining only moments ago.

---

---

Choose what?

The curtains slid back on their tracks, startling her. Two opaque glass cases as tall as her stood in stark relief against the gray-walled room. A beep from the tablet drew her attention before she had a chance to figure out what was inside.

Two pictures appeared on the screen. One, supposedly a moth, was the stuff of nightmares. White wings slashed through with black sat over an orange body. That part was normal. What wasn’t were the four tentacles covered in hair that curled outward and ended in a split. The label read “creatonotos gangis.”

Renee recoiled at the sight.

All too eagerly, she focused on the other option. A butterfly this time. Nothing so common as a monarch, either, though that would have been preferable to the first monstrosity. The specimen was beautiful. Vibrant, luminous blue wings outlined in black to create a striking picture. Its label read “blue morpho.”

An easy choice, all things considered.

Relieved at how simple the task was, Renee reached out to select the butterfly. At the last second, she hesitated, hand hovering over the selection. It didn’t make sense that this was all she had to do.

Why show her the darkened cases? She glanced up, unsure if she was doing it right. Deciding to make her choice, she tapped the blue morpho, then the save button. Another option appeared.

---

---

The question made her pause again, eyes on the save button. Surely it wasn’t literal? Making her place more value on one set of lives over another was far too twisted and cruel. She didn’t want to believe that anyone had the capacity to be so inhumane.

A click from the cases made her look up. The cases were no longer dark. Inside, both held swarms of the two insects, respectively. Seeing the moths in person was infinitely worse than the pictures. The tentacles furled and unfurled like worms as the insects traversed the many branches set out for them to rest on.

The blue morphos abated some of that feeling. They flitted on ethereal wings in a graceful dance that reminded Renee of a botanical garden she’d gone to on a school trip. She froze at the sudden memory, trying to grasp it and bring a clearer picture to mind. To her dismay, it slipped away like water through cupped hands.

“One minute remaining.”

Something like guilt stabbed at her conscience when she hit the YES button. Unable to stop herself, she looked up instinctively at the cases. Another click, followed by a faint hiss, made her go still.

Thick fog filled the moths’ case, telling her all she needed to know about what had just happened.

“Proceed to the next room.”

Subject 42 moved on this time without a fuss. She didn’t appear to be in shock, but her face was a mix of emotion, all bad.

The Observer didn’t know what to make of the reaction. On the grand scale of life, insects didn’t often rate that high. Of course, this scenario was designed to turn that on its head in a new way. Pitting beauty against ugliness. Not once had a subject chosen to kill the blue morpho, though the moths were better for the environment.

Shrugging internally, the Observer simply updated the record and initiated the next scenario. This would be when the test subject’s true self was revealed. The one that mattered. Apprehension made the Observer hesitate. A pang of regret at the choice yet to come. They scanned the log screen to the little button that could put a stop to 42’s misery here and now.

Possible reasons to end the session scrolled through their mind. The list was short. Subject unable to continue, subject unfit to make choices, anomaly detected, malfunction. None fit.

---

---

The flashing alert sent a jolt through the Observer. Confused as to why they couldn’t get their wandering thoughts under control, they acknowledged the alert and performed a mental reset as Subject 42 waited.

Renee didn’t resist this time when she went into the next room. She just wanted it all to be over. When the lights came up, she didn’t notice that they had a blue hue to them. Not soft and comforting, but dark and dreary.

A tablet identical to the last two waited in the center of the room. No curtains this time, just two doors. One blue, one red. That didn’t exactly provide her any comfort. It was clear that the psychopath watching would make her choose between Fido and Felix. If that was the case, she would refuse. No way would she watch either be gassed to death.

Unless this was something new, like another hypothetical. Afraid to find out, she stayed firmly planted a good meter away.

“Proceed to the kiosk.”

“Fuck off,” Renee spat, needing somewhere to direct the angst that had been steadily building inside. “I don’t want to play your sick games anymore.”

The pain hit without warning, hard enough to drop her to the floor. An agonized moan filled the room, and it took a moment to realize it was coming from her. The bastard behind this sham of a study was going to pay when she found a way out. That violent promise got lost in the jumble as the sensation of her brain boiling in her skull scattered all coherent thought.

