BodyHost

James didn’t particularly like his job, or his life for that matter. He’d gone through the motions that everyone had told him to follow and had ended up where a ‘productive’ member of society should be: Working a dead-end nine to five, and knee deep in student debt. His job had seemed interesting when he’d graduated, being a fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old ready for a change. “GROW AT INTELITE!” the recruitment brochure had boldly claimed, and his young and hungry mind had dreamt big. He’d go to work every day with a positive mindset, even trying to get to know his co-workers. But now, twenty years later, his shifts would drag by, with some days involving minimal to no social interaction. The monotony of his life was not helped by the fact that he was unmarried and childless. It made others assume something was wrong with him, and instead of going out after his shifts, he would instead end up browsing the internet or scrolling on his phone much more than his younger, more motivated self would have liked. He truly felt like a shell of his former self, stuck in an endless loop of boredom. Something needed to change.
Then, as though fate had willed it, something did. But ironically enough, the day that his wish for a new routine was granted was the same day his life began to take a downward spiral.
James worked as a ‘Classified document coordinator’, or at least that was his title on paper. The hiring process to join Intelite had been rigorous, with background checks, interviews, and other tests. He even needed security clearance once he’d been hired. Starting out, he had felt like a secret agent, tasked with an important mission. As days turned to months, he realized he was a glorified paper shredder.
He would simply take dollies loaded with folders and transport them to industrial size shredders where he and other employees would work. The company he worked for was responsible for destroying confidential documents from agencies all over the country. He knew virtually nothing about these, only that they had vast amounts of paper to be destroyed. He was never allowed to read the documents he was destroying, but sometimes, out of boredom he would sneak a glance at titles and bolded sentences. They were never particularly mysterious, just a lot of personal data or various physical or behavioral studies. Regardless of their topic, they were almost always in the same folders: Those bland office supply ones.

On the Tuesday of a monotonous week he got in his faded sedan like every other morning, clearing the sleepy fog from his brain with a swig of coffee. As he drove to work, regrets and wishes crossed his mind. These thoughts were common, and usually gnawed at him whenever he was not working or staring at a screen. He thought of his phantom wife and child on that car ride, the nuclear family that had never come to be. He had become slightly numb to the sadness these thoughts used to bring him, partly because waking up to an empty house every morning had forced him to become thick-skinned.
The drive was not particularly long, but it was still early, and winter had just ended so the air was heavy, its greyness almost forcing the car to drive slower than usual. James had also made the trip out of his small subdivision and through the downtown district on so many occasions, time almost felt as though it stood still while he followed the route. The roads were virtually empty, with only a few hardcore runners or sleepy-eyed dog walkers populating the sidewalks. The smell of cheap coffee and grease wafted into his window as he rolled past the town’s diner, stirring up some long-lost nostalgia from his younger days. Then, just as a spring gust blew away the smell of breakfast, he was back in reality, still in his shitty car, in his shitty town, going through the motions of his shitty life.

The empty industrial complexes that surrounded his workplace towered over him as he pulled into the staff parking lot. His town had already had its turn to prosper twenty years ago, until the recession decided it was not worthy anymore. As interest rates had skyrocketed, the population of the failing town plummeted, as tech start-ups engaged in mass firings. What had once been a hub for recent graduates had become a last chance stop for outcasts. He had been lucky, having been in university while the recession had happened, graduating only once the market had stabilized and companies were desperate for labor. He felt no pride in this. He only felt guilty at the fact that he had prospered while others had struggled, and that he had simply stayed relatively untouched by the recession because of his age.
As he exited his car, a different scent hit him, one less pleasant than the diner’s safe memories. He smelled the discards of last season. He could practically taste the soggy, rotten, fast food that mediocre men ate and abandoned on their lunch breaks, while the musty scent of dead leaves left him oddly depressed. These ghostly smells mixed to form a cocktail of forgottenness. Lighting a cigarette with one hand, he slammed the door to his car harder than normal. For a split second he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, but then as he exhaled his body remembered that nicotine was only temporary. The long, slow drags he took from his unwanted habit matched his steps, his back tired and his head pounding.

