Alienated

                                                                  PROLOUGE

November 17th, 2004 

I am so bloody sick of these goddamn aliens. 

Not that I'm particularly prejudiced against the extraterrestrial, nor am I intent on becoming so. I've not taken any mood-altering drugs, I haven't been drinking, and I don't plan on voting for Sarah Palin in anything. So, don't worry, whoever manages to read my handwriting- I'm perfectly normal. 

Normal doesn't necessarily mean ordinary, however. It means that I'm exactly the way I always am- tired, frustrated, and, once again, sick of dealing with these ridiculous anatomies and all their incessant squirming. 

Unfortunately, I have to make this log short. The patient (I don't really know why McAllen insists on us calling them that- There's no point in pretending to be saints, we're clearly the bad guys here. Let's just call them aliens.) is starting to wake up, which means that I have to administer more X-09786. Nasty stuff. 

Until next time, 

Tobias Hammer.

It was an orchestra, he decided, the clanking of his tools against the unforgivingly cold metal of the examination table. It had to be an orchestra, otherwise there's no fucking way that he'd contain his sanity while listening to the hellish combination of scraping and the alien's incessant whimpering. It both tugged on his heart and pulled at his nerves, that sound; a kind of metallic cooing, a soft chirp that sounded like it'd been run through an 80's synthesizer far too many times, yet still had that familiar, carefree feel. 

But the sounds it made were not so relaxed. 

Every time his scalpel dug into the creature's shimmering skin, he heard a whine. Every time his needle pushed X-23914 through its thin veins, he heard a gasp. Every time he risked a look into its agony-filled eyes, he gave a sigh. 

This kind of work really wasn't good for the conscience. Especially when you barely had any to begin with, do you know how EASY it is for something that small to be consumed by the monstrous guilt that this job built on you? What he would give for a day at work where he could just read, or, on a more morbid note, just kill the damn things. He was no activist by any means, but even a man like him had his limits. 

Another sigh overtook his lungs as he put the needle down. At least the thing was asleep now. Speaking of sleep, he should get some too. A prompt glance at the wall clock made his heart jump in surprise-four-thirty in the morning, already? He'd better get a Leviathan of overtime payment for this; otherwise he was updating his resume to 'Worked at Biggest Rip-off in History'. 

A cleaning of his glasses, quick sigh, and plop in the chair later, Tobias found himself staring at the creature once more. He didn't consider himself any sort of poet, but now, he found himself understanding what beauty could really do to a person. 

"What's it like for you?" came his mumble, heavily-lidded eyes slowly falling closed. His head drooped on his desk, arms forming a pillow underneath his cheek. "To be so beautiful and to be so hated at the same, goddamn time. . . "