“The bone grinder is for what again, C4072?”

For destroying my humanity, I thought. But Brooks held that cattle prod of his like he was looking for a reason to use it, so I muttered, “For grinding bones. I get it.”

“Do you, shitsnack?” He puffed out his chest with a charismatically flaccid air of self-importance.

“Yeah, I fucking get it, Percy.”

My collar buzzed and the vaguely soothing, vaguely British voice of the Timekeeper said, “Use of profanity detected. One month has been added to your sentence.”

“Oh, gimme a break…” I spat.

“Insubordination detected. Fifteen days have been added to your sentence. Further infractions may result in flaying, slow castration, or worse.”

Or worse. There was always an or worse… Brooks sniggered and tapped his prod on his hand. Prick. He was worse. Another hundred years looking at his punchable face was worse.

Once he had left me, I picked up a bone bucket and dumped its contents into the hopper that fed the grinder. Three more buckets and I could press the button and have a smoke as the rusted old monster did its work. Three more buckets of skulls and tibias and vertebrae, of mothers and husbands and children. It never got easier, but the depression numbed and the consequent sloth only added 6 months.

I tipped the third bucket, bones clattered and I pressed the button. The bone grinder awoke with a labored metallic whine and I stared expectantly at the reward options.

A1. Call Family

A4. Cigarette

C2. Snack

I wasn’t hungry. A4 it was. The cigarette rolled out. I grabbed it, lit it, dragged.

Fuck this, I thought and I pulled off the VR headset.

“Brooks, what the eff? How I’d this supposed to be an incentive?”

He shrugged dopily. “I mean, it does seem better.”

“Double shifts, Brooks. For three months. That’s eighteen Gee-Dee hours a day and it seems a whole lot like what we do now.”

“Yeah, but if we move up…it’s just bones…”

Just bones. Brooks wasn’t built for life inside. He was soft, but that’d change. Or it wouldn’t. Either way he’d find a use.

The crane arm swiveled over toward me. Some blubbering fat fuck hung from the manacles.

“Please! There’s been a mistake! I paid our taxes, I swear! PLEASE!”

“Okay,” I answered as I switched on the flesh stripper. The tiny blades hissed and my finger went to the manacle release button. The man wept.

“PLEASE! I HAVE A WIFE AND THREE—“

I pressed the button. He didn’t finish his sentence and afterwards, as I hit A4 for the tenth time that day, I wondered if I ever would.

“Melancholia detected. Ten days have been added to your sentence.”

Probably not.