REFRACTION
noun
re·frac·tion ri-ˈfrak-shən
The deflection from a straight path undergone by a light ray or a wave of energy in passing obliquely from one medium (as air) into another (as water or glass) in which its velocity is different.
A faint metallic taste coats the back of your tongue when you open your eyes each morning, as though you have been licking old coins in your sleep. Something small and cold is already there, curled beneath the thin skin of your forehead, waiting for the day to offer it a doorway out. You look away from it as you change your worn clothes in the dark.
There is work to be done.
The corridors remember you better than you remember yourself. You move through them with shoulders stiff, having long since forgotten the ways you’ve tried to avoid those inward arrows. The nighttime chitters of coworkers blending together as you pull yourself through the dimly lit corners.
You reminisce about the young evenings you sat on the edge of the wide river, balancing on the wet rocks to distract yourself from the shouting. Now you rock back and forth in your creaking desk, fingers worry at the scar along your receding hairline, picking at it until the skin lifts in pale ribbons. The pain is honest; it belongs only to you. The other thing does not flinch when you bleed, it is not alive.
Your body slams into the door, your fingers shuffling around in your pocket for the keycard. The inside reeks of old paper and rusty metal, the row of numbered desks before you a blur as you head towards a desk. Bending down, you reach to pick up a photograph you have not touched in years. In it, low stone walls drink the long northern light, pines lean together like conspirators, and a door the color of fresh blood stands open just enough to promise warmth. You have carried the image carefully all this time, folded into the softest part of memory. Now it feels radioactive.
The image reminds you of a simple time. It's your family's old home in the Swedish countryside, nestled among snow-dusted pines near Uppsala. The house was modest, with its red wooden siding and steep gabled roof, surrounded by a clear sea padded with young trees. You remembered when you’d help your grandma collect nuts & acorns for them to bake into overbaked pies. You remember your brothers hiding your engineering textbooks in the forests when you wouldn’t play with them. You remember the last time you saw that house getting smaller and smaller as the boat swayed from side to side, while you were filled with nothing but curiosity and excitement.
You begin walking back to your office, tightly clutching the photo in your pocket as you try to not look the few people still in the site in the eyes. Yet your gaze fails you as you’re met with that horrid shape of the Foundation insignia plastered on a wall, the image of a dead child slamming itself into the front of your mind. You didn’t know why that test went wrong, why you were still experiencing the effects after almost 4 months of exposure, or why the child changed every time. Maybe the camera knew something you didn’t, or perhaps it just brought everyone’s collective thoughts about the Foundation together in one memetic mess.
You wanted to think you weren’t so bad, your position was cushy, inoffensive. You weren’t even the top memeticist on your site after all god no, you were just….above average. And that should’ve counted for something, should’ve made you a little less evil than your coworkers commuting all those atrocities you’d ask about over a cold lunch.
But the anomaly didn’t think so, and neither did you.
You finally reach your office, the cheap lights & white empty walls blurring the surroundings. Tightly grappling it’s handles, you stumble into your chair and lay your elbows on the desk. You had almost jumped to check your emails on instinct before pulling yourself back to look around. You glance at dusty textbooks the lecturers gave you and empty coffee mugs you had long since become numb to the taste of. Perhaps the place would’ve had a little more personality if you cared, maybe you just didn’t want any distractions. You struggle to resurface the emotions that motivated you in this job for so long. You thought that turning it into a job was a problem in itself, as nobody here could really say they were here for the pizza parties and monthly bonuses. Yet on the other hand that sense of mundanity was the only thing keeping those people sane.
You take a deep breath, looking over your shoulder one last time before bending down to a nearby drawer, pulling out pieces of a press camera. Staring at the scattered parts, you scoff at the absurdity of it all. How you’d never think of even looking at an anomaly without triple authorization a few years ago let alone smuggling one into your office. Well, it’s not like anyone in Site-19 cared about where some mildly memetic camera was. Though you supposed they would find you eventually.
You begin to carefully pull out the parts and lay them on the desk. Every odd sound shot a jolt up your spine as you put the camera together. You were rightfully nervous, but tinkering with old gizmos was the closest thing you had to a hobby in the Foundation so you weren’t too worried.
Padding your sweaty hands down with your coat, you look down at an hour's worth of effort, you weren’t even sure the camera was still functional. Nevertheless, you pulled out the photo from your pocket, shakily lifting the camera above it as the taste of dirty coins returned to your mouth.
Perhaps out of curiosity, you decide to look back at the small Foundation insignia in your office corner. A little girl with sickly blue skin and black eyes stares back at you with a demeanor you can't understand.
"Good evening D-867418."
"Oh fuck off my test ain't for another hour!"
"I'm well aware, mind telling me what you've been staring at?"
"W-what?"
"You’ve been staring at that spot for a while."
"I don't know what the hell you're on about, just let me ball in peace yeah?"
"Have you ever met senior researcher Annika St. Keyne Griffiths?"
"No?"
"I see. Very well then."