She glanced at the cleanly cut-off stump by her shoulder and grinned again.
“I pay for four, too. Since it was my own fault I lost this arm. And that means they take one sol from me every day for jack shit. One last piece of advice for you, new guy: don’t forget about the GC.”
“About the what?”
“You’ll understand later. Keep an eye out for your number — eleven — on the screens. If you see it on one of them, be quick. You only have а minute, then it’s the next player’s turn. And stay alert, make sure you don’t get jumped — games are rare, and everyone wants to play. They won’t think twice about tripping you up or even knocking you out.”
“What the — ”
“Just be careful! And watch the screens. They’re only on in the evenings, since there are jobs to do during the day.”
“I don’t — ”
“You’ll figure it out. Good luck!” She bent down and clasped me on the shoulder. “Be strong. Survive. That’s what matters. See ya!”
She left, leaving me slumped against the wall.
I was in pain, serious pain. The throbbing in my back was more or less tolerable, but my head and my left elbow... the longer I sat there, the more I wanted to gnaw off my left arm and smash my head into a pulp against the wall. I had to distract myself somehow...
What had Ninety-Five said? No, it was Ninety-One. Ninety-One... I had to remember. Judging by the others’ overall lack of any reaction to my pain-contorted body lying against the wall, Ninety-One was the nicest person around.
Ninety-One.
Why numbers? I mused. Why not names? Don’t people usually go by the name their parents gave them? Everyone has a first name and last name. And they bear them proudly their whole lives...
My head... My vision started to go dark. I felt myself slide slowly onto my right as my lungs released a hoarse, rattling wheeze. A snippet of conversation floated by:
“The new guy is a dead man.”
“Yeah. Someone’s gonna get three extra sol for his interment.”
“Lucky bastard...”
Are they talking about me? Me, a dead man? I started, propped my right arm against the wall, and forced my body upright so my back was resting against the wall. Through the haze of pain, I turned my head and looked to the side. I saw crowds of people, but it was like I was looking through a grey fog. They walked up to the walls, or maybe right into them. When they appeared again, they were chewing or wiping their mouths. Drinking... they’re drinking! There’s water over there!
What did I need right then?
The answer was obvious — water. I needed water, and as much as possible. I remembered one of the lines that had flashed before my eyes:
Hydration — complete.
Something dry was successfully made wet. Or at least slightly moist, if my theory was right, and the text was referring to my body. It made sense so far.
Assembly — complete.
My rented limbs, as horrific as that sounded.
Resuscitation — complete.
No explanation needed.
If I put two and two together... my dry body was successfully saturated with water, then given the first available limbs, and finally reanimated, bringing me back to some miserable form of existence. Then I found myself in some kind of storeroom, where the one-armed Ninety-One had shaken me awake.
My head was pounding, distracting me from my attempts to think rationally. Everything inside me felt like it was about to give out. The wrinkled skin on my stomach started to shrivel again. I felt tightness in my cheeks and forehead, and my eyes could hardly move in their sockets, like they were stuck.
Water... I need water...
Stand up!
My legs obeyed me with a jerk. My shoulder scraped along the wall. I rested my right palm against its solid presence, and leaned forward, forcing my lethargic, slow, trembling legs to take the first step. You got this... Come on... You’re so close... Move your rented limbs, Eleven. Move ‘em. I had to remember to keep my left elbow close to my torso, because I knew if one of the indifferent people walking by bumped it, I’d end up right back on the floor, writhing in pain. I probably wouldn’t be able to stand up again, and then someone would earn their three sol for my interment... Why did they say interment, not funeral?
Why did I get an old man’s arms and legs?
Why did they stitch someone else’s limbs to me in the first place?
Where are my real arms and legs?
I took a look at the shoulder that rested against the wall. An ugly red scar encircled it. Were the arms and legs attached to my body joints and all? Was it some kind of advanced technology or just a hack job? And why don’t I remember anything?
After another step, my shoulder brushed against a square door in the wall. It was flush to the surface, narrow, and high, but outlined with a thick green line that made it easy to spot. A small black glass square sat at the bottom. I looked briefly at the people nearby, getting my bearings, then stepped in front of the door, moved back a little, and paused.
A robotic voice indifferently identified me.
“Eleven. ORL.”
Those same words flashed in front of my blurred vision:
Eleven. (ORL)
The door silently slid upwards, revealing a deep, well-lit niche with a rounded, perforated-steel armchair. The armrests were wide — very wide. The whole structure stood on one round leg. I awkwardly turned myself around and sat down, glad to give my legs even a few moments of relief. The door closed silently, cutting me off from the corridor and any passing glances.
Closing in 01:59… 01:58…
The first thing I saw was a large plastic glass of water rising from the armrest. I grabbed it in one shaky hand.
Reminder: return the water container to its original position after consumption.
I raised the cup to my chapped lips and began to drink or, rather, pour the precious water into myself, not stopping until the glass was empty of every last drop. I put it back in the armrest, looking hopefully at the glass I had emptied so quickly through the gray fog and iridescent ripples that flashed across my vision.
Closing in 01:41… 01:40…
I heard the sound of water. The glass filled up again.
First (of three daily) water limits reached. (ORL)
The text appearing and disappearing in my field of vision didn’t surprise me anymore.
It’s like augmented reality, right? I’m pretty sure it’s a common thing.
I drank the second glass just as greedily, not spilling a single drop. If I had estimated the volume correctly, I now had a liter of water inside me. I hoped my tissues would absorb it quickly.
Injection. (ORL)
A glowing green animation started playing. A little human figure sat in a little chair, not moving, while big green numbers counted down from three to zero above him. That was it.
What are they about to inject me with? Is this a good idea?
Yes. I had to go along with it. I was pretty sure they weren’t going to try and kill me.
I heard a hissing noise and closed my eyes. The countdown started.
Three.
I gasped as something jabbed sharply into my lower jaw.
Two. Another fiery shot.
One...
And a third.
Zero.
Procedure complete.
Immunosuppressant injection (ORL) — complete.