Content Warning
The entire concept of this page is hinged around the concept, depiction, and act of suicide or self harm. It also touches on the neglect those with suicidal thoughts may face.
Everything was rumbling in Level 11.
The wall next to the bed rumbled and shook with the domestic arguments of next door, something to do with an affair, a child or something or other.
The floor beneath the bed rumbled, the sounds of failing pipes and wires causing noisy vibrations ensured nothing was quite where it was left and that nowhere was ever really quiet.
The ceiling was much the same as the floor, but the vibrations were compounded by the loud stamping of the upstairs neighbours, seemingly wearing shoes as heavy as bricks as they made constant darts between the living room and bathroom. Either that, or the floors were just thin, and frankly that would fit with the rest of the build quality of the abode.
The outside of Level 11 was also rumbling, both on the ground itself and above and below it. Cars drove at high speeds between blocks and intersections, only activating their hovering when the self-driving kicked in and the vehicles parked themselves in their large parking towers. One of those, as luck would have it, was right next to the apartment.
Below the streets were even louder rumbles, the reverberations of louder trucks and the cheaper public transportation loud enough to make nowhere truly quiet out in public. Though of course, people were still outside. They had work in the morning, just like Constance.
Constance lay in bed, dressed in the same clothes (the only clothes) she had worn during the day, staring up at the sky. She was supposed to sleep six hours ago at 9PM, just as she was supposed to every single night, but of course she never did. The rumbling kept her up. It kept everybody up.
Constance's thoughts were a mess; an odd portmantua of dread, anxiety, and defeat. When she had first lay down to sleep, reheating the leftovers of leftovers just a few steps away from her bed, she had done so gladly. She knew she would not get to sleep, but to finally relax was at least something. An hour in, she had gotten bored, at two hours she was frustrated, and at three there was a sense of tiredness washing over her. "Hey, six hours of sleep isn't bad", she had thought to herself at the time.
three hours later, she was still staring at the ceiling. The sounds of shouting and crying were rampaging through her left ear, her bed was vibrating where it sat in the corner, and cars hummed by at fast speeds behind her head. The only difference now, though, was that Constance looked terrified. Her hand was clutched to her chest, taut enough to nearly rip the cheap fabric of her top, and her eyes were wide with fright.
Thoughts were clearly racing in her mind, thoughts worrying enough to stress her to the point of deep and slow breathing, shaky enough to make her body quake. She imagined getting up, leaving her apartment, going down the cramped and dirty streets, and clocking in for another day of labour at the warehouse. Yet another day of pointless itemising and reorganising that a simple robot could do, jobs that she knew robots back in the Frontrooms were doing.
Pick something up.
Photograph it.
List it.
Move it.
Put it down.
If it wasn't for the fact it was so tiring and mind-numbing, she would have considered it pointless busy work. But by now, 14 years into her job, it was much more than that. It was her income, it was her life. A life spent itemising pointless shit. A life spent without quiet, not even at home. A pointless, waste of a life. Was this all Constance was meant to be, a robot encased in flesh for hire-ups she'd never met, working for people just as droned as her? It seemed to be. No matter how Constance spun it, all her contemplating led her back to the same conclusion. She'd become a tool.
Constance sighed shakily, sitting up in bed and letting go of her chest. She twisted herself to the right, allowing her feet to dangle off the edges of the bed as her head hung low. She needed a distraction, something to alleviate the stress of yet another day.
It was only a few steps to the kitchen, and Constance took them with a shake of her legs. Her stomach added to the number of rumbles present around her. She opened up the fridge, passing by the packets of expired future meals and to the line of green bottles that filled the bottom shelf. Could she really go to work in a state again? Then again, when didn't she. Nobody seemed to care.
She went for one of the bottles, but found herself stopping, retracting her hand just as her fingertips brushed the cork. She closed the fridge door, pressing her forehead into the cold metal of its surface, shutting her eyes tight with a sigh.
No matter what escapism she took, it would always end with hours of gruelling, pointless work. No matter the work she did, it would always end in staying within the confines of this awful apartment for hours, unable to sleep. And no matter what she could do, no matter what drinking or smoking or cutting she did to alleviate any stresses, she knew the cycle would restart the next day. As far as Constance was concerned, the cycle had to be broken, not smoothed out.
Constance put on her coat and her shoes and left.
