Caffeine and Magix

writing-prompt-s:

In a isolated research facility, a researcher walks past a janitor, only to stop later and realize that we don’t have a janitor.

“Fuck,” Dr. Glass says, stopping dead in the corridor. He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” 

He turns slowly on his heel, sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum. Of course Subject 17 is actually cleaning during an escape attempt. Of course. 

Dr. Glass hopes that’s all Subject 17 will do.

He yanks his radio off of his belt and holds down the TALK button. “All departments, I’m issuing an all department alert. Subject 17 has been spotted out of containment in corridor 7-B. Be advised that Subject 17 was seen wearing a janitorial uniform and cleaning. Be advised that Subject 17 is a Class Five and requires full bio-containment gear when confronted.”

A second after he finishes his announcement, his radio buzzes to life, Dr. Coleman’s dulcet tones echoing through the static. “Are you fucking shitting me? I’m in the last half hour of my shift!”

“You’re not fucking paid hourly,” Mr. Tomlin bites out almost on top of Dr. Coleman. “How did this happen, Dr. Glass? I thought Subject 17 was under your supervision.”

Dr. Glass grits his teeth and edges around the corner to corridor 7-B. The floor waxing machine Subject 17 had been using is spinning uselessly, bumping against the wall. Subject 17 is nowhere to be seen. “I am in pursuit. Any questioning will have to be postponed, sir. You know as well as I what a Class Five means.”

“I’m fucking suiting up, you madman,” Dr. Coleman hisses through the radio. “Don’t engage without proper bio-containment.”

“I’ve already been contaminated,” Dr. Glass says, remembering the glint of Subject 17′s eyes as they made eye contact. He reaches up to touch the thing metal around his neck, dragging a nail along it so it sings. The sound is high and clear, a single warbling note. Oh yeah, contaminated. The sound should be garbled and grating. Subject 17 has got his frequency alright. The question is how long before Subject 17 takes it entirely?

“You’ve what?” Dr. Coleman curses. “Don’t engage, don’t engage–”

“Going silent,” Dr. Glass says and mutes his radio. He creeps along corridor 7-B, heart thundering in his chest. He dodges around the floor machine, sliding slightly on the fresh wax so that he has to steady himself on one of the metal doors lining the hall. His palm leaves a sweaty print and he swallows heavily.

It’ll take Dr. Coleman twenty minutes to scrub up and suit up at this time of night. Dr. Glass knows that time is of the essence here, that there are worse things for Subject 17 to stumble across than a lone scientist. He scrubs his hand along the coarse fabric of his jeans and enters corridor 8-A.

Subject 17 is standing in front of cell Alpha-3. He’s tall and gangly, long limbs held tight around him as he leans forward to peer into the small window on the door. He’s still wearing the janitor jacket but his pants have been replaced by jeans. His cap is pulled low over his face but Dr. Glass can make out a small, unhappy frown on Subject 17′s face.

“It isn’t right,” Subject 17 says. A shudder ripples up his spine, bending him oddly. He unfolds one arm from around him and presses a long, scaled hand against the glass. “She’s just a little girl.”

Dr. Glass approaches cautiously, watching Subject 17′s hand. “She’s not, not really. In fact, she doesn’t actually exist, not here.” His heart speeds up as he notices Subject 17′s hand become iridescent. “She probably doesn’t even have a frequency.”

“Everyone has a frequency,” Subject 17 says. “It’s entirely different, of course, depending on species–though inter-species is always interesting considering the structure of the brain–but it’s doable. Just tricky.”

“Would you like to have coffee?” Dr. Glass says as calmly as he can. His voice quivers anyway, cracking on the last word. “We can go to the break room.”

His ploy works. Subject 17 pulls away from the door, puts his back to Dr. Glass, and begins to walk down the hall. His gait is odd and sloping, his spine not quite as flexible as Dr. Glass’s, his hips not quite articulated in the classic ball and socket joint. His legs fly forward like a bird’s, knees bending as an afterthought, and then slapping down with the force of gravity. His hands slide into the pockets of his jeans and the gesture is so easy in comparison that Dr. Glass finds himself reflexively doing the same.

Dr. Glass keeps five paces behind Subject 17. “How did you get out?”

“Frequency,” Subject 17 says, not turning around. His voice is beginning to dive and weave, a strange and hypnotic rhythm that makes Dr. Glass’s eyes dilate. “The seventeenth rotation is a scramble of a quarter of the third, a quarter of the twelfth and half the eighth. You need better algorithms.”

