Part 1 - In Which I Become Simon Jarrett
- Location
- A Certain Blue Marble
- Pronouns
- He
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to my Let's Play thread. This was ripped off from inspired by SB user Bookends's Let's Plays (of which the most recent one you can check out at the time of posting this is here.)
SOMA is a game made by Frictional Games. Yes, that Frictional Games, the same studio that made Amnesia. But don't be confused - the two games could hardly be more different. Practically the only thing they share in common is their genre: horror, and even that's tenuous. SOMA tells a story first and scares your pants off second. It prefers a different type of horror than most games. One far more insidious than simple jumpscares and monster chases - though it has a little bit of that as well. This game is near and dear to my heart - mainly because it gouged it out. I mean that in the best way possible, of course, but be warned: this game does not pull it's punches.
This is a non-spoiler thread. I mean it. If we haven't reached that part of the game yet, don't talk about it. Not even in spoiler tags.
Speculation is fine, and even encouraged, but "speculation" is not. What's the difference? Speculation is when you don't know what's going to happen, but you're making a guess. Sometimes you're right, sometimes you're... less right. "Speculation" is when you've seen this before and know exactly what's going to happen, but pretend you don't and make "guesses" using that knowledge. Seriously, please don't do this. It might be fun if one person does it, but it's never just one.
Now, with all that out of the way, let's start the show!
"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." - Phillip K. Dick
"Are you okay, Simon? I think you're bleeding."
"Oh, that's nothing," he states nonchalantly. "It's just that my brain can't stop bleeding from the accident."
"Here, take this," she replies, handing him a bottle of bright red fluid.
He stammers, "No, that's for later - for the scan."
"It's green," she says, referring to the stoplight ahead. A car honks behind them.
Simon doesn't move the car. "Ashley, I need to tell you something."
More cars begin to honk. "Simon, please don't make this weird."
"No, no, it's not like that," he protests. His cellphone begins to buzz. Someone's calling him. "Why now?" he pleads, knowing exactly what's about to happen to him. To Ashley.
Ashley breaks character. "Who's David Munshi?"
The noise builds, the vibrating phone adding to a chorus of honking cars.
"Why is there never enough time?"
"For what?" Ashley asks.
The SUV slams into them, and everything goes black.
Simon wakes with a start, gasping for air.
"Augh...christ..."
He hesitates for a moment before picking up the phone that's currently buzzing away on his nightstand.
"Yeah, I'm up!"
"Yeah, that's me," replies Simon, still out of breath.
"My name is David Munshi. We spoke earlier-"
"The brain scan! I remember," Simon interjects.
There's a pause. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah - Just a bad dream," he answers.
Right. You call that -just- a bad dream. Okay.
"Are we still on for today?" Simon asks.
"Yeah, that's why I'm calling," Munshi responds. "I wanted to remind you to drink the tracer fluid I sent you. It will help me capture a better image of the damages."
Simon suddenly realizes he has no idea where he put it. "Don't worry, I got it somewhere."
"Okay, great," Munshi says. His words are confident, his tone is less so. He seems concerned by Simon's noncommittal answer. "Well, see you in a couple of hours then."
"Okay - see you soon!"
Simon taps the 'end call' button. Of course he forgot where he put the tracer fluid. The one thing he needed to do today - and he lost it.
As he stands up from his bed, he suddenly hears the muffled bass of music vibrating through the apartment walls. He massages his temples. Perfect. Just what he needed right now. The migraines never really go away anymore. Not after the accident.
I guess inconsiderate neighbors are a multiversal constant.
Simon almost walks past his old landline, before noticing a blinking red light in of the corner of his eye. He presses the button. The handset beeps, before playing the message.
"Hey Simon. It's Jesse! You working this weekend or what?" he begins. "I knew there was something you were doing - was it this weekend - or next? Anyhoo, just shoot me a mail or something. Loveyoumissyoumeanit!"
"End of messages."
Simon shakes his head and smiles. "I swear, that guy has the memory of a gold fish. I even sent an email to remind him, didn't I?"
