What We're Made Of



Scene Title What We're Made Of
Synopsis As promised, Zachery leaves something behind.
Date February 28, 2021

Dockside in Brighton Beach

It's been almost an hour since Zachery left the Dirty Pool Pub. In that time, he's made his way to Brighton Beach, sitting on the bare concrete that lies between boardwalk and water. His phone still in loosely his hand, arms resting on his knees, he stares blankly out over the salty water, small boats bobbing up and down nearby at the tide's behest. A well-used notebook lies closed next to him, two pens resting on its cover.

A gull screeches overhead, bringing his monocular gaze upward with a start.

He swallows, brings his eye back down to his phone, and draws it closer to look over what's written. Calm. Decided.

"That's long enough."

What we're made of.
started by: zmiller
date: 28 Feb 2021, 1:58 pm

Hello everyone.

I don't know who will read this, considering most of my warnings and advice have gone unheeded. Regardless…

Time is fleeting. I took it upon myself to look into the matter of our bodies. Quite literally, with the help of volunteer Isaac Faulkner and the assistance of Agent Castle. Mr. Faulkner was taken apart and studied. He has since been returned to working order.

He scrolls down, checking the attachments one more time.

They are several photos, overhead shots of open pages in his notebook on the concrete. A silhouette of the human body is drawn in red ballpoint pen, overlaid with basic outlines of muscle groups and organs. In blue, leading down along the spine and organs, is what looks almost like the shadow of a regular nervous system, if not for the words 'organic, but not human' and 'cabling?' next to it.

The cabling system runs all the way up to the brain, even if that itself has been covered by the writing, 'abnormally engorged, see next page'.

Which, in turn, shows a side view of what looks like a hurriedly scribbled brain, marked, 'red, porous surface, covered in a network web of capillaries?'.

More detailed is the approximation of what looks to be a dodecahedron, with approximate measurements scribbled next to it, surrounded by a small amount of negative space marked, '*in place of thalamus', 'plastic and metal?' and finally, 'in osmotic plasma?'.

Approximate sketches of vital organs follow, the textures of which have been roughly penned in as criss-cross patterns, like the tops of some particularly gruesome apple pies. '3D printed organics? Structurally efficient but wrong', a note reads.

What might simply be mistaken for wobbly lines on the rough drawings of the heart, lung, stomach and large intestine in particular, instead have lines pointing toward…
'Displaced muscle? Does not belong.'
'Veins follow pattern. Wrong.'
'Cartilagenous tissue? Wrong.'
'Clustered nerves. Wrong.'

But laid out to the best of his current abilities. He nods, scrolling up one more time to finish his message properly.

We are new. This implies there may yet be good news, if only for our source material.

It's been a ride.

Good luck.

There is no hesitation before he hits send. Then, he simply picks up his notebook, leaves the phone in its place, and walks.

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