I met Line 3 under very different circumstances.
The day has been one of those when the sun decides to be a pale, miserable blob. Maybe it's the approaching flu season, but there's more than virus in the air now - I smell it in the oily smoke of nameless burger shops: little lonely islands of grease and urbanization outlined in flickering neon, advertising soup plus a pork slider during happy hours; more of the isolation swirls around monolithic gas station signs in the night fog, beaming petrol prices like a prophetic vision. I don't remember what set me off, but I don't feel happy to get a call from my mother on my way home from work.
image [https://i.imgur.com/qeKVXE7.jpeg[/img]]
She always has things to talk about but never things I want to hear, and the habitual correspondence I reserve for customers is all but sold out at the end of the day. I watch the congealed traffic crawl through 5 P.M. streets. Still, she would not shut up about my future. I try to let her voice melt into the cold grey, but every syllable keeps jumping out at me, waiting to mug me when I turn the corner.
"...go out more. I bought you a gym membership last year and you didn't even use it. You can't rely on your meds forever, Mara, it's not a permanent solution to your problems. What will you do if you moved away? Are you going to go back to locking yourself up in your room? Last time it took two years for you to come out-"
"-I told you, I just wanted some privacy-"
"-And you stopped doing volunteer services. Did you know Vanessa from the community center has been calling me, asking about where you went? She said 'What happened to Mara? Is she sick? Is she in the hospital?' and I had to tell her you just didn't want to-"
"-I am sick. Sick of being stuck in a room with people on probation and kids sentenced to scrub swimming pools because they got drunk or high-"
"-this is why you can't make new friends-"
A Nissan screeches past the curb I stand on narrowly. The driver, either en route to his wife's childbirth or just really into drifting techniques, blares his horns at me and flips me off as he skids away, splashing rain gutter muck over my shoes. Something in me snaps in that moment.
"I KNOW!" I scream into my phone, and I end the call. Just standing on the curb by the street, staring into the traffic light that's beginning to blur from my tears.
I don't want to hear anything. I don't want to be here. I don't want to think.
But I still have to eat something, so I turn to drag myself towards the gas station burger shop, wiping my tears frantically all the while.
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I usually eschew these burger joints because I have seen what goes on in the back kitchens. Still, can't be too picky if I want to be fed at a reasonable price. The bright neon sign "𝓑𝓮𝓮'𝓼 𝓑𝓾𝓻𝓰𝓼" flickers in rainbow gasoline puddles. Faded menus taped to windows peer out at me like greasy little handprints, with only the image of a buffalo chicken wrap surviving.
image [https://i.imgur.com/LtL0Qz7.jpeg[/img]]
The register is empty. Warmth of kitchen steam and deep fried bits rise to embrace me with a late night, air-conditioned hug. The floor is clean at least, a stark contrast to the scattered plastic tables and chairs, courtesy of the only waiter and his cleaning rag that has seen some shit. Faint music trickles out of an old stereo (I could've sworn my father had the same one back in 2005), switching between sleep-talking rappers incoherently mumbling. One wall is an enormous vintage poster of beach-goers on a sunny day, the rest all plastered in newspaper clippings, patron photos, fake IDs snagged off kids and local band advertisements. I always like to stare at these walls for a bit, picking out the photos with dogs in them.
"Can I help you." The waiter stuffs the rag in his apron and heads over to ring me up, his question more of a statement at this point. I don't blame him - there's camaraderie in the mutual suffering of the service industry.
"A buffalo chicken wrap, please."
"You want mustard or mayo with that?"
"Mustard, if you would."
"We're out of mustard." He states plainly. Ah, the illusion of choice.
I watch him dump an entire pack of chicken breast into the deep fryer, then start on dousing everything else in a shower of cheddar cheese and salt. Say what you will about hypertension, but if my arteries are going to look like New York sewer pipes in a few years, I will take comfort in the fact that it was worth it.
Mother's voice is still ringing in my head over that stupid mumble rap. I rest my head on the table so I can squeeze my eyes shut and focus on something else, anything else, anything but the bitter resentment gnawing me. Sniffling and weeping in a little roadside diner is pathetic teenager behavior, and I refuse to give in.
"I can make friends." I rub my eyes dry, trying not to look at my reflection. "I can make lots of friends."
