¡Tienes un aspecto terrible Necesitas un afeitado!"

Day 1,654, 18:37 • Published in Switzerland USA • by Penguin4512

He leaned against the alley wall, slowly sliding down until he hit the ground. His legs ached. He wanted to sleep. The past nights had been too much, he told himself. It was all because of the job. The goddamned job. It had ruined him.
December 21st
The Job
"It's really very simple," explained the scientist. "The test subject has absolutely no idea he has already been filtered. The control environment is exactly the same as it was yesterday. Therefore, he performs the same actions."
Quentin watched the video feeds. A man was sitting on a bunk, writing in a small journal. "I don't understand how that's possible," Quentin said. "How someone not know how long they've been somewhere? Won't they… feel it?"
"We're a lot better than we used to be," explained the scientist. "When we first invented the technology we could only keep up the illusion for about half an hour or so. And we still could only fool the consciousness. We couldn't fool the body."
"What do you mean?" Quentin asked. The scientist didn't answer immediately, but walked over to the video feed and fiddled with the keys. "Just look at our original experiment," he said. "It was a simple premise. We filtered people three times through the memory device. After each wipe we would ask them if it was their last time being tested. If they answered correctly each time, we would give them a cash prize. Something like $30,000."
He brought up a video of someone sitting in a room, looking at a screen. "We found that the vast, vast majority of people tested thought every time was the first time," said the scientist. "The mind wipe was good enough to fool them, that much. But it wasn't perfect."
The person on the screen took a coin out of his pocket and flipped it in the air. Catching it, he leaned forward to click a button. "We could fool the brain, but at first we couldn't fool muscle memory. A simple action. like flipping a coin, was still random each time. The person who won the prize flipped a coin each time in order to decide what he should answer, and got lucky."
"I see," Quentin said. The scientist beamed back at him, and spoke with pride in his voice. "But we've eliminated that completely. Our memory device is a perfect job! You remember the man I showed you earlier, writing in his journal?" He walked over to a file cabinet; unlocked it. "Look at this."
Quentin gingerly accepted a pile of black notebooks. They were exactly the same as the ones from the video earlier. Opening one, he read aloud.
"Day 1. Lab coats told me to keep a record throughout the month. It only has to be a few sentences or more. Are you reading this? Hi, if you are."
Quentin opened the next journal. He read again, "Day 1. Lab coats told me to keep a record throughout the month. It only has to be a few sentences or more. Are you reading this? Hi, if you are."
"My God," he said. "How many more are there?"
"About 20 or so," the scientist said. "One for each day."
He walked over and took back the journals. Carefully, he placed them back and locked the closet.
"Now," he said. "If you choose to help us with the experiment, you'll be suitably compensated, yes?" Quentin nodded.
"Then there's only one more thing," the scientist said. "Legally, we're obligated to show you the machine itself. It should only be a minute."
He went over to a sealed door and typed a code into a keypad to one side. There was a click, and the scientist opened the door. "Right this way."
The machine was a lot simpler than Quentin expected. Instead of a jungle of machinery, it was just a sculpted white chair rising up out of the floor. He had expected some kind of helmet, like in a movie, but there was nothing to suggest it was a machine made to take away people's memories… nothing at all.
"How does it work?" Quentin asked. The scientist winked at him. "That," he said. "is a corporate secret."
The scientist opened the door once again, and they left the machine in its room like an ivory throne.
December 20th
One Day Before The Job
"Do it!" Marc said. "That's a lot of spending money, man. You could buy a car with the amount they're offering." He checked out the number again. "Or two."
Quentin looked at the advertisement, warily. "Easy for you to say."
"Hey, I would go check it out myself, if I didn't already have a job."
"Sure," Quentin said. "But you know… if they're offering this much money, it's bound to be a scam. Wouldn't someone have taken it."
Jake, who had been thinking silently, joined in. "You could go check it out. I mean, you need the money, right?"
Quentin stared at the paper in his hand. "Yeah. I do."
"Nothing wrong with, you know. Just checking it out."
December 21st
The Machine
The door shut with a click. For a moment, the room was silent.
Just me and the machine, thought Quentin. For a chair made of what looked like polished glass, it was surprisingly comfortable.
"Please remain seated during the filtering process. Stay as immobile as possible," a mechanical voice preached.
Suddenly, there was a hiss, and something slithered across his arms. Reflexively, he tried to flinch away, but he was held tight.
Wires! Thousands and thousands of wires, creeping from the sides of the chair, binding him.
Quentin wanted to cry out, but before he could, wires like mesh surrounded his mouth. No one had told him about this. No one had warned him - but then they were around his eyes and his head, and
In the past couple of days he had gotten himself inhumanely drunk. Looking back, he realized his stupors were almost reminiscent of the machine itself; in a haze of confusion every day seemed the same as the last one.
The man at the desk, the company attorney, had warned him about that.
"We don't know the lasting effects," he had said. "If you ever feel any inclination… any kind of… feeling, of wanting to harm yourself, call us immediately."
How strange the machine was! While under its effects, he had hated it. No, more than that, he had wanted to utterly destroy it. But now…. its encircling tentacles seemed almost…. comforting.
December 21st
The Job
He had woken up on a plain bunk in a windowless white room. His first thought was that he had been put in a hospital, the second that he was in a jail. Then he remembered The Machine.
The memory of its tender grip made him shudder. There was no way that could be legal! Then again, he had signed some waiver, hadn't he? No doubt there was some bit of small text, somewhere, which justified everything and which would ruin him if he even considered the possibility of doing anything about it.
So he decided to wait it out. It would only be one day, after all, right? After that, they would wipe him, or filter him, or whatever word they used, and he'd wake up the next day and it'd be the same thing, except he wouldn't know.
But over the course of one day, in a small room with a bit of reading material (some magazines), a TV with only recorded shows, and a little writing journal, he had plenty of time to think.
He realized a terrible possibility. If the technology behind The Machine worked… if some power-hungry megalomaniac got their hands on it, they could wield enormous power. He imagined thousands of people in cubicles, all being filtered at the end of each day. Without outside interference they would continue doing the same thing every day, over and over again. And never knowing it!
He knew some people who would like that. His boss, for one. Everyone in the world, a robot. Then, with a shiver, Quentin realized that it was possible that he had been "robotized." Maybe at the end of this day, they would come in and filter him and put him back, and who was stopping them from never taking him out? He would never know it.
He looked down at his fingernails. They looked… longer than they had yesterday. He was sure of it. how long had he been in here anyway. Was this even the first day? Was this really December 21st? Who said a week hadn't passed by? Maybe a month, goddamit! Maybe eternity! If they could put together a machine which could stop the progression of memory, of someone's own brain processes, who's to say they couldn't put a stop on aging all together? Maybe this is what The Machine was all about, in the end. A whole lot of people, stuck in the same little niche over and over again, unable to ever escape because they didn't even know they were trapped!
And Quentin realized with a flash that if they were to ever act, if they were ever be able to escape it would have to be done on the very first day they were brought in. Because if they didn't… well, hell, they never would. Because they would be robotized. Every day would be the first.
With a rush he was out of his bunk and hammering on the door. "Get me out of here!" he said. "I don't want to be a part of your damned experiment. I didn't ask for this!" A few seconds later, a mechanical voice intoned, "Please return to your reclining position. Thank you."
Quentin hissed and backed away from the door. Machines! That's what this was. He should have known. One man could not run the world. Maybe there was someone with his finger on a button, watching everyone going through their daily motions… but who's to say that at the end of the day, when that one person slunk into bed, who's to say that after they went to sleep, there was a soft phissh, and slowly, softly, wires crept from the floorboards…
He wrestled around in his pocket and came up holding a quarter. A coin. He held it up, and remember, as if from a lifetime ago, a white lab coat saying, "And we still could only fool the consciousness. We couldn't fool the body."
But they could now, right? Quentin flipped the coin. Heads. He flipped it again. Tails. The same every day, right? Their technology had come too far.
How to leave a mark that they couldn't get rid of? They would erase any notes he left. They would remove the journals and replace them with new ones. Stacks and stacks of journals, all kept locked away in a closet…
We could fool the brain, but we couldn't fool the body. There was only one way to do it. He had to leave a mark so deep it could never be erased.
He grabbed the pen they had given him. He tested the point. It was sharp. Like a knife. Plunging forward suddenly, he broke the skin of his arm and stabbed his arm with the pen. It sunk through flesh. Quentin yelled. A single droplet of blood formed where the pen had met his arm.
He gritted his teeth. "Not enough," he said. Again! This time, a mechanical voice recited, ” "Please return to your reclining position. Thank you."
Blood was pouring down his arm now. It was cleansing, Quentin thought. When it had finished pouring over his body, he would remember everything. He would bring it back through pain. He would leave a mark so deep they - He heard a phisssh. Was that the door opening? Were those the tendrils of the Machine coming in through the doorway!
Quickly! He screamed as he brought down the pen once more.


