Perfectopia - Part #3/8
In an ideal world, YOU are the imperfection.
PART #2 RECAP:
Sigmund’s unauthorized use of lab equipment for his pet project comes to NRC management’s attention, resulting in him being fired. Siggy convinces his friends, gathered in a makeshift lab in Paul’s garage, to continue gaming the idea of a nanobot solution to the world’s problems. The ‘Neuril’ project seems to be coming together. In theory, at least.
Part #3
2 months later - December 2029 | Edmonton, Canada
“You gonna be okay?” Asked Gaby, fully dressed for the weather. “I need to put in an appearance for this work thing, an office holiday party—a couple of drinks and I’m out.”
“I’m fine, go.” Lied Sigmund, his voice hoarse from the seasonal flu.
He wasn’t fine. Quite the opposite. Jobless, with the Neurils project done and filed away, at least as the others were concerned, he was struggling in filling in the void. The young man didn’t know what to do with all that unutilized processing power of his brain.
To make matters worse, Gaby was spending helluva lot of time away from him. Long hours at work, meeting friends and colleagues for drinks, or so she was claiming, while fuck knew what she was actually up to.
Spending time alone was another thing Sigmund wasn’t good at. He wasn’t jealous, and didn’t have a shred of ground to be so, yet his idling brain was spinning all kinds of dreadful scenarios. What if she’s sucking Paul’s dick while I’m here, coughing my lungs out?
Sigmund would never admit it, but he was equal parts depressed and angry. He was pissed off at his closest friends for having parts of their own lives that did not involve him, and at people in general, for being jolly and full of things to do. The whole Christmas mass psychosis shit that used to be just a source of mild annoyance to him, now seemed like a major irritant. The world seemed to be moving, while he was standing still.
“Fuck it.” He said to the empty room, pouring himself a triple whiskey, then turned on live TV—another thing he would’ve never done in his previous life.
He absentmindedly flicked through the channels—all the programming nauseatingly smeared with the festive spirit—stopping on a news outlet. A different kind of content assaulted him: India and Pakistan on the verge of armed conflict, impotent governments unable to refuse rising tensions in the Middle East, the Russians still bombing cities in Ukraine, not to mention the shitstorm of the ongoing tariff war and countries abandoning their green goals like there’s no tomorrow.
“Here’s to the fucked up world!” Exclaimed Sigmund loudly, gulping another tablet of Benadryl with the last of the drink, sneezed loudly and wiped snot on the couch, not able to find any strength to give any shit.
With effort, on the second try, he finally got off the couch and headed to the cabinet for a refill, freezing mid-way by a sight of Gaby’s work backpack, carelessly dumped in the living room.
“No, Siggy! Bad dog!” He said out loud, willing himself to look away.
Back in the warmth of the couch and a blanket, nursing another drink, like a good recovering alcoholic calling his sponsor whenever temptation grips, Sigmund messaged his girlfriend, then Paul for good measure. Anything to distract him for pervasive thoughts.
As minutes passed without a reply, his eyes darted between the phone, the TV screen and the backpack, which seemed to be taunting him, each time harder to look away. Every swallow seared his tormented throat. Every moment his body pumped itself with another dose of testosterone, cortisol, adrenaline or whatever natural chemical compound a sick, intoxicated and riled person triggers his organs to release.
There’s only so much restrain an alcohol-soaked brain, the effect amplified by drugs, can take before breaking. Sigmund held out for nearly an hour, before giving in. In a fit of anger, he flung his “useless” phone across the room, fracturing the TV screen, jumped to his feet, grabbed his laptop and headed for the door, stopping in front of Gaby’s bag.
“No other way.” He slurred to the room, oddly apologetically, then bent down and ripped the lanyard holding the NRC employee badge off.
***
Hours later, plenty of time for his liver to break down some of the nasty drug-alcohol concoction cursing his bloodstream, Sigmund slid into an elevator and pressed a button for the lobby. Hungover, crashing and sweating profusely, he fidgeted on his feet, the automatic door closing mockingly slowly.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck.” He breathed a barely audible curse. Now that enough of the fog in his head cleared, he was starting to realize the magnitude of his latest screw-up.
“Breath. Relax.” Sigmund attempted to calm himself. This could still be fixed. If he, while being royally wasted, could drive across the city and walk into the restricted area of the NRC with only a swipe of Gaby’s card and a wave to a sleepy night guard, he must be able to do it again, in reverse. All he had to do was to act natural, not raise suspicion.
An elevator pinged, announcing arrival at the ground floor. Sigmund stepped into the deserted lobby, hand clutching a sleek shape of an aluminum container in his pocket. The exit was there, in plain view, only a row of automated turnstiles obstructing the way.
Easy. I can make it. He thought as he moved towards the doorway.
With every step, Sigmund felt the heavy capsule wobbling, its thin shell under 8 bars of pressure held millions of dormant pre-programmed Neurils, each encased in a tiny droplet of water, ready to spring to action when released.
It will hold. He reassured himself. The stuff was military grade, calculated for much bigger pressure.
At the security gate, Sigmund swiped Gaby’s badge. The green light flashed and the glass panels slid out of his way.
Almost there. Only a few meters separated him from the door. Once home and cooled off properly, he’d be able to figure out what to do with the Neurils, how to dispatch them safely and discreetly. Nobody had to know.
Sigmund reached out and pushed the door open, a harsh sub-zero wind feeling like freedom.
“Hey! Hold it!” A shout sounded from behind him.
A sliver of hope that the order might’ve been directed at someone else was crushed when he turned to face a uniformed guard—his hand tentatively on the holster—making a beeline towards him.
Instincts, ingrained in human lineage by millions of years of struggle to survive, could not be eradicated by a mere millennia or so of relative safety. In the heat of the moment, a startled brain would not stop to coolly evaluate the situation, but rather default to a fight-or-flight response. Like a spooked cat, Sigmund took off running towards his car.
Not looking back to check if the building’s security was still in pursuit, he crashed onto the driver’s seat, turned the ignition and sped in a random direction.
Oh boy, Sigmund's really done it this time! Can't wait to see what he's up to, and what this means for Gaby and the others as well... Eagerly awaiting the next part in a few more days!