Science Fiction | Jamie Gregory

The Mindful Matchmaker

Posted on April 5, 2024 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the second round of the 2023 NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Challenge. I was required to write a 250-word story that matched the following prompts: Genre: Romantic Comedy. Action: Brain-picking. Word to be included: “Plus”.]

***

“Ready to order?” The waitress clicked her pen.

Colby checked his watch. “She should be here any minute.”

I’ve waited years to land this date. Colby swirled his water like fine wine. A bit longer won’t hurt.

Jenessa sauntered to the table twenty minutes later. “Sorry I’m late…traffic,” she mumbled, tossing her plush faux fur coat over the chair.

Colby fumbled with his phone under the table. He opened the Mindful Matchmaker app, his latest invention, and tapped on Jenessa’s profile under, New brain signal detected. “No worries.”

Colby’s brain implant tingled with the first transmission: Traffic…AKA pregaming in my car and working up the nerve for this.

Huh. I thought I would be the nervous one, Colby thought.

The waitress returned. “Drinks?”

“Can I see the cocktail list?” Jenessa asked.

I need a stiff drink. Remember, get in, get the grant funding, and get out.

So that’s what this is about, he thought, deflated.

“I need to use the restroom.” Jenessa shot up from the table.

I’m going to puke if I have to endure small talk with this loser.

After ten minutes the Mindful Matchmaker lost Jenessa’s signal.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” The waitress lowered her amber eyes. “It’s on me.”

Colby’s phone vibrated in his lap.

New brain signal detected.

The profile showed a charming brunette. The name matched her name tag, Amy. He tapped on it.

I can’t believe she bailed on this guy. I’d take her place in a heartbeat.

***

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Death Wish

Posted on March 9, 2024 by jamiegregory

[15 minute read]

Content warnings: violence, global pandemic, and death.

***

Out of habit, I reached for my nightstand to tap the snooze button, but my arm, feeling slack and heavy like a hunk of meat, remained anchored by my side. The alarm wailed, each blast growing louder, until I was certain that my eardrums would surely explode. My forehead broke out in a cold sweat as I squirmed, unable to move.

Open your eyes, I thought, begging my heavy eyelids to open. When they did, a stranger’s face was hovering above mine, staring at me. The blaring alarm abruptly stopped.

The man was wearing a white lab coat. He leaned in closer, squinting his eyes. “Dr. Kuran, Specimen F216 has recovered.”

My eyes darted back and forth taking in my surroundings. I was enclosed in a pod with a clear glass lid. Ligatures bound my wrists, ankles, and forehead — I strained against them like a guard dog at the end of his chain.

A woman, presumably Dr. Kuran, approached and glanced into my pod.

“So he has, and much faster than the others.” She scribbled something onto the clipboard she was holding. “Let’s begin the rehabilitation process. But go slow this time. We can’t afford any more casualties.”

Casualties?

“Where am I?” I cried. “What’s going on? Let me out of here!” They stared at me with indifference.

It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut, willing the pod to disappear and be replaced with…. Replaced with what? What was before the pod?

A tidal wave of panic washed over me as I thrashed against my bindings.

“Looks like we’ve got a feisty one on our hands.” Dr. Kuran smirked. “You better sedate and ease him into rehab,” she said dismissively, walking away.

The lid of the pod opened.

“Get me out of h—” I shouted, my screams cut off by her assistant shoving an oxygen mask onto my face.

He raised a syringe, tapped it a few times to release the air bubbles, and inserted the needle into the crook of my arm. My veins turned ice cold as everything faded to black.

***

“Welcome back, F216. Let’s try this again, shall we?” Dr. Kuran said, peering into my pod.

She slowly lifted the mask from my face.

“Welcome back? I still don’t know where I am. Is this a hospital?” I croaked. “And why are you calling me F216?”

My name….What’s my name? Why can’t I remember my name?

“This is not the time to ask questions. There’s a protocol to follow. Right now we need to focus on rehabilitating you.”

