Whirr, clack, clank. Plant 107 is operational for the day: December 26th, 2033. Exactly like yesterday. And the day before. Actually, for the past year, I have woken to the sound of transports arriving with their grisly loads. Hogs, cloned and grown in the towering “farms” that dot the skyline, are slaughtered the day before, then driven here in steeled vehicles. I guess I've grown used to the smell of the offal. “Its another drudgery for you, Dmitri Handleburg,” I think, arching my back out of the cheap foam mattress and trying to think of the last time something new happened to me.
My uniform frowns at me from its place on the coat hook, right next to the damned Flannagan’s Meat Processing name badge. The happy pig, strangely opposable thumb pointed up, backgrounds my name. I pull on the bloodstained one-piece worksuit, knowing I’ll never get it cleaned. The badge recognizes me and clips on successfully. I take one look around.
The foam rest unit lies in one corner of the mass housing unit. Next to it is the greyish plastic nightstand unit. Right on it there is the puzzle. 4000 pieces. 3258 fit together. Given to me by my clouded memories of my parents. I don’t know how long I've had it, or why I even keep it. I walk over to the half formed picture, and begin shuffling through the remaining bits, testing for a fit.
After fifteen or so minutes of searching and testing, a match has been found. 3259 pieces completed. 435 days at Flannagan’s. It’s 8:03, and time to labor away. I grab my company-issued coat, far too thin to keep me warm on the chilly day, but it doesn’t matter to me. The door slides open, beckoning me to my day’s labor.
I enter the battered street from my room. “‘Ay, Dmitri!” calls another man leaving his pitiful quarters, wearing a similar outfit, who I probably know. A name badge is printed in friendly letters: Harold.
“Nice morning, Harold, isn’t it?” I step right beside him.
“Good day?” He stops momentarily and shivers in his drab overcoat. “Hell, it’s too cold for those godless Eskimos up in Moscow!”
We walk together to the check-in at the boxy gray facility. A friendly retinal scan and I’m in. Always the same security procedure. It would be simplicity itself to break in. That would shake those corporate bastards’ knees. The uselessly reinforced doors slide open with a dissonant whirr. I enter the line of the machines of flesh and blood, waiting to reach my post, between the workers who gut the hogs and those who tear the choicest bits off the quickly putrefying carcass: the scrubbers, whose job it is to wipe up the blood and bile out of the insides.
Getting to work is a nauseating task. I pick up one of the worn fiber cable brushes, and grimace as the bloodied carcasses, fully skinned, clack along the ceiling conveyor. I carefully step towards one, and my scrub and I get to work, washing the miscellaneous bodily hog fluids off the bare flesh. The odoriferous bile splatters over the suit’s stains as the pig cycles off to the next station. One of hundreds finished, I think to myself.
Finding ways to distract my thoughts from this menial work has become my only way to stay sane. I reflect on what little of my past I remember:
I was born back in 2003, just a decade before the Great Collapse. If that damned event would've never happened, I would be well off. My father was a materials scientist and we were in a privileged position. Then the whole American system broke down, burdened by debt unimaginable and political ineffectiveness. The investors in that system went bankrupt, and everyone else suffered. The infrastructure remained unmaintained and crumbled to nothing. Everyone who could leave the disaster zone left. We were not that fortunate.
By the age of 13, I had the privilege of living in a slum on the western edge of Chicago. I got to eat whatever I could beg for, which was scant since virtually no one had anything to spare. I went years like that, all the time searching for jobs that just weren't there. Finally I was hired as a sweeper, making virtually nothing, but at least it was a job. Around the same time, my father disappeared. I have had no contact with him since.
The blare of the shift end breaks my thoughts. I drop my offal-clotted brush in the cleaning unit as the blank-faced and blank-minded workers walk off their pointless work, rubber boots padding across the sheet metal floor. The tarnished hog conveyor has temporarily stopped. I can see all the laborers, like ants, pouring out the doors of the facility. Running to the exit, I view the next shift already coming in.
“Handleburrow!” I turn and see the blunt-faced supervisor glaring down at me.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get out of here in a timely manner, you ass! One more slip-up and you’re out of here!”
I am virtually shoved out the creakily whirring door. I push my cold, bloody hands into my pockets as I stroll back home. The people who live here are the saddest I have ever known, even more so than those in the shantytowns of my teenage years. They have nothing left to live for: no family, no fancies, no future. They have nothing but themselves for comfort. These walkers are not people; they are shells of what humanity should be.
Only one man brushes past me as I walk. He wears a thick, but ragged, coat, likely not washed for months or years. His shoes are scuffed to the point of holes revealing toes. But it is his eyes that frighten me the most: blank, milky orbs, not focused anywhere, not on anything. In that moment, something clicks in my mind, my will is steeled. I shall not lose hope in something better for myself and for everyone. Flannagan’s is draining my will and leaving me a husk of a man. I can’t let that happen.
I return to my apartment, no different than when I first started working here, save one thing: a cardboard package, no string, just some tape stuck on it. And a puzzle piece. First of all, I don’t tend to receive packages. My little flip-top computer, a piece of junk in itself, is bombarded by miscellaneous mailings daily, but I never get physical mail.