As he entered the reception to his work, he gave a curt nod to the receptionist. She was looking down at her phone and did not reciprocate his small social gesture. Bitch, He thought. His resentment towards her could have come from the fact that she had turned down his date request recently, or because he was in a crappy mood, or maybe a bit of both. Either way, the angry cloud over his head slightly grew from the fruitless interaction. He scanned his level three clearance card, as the shrill buzz of the automatic lock made his head ring. He used to take the stairs so that he could justify eating like shit and doing nothing after work, but after the first year or so he’d decided to accept his unhealthy habits as ‘de-stressors’. The elevator was part of his routine now, growing his gut. It crept out slowly, inch by inch, floor by floor.
He worked in the basement, two floors down from the reception. Before going to the shredding room, he would drop his briefcase and coat off in the locker room. These articles that he brought with him every day were cheap and faded, but they made him feel like slightly more of an asset to his company, even if it was only for the ten minutes a day that he used them. The browned sticker on his locker reminded him every day of how average he was. J. Clark may as well have said Nobody. He had always envied those with interesting names and good looks, the humans blessed with the traits that you just got because you happened to come out of one woman instead of another. His lucky doppelganger came to him only in his dreams, its chiseled abs and exotic name haunting him after he awoke. Slamming his locker like he was back in the parking lot, he trudged towards the changeroom exit. As he passed the mirror, his reflection taunted him about who he could never be.

The pale lights illuminated the iron monsters, their teeth glaring at him. Piles of folders already awaited him. His other co-shredders had not arrived yet, but he began moving the first paper-filled dolly over to his shredding station, eager to tame his mind with mundane work. The old dolly squeaked, and its back wheel rattled.
Of course, he got the broken one.
He always got the broken one.
He donned his safety gloves and glasses and flipped the shredder’s switch to ‘ON’. It rumbled as though he had awakened some long-lost creature, gaining ferocity as its steel skeleton came to life. The sound used to scare him, but its drawl was almost comforting now, as it drowned out his thoughts.
His body fell into motion, with movements almost as mechanical as the machine in front of him. The folders lay on the dolly, unaware of the fate that would soon befall them. James liked to pretend they were little people sometimes, the people he did not like. The first folder had a nice rack and short blonde hair. Her secretary’s badge made an odd noise as she went into the shredder. The second looked a lot like his boss, with his potbelly and round face. He liked doing this because he was in control. Sometimes a smile would even form on his face as the little paper people became even littler paper fragments. Their bones would end up covered in rodent shit at a lab or lining a delivery box. A fitting end, he thought, chuckling to himself.
This make-believe act continued, until he had run out of enemies. Then the folders were just folders, and he was just him. A smoke break ensued, and he entered the shredding room as a new man. His throat hurt and he smelled like a chemical fire, but his head was temporarily clear, his brain receptors devouring the nicotine like starving wolves. There would be no peeking at documents today, he told himself. He was too tired to read.
Today he was destined to shred, piss, shred, smoke, shred, eat, shred, piss, shred, smoke, leave, eat, and sleep.
The folder dolly was empty in no time. He grabbed another pile of victims, and continued destroying, committing mass murder of all the vowels, even ‘y’. No letter was safe. Dates, names, and times vanished as though they had never existed, returned to the paper god in their simplest form.
His eyes grew heavy as the motions became repetitive. But he did not allow himself to grow lazy. Getting lazy meant bad things. For Marcus Ford, ex-Intelite employee, it meant no right hand. For Dion, the janitor, it meant overtime, extra pine-sol, and workplace counselling sessions.
He perked up slightly as a few more employees trickled in and wearily took to their posts. The dollies moved smoothly for them, but he had already expected that. They did not acknowledge him, and nor did he. They’d already entered a silent contract years ago that he was not their friend.
As the other machines booted up, the sound of grinding metal engulfed the room. He put his earplugs in, turning it to a dull whir. He resumed loading the folders into the shredder and tuned out everything else. He was now at his peak performance for the day. His hands grew sore and sweat dripped from his brow, tarnishing the already doomed papers he held. All he could think about was his next cigarette and which online porn star he would admire tonight. He did not dare look at his watch, because it would stretch time. He allowed his conscience to indulge on what was to come and began turning the folders he shredded into a nursery rhyme:
Beige folder. White Paper. Slightly less Beige folder. White Paper. Beige folder. Slightly less Beige folder. White Paper. Beige Folder. Slightly less Beige folder. White Paper. Beige Folder. Black folder. Beige fol— Black folder?
There was never a black folder.
Ever.
He rapidly reached into the conveyer of the shredder, care be damned, and snatched up the anomaly. He was about to open it when he remembered what happened to the other lazy kinds of employees. Diane Simmons was doing ten years for being caught snooping through government lab records that she was supposed to be shredding. The irony of it? She’d only managed to see the title of the document. Rumor had it that that was all she said to anyone, over and over, as she got dragged off to the women’s detention facility outside of town. He didn’t blame her. He’d heard about what they did there. The homeless woman with the limp outside of the liquor store made sure everyone knew.
He casually dropped the folder on the floor just beside the small table where his equipment lived. He kicked it under as subtly as possible, giving the orphan folder a temporary home. He must have looked like one of those guilty cartoon characters, whistling with his hands in his pockets, while everyone knew he was up to no good. But, despite his paranoid complex, he felt no hand on his shoulder, no lull in the noise that filled the room.
He picked back up where he’d left off, but his head felt different. He felt lazy. All he could see was the slick, oil black folder, teasing him to open it. Should I? Yes, James. It just could change your life. His sweat had returned, but it was not because he was working hard. He felt as though he had suddenly developed an addiction, not to a substance, but to what wasn’t.
He wanted to see what was in that folder.
He needed to see what was in that folder.
The rest of his shift, lunch, even his smoke break, meant nothing to him. He thought only of the next time he would be alone. He had a small window if he came in early, but there was no way he would be able to examine the folder substantively. He thought about smuggling it out, but security was tight. Even though there was no checkpoint to enter the building, employees were thoroughly searched every night before they left. And if he were caught, he’d be sharing a bunk with Diane for the next few years.
His final alternative to seeing the folder was not one he liked. You could request to work the night shift IF the usual contracted night shift worker was fired or was unable to attend work for extenuating circumstances. Not kid’s recital circumstances, sick or dying circumstances. After all, the Night shift shredder was a trusted worker, given special security clearance and the keys to the shredding room.
Just then, James knew what he needed to do. As he clocked out that evening, he innocently asked the receptionist when the night shift worker clocked in. Surprised, she stuttered slightly as she spoke: “T-ten o’clock sharp”. He gave her the ghost of a smile as he trudged away, and although it only lasted a minute, she felt herself surprisingly attracted to the odd loner who worked in the basement. Either way, it lasted long enough for her to not think twice about why he was asking her that question.