Apparently not, Simon.
He'll check in a few minutes. He needs to find the tracer fluid first. The bathroom was probably the best place to look, right?
He opens the curtains as he walks by them. It's not much of a view - just more apartment blocks and a tiny sliver of blue sky.
"Summer's coming. Hope it's a good one," he says, his voice slightly low. He doesn't say his other hope: that he'll still be around to see it.
He opens the door to the bathroom, trying his best to look away from the bloody rags hanging out of the trash can. Hopefully his head can keep it together long enough; he'd rather not bleed all over Toronto. He opens the medicine cabinet. No luck. Must've put the tracer fluid somewhere else. He steps out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him. May as well check his email while he's by his laptop. And hey, the music finally stopped.
So technically, this is the very first choice of the game. You can choose to not to send this email, and it'll affect some of the dialogue in the next scene. Now, for most choices I'm gonna poll you guys (although I'm not sure how exactly I'm going to do it yet, seeing as how I started this over at Spacebattles) but for this "choice?" Yeah... no. Trust me, you're not missing anything.
Simon sends the email. "Better late than never."
He sees the picture as he stands up. It's him and Ashley, standing in front of the shop.
His eye lingers on the piece of paper lying under a pile of stuff on his desk. He tries to resist the urge to read it again - he already knows what it says - but he can't.
He moves the various objects out of the way. His sketchbook, Mom's 'get well soon!' card, his QT Knight figure...
There it is.
Yeah... that woman, Ashley, we saw in Simon's dream? Turns out the actual crash wasn't what killed her. No, she died from drowning. In her own blood. She was bleeding so badly that it filled up her lungs and suffocated her.
The jackass that ran a red light had the gall to claim it was "practically unavoidable" like it wasn't entirely their own damn-
Simon slams the paper down. No. Not now. He... he can't deal with this right now.
He glances at his cameras on the shelf as he walks towards the kitchen. He wishes he could work up the energy to go out and use them. Ashley always loved his photos...
After some further searching through his apartment (he really needs to grab some groceries on the way home - he's had far too much fast food) he finds the tracer fluid. Of course it was in the last place he checked: the kitchen cabinet.
Normally he'd be pretty cautious about consuming anything labelled with a radioactive symbol, but if this experimental brain scan treatment thing doesn't work out... Well, let's just say possible radiation poisoning will be the least of his concerns.
He downs the tracer fluid, despite the taste. He puts the bottle down as he tries to ignore the aftertaste sticking to his tongue.
"Feels like milk, but the taste - it's like sucking on a penny."
Uh, Simon, how do you know what a penny tastes like?
...On second thought, don't answer that question.
He grabs his keys, turns out the lights, and opens the door.
The TTC Subway car rumbles beneath the streets of Toronto.
A chime plays over the car's speakers. "Osgoode. Next station is - Osgoode."
Simon sits silently, trying his best to ignore the foul-smelling bum spouting conspiracy theories. "Conservative my ass," he slurs, clearly drunk.
Huh. I thought Canada had better public transit than the US. This doesn't look like much of a step up.
As the subway car slides into Osgoode station, Simon's phone begins to ring. It's Jesse.
Once again, this is technically a choice. If you're the antisocial type, or if you're just confused about how the heck Simon's getting cell phone reception underground, you can decline Jesse's call. Also once again, I'm going to just make this choice. Literally all that happens if you decline it is nothing. Like, literal nothing. Simon doesn't answer the call and therefore doesn't have anyone to talk to during this scene.
Trust me, these two choices won't come back to bite you guys later or anything - I wouldn't be making them for you if they did.
Simon answers the call. "Jesse."
"Hey Simon. I got your email. Just wanted to wish you good luck and let you know I got you covered."
"Thanks," he replies. "I should be able to come to the store after the scan."
A women walks into the train. A moment later, a chime plays, and the subway car doors slide closed.
"Don't sweat it," replies Jesse. "I got Matt and Chris helping me out."
The train begins to accelerate towards it's next destination.
