First 5 Pages May Workshop - Sin Rev 2

Name: Tabitha Sin
Genre: New Adult Science Fiction
Title: Skin Deep

CHAPTER ONE

DAILY FORECAST
TEMPERATURE: 95F high / 93F low
UV INDEX: High
CLOUD DISPARITY: 20%
Highly recommended to avoid any exposure to sunlight!
The nighttime air will bring an occasional breeze, but continue to guard your skin.

Before I start my job for the night and harvest organs, I imagine what my donors’ insides will look like, feel like. How heavy will their Inner Pangaeas, a dense and slimy mass of melted organs, be in the thin palms of my hands? How perfectly will their organs fit against one another, smooth grooves of a puzzle finally reuniting after an entire life of separation? It’s their way of saying: we were always meant to be together.

Will my donor’s intestines be molded together or stringy and limp? Can I weave them through my fingers, wrap them around my wrists like a snake handler? I handle my donors’ guts delicately as they share this intimacy with me.

Tonight starts off like every night on the job: my sunsuit, an employee benefit provided by Start Labs Corporation, is zipped all the way up to my neck and tucked underneath my helmet. Not an inch of my skin is exposed to outside conditions. If the Initiators botched their end of the job, the surveillance camera would only pick up a small androgynous figure clad entirely in black getting off at the 14th floor. However, I notice the eye of the surveillance system is not red, as if it has fallen asleep. Underneath my gloved hands, the doorknob to Apartment 14E quietly twists open. It’s unlocked as expected. So far, the Initiators have done what they need to do.

The apartment swallows me and any light from the hallway that follows behind. My breaths locks in my nose as my eyes wait to adjust to the darkness. There’s nothing inside: no other sounds, no other movements.

When I flick the light switch on, my eyes throb a little at the sudden contrast, even underneath my helmet. I take it off along with my gloves and boots, leaving them by the door, and pad slowly to the living room area. It’s easier for the Cleaners to wipe away sock-clad footprints as they eliminate all traces of our operation. I dump my backpack onto the nearest countertop next to the sink and take out a pair of latex gloves. Their snapping against my wrists punctuates the room as they seal against my veiny hands. The apartment’s air clings to my exposed face, and I stretch, rolling my neck from one side to the other.

Before I start the donation, I like to ascertain whether or not I can live in the space. Manhattan real estate: you can get a discount through a broker if you make a quick enough offer once the original tenant has died. Dead smells fade eventually. I could ask the Cleaners for some tips.

This apartment complex, a relatively new host for Section participants, has been around for so long without any modern renovations that it’s not worth the move. It’s a simple one-bedroom apartment, larger and older than mine, I can already tell. To the right of the entrance is a small kitchen with an electric stovetop. The cupboards’ ugly blush paint, dating this place back to when pastels were en vogue, is peeling, leaving behind jagged marks of plywood. Despite the overhead lamp, the place is still too dark, like being shrouded in shadow. I don’t like these kinds of places. Great closet space, though.

Finally, I look at what the Initiators set up for me.  Everything is how it should be: clear tarp neatly splayed out in the center, black lockcase next to it.

Except I am completely alone.

My heart almost skips a beat before pumping quicker, loudly beating in my ears. Cold panic rushes from my forehead to my appendages as I realize there is no body greeting me.

Have we been caught? No one knows about these donations -- IPs are such a new condition that Start Labs has been trying to collect as many as they can for research. We all work under secrecy, signing contracts with specific nondisclosure agreements. It’s unprecedented for there to be no donor by the time I, the Extractor, roll through in the procedure.

The job is simple: The Initiators dismantle the building’s surveillance system and prep the donor for me. I open the door, see the donor lying on the tarp, extract the IP, seal it in the sterilized case the Initiators leave behind, and then let the Cleaners know I'm done so that they can pick up the case and make it seem as if we were never in the apartment.

I step back towards the door, close to the small kitchen, and pull out my burner to call Branson, my liaison within the Initiators. As it rings, a warm breeze glides through the short, bristly hair on the back of my neck; a corner of a thin curtain by the back window lifts gently; a few spots glisten out of reach of the dim light on the floor by the side of the tarp next to a small table.

“There's nobody here,” I tell Branson as soon as he picks up, walking towards the spots. “I see you’ve set up, but there's nothing.”

“Hey, Shella, nice to hear from you, too.” Branson's deep voice fills the apartment, and from the tiny relief I feel slowly pool into my belly,  I think I’ve grown too fond of hearing from him. We’re not supposed to have outside relations as coworkers, but lately, our conversations have been lasting longer than they probably should. “What do you mean there's nobody?”

“Donor is missing.” My voice is a rushed whisper. In the moonlight, the spots shine like fluorescent tattoos.  “The door was unlocked, the tarp is rolled out, but there's no body.”

“Wait, wait. Take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

I crouch above the spots to waft their smell, scratching at my hairline with the back of my hand, the latex harsh against my hair. Branson is repeating the same tactic our teacher taught us to bring clarity of mind in high-stress situations. I do as he says and reel back as the pungent aroma assaults and clogs my nostrils. I cough into the phone as I try to purge it out.

Rotting meat...with the faintest scent of...flowers?

“Hey! You okay?” His voice is sharp, concerned, now. “Tell me again what you see because a dead man doesn’t pick himself up and move.”

I sit back on my heels and look again. There is the midsized table next to me, and a vase of dark blue flowers wilts in murky water atop it. I press my finger against the spot, and it clumps like tacky residue as I rub it between my index finger and thumb. I don't recall ever seeing this before. The kitchen light flickers, on-off-on-off, like an ebbing tide before darkness settles into the apartment. The hair on my arms begin to rise.

I open my mouth but stop as a pressure accumulates in the center of my forehead, like someone has held their finger a breath away from there...or like someone has been staring at that spot for a long time. My vision tunnels briefly, a swarm of black bugs creeping into my pupils, and the outside air folds around me. My hearing expands: light shouts from the apartment next door, water pressure building in one of the pipes as a toilet flushes somewhere, and something wet -- a towel? -- slapping against hardwood floor feet away from me.