An Unexpected Transfer

By KesslerCascade

I awaken motionless, yet somehow upright. This is particularly disorienting, given that my last memory was of lying down in the operating theatre. I try to move my head, to speak, but my vision remains a bright, indistinct blur. A low, guttural mumble whispers its way into my ear.

Jesus Christ, is that me? Is that my voice? What—

"Relax, Mr. McManus." A softer voice. Soothing, yet flat and inflectionless. A nurse? One of the doctors? Has the procedure somehow gone wrong? I try to marshal my thoughts, to flex the muscles in my arms and legs, but nothing happens. My mind is an island, floating unmoored in my body.

"Mr. McManus," the voice says, more sternly, "please calm down, or we will have to carry out the procedure with you forcibly restrained. I'd like us to avoid that, and so would you."

"Nrrrgh," I mumble in response.

The smeared light in my eyes shuts off momentarily, then returns. I can blink! Further blinks clear and focus my vision. I'm in a room—but not the operating theatre. The floor and walls are grey, marred in places by unintelligible characters and symbols. Instead of a bed in the centre of the room, there sits a single, chair padded with some kind of black cushioning. It looks like the kind of chair you'd sit in at the dentist. Clear plastic restraints are mounted on the armrests and legs, with an open visor of smooth black glass yawning open around the headrest. The rest of the room is surprisingly bare—a few storage cabinets, an empty desk. A bank of computer monitors rests against the rightmost wall, the screens shifting and blinking at the edge of my vision.

"Wrrrg mrruuhh?" I choke out.

"You've been moved to another room, Mr. McManus, in order to better facilitate the procedure," the voice responds, somehow translating my garbled question. "Unfortunately, there was a minor hiccup with the anaesthetic, and we can't risk another dose without damaging you in the process."

Hiccup? Anaesthetic? What's wrong with me?

"I'm going to release you now, Mr. McManus. Please take a seat in the indicated chair—our technician will be in shortly."

A pattern of LEDs circling the central chair light up—in the same instant, I'm dropped a few inches. The coolness of the tiled floor runs through the soles of my feet. I can move now; I take in the fine, wispy hairs on my arms, the rough, tanned skin of my hands, the tiny scar on my left palm that I got from a childhood accident while playing with my brother Corey. I trace the scar, taking in the subtle bump in the knitted, pale-red skin, remembering the lancing pain that had rushed through my arm the second I touched the mulcher. The memory is hazy; I can't remember where we were, or when it happened. Corey's face, framed by sticky blonde curls and stuck in a slideshow of shock and concern, flickers groggily in my mind. It's the anaesthetic, I tell myself. It's still wearing off. Must be some strong stuff.

Looking down, I'm surprised to see that I'm naked. Shouldn't patients be wearing hospital gowns? I vaguely recall wearing a gown before going into the operating theatre. Perhaps it'd gotten in the way during complications, or they hadn't had time to put it back on while transferring me here. Still, a lump of disquiet curls in my stomach.

"Mr. McManus? Please, sit in the chair."

I ignore the disembodied instructions and turn to face the wall behind me. Inset into the wall is some kind of vertical bed, surrounded with tubes and complex-looking electronic devices. Four more clear plastic restraints lie, opened, at the sides and foot of it. A screen beside the bed proclaims the words STASIS INCOMPLETE: RELEASE ACTIVATED.

Stasis? Did that have something to do with the anaesthetic?

The lump of disquiet stabs at me now, white-hot tendrils of nausea clutching at my abdomen. Furiously, I shake my head, trying to dispel the fog coating my mind.

"...final warning," the voice drones on. "If you do not take your seat, hospital security teams will be dispatched to force you to comply."

Unsteadily, I patter across the floor and lever myself down into the seat. I'm facing the computer monitors on the wall—it's only now that I notice the single, solitary desk in the far corner. There's a computer on top of it; wires snake out from the ports on the back, across the floor to the chair I'm sitting on. There's a window set into the wall next to me, next to an unmarked white door. Looking closer at it, I realize that instead of hinges, the centre of the door is marked by a single hydraulic clamp.

There's an electronic chime, and the door thunks open. Someone walks in—short, with braided black hair that's greying at the edges, staring fixedly at the floor tiles. Under the heavy medical clothing, it's impossible to tell their gender. Presumably, this is the promised technician.

"Mmrllo," I venture. They turn to face me, eyes huge and jittery behind thick-framed spectacles. I wave half-heartedly. Their gaze lingers on me for a moment before they return to staring at the floor.

Oh, right, I'm stark naked. They're probably not looking to get an eyeful of my junk.

Instead of walking over to me, though, the technician takes a seat at the corner desk, tapping commands in on a keyboard. In an instant, the chair's restraints cinch around my wrists and just above my ankles. I try to relax. Just another part of the procedure.

"Thank you, Mei," the voice says, presumably speaking to the technician. "You may now proceed with the—Mr. McManus, sit down!"

"Mm alruh satduh!" I protest. There's no response. I glance at the technician. They're looking up from the computer, their wide-eyed gaze staring straight at the window on my other side. I turn to look.

In the window, there's a face. Freckles, curly blonde hair, a strong, stubbled jawline. Even though the nose is straight instead of crooked and there's no sign of a prominent birthmark under the right eye, I recognise it immediately.

It's my own.

He gapes slackly at me, unable to believe what he's seeing. He raises his left hand to his mouth, and as he does so, I see the skin of his left palm. It's smooth, blemish-free, as if the scar on my own hand had never existed. As he does, another stark difference makes itself evident.

He's wearing clothes.

There's a scuffle behind the glass, and the other-me is wrenched out of sight, mouthing excitedly. Even if I can't speak, I can still read lips.

What the fuck! That's uncanny. I can't believe my nose looked like that!

"Mei, if you would initiate the disposal procedure, please," the voice cuts in, all pretence of emotion gone. "That's quite enough drama for today."

Motors whirr in the headrest behind me, pulling my head round to face forward. I jerk and twist spasmodically against the restraints, my voice breaking as I babble incoherently. I sound animalistic, raving. Inhuman.

The last thing I see before the visor clamps shut around my head is the technician's face, blotchy in the reflected light from their computer monitor. Tear tracks stretch down their cheeks, shards of white light dancing in them like broken glass.