"Matty from S&L?" asks Simon.
"I guess you didn't hear. He's coming in full time - working the comic section," Jesse explains.
"That's Ashley's job," Simon replies without thinking. He knows it's stupid, but it feels wrong for Jesse to say that. Like he's replacing her.
There's a silence between the two of them.
"Yeah, well... You know..."
"Forget it. Not doing her any favors by leaving her an empty spot. Not like she's coming back."
Jesse tries to be supportive. "Well, good luck. Hope they find a way to reverse the whole... you know... dying thing."
Jesse tries to be supportive.
"Dying thing?" Simon says, laughing from the absurdity of it. "You're the worst support ever!"
Even Jesse chuckles. "Well, what should I say?"
"I'll see you later, Jesse. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone."
"Over and out, buddy!"
As he puts away the phone, the train arrives at St. Patrick. This is his stop.
Simon wasn't sure what he was expecting P.A.C.E. Labs to be, but it certainly wasn't this. The reception area is pitch black and completely abandoned, and seemingly going through a remodel. Half the room is painted a maroon red, the other white, there's exposed drywall by the water cooler, and there's rolls of orange carpet lying next to patches of exposed concrete floor.
You sure this is the right place, Simon?
Simon is confused as well. "Hello? Doctor Munshi?"
He walks around the room, opening the curtains.
OH BY THE WAY, WE'RE IN CANADA. REMEMBER? CAN-A-DA.
Well, at least we know what to blame when everything goes wrong (hint: it's Canada).
Simon tries to open the door to the labs. It's locked. There's a keypad, but it's not like he knows the code.
"This is the place, right?" Simon asks.
Don't look at me, Simon. You're the one who went here.
He decides to try and call Munshi, only to get a busy signal.
"Great, got his phone turned off."
Most people would call it quits at this point. Most people would assume they had been given the wrong address, or that Munshi had forgotten about their appointment. Most people would go home, and try later.
Simon Jarrett is not most people.
He decides the best course of action is to snoop around the reception to find the code for the keypad. He walks over the desk and turns on the lights. Then he notices there's a laptop on it, displaying a still logged-in email client.
Simon, no.
He walks towards it.
Simon no!
Like a total creep, Simon leans over the laptop and looks through it's e-mails.
Then Simon opens the drawer next to the laptop, and finds the code written on the front page of the notebook: 2501. I take it back, Paul Berg. The sysadmin in me is not proud.
Before closing the drawer and heading to the door, Simon looks at the magazine lying next to the notebook, apparently an interview of Munshi and Berg.
Munshi and Berg sound pretty knowledgable, but Simon isn't completely convinced. "We are able to fail treating you a million times over," doesn't exactly inspire confidence.
But Simon doesn't have much of a choice.
He punches the code into the keypad: 2-5-0-1. The door clicks, and he pushes it open. The hallway is spartan. Aside from some emergency equipment on the walls, it's completely barren of anything but tacky 80s office decor and rows of doors.
Simon can hear someone typing, presumably Munshi. It sounds like it's coming from the room at the end of the hallway. But there's a door open on the right.
Can you guess where Simon goes?
Being even more of a creep, Simon enters the dark room. Flicking on the lights reveals what appears to be a server room of sorts. The code displayed on the monitors may as well be hieroglyphics to him, but judging by the spinning 3D model of a brain, the computer seems to be running a simulation on another brain scan.
He pauses for a moment to look at a corkboard lining the hall on the left. Seems like some foreign startup company he's never heard of called Haimatsu Technologies is the major financial backer behind PACE Labs.
Though judging by the graphs he's seeing, they're probably not going to be much longer. Simon continues walking. Hopefully they'll stay in business until after Munshi finds a cure for his condition.
He enters the scan room.
"Doctor Munshi?"
"Well, it's just Mr. Munshi, but I'm working on it!" he says.
You are not inspiring much confidence here, Munshi.
He continues, "Actually, you're helping me right now."
"Is this part of your thesis work?" asks Simon.