I recognize that piece of the puzzle. It was the one I had supposedly lost years ago, when I got my puzzle as my last Christmas gift. There’s only one person who could have acquired that. I carefully pull the piece off the tape and put it the pile of unconnected puzzle pieces. Then I cautiously tear the tape off the box, and open it.
Nestled in a mass of tissues is a note and what I can only recognize to be a camera, with a connection cord for a computer. I read the note; it gives me instructions to complete the puzzle, then take a photo of it with the camera. Then upload the photo and convert to a data file. Intrigued, I get to work putting it all together.
The finished piece is that of three dogs in a green field. You don’t find verdance like that anywhere nowadays. I hold up the metallic camera in one hand and zoom onto the image on the puzzle. A click and flash later, the image is in the camera. I walk over to my flimsy plastic desk and start up the computer.
After uploading the image to the hard drive, I am lost as to how to convert to a data file. Time to get Jarod: the tech whiz who lives next door. I pick the computer off the table, pull on my coat, and step outside, walking over to the room three doors to the right. The door slides open.
“Hey, man.” Jarod’s brown hair is spiked in the back, and his grey eyes have the latest tech installed. “Whatcha need?” Wearing a metallic leather jacket, he leans against the wall.
“Can you convert an image to a data file?” An unnecessary question.
“Convert image to data? Hell, my ever-loving grandmother could! I see you’ve brought your junker with you.” He gestures to my laptop.
Jarod’s whitewashed plastic walls are covered with all manner of posters, from the pornographic to the technical. The massive, blue-glowing processor in the northwest corner dominates the room. Besides that, his quarters are similar to mine, with bed, nightstand, and desk made of the same material. He gets on the computer, opens up a window, and begins typing.
A few minutes later, he turns around and looks at me. “It’s ready.”
“Don’t look at it. That file is private.”
“Whatever, man.”
I take the computer out of his room and thank Jarod for his time. I hurry back to my quarters. I lock the door once I’m inside and get to my desk. I begin reading the file.
Hello, Dmitri. Daddy's here.
Holy s***.
By now, they probably know what I’ve done. And I will pay for it. But you need to know this, son. I know your plight. You want to make a difference, and I’m going to help you. This information needs to reach the right hands. You can get it there. There’s something terribly wrong in the system, and that requires reform. The world of the people needs your help. I want to give you the chance you’ve always wanted.
Merry Christmas, son.

Tears spring from my eyes as the emotion comes pouring out. He didn’t die. And now he’s sent me my last Christmas gift. Why did he send this to me? My father is dying for me? Tearily, I start scanning the reports below. Security 11B. Confidential to the extreme, enough to have hundreds of people killed to keep it secret. Why am I entrusted with this? What is the purpose of this.

Continuing the reading, I find that the studies are about human augmentation. Human augmentation, which is fundamentally wrong, and our great leader runs studies on it. I see the grotesque experiment unfold on the file. Taking residents from their homes at random times, in order to “take an accurate population sample”, forcibly attaching genes to their DNA: this “experiment” is an abomination. How could the human race bring themselves so low as to use others of their own kind as “resources”? I can see now why my father sent this out, at the cost of his own life. My father always wanted to right the wrongs of this world, always tried to get the best for everyone. And now he’s passed his duties on to me.
My mind is overloaded by this influx of information, this terrible revelation. I barely even notice the message pop up onscreen. The sender is strangely not shown. Opening the mail, it is clear that this is some sort of threat.
You have in your possession classified materials. Return them to the Thelmsburg city hall within the next 3 hours or they shall be forcibly claimed and your person incarcerated. If you return them properly, we will still confine you for a few hours for questioning.
It’s pretty easy to see where that came from. There isn’t much time, I think to myself. I know that they’re tracking me via the computer, so I can’t have that anymore. I load the files and reports onto a small memory card to keep them safe. I go into the closet and grab a broom; I then go over to the computer and drive the handle into it until the machine won’t turn on. The exhilaration is terrifying.
An idea comes to mind, a cockroach of an idea. What if I just abide by their commands and turn in the file? I would only get a partial memory wipe, only the text of the document. Then my life would resume as normal... but the drudgery won’t stop. I want to get away from here, do something with my life- and I think this is my ticket out. If I fail in this endeavor, then it was fun while it lasted. I’ve already been to Hell: Flannagan’s. If I succeed, though, this could be something that would make me a person kids learn about in their holobooks in 37 languages. I’ve been given a chance by the person who loves me most. A last Christmas gift from my father.
One question still lingers: who told the authorities? No-one else could’ve read the report. Jarod. Of course. He can’t stop nosing into the lives of others. Damn it! The little bastard is going to be dealt with! I ready myself for leaving; grab my wallet, change into a comfortable grey shirt and black pants. I take one last look at myself in the dull gleam of the company-owned mirror.
My dark grey hair is only partially trimmed above my green eyes. My sharp nose and mouth are grimaced in stern determination. My thinner body is tense, like a whip about to crack. I, like my old Christmas gift, am complete.
I quietly close the door of my apartment behind me. No reason to lock it. I’m not coming back. I notice a change in attitude. The world seems brighter and more colorful, but I know that there’s something darker, a hidden infection behind the pristine exterior. There’s a renewed interest in life. Flannagan’s is no longer a reality, and I am ready for whatever comes to me. Purpose was my father’s last gift to me, and I will use it well.