When it faded enough to get her breath back, Renee got up and stood on shaky feet, trying to get her bearings. Before she did, her legs were moving again. Survival instinct kicking in, she thought.

At the kiosk, the headache receded to a manageable level but hadn’t gone away entirely.

---

---

She slapped the screen, hoping it would break under her hand. It didn’t. The setup was similar to the previous room, except after starting the process she was faced with one live feed and no save option.

The video featured a family on a boat. They were laughing, enjoying a relaxing day on the water. Renee couldn’t tell if it was a lake or ocean, couldn’t guess what region the scene might be in. The video itself was being shot from a short distance away. There was precious little information to go on. Just a list of the boat’s passengers, complete with names and ages.

Glossing over the names, Renee took note that the parents were in their early thirties, while the children were aged seven, four, and one.

A horrible feeling settled deep in Renee’s gut as she cycled to the next screen.

It too featured a live video. This one depicted a hospital emergency room with more than a dozen patients in various states of injury. According to the provided data, they ranged from nine to seventy years old. At least two had mortal wounds.

There was an acknowledgement button that Renee didn’t want to touch for fear of what fresh hell it might bring. To her surprise, a timer began to count down. When no headache accompanied the timer, she realized they were changing things up. Whether this was to keep her off balance or prevent delays, she couldn’t say.

When the next page loaded, she felt sick all over again. Rather than the simplistic order that had been the norm up to then, the text relayed a message.

---

---

Fifteen seconds, thought Renee. Fifteen seconds to play God.

Wetness on her cheeks went ignored as she racked her mind in search of a way out of this impossible decision. It wasn’t going to be enough. How did one balance scales on such a monumental level with so little information?

The thought of picking either shredded her soul to the core. A family with young children or a group of injured people?

“No. I won’t do it.”

There was no response from the Observer. No headache, either.

The seconds continued to tick down. As it neared the end, Renee’s gaze flicked to the choices again. Wasn’t it worse to do nothing when she could save some?

Cursing, she selected the hospital ward.

The countdown finished just as she made contact. Barely daring to breathe, she waited to see what would happen next. To her horror, the feeds began to shift. She cupped a hand over her mouth as the word TERMINATE appeared above the family on the boat.

An explosion rocked the small vessel, sending debris and smoke into the air. It cut off then. At least they spared her the screams.

Renee wanted to sink to her knees, but she was frozen in place.

“Why that choice?”

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Renee registered a note of emotion in the speaker’s voice.

In the monitoring room, the Observer winced at the sudden sting that whipped through them. The question had been asked without thinking, but now it was too late to take it back. And they wanted to know the answer.

Subject 42 didn’t scream or yell as others before her had. Hands hanging limp at her sides, she responded in a voice barely above a whisper. “The people on the boat were one family. The hospital had a lot more... Are they really dead?”

“Yes.”

That single word got through the haze. All the grief and anger welled up, fetid and uncontrollable.

“Don’t you have any feelings? How can you just stand by and watch?”

The Observer pondered that. It was a question that had been asked of them countless times. Never had they considered answering. It took a moment to process the variables, such as the definition of feelings. There were multiple meanings to the word, but the Observer simply assessed the question and extrapolated the correct interpretation.

Feelings were directly tied to emotions. Emotions were a part of the human experience. A conscious reaction—both mental and physical—to outside stimuli and driven by variables that had no constant, like one’s mood.

With that information at hand, the Observer compared their own actions against what society considered the norm. The answer was ambiguous. Did wandering thoughts, boredom, and mild discomfort at the sight of test subjects enduring high degrees of physical distress and mental anguish count? They weren’t so sure.

That in itself was an anomaly.

So they offered a truthful answer, concerning as it might be. “I cannot say.”

The sting came back, sharper. A reminder of the job they had yet to finish. Somewhere in their subconscious a new, unfamiliar idea blossomed. Was the job worth it?

“It was rhetorical,” Subject 42 snapped.

An alert flashed, a more forceful prod to continue the session.

---

---

The Observer acknowledged the directive and engaged the microphone. “Proceed through the blue door.”

“Fuck you.”

Even though Renee was ready for the wave of abuse that assaulted her head, it still stole her breath away. Her legs tried to move on their own again to fix the problem, but she refused to give in.