"Yeah, it's a study I'm doing with my colleague Paul Berg. We hope to design a gentle way to work with brain reconstruction. To help people like you."
An experimental technology, being used to treat a terminal condition. It's risky, sure, but Simon's all out of options.
"Oh!" exclaims Munshi, remembering something. "Did you remember to take the tracer fluid?"
"Yes, yes I did."
"Great!" replies Munshi. "We can start whenever you're ready."
Munshi moves to go back to the computer terminal, eager to begin, but Simon stops him. "So - what exactly are we doing?" he asks, still confused on the finer details of the technology.
"We're going to do a scan of your brain. Then we build a computer model of it and bombard it with stimuli," Munshi explains. "The program will help us to quickly iterate your treatment plan until it's fully optimized. In short, develop the perfect treatment for your condition."
In other words? They're going to throw everything at the wall (or brain in this case) and see what sticks.
"So, it's not just a study," Simon asks. "This will actually help me?"
"I should hope so," replies Munshi. "Otherwise this would be a huge waste of time. Ha ha."
Not helping, Munshi.
Simon takes offense to his laughing. "You know I have a serious condition, right? You heard about the car crash - the X months to live deal?"
Munshi's tone turns serious. "Yes, I heard. Must be hard having to hear that. As you know it's because you're brain is weakened so much it can start to bleed out every so often-"
"And if it ever gets bad, it will kill me!" Simon interjects.
Munshi's honest with Simon. "Well, we probably can't restore your brain completely, but we should be able to make those X months turn into years. Decades even. If you take care of yourself and don't do anything to crazy, we should be able to get you to outlive the best of us."
The threat of death will never completely go away, but Munshi's invention might give Simon more time. And Simon has precious little of it right now.
"I really hope you're right about this."
"Me too. This could make a huge difference for how we treat people with brain damage," Munshi says with complete sincerity. "So what do you say, should we get going?"
It's not a miracle, Simon. But it's the best chance you've got.
"Sure, let's get started."
Simon walks over to the seat, looking it over. This old dentist's chair with a bunch of wires strapped onto it is the best chance he's got. He sits down.
Munshi walks over to the terminal, and a helmet descends from the ceiling, covering Simon's head. For a moment, he can't see anything. Then, with an electric whine, the helmet turns on, and his vision is restored.
"Right," Simon replies, his voice muffled by the helmet.
"Toronto, Canada. David Munshi." He seems to be filling in a form. "Born 1988, July 16?"
"Right."
"Flat neurograph version six," he confirms. "Good. All files in order."
"Will this hurt?" asks Simon.
"It's just a scan," replies Munshi. "It will hurt about as much as getting your picture taken."
"Indians thought cameras would steal their souls," Simon counters.
YEAH, THANKS SIMON. GREAT BIT OF TRIVIA TO THROW OUT THERE AT THIS EXACT MOMENT.
"Is that so?" says Munshi. "Let's hope they're wrong. Ready? Say cheese!"
The helmet whines, and Simon's vision starts to blur. With a sound that can only be described as reality being sucked through a straw, his vision erupts into a mess of colors.
Then everything goes black.
Simon jerks awake. The helmet lifts up.
The room's pitch black, save for a single red light.
Simon slowly rises to his feet. "This isn't funny!" he yells, assuming this is some kind of mean-spirited prank.
But as he walks forwards, he realizes that the silhouettes he can barely make out in the dark don't match up to the scan room at all.
His breathing becomes ragged. "I'm not supposed to-" he tries to say. He's trying to stay calm. He has to. Too much stress will literally kill him. "This is kind of stressing me out!"
He carefully moves closer to the red light, revealing it to be connected to a breaker of some kind. Seeing no other option, he pulls it.
Unseen machinery begins to spin up. A few lights start to flicker on. Then, with a blinding flash, the lights come back on.