“Rehabilitating me from what? What happened to me?”

I searched the dark abyss of my mind looking for clues but finding none. Was it a car crash? Was I in a coma? Abducted by aliens? What the hell happened to me?

She sighed, a half-smile spreading across her clenched lips, then diverted her gaze to her clipboard and recited, “So far we’ve had a 60% success rate with long-term memory recovery across all specimens but it takes time.”

“Specimens? What are you talking about?” I pleaded.

“Your brain is too fragile to comprehend the truth right now but you’ll get there soon enough,” She said, laying the clipboard aside. “In the meantime, let’s focus on physical therapy. Studies have shown that intensive physical therapy improves the memory recovery process.” She began slapping electrodes on my arms, legs, and abdomen. “You’ve spent a significant amount of time in this pod and your muscles have atrophied. You’ll be walking around in no time and then we can move on to cognitive therapy.” Without warning, she shoved an NG tube into my nostril, causing me to gag as it slid down the back of my throat and into my stomach. “We learned the hard way, when the first few specimens recovered, that this therapy is quite painful so you’ll be sedated for a few months until your muscles recover. You can thank me later for that.”

“A few months? Please, tell me—” She lowered the oxygen mask onto my face, stifling my plea.

My entire body seized in agony as the electrodes shocked my weak muscles. A muffled scream fogged up the inside of my oxygen mask.

She quietly shushed me, sliding a needle into my arm. “Sweet dreams, F216.”

My body surged a few more times before my jaw went slack, my fists unclenched, and I began to wander the endless labyrinth of my mind.

***

“Hello again, F216. How do you like the new digs?” Dr. Kuran asked, removing my oxygen mask as I came to.

My chin rested heavily against my chest as my sluggish eyes peered around through my eyebrows. I had graduated from the pod to a small white room containing nothing but a bed, a toilet, a windowless door, and the chair I was strapped to.

“Your physical therapy is coming along nicely so I thought we’d give your brain a little workout today.” She said as she finished checking my vitals. “All you need to do is sit back, relax, and let the computer program do its magic.”

She raised a headset over my head and said, “Now, you may feel a little discomfort as the probe penetrates your—”

A searing pain shot upwards through the base of my neck like someone had pierced my skull with a power drill. Visors lowered over my eyes. Dr. Kuran and the white room disappeared and everything went black. Instinctually, I tried to raise my arms to rip the headset off, but my limbs wouldn’t budge and it wasn’t just because they were strapped to the chair. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I tried to wriggle free, to scream, to do anything but I remained paralyzed as if the headset had disconnected my brain from my body leaving me locked in a trance.

A photo of a man appeared in the black sea of my mind. He was young and vibrant. He had thick, tousled brown locks, amber eyes, and a beaming smile.

Initiate session one, said a feminine robotic voice inside my head. This is you. Your name is…Frank Billingsly. You are a…lawyer. Your mental age is…sixty-two. Your physical age has been reset to…twenty-nine. Session one concluded.

I was bursting at the seams with questions but I remained in a daze until Dr. Kuran removed the headset with a sickening metallic scraping noise as the probe was extracted.

“What the hell?” I shouted, straining to break free from my restraints, desperate to assess the back of my neck.

The muscles in my forearms pulsated, the veins stood at attention, and the velcro straps around my wrists made an audible ripping sound as I tried with all of my strength to dislodge them, but it wasn’t enough. With a throbbing head and pounding heart, I tired quickly.

“Cognitive therapy is very taxing, especially the first few sessions.” Dr. Kuran said, setting the headset aside and turning back to me with a loaded syringe. “Your brain needs time to recover, like a sore muscle. A little nap should help.”

***

The white room swam into view. A blurry figure approached cradling something in their hands as the room began spinning. A rumble of nausea bubbled up from my hollow gut as my head pounded out a drumbeat. I gagged, then swallowed the acidic bile.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Dr. Kuran came into focus as she lifted the headset.

“No, wait—” I screamed, thrashing against the restraints.

