Anon: Chapter 3 - Erased

". . . You’ll see,” he whispered. Then approached the metal door.

He knocked on the door with a rhythm that felt familiar to his little sister. A few moments later, Kate looked at him beneath a pair of slightly raised eyebrows. “Really, Doab? London Bridges?”

Doabie shrugged his shoulders, and the next moment the two of them heard a soft click of metal hardware within the door, and it opened on its own.

Chapter 3: Erased

Once inside, the door clicked shut, and another door awaited them, along with a nosy camera that pointed at them like a Great Dane. This time, Doabie dug into the collar of his shirt and pulled out a thin chain with a small silver pendant hanging upon it. The pendant had some kind of an insignia etched into the surface. He held the pendant up, flashed it at the camera, tucked it back into his shirt, and stepped back in anticipation. Kate would ask him about it later.

The camera seemed to blink, and the door suddenly slid open and into a pocket in the wall. Doabie and Kate stepped through, and the door slid shut again, just as the first had. The two found themselves quite by themselves, standing at the beginning of an empty hallway, absent of any cheer. No wall hangings or pictures of any kind. Just a dim light fixture about midway down the hall. Ordinarily they might have waited for a few minutes for someone to greet them, then they might have called out “yoohoo….”

But Doabie knew better, and he marched forward without hesitation. Kate followed his lead. They meandered down the long hallway, took a right, and proceeded forward until they had passed a few doors. They arrived at a moderately lit room filled with medical equipment and littered with rags and disposable surgical items. A well-used, leather, medical table sat in the center of the room, without any kind of lining to cover it. The room itself spanned only about 10 x 12 feet and gave no indication of hospitality with its concrete floor and cinderblock walls. And no pictures to be sure. Not even the typical “get your HPSV shot” poster hung on the inside of the door.

Kate wondered now if she had the strength to go through with the procedure. What if she contracted Hepatitis, AIDS-V4, or the Human Polio Symplex Virus? Anons didn’t have access to decent medical care. She would die from any one of these. And judging by the rags and paraphernalia strewn about the place, she felt sure she was dead already.

But she knew she had no other choice. Her mother would die soon and could not provide a home for her. It would be repossessed by the government, and everything in it, as it had only been on loan from Disability and Hospice. To complicate things, Kate was aging up soon. Her monthly stipend would end immediately on her 18th birthday. And she had nowhere to go. Her brother would be temporarily sleeping on the floor of a friend's flat, using an old wool blanket for a bed. There would be no place for her there.

Her best friend Elysha had recently been killed in a burglary. Wrong place, wrong time. They had planned to find something together and help each other with expenses. It was hard to find good friends like Elysha that you could trust. A housemate from the street bulletin was simply out of the question, unless you preferred getting ransacked and stabbed to death. Youth hostels had a maximum age of 16, but they were unfriendly environments in the best case scenario, so that was not an option anyway. She had one other person she could trust....but he was out of the question.

At least the alleys, as rotten as they were, provided some comfort from the weather, strength in numbers, and a place to sleep. But even they were full beyond the brim, and not entirely safe from disease, abuse, and theft. House cleaning and custodial jobs used to be easy to find, but they were no longer available. The Chainers were the only ones who could afford to pay for a maid anymore, and Chainers were getting picky. They preferred to select Anons of a certain type. Kate did not fit that type.

Marriage was another option. She had a proposal or two at her feet, both over the age of 60, and both complete strangers who seemed to have some difficulty with personal hygiene, among other things.

Kate and her brother had originally decided to go live off-grid with their cousin in a small bunker, with plans to build an extended above-ground cabin in the future. They would cultivate crops and hunt their own food, filter stream water using a moss/charcoal mixture her brother had compacted into small dry discs. They had already built a small smoke shack for the bear, elk, and fish they would catch. They would use the hide and bones for clothing and tools and would barter the rest. They knew how to light fire using tinder and bow. It really was a decent life. And they nearly went forward with the plan, when their mother fell ill and needed constant care.

Kate and Doabie were unable to save up supplies and goods for their homesteading project in time for Kate’s 18th birthday, or their mother’s death. All of their energy, time, and spare change went to taking care of their sweet mother, who insisted they leave her to die so they could seek a better life. But they simply could not let her slowly rot alone for the rats to eat her flesh while she lay in bed fully aware, but too weak to fend them off. Mom thought she might try to kill herself, so her children could move on, but it occurred to her that her home and possessions would be collected by the government, and this would leave her children worse off than they currently were.