As if to answer me directly, the stereo starts blasting "𝒜𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓃', 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓃', 𝒶𝓎𝑒 - 𝒢𝑜𝓉 𝓃𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒, 𝑔𝑜𝓉 𝓃𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹, 𝐿𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝑔𝒶𝓂𝑒, 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒-"
Well, fuck you too FM 86.7! I switch defense mechanisms and engage zoning out protocols. I like watching the car lights flash by the fogged window, wondering what kind of lives each one is ferrying. Evenings like these are best spent without company, just your thoughts drifting off to shitty music until you're floating in a different world, and you stay floating there for as long as you want - or as long as it takes to finish the buffalo chicken wrap.
image [https://i.imgur.com/QIvTM5g.jpeg[/img]]
The night mist sinks into a slow drizzle outside, warmed by residues of the day's heat. The world outside grows blurry, so blurry I can't tell if it's the rain or the sleep filling my eyes. I smell the oil and salt now - the promise of crispy, golden grilled chicken. Just closing my eyes for a little bit here, so tired...
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𝒯𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝐼'𝓋𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝓉 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓉𝑒,
𝒮𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝑒-
I wake up to the faint tune of some twangy, grimy old country music tune with a way over-the-top accent. The street lights are still on, but the convenient store across the street has its blinds shut, along with most other stores.
How long did I sleep?
𝒪𝒽 𝐼'𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝑔𝓇𝓎, 𝐼 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓃'𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓅,
𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒, 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝑜𝓉-
The music coming from the stereo is the only sound in the store now. No more sizzling oil, no more kitchen fans whirring, not even footsteps - what the fuck is happening? Did I oversleep? Why didn't the waiter wake me up? And more importantly, where is my food? I'm starving!
I clock the digital timepiece above the counter: 11:23 PM, well past any restaurant's closing time. Something is clearly wrong.
𝒮𝑜, 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒶𝓎?
𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓉𝑜𝒹𝒶𝓎-
The singer drags out the "todayyyyyyyyyyyyyy" until hunger and resentment propel me to turn off the stereo. If the building is empty now I might as well cut and run, then maybe just bitch about the treatment I got on a review website, since the money is probably a lost cause at this point.
As soon as the stereo is unplugged, another sound trickles in, much quieter than that hackneyed singing: faint chewing coming from behind the kitchen doors.
Nah, fuck this, I'm out.
I try the front doors: locked. I try the side doors leading to the parking lot: locked. I try the fire exit: blocked by an OSHA violation. I circle around to the bathroom to check for windows: all walls.
Now, it's easy to look back on these sorts of scenarios and say "Wow, Mara, that was so dumb. Why didn't you just call the police or the fire department?". But I ask of you, gentle reader, to understand that I would rather end up the inspiration for an episode of a true crime podcast than embarrass myself because I slept through closing hours. I will probably have to explain to a dozen people including my own mother that I wasn't robbing the store, I just wanted a chicken wrap. Even though my day job is to make phone calls and talk to people, I still find it significantly less enjoyable than death.
I decide to check the kitchen and staffrooms. Hopefully someone left a spare key in there along with my order, so I don't leave empty-handed. Just to be safe, I grab the tiny pepper spray from behind the register - probably good for one spritz on a raccoon-sized assailant, but still better than nothing.
A thought flashes into my head as I push open the double doors leading to the kitchen: if everyone left for the day, why was the radio still on?
The chewing stops abruptly.
image [https://i.imgur.com/4pzOIqq.jpeg[/img]]
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Bad decision.
Whatever is inside, its eyes reflect back at me through the murky darkness, definitely not raccoon-sized judging by their distance. Scent of meat fills up the room, the kind of pungent blood-stench you can only smell at a butcher shop and not a tidy little supermarket, fresh and bloody, taken straight from the freezer.
My first instinct is to fumble for the light switch, only to realize the motherfucker in charge of construction placed it all the way at the back of the room. The thing bellows, a wretched mix between an elk bugle and a cow's lowing, ending in a hoarse scream that's almost human-like. It is out of meat and I am 110 pounds of fresh meat that just walked in on a silver platter. I can't make out its shape in the darkness, but going by the sound of something scraping against the ceiling, it's about 9 foot and "fuck you" inches.
It swings its head and hurls a solid chunk of frozen burger patty at me. The damn thing hits me like a missile. My vision is struck with a blinding whiteness, and a ringing tremor surrounds my head. As it shrieks in that half-man half-beast voice, I can feel my bravado evaporating: I'm not dying in a fucking burger shop. I run for the fire alarm.
