The girl watched impatiently, waiting for the wimp her boyfriend had picked on to start pleading with him or, even better, start a fight and pay for it.
I decided to disappoint her. Leaning my shoulder carefully against the wall, I pointed at my overturned bucket and smiled widely.
“A word of advice: don’t do that again.”
It came out sounding badass, but I realized I had made a huge mistake. I had already noticed he was really young, plus, his girlfriend was standing next to him. A guy like that wasn’t going to give up while she was watching — he couldn’t let her think he was anything but an alpha male.
I’m a dumbass. I’m gonna pay for this.
His response was instant and predictable.
“Oh, yeah? Or what?”
I groaned internally, but managed to stay calm.
“You’ll see. Listen, I’m not going to fight — ”
“We’ll see about that,” 107 interrupted me, turned away, and strode down the hallway. The girl gave me the finger, stuck her tongue out at me, and, after a moment’s thought, gave me the finger again. Then she hurried after her boyfriend, swinging her hips even more wildly than before. How does she haul buckets walking like that? Or do her talents lie elsewhere?
“I’m an idiot.” I said to myself, grabbing my bucket. “Yeah. A total idiot.”
I got the feeling I was no stranger to conflict, that I had had my share of conflict before. I was used to it. Why? I hadn’t panicked just then, facing down an obviously stronger opponent. My instinct wasn’t to back down — my heart started beating a little bit faster, but just a little bit. It didn’t start pounding uncontrollably. I regretted not holding back, but I knew that I had acted reflexively, which mean I had acted like that before. And it was likely my past conflicts often ended well for me, since I had called that guy out so boldly.
What else did I realize at that moment?
I knew I had caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes when he saw my torso. But that fear vanished once he saw my limbs. A colossus on decaying legs, with rotting arms — that’s what I was. But now I looked at my torso differently, and after a minute of examination I came to the conclusion that it was an extremely functional body. Lean, muscular, tough. Even in the state it was in, it signaled others not to mess with me.
At least I had gotten something useful out of this unexpected confrontation.
Back to collecting slime.
I picked up my bucket, went back to the room, and directed another huge chunk of slime into the bucket. Gripped the handle and started walking. Ten steps, then a quick break. Another ten steps, another break. Five steps, rest. Five more steps, rest. Three steps, rest. Another three steps and I was sending the bucket down the conveyor belt. I leaned against the wall again, my breathing even, and contemplated my trembling legs. It was unsettling… I was surprised I didn’t scream in terror at the sight of these thin, spaghetti-like appendages covered in age spots and spider veins, with their limp, feeble muscles, calloused feet and blackened, peeling nails, growing out of my torso. I should have been terrified. Maybe there was something in those immunosuppressants, some kind of sedative that made me accept my disfigured body calmly.
Hold on. I had to check on my buckets.
Task: Collect Gray Slime. Easy (O).
Description: Collect and deliver thirty-nine standard containers of gray slime to the receiver unit.
Glowing green lines appeared before my eyes, waiting patiently for me to focus on them. At least now I knew for sure that the buckets were counted right at the receiver unit. Everything worked.
The system did what it was supposed to. But the workers — they were idiots. They could’ve organized and made their lives easier. But would it actually help? I watched a sturdy woman with broad shoulders and muscular arms that any man would envy. She was effortlessly carrying two buckets while an elderly, white-haired man, panting heavily, struggled to keep up with her. These two were working together, and it was obvious he benefited from the arrangement. But what did she get out of it?
“Slow down!” She said with surprising fondness, turning to him. “Don’t hurt your back!”
“I’m fine,” he wheezed. “I’m hanging in there.”
Definitely working together. I sighed and went to pick up a fresh ‘standard container’. Thinking about how long it had taken me to turn in one bucket had me feeling disheartened. Including the confrontation and my first failed attempt, I had wasted about twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes for each bucket.
Three buckets an hour.
That’s thirty buckets in ten hours.
Even if the shift was twelve hours long (I had no idea when the evening alarm would sound), I still wasn’t going to make it.
If I could push myself and turn in a bucket every fifteen minutes, I’d have at least some hope. But I doubted I was strong enough — I could barely stand.
Whatever it took, I was determined to try my damnedest.
Maybe I could manage one bucket in ten minutes. I needed something to wrap my right hand where the handle was rubbing against my skin. I wanted to wrap my knees, too… But I couldn’t tear my underwear into strips.
I decided to make do without bandages for now. Maybe it’d be all right — I couldn’t possibly run into a griefer every single time.
IT WASN’T ALL RIGHT.
After three hours I stopped trying. I realized there was no way I could finish the job. My right palm was on fire, my one working arm was shaking, and my side ached badly from constantly leaning to the right. I tried to walk straight, but the bucket banged against my legs, which were barely holding me up as it was. The worst part was that my headache was back, along with the pain in my bad elbow. It felt like it was being torn apart from the inside. I didn’t even want to think about the weird itch in my shoulders and hips where those circular scars were.
I stopped. There was no point in banging my head against the wall. Pushing myself or not, I wasn’t going to get it done. My newfound enemy and his girlfriend hit me with their dirty tricks every time they caught me out of sight of the observer domes. It was like that pair of rats had a sixth sense — they could sense danger without seeing it. When that happened, they would just pass by without touching me, whispering threats at my back. The next round they’d greet me with a push to the back or a kick to trip me up or upend my bucket. I decided to stop after one fall too many, when I almost landed on my swollen elbow. I stayed down and watched the giggling couple leave. The girl turned to me and gave me the finger again, then kissed her boyfriend on his stubbly cheek and shouted:
“Watch out, dickhead! This is Tiger! And you’re just…”
She didn’t finish. Judging by her furrowed brow, she was having trouble coming up with a suitable description for someone as wretched as me. Tiger stood in proud silence. Jabbing her pointer finger into the center of her forehead in a strange, boastful gesture, the girl added:
“I’m Buxa! And Buxa means cool! So watch out!”
They disappeared around the corner. I rested for a second, then grabbed the empty bucket and got up slowly, mumbling:
“Tiger, Buxa and Dickhead. A desperate drama on a stage of gray slime.”
This stupid attempt at a joke gave me a little spurt of energy. A spark of creativity, too. I tried collecting a full bucket of slime right by the receiver unit, since people tended to trip there, spilling their slime. Sure, it was dragged across the floor as the workers stepped on it, but I had to try. I put my bucket down, sat against the wall, and started collecting. Picked up five handfuls, then stopped again. It was impossible with just one hand. Not to mention all the threats and insults people rained down on me as they walked by. When one of them kicked my nearly empty bucket over with a loud clang, I moved away from the traffic and came to a grim conclusion.