Kate had considered stealing, street performing, and prostitution. Unfortunately, she lacked the constitution to steal, the talent to perform, and the grit to prostitute. The money was OK in prostitution, and the dorm rooms were not completely unsanitary. But the average lifespan of a prostitute was only 8 years, once on the job. Death tolls came from murder, manslaughter, suicide, drug overdose, and STD’s. It was not a regulated industry, nor would any laws or protections be enforced even if it was regulated. Chainers and Anons of all walks of life found solace in the bosoms of ANON girls because they could get away with it. There were no rules. No records. No names. But it paid the bills and provided help to the families of those farmed out to sex. Many young women chose it as a sacrifice for their families. Others were forced into the trade by drunken fathers and desperate mothers.

Make no mistake, choosing that life meant choosing death. But at least it provided the hope of something for a time.

Kate found herself in this position...on something of a Death Row, and quite out of options. She wondered what her life would have been like had she been born on the blockchain. Would she have had a happy home? A full belly? A sense of self respect and dignity? Freedom, as they say?

Kate suddenly felt a prick in her forearm, and saw a shadow hovering over her, squeezing her arm. She tried to jerk it away at first, then remembered where she was. She had not seen the doctor come in, and had dozed off on the table while she daydreamed about what life would have been as a Chainer.

“The skin should be numb in a second....Just the last number, correct?” asked Dr. Ryder, looking up at Doabie.

“Yup,” said Doabie. “If those Chainers knew her IQ was a 9.....Nope. This is the only way. We need to make her a 4. They won’t suspect her of anything but subservience with a number like that.”

“OK then,” said the doctor.

He swiveled around on his stool, reached for a tool of some kind, pulled up to Kate’s side, and stooped over her arm with a large head lamp and magnifying glass attached to his forehead. Kate held her arm steadily beneath the laser in Dr. Ryder's hands, while her brother Doabie watched. The laser cleanly removed the small amount of ink that revealed a "9" on her pale skin. It had a surprisingly cool, tickling sensation. Not really any pain to it at all. And Kate was left with a vacant space on her skin.

Dr. Ryley studied the other numbers on her arm. He began to combine a solution of something using a tincture of dark ink and droplets of off-white and pale browns. He was matching her origin tattoo.

He picked up a small tool that resembled an antique secretary's date stamp from the early 2000's, filled it's cartridge with the solution from the tincture, and with another quick jab, the doctor carefully latched it onto the working area of her arm.

He held the stencil in place, and a little robot arm with a series of tiny needles at its tip swooped down from the middle of the handle. In an imperceptible flash, the tool pressed into Kate's skin and injected something where the “9” used to be. Kate did not feel any pain, just pressure, and a strange sensation of pulling and pushing upon her skin.

Dr. Ryley pulled the tool off cleanly and placed it on the silver tray next to his stool. He blew on Kate's arm, pulled it close to his face, and inspected the site. Underneath his medical mask, the corners of his lips turned down and his chin jutted forward. He gave a quick nod of approval.

He began to pull down his medical mask, gave a quick wink at Kate, and said, “Cheers to your new identity, kiddo!”

The entire procedure took all of ten minutes.

Kate glanced down at her new identity. There it stood, a clean, dark "4" in place of the "9." It even looked slightly faded and worn, like the others. He had matched it perfectly.

"Less a doctor and more an artist," she thought. Kate attempted to touch the new tattoo, almost unwittingly.

“Uh dut dut dut! Don’t touch it for at least three days," scolded the Doc. "You’ll need to change the bandaging often. And stay out of the sun, out of water, and out of sight! We don’t want anyone seeing your suspiciously located bandage and guessing you’ve been to the Fixer.”

He placed a small amount of liquid antibiotic sealant over the top of the wound, held a heat lamp over it for three seconds to cure it, and then said, "You can't come back here after this. The gates won't let you in. If it gets infected, you're on your own. I'll give you some extra ointment on your way out, just in case."

“K-4,” She said softly, looking at the new "4" on her arm. She wondered how people would treat her knowing she had a much lower level of intelligence. Would they talk down to her? Would they simplify their vocabulary so she could understand? Would they feel sorry for her, or try to persuade her to do things that only a less intelligent, gullible person would fall for? And how does one behave when they are slower than average? Do they walk differently? Do they know they’re not very smart? What kinds of things do they talk about, or care about?

“Time to flip over. We gotta do the same thing to the back of your head, my dear.” The doctor motioned for Kate to lie down. He lowered her head and began to shave the bottom of her skull. He placed the laser over top, and the last remnant of her identity was swiftly erased and replaced with a new one. It came at a very steep price, too: Kate would forever be indebted to the Fixer. For life. All of her earnings or increase would be taxed as long as she lived. And he had devised a stealthy way for ANONS to pay him. A daunting fact, but she was grateful to be given a new life and didn’t have much room to object.

“Your brother will work out payment with my staff,” said the doctor. "Good luck guys."

And he exited the room.

Start from the beginning...

Chapter One - A Hot Bath
Chapter Two - A Rusty Gate

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By @simgirl and @littlscribe

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