Written by Ian Brownlie
“Welcome, Nell,” said the man. “Welcome to your second chance.”
She muttered to herself, struggling to shuffle the many thoughts inside her head, hoping she could get them to land in a coherent order.
“Is there a problem?” asked the man. His expression remained neutral, his uniform uncreased.
“This isn’t a second chance at anything,” said Nell. “This is you taking my chances away.”
The man smiled. “Such melodrama. Your old life was not going well. Your friends. Your diet. Quality of coursework. Test results. Need I go on?”
“You sound like Professor Martinez,” said Nell. “My last test results were…fine.”
“Fine,” said the man, “is not the same as good. Perhaps you should have heeded her warnings earlier.”
“But I’m improving,” said Nell, “you must see that. I can get back over The Level soon, I know it.”
“The data we have collected up to this point does not suggest that is likely,” said the man.
“Data?”
He nodded. “From many sources. Data is what you select from the canteen. Data is how you choose to use your devices. Data is Silas Brigham-Jones.”
“Right,” said Nell, heart slumping. So they knew about her unsanctioned relationship with Si. She picked her feet off the floor and pressed her thighs into her chest, shivering in her hospital-style gown despite the unexceptional temperature.
“The data paints a very detailed picture of the minds of our students. Patterns emerge. Patterns we’ve seen before. Patterns that predict future behaviours. This is not the outcome anyone wanted, Nell.”
“When you ruin someone’s life,” said Nell, “maybe you could try looking a little sadder about it.”
The man’s expression did not change.
“The pressure you put us under. It’s…we slip a tiny bit below your arbitrary level and we end up here. You’re pathetic. The most…we can’t…why don’t you for once think about…”
The man silenced her with an index finger raised to his lips. It didn’t take much. All of the air seemed to leave her body in an instant.
“This is your second chance,” the man said. “Make the most of it. Some might say it’s a lesser calling, but it’s not the end. Society has to function. The unskilled jobs have to be done too.”
“By me,” said Nell.
“By you. And by others like you.”
“The failures?”
“It is a life of work for which no higher level of learning is required, that is all.”
“But…say one day I’m cleaning the toilet of someone you do consider important, and I don’t clean it to the required standard. Will you take my second life away too?”
Nell wasn’t expecting an answer, and one didn’t come.
“When you’re ready,” was all the man said. “It’s time.”
“What about my friends?”
“You will collect new friends, if you so choose. You will not be given the chance to contact old ones.”
“So if I see Prin or Alyse walking down the street I’m sweeping or whatever then I’m supposed to ignore them? Or do they have to ignore me?”
“This is a non-issue,” said the man. “In the next room, you will be provided with a mirror for the first time since your arrival. Later, a new, personalised location map will be uploaded to your device. After that things will become clearer for you.”
“But…what?”
“There will also be an allowable period of adjustment. After that, within certain defined parameters, your new life will be what you make of it.”
Nell shook her head, which only made the fuzziness growing inside it worse.
“It’s time,” the man repeated.
“Nell isn’t even my real name,” she said weakly.
“It is.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“And now it is,” said the man.
“And now it is,” repeated Nell.
.
Ian Brownlie is a writer and poet from Marlow, Bucks (UK). He has been published in SHINE, Audi Locus, Underbelly, Viridine, Rough Diamond, and streetcake magazine, and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His writing for children can be found in The Dirigible Balloon, The Toy, Tyger Tyger, Nimblewitlit, The School Magazine, and Little Thoughts Press. Bluesky: @ianbrownlie.bsky.social Instagram: @ibrownlie (He/him).