SOMA is a game made by Frictional Games. Yes, that Frictional Games, the same studio that made Amnesia. But don't be confused - the two games could hardly be more different. Practically the only thing they share in common is their genre: horror, and even that's tenuous. SOMA tells a story first and scares your pants off second. It prefers a different type of horror than most games. One far more insidious than simple jumpscares and monster chases - though it has a little bit of that as well. This game is near and dear to my heart - mainly because it gouged it out. I mean that in the best way possible, of course, but be warned: this game does not pull it's punches.
This is a non-spoiler thread. I mean it. If we haven't reached that part of the game yet, don't talk about it. Not even in spoiler tags.
Speculation is fine, and even encouraged, but "speculation" is not. What's the difference? Speculation is when you don't know what's going to happen, but you're making a guess. Sometimes you're right, sometimes you're... less right. "Speculation" is when you've seen this before and know exactly what's going to happen, but pretend you don't and make "guesses" using that knowledge. Seriously, please don't do this. It might be fun if one person does it, but it's never just one.
Now, with all that out of the way, let's start the show!
Jadebenn Plays SOMA
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Part 1 - In Which I Become Simon Jarrettaka
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"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." - Phillip K. Dick
"Are you okay, Simon? I think you're bleeding."
"Oh, that's nothing," he states nonchalantly. "It's just that my brain can't stop bleeding from the accident."
"Here, take this," she replies, handing him a bottle of bright red fluid.
He stammers, "No, that's for later - for the scan."
"It's green," she says, referring to the stoplight ahead. A car honks behind them.
Simon doesn't move the car. "Ashley, I need to tell you something."
More cars begin to honk. "Simon, please don't make this weird."
"No, no, it's not like that," he protests. His cellphone begins to buzz. Someone's calling him. "Why now?" he pleads, knowing exactly what's about to happen to him. To Ashley.
Ashley breaks character. "Who's David Munshi?"
The noise builds, the vibrating phone adding to a chorus of honking cars.
"Why is there never enough time?"
"For what?" Ashley asks.
The SUV slams into them, and everything goes black.
Simon wakes with a start, gasping for air.
"Augh...christ..."
He hesitates for a moment before picking up the phone that's currently buzzing away on his nightstand.
"Yeah, I'm up!"
"Yeah, that's me," replies Simon, still out of breath.
"My name is David Munshi. We spoke earlier-"
"The brain scan! I remember," Simon interjects.
There's a pause. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah - Just a bad dream," he answers.
Right. You call that -just- a bad dream. Okay.
"Are we still on for today?" Simon asks.
"Yeah, that's why I'm calling," Munshi responds. "I wanted to remind you to drink the tracer fluid I sent you. It will help me capture a better image of the damages."
Simon suddenly realizes he has no idea where he put it. "Don't worry, I got it somewhere."
"Okay, great," Munshi says. His words are confident, his tone is less so. He seems concerned by Simon's noncommittal answer. "Well, see you in a couple of hours then."
"Okay - see you soon!"
Simon taps the 'end call' button. Of course he forgot where he put the tracer fluid. The one thing he needed to do today - and he lost it.
As he stands up from his bed, he suddenly hears the muffled bass of music vibrating through the apartment walls. He massages his temples. Perfect. Just what he needed right now. The migraines never really go away anymore. Not after the accident.
I guess inconsiderate neighbors are a multiversal constant.
Simon almost walks past his old landline, before noticing a blinking red light in of the corner of his eye. He presses the button. The handset beeps, before playing the message.
"Hey Simon. It's Jesse! You working this weekend or what?" he begins. "I knew there was something you were doing - was it this weekend - or next? Anyhoo, just shoot me a mail or something. Loveyoumissyoumeanit!"
"End of messages."
Simon shakes his head and smiles. "I swear, that guy has the memory of a gold fish. I even sent an email to remind him, didn't I?"
Apparently not, Simon.
He'll check in a few minutes. He needs to find the tracer fluid first. The bathroom was probably the best place to look, right?
He opens the curtains as he walks by them. It's not much of a view - just more apartment blocks and a tiny sliver of blue sky.
"Summer's coming. Hope it's a good one," he says, his voice slightly low. He doesn't say his other hope: that he'll still be around to see it.
