Industrial Love

10 years earlier

“Mr. Griffith, please wake up as you were instructed to.”

Birth. A daily procedure in this box pyramid, casted by the tranquilizing love of probing machines and automated utensils. They sliced through air, but they quickly vanished. It was no way to introduce an infant into the world.

“Note: Griffith is unresponsive. Prepare morphine. Subject may need to be shut down.”

The words came into Griffith’s ears, and he knew what they meant. Morphine was an opiate used to numb pain, which meant that something wrong was happening. The orders were carried out by a artificial hum, words gargled and imitated as if read off a script. If he knew this before entering the world, than being born was not so bad.

“Commence stage one: morphine dossage at 5-percent.”

The word commence meant something was starting. 5-percent implied lethality would increase. It was quite rude of Griffith to not let the machines know of his awakening. After all, he was born with knowledge, and compassion came second.

“Howdy gentlemen! Now about this little ‘injection’ you intent to sting me wi-”

The electronic wind of the room snapped, and Griffith’s monotonous commander did not say another word. Beyond that, Griffith sensed an uneasy difference in the space he occupied. The tiny, insignificant, space he occupied. Or was it large? With that, something amazing happened.

Griffith’s eyes opened. The room had no corners, and the white walls only reflected light. The machines were tucked out of existence, and with it any features for his birthplace. But there, beyond the cott he rested in, lied a line.

The exit.

What if I step out of line?


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