James looked at the grease-stained clock on his car’s dashboard. 9:52. His stomach rumbled angrily, scolding him for skipping dinner. He hated when it did that.
He hated when his tongue scolded him for being thirsty, when his head scolded him for not smoking. It reminded him of how his father used to treat him when he was younger. You’ll never be extraordinary. You’ll only be disappointed like I was.
He checked the glovebox for anything edible but was instead disappointed with a buffet of rejects. This included delicacies such as old lottery tickets and unused condoms. He reminisced bittersweetly about having bought those items from the convenience store and walking out while imagining himself on his yacht after he won having sex with a handful of models. What he chose not to remember was lying in his car behind the shop with his last ticket scratched, watching the woman he’d hired walk away as though she’d never fucked him at all. Instead of models and money, he’d settled for a prostitute and a lighter wallet.
He snapped out of his trance as the clock hit ten. Headlights and rumbling gravel reminded him why he was there, and his stomach decided to settle down. Good boy. He would reward it later with some Twinkies, some short-term joy.
His car was off, and the tire iron in his hand was gritty. He could feel the rust coming off in his hand, giving him a faint scent of almost-blood. He had wrapped the top of it in plastic so it wouldn’t leave a mark. The sedan pulled into the spot two lines down from him, executing a perfect reverse parking job. Asshole. This took away the small shred of guilt he had. As the driver unlocked his door, he slowly got out and crept forward as quietly as he could. To his benefit, the spring moisture had coated the ground with a silencing layer, almost goading him on. He heard the faceless night shift worker humming as he came around the back of their car and popped their trunk. He envisioned himself as a hitman from his father’s old movies, silent as the night itself, creeping up on an unsuspecting target like a cat. Hitman James would execute his target in one foul blow, and they would fall like a domino as he pranced back into the night.
He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle his breathing and counted to three.
One.
Two.
Clack.
That was not the noise he would have expected metal to make. As he hit the night shift worker, he heard both a cracking noise and a dull thud at the same time, creating a morbid song note. The tire iron vibrated like a tuner, digging at his callouses.
His target did not, in fact, go down like a domino. Instead, he attempted to clutch the back of his head as his legs slowly failed him. It looked like what a drunk would do during a sobriety test, what someone whose limbs were not co-operating would do. Even for James (who spent his spare time watching gruesome videos online) this was disturbing.
It only became worse when a sad moan escaped his mouth, like a car horn running out of battery. “Please stop.” he said quietly, walking towards his struggling victim. “Please.”. Unconsciously, he brought the tire iron down again, just as he turned his head towards him. This time it caught him just beside the temple, rattling his hand again. The night shift worker convulsed slightly, then went limp. His eyes were back in his head and his stomach rose and fell ever so slightly. A trickle of liquid sputtered from his lips. Not dead. Good. James walked to his car on shaky legs and threw the tire iron into the woods.
The garden hose he’d bought at the hardware store was cheap, but it didn’t matter. He’d used extra duct tape to make sure nothing escaped. It was odd seeing the night shift worker’s lunch bag on the front seat as he propped up the limp body. Written on it was “LUV U! – Angie”. As he placed the man whose name he did not know in the driver’s seat, he turned the lunch bag the other way. The car started on the first try and the window was sealed. As he walked away from the car, he began to hear sputtering and light gagging over the sedan’s engine. The faint scent of exhaust burned, but he let it enter his nose anyways.
He waited in his car, as the sounds turned to nothing.
A sense of euphoria overwhelmed him as he thought of what was to come. Before he turned his car on, he masturbated aggressively. His mind jumped from what he imagined was under his receptionist’s clothes, to the beautiful jet-black folder, with its secrets just begging to be read.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he couldn’t help but smile. As a matter of fact, he’d never felt this happy in his life.