He opens the door to the bathroom, trying his best to look away from the bloody rags hanging out of the trash can. Hopefully his head can keep it together long enough; he'd rather not bleed all over Toronto. He opens the medicine cabinet. No luck. Must've put the tracer fluid somewhere else. He steps out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him. May as well check his email while he's by his laptop. And hey, the music finally stopped.
Ah, there's his problem. He never clicked send.
So technically, this is the very first choice of the game. You can choose to not to send this email, and it'll affect some of the dialogue in the next scene. Now, for most choices I'm gonna poll you guys (although I'm not sure how exactly I'm going to do it yet, seeing as how I started this over at Spacebattles) but for this "choice?" Yeah... no. Trust me, you're not missing anything.
Simon sends the email. "Better late than never."
He sees the picture as he stands up. It's him and Ashley, standing in front of the shop.
His eye lingers on the piece of paper lying under a pile of stuff on his desk. He tries to resist the urge to read it again - he already knows what it says - but he can't.
He moves the various objects out of the way. His sketchbook, Mom's 'get well soon!' card, his QT Knight figure...
There it is.
Yeah... that woman, Ashley, we saw in Simon's dream? Turns out the actual crash wasn't what killed her. No, she died from drowning. In her own blood. She was bleeding so badly that it filled up her lungs and suffocated her.
The jackass that ran a red light had the gall to claim it was "practically unavoidable" like it wasn't entirely their own damn-
Simon slams the paper down. No. Not now. He... he can't deal with this right now.
He glances at his cameras on the shelf as he walks towards the kitchen. He wishes he could work up the energy to go out and use them. Ashley always loved his photos...
After some further searching through his apartment (he really needs to grab some groceries on the way home - he's had far too much fast food) he finds the tracer fluid. Of course it was in the last place he checked: the kitchen cabinet.
Normally he'd be pretty cautious about consuming anything labelled with a radioactive symbol, but if this experimental brain scan treatment thing doesn't work out... Well, let's just say possible radiation poisoning will be the least of his concerns.
He downs the tracer fluid, despite the taste. He puts the bottle down as he tries to ignore the aftertaste sticking to his tongue.
"Feels like milk, but the taste - it's like sucking on a penny."
Uh, Simon, how do you know what a penny tastes like?
...On second thought, don't answer that question.
He grabs his keys, turns out the lights, and opens the door.
The TTC Subway car rumbles beneath the streets of Toronto.
A chime plays over the car's speakers. "Osgoode. Next station is - Osgoode."
Simon sits silently, trying his best to ignore the foul-smelling bum spouting conspiracy theories. "Conservative my ass," he slurs, clearly drunk.
Huh. I thought Canada had better public transit than the US. This doesn't look like much of a step up.
As the subway car slides into Osgoode station, Simon's phone begins to ring. It's Jesse.
Once again, this is technically a choice. If you're the antisocial type, or if you're just confused about how the heck Simon's getting cell phone reception underground, you can decline Jesse's call. Also once again, I'm going to just make this choice. Literally all that happens if you decline it is nothing. Like, literal nothing. Simon doesn't answer the call and therefore doesn't have anyone to talk to during this scene.
Trust me, these two choices won't come back to bite you guys later or anything - I wouldn't be making them for you if they did.
Simon answers the call. "Jesse."
"Hey Simon. I got your email. Just wanted to wish you good luck and let you know I got you covered."
"Thanks," he replies. "I should be able to come to the store after the scan."
A women walks into the train. A moment later, a chime plays, and the subway car doors slide closed.
"Don't sweat it," replies Jesse. "I got Matt and Chris helping me out."
The train begins to accelerate towards it's next destination.
"Matty from S&L?" asks Simon.
"I guess you didn't hear. He's coming in full time - working the comic section," Jesse explains.
"That's Ashley's job," Simon replies without thinking. He knows it's stupid, but it feels wrong for Jesse to say that. Like he's replacing her.
There's a silence between the two of them.
"Yeah, well... You know..."
"Forget it. Not doing her any favors by leaving her an empty spot. Not like she's coming back."
