Nobody's Servant, Act 1

Mainland

The lights in the room strobe erratically, reflecting off the creeping spread of black fluid as it covers more and more of the white tile floor. It spreads out like flowing ink, filling grout lines like tiny canals, and joining the oily crimson that flows around the bodies. So many bodies.

They come in lab coats, business casual, body armor, the uniforms of officers, strewn about and marked clearly with identical killing blows in the center of the chest; no blood, no viscera, just ink.

I am surrounded by burning cinders, linked by invisible thread.

I can feel the urge to vomit building up again but I'm completely empty inside. All that comes out is roaring, screaming, in too many voices. Only some of them are mine, the rest are extrapolated from vague memories and I can feel them slipping away.

Amid the sound of alarms, the crackling of fire, the discharge of sprinklers, and the warping of my own form, I become aware of new voices coming from behind me, and in a single flicker of the lights, I am facing them.

More lab coats, adorning a pair of survivors, jackal and wolf. They fight over a third, their chest freshly blasted open, but this one's still got their insides, mulched as they are.

The wolf's words fade into clarity, "Think about what you're doing!"

I recognize the body.

The jackal is next. "Stand aside!"

It's mine.

"Martin! It's your life's work! You shouldn't even be handling it like that!"

I'm dead.

"My family is my life's work! I'm not going to just let my kid die if I can do something! Move."

So what am I still doing here?

>>>>>>>>>

I jolt awake as the pager that has nearly slipped out of my hands finally buzzes, fumbling with it for a few moments in an effort to not drop it. After the initial startling wears off, I rest it on a thigh and rub the drowsiness from my eyes, as best as anyone ever can, anyway.

Number 11 to booth 4, about time. I get up from my chair, trying to stretch as innocuously as possible, there's so many people watching so I can't do all the groaning and joint popping that I'd like to, but it suffices for now.

In front of the counter, I settle down into an identical chair; coarse, red cushions affixed to a mass-produced metal frame spray-painted matte black. Perhaps an attempt at a bold statement in what is otherwise the single most inoffensive and boring bureaucratic office I've ever set foot in. Hardwood dividers and counters stand up on a plane of short carpeting in that dark blend of color that one can't really place, and the walls are just so beige.

In great and most welcome contrast, however, is the bull in his uniform of sweater vest and long skirt on the other side of the glass, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses and offering a polite smile.

"Terribly sorry for the wait, how may I assist you today?" he asks. His voice is higher than I would have guessed from his bulky build, and delivered in an almost melodic cadence.

"Oh, it's not a problem," I assure. "I was told to get myself some visitor documents, since I'm going to be here a while."

"We can arrange that for you," he says, already stacking some folders. "Do you have any documents we can reference?"

"I uh... I don't," I admit. "I'm here for refuge after the sunstorm that hit my island." Not quite a lie, but I'm omitting a few truths, just as directed.