“Don’t worry, the nausea is normal and temporary.” The headset hovered above me like a halo. “Your brain is experiencing a major hangover right now. The sooner you complete your cognitive therapy the better so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Please, don’t—”

Probe, agony, visors, darkness.

The photo of the young brawny brunette floated into view once again.

Initiate session one review. This is you. Your name is…Frank Billingsly. You are a…lawyer. Your mental age is…sixty-two. Your physical age has been reset to…twenty-nine. Session one review concluded. Do you have any questions before we proceed?

I don’t understand…what do you mean my physical age has been reset to— A new voice interrupted my thought.

DON’T LISTEN TO THEM. LISTEN TO ME. I’LL TELL YOU THE TRUTH.

What? Who are you? What do you mean?

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Buffering…buffering…buffer—

WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME SO LISTEN CLOSELY. YOU NEED TO FIND A WAY TO ESCAPE —

Escape? How can I possibly escape? When I’m not strapped down to this chair, I’m sedated. I don’t even know where the hell I am. Who are you? How are we even having this conversation?

JUST FIND AN OPPORTUNITY TO ESCAPE BEFORE THEY HAVE A CHANCE TO SEDATE YOU. YOU’RE SMART, YOU’LL THINK OF SOMETHING. COME FIND ME AND I’LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING —

Where are you?

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Buffering…

Hello? Are you still there? What the hell is going on?

Initiate session two. Upon completion of your rehabilitation you will return to your residence in…New York City. We’re sorry to inform you that you have no next of kin. A case worker will be appointed to coordinate aftercare as needed. In the event that—

LIES. THOSE ARE ALL LIES. YOUR FAMILY IS OUT THERE WAITING FOR YOU. DON’T LET THEM OVERWRITE YOUR LIFE. COME FIND ME.

Where? How do I find you?

LOOK FOR THE SIGN THAT SAYS, ‘CLONE BLOCK’.

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Session two aborted.

“Hmmm the program must have malfunctioned,” Dr. Kuran said, turning her back to me as she rested the headset on her computer cart. “I’ll have the IT department analyze the session transcript and—” She was interrupted by an alarm.

“Paging all personnel to the recovery pods.” A voice announced through the intercom. “A new specimen has been recovered. All personnel please report to the recovery pods immediately.”

“This is Dr. Kuran…can anyone hear me?” She shouted into the communication device clipped to her lab coat.

This is my chance. It’s now or never.

I contorted myself in the chair until I could slowly remove the velcro strap from my right wrist with my teeth — the alarm overpowered the sounds of my escape. In a matter of seconds, I freed my other wrist and both ankles. I grabbed the loaded syringe from the tray next to the chair.

“I’m in the middle of a cognitive therapy session. Let me just get the specimen sedated and then I’ll be right there.”

Just before she turned around, I jammed the syringe into Dr. Kuran’s neck. Within seconds she crumpled to the floor. I stumbled to the door, pried it open, and peeked into the hallway. Empty.

After a few twists and turns through stark white corridors bathed in harsh fluorescent lighting, I spotted a plaque next to a door that read, Clone Block. My heart pounded along with the blaring alarm and I wondered how long it would take them to find Dr. Kuran. Grasping the door handle, I glanced up and down the hallway. Seeing no one, I slipped inside.

A long concrete aisle, lined with jail cells on either side, stretched away from me. Dozens of outstretched hands reached for me through metal bars as the prisoners shouted, competing for my attention. About halfway down the aisle, I spotted a limp body on the floor. I walked toward it — a guard, unconscious, with blood slowly pooling beneath his body. The crimson liquid inched its way toward a toothbrush that had been crafted into a shiv.

“Frank!” Someone yelled nearby.

I stared, mesmerized by the slowly expanding puddle. The alarm halted.

“Frank, c’mon man. We don’t have much time.” The voice was coming from the cell next to the guard’s body.

“Is he—?”

“Dead? Probably. But in case he isn’t, we need to hurry if we’re going to have any chance of getting out of this place.”