Jesse tries to be supportive. "Well, good luck. Hope they find a way to reverse the whole... you know... dying thing."
Jesse tries to be supportive.
"Dying thing?" Simon says, laughing from the absurdity of it. "You're the worst support ever!"
Even Jesse chuckles. "Well, what should I say?"
"I'll see you later, Jesse. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone."
"Over and out, buddy!"
As he puts away the phone, the train arrives at St. Patrick. This is his stop.
Simon wasn't sure what he was expecting P.A.C.E. Labs to be, but it certainly wasn't this. The reception area is pitch black and completely abandoned, and seemingly going through a remodel. Half the room is painted a maroon red, the other white, there's exposed drywall by the water cooler, and there's rolls of orange carpet lying next to patches of exposed concrete floor.
You sure this is the right place, Simon?
Simon is confused as well. "Hello? Doctor Munshi?"
He walks around the room, opening the curtains.
OH BY THE WAY, WE'RE IN CANADA. REMEMBER? CAN-A-DA.
Well, at least we know what to blame when everything goes wrong (hint: it's Canada).
Simon tries to open the door to the labs. It's locked. There's a keypad, but it's not like he knows the code.
"This is the place, right?" Simon asks.
Don't look at me, Simon. You're the one who went here.
He decides to try and call Munshi, only to get a busy signal.
"Great, got his phone turned off."
Most people would call it quits at this point. Most people would assume they had been given the wrong address, or that Munshi had forgotten about their appointment. Most people would go home, and try later.
Simon Jarrett is not most people.
He decides the best course of action is to snoop around the reception to find the code for the keypad. He walks over the desk and turns on the lights. Then he notices there's a laptop on it, displaying a still logged-in email client.
Simon, no.
He walks towards it.
Simon no!
Like a total creep, Simon leans over the laptop and looks through it's e-mails.
Simon's plan fails, because someone actually followed security procedures and didn't share the code to a secure laboratory in an email. Good job Paul Berg, the sysadmin in me is proud!
Then Simon opens the drawer next to the laptop, and finds the code written on the front page of the notebook: 2501. I take it back, Paul Berg. The sysadmin in me is not proud.
Before closing the drawer and heading to the door, Simon looks at the magazine lying next to the notebook, apparently an interview of Munshi and Berg.
The concept is interesting. By testing out treatments for neurological disorders on brain scans, they can find the best one for a patient at no risk to them. The science is sound, the issue is implementing it. You'd need one hell of a scanner to get an image accurate enough to do this.
Munshi and Berg sound pretty knowledgable, but Simon isn't completely convinced. "We are able to fail treating you a million times over," doesn't exactly inspire confidence.
But Simon doesn't have much of a choice.
He punches the code into the keypad: 2-5-0-1. The door clicks, and he pushes it open. The hallway is spartan. Aside from some emergency equipment on the walls, it's completely barren of anything but tacky 80s office decor and rows of doors.
Simon can hear someone typing, presumably Munshi. It sounds like it's coming from the room at the end of the hallway. But there's a door open on the right.
Can you guess where Simon goes?
Being even more of a creep, Simon enters the dark room. Flicking on the lights reveals what appears to be a server room of sorts. The code displayed on the monitors may as well be hieroglyphics to him, but judging by the spinning 3D model of a brain, the computer seems to be running a simulation on another brain scan.
Unfortunately for Simon, there's not any personal data or private e-mails to snoop on in this room, and he's not willing to risk messing up the simulation just to creep on Munshi some more. So he leaves the office - making sure to turn the lights off as he does - and walks towards the end of the corridor.
He pauses for a moment to look at a corkboard lining the hall on the left. Seems like some foreign startup company he's never heard of called Haimatsu Technologies is the major financial backer behind PACE Labs.
Though judging by the graphs he's seeing, they're probably not going to be much longer. Simon continues walking. Hopefully they'll stay in business until after Munshi finds a cure for his condition.
He enters the scan room.
"Doctor Munshi?"
"Well, it's just Mr. Munshi, but I'm working on it!" he says.