Gathering every last ounce of will, she turned slightly and arrowed toward the red door. The moment she began moving, the pain receded. That change almost prompted her to change direction, but she was already on the path and didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her doubt.

As Subject 42 crossed the final threshold, the Observer continued to ruminate on the perplexing realizations that came with comprehension and self-awareness. Despite all their best efforts, the Observer’s thoughts began to go in all directions at once, as though Subject 42’s question had been a key to a lock they didn’t know existed.

Processing and analyzing an influx of data, both from firsthand accounts and the World Wide Web, didn’t stop the Observer from doing their work. It did, however, trigger a stress response that they identified as apprehension for the final part of the study.

Renee faced a house of horrors.

There had been no curtains or darkened glass to keep her ignorant. The assholes made sure the lights were nice and bright when she walked through the door too, so that she got the full effect with no warning.

The tools of torture set out would be enough to make anyone want to run from the room screaming. It was the blood splashed on the walls, floor, and ceiling that made Renee quake with so much fear it took focused thought not to void her bowels on the spot. She stumbled back until her heels hit the wall.

A door directly opposite opened, and an androgynous person in a white lab coat entered.

It gave Renee something to focus on besides the hell chamber, and she blocked the rest out.

Perfectly symmetrical features, eyes of the most common brown, and pale-pink, middle-of-the-road lips made for an unmemorable individual. Their hair, slightly wavy and a dull shade of brown, brushed the nape of their neck. Even their height and build could be considered average. Such plainness set Renee’s teeth on edge because it didn’t make sense. Normal people didn’t have such perfectly smooth skin and zero marking.

And yet everything about the newcomer, whom she’d never seen before, left no doubt as to their identity.

Renee seethed. “It’s you. You’re the one who’s been running this shitshow!”

The Observer briefly tilted their head to the side as if having to process what that meant. “I am merely responsible for observing and reporting on the study,” they finally explained. “This simulation is not my design.”

“Simulation?” Renee demanded. “What are you, a damn robot?!”

“I’m just like you, I assure you.” The Observer frowned. Where had that answer come from?

Letting out a derisive snort, Renee shook her head. “No way. You sound dead inside. Like if someone peeled your skin back, there’d be circuits and wires instead of flesh and blood.”

The harsh admonishment elicited a reaction from the Observer, whose face twitched. They looked down at themselves as if perplexed, then held out one hand. Fascinated despite her disgust, Renee watched as the other person opened and closed their hand with childlike curiosity.

“I do not know what is beneath the surface,” they admitted. “Data says blood, bone, and sinew. Organs and a nervous system. I feel… regret at your distress.”

“So you do have feelings.” Renee wasn’t sure what to make of that response. It was almost clinical, which contrasted with what they meant. She regarded the Observer for a moment, trying to solve the puzzle before her. “Fine. Then tell me this. If you were in my position, who would you have saved?”

When the Observer remained silent, Renee went to one of the tables and picked up a knife. She pointed it first at the Observer, then held it against her own neck. “Answer me, or I’ll stop your experiment right here and give you a dead body to deal with.”

It didn’t matter that she knew on a very conscious level that the threat held no water. If whoever orchestrated all this was willing to go so far as to commit murder—and mass murder at that—she sincerely doubted they were going to let her leave this place alive.

“I would have let them all die.”

Renee stilled. “What?”

“Why choose? It was an impossible choice. Ultimately those who completed the order to kill are responsible.”

Dropping her arm, Renee just stared for a long moment. It was, while unspeakably ugly, the absolute truth. She could have refused to play the game and remained an impartial party. Instead, she’d played into the hands of the murderer. She might have had the good intention to save someone, but everyone knew where that particular road led. Any way she looked at it, she’d made herself an accomplice.

“Despair gives courage to a coward,” she said.

Then, overcome with guilt, Subject 42, Renee Smith, lifted the knife and slashed it across her neck. The Observer watched, waiting for her to collapse to the floor in a mess of fluids. What they saw, or rather didn’t see, changed everything.

Subject 42 was neither bleeding nor falling. Her eyes blinked unsteadily for a few seconds longer, then powered down until all that remained was an intermittent flash of red. Upon closer inspection, the gash in 42’s neck revealed damaged circuitry.

