[FICTION] Tales from Port Astor | Whispers 3

 "Hello caller, you are on the air."

"Am I a bad person? I moved back home to Eugene after graduation. I got my degree in pharmacology, and to be honest, I didn't know what I was going to do with it. My mom told me, frequently, that she didn't know why I didn't go for pre-med instead. I told her it was because I just wasn't interested; the real reason was that I just couldn't bring myself to go into something that would eat so much of my empathy. What if I couldn't save someone? What would I tell a grieving spouse? 'I did all I could'? I could not tell her that I was a coward."

"Am I a bad person? I couldn't take it anymore. I moved to Portland to get away. I got a job as a lab assistant at one of the universities in the city; better that than some retail pharmacy. I lived in an SRO building for a time. Truth be told, I kind of miss those days; me and the others there would get cheap sake and instant noodles from the nearby Safeway, and watch old anime like Macross or Sailor Moon. A bunch of white kids in their 20's living their weebish lives. I was there for close to a year, and while it had its moments, I still couldn't run from the feeling that I was wasting my life, and could almost see the water flowing through my fingers. That's when I got an email."

"Am I a bad person? The email was from Malamedi- a pharma-giant in Port Astor, down south in the state of Jefferson. It was a job offer, with a salary over twice what I was currently making as a lab assistant. Even if it was in that shithole, they offered to cover all the costs of relocation. I was dumbstruck. I asked them how they got my information, and apparently my old advisor gave it to them. I don't know what the ethics of that were, but I didn't care. We emailed a few more times, had a couple of Zoom calls, and an offer was made."

"Am I a bad person? The next two months were a blur. I remember selling half of my stuff, to make the move easier. My family and old friends kept trying to reach me, and to be honest, I didn't want to speak to them. Not until I had something to show them. Something that would show them that I was not a waste."

"Am I a bad person? I remember the time I arrived in  Port Astor. Even just at the airport, I could feel it. This city was wrong. The air, polluted and putrid, was filled with something other than just smog; it was desperation, and hunger. I could feel the misery fired into each brick that was laid. This city didn't want anyone in it. I got into the cab that was paid for by the company, and was whisked away. I watched the city go by as the car drove. It was like what people feared the cities were back in the 1970's; massive homeless camps, people casually doing drugs in the streets, and police savaging someone long past the point of resistance. I covered my mouth in shock, and was filled with regret over my choice. Then the car pulled up to the immense skyscraper that house the Malamedi offices."

"Am I a bad person? As I walked into the building, it was like entering a portal into another world. Clean, white Alaskan marble, accented with a dark grey granite. The air was sterile, clean. I took the elevator up to the suite mentioned in the onboarding email. When I got there, I was greeted by the sight of sprawling cubicles, and office workers moving like worker-bees. I saw down with the guy who recruited me; Daniel was a handsome blond, who was probably more flirty than what would be considered professional, or friendly. The position was to work on research for anti-aging treatments, saying that Malamedi had made extraordinary progress. Daniel said it was the career opportunity of a lifetime."

"Am I a bad person? When I started, the lab was chaotic, yet organized down to the finest details. The biggest thing was, though, was how quiet it was; no one spoke. The only sounds were of the beeping of equipment, the clinking of tubes, vials, and slides, and the droning hum of the overhead lights. I saw the dead eyes of my colleagues, physically there, but minds so far away. I tensely settled in. If it wasn't for everything being so thoroughly documented, I don't know how I would have managed. We were, the team I was a part of, working with blood samples that had amazing qualities, most notable of which was that it would not degrade. Ever. I spent countless hours while working wonder who could be blessed with such amazing physiology."

"Am I a bad person? I was there for months, just measuring for degradation that I knew wasn't to be found. Hundreds, thousands, or another untold amount. I eventually began myself joining the lifeless ranks of those around me. It wasn't until the project manager left, after having a breakdown, that anything changed. It was threatened that if the role wasn't filled, that someone would be 'appointed'. For once, the dead eyes around me showed an emotion; fear. No one volunteered for days. It wasn't until the day of the deadline that I offered myself, which was the second, and final, time I saw an emotion in my colleagues; pity. Surprisingly, my application was accepted. I was the new project manager, after only several months."

"Am I a bad person? I had my own office; a view, a door, and didn't have to share. I felt like I had finally made some sort of progress. That was the day was when I got a meeting invite simply called 'Meet the Donor'. That was the day that I knew. The meeting location was in the lobby, where I met another project manager, and my boss, the director of research. We went down past the research levels, down to what I was always told were storage levels. In hindsight, that was a sick joke. We finally entered a dark room, bare walls except one large darkened window. The two nameless men in lab coats that sat silently, monitoring what looked like vitals, except... there was nothing. No reading on EKG, brain activity. Nothing. I remember being confused. The director motioned, and the window lighted up. That's when I saw him."

"He was emaciated, and chained to the white cement wall. He was the source of the blood I had tested for months. They wouldn't, or couldn't, tell me where he had come from, but knew that he was nearly immortal, as far as could be tested, anyway. They told me that he needed frequent transfusions to keep him alive, as he nearly constantly bled from his eyes, nose, and mouth, from which the samples were collected, which were then sent to my old lab. They walked me out of the room, and on to the next room, and told me they wanted me to see the 'trial subjects'. I saw a room that looked like it belonged to an abattoir; people, black, white, old, young, anyone, strapped to slabs, and punctured with so much transfusion equipment."

"I couldn't hold it, and vomited right in front of the director and other project manager. They looked down at me, saying that it was a common reaction, and that they thought I would have done that in the last room. They took my out of that chthonic lab. That was a year ago. Now, from my office I was so proud to get, that I work through paperwork related to finding 'new trial subjects'. Half of those samples are tattooed with 'REJECT', and disposed. I still don't know what that means. And for those that show changes? I don't know where they go, either. I haven't talked to my family or friends in over a year. I can't face them. I own a luxurious condo, an expensive European car, and a bank account to large to say without bragging, and I can't tell anyone how I made it. Am I a bad person?"

"Thank you, caller."