𝐼'𝓂 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑜 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝑔𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒,
𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓃𝓈, 𝒻𝓁𝑒𝓈𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝑜𝓇𝑒-
Somehow the radio switches itself back on despite being still unplugged. The singer sounds like a rabid wolf snarling into the mic. I mentally picture myself running from the beast while this rickety old tune blares in the back cartoonishly, because the gods love dark irony and I am the eternal clown.
I can hear it crashing through the kitchen behind me in a cacophony of pots and pans. I don't really think - I act on instinct and splash a jar of sriracha sauce at it, right where its eyes should be. It seems the power of capsaicin is universal because the thing reels back and screams again, flailing to wipe its eyes clean, and I see by the dim light outside that one of its arms is made out of a hock of ham.
Whatever it is, it seems to be an amalgamation of meat products. The massive, misshapen cow head pieced together from broken bones lolls from side to side, held up by a jigsaw torso of beef ribs. Ground pork and sausage-intestines ooze from the hollow chest and trail behind with each step, squelching, writhing, trying to grab onto any more meat in its proximity and absorb it. I suppose that explains the single meat hook hanging from its back that was once attached to the ceiling. Its other arm comes up to smack a lamp out of its way - a human arm, melded at the joints. I follow the arm to the subsumed, vaguely familiar face of the waiter. Only his jaw remains, and what little lungs that can still breathe to utter the most horrific scream from beneath this...mountain of flesh.
I make a split-second decision to sprint for the kitchen torch next to the grill, then I remember the pepper spray. I can't find the fire alarm, but I can set it off with a little makeshift flamethrower. I aim the pepper spray at the thing lumbering towards me and flick on the kitchen torch.
Click.
Oh you have got to be fucking with me.
The pathetic little cloud of pepper spray spirits away into the air vents like a sad ghost of my short-lived conviction. As a last-ditch effort I throw the torch as hard as I can at it, with about as much success as hitting a windshield with a bug. I am the bug, my life is the windshield, and the 300 pound meat windshield wiper is charging at me now.
Ring...
My phone! I hold it up and shine the flashlight right into its eyes, it works great as a flashbang. Within the two precious seconds it buys me, I'm running for the back exit and screaming into the phone.
"I need help-!"
A woman's voice on the other end, low and quiet, one I've never heard before. "A little bit to the right."
"What?"
"I said, move a little bit to your right."
I don't understand why, but I veer right as she instructs. At the same time the creature finally bursts out of the kitchen, shattering the doors against their hinges.
BANG!
image [https://i.imgur.com/ib2hRTV.jpeg[/img]]
In a brilliant shower of glass, the shot pierces through its eye sockets in slow-motion, hitting the creature before the smoke trail even dissipated. I probably screamed and tripped over myself at some point, because I'm scooting backwards in a blind panic watching the thing twist in agony, its intestines flailing all over the ground. That shot must've hit something serious.
"Told ya to move right." Comes the smug response.
"Where...are you? Who are you?"
"Look out the window."
I peer out a little. I don't know what I'm expecting, but it probably isn't the silhouette of a woman crouching Batman-style atop the roof across the street. There's sniping from a vantage point, and then there's posing for maximum dramatic effect. Right now she is definitely posing.
image [https://i.imgur.com/BI9ssQI.jpeg[/img]]
"Are you..."
"Yep." She gives me a little wave from atop the roof. "Thought I smelled an Aggregate, so figured I'd check."
Behind me, I can hear flesh squishing itself together slowly. "Can you get me out of here?"
"In a minute."
She hangs up the call. I can't tell what she's doing up there, but a moment later she is smashing through the broken window like a freight train (because that's just how my night is going). I am definitely screaming this time. She dusts the glass off herself before pulling out two ancient-looking pistols from her shoulder holsters, both barrels leveled at the Aggregate.
"I only learned this after I started on the job." She rolls her shoulders stiffly. "Best way to deal with one of these-"image [https://i.imgur.com/MvB7kov.jpeg[/img]]
I dive for under the table to curl up and hide, but nothing comes close to shutting out that deafening blast from the pistols. I don't hear her reload, I don't hear the cylinders being spun, I spend about a good minute or so just praying nothing ricochets into me. When I open my eyes again, the Aggregate, or whatever it's called, has been reduced to a pile of fleshy mush.
