FLASHed

20. Dissimulation

"What do you think?" Jack Quinn stuffed half a hashbrown in his mouth and reached over the diner's table to grab the salt. His wife, Anne, sat across from him ambivalent; her expression a twist between humor, disapproval, and agitation.

Jack had snowed-in the remainder of his hashbrown and paused just before he pushed it into his face. "Well?"

"I think you're crazy, and I hope you're planning to do this with your money. I don't want anything to do with it."

"Oh, suddenly, it's my money, eh? What happened to our money--our dog--our share portfolio--our..."

"Fuck, Jack, like you really think I'm okay with this? Of all of the things you could think of, this has to be the most stupid. Please, tell me you haven't committed to anything yet?"

He finished his mouthful and raised an eyebrow.

Anne stood and half-dropped, half-threw her half-eaten cheeseburger at the tray. She stormed off, almost knocking over the guy serving their coffees.

Jack watched through the window as his wife drove off in 'our car.' It was like he should be wondering if he would ever see her again, even though he knew he would. Reaching for his phone, he decided to tell her he'll call off his plan; she would have grassed him out anyway, and then it would've been over.

***

"So, did you make the call?"

"Yeah, she didn't answer."

"Jeez, that's tough."

"Yeah, tough."

"Jeez."

The psychologist was sitting forward in her armchair. Jack could tell she was searching for something to say; something professional in the face of an intensely emotional and tragic situation.

They both knew that there was nothing that she could say that would change things. Especially considering the last conversation he had with Anne before the car she was driver slid over an oil slick and into the path of a b-double truck.  

He hadn't told the psychologist the full story--it would give them something to really talk about.

***

The big day arrived. The whole experience was far more expensive than he had first thought, or been sold, and, with all of the preparatory exercises and ancillary equipment that were required, Jack had to sell his shares and the small equity he had in his house. He sat across the desk, the clinic's HHS facilitator, Chris Rogers looked at him intently. Jack found her attractive and had no trouble returning her gaze (although their intentions were inversely skewed).

"Jack, I'm having trouble understanding your motivations here. Normally this exercise is undertaken by, well, less able people, and while everything is technically in order, something's not right."

"With respect." Jack sat back, "As you say, everything is in order--technically--so, what's your beef?"

"My beef is that it is highly irregular for someone in your good condition to undergo this procedure, and I have an obligation to ensure that everything is above board, as it should be."

"Look, the way I see it, is that the only obligation you have is to maintain your company's side of the contract. I don't even know why we're having this conversation."

"Mr Smith, I have an ethical responsibility to make sure that there is nothing here that would make that contract void."

Damn, she'd switched to the formal. It wasn't like he would ever have a chance with someone as great as her anyway. Jack applied his unique brand of reasoning, "Ms Rogers, you say, nothing that would make that contract void? Here's a fact, there is no word for 'nothing'."

She looked confused, "But, 'nothing' is a word."

"No, nothing is . . .

***

Chris Rogers had filed her report resulting in an indefinite delay of Jack's procedure. She was smart and had almost found him out. But, it was no surprise for him when things were rescheduled for the following week, after all, the clinic would have to refund all of his money, or, at least, spend a fortune in legal fees in disputation (they had no way of knowing that he was now flat broke).

At the clinic, they had shaved his head, it was now rough like strangely satisfying sandpaper. As he lay on the bed that would eventually be wheeled into the theatre. A younger scientist type walked past, he hadn't seen him before but looked approachable. "Hey, they didn't tell me it my scalp would itch like this." But he wasn't interested and ignored his chit-chat. Suddenly, Jack didn't feel all that great. Physically he was fine, but no one likes to be snubbed, especially when you're the customer.

When Dr Shen walked in, Jack's mood was still down. "Good Morning, Jack." She said warmly, her voice slightly muffled by the surgical face mask.

"Good morning, doctor."

"We need one last diagnostic before we begin. Do you remember the exercise?"

"Yes. I need to list as many prime numbers as possible."

"Have you been practicing?"

"Yeah, sure." He lied.

Then he saw her, Ms Rogers, the HHS facilitator, Chris; she had appeared at the observation window. He looked back to Dr Shen, who was tapping away at their interface. "I'd like to talk to Ms Rogers if I may?"

The doctor looked over to the window, Jack could see her frown. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. Ms Rogers is authorised for observation only. Besides, this a quarantined area; by the time we gain clearance and scrub her up, you'll be well under."

He looked back to the window, she is so beautiful, he thought in a way he had never considered any woman since he'd lost Anne to the accident. It was like the idea of her was the doorway for doubt, opened wider as she shook her head at him, an appeal not to go through with it.

Jack was surprised when a couple of doctor's assistants took hold of his wrists and secured them to the cot. "Ah, Dr Shen, I'm sorry to trouble you all, but I think I need more time, I'm not ready."

The doctor moved to his side, "I'm sorry, Jack, it's all well underway, we can't stop now."

Jack felt his chest tighten, "But you don't know the full story. I haven't been completely honest with you about my situation."

"Go on." invited the doctor.

"I lied, this is not my first time. The reset, I've done it before, at Walter Reed." He referred to the procedure that involved uploading his memories to a machine where they would be analysed, purified, simplified, normalised, and re-inserted back into his brain for reuse. The first time, his reset was to address alcoholism and a comorbidity with debilitating PTSD that he had suffered from action in the South China Sea. For Jack, the treatment was so effective, life, for a time, was like waking up cooked on coke. He missed those first feelings of exhilaration and freshness; life had gotten hard again, all on its own, and he wanted the relief back. But now, he realised, the dangers were real, that a reset was a once-only procedure, no one was permitted a second reset, the results would be unknown. He couldn't take the risk, not now that he'd met Chris.

Jack moved to get up, but he couldn't; he was locked down.

"We know about your history, Jack."

He was surprised, "Then what am I doing here?!"

The doctor bent down and whispered in his ear, "This is a rare opportunity for us, Jack. A chance to research and, perhaps one day, cure the degradations on the brain caused by a second reset."

Dr Shen stood upright, and, in a business-like manner, ordered her assistants, "Take him to the theatre."

<◕.◕> first published here Oct 7, 2019