Outside, the light of the moon shone down on her. Level 11 had been dark for just over a decade by this point. At least it made her plan easier.
Constance walked briskly, passing by people who looked to be in much the same sorry state as she used to be in, trapped in a cycle without any means of escape, not like what she had. She went down the block, watching as cars raced by intermittently at fast speeds. After enough walking, Constance was passed by a much larger vehicle, seemingly a moving van of sorts. Industrial vehicles were a rarity on the surface, but the fact that they did exist was about as reassuring as it could be.
Constance stopped at an intersection, joined by a handful of other people who were waiting to cross the street like she was. The man to her right had pressed the button on the traffic light when he had walked up, listening to music through tinny and thin earbuds. They looked pretty retro, but then again most things in Level 11 were nowadays. The lights for all lanes turned red for the cars, and green for the pedestrians. The man and many others took their turn to walk across their street, but Constance did not.
Not another day.
Constance watched the traffic go by on the outer lane, a mix of rusting cars and more modern ones clearly doing inter-level commutes. None of these cars were what Constance wanted.
Not another day.
After waiting an age in Constance's mind, her opportunity arose. Stuck behind some traffic caused by the next intersection down was a larger vehicle, one of the underground busses it looked to be from a distance. Perhaps it had to be diverted from the subterranean tunnels from here, but frankly the reason didn't matter, all Constance cared about was the fact that it was here.
Not another day.
As if the world was working in Constance's favour for once, the bus had been caught at the front of the queue at the next intersection, leaving a large gap between the car in front of the bus and the bus itself. "Perfect", she thought to herself, as she waited for the final car to pass.
Not another day.
Constance took a step forwards after a moment of hesitation, the last of her nerves begging her to stand still. She didn't listen to those. Constance took a moment to decide which direction to stand, and opted to face away from the vehicle. Being head on with the bus would guarantee a more sure result, but if the bus wasn't driverless she couldn't bear to look its operator in the eyes.
Not another day.
Constance turned.
Not another day.
Constance shut her eyes.
Not another day.
Constance braced.
Not another day.
And then, for Constance, there never was another day again.
. . .
"Who do we have in today?" Enzo asked, still fitting on his rubber gloves onto his hands. He addressed his much younger work partner, a trainee from Level 125, looking over to her.
"Uh, I don't remember… I usually just read what it says on the tag" Aitana replied, having already fitted into her surgical wear for the day's work. She regarded Enzo with a slight glare, although since her emotion was covered by a large mask and a plastic cap it was hard for either of them to read each other's faces.
"Great. Well, are you ready to go in?" Enzo replied, his annoyance radiating through tone alone as he loudly snapped on his glove, it hugging his form tightly.
"Have been for the past 10 minutes, yeah."
"I want to make sure my uniform is on properly, you never know what you're gonna get with these people. You don't want Disease getting into you, do you?" Enzo replied back with a hint of smugness in his eyes, and a bucketful of it in his tone. He headed to the swinging doors, passing through them. With an eyeroll, Aitana followed, entering the mortuary a second after Enzo did.
The pair approached the body currently on the slab. It was the body of a woman, the left side of her body completely bruised and cut, but obviously the blood had long since stopped pouring from her wounds. She lay motionless and pale, eyes closed, and facing the ceiling. Her hands kept at her sides. Her old clothes had long been incinerated, and now the body was dressed in simple cloth bindings that allowed the examiners to assess her injuries in detail while still giving the deceased some modesty.
"Fucking hell… what happened to her here?" Enzo asked with an exaggerated sigh, his hands falling onto his hips as he approached the deceased.
"Don't be disrespectful." Aitana swiftly remarked back, even if she knew Enzo was not the type to listen to her. As Enzo went to the side of the slab, Aitana stood to the back, reading the toe tag on the woman's right foot. "Constance Summerfield, 32, female. She died in Level 11 on the 12th of June, so two days ago."
"Got a location and cause? Can I take a few rounds at guessing?" Enzo commented, shooting Aitana with a humorous smirk she did not reciprocate even slightly.
"What? No, Enzo. What's wrong with you? Look at her, she died horribly."
"So? She's deceased, she's not gonna care."
"I care, we should be respectful. Especially when Constance's death is as brutal as… oh, God." Aitana trailed off, gulping as she read further down the toe tag.
"What? How bad can it be, really, we've seen it all. Did she get mauled by something?"
