Memorandum #001

Day 4,246, 16:05 • Published in Ireland Japan • by Violence Seth

Last Episode: Comm-Link 16 [Finale]
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Subject: Dr. N. V. Stringer

Ramat haGolan, Israel
Day 4,246, 16.30 eRT

“Our top news today, a devastating heatwave has struck Europe with even Scandinavia feeling the burn. Temperatures *fuzz* breaking record highs in *fuzz* 42 degrees *fuzz* recorded in Stockholm and-” Snap. Silence. Perfect shot, first try. Roger looked up from his magazine. “I was listening to that.” I ignored him. I managed to hit the off switch with a pen from three meters across the room. Sure there was a pile of pens gathering below the counter but it was the first red pen I’d tried.

Our volunteer was in the room across from us. I waved at him through the bullet-proof glass. He gave me a wimpy, pleading look. He didn’t make any noise, he knew better. The day was dragging. I’d set up a new machine to sort through our data and admittedly to amuse myself. The higher ups had given me an odd assortment of media; Journals, paper scraps, photos, sketches and Comm-Link recordings and some of the newer Comm-Link log chips. They didn’t provide me with an objective, so I didn’t ask for one.

I was using my device to catalogue the information. Most of it was outlandish war stories, some of it was just correspondence but being stuck here in this sterile, white lab with no one but our volunteers and Roger as company I began to become fascinated with this material. I even went as far as to try and un-redact some parts that the higher ups seemingly didn’t want me to know, or maybe that’s why they gave it to me, to see if I could figure it out. I’ve learned as a man of science not to ask too many questions, least I end up a volunteer like our young friend behind the glass, strapped into his steel chair.

“I’m hungry Nigel, can I eat yet?” groaned Roger. I was told he was a commando in another life. Now he’s a fat, balding sack of lab assistant. I suppose a lobotomy doesn’t help. “I don’t care Roger, just don’t touch our volunteer, we’re not done yet.” He looked at me with his dead eyes. “When will he be do-” I stood up, incensed. “Go to the kitchen Roger! I’m not your bloody Father!” He slumped out of his chair, his arms sagging. He stopped at the door. “You don’t have to ye-”. I placed a finger on my lip. “I’m sorry Nigel” he droned, his face dour and utterly punchable. The finger on the lips seemed to work every time. As he waddled off to the commons I could hear his trademark whistling. It was pitch perfect, always the same sinister melody and it always sent a chill down my spine. There was some hidden intelligence behind it. Well at least he was gone for now.

I turned on my microphone to the room opposite. “Won’t be long now. Are you comfortable?” The volunteer nodded, his sad face was drenched in sweat. I read through some of the literature to past the time as diagnostics ran in the background. This one was about a duel on an airstrip here in Israel. They left the dates and locations but everyone and everything with a name was red-acted with the odd slip up. So far I’d the nickname “White Stag” and a book called “Pay to Play: Simulacra of Nations” that I couldn’t find anywhere. The lead seemed very impressive in this one, fighting hand to hand with his rival despite having the upper hand with military backup, very gallant.

Soon a familiar *ding* sounded from my monitor. Diagnostics were complete and my Type-5 prototype seemed to be ready for implementation. I secretly hated this part, but as a man of science I’ve learned emotions barricade progress. I flipped the microphone back on. “Still comfortable, yes?” He was trembling. Roger was making his way back, whistling that uncanny tune of his. I took the prototype out of its host, carefully removed the clamps and unplugged the circuit wires with a needle-head pliers.

“Roger, make yourself useful and make sure our volunteer won’t shake about, okay? Oh and please don’t be too rough, remember last time.” Roger nodded submissively. “Okay Nigel” he said as he hulked through the door. “Careful with him Roger.” I said through the microphone. The volunteers eyes were wide with terror. I gingerly carried the prototype into the room and set it down on the equipment bench. Roger held the young man’s head firmly to the left. I rummaged around for my scalpel and held it in front of him. “This won’t hurt if you stay still.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes were darting all over the place.


Another failure. I am beginning to worry that this job in and of itself is the actual experiment. Sure I’m getting paid thousands an hour to fiddle around in a high tech lab. My private quarters are spacious and kept orderly and clean. I've a balcony with a nice view of the Sea of Galilee and the shimmering lights of Tiberius beyond... Still, often at night I wonder. Am I being suggested to do things and for some unknown reason I can’t stop myself from doing them? Just now I threw my pillow across the room. Not much in terms of destiny and fate but I did that. I, Nigel Victor Stringer, being of sound body and mind, threw my pillow at the wall. No G*d or other higher power would write that into my fate. It’s too banal. But then again, maybe that's the trick. Or maybe I'm simply overthinking it. All I truly know is this, as a man of science I have to wonder.

Signing off,

Dr. Nigel Victor Stringer