The Department for Mutated Persons

02

"Welcome to Work Precinct 308," the robotic voice chimed from the self-driving car's white, plastic dashboard. Alan opened his eyes after a restless sleep, his mind fumbling through a groggy stupor as his brain tried to right itself. He couldn't be certain how long he had slept, but it felt like seconds. The car windows were so thick and opaque that he couldn't be certain how long the trip had taken.

The car stopped gently, the windows slowly transitioned from opaque to transparent, and Alan saw his new home for the foreseeable future. It was an old apartment complex, mostly concrete with soft edges, with blacked out windows and strong metal doors with bars. The front office was designed like a hotel with an awning resting just over the car Alan was in. The entire scene was bathed in the slowly setting afternoon sun.

"Please exit the vehicle," the voice buzzed. The 'please' did not feel as cordial to Alan as perhaps the programmer had envisioned. It seemed to Alan like the facade of decorum, a false sense of politeness that hid cold, detached systemized cattle herding. Alan almost moo'd out of amusement, but thought better of it.

The door opened on its own. Alan grabbed his bag and stepped out into the dry, afternoon air. The front office of the complex was the only thing not surrounded by a concrete wall. From what Alan could tell, it was the only entrance and exit for the entire campus. The front desk's windows were tinted black, but Alan could make out a figure coming toward the front door.

The door swung open, and a short, stocky man came out with a clipboard and a wicked mustache. He looked down at his brown clipboard, his facial hair wagging back and forth. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes deeply entranced by his clipboard.

"Alan Mitchell?"

"That's what they call me," Alan joked. The man looked up from his clipboard with a look of busy annoyance. He made a check mark on the paper, and pointed at Alan's bag.

"Bring your things," the man said gruffly, and then stomped back to the front office lobby, shoving the heavy doors wide open to swing back violently on his way in.

The room was unadorned, save for a lone plant in an ignored corner. The white tiled floor was scuffed and the grout was filled with dirt in aging cracks. A small desk was at the back wall, a stack of papers sloppily hanging off the edge facing Alan. The papers were a mixture of white forms and red slips.

"My name is Randall Finch. People around here just call me Finch. I don't care what you call me, just follow the rules. Don't leave the building without telling me, and you'll be fine. Don't invite people to the building, and you'll be fine. Don't tell people on the outside where you live, and you'll be fine. Don't bring liquor or drugs into the building, and you'll be fine. Don't leave your room after lights out, and you'll be fine. Give me your red slip, and let's get this over with."

Alan held out the paper and Finch tore it out of his hands. Finch looked over the red paper, made some notes then began filling out the paperwork on his clipboard with the red slip guiding him. His pen marks were hard and swift, much like the rest of his actions. He didn't have time for the new guy's jokes. Jokes got people in trouble. Then they got shipped out to the processing center and had to deal with the board of directors. Finch didn't like the questions those visits brought. It complicated his already stressful job.

Alan noticed beyond the desk there was a door that led out into the courtyard of the complex. There were people hanging out in the green patch of land; the only green patch Alan could remember seeing in his journey to his new home. A few palm trees surrounded a circular grass area with an empty swimming pool. But Alan didn't realize he was staring at a group of guys who were sitting in plastic lawn chairs in the courtyard, but they had noticed. The men looked at each other and got up from their seats, pushing their way into the lobby.