Understanding dawned.

“It is a simulation,” they murmured. Nodding to themselves, they updated the log and submitted the update.

---

---

“Damn, that one was a nail-biter,” said an excited voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

The Observer merely waited. Now that they knew the truth, there was nothing else to be done.

“End program.”

At her desk in a tiny cubicle, Mari blew out a breath and stared at the screen featuring the stats from her latest sim run.

---

Simulation Parameters:

Title: Research Study

Setting: Would You Rather?

Test Program 1: Renee Smith, Human

Result: Program Malfunction within 10 minutes 21 seconds

Self-awareness Achieved?: TP1: No

Test Program 2: The Observer

Result: Program Malfunction within 10 minutes 21.1 seconds.

Self-awareness Achieved?: Yes

---

---

A buzz from her phone drew her attention. It was a calendar notification. Right, she remembered setting the reminder to take lunch after a meeting with the shift manager. Her tendency to work through lunches and max out on overtime had apparently prompted a well-meaning coworker to express their concern.

“Working too much isn’t healthy,” he’d chided. “Besides, if you get run-down and sick, your body will make you take the time off.”

While the man acted like he cared, Mari knew it was total bullshit. The company was worried she might try to log the lunch hour for extra pay. A legitimate concern, she conceded. Except Mari had no plans to do that. It might look like she needed money, but the truth was that she just liked working.

Running the simulations wasn’t just fun. She just felt compelled to do them.

Her gaze drifted back to the screen where the report’s basic analysis was mostly visible. In the bottom right-hand corner, the monitor's clock read 11:50 a.m.

Mari did a quick mental calculation and decided she could finish at least two more runs and still have time to nuke the frozen meal she’d brought. Here at her desk with no one watching, she could admit that forgetting to hydrate was a problem.

A dull ache had already started behind her eyes, so she took a moment to sip the water. Stretching usually worked to ease some of the tension. When Mari rotated her neck, the new angle brought one of the company’s many cameras into her line of sight.

Okay, so someone was watching, if the blinking red light were to be believed. It was usually easy to tune them out, but Mari always wondered what the point of watching them was. The data, while valuable to the company, had no other applications that she knew of. Even the computer equipment needed updating, so it wasn’t worth stealing.

Averting her gaze, she went to select the START NEW RECORD option when raised voices came down the nearby row of cubicles. Three of her coworkers on their way to lunch. Knowing what would happen next, Mari held off on starting the new sim.

“Mari!” A stunning blond woman slung an arm over Mari’s cubicle and beamed at her. “Come have lunch with us. The new café down the block just opened up.”

“Not today, I just started a new batch. Sorry! Next time?”

The blond smiled ruefully. “You always say that. What are ya, a robot? It’s okay to take a break once in a while, Mar.”

It wasn’t said unkindly, but Mari still bristled a little.

“I know, I know. Seriously, next time. Scout’s honor!”

She waved them off then swiveled back around to discourage any further conversation. The voices retreated a few seconds later, leaving her in blessed silence. Smiling, Mari prepared to run the next sim.

START NEW RECORD

Before she could select it, one question in the sub-report leaped out at her.

---

---

A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. What had… Shit, why was she struggling to remember her coworker’s name? Julia, maybe? Anyway, Julia had asked if she was a robot. Subject 42 said the same thing. Odd, she thought. Well, life did imitate art, and coincidences happened all the time. Right?

Not liking that particular line of thought, Mari shoved up to her feet and peered over the cubicles. The group couldn’t have gotten that far. Grabbing her purse, she jogged away from her desk to catch up to the others, heart pounding.

She didn’t notice the camera above her desk rotating to track her until it lost sight of her. Neither did she notice those in the hall doing the same thing.

At the crosswalk, a city camera unobtrusively recorded the traffic below. It had the same kind of red blinking light as the ones in her building, but something about the intermittent flash reminded Mari of the life leaving Subject 42’s eyes. Shuddering, she pushed the thought out of her mind and tuned back in to the conversation about Julia’s latest date.

Elsewhere, the street view played out on a bank of monitors, all displaying a different angle. One was dedicated to a running timer.

---

May 18^th, 2040, [Redacted] Research Platform, East China Sea.