"She died on Hedgerow Avenue, I've travelled underneath it before, it's one of the main routes through Level 11. She got struck by one of the sub-road buses that was diverted onto the surface. According to the eye witnesses… it was deliberate." Aitana explained, sighing to herself afterwards as she took a step back and making the sign of the cross on her body.
"Ah… suicide by bus! That would explain the bruising and cuts on her right. Do you think the bus sustained much damage, or do you think this bundle of sticks took the brunt of it." Enzo joked coldly, his eyes glancing to the stick-thin figure of the deceased, her skin recessed enough to show the outline of many of her bones.
"Enzo, how could you say that? She killed herself, and you're joking about it?"
"Oh, relax… Sure, it sucks she's dead, I'm trying to make some light out of it. Just be a proper Christian and forgive me for it, will you?"
"That's not how it works even slightly. I've not been going to Church for that long and even I know that." Aitana replied, crossing her arms with a scowl powerful enough to be clearly communicated through her head coverings.
"You became one willingly?" Enzo scoffed, beginning to get the tools ready for embalming. His kit consisted of a scalpel, a ceiling mounted screen, and a contraption which he wheeled forwards, letting its tank of embalming fluid clank against the slab to stop it.
"…Yes." Aitana replied after a moment of hesitation, clearing her throat as she watched Enzo begin his prep work on the body. She approached the slab from the other side, taking a scalpel of her own and waiting on his queue to act.
"Why?" Enzo said with an entertained little chuckle, calmly making a long cut down Constance's scarred arms while using the screen and external camera as a guide, using some pins to hold the flesh apart and expose an artery.
"I don't know? I… things haven't been easy, I guess. Going to Church gave me something to do."
"And something to believe in?" Enzo asked, looking at Aitana expectingly. After a second, she clocked what Enzo wanted her to do, and she started making incisions for places that the rest of Constance's blood to pour out from. Like he did, Aitana used pins to keep the openings wide.
"I suppose? It is nice to know you're being watched over by someone, makes things a bit easier." Aitana replied, setting the scalpel aside on a cloth.
"Even if an all-knowing god technically creates all your problems in the first place?" Enzo cockily remarked, beginning to power up the contraption that held the embalming fluid. It, too, had a screen, which Enzo brought up towards him via its hydraulic arm.
"That's not- I just like it, okay? Church is nice, the people are nice, and having that divine reassurance is… is nice." Aitana replied with a heartfelt tone, sighing as she looked down at Constance. Enzo stuck the nozzle of the embalming injector into her arm and switched it on, allowing the fluid to enter her arteries and push out the blood.
"Yeah, I don't get that. I've never felt down on my luck enough to believe magic bullshit. Hell, I don't even believe the magic bullshit we do have here is looking over me. You just gotta keep trucking."
"Right… where do you live again? Don't you have a Backrooms lineage?"
"My family goes back four generations from Level 194." Enzo replied with a wink.
"Yeah, thought so." Aitana grumbled, looking down at Constance as the arterial embalming stopped, as indicated by the notifications from both active screens nearby.
"What? Just because I come from a posh place you think I've never been depressed or felt hopeless?" Enzo scoffed at Aitana, removing the injector and beginning work on stitching up the opening he had just made.
"No, just forget it." Aitana mumbled, working on patching up the openings she had made. As she did so, Enzo's eyes widened in some surprise.
"Crap, I forgot to log when we started embalming."
"You better do it then? You never let me do it, and I'm busy." Aitana replied, shooting Enzo with an annoyed expression, tilting her eyes up from her stitching work to do so.
"Fine, fine…" Enzo grumbled, pulling the ceiling mounted screen further down to him and tapping on the screen a few times. He cleared his throat, and waited until a beep to know that the recording software was operational. "This is Enzo Green in the Andrew mortuary of Level 4. Start time of arterial embalming not catalogued, end time of arterial embalming: 07:13, the 12th July. 2093."
With that, the pair resumed their work.
. . .
Level 13.1 was the centre of everything nowadays, though that was hardly surprising. It wasn't infinite like Level 11, and since all its buildings were made completely from scratch they had to be maintained traditionally, but it had been the heart of the M.E.O.D. monopoly for over 90 years. Once the epicentre of unrest and fright, the field it once was had evolved into a sprawling metropolis. It had an array of vehicles driving on, above, and below its streets, and over double the amount of people walking its roads and elevated walkways. After it's 150th Amalgamation, which was just under 60 ago by this point, expansion of the city had become rapid thanks to the tools acquired from the organisation it took.
