INTERNAL CLINICAL TERMINAL: AREA B
FILE LOG: RECOVERY_LOG_21112012_RESTRICTED
AUDIO STATUS: NO SIGNAL // TEXT LOG ONLY
(The sound of a heavy clockwork metronome starts in the background)
[VINCENT] — Sit down. Please. There is no need to adjust your spectacles every ten seconds. You know that in this heavy, clinical darkness I cannot see the panic in your eyes. But the grid hears it. I can hear your pulse through the sensor node. It is currently at one hundred and eighty beats per minute. The little mechanical clock inside your chest is running out of time, my dear friend.
[//////////////] — (Heavy, ragged breathing. The sound of metal chair legs scraping violently against the concrete floor) — Vincent... stop this. Just stop. I beg you, look at the monitors. Look at what you are doing to them. I turned off the main ventilation valves an hour ago. Christopher... my boy, he was finally breathing clean air tonight. Real air, Vincent! Not your sweet, sickening poison. His eyes were clear. And Wendy... Wendy knows everything now. She found my old ledger. She is going to the district police station tomorrow morning. It’s over, Vincent. The Mosaic is broken. Your project is a failure.
[VINCENT] — (The faint sound of a dry, elegant chuckle, followed by the soft rustle of a luxury lab coat) — A failure? Oh, my dear friend. Your wife is an extraordinarily observant woman, I must admit. Her focus on detail is almost poetic. My mother—she was a magnificent teacher of classical literature—she always taught me to appreciate the absolute structure of a tragedy. She used to say that a good story must have a devastating, yet perfectly logical ending. Characters are nothing but ink on a paper. Sooner or later, the ink dries up. The only thing that truly matters is the beautiful pattern that remains on the page after they are gone.
[//////////////] — (A desperate, muffled cry. The sound of leather straps straining hard) — He is seven years old, Vincent! He is a human being! He is my son, not your ink, not your canvas! I won't help you anymore. Do you hear me? I will not cut another brake line on Clarington Road. I will not watch another car roll down into the icy ravine just to bring you their broken, terrified children! I am going to the police station myself. I will tell the inspectors everything. I don't care if I spend the rest of my miserable life in a cell!
[VINCENT] — (The tone instantly drops into a freezing, low, resonant digital bass) — Pity is an emotion. And emotions always interfere with the work. Do you truly believe the inspectors will look at you as a victim? Your neat, precise signature is stamped on every single shipping label of the V-74 chemical compound. If Wendy walks into that station, you will be handcuffed before she even finishes her first sentence. You will go to prison, yes. But your sweet, stubborn dandelion Christopher... he will remain here. Alone. In my room. In my care.
[//////////////] — (The struggling stops suddenly. Absolute, dead silence fills the log, broken only by the rhythmic tick-tock of the background timer) — You... you wouldn't. You promised me his treatment was safe.
[VINCENT] — (The tone shifts back to an obnoxiously gentle, soft, comforting whisper) — I never promised you anything. I merely said I would consider the options. But now, we must correct the narrative. Your wife’s little notebook is a threat to the harmony of our group. We must show Wendy the proper way to achieve peace. Tomorrow morning, you will take her for a drive in your station wagon. You will drive together. Through the mountain pass. And on the steep icy slope... the brake pedal will simply meet the empty air. A tragic, ordinary accident on a slippery road. The police will close the file in two days.
[//////////////] — (A hollow, completely crushed, dead voice, sobbing quietly in the dark) — And Christopher? What will happen to my boy?
[VINCENT] — Christopher will stay in his bed. He needs rest. He will help me finish the left cortex tomorrow. Don't look back. You have performed your function beautifully. Now, close your eyes. The dream has already begun.
[VINCENT] — (Whispering directly into the recording device, accompanied by a sharp digital glitch) — JUST SLEEP.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE] — CORE CONNECTION TERMINATED. COMPRESSOR PRESSURE STABILIZED AT 415 MM HG. LINE DISCONNECTED.