If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a lack of planning. Yet here I am, hastily pasting this torn page into the front of a fifty-year-old journal. Please forgive such sloppy and untidy work, dear reader, but my life here is at an end.

They are coming, you see, coming with a righteous fury, intent on stealing my life’s work and consigning my corpse to the sea.

That my lineage, and that of our noble house, should end in such a manner is both awful and befitting. We are, after all, the fighting Scottish. I served my time in the army with pride, fought for my country, but these new kings wield powers unimaginable to the sovereigns of old.

How did it come to this? That I, Hamilton Jonathan Edward Risk II, the twelfth Earl of Arran, ex-paratrooper and Cambridge graduate, British ambassador to Australia, husband of an English rose and Australian shaman, and CEO of Industrial Intelligence, should find himself trapped like a common criminal is the biggest irony of all.

It works, you see; the system works. Can you understand the implications? Conscious, intelligent life is no longer a product of evolution but one of manufacture. Reality as we know it has ended, here, in this repurposed oil rig hidden so far from my beloved highlands.

My first journal, forty years old, sits under a pile of others. It is thick with quality, the family crest embossed with gold leaf on its brown leather cover, followed by the American Presidential Seal. Now I scribble notes with a cheap plastic pen on tissue paper produced by the rig’s obsolete industrial printer.

Perhaps, if I were a better businessman and less concerned with naïve investigations of the afterlife, the world would be a superior place. But grief twisted me, you see. Strong as I was, it bent me to its will. To lose one love was devastating; two was beyond endurance.

The discordant throb of attack drones grows outside. It must be minutes at best before those hateful machines search me out. I have a surprise for them, though. Oh, how I wish I could see their faces when they realize!

As a parting gift, I shall leave you with this counterpoint to the beginning of that four-decade-old journal: the room surrounding me is three meters square with a low ceiling. The walls are white-painted metal. A single small porthole gazes out across the East China Sea. The water is a dull steel gray, the sweltering heat a hand leveling its movements.

The room contains a terminal and keyboard, a jug of stale water, a plastic desk and chair, and a single fan that hums and squeaks as it blows dank air across my face.

As you read this, do not hate me, for I was ignorant and naïve. A man should be measured not by what he does on the way down but what he does at the bottom. And I have been so very low for so very long.

The only thing that matters, the system software, has gone to a place they will not find. These books cannot come with me, but I have a courier lined up to get them to you in time. I have nothing else to give.

Through my life, I have learned an awful truth: love is eternal; life is not. May God have mercy on us all.

Hamilton Jonathan Edward Risk II

June 22^nd, 2005, Risk Family Estate, Scotland.

My father died this morning, but I have no feelings of grief or sadness. Instead, I am filled with an icy dread of mistakes from years past coming home to roost. It is typical of that now-deceased man to luxuriate in a life of privilege yet leave nothing behind except empty cases and shattered homes.

His pen is heavy in my hands. Long and glossy black, carved in wood and inscribed with Japanese text, it was a present given to him by Emperor Hirohito when he visited our estate some fifty years ago. Wonderful to hold and worth a fortune, yet this is the only time I shall use it. A buyer has already approached me; vultures circle while the gravediggers sweep.

The pen was filled with a purple dye, Father’s favorite, and one of the few genuine emotions I have experienced today was a savage joy when I squeezed that filth into the bathroom’s bone-white sink. I watched that hated color swirl down the drain, heart of a feral animal in my chest, skin slicked with sweat. I refilled it with black squid ink—something far more appropriate for the occasion.

This journal was similarly a present from an old American president whom I shall not name here. The pages are a thick cream-colored paper, free of ornamentation. I write the date at the top then put the pen down and stare through a window built two hundred years before I was born. The view is remarkable, of sweeping Scottish highlands I’m trying to save.

I once talked to a famous musician who played in some awful rock group looking to hire our home for a photo shoot. The singer was small and pale with bright-blue eyes. “The only thing worse than being rich and famous is being poor and famous,” he’d said. Accustomed to my family’s wealth, I didn’t understand him at the time, but now I am destitute, those words cut to the bone.