Now Level 13.1 was bigger than Level 13 itself, and its parent level had been almost forgotten to time.
Towards the outskirts of the city, where what the M.E.O.D.'s fancy capital believed the "undesirables" to reside, was the underfunded Evangeline Hospital. One of many places named after deceased leaders of groups which had long been amalgamated into the faceless corporate slab of the Main Extended Organisation Database. A name which had certainly become more meaningless as the decades went by.
Although the hospital was hardly ever quiet, having constant admissions of the sick or those who were injured from organised crime, the the late Monday night of the 27th brought the alertness of the Evangeline Hospital up multiple notches.
The loud wailings of the ambulance could be heard four blocks away, passing by the abandoned warehouses and factories and making its way to the tall structure. Though it was on the blink, the vehicle's hovering was operational, and it touched down with a jerk and shudder outside the patient's entrance to the worn down building. The back doors to the ambulance bellowed open, followed by a stretcher and two doctors. Though it was hard to tell, underneath the blankets of the stretcher was a man, clinging to life and dipping in and out of consciousness.
No one questioned where the two doctors were taking the stretcher. Not that anyone would under any normal circumstance, but in recent weeks people almost always expected two possibilities with someone being rushed into urgent care. With another large crash of the umpteenth door, the man and the stretcher were ushered into an operating room for an emergency procedure.
"Get ready to unbandage the wrist." One doctor replied, hastily fixing on a mask and some rubber gloves to ensure things were sterile. It wasn't perfect, and far from the proper procedures, but the hospital was underfunded to the point where this was the best option available.
"On it." The other replied with a nod, putting his hair into a ponytail and putting on much the same protection as his compatriot., fixing on a protective hat and hairnet too. He scooted his way to the patient's bandaged injury, blood staining through the many layers of emergency gauze and padding. "He's still really bleeding, we'll need to get a torniquet on him."
"We don't have any left, not even the antique ones." The other doctor replied to him, biting his bottom lip in some frustration. "I'll look to see if we have any haemostatic agents left."
"And if we don't?"
"We'll have to stitch up his wound without them." He replied simply, stepping away to begin looking through the old drawers and cabinets that lined the room. While he did so, the other doctor looked down at the injured man they brought in from the east. To his surprise, just as he was considering administering anaesthetic, the man looked back.
"Oh, you're actually awake. I'm sorry." The doctor replied in surprise, pulling away the overhead light that had activated when he was wheeled in, not wishing to blind the poor guy.
"Am I alive?" He asked wearily, a look of tiredness and despair on his face as he shuffled in pain, reaching to itch at his bandages. Hastily, the doctor he was talking to stopped him.
"Hey, don't do that. But… yes, you are. Don't worry." The doctor replied with some enthusiasm, the same he gave everyone to try and reassure them in a dour time. The man gave no such enthusiasm back, but the doctor seemed to expect that.
"Great…" He replied, watching as the doctor began to wheel over the canisters of anaesthetic, unspooling the cord which had the mouth-piece at the end to administer it.
"Don't worry… We're going to patch up your wound, and you'll be good as new."
"I don't want you to do that…" The injured man replied with a deflated tone and what was close to a sob, his eyes watching the doctor's hand.
"And why's that?" The doctor asked neutrally, even if he knew the answer coming up. It was something he had heard before.
"I… I don't want to go into it…" The man mumbled, his eyelids fluttering in an attempt to hold back tears.
"Oh, I'm just a stranger… I treat lots of injured, if the story's embarrassing I won't think less of you." The doctor said back, intentionally masking his true assumptions.
"…It's not that."
"No? Then what is it?"
"What do you think it is?"
"I think I want to listen." The doctor replied back, looking up as the other doctor came to stand besides him, looking down at their patient. Seemingly, he was aware that they had awoken, but didn't comment on it.
"We need to get you under anaesthetic, bud." The other doctor told the patient, holding a pouch of haemostatic agent and flapping it in the air to get the contents inside evenly distributed.
"I… fine…" The patient sighed, tilting his head back and up whilst closing his eyes. The doctor he had first been speaking to took a step closer, bringing the mask over his face softly.