He couldn’t sleep at all that night. He could only think of the next day, of how they would react to his actions. There was a possibility they would see through the façade he had created; they may not have bought that the night shift worker had been sad enough to breathe his own exhaust in the work parking lot. But as he pulled into the parking lot the next morning, he learned that none of that mattered. The night shift worker’s car was gone, and him with it.
There were no police, no yellow tape, no media. All that remained of last night’s sin was the vague outline of where the car had been parked, slightly drier than the surrounding area. The parking lot looked the same as it always had: grey, old, and empty. He quickly gathered up his belongings after he parked and walked inside, faster than usual. He didn’t even bother having his morning cigarette, surprising himself and annoying his brain. As he opened the door to his work, the receptionist and the floor manager were engaged in a hushed conversation, assuming no one else was in the same room as them. Fragments of their voices slowly travelled to him as he stood quietly by the door …they don’t want to cause a fuss… …Stress of the job… …Kind of cree-
Their voices stopped like a record ending. Like bad extras on a sitcom, they hurriedly made themselves busy, but he already knew what had happened.
And it was even better than he had anticipated.
He almost laughed at how stupid the cops were. He’d gone to high school with the head of homicide, who had been notorious for murdering pints on his lunch break and smoking dope. With how corrupt the town force was, there was no wonder they didn’t want to get involved in what could have been an actual murder, because it meant calling in the county police. Suicides were always less paperwork, less questions, the Cole’s notes of a real investigation.
When he got into the elevator, he pressed the button to the second floor instead of the basement. He rehearsed his speech as the old machine groaned upwards, preparing his emotions as best he could. The elevator dinged and he walked to his bosses’ office, eyes forward. Just outside, he went over his lines, and when he felt ready, he knocked.
“Who’s there?” said a scratchy voice, ripe with old whiskey and breath mints.
“It’s James, sir. Do you have a second to talk?”. He heard a fumbling of papers and a drawer closing.
“J-James, yes, the big shredder man!” “Come in, son.” He opened the door, making instant eye contact with his whale of a boss, cracking the smile he’d practiced in the mirror for hours last night. He knew his boss was weak like him, with no family like him. Surprised at his own confidence, he strutted into the room and took a seat before being asked to. His boss eyed him curiously, and James thought he could see a flash of admiration in his eyes. Good. Things were going just as planned.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, first off, I wanted to express my condolences for what happened to my fellow employee.” His boss began to open his mouth, surprised and suspicious all at once. Before he could vocalize his emotions, James continued. “I didn’t even know that anything had happened until I heard a few little birdies chattering about it in the lobby today. As soon as I heard about it, I felt like I needed to talk to you.”
“You’re a perceptive one, aren’t you James.” His boss said warily, the suspicion having slowly melted from his face. “That’s the kind of workers I like, the ones who have big eyes and ears.”
“Well, if my ears were any bigger you could call me an elephant!” They both laughed their Yes-man laughs, knowing full well that joke was not funny. It was instead an unwritten agreement that they were now on the same page.
“Good, good. I appreciate your words, James. But between you and me, Tony was weak. The stress of the job must have finally caught up with him, made him take the coward’s way out.” James shook his head sympathetically. “So why are you really here? I know a man with an agenda when I see one.”
“Boss, Mark, can I call you Mark?”
“Sure, son.”
“I’ve worked very hard for Intelite. I love it here. Shredding paper feels like an odd passion for me, it’s all I can think about.” Mark raised his eyebrows, but after seeing that James’ face was serious, he quickly lowered them again. “When I came in today and I heard that you’d lost a valuable employee, I saw a crossroads in my head. I could go down the elevator and keep shredding like I always do, or I could take it up and come talk to you about a promotion.”
“Ah, you want the night shift worker position, don’t you? Sneaky bastard.” He sneered.
“That would be my dream. Ever since I was y- “
“Listen, kid, I don’t need to hear your sob story. I just gotta check your record and if it’s clean you can have the job. You come at ten sharp, you lock up when you’re done, and you hit the minimum shredding quota. Do that, and you won’t hear any complaints from me. Get it?”
“Yes, boss. I appreciate it.”
Mark quickly pulled out a stack of folders, beige of course, and rifled through them until he reached the letter ‘C’. Skimming what James assumed were his records, the boss nodded in approval and put the folders down.
“End your day at lunch and be back here for ten tonight. Stop by the security office to get your key on the way out.”
James thanked him again, his head almost exploding with emotion as he walked towards the door. Once he’d exited the office, he ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and looked in the mirror. Instead of seeing what he wasn’t, he saw himself with a black folder, smiling from ear to ear.
We did it.

