short lists

“We’re offering you a position in our new porter partnering program.”

Kat stared. In the small, cold room, there was no crackle-snap to the edge of O. Fisher’s words, no tin. The clarity cut like a knife. What they said, when they found their words, was a hoarse, “Have you thought that name through?”

He ignored them. They leaned back in their chair as far as they could, front legs lifting off the concrete floor, their heel steadying the back. “It’s come to our attention that you’d be an ideal candidate for the first wave,” he said. It was a pretty way to say we think you need to be put on suicide watch. Kat scoffed. Fisher’s eyes flicked to meet theirs. They ducked their head. “Lune. You’re a risk to yourself.”

“Not really.”

“You tried to feed yourself into the Incinerator.” Their lips pressed into a thin line. They had nothing to say to that, only partly because it was true. “When the UCA tried to assign you a therapist, you said, quote,” Fisher glances down at the papers in front of him, “‘Nobody needs the government so far up their ass it gets to their head.’”

Well. If they knew saying that would get them here, they wouldn’t have. It’s hard to keep the inside thoughts sifted out from the outside ones when you’re snarling at the people looking at you like you’re insane. Kat isn’t. “It’s not going to happen again.”

“No,” he agreed, mild, “it isn’t.”

They bit their tongue, hard, to keep from bristling. Kat didn’t want to die, not really. It’d just been a bad delivery, followed by a bad night. When they wandered out for a walk, death looked easy. Loomed in the night, that tall smoke-stack shadow, a promise of real sleep. No one in this room would believe them, though, so they kept it to themself. The only other people who understood were all out over the country, in and out of cities and safehouses, lines of ants on their last legs, maybe some of them in little rooms like this one, kept away from the sunlight and sat across from flesh and blood, assumed to be a flight risk and treated accordingly.

Every porter with DOOMS thought about it. It was what passed for small talk after you’d run into each other on the road enough times. They’d all had enough of dreams, but it didn’t stop them from trading fantasies. Then ideas, critiques, logistics. All theoretical, or they half-assed pretending it was. The end result was the same: it was the collective underground guide to killing yourself in the apocalypse without fucking anyone else over. Clearly Kat didn’t get the right advice – but then again, anyone who succeeded couldn’t give anyone advice, anymore.

They let the chair fall back to the ground with a clatter. “Are all porters being assigned a partner?”

“Most, eventually.” Fisher sat back, expression more open now that they were back on safer ground. “You’d be part of the prototype, so to speak. See how it works out, give us feedback. You wouldn’t be stuck with same person if it turned out you weren’t able to work together.”

“But there wouldn’t be that many other options.”

“Not yet,” he permitted. “But you have a near-perfect track record of deliveries. I trust personal disagreements wouldn’t get in the way of your work.”

Kat grimaced. They were out of practice with subtext, but they picked up the underlying message here just fine. If they didn’t comply, they’d be out of a job. After that they’d really want to die, not that it would matter to the UCA, so long as they didn’t. Porters with DOOMS were too valuable. They could contort themself into a new shape, an unrecognizable body – and rot on their Beach, leave their body to learn what it feels like to live without living. The thought sickened them. No, they couldn’t quit. The work was everything. The wandering was more than that.

They tried to keep their voice even. It came out strained with the effort, as obvious as if they’d let their frustration boil over into tears. “Will the other porter have DOOMS?”

“No. Our projections estimate that pairing up DOOMS sufferers with unafflicted porters will lead to less casualties around BT areas.”

It was a hard point to argue with. Kat didn’t even try. “Are you gonna tell ‘em why I’m part of the lucky first few?”

“No,” Fisher repeated. Sympathy leaked into his voice, just barely, which was worse than the distant professionalism. Kat dug their nails into their palm; they were sharper than usual, dragged them back to earth. “That’s confidential information. You won’t know why they’re assigned to you, either. Unless you choose to share.”

“Sure.” As if. It was bad enough that it’d be a little tick on all their UCA files, from now on. “I want to see the rest of the logistics.”

“If you agree.”

Silence. Fisher watched Kat expectantly. They managed a second of eye contact before they had to tear away, staring over his shoulder at a crack in the wall. Fixed points. There was a regular, a painter, who used to ask them to take pictures of specific things on their route. Eventually she asked them to take pictures of whatever they wanted. Kat brought her pictures of everything, because she thought everything was beautiful, and that delight was contagious. Who would do that, after them? Would she miss them?

They sighed. Should’ve just gone freelance. All of it, rigged from the start. Kat could live with it. Had to. “Yeah, alright. Where do I sign?”