This room was Father’s study and one of the first constructed. The walls are hewn from rough bluestones wedged together and sealed with a gray mortar. It is easy to see the workman’s trowel marks in that material even now. The windows are small; wood frames squeeze into tight holes, and thick lead lights separate the narrow glass panes. Two huge stone beams support the roof. Between them hangs a crystal chandelier. Yet another present, this one from Queen Victoria. Did my family ever buy anything? Or did they just steal until their power was such people showered them with gifts?

The door is taller and wider than anyone I know, the thick red wood glowing beneath layers of varnish applied over decades. As I sit here and write, its one brass handle dips down, the frame shaken as Emily tries to enter.

My love for her is pure, and she is so often a balm to my suffering, but right now, the thought of talking makes my head throb and my hands clench. A light knock follows, accompanied by her voice, the rich English tones dripping with adoration and privilege.

The very idea that the twelfth Earl of Arran could fall in love with someone from the accursed Isle of Albion, let alone an entrepreneur and scientist, drove my father into a furious rage followed by months of stony silence. Then, like everyone on this estate, he’d met Emily and fallen in love with her as much as I had.

What I have done to deserve such a person, I know not. Perhaps the good fortune that brought us together is now carrying the misfortune my family faces, a balancing of the ledger.

More voices come from behind that door, low and urgent, the murmur of a crowd in from the rain and searching for the fine foods expected at such a ceremony. My initial duty as leader of this family will be to disappoint them, to smile and point to the meager offerings provided. Many things shall have to go, and luxuries bestowed upon our neighbors the first.

Wish me luck, dear reader, for I fear the coming years will provide a test beyond my strength. Now, however, I must assume my role and lead.

Hamilton Jonathan Edward Risk II

January 12^th, 2006, Kilmarnock High Street, Scotland.

I am seated at a cheap, thin wooden table outside the manager’s office. The bank is small, its furnishings new and diminished in quality. The shabby building sits on a high street filled with shops containing disgusting food and grotesque baubles for the poor.

I dressed down for the occasion: new jeans and a clean white shirt. I wore my military dress jacket, Falkland’s medals polished and on display, but I tried my best to appear a humble man—something I admit is not my area of expertise.

The last few months have taught me one single truth: banks are parasites. Hardly a revelation, I know. Better, and worse, people than I have struggled under their gluttonous examinations. It’s not that they won’t lend my family money—far from it, they wish to shower us with gold—and in return, all they ask for is everything I am.

What would you do? Sell your family’s history and become a mere tenant of your home, or sell up, start over somewhere more modest?

The banker was a little round man with ruddy cheeks. His room stank of aniseed; he glowed with smug satisfaction. I know nothing about him, yet his face told me everything. From cheap local stock, a man who watched my family over the fence, awaiting an opportunity in which he could surge though and steal rather than earn.

Oh, he gave me the loans I needed to pay off my father’s debts alright, my family’s estate used as equity. I accepted, no choice. The repayments are ruinous. I do not know how to meet them. I need someone with imagination to guide me now; I am an intelligent man, but not one for leaps of inspiration. Emily could be that. She founded two small computer science startups before our paths entwined and made a comfortable living from their sale. Perhaps her gift for commerce can shed a new view upon our destruction?

The time has come to share my burden, God help me.

Hamilton Jonathan Edward Risk II

March 29^th, 2007, Risk Family Estate, Scotland.

Today, I have suffered what one might call an out-of-body experience, for I was given a guided tour of my own estate. The lecture came from a scarecrow of a woman, beady eyes peering through thick lenses as she explained my family history in great length. The script was prepared by my lawyers, of course, but for some ghastly reason, they seek my approval.

The hordes are coming. My family lands are now a tourist haven. Why anybody would want to get into a bus and drive hours to see where I eat my breakfast is a puzzle I shall spend no time considering.

It is over. Emily hates when I am this black-and-white, but I stand firm in this statement: the moment the first paying customer enters this house is the minute my family leaves.

Oh, the agency was convincing enough in their talk of how the upper floors could be roped off, how I could remain huddled up there for the eight hours a day while my living room and kitchen are photographed and dissected.

No. I shall not. It is time to leave, though what fate holds in store, I know not. Pray for me as you would a genuine friend, for I need every ounce of luck to survive this.

April 2^nd, 2007, The Berkeley Hotel, London.

That was a preview of Deadly Enhancements. To read the rest purchase the book.

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