I stole my eyes away from the guard and stepped closer to the cell where the prisoner had a white-knuckled grip on the bars. His desperate amber eyes looked back at me from beneath disheveled brown hair. The photograph from the cognitive therapy sessions flashed in my mind’s eye, a replica of the man standing before me.

“The photograph….Who are you?” I said, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the guard’s body. “They said it was me—but you look—”

“I can explain everything later, but there’s no time for that right now. It’s just a matter of time before they realize what we’ve done. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Trust you? I feel like I’m losing my freaking mind here. Is this even real? How do I know I’m not still wearing that headset or laying in some pod right now?”

“Just listen to me.” He slammed his fists on the bars. “This isn’t a hospital or a rehab facility, it’s something much worse than that.” He pointed at the guard sprawled on the ground. “Now, grab those keys from his belt and open this cell so we can get the hell out of here, and then I’ll explain everything. I’m the only person here you can trust.”

Reaching down with trembling fingers I fumbled with the key ring on the guard’s belt.

“Hurry up,” The prisoner shouted, startling me.

I dropped the keys in the pool of blood. “I’m trying!” I scooped up the keys which were now dripping with blood. After several attempts, I found the right key, and the cell door creaked open.

“Now what? How do we get out of here?” I panted.

“That’s for me to find out. I’m sorry, but there’s only room for one Frank Billingsly in this world.” He said, shoving me into the cell.

“Hey, what the—”

He sucker-punched me in the nose, snapping my head back. I toppled onto the cot as he slammed the cell door and locked it. His footsteps running down the aisle to the cheers and pleas of the other prisoners grew distant as everything faded to black.

***

A nurse hovered over me. I blinked repeatedly trying to clear my vision. My eyes darted around taking in my new surroundings. It appeared to be a hospital room. A contestant was spinning the wheel on The Price is Right on the small TV mounted on the wall. I glanced out the window — sunlight was filtering through the clouds as cars maneuvered through the parking lot below.

“Welcome back, Mr. Winfred.” The nurse said with a kind smile.

“What? That’s not my name….Where am I? I thought I was….How did I get here?” I said, groggily.

“You’re in Union General Hospital. You’ve been here for a few weeks.” She patted my arm.

“Where’s Frank?” I asked, panicked.

“Like I told you before, there’s no one here named Frank.” She averted her gaze and fiddled with my IV port. “Hallucinations are a common symptom in the late stages of the virus.”

“Virus?”

“Mr. Winfred, you’re running out of time to make a decision. I’ll fetch Dr. Harbaugh to review your options again,” She said, gesturing to the paperwork scattered across the tray in front of me.

She started to leave the room, then doubled back and grabbed something off a side table.

“I almost forgot,” She said, passing me a newspaper. “I know how much you like your daily paper.”

As she left the room I unfolded the newspaper and read the front page headline.

Controversial Experimental Technology Underway to Upload Brain Data into Clones of the Immune as Virus Deaths Climb.

I shifted my attention to the two stacks of papers on the tray: A Do-Not-Resuscitate Order and an agreement to participate in the Brain Data Transfer Clinical Trial.

“Good afternoon, Charles.” Dr. Harbaugh said as he crossed the room to sit in the chair beside my bed.

“Charles? First, a voice in my head tells me my name is Frank and now you’re calling me Charles. What the hell is going on?”

Dr. Harbaugh removed the medical chart from the foot of my bed and handed it to me. “Let’s review the facts again, Charles.” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose while I flipped open the manila folder.

Name: Charles John Winfred

DOB: February 23, 1962

Age: 62

Date of admission: April 24, 2024

Diagnosis: Neocryptic Virus

I glanced at the date in the newspaper, May 15, 2024. There was a headshot photo paperclipped to the chart — a man with salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow.

“Give me a mirror.”

Dr. Harbaugh replaced his glasses and squinted at me. “Excuse me?”

“I want to see myself.”

He pulled a smartphone from his pocket and held it up to my face with the camera in selfie mode.