He was practically shaking as he drove back to work that night. Something about the air was different. As his car tore through it, it felt thinner than ever. The smells of leisure filled the car this time, replacing his excitement with the familiar jealousy that he felt so often. The streets were full of night people, blessed with the pleasures of sociability and companionship.
He shook his head and punched his own temple until he saw stars to remind himself why he should have been excited for that night. Slightly dazed and puffing a new cigarette, he focused on the road ahead, black filling his vision and his mind.
The parking lot was much different at night. It was as though someone unseen had slipped a switch that controlled the entire tech park’s atmosphere, everything was so still. The evening sounds he usually heard in his subdivision were nonexistent, and when he turned his car off, he was plunged into utter silence. The abandoned buildings around him stood guard, and the night watched him intently, observing his every move.
The closer he got the building, the more he felt himself being pulled towards the shredder room. Invisible magnets coaxed him forwards, forcing him into a dreamlike walk. The key slid into the door’s lock easily. He punched the password he’d been given into the alarm keypad, disabling the system. It was odd seeing the secretary’s desk empty. He went over to it and poked through her things, feeling a rush as he touched the same things that she did. His mind scolded him for this instant gratification and pushed him to focus on the greater reward that dwelled below, separated only now by some layers of concrete.
He skipped the change room on the way down. As he entered the shredding room, he felt as though he’d entered a graveyard of machines. The thick walls let no sound in or out, and the fact that there were no windows forced any possible moonlight to stay outside. Flipping the light switch, he quickly scanned the room and saw exactly what he’d hoped to: no cameras. He’d suspected that they hadn’t installed any in case they picked up writing from the documents by accident. The Security team, after all, only had Level 1 clearance. The dollies that were full of his quota for the night waited, begging to be spared. Even his enemies needed a break from eternal torture. They would be brought into a false sense of security tonight because he would shred in sporadic shifts, but he needed to fulfill his urge first.
He needed to peek at the folder before he got to work.
He would go crazy if he didn’t.

As he finally grasped the folder, he could not hide his erection. His whole body coursed with energy and his hands would not stop shaking. He slowly opened it, and discovered not black paper, but instead yellowed, thick lab style pages. There was simply a three-word title right in the middle of the page, as well as a date:

BODYHOST TRIAL LOGS

y. 2036-2038

2036? His mind was racing. Unless this was a typo or a movie script, that date was impossible. He double checked his phone, and sure enough it was the same year it had always been, 2023.
Someone was playing a sick joke on him. This was probably one of those stupid hidden camera shows where they plant something and film your reaction, letting all the better people laugh at his weakness. Enraged, he threw the folder across the room, and surprisingly, its pages did not scatter because they were bound together like a book. He cursed it, angry and depressed that someone had played a sick joke on him.
Head down, he put his gloves on and

ShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShre-
He could not focus.
The papers were missing the shredder and falling around him, and he was moving slower than he ever had. His head was pounding, and he sweated profusely. Even though he now hated that folder, he wanted to keep reading it. He checked his watch. It had only been fifteen minutes.
Another small peek would not hurt.

The next page was the same color and was describing some type of experiment.
Skeptically, James read on.

BODYHOST TRIAL #1

SUBJECT(S): 1 x Male Marmoset (Callithrix jacchus)

DATE: March 9th, 2036

OBSERVER: Dr. Stanford

---

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

7:03 am: Subject has undergone implant surgery and remains in stable condition. Too early in the development phase to attempt linkage to humans.

