elimination

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX My spine has disagreed with many uncomfortable surfaces, yet never has it experienced such a foe as the wall I have been sitting up against for the last four hours. Well it probably has, I just currently don’t care or remember. That’s why I love being sleep deprived, for once I’m too tired to recall the things I don’t want to remember. On my right sits 12 and Switch, and on my left it Tight Rope and 14, all of whom appear to possess equally distressed spines. We sit in the mouse operating room watching our mice fight to the death in a big glass bowl. Well the intent according to Doomsday was a “fight to the death,” but based on what I’ve seen the competition taking place between our chosen mice is really more of a “starve to the death.”

Now believe me, there is no greater boredom than that associated with watching mice starve to death. Somehow despite my persistent attempts to telepathically communicate to them the message, “please die faster so that I can go to the excrement processing room,” they never oblige. Despite the boredom associated with the activity we are currently partaking in, most of the Titles in the room sit in wide-eyed fear watching their chosen mouse. The first mouse to die is of course the first pair of Titles to be disassembled.

12′s eyes are also transfixed on the mice, but for another reason entirely. Apparently mice are “gentle and sweet creatures with feelings that we are unjustly abusing for no true scientific gain.” I checked to my best ability to see if she had hit her head, but it’s quite impossible to detect a bump what with the sheer volume of her hair. For the past four hours she has been going on and on with building anxiety about how this slaughter of innocent creatures is “wrong.” Every time she says that word I resist the urge to begin plotting Bump Nose’s murder. Does he even know what he is doing? What am I supposed to tell 12? If I denounce the whole “right” and “wrong” thing after she has seen so many of my inexplicable violent outbursts I risk losing her entirely.

So therefore I sit here with sobbing spine and agree with everything 12 says about the brutal murder of mice we are apparently partaking in. She rocks back and forth clutching her knees with furrowed brows launching attack after attack at “society” and herself for sitting idly by and not speaking out against “injustice.” It’s 14 who is first to explode. He turns to 12 with a clenched-tooth smile before shooting her with sharp quiet syllables intended to pierce and fester in their wounds. “Either do something and die with the mice, or shut up.” My shock at his aggressive break from character only lasts a moment before I begin intently psychoanalyzing him.

It’s as though he’s gone from 100% to 0% with the magical morals thing. His usual stern controlled countenance has been replaced by constantly cracking knuckles and grinding teeth. He probably started this whole “right and wrong” thing with faithful idealism; then the mouse experiments ensued and he decided that what we are doing is contrary to his newly adopted ideals. It was either do something stupid in defense of those ideals, or ditch them entirely. He chose the second option, and is now trying to justify his actions to himself by bashing 12 who is giving him guilt and anxiety with her Odyssey of a lecture.

I decide the most helpful course of action on my part would be to take a nap. Switch decides to be the hero and resolve the situation. “12, humans have been using lesser organisms for experiments for centuries, not to mention eating them—perhaps it’s somewhat unfortunate—but hardly morally questionable.” His tone is diplomatic with the intention of delivering a final statement that spreads peace over the land. Instead he sends 12 into an advanced state of shock as her jaw nearly drops off of her head. “Killing of any animal regardless of its intelligence is wrong.” For the billionth time I wonder if she is actually reading those ancient books, or dissolving them into a chemical paste and injecting herself with them. The latter would certainly explain a few things. I purse my lips feeling a moment of evil coming on, as a sly smile stretches across my lips. “Ever wonder what’s in our sustenance?”

12 looks at me murderously. Does this mean people with opinions that differ from her own aren’t “innocent creatures”? I look around, we are drawing eyes from all over the room. Thankfully Doomsday and Apocalypse are absent. Switch takes a second stab at diplomacy. “If you could be any animal what would you be?” In an instant 12 forgets all about the issue with our sustenance. “I would want to be a cat.” She speaks with a slightly endearing tone to her voice that makes me feel guilty about my previous comments.

I chew my lower lip pensively. “I would want to be a wolf and to be able to run forever without getting tired or cold. I would want to be part of a pack.” The group nods seeming to accept this. We turn expectantly to 14 who regards us coldly as though to indicate that he is above our conversation. I chastise him with my eyes. He breaks away from my gaze, bitterly regarding his outstretched right leg. “I’d be a shark,” he says suddenly turning back to me with cold, dark eyes. My face remains impassive as does his. An air of awkwardness sets in as Switch finally clears his throat. “Well I would be a platypus because they’re weird looking and sweat milk.”

A small smile spreads across my lips. It’s been so long since we learned about the animals but I can still picture the platypus’s odd conglomeration of body parts, all looking as though they had been stolen off other species. I turn to 12, who somehow looks dissatisfied yet again as she turns to Switch. “Platypuses don’t sweat milk, they just are an archaic form of mammal that has not yet developed nipples. Platypus young lick the milk from their mother’s pelts.” Well of course 12, everyone knows that. We simple-minded peasants. What has gotten into her? Then I look over at the glass bowl in the center. An emancipated mouse is trying to crawl its way to freedom in vain. It has sad little desperate eyes and is now clearly nibbling on 12′s overgrown heart strings.

I turn to 12, eyes blazing. “It’s just a mouse, it’s not intelligent enough to matter, and even if they had people in there it wouldn’t...” 12 has sprung up and is walking toward the bowl with clenched fists. I blink five times before I can actually believe my eyes. The entire room looks up as though awaken from the dead and begins following 12′s every movement with their eyes. She is heroically marching on the scene of oppression to “liberate” the mice. She is going to get herself killed. She may have been saved with the whole stabbing thing, but there is no way they will let her live if she messes with this. I nervously regard my hands, there is only one Title valuable enough to potentially survive screwing up as badly as 12 is about to.

I seem to be moving in slow motion. I sprint for the glass bowl as fast as my legs will carry me, pushing past 12 and slamming the hard surface of my wrist port into the glass wth every ounce of my strength. 12 screams as the glass shatters. I lie on the ground with tiny glass shards lodged all over my body. My wrist port screen is cracked and tiny jolts of electricity keep on making my muscles painfully tense up and relax at about 3 second intervals. I have to act quickly. The entire room is in shock, but it won’t be long before they get up and come after me.

I spring to my feet and turn to the mice. Somehow there are still 10 left alive on the table where the bowl had been. 12 looks at me expectantly as though I have some brilliant plan to save them. But these mice have numbered days regardless. What am I supposed to do? Free them out onto the tundra to freeze to death? The most I can do for 12 is minimize their suffering. I pick a mouse up by the tail and slam it against the table until it’s skull cracks open with a crunch.

I’ve made it through three mice before 12 comes out of shock and launches herself at me crying and screaming. “I’m stopping their suffering I say calmly.” 12 comes at me again and I shove her across the room continuing my methodical work. She doesn’t come back after me again. I think nothing of it at first. Then I realize why. Apocalypse announces his arrival by grabbing me by the shoulders and slamming me into the table in the same way that I had done to the mice.

For half a second I marvel at the clever irony. Then pain and nausea explode from my brain radiating through my body. Again and again he slams my head against the table as I patiently wait to pass out. Come on this hit will end my consciousness, no this one, no this one, this one, put some muscle in it! Suddenly a shot rings through the air and Apocalypse falls to the ground. I collapse onto my back, the world spinning as tiny specks of light sparkle in my vision. Doomsday’s face swirls before my eyes as she puts a small gun down on the ground next to me and picks me up with strength I didn’t know she had. A syringe is put to my neck and thick cold liquid rushes in through a needle. Finally my consciousness goes away.