Piercing blue eyes stared back at me. My face, looking much more gaunt than in the photograph, was covered with silver stubble. I traced the scar on my eyebrow with my index finger and handed the phone back to him.

“What happens if I don’t do the clinical trial?”

He returned the phone to his pocket and the chart to the foot of the bed. “You will succumb to the virus in three to six weeks.”

The silence between us was interrupted by someone being paged over the intercom system.

“Charles, let me remind you that the clinical trial offers you the opportunity to preserve your mind. This virus has ravaged your body but you can have a new lease on life once your brain data is uploaded into a suitable host.”

There’s only room for one Frank Billingsly in this world.

He glanced at the newspaper. “Despite what you’ve heard from the media, this technology has undergone rigorous testing and the results are very promising.”

“Thank you for the information, but I’ve made my decision.”

I signed my name, Charles Winfred, at the bottom of the Do-Not-Resuscitate Order.

***

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‘68 Comeback

Posted on February 8, 2024 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the 2023 NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Challenge. It placed 9th in round one in a group of over forty entries therefore advancing me to round two of the competition. I was required to write a 250-word story that matched the following prompts: Genre: Action and/or Adventure. Action: Waiting for a delivery. Word to be included: “Dark”. I will be given new prompts and required to write a new story for round two of the challenge.]

—

“December 3, 2023,” Glenn mumbled into his recorder. “Trial 1,015. I’ll be testing the addition of quartz crystals…if they ever arrive.”

There was a knock on the laboratory door and his assistant entered.

“Delivery for you.”

“Finally,” Glenn said. “You can head home. I’ll lock up.”

He calibrated the machine, the flame of hope growing ever dimmer in his soul. He plucked the crystals from the package, inserted them into the socket, closed the housing, and powered the machine on.

Nada.

He snatched the recorder, ready to document yet another failure, when he heard the buzzing and crackling of circuitry. There was an intense flash of light as the machine exploded, launching shrapnel at his face and blowing him backward. His head collided with the linoleum floor.

When he came to, smoke billowed along the ceiling. Blaring fire alarms filled his ringing ears. Flames licked the sterile white walls, inching closer to the cabinet marked flammable. He grabbed a microfiber rag off the counter, covered his mouth and nose, and stumbled toward the door as acetone, xylene, and other chemicals exploded in succession like a July 4th grand finale.

The inferno chased him to the Broad Street exit where he burst into the fresh night air. The nearby street lamp summoned him, a beacon in the dark, as it illuminated the poster attached to it. Exhilaration pumped fresh oxygen into his smoke-filled lungs as he read:

Singer Sewing Machine Co. Presents

Elvis

‘68 Comeback

Tuesday, December 3, 7 pm NBC

—

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Helper of Mankind

Posted on December 18, 2021 by jamiegregory

[11 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

S1 E4: Helper of Mankind (A Dystopian Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

Sixteen-year-old Sasha Malone participates in a government-mandated coming-of-age ritual and discovers her unexpected destiny. I hope you enjoy this short story. Genre categories: Fiction, dystopian, science fiction, coming-of-age. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory

On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I was jolted awake by the discordant sounds of a car horn blaring outside and my mom’s fists banging on my bedroom door. I rolled over in bed with the agility of a sloth. 5:53 am — my birth minute. Happy birthday to me, I thought grudgingly.

Mom’s voice, teetering between stern and panicky tones, shouted at me through the door, “Sasha, are you awake? The taxi is here to take you to your HCTA. Sasha? C’mon, hurry up. You know what happens if you don’t show up for the HCTA.”

I was all too familiar with the ramifications of skipping your Health and Civic Trajectory Analysis, or HCTA for short. I’ve been lectured about the significance of the HCTA by relatives, teachers, and doctors for as long as I can remember. And those conversations always placed a heavy emphasis on the consequences of not participating in this mandatory coming-of-age procedure: a hefty fine of .02 Bitcoins and spending the last two years of your youth in a juvenile detention center where you’re inevitably forced to participate in the HCTA and begin your career placement training.

