You've Arrived

The faint light from your alarm clock casts your cluttered bedside table in a red glow. As you watch the blocky numbers shift from 3:59 to 4:00. The alarm itself—a noisy, dinging, vibrating affair—won’t go off for another half hour, but you throw back your bedspread and rise anyway. After unplugging your alarm to keep it from going off later you cross the room in two silent strides.

Your desk sits before you, empty but for a set of clothes. Here the faint light from the window makes everything appear only as shapes and outlines in varying shades of grey. It takes only a moment to change into the comfortable jeans and sturdy t-shirt you laid out the day before. Your wallet, keys, and a phone you do not dare turn on slip into your pockets. Once you’ve put on an unremarkable hoodie and your favorite pair of converse, there's nothing left in the room but furniture and the clothes you slept in.

For the first time in your life you lock the door behind you.

The three flights of stairs from your room to the lobby of the building are just as silent as usual. Not for the first time, you find yourself grateful that they’re carpeted and all sounds of your passing are absorbed.

Upon seeing you exit the stairwell, the robotic clerk rotates its tier of arms around and pulls a simple brown rolling suitcase from a stack of identical cases it places the suitcase and a keyring with a single key on the counter. Your own keyring—with all four of your keys—clinks shortly on the stainless steel, the sound dampened by your own hand. You will have no further need of your keys. The clerk takes them.

With a quiet thank you that still seems loud and alien at this time of the morning, you pocket the new key and lift the case down to the floor. It’s heavier than you expected.

Rows of masks hang by the exterior doors, and you carefully secure one in your size around your mouth and nose. A deep breath, then you gesture for the automatic doors to open.

It’s cold outside, just shy of uncomfortable. Your clothes block the wind, but it’s sharp enough to send a shiver through you as you turn to face it. You've always loved the wind.

You’re faced with an empty street lined with empty cars. Somehow the empty windows of the tall buildings all around seem to pin you under their blank stare, though at the same time you feel as alone and unwatched as you’ve ever been.

Suitcase in hand, you head towards the station on the corner. As you walk you think of how nice it would have been to see one last face. Perhaps there will be someone else on the train.

It’s a purely human flaw, you suppose, to wish for another being to take this final journey with you. The uncertainty always seems a tad more conquerable with someone by your side, even if that someone is a complete stranger.

Perhaps that is exactly the point of this whole thing. To show that this isn’t an uncertainty to be conquered, but one to be accepted and even guided by.

You are disappointed but not surprised when another clerk is the only intelligent thing in the station, which itself is more of a pavilion than a building. Concrete pillars support a metal roof that must be wonderfully loud in the rain.

Even through the mask the acerbic scent of bluefire powered trains lurks in the air, which is motionless here among the pillars.

The clerk’s screen flashes to life as you approach and the message that scrolls across is in bright blue text that matches the smell which is even stronger at the counter by the rails.

Greeting you by name and number, the clerk’s message tells you that your train is already here and, as you are the only passenger, it will depart as soon as you board.

The clerk cannot register your quiet thank you, but you speak anyway—in part just to hear a voice.

You count your breaths as you cross to the waiting train and heft your bag up the two steps into the single carriage. One last long, deep breath of city air, then you step into the carriage, shut the door behind you, and sit down in the nearest seat.

The train is driven automatically, so you are truly alone as you pull away from the station. Three booths line each side of the train, giving it a max capacity of twelve. The bench seats are comfortable but utilitarian. Stainless steel boards currently stored in the walls can be folded up as tables in each booth. Carpet extends from the floor up the walls for a couple feet, above which they are taken over mostly by windows. This gives the effect that you are traveling in a bubble in which there is no sound but the quiet rumbling of the bluefire engine.

At first, you watch the city pass by, streets and buildings you know so well. But before long the train dives underground and you turn your attention to the suitcase. You’ve automatically placed it between your feet, as you would on a crowded bus. After only a second's hesitation,, you plow down on the floor. It isn’t exactly unsafe and there's no one here to judge you for it.

Unzipping the outer pocket of the case, you find yourself holding your breath. Letting it all out in a heavy sigh that you feel deep in your chest, you peek inside. From the briefings you’ve had—briefings that were numerous but vague and tended to raise more questions than they answered—this pocket will contain all the clothes necessary for your assignment, excluding any possible heavy outerwear or shoes. You were advised not to try and unpack anything before you arrived because it would be next to impossible for a human to get everything as compressed as the robots do.

From the careful peek you take, you can’t discern much about the clothing other than its material, which ranges from a light synthetic to heavier cloths, indicating a moderate climate with varying seasons. Good. That’s what you want. You know what it’s like to be in an unchanging place already.

The main pocket is supposed to contain other gear, some toiletries, and emergency rations, but you don’t dare open it. An article of clothing could be shoved in your pockets or worn, but having various items that you cannot return to the case would be more painful.

Many people would call you crazy for being so trusting. Most of the population has, actually. People like you—researchers sent out of the city by the government—are rarely heard from again. They have no contact with their families or friends and they return only if they choose to do so once they have reached retirement age. The researchers send back loads of data, but as the raw reports aren’t often available to the public, people are always skeptical.

You’d never admit it out loud, but you are too. If this wasn’t your only option, you probably wouldn’t be here. The city is not a place you can live, not with the air and the people and the silence. You realized not long after the incident that if you didn’t leave, you’d snap again.

You reach up and take off your mask. You’ll never need to wear one again. Setting it on the bench where you were sitting, you wonder who will find it. Will someone be getting on where you get off, or will some unsuspecting passenger be startled by that stark picture, a black mask neatly folded on an off-white cushion? For some reason, it seems to speak of finality as much as anything else in these past few days.

Perhaps another two hours pass before the train dings, alerting you that your stop is only minutes away. You can’t be certain of the exact time, as you still do not dare touch that forbidden phone in your pocket. You avoid even thinking of it, just as you avoid thinking of the very high chance that you are about to die. Or become part of some horrible secret government testing. Images of a stark white lab, spartan, controlled, and silent flash through your mind before you can stop them.

“No,” you murmur aloud, quiet and firm. No point in that sort of thing, and no point in regret or hesitation. What’s done is done now.

Gathering your thoughts and your suitcase, you rise. The train dings again as it halts, and the door slides open. You’ve arrived.