7:31 am: Subject is awake and has been released into the enclosure.

7:35 am: Subject’s microchip has been activated.

8:12 am: Subject is slightly agitated and has begun itching its scalp repeatedly.

9:20 am: Subject has begun to breathe heavily and is showing signs of distress. Water and food have been introduced to the enclosure.

10:05 am: Subject has ignored food and water and is in the corner of the enclosure in fetal position. Breathing is stable but does not respond to audio and visual stimulations.

1:40 pm: Subject dispersed food and water around cage aggressively and is shaking uncontrollably. Body of the subject has become raw and is slightly bleeding from excessive grooming.

2:06 pm: Subject has begun screaming uncontrollably and is attempting to exit the enclosure.

3:15 pm: Subject’s head has begun showing signs of swelling, screaming has ceased. Subject is lethargic and has moved to a sitting position.

3:34 pm: Subject’s head is significantly swollen, and the subject’s heart rate has slowed. Swelling has caused damage to the subject’s retinas.

3:45 pm: Subject’s head has been compromised. Subject unresponsive. BodyHost is not yet advised for human pretrials. Suggest further experimentation.

END TRANSCRIPT

James did not know what to think. If this was a prank, someone with a sick mind would have had to come up with these descriptions. Either way, his hunger had only slightly been appeased. He wanted to know more. Just then, the dollies called his name. Some of the folders that had taken the form of his past enemies were wondering why they had not been shredded yet. He remembered he had a quota to fill.
He remembered his sweet folder would be taken from him if this was not reached.
They didn’t want that, did they.
ShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShr edShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShred

He checked the time again. 12:32. He still had a few hours to go. He had murdered a good number of folders but had been admittedly uncomfortable by how much some of them had liked it. He wanted his enemies to suffer, not praise him.
No matter. He needed to read.

Some pages were missing. This annoyed him, but not enough to put the folder down.

BODYHOST TRIAL #4

SUBJECT(S): 1 x Male Marmoset (Callithrix jacchus), 1 x Female Marmoset (Callithrix jacchus)

DATE: April 28th, 2036

OBSERVER: Dr. Stanford

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

7:02 am: Host microchip implanted into Subject 1. Body microchip implanted in Subject 2. Both subjects remain in stable condition post-surgery.

7:16 am: Subjects released into adjacent enclosures separated by fencing.

7:32 am: Subject 1 Host microchip activated. Subject remains in an unconscious state, but breathing is stable. No significant brain activity visible.

7:33 am: Subject 2 Body microchip activated. Subject has awoken instantly and has become highly agitated. Brain activity of Subject 1 has spiked. Hypothesized successful neural link.

7:42 am: Subject 1 is displaying symptoms of an individual in R.E.M. sleep cycles. Subject 2 is examining its limbs and torso and is displaying signs of distress regarding its genitals.

8:24 am: Shock administered to Subject 1 via cattle prod. Subject 2 reacts in sync.

8:25 am: Shock administered to Subject 2 via cattle prod. Subject 1 brain activity reacts accordingly. Neural link is confirmed successful.

9:36 am: Subject 1 remains stable. Subject 2 has become calmer.

10:02 am: Neural disconnect attempted. Subject 1 has flatlined and remains unresponsive. Subject 2 is in stable condition but has experienced full body paralysis.

12:04 pm: Paralysis has persisted. Subject 2 terminated. BodyHost advised for preliminary human pre-trials, but neural disengagement must be re-examined. Suggest further experimentation.

END TRANSCRIPT

James uttered a gasp. He was surprised because he had never done that before. He did not know what was happening to him. After reading the second transcript, he felt an overwhelming urge to continue reading. Fake or not, he needed to know where this was going. He could see more pages were missing and was extremely tempted to keep reading. The small shred of logic that remained reminded him that he would never read it again if he got lazy.
Good call.
1:16.
ShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShredShred

BODYHOST TRIAL #9

SUBJECT(S): 1 x Male Human (Homo Sapiens)

DATE: August 5th, 2036

OBSERVER: Dr. Stanford

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

7:05 am: Subject has undergone Body microchip implant surgery and is in stable condition. Prison uniform has been replaced with a medical gown for practicality.

7:14 am: Subject released into enclosure. Subject has awakened and is confused, but otherwise normal.

7:17 am: Microchip activated.

7:30 am: Subject remains stable and has been given food and water. My colleague Dr. Black had the following interaction with the Subject:

Subject (S): Water? Water? You plant a fuckin’ bug in my head and I don’t even get a coffee? Heh. And they say I’m the criminal.