I got dressed hastily, threw my hair into a messy ponytail, and popped a breath mint into my mouth. I pressed my thumb onto the fingerprint reader on my door to unlock it, catching my mom in mid-knock as it slid sideways.

“It’s about time. Here, take this and run outside before the taxi leaves.” Mom said while thrusting a blueberry muffin into my hands.

“Mom, you know they’re not called taxis anymore, right? It’s an APTV.”

“Taxi, APTV, what difference does it make? I can’t keep all of these acronyms straight these days.”

I stepped onto our front porch as the APTV’s public address system made an announcement in a robotic voice. “Attention, Sasha Malone. Please board the autonomous public transportation vehicle waiting for you at 521 Carrbrook Court. Time remaining to board: five minutes.” This announcement was simultaneously broadcast to my personal cellular devices. Ok, geez. I’m coming, I thought as I jogged towards the APTV.

I unlocked the APTV using the fingerprint reader on the door which then swung upwards like a bird lifting its wings to take flight. I climbed in and the door closed automatically beside me.

The robotic voice returned. “Good morning, Sasha Malone. Your destination is the Department of Career Placement laboratory. Estimated travel time: twenty-two minutes.”

Normally I’d spend the next twenty-two minutes watching videos about cloning fails or hacking residential AI systems as a prank — but my mind was preoccupied with the potential outcomes of my HCTA.

The Health and Civic Trajectory Analysis was developed by the newly formed Department of Career Placement in response to the unemployment crisis that nearly crippled America following the COVID-19 pandemic in the early 2020s. According to my school history books, the HCTA utilized state-of-the-art DNA profiling to identify an individual’s optimal profession, mating compatibility profile, probability of having offspring, susceptibility to diseases, and estimated lifespan. The HCTA was quickly mandated for all citizens upon turning sixteen. Anyone who didn’t comply with their recommended career placement would face severe legal consequences.

Now, three decades later, the nation’s unemployment rate is at an all-time historical low and the economy is booming. What the government has failed to address, however, is the exponential growth of depression and suicide rates in response to the HCTA rollout. It’s pretty hard to see the glass half full if you’re forced into a career you aren’t passionate about, told that your chances of having a family are bleak, given a laundry list of diseases you’re susceptible to, and predicted to have a shorter-than-average lifespan.

I started reminiscing about a popular fortune-telling game we used to play in grade school to predict our future HCTA results. Invariably you would end up with wretched outcomes and it quickly became a contest to see who was predicted to have the most miserable life. It’s all fun and games until someone’s life actually does become miserable. I tried shifting to a more optimistic mindset by making a mental list of careers I’d be most excited about. Something adventurous and meaningful. Deep-sea diver, search and rescue, astronaut—

“You have arrived at your destination.” The APTV said while opening its doors and interrupting my daydreams. I reluctantly left the comfort of the car and stood face to face with the laboratory that would soon determine my destiny.

Since the entire facility is operated by robots, I only crossed paths with one other human while I was there, a fellow teenager who was exiting the building as I approached the main entrance.

“Happy birthday,” I said with a timid smile.

“What? Oh, uh, yeah…happy birthday to you too.” He said dismissively, his face etched with worry.

I took a deep breath, opened the building’s exterior doors, and walked into the vestibule which contained nothing more than a small kiosk. “Welcome to the Department of Career Placement laboratory. Please proceed to the identification scanner.” A voice recording announced.

I tentatively approached the kiosk which seemed to feature nothing more than a small fingerprint reader at first glance. Seconds later a screen suddenly rose from within the kiosk until it reached eye level and then it extended towards me until it was just inches from my face.

“Please stand still and stare at the screen in front of you for the retinal scan.”

With that, the screen came to life and I could see an image of myself reflected in it. After the beam of infrared light passed over my eyes, the screen portrayed a portrait of me along with my name, date of birth, social security number, and home address. Well, that’s pretty snazzy.

