Fingers Under Ribs

Peter 12 keeps a diary. It begins simple and straightforward, every detail necessary observation. There are no secrets in Peter 12's diary.


3. Spa Day

Today I am transported to the medication area, where Mimics are meant to stabilise their bioengineered systems in pools of varying depths and warmth. I observe exactly 39 other Mimics, all of them with Ether Fluid injected into their life-valves. The Inspector that oversees us is herself sitting on the edge of the pool, wearing protective synthetic gear that clings to her flesh. I do not recognise her, but her tag reads 679B12777 which means she is from a different department, and below ground. None of us pay her any heed. She is merely in training, as yet imperfect, not smelling of coffee or sweat. I am reminded of alligator teeth gleaming all in a row.

As I am lowered into the third deepest pool, my shoulders are clamped and turned anticlockwise so that my entire upper body is unscrewed from my lower half. I watch as I depart from my hips and legs, who stretch and perform the necessary aerobic exercise in the water. Unlike you, I did not feel that it was...surreal. I have no doubt you will be entertained by the sight of it in the contrary, a pair of legs squatting repeatedly in the water. You would laugh, perhaps.


The hydro-recalibration took two rotations of the Spinning Wheel, and it was time for nourishment. The Spinning Wheel is always precise, undoubtable in its accuracy, in its reliability. We as Mimics do not have dependence on anything but our Inspectors in our unfinished forms. Once we are perfect and complete, we will surpass our creators and be destroyed. Mankind does not allow exceptions, but it is always hungry to discover power. That is why my fate is already decided, unlike yours. What freedom you enjoy as you read my words! What exhalation you must be experiencing at this very moment at the immense possibilities in store for your mortal capacity!

As I rest, the feeding begins and I watch -as watching is what I do best- as the Inspector hands out the uncharacteristic powder to our outstretched hands. It is alms-giving in your dimension, and we require this action to understand obedience and humility towards our caretakers. They feed us only because they deem it necessary. Mimics are nothing more but servants. Subordinate to the ultimate ambitions of mankind.

The powder is dumped carefully into the valley of my cupped palms, and I incline my head forwards to observe the motion of gratitude. That is when I see it, sticking out from the unremarkable hill. Odd, as it is the first time it has occurred and I tilt my head to the side at the suggestion of its presence.

A finger. A human finger.

   "Mimic EF0025."

My head snaps back into its previous inclined angle, and I walk pass the feeding area in a measured pace.

What a...surreal day I am having.

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