Dr. Black (D): Sir, if it’s a coffee you’d like we can fetch you one. But only decaf.

(S): Oh yes sir, please fetch one immediately! Blech. Just get me my damn coffee.

8:03 am: Subject is experiencing slight euphoria. Unclear whether this is an effect of the coffee, or the microchip. Further experimentation required.

8:44 am: Subject’s euphoria has drastically increased. Subject is smiling widely with a dazed expression. Dr. Black has interviewed the subject to examine whether this is in fact the microchip’s doing. See below:

(D): Was the coffee to your liking?

(S): S-so many things. S-so many lovely things.

(D): What things?

(S): The pretty things. The pretty colors in my head.

(D): What colors are you seeing?

(S): S-so many.

(S): S-

(D): What else do you see?

(S): (No response)

9:28 am: Subject is displaying symptoms associated with long periods of solitary confinement. Subject rocks back and forth and will not respond to prompts from Dr. Black. Short bursts of euphoria occur sporadically, but rapidly disappear.

10:12 am: Subject is agitated. Subject is engaged in excessive sweating and aggressive scratching of the scalp. Dr. Black engaged with the subject regarding these actions:

(D): Are you okay?

(S): Get out.

(D): Who?

(S): Get out!

(S): GET OUT!!!

(D): Sir, to help you we need to know what’s happening.

(S): Get them out of my head. Stop telling me what to do. Get out.

(D): No one is with you.

(S): Get out of my headGet out of my headGet out of myheadGetoutofmyhead GetoutofmyheadGETOUTOFMYHEADGE
TOUTOFMYHEADGETOUTOFMYHEAD

(D): Security!!!

10:31 am: Following the conversation with Dr. Black Subject became extremely agitated, banging their head on the concrete wall repeatedly. Once a wound had appeared, the subject reached into it and pried at their head aggressively. Security was called and the patient has been subdued. Significant self inflicted damage to the frontal lobe has left the subject in unstable condition.

10:43 am: Subject terminated. BodyHost is still unfit for use. Suggest further human experimentation.

END TRANSCRIPT

He shredded the rest of his quota in a haze.
He drove home quietly.
He got into bed without eating or showering.

He dreamt of microchips and lab rats.

Tonight would come soon.
He had met his quota. He had hidden the folder.
Then why was he so paranoid? James had developed a nervous tic in his right eye and had not slept.
It was 4:02 pm. Only a few more hours.

The weather that evening was gloomy. The grey sky loomed ominously, holding the sun hostage. Thick spring raindrops pelted his car, like God was spitting on him for his sins. Darkness was falling, turning what many saw as dusk into a colorless purgatory for James.
He was ashamed. The folder had added something new to his life, but it was not the feeling he had anticipated. When he was reading, his joy was immense. A thrilling feeling overcame him, his brain high off the third person adventure he was engaged in.
But the second that he put down that beautiful black folder, his mood plummeted like a broken airplane. He had never been one for drug use. He may have been an on and off alcoholic, but who wasn’t these days?
He had started to hate that folder almost as much as he hated himself, but couldn’t stay away from it, like a battered wife and her husband.

The parking lot was the same as yesterday, meaningless as a blank page in a book. He smelled something ripe as he exited, quickly realizing it was himself. He hadn’t even noticed that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. No matter. No one was there anyways.
He lit his fifth cigarette of the day, his lungs screaming in protest. He shut the door and made his way towards the darkened entrance. As he fumbled for the key, his wallet fell out of his back pocket. Turning around to pick it up, the abandoned tech building to his left caught his eye. He thought, for the briefest of seconds, that he’d seen a dimly lit figure in one of the windows.
Trick of the light.
He picked up his phone and entered the building.

Shred. Pause. Shred. Shred. Pause. Shred. Pause.
The shredding could wait. His greasy hands were beginning to drop the papers, or at least that was the excuse he made for taking another hit from his paper drug.

BODYHOST TRIAL #15

SUBJECT(S): 2 x Male Humans (Homo Sapiens)
DATE: March 14th, 2037

OBSERVER: Dr. Stanford

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

7:06 am: Body microchip implanted into Subject 1. Host microchip implanted in Subject 2. Both subjects remain in stable condition post-surgery.

7:42 am: Subject 1 placed in enclosure, Subject 2 strapped into bed to avoid potential self-harm.

7:45 am: Microchips activated. Subject 1 has awoken rapidly. Subject 2 is displaying increased neural activity. Hypothesized neural link.

8:00 am: Subject 1 is confused, despite a pre-experiment briefing. Subject 1 has arisen and is looking rapidly between Subject 2 and their own body.

