1. The Loading Bay // Fabricio
The things that we do during Yard Time
Name: Fabricio Oliveira
Age: 49
Earth descent: Brazilian
Height: 192 cm
Weight: 104 kg
Role: cargo handler
From Fabricio’s log
I’ve always been an asshole, a rotten apple, but even if it sounds crazy for me to say this, I’ll say it: the Process matters. Years ago I read a book about those expeditions they used to run on Earth between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries: that Norwegian guy, Amundsen, the one who went into the Arctic. The book wasn’t written by him; it was written by one of the expedition members. At some point it said something like: the expedition went well, so Roald will never know how many times we were one step away from sticking a knife in his throat and burying him in the ice. Up here things work a bit like that. People get strange ideas in their heads, and all these fucking hallucinations don’t help. The Process keeps the biggest danger in check: the one inside our skulls. And yes, I’m fine with not being completely free. If I were somewhere else I’d hate this shit. Here I don’t.
Location: the food stores warehouse.
We’ve got half an hour. Everything’s been timed. Marek will come in through bay R17 while I arrive straight from the locker room. Five minutes to get in, fifteen to fight, five to get out, five minutes of tolerance, then the Process starts collecting data again. Not that what we’re about to do isn’t illegal, but Yard Time gives us a little margin. After all, it was designed exactly for this: so we don’t go crazy. The ones with side deals, the ones who fuck. Not that fucking is forbidden, but you know, who the hell knows what those eunuch IT assholes will decide: those pricks who’ve never even seen a pussy by accident.
The ones with old scores to settle who need some kind of clarification.
Like me and Marek.
The neon lights are almost greenish, the corridor is cold and anonymous, and I’m barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts. I walk calmly, pass the hexagonal opening marked in red, the airtight doors open automatically with a muffled sound. I reach the loading bay. The ceiling is high, the warehouse full of people. The cargo exoskeletons stand at the edges, watching in silence like statues.
Silence. No shouting, no yelling. They call it Yard Time because no data is collected, and it really does feel like prison yard time: middle-aged men, ugly, dirty and sweaty. But just because the data isn’t being collected doesn’t mean anyone is eager to draw attention.
Only one woman: Cassandra. She’s waiting for me in the open space at the center of the designated area: Warehouse Whale-9. She’s waiting in her blue shirt with her ID badge still on, like it’s a lunch break. I walk up to her, stand in front of her. She’s so small, arms crossed, frown on her face, and my brain is already locked and loaded. I look at her, inhaling hard through my nose.
“So, what’s my intel?”
“You’re in deep shit.”
“No good news?”
“He’s younger than you and he’s military, but you already knew that. I’ve got access to the training hallucinations: the guy hits hard.”
“Any other bad news?”
“His cardio’s solid. Helena from the mess hall told me. Said he put her doggy-style on the canteen table and at some point she had to tell him to stop because she couldn’t take it anymore.”
“So the bad news is he fucked Helena.”
“You jealous?”
“Eh, a little, I’ll admit it. Helena always smiles at me.”
We laugh together, then I go on: “did you bring the Brazilian flag?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a yellow pill, Sandra.”
“So you want the Blend?”
“It shows you’ve never had to fight.”
“Are you fucking crazy?”
“Just give it to me, Sandra.”
I take the pill, and I feel this sensation in my heart: freedom, reinforced concrete, death death death.
Yes.
Death death death.
“Hey, can’t you give me anything that actually helps?”
“What the fuck do you want me to say? That you dance better than him? If you take him to the ground it’s over, but you were crazy to challenge him.”
“He was crazy to challenge me.”
Cassandra looks at me, says nothing, does nothing to hide the contempt, but that’s fine. He may have fucked Helena, but at least the only woman in Yard Time is on my side.
Marek comes in.
Yeah, well, if you look at us side by side, me and this asshole: you could picture him in a football stadium, shirtless, singing caveman chants. Who knows if stadiums even exist anymore somewhere, well, anyway we look like father and son. But there’s no time to think: everything happens fast during Yard Time. The crowd forms a natural circle, makes space, we face each other.
We don’t shake hands, that’s for sure. We start staring into each other’s eyes like two wolves.
Someone says: three, two, one, go!
It starts.
Shit.
From a bull like that you’d expect a charge, but no: he waits. Very bad sign: he’s smart too. If he’s not a brawler but someone who fights in bursts, this is going to end badly.
I watch him a bit, try to move, shake my head and throw a kick. I miss. He’s still standing there, just sizing me up.
I try to shoot in and take his legs: he throws me off, I end up on my back, but he doesn’t follow up, he waits for me to get up. Another bad sign. I try again: same result.
Fuck it. If I want to go to the ground, I have to take the hits. I close the distance, throw two sloppy hooks, and immediately get punished with a clean shot under the chin. My legs hold, but I let them fold and go down. He follows. Then he keeps hammering me with punches, on his knees, he wants blood, but that’s when I think: there, exactly where I wanted you. I push with my legs, roll onto my back, and find his arm right where I wanted it. I pull it across my dick and try for a lock.
Come on, you piece of shit, tap out, what the fuck are you doing? With a broken arm you drop in the Leaderboard for sure. Yeah: all this effort to control us boils down to one thing. The Leaderboard. A table, simple as that: one row per person, with the data. And one column that is normally a zero, but can become a one.
And if it becomes a one, no one knows what happens to you. Only that they don’t see you around anymore.
Marek hits my leg a few times and taps.
Good boy.
“Fuck you, this isn’t over.”
“Actually, it ends right here, asshole.”
We get to our feet, look each other in the eyes for a moment. It lasted too little; the bombs we took are still circulating, but luckily Cassandra is there to separate us, and a couple of losers drag him away.
I don’t know if it’s over between us, but I’d better be under the shower when Yard Time ends. Which isn’t even an hour: it’s only thirty minutes.
Pits of Titan is a multi-author, multi-arc collaborative writing effort aimed at producing a kick-ass sci-fi serial that blends horror, action, cyberpunk, metaphysical, mystery, and possibly other genres.
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BEAST.
shit in the milk that's good.
sharpening my shiv.
that was so far off my mental image radar from the prompt. Fabricio is much more asskick than i expected. some nice side shoots too...
😎