You are not inspiring much confidence here, Munshi.
He continues, "Actually, you're helping me right now."
"Is this part of your thesis work?" asks Simon.
"Yeah, it's a study I'm doing with my colleague Paul Berg. We hope to design a gentle way to work with brain reconstruction. To help people like you."
An experimental technology, being used to treat a terminal condition. It's risky, sure, but Simon's all out of options.
"Oh!" exclaims Munshi, remembering something. "Did you remember to take the tracer fluid?"
"Yes, yes I did."
"Great!" replies Munshi. "We can start whenever you're ready."
Munshi moves to go back to the computer terminal, eager to begin, but Simon stops him. "So - what exactly are we doing?" he asks, still confused on the finer details of the technology.
"We're going to do a scan of your brain. Then we build a computer model of it and bombard it with stimuli," Munshi explains. "The program will help us to quickly iterate your treatment plan until it's fully optimized. In short, develop the perfect treatment for your condition."
In other words? They're going to throw everything at the wall (or brain in this case) and see what sticks.
"So, it's not just a study," Simon asks. "This will actually help me?"
"I should hope so," replies Munshi. "Otherwise this would be a huge waste of time. Ha ha."
Not helping, Munshi.
Simon takes offense to his laughing. "You know I have a serious condition, right? You heard about the car crash - the X months to live deal?"
Munshi's tone turns serious. "Yes, I heard. Must be hard having to hear that. As you know it's because you're brain is weakened so much it can start to bleed out every so often-"
"And if it ever gets bad, it will kill me!" Simon interjects.
Munshi's honest with Simon. "Well, we probably can't restore your brain completely, but we should be able to make those X months turn into years. Decades even. If you take care of yourself and don't do anything to crazy, we should be able to get you to outlive the best of us."
The threat of death will never completely go away, but Munshi's invention might give Simon more time. And Simon has precious little of it right now.
"I really hope you're right about this."
"Me too. This could make a huge difference for how we treat people with brain damage," Munshi says with complete sincerity. "So what do you say, should we get going?"
It's not a miracle, Simon. But it's the best chance you've got.
"Sure, let's get started."
Simon walks over to the seat, looking it over. This old dentist's chair with a bunch of wires strapped onto it is the best chance he's got. He sits down.
Munshi walks over to the terminal, and a helmet descends from the ceiling, covering Simon's head. For a moment, he can't see anything. Then, with an electric whine, the helmet turns on, and his vision is restored.
"Right," Simon replies, his voice muffled by the helmet.
"Toronto, Canada. David Munshi." He seems to be filling in a form. "Born 1988, July 16?"
"Right."
"Flat neurograph version six," he confirms. "Good. All files in order."
"Will this hurt?" asks Simon.
"It's just a scan," replies Munshi. "It will hurt about as much as getting your picture taken."
"Indians thought cameras would steal their souls," Simon counters.
YEAH, THANKS SIMON. GREAT BIT OF TRIVIA TO THROW OUT THERE AT THIS EXACT MOMENT.
"Is that so?" says Munshi. "Let's hope they're wrong. Ready? Say cheese!"
The helmet whines, and Simon's vision starts to blur. With a sound that can only be described as reality being sucked through a straw, his vision erupts into a mess of colors.
Then everything goes black.
Simon jerks awake. The helmet lifts up.
The room's pitch black, save for a single red light.
Simon slowly rises to his feet. "This isn't funny!" he yells, assuming this is some kind of mean-spirited prank.
But as he walks forwards, he realizes that the silhouettes he can barely make out in the dark don't match up to the scan room at all.
His breathing becomes ragged. "I'm not supposed to-" he tries to say. He's trying to stay calm. He has to. Too much stress will literally kill him. "This is kind of stressing me out!"
He carefully moves closer to the red light, revealing it to be connected to a breaker of some kind. Seeing no other option, he pulls it.
Unseen machinery begins to spin up. A few lights start to flicker on. Then, with a blinding flash, the lights come back on.
Fucking Canada.
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