“Please place your thumb on the fingerprint reader.”

After my thumb had been scanned, the display on the screen confirmed that my fingerprint and retinal scan matched and I was in fact who I was supposed to be.

“This concludes the identification scan. Your identity has been successfully verified. Please proceed through the doors directly in front of you to the laboratory.”

The screen in front of me went dark and disappeared back inside the kiosk which was positioned between me and the double doors leading into the laboratory. As I approached the doors they opened automatically, beckoning me one step closer to discovering what my future held.

I entered a small, brightly lit, clinical room. It was completely bare with the exception of a robotic contraption in the middle of the room which had a large open-ended plastic tube hovering next to it that extended upwards and vanished into the ceiling. My eyes darted around the room waiting for my next set of instructions. I just want to get out of here. This place is creeping me out.

“Please approach the robot and position your feet on the line on the floor. Now, extend your arm straight in front of you with your palm facing up, make a fist, and remain very still while your blood sample is collected.”

I stretched my arm out and focused on steadying my trembling fist like my life depended on it. The machine’s robotic arms suddenly aroused, unfolding and reaching toward me. A laser beam was used to scan the veins in the crook of my arm and then a ligature was tied a few inches higher. A needle and a small test tube materialized from within the machine. I noticed that the test tube was already labeled with my name, date of birth, and social security number. The needle slid into my arm effortlessly like an expired leaf gliding to the ground on a still fall day. The blood was transferred into the test tube which was then inserted into the large plastic tube next to the robot and sucked up into the ceiling and off to who knows where. The machine slapped a bandage on my arm, released the ligature, and collapsed into itself once again as if the ordeal was rather exhausting.

“This concludes the blood sample collection. You will receive your Health and Civic Trajectory Analysis results via hologram at your residence in approximately one week. Please exit the building through the vestibule upon which you entered.”

One week? Why does it take so long? This was pretty anti-climatic compared to all the hype I’ve been facing for the past sixteen years.

Later that evening I was sitting at the kitchen table, silently picking at the meatloaf on my plate, while Mom and Dad chatted with my younger brother Seth about his upcoming basketball season. Their conversation halted when our hologram pad in the living room chimed, indicating that we had an incoming message. I jumped up from the table and I was halfway into the living room when my dad shouted, “Sasha, in case you’ve forgotten we have the rule to ignore holograms during dinnertime.”

As I approached the pad in the corner of our living room the hologram emerged. I was standing eye to eye with the image of a woman I didn’t recognize. She was holding a tablet and wearing a white lab coat.

“Good evening, Sasha Malone. I’m Dr. Watkins from the Department of Career Placement. I have an important message to deliver but it’s imperative that your parents are present.”

“Mom, Dad. You better come in here.” I shouted.

Once my parents were flanking me the woman continued, “Good evening, Malone family. I’m Dr. Watkins from the Department of Career Placement. I’m sending this message to inform you that Sasha’s HCTA results have been expedited due to the fact that she has received a government-classified career placement. Agents from our department will be arriving shortly to permanently relocate Sasha to our training base. I’m sure this might be startling news for you. On behalf of everyone here at the DoCP I’d like to thank you for making this sacrifice for your nation.”

The hologram disappeared leaving a void that was filled with my mother’s agonizing sobs as she collapsed onto the couch. My dad was frozen with a look of utter shock on his face. I could feel a sense of panic rising inside me like a tidal wave. I looked back and forth between my parents desperately waiting for one of them to say something reassuring. A forceful knock on the front door made all of us jump and exchange glances. Dad was the first one to react, crossing the room to answer the door.

Two uniformed men stood in the doorway brandishing DoCP badges. “Good evening, sir. I’m Agent Bricard and this is Agent Stamos. We’re from the Department of Career Placement and we’re here to transport Sasha Malone to a classified career training base.”

My mom rushed to my dad’s side and frantically said, “What’s going on? You’re taking her…right now? Where is she going? Will we ever see her again?”