"I'm going to count down from five, okay?" He told the patient, using his other hand to release a steady stream of the gas out of the canister and into the other man's mouth. He began counting from five as promised, but before he reached three the man was already out cold. "I see you were able to find some haemostatic agents?"
"Our last packet… I'll place another order through when we finish up here for some more, but I doubt it'll come. Never does." He said, passing the packeted powder to the other doctor, who made his way to the bandaged wrist.
"Got a sponge?" He asked, holding his hand out.
"Yeah, here," He said, grabbing one from the nearest counter and passing one over. "Did he, uh, elaborate much on what happened to him?"
"Nope, he only hinted. Poor thing." He replied, taking the sponge with thanks. He ripped open the sachet of the powder, and left it propped up on the side while he undid the man's gauze. Blood immediately began to pour out of the wound, but the doctor was quick to douse the wound with the agent and use the sponge to press it in.
"Can you take a guess from what he said?"
"He's cut his wrist deep, we found him in a bathtub, and he's unhappy he's not dead. It's more of the same."
"Fuck…" The other doctor said, taking a step back from the one doing the work with the haemostatic agent.
"I know, I know… With how much this place has fallen to shit, I can't fully blame him. Let's just try and save him, at least we caught him early."
"Yeah… At least we can save one person."
"Don't count your blessings yet… Without Almond Water anymore, we can't guarantee his survival."
. . .
Despite only being less than a kilometre away, the heart of Level 13.1 could not be more different from its outskirts. It was arguably just as bland as its outer districts, what with its copy-paste megastructures that served as mini-communities in themselves that were connected by sky bridges, the countless advertisements for bland and formulaic products and food, and the many lights which polluted the night sky with a haze of greys, blues, and oranges. However, what separated 13.1's inner sections from its outer ones was its living conditions, which was to say that it actually had some.
From the ground floor to the tips of the skyrises were where those who were seemingly better off resided, with many having long lineages that had originated from Level 13.1's first inhabitants. Many had adapted into their own subcultures by the end of the 2060's, but all worked in tandem with one another to provide wellbeing to the inner districts, and to send vague attention to the districts from afar if they happened to like them.
In the highest tower for the M.E.O.D. governmental plaza was its main board room, which was used for a variety of professional meetings. The meeting assigned today, on the 6th September, was a time for the division heads to share information, advise, and exchange data on the efficiency of each of their respective branches of the M.E.O.D.'s pseudo-government.
People from all across Level 13.1's subcultures began to pour their way into the large room, walking through the ornate metal door and descending the purely-for-decoration steps towards the oblong table to which they all began to sit at. The first to sit were the various corporate suits in the Finance Division, followed by the only two non-human representatives of the Renovation Division (or in fact any division at all). Next was those from Legal, Health, Postal, Database, Agriculture, Rezoning and more, as well as many of the sitting members of the M.E.O.D.'s sitting house. Of course, none of which were elected.
Finally, the last few to pour in were the actually voted-in heads of levels. The Mayor's of Level 1, Level 4, Level 7, Level 9, Level 11, and Level 808 were all in-attendance. Other mayors had refused to turn up. As these other bureaucratic figures walked in, those from 13.1 each gave them their own unique look of distain, even at the ones from 4, 9, and 11, which were considered secondary capitals to 13.1 itself.
"You opted to show up?" Clara Dane, the head of the Health Division, remarked from the table, giving a sneer to the Mayor of Level 7 as she descended down the steps. Augusta scowled back as she sat and adjusted her smart suit, but their feud didn't last for long.
"Keep it outside, ladies. We don't need petty arguments. Not between you two, anyway." The head of the Agriculture Division commented, being a rather large and tall individual. He copied the fixing up of his suit that Augusta did, but with more force in the tugging of his angular lapels. Augusta rolled her eyes, rested her chin in her hand, and let the others do the talking. She knew she was just there to fill seats.
"So, what have we been called for, exactly?" Penelope asked, one of two representatives of the Renovations Division. The other, sat besides her, was Cap'n'. But in his old age and troubled past he hardly said much nowadays.
"Fourth quarter meetings," one of the people from finance said, taking their rolled-up phone and shaking it once in the air to straighten it out. Nobody at the table knew their names, hey all had the same suit, similar faces, and sharp but bland hair. "It's September, and there's only a few more months until 2094 rolls around. We need to have plans formulated on what to do before that time comes."