"-is with overwhelming force."
The woman shakes wisps of smoke off the pistols' red-hot barrels, like it's normal for those antique pieces to be firing so many rounds that they overheat. I clock her weird-looking ballistic mask that has earned quite a few scratches, the holsters, and the fact that she doesn't seem to be carrying ammo anywhere. At this point, the weirdness of it all is enough to help me figure out who she works for.
"You're...?" I ask, she wipes the gunpowder off on the waiter's poor tattered rag and offers me a hand that is somehow even dirtier than before.
"I work Line 3. Lotta hits these days. Folks call me Samiel."
This is perhaps one of the weirdest introductions to a coworker I've ever had. I shake her hand and can't help but wonder if the mask is really for her safety or just an aesthetic. Whenever I transferred to Line 3, I always pictured someone completely different based on the single sticky-note that serves as my guide.
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image [https://i.imgur.com/6WNlzG4.jpeg[/img]]𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝟹 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝟹 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝟹'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠, 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝟹 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝙰𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝟹 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝙰𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝙲𝚘., 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.
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Samiel dusts herself off and starts picking through the pile of flesh. I wince a little as she flops over the lifeless arm that was once attached to the poor waiter.
"How did this...he...?"
"Oh, the Aggregate?" She repeats that again, as if it's going to make more sense the second time, "It's lots of little pieces trying to make a...gestalt, chasing a complete form. Maybe it started with a single steak or bacon, then along the way it just snowballed...everything. I'm not good with the intel, I just shoot them."
Yeah, I figured, still. "That doesn't really make sense."
Samiel shrugs. "If it made sense, they wouldn't have hired me."
"But the waiter, he-"
She shakes her head, I get the feeling it's not the first time someone had this kind of reaction to her. "He was probably caught up in it too, trying to....complete himself. These Aggregates tend to wander closer to whatever is similar to them, you know, like leeches to their favourite fish."
Lovely mental imagery, just lovely. I try to push past the tinnitus, the adrenaline, the sweat soaking my back, the sudden absence of that awful country music, the fever of it all. Samiel, on the other hand, couldn't care less, because she wanders over to pick up a stale plate of tri-tips with some generous onion rings. I don't even see her remove her mask or chew, just - one, two, like she inhaled the food. Then she starts on the bag of chowder fries, and only after vacuuming half of it does she remember I'm still here.
"Want some?"
"I'm good." I think I'm going to lay off meat for at least a month.
"Eat a ribeye, stop an Aggregate." She is clearly chewing with her mouth open behind that mask, "That's what I always say. Anyways, you better get going before the cleanup guy gets here. He gets cranky on late night shifts."
I still have more questions about how legal everything is and if anything is to be done about the poor waiter. It feels so wrong to just leave his half-liquefied corpse here with someone who clearly doesn't give enough of a shit, but I'm also too tired and scared out of my mind to think of a proper way to respond. So, against all my intuitions, I simply decide to...leave. The last time I look back, Samiel is on the phone with someone else, twirling one of those antique pistols absent-mindedly.
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The walk home is a complete mental haze. As soon as I get to the front door, I notice 8 missed calls from mother.
"Mara, are you home yet? It's really late now, do you need a ride from someone? I can ask-"
"I'm good, mom." I reply as normally as I can. "I'm home."
"As long as you're safe." She breathes a deep sigh of relief, "So, um, about the volunteer stuff..."
She trails off. I sit down by my front door and let the silence take over, debating if I should tell her about what just happened.
"...you don't have to go if you don't want to. I know you're busy now, and you've got a job, so..."
"Really?"
"Really. You're doing enough already."
"Today, I..." I saw a flesh monster that was made out of meat products and a poor soul. I almost died. I met a coworker and I'm pretty sure she's the devil. I watched someone die. I saw real guns.
"...I'm going to go to bed early. Goodnight, mom."
A bit of hesitation from the other end, then "Goodnight, love you. Get some rest, okay?"
For the first time in a long time, I do not dream of that mist-veiled pier and the distant figure. I don't feel sad either, perhaps out of the fear that my sadness is going to draw in some other demented form of Aggregates, but I'm not sad. For the first time in a long time, I'm strangely content with the world and all its cruelties, its slings and arrows, its gentle indifference.
image [https://i.imgur.com/ecm4X3r.jpeg[/img]]