“Ma’am please remain calm. There’s nothing to worry about. I can assure you that your daughter will be in good hands and she is going to be of great service to our country. You should be proud. Once Sasha has arrived at our undisclosed facility she will be permitted to send holograms to you, under supervision of course in order to protect the confidentiality of her work.”

I embraced my parents as if it was the last time because, for all I knew, it was. I urged my hands to memorize the strength of my dad’s muscular back which had sustained me for countless piggyback rides. I inhaled the sweet smell of my mom’s trademark perfume, committing it to memory as well. Then I followed the two agents, stepping out of my familiar, mundane life and into the unknown.

I was transported in the windowless cargo section of a government van so that even I didn’t know where our destination was located. After a considerable amount of travel time, the van came to a stop and the agents released me. We had arrived at a nondescript warehouse, the only sign of civilization, in the middle of a dense forest. The agents escorted me inside the warehouse and deposited me into a small office where the woman from the hologram, Dr. Watkins, was sitting behind the desk waiting expectantly.

“Hello, Sasha.” She said. “Sasha, that’s a great name. Do you know what it means?”

“No,” I said nervously.

“It means defender, helper of mankind. Isn’t destiny a beautiful thing?” She seemed to be lost in thought for a moment and then continued, “Speaking of names…I have a confession to make. I’m not actually Dr. Watkins and this isn’t the Department of Career Placement.”

I jumped out of my seat. “What? I knew this was crazy. Where am I? What’s going—”

“Calm down, Sasha. You’re safe here, I promise. Just have a seat and let me explain.”

I hesitantly lowered back into the seat.

“My name is Susan Jacobs. I run an underground organization and our mission is to overthrow the government’s restrictions on foster care children and restore their rights as citizens of this country.”

“Foster care children? What are you talking about? And what does this have to do with me?”

“Unbeknownst to most of the general population, our country has nearly 750,000 foster care children living in government facilities. The government has eliminated the adoption process that existed for hundreds of years, therefore, denying these kids the opportunity to be placed with a loving family. These children are provided a sorry excuse for an education and then forced into the worst, lowest-paying jobs that nobody else wants. They are prohibited from participating in the HCTA and discovering their true destinies. You are going to help us infiltrate the system and set them free.”

“Wow, that’s really messed up. How can they get away with that?” It was a rhetorical question so we were both silent for a moment while I digested this overwhelming information. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

“We’ve been hacking into the DoCP database for a while now intercepting HCTA results to find the ideal candidates to train for this covert operation. Your DNA profile and ancestry were exactly what we were looking for. You’re highly intelligent. You have many physical aptitudes and a spirit of adventure. And when I discovered the meaning of your name, defender, helper of mankind, I knew that we needed you on our roster.”

By the time I left Susan’s office at the end of that first meeting I was all in on her mission — hook, line, and sinker.

After two years of intensive training, I found myself sitting in an APTV parked in front of a small government-operated foster care facility. I was accompanied by two of my fellow trainees and we were all disguised as laboratory technicians. I took a quick glance at myself in the mirror before exiting the car to tackle the first of many infiltrations of foster care facilities across the nation. I barely recognized myself. I had been transformed into a machine, a human-machine programmed for compassion, ingenuity, and grit.

The details of our visit had been meticulously arranged. Susan used her connections with universities across the United States to gain government approval for conducting scientific research on the DNA profiles of foster care children. We were welcomed into the facility under the guise of collecting blood samples for the research program. Our hackers ran those blood samples through the HCTA system and generated credible HCTA reports for every eighteen-year-old foster child from that facility who was on the verge of being released. We tracked those children down, equipped them with the new reports, and transported them to their respective career training facilities to embark on a journey toward their true destinies.

When I accepted this mission I thought I left behind my life and the world as I knew it. But in reality, I was simply evolving into the person that the world needed me to be. The person who sent the twenty-five children from that first facility, and many more after them, on a life trajectory full of potential which will yield ripples of influence for generations to come.

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This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: End your story with someone finding themselves.