"We also need to go over the… efficiency of our divisions." Another one of the Finance figureheads stated, clearing his throat and somehow making the action look as corporate and sterilised as everything else in the room. Another Finance executive shot glances at a few faces, and in-turn those faces shot glances at everybody else.
"Are you lot to decide that Cap'n and I aren't up to snuff again?" Penelope said with a bit of spite. Cap'n looked at her in some alarm at her directness to the copy-paste executives, but didn't vocalise a thing. Thankfully, they didn't seem to pay her much heed.
"Ridge," One of the Finance Executives called across the oblong table, calling the attention of the Postal Division's head. He looked down the table, giving a formal nod to the executive. "How are things with your department?"
"Uh, well," Ridge started, hammering at his chest as he cleared his throat. He was young, certainly younger than a lot of the other division heads or representatives present. "It's going good, I think? I, err, oversee the sending of countless goods across our inter-level roadways."
"Yes, thank you for explaining the obvious," The executive remarked with a lazy expression, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. "What about your growth? Do you ship to more places than you did in our last quarterly meeting?"
"N-No? It'd be pretty difficult to? I'm sure if Roz was still on payroll, he could tell you that." Ridge replied, feeling yet more hitches in his throat that he couldn't clear out. Not wanting to make a fool of himself any longer, he sat back in his chair.
"Roz and the entire Expansions Division have been out of bureaucracy for a year now." The executive replied.
"Mhm… According to you, we don't need to expand to other levels, right? Just gotta keep building upwards?" Ridge stated with about as much snark as his nervousness would let him. A few of the governmental people from outside Level 13.1 gave him some cautious glances.
"I'm sorry, is there something you wish to bring up about our leadership?" Another of the Finance Division figureheads said, tilting his head to Ridge.
"Oh, of course now you listen to a complaint." Penelope remarked, rolling her eyes. Yet again her comment went unheard by the Finance people.
"N-No, no… not at all." Ridge conceited, holding up his hands with a seethe. Silence fell upon the room after.
"Missus Dane." One of the executives said after an awkward cough from the head of Agriculture.
"Me?" Clara remarked in surprise, looking at the executives with wide and surprised eyes. "You never call on me.
"You never call on me or Augusta either." Penelope jabbed in.
"Yes! You…" The executive replied rather simply, his icy glare penetrating deep into Clara's soul.
"If you're wanting me to speak, Health is doing fine. The relevant places are being funded well, and the other places are getting what they need." Clara replied, resting her elbows on the table.
"But that's not true, is it." The executive said, resting his elbows on the table also, leaning inwards slowly. Despite the pair's great distance, the air was tense.
"I don't know what you mean." Clara said professionally, straightening her back.
"Two words, lady. Almond Water."
"Blame Science-"
"Science isn't here. Vaughn cancelled on us again. The responsibility of reporting and working on its replacement goes to you. But that's not the only thing I'm wanting to talk about with you." The executive replied, being passed a phone from another individual from Finance.
"Is that a list?" Clara remarked, finding herself losing her patience.
"It's a compilation of statistics from the public hospitals. Only Level 13.1's right now, but I intend on getting more."
"Okay? Well, you're clearly itching to say something. Just spit it out already." Clara said, crossing her arms sternly.
The executives looked between one another, sharing the only hint of emotion any of them had ever shared. It was humorousness. "No matter the district I'm looking at here, the survival rate of all patients is declining. Usually I'd call it poor training, but many of these causes of death are… suicide. Linked with an overall poorer satisfaction of living conditions as collected in this year's census."
"I don't control living conditions." Clara said simply, keeping her rigid and authoritative posture.
"No, of course not. But preventing people from killing themselves is sort of your responsibility. The Health and Citizen Wellbeing divisions were merged for a reason."
"You're blaming me for people offing themselves." Clara stated, hardly as a question.
"Oh, not fully… But you should be taking the responsibility for it. It's your job to make sure our people are happy."
"How the fuck am I meant to do that? Have you seen outside of 13.1, what these other people do? Jensen in Rezoning been demolishing black neighbourhoods for the past three years, and Augusta's been hiring non-English speaking newly-clip's for work on her tidal plants. I'm not surprised people are depressed."
"You bitch!" Jensen suddenly exclaimed as he sat up, causing one of the Finance reps to loudly click some raised fingers, causing Jensen to huff and relax in his seat. Augusta blinked, but hardly seemed phased, at least until the executive spoke.