"We're very sorry about what you had to go through," the man at the desk said. "It's still… experimental technology, as you know. We didn't expect it to have such unfortunate consequences."
Quentin was sitting in a cushioned chair. His left arm was completely bandaged. It hurt. "What day is it, exactly? How long was I in there?" he asked.
The man at the desk coughed and shuffled his papers. "It was the first day. It's still December 21st. You were in there for about two hours."
Quentin opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say. He felt like he had been in there for a lifetime. Several, at that.
"We've found that among a very select amount of people… maybe 1 in every 10,000, The Machine has… disappointing side effects," the man at the desk finally said.
"Side… effects?"
"Yes. For example, extreme paranoia, the desire to inflict bodily harm upon oneself… as you discovered." The man seemed very uncomfortable.
"Once again, we are very sorry. I think you'll find your medical bills have already been paid for. And, of course, you have been compensated for your time and effort. Have a nice day."
"Marc, have you ever wondered, if… this day is the only day we ever live? And if we just live it over and over again?"
Marc looked at him blearily over a frappuchino. "Like… in Groundhog Day?"
Quentin shook his head emphatically. "No, because instead of remembering all the stuff that happened the days before, you forget. So you just do the same stuff, every single day."
Marc thought for a moment. He squinted his eyes and looked at Quentin. Finally, he said, "I don't get it."
Quentin sighed and stirred his spoon in his coffee. "Never mind. Just a thought."
Marc looked at him. "Dude, you know who you're like?" he said.
"No. Who?"
"You're like Romeo. Except for you, Juliet isn't a girl. Juliet's an idea." Marc said. "And you get this idea in your head, and you just get obsessed with it. That's your problem."
"Okay, but if I'm Romeo, then you're Mercutio. Your name is Marc."
"Call me Mercutio, then," Marc said. "I have read Shakespeare, you know. Look, maybe we only do live one day, or whatever. But if that's true, wouldn't you want to make it, like, the best day… ever?"
"You're missing the point," Quentin said.
"No, I'm not. Why would anyone want to spend every day for the rest of their lives doing something stupid and boring like sitting around talking about if we live the same day over and over again for the rest of our lives? When they could be partying?"
He stood up. "Look, Romeo. I'm just saying you should, I don't know, take a leap. Or something."
Quentin looked at him. After a moment, he grinned. "To leap, perchance to dream?"
"To dream, perchance to wake and dream again."
Again.