8:12 am: Subject 1 is pacing the enclosure, motor function is normal.

9:00 am: Subject 1 has requested to return to their own body. Request denied due to lack of evidence that they are experiencing distress.

9:36 am: Subject 2’s neural activity has spiked and Subject 1 is becoming increasingly agitated.

10:07 am: Subject 1 is extremely fearful. Below is a transcript of the subsequent interaction that occurred between Subject 1 and Dr. Black:

Subject (S): P-please. I wanna go home.

Dr. Black (D): Why is that?

(S): I don’t like how I feel anymore. I feel unwelcome.

(D): In what way?

(S): L-like someone else is trying t-to push me out.

(S): Please! It’s getting louder!

(D): Stay calm. We’ll pull you out soon.

(S): My nose…

(D): We’ll get you a tissue. Stay calm. We’re going to deactivate the neural link in 30 seconds.

(S): Okay. Thank God.

(D): Have a seat. Ten seconds.

(D): Five.

(D): Deactivation initiated.

Subject 2 (S2): M-M-m-m…

(D): How are you feeling?

(S2): Muh-mommy…

(S2): M-

(D): Hello? Hey! Are you with me?

10:46 am: Following the conversation with Dr. Black Subject 1 is deceased, and Subject 2 has experienced intense brain damage. They cannot speak coherently and do not understand their surroundings.

10:57 am: Subject 2 terminated. BodyHost neural link ready for human use, but de-link and prolonged usage still unstable. Suggest further human experimentation.

END TRANSCRIPT

BodyHost was almost ready. James could not contain his excitement!! His armpits were stained with sweat, and his hair was dripping. Wait, what was he doing? He didn’t even know if this was real yet. Then why was he so engaged? He looked around the room again. He was behind on his shredding.
He did not want to work.
He wanted to read.
The papers screamed his name. The folder screamed louder.
Get out of my head. Get out of my head!
James ran to the bathroom, as their cries echoed down the hallway.

I Q_IT, said the note on the shredding room door. The letters had been written in black sharpie, and the ‘U’ was smudged by sweat. Papers littered the floor, and a pair of gloves had been jammed into the closest machine. The other employees had always known the quiet man was odd but wouldn’t have expected him to snap like the other night shift worker had.
Apparently in the shredding business it was more common than they’d thought for someone’s sanity to experience death by a thousand paper cuts.

He had it.
He had it all to himself.
They would not come looking. They did not know what he knew. But he had to take precautions just in case.
The hardware store didn’t open for another hour and the parking lot was empty, so he decided to sneak another glance at his guilty pleasure.

BODYHOST TRIAL #19
SUBJECT(S): 1 x Male Human (Homo Sapiens), 1 x Female Human (Homo Sapiens)
Date: March 14th, 2037

OBSERVER: Dr. Stanford

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

7:16 am: Subjects released into adjacent enclosures separated by fencing.

7:32 am: Subject 1 body microchip activated. Subject remains in an unconscious state, but breathing is stable. No significant brain activity visible.

7:33 am: Subject 2 Host microchip activated. Subject has awoken instantly and has become highly agitated. Brain activity of Subject 1 has spiked. Hypothesized successful neural link.

7:42 am: Subject 1 is displaying symptoms of an individual in R.E.M. sleep cycles. Subject 2 is examining its limbs and torso and is displaying signs of distress regarding its genitals and physical appearance.

8:25 am: Shock administered to Subject 2 via cattle prod. Subject 1 brain activity has responded accordingly. Neural link is confirmed.

9:36 am: Subject 1 remains stable. Subject 2 has become calmer.

12:43 pm: Final BodyHost trial successful. Ready for mainstream mass distribution. Will initiate inter-decade file disposal as well as termination of all subjects.

END TRANSCRIPT

stupid stupid stupid Should have hidden earlier should have stayed inside should have left the folder

His windows were barricaded from the inside.
His handgun was loaded.
He had destroyed his computer and his cellphone and disconnected his landline.
He did not know who would come for him first, but it did not matter.
He peeked through the window. It was dusk. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like death, but he would not sleep.

Sleep. Said the folder. Rest your weary eyes.
Nononononononononononononostay uphavetostayupnononono
His eyes were so heavy. His hands were weak.
He would- Would only- Only for a little-

He awoke to an empty folder.
There was a new bruise on his neck, and he was bleeding from a cut on his head.
He was surprised to see his own hands wrapped around the handgun’s cold barrel that was hurting his teeth.

Credit: Dante Caloia

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