"Jensen, I want you to leave the meeting. Augusta, your role as Level 7 mayor is being taken by your deputy. I want your desk cleared."
"You can't decide that! What about Jensen??" Augusta snapped, sitting up in alarm and making her seat tumble and fall behind her.
"Jensen has no clear replacement, you do. Go on, girl. Out." The executive replied, tracking her eyes with a cold and expressionless look. Augusta huffed, looking at Clara with a hurt expression before hastily storming out. Jensen left just a moment later.
Part of Clara wanted to feel good about kicking Clara out of anything to do with the M.E.O.D.'s government, part of her wanted it to be cathartic. It didn't feel that way, though, it still felt somehow wrong. She knew Clara had been singled out, and she knew why, it's the same reason why Penelope often was and why Jensen wasn't. Then Clara realised that she wasn't singled out. "Are you… not firing me?"
"You do a great service, providing medical care to the relevant places… And you have work to come, work only you can do. Or should do, rather, I wouldn't want to give it to anyone else, even if there are more skilled people than yourself." One of the executives replied with complete seriousness.
"Wow, thanks. What is it you want me to do." Clara asked, slumping back into her chair with an unamused expression.
"People are unhappy, everyone's overworked, underpaid, and now they're killing themselves because of it." The executive said, leaning back in his seat too. The other Finance executives did the same.
"So you admit shit's falling apart?" Clara chuckled.
"I admit it to this room and this room alone," The executive replied to Clara's comment with a look of distain, fixing up his tie. "We admit it elsewhere, people panic, everyone thinks the sky is falling onto them. Not a good strategy…"
"But you have to address it, don't you? People are unhappy across every level and town, it's visible on your dumb graph."
"And we have a solution for that." Another executive commented, taking the phone from another executive and tapping away at it. Within a few moments, the phones and/or watches of all present parties went off at once, causing everyone to check in-unison. It was clear where the sudden alert had come from.
Penelope was the first to open the direct line sent to everyone's devices, bringing it up on her flatphone. It was a draft from the Reformatted GPD, in early enough states to have comments, notes, and spelling errors. Despite that, its intention and description was clear as day. "'Phenomenon 35'… 'Self Destruction Compulsion.' What the fuck is this?"
"Do I need to spell it out?" One of the Finance heads said, turning his attention to speak to Penelope condescendingly.
"I think you fucking better." Penelope said, scowling at the man back as Cap'n tried to look in any other direction.
"You're suggesting we lie to people." The mayor of Level 11 commented, having a look of horror on his face as he read the contents of the work in progress article.
"A mere… bending of the truth. We admit that people are killing themselves, we just draw a different conclusion to the… actual one." The executive said, giving a lame shrug.
"This will spread its own unique hysteria, dumbass." Clara said, rolling her phone back into its compact storage mode and dropping it on the table.
"Ah, not in the focus groups we've shown it to. People show pity and worry for their friends. Brings them closer together and unites them, makes them tougher."
"…Whatever." Clara said, dumbfounded.
"We release this within the week. Clara and Enoch will work together on spreading it throughout healthcare centres and online. What has been said here, as always, does not leave this room. TwoKo will alert us if it does." One of the Finance heads said as they began to stand, prompting everybody else to suddenly do the same. Seemingly, the meeting was over, and Clara felt in her gut that the entire was organised just to single out this one problem and single out her in specific. She left without another word.
. . .
{$title-component}PTS:
3M
{$title-class}Class:
{$class}
{$title-sub}Area of Effect: Potentially Anybody
Random
{$title-one}Frequency
Varies
{$title-two}Duration
Lethal
{$title-three}Intensity
Description:
Phenomenon 35 is a recently manifested, believed-to-be antagonistic yet natural wave of supernatural hysteria that is causing grave depression and attempts at suicide across the M.E.O.D.'s familial network. In particular, this paranormal phenomenon is particularly affecting the outer twig levels of the family tree.
The way Phenomenon 35 begins is unknown, as the symptoms of this emotional plague are hard to spot, and when one does become inflicted with it the traits are hard to treat and make the individual hard to reason with.
Frequency:
Describe the setting of the phenomenon. Where does it occur? How often does it occur? Was it a one-off event or repeating occurrence? Etc.
Discovery:
Describe how the phenomenon was first encountered.
Do’s and Don’ts:
Do:
Don’t: