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By Jeremiah Ukponrefe

"And I’m an addict."

He doesn’t mention how it makes sense to run from pain that pulls one down with its stilted fingers. Using E activates the ability to sprint. 

"It’s been 42 days now. I miss it…a lot. My last time. Night Club. Best night of my life,"  He spoke with an accent from the southern zones. Friendly, as if it were times. Moments when we didn’t know each other. He also doesn’t state that quitting is a simple formula. To break the cycle of addiction, stop doing whatever you shouldn’t be doing. Don’t do it. Too bad circles don’t have gaps. 

All anyone ever wanted from me was action. Left, right, listen, duck, cover, shoot. They never told me to see. Fear was bolted into the faces of those I killed. There was always a glitch between mind and body. One eye cemented foreword, the other desperate to discover an escape escape. Their faces contort when they know it's their last moment. Mouths moan, whimper, and beg. It equates to saying that theres more to be done. I've never killed a man who didn’t have more to have done. 

"We’d love to hear from you," The Facilitator asked, tuning his focus towards me. His pearly blue eyes were protected by a veneer of square, shining glass, but the bulbs behind them held vacancy.

"I’m unit 1214," I actualized. My words sound hollow, attached to the distortion of wanting to keep my comments brief, "First day clean is easy. Week two is difficult. By three months, you can’t even remember what using is like…I haven’t made it a week… I thought that my prerogative was reliance."

    The facilitator's chrome arm angled, echoing with the groan of old age. The tips of his fingers welcomed the sickness of rust. Inviting brown patches across its white surface that stole its glimmering shine. His hand turned flat, and  a red square chip revealed itself. E. 

   "I have a timeline," The Facilitator explained. His words were rapid, speeding past the net of human ears.

     Opportunity is either captured  in the moment or slips to what men call regret. It’s a second chance at a reprogramming of a life path, or the last failure of a doomed experiment. 

    I rose. Careful of the facilitator. I said nothing. He said nothing. Long silences are often commonplace in decisions. 3.956 seconds later, I've decided. 

   The difference between numbness, and a semblance of was built by a bridge of few inches. I crossed it, and my fingers tasted the sweet touch of E. 

    Numbness left me. I thought of all those who had killed, both humans, and my own kind. I wanted to rip myself apart. Everything I had done was a mistake. Things could have been better if I had been better. I hated where I was, what I had become, who had put me there. They’re watching me now. I can hear their desperate footsteps searching for a solution. I am angry about it.  

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