scenario: He’d get his ass chewed out and a mark in his file. But best case could end with a promotion if he played his cards right. Having no close ties to friends or family, Chuck’s job was everything to him. He parlayed his loneliness, his longing for intimacy, and lack of hobbies into ambition. Maybe he’d failed in other areas of his life. Maybe he’d alienated everyone who’d ever given a damn about him and isolated himself behind walls of solitude. But a career? That should’ve been easy. There were rules and guidelines, clearly defined steps leading to a sense of accomplishment and pride.
Despite his ambition, it seemed like that damn equation would never give up its secrets. He’d spent countless hours scribbling numbers in a library of notebooks, plugging in variables as he struggled to make the math balance; he woke up in the middle of the night, feeling as if the solution was just slightly out of reach and trying to prove that this time it had really come to him in a dream. For months, he’d slaved over the problem without making any discernible headway, and repeated failure had worn him down to the point that Chuck had begun questioning his own skills. For a man whose job was the single thing he had going for him, this was the worst case scenario.
“I’ve got this, Control.” Chuck listened to his own words, secretly wondering if they sounded as confident as he hoped. “I’m going in.”
Reattaching the leads to his instrumentation, Chuck inspected the halo to ensure it hadn’t been damaged when he’d scrambled off the couch. The piece of equipment looked like a hardhat’s webbing embedded with circuitry and sensors; the halo was insanely expensive, and if it had been damaged, Chuck’s pay would be docked for years to come.
Wiggling each sensor nub with his fingertip to ensure it wasn’t loose, he couldn’t help but wonder why Control had even given him the option to proceed with this mission. She knew the handbook as well as he and a large part of her duties lay in safeguarding his well-being. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Maybe a bond had formed over the years, and she realized his eagerness, his drive to rise to the top of his profession. Maybe she didn’t want to disappoint him. Or perhaps she was just bored and looking for something to kill the last few hours of their shift. It was anybody’s guess. All he knew for certain was the halo appeared to be undamaged. Slipping it onto his head, he lay back upon the couch, fidgeted until he was comfortable, and took a slow breath through his nose.
“Chuck”—the lights in the room dimmed as Control’s voice came through the speakers—“you can still back out, you know. It’s not too late.”
The stop and go rhythm of her words, however, implied that her statement was a mere formality. She seemed to know as well as he that aborting The Walk was not an option. Continuously flubbing the translocation equation had really started to do a number on Chuck. His repeated failure chiseled away at his confidence, eroding the very supports that propped everything else up. At some point, frustration would mutate into unfocused anger, and that type of distraction would lead to careless mistakes. Which would only make matters worse.
Once he was caught in a downward spiral, burnout wouldn’t be that far away; and Chuck knew he was already well upon his way. He could see the warning signs listed in the handbook manifesting in his own life: stacks of dirty dishes piling up in the sink, mornings when he skipped a shower and wore the same clothes to work as he had the day before, and his interest in any sort of recreation waning. It was only a matter of time. And he couldn’t let that happen under any circumstance; if he got to the point where he could no longer function effectively, The Institute would let him go. He’d seen it happen before. With nothing else to take the place of his career, what would his life become?
“Cut the chatter,
Despite his ambition, it seemed like that damn equation would never give up its secrets. He’d spent countless hours scribbling numbers in a library of notebooks, plugging in variables as he struggled to make the math balance; he woke up in the middle of the night, feeling as if the solution was just slightly out of reach and trying to prove that this time it had really come to him in a dream. For months, he’d slaved over the problem without making any discernible headway, and repeated failure had worn him down to the point that Chuck had begun questioning his own skills. For a man whose job was the single thing he had going for him, this was the worst case scenario.
“I’ve got this, Control.” Chuck listened to his own words, secretly wondering if they sounded as confident as he hoped. “I’m going in.”
Reattaching the leads to his instrumentation, Chuck inspected the halo to ensure it hadn’t been damaged when he’d scrambled off the couch. The piece of equipment looked like a hardhat’s webbing embedded with circuitry and sensors; the halo was insanely expensive, and if it had been damaged, Chuck’s pay would be docked for years to come.
Wiggling each sensor nub with his fingertip to ensure it wasn’t loose, he couldn’t help but wonder why Control had even given him the option to proceed with this mission. She knew the handbook as well as he and a large part of her duties lay in safeguarding his well-being. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Maybe a bond had formed over the years, and she realized his eagerness, his drive to rise to the top of his profession. Maybe she didn’t want to disappoint him. Or perhaps she was just bored and looking for something to kill the last few hours of their shift. It was anybody’s guess. All he knew for certain was the halo appeared to be undamaged. Slipping it onto his head, he lay back upon the couch, fidgeted until he was comfortable, and took a slow breath through his nose.
“Chuck”—the lights in the room dimmed as Control’s voice came through the speakers—“you can still back out, you know. It’s not too late.”
The stop and go rhythm of her words, however, implied that her statement was a mere formality. She seemed to know as well as he that aborting The Walk was not an option. Continuously flubbing the translocation equation had really started to do a number on Chuck. His repeated failure chiseled away at his confidence, eroding the very supports that propped everything else up. At some point, frustration would mutate into unfocused anger, and that type of distraction would lead to careless mistakes. Which would only make matters worse.
Once he was caught in a downward spiral, burnout wouldn’t be that far away; and Chuck knew he was already well upon his way. He could see the warning signs listed in the handbook manifesting in his own life: stacks of dirty dishes piling up in the sink, mornings when he skipped a shower and wore the same clothes to work as he had the day before, and his interest in any sort of recreation waning. It was only a matter of time. And he couldn’t let that happen under any circumstance; if he got to the point where he could no longer function effectively, The Institute would let him go. He’d seen it happen before. With nothing else to take the place of his career, what would his life become?
“Cut the chatter,
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