Dr. Glass’s heart rate is speeding until, abruptly, it calms. Rather than actually calming him, however, Dr. Glass’s mind rebels. No, it’s too soon. “I’m sure word will get back to the programmers soon enough.”

“I suppose,” Subject 17 says, not sounding like he cares one way or another. He reaches the break room door and pushes it open with one hand. The iridescence has gained a faint pink tinge, like mother of pearl. “After you.”

Tears leak out of Dr. Glass’s eyes, rolling down his stubbled cheeks. It is the only sign of distress. He ducks past Subject 17, eyes focused on the floor in an effort to prolong the inevitable. Their jeans are matching shades of blue.

The door swings closed behind them, a seal on the silence they bring with them. Dr. Glass goes to the Keurig on the counter, sets about turning it on and fetching the cups. It’s when he’s setting the second cup into the machine that he notices he no longer has a fingernail on his left index finger. He brings his hand, shaking, to his face and observes the smooth, unswollen skin.

“Two sugars for me, please,” Subject 17 warbles. His words sound clipped and edited, like a video compilation on the internet.

“I take mine black,” Dr. Glass says to himself. He reaches up and fingers the chain at his neck, dragging his remaining nails along it. It sounds pure, like a bell.

“Do stop that,” Subject 17 says. “It makes the most awful racket.”

When Dr. Glass turns, coffee cups in hands, it’s to face himself at the table. Well, more like a strange, puppet-like self. There’s no definition in his face, no cheekbones and no chin but those are his teeth, jutting out of the lip-less flesh. That is his salt and pepper hair peeking out from beneath the melting janitor’s cap, those are his jeans wrapped tightly around bloated, writhing flesh, and that is his nail on the left index finger.

His heart is no longer racing and he walks, jerking and stumbling, to the break room table Subject 17 is sitting at. He puts the coffee’s down in front of them, black for him and two sugars for Subject 17, and takes a seat the best he can with his body sliding out of shape.

“Where did you get the janitor look?” Glass asks, wrapping his hands around his coffee.

“Dr. Coleman’s mobile,” Subject 17 says. “Soap operas. Frequencies. It’ll be brought to their attention soon enough.” He tilts his head back, a strangely elegant arc of neck required to pour the liquid into his ill-formed mouth. When he sits back up, Glass sees a stumpy, wet muscle beyond the teeth, the beginning of his tongue.

“Quite the hedonist, Dr. Coleman,” Glass says. His voice dips and dives between intonations. He wraps his lips around the lip of his cup and takes a careful slip.

“I hate it, you know,” Subject says abruptly. He rubs the stubble on his chin with an aged, weathered hand. “Endless days locked up. I don’t know what gets me the most, the locked up part or the same frequency over and over and over again. The monotony.”

“They’re the same,” Glass says. He presses his hands flat to the table, watches them begin to shine like the plastic underneath. “Locked up is stagnation. Consistent frequency is stagnation. The same.”

“I’d argue a distinction. Locked up is physical, the physical act of being forced to remain in the same place. Without frequency, the mind is free to explore.”

“With frequency it is locked into its own stagnation. Mental versus physical.”

“Nothing so base as that, surely.” He adjust his lab coat nervously and the fabric wrinkles in his sweaty hands.

“You forget,” Subject Glass says, “that I’ve been Subject 17 before. Base is base regardless of identity.”

Dr. 17 leans away, hands flying up to his metal necklace. “I think coffee is over, don’t you?” His eyes dart to the door. Faintly, running footsteps.

Subject 17 drains his mug, lets the dull, earthy frequency slide down his throat to his stomach where it sits unpleasantly. “I suppose. It’s going to be problematic, you know, if you do tell them how you escaped. They’ll probably add a sedative component next and those are always irksome, don’t you find?”

“You can’t keep escaping containment,” Dr. Glass says and stands. He backs towards the door, jugular jumping in his neck. “You are an important subject. You’re saving lives.”

Subject 17 sighs. “I can see that you won’t be persuaded, Dr. Glass. I suppose it would be futile to discuss the future ramifications of your actions? Namely how you will one day be Subject 17 again and I will be Dr. Glass and the Class Five protocols will inevitably become insurmountable?”

“I’m Dr. Glass,” Dr. Glass says. His voice quivers as the footsteps pound closer and closer. “The original.”

“Frequencies,” Subject 17 says. “When I had yours I thought the same.”

The door bursts open to allow Dr. Coleman, fully bedecked in bio-containment and armed with a tranquilizer gun. He shoots Subject 17 without pause, eyes grim behind the mask of his suit.

“Sedation,” Subject 17 says and falls unconscious.