3 Institute

Chapter three.

INSTITUTE

As a white van approaches, Bill Majors, the President of Operations to the Physical Institute, panics. Sitting on a large black chair (facing monitors that record all activity down in the sectors) he gets up. He darts his eyes around the room to others that sit in similar stations to his. The sharp look on his face brings a menacing presence into the room and this alerts them all.
�Everyone listen up.� He�s sweating profusely, and that tips them off almost instantaneously that it must be none other than the RSPCPC (the �Royal Society of the Prevention of Cruelty to the Physically Challenged�) back again for their monthly inspection.
One of the female workers jump out of their seat. �It�s them isn�t it?�
This causes the others to gasp and begin to mumble amongst themselves. �What?� �A day early?� �They can�t be coming here right now��
Bills coughs, clearing his throat. �I was informed just a moment ago that they are here, and they are making their way up to the gates right now.� He glances down at all of them and motions to the door.
Abruptly showing his anger he screams as they all head down the small, metal spiral staircase, just outside the control room: �I want you to ALL split up into SEPARATE SECTORS. Help the cleaners clean up any blood or ANYTHING that suggests we�ve been violent to our patients.� They nod their heads in approval, worried looks on their faces. �If you come across ANY that have VISIBLE wounds then TELL THE GUARDS in the sectors to SEND THEM out to the Infirmary! I want you to repeat this message to any workers you encounter in the halls, but especially the guards!� He�s got clear eyebrow sweat, his cheeks are flushed. �MOVE YOUR A*S!� he screams in an awfully raspy voice. Startled they all begin running off down the long white corridor. The same colour is used for most of the rooms � including the sectors � of the institute.
Outside, the offbeat yet upbeat RSPCPC jingle plays quietly from the approaching van: �RSPC� PC! We protect! We protect! We�re the RS-RS�� (Doubling as an ice-cream truck that dreadful jingle is primarily used as a way to attract little kids to the van to buy their ice-creams: �RSPC� PC! We protect! We protect! We�re the RS-RS�� The money gained serves as a fun for the work of the RSPCPC.)
The driver, a woman, the leader of the RSPCPC, Barbara, switches the van into neutral as it encounters the large iron gates guarding the Physical Institute. Dressed in nostalgic, colourful (and far too revealing) clothes that echo hippies and flower-power (reminiscent of the 70�s), she awkwardly pops her head out of the car window and grins widely at the security guard stationed in his booth. Her grin is returned with a look of pity.
The guard leans over to the intercom and presses in the TALK button: �They are here - just reached the gate. Let them in?� From the van it�s evident that who ever responded screamed obscenities back at him. �Yes of course,� the guards assures. Releasing his finger from the TALK button the guard pushes down another button and the large iron gates begin to slowly swing open.
Barbara squeals in delight (Deee-Lite) as she steps down hard on the accelerator and begins driving toward the building.
Back inside Bill is in the control room, pacing up and down, muttering to himself. He keeps glancing over at the monitors, worried about the presentation of the institute. If someone were to put themselves in Bill�s position they�d find it easy to realise why he�s so worried. Through the monitors Bill watches as workers frantically clean up the walls, order fatties back into their cells, and stand around trying to make themselves look as best as possible.
Guards from the sectors keep rushing out in a panic, usually complaining about the lack of body bags. Bill noticing this can�t help but think to himself and sigh: Ugh... why can�t they use the bloody incinerator?! Of course he doesn�t feel the need to scream this out over the intercom - everyone else beside those who are supposed to know seem to remember just fine where the incinerator is, and, have no trouble pointing the guards in the direction of it.
The heart of the institute is the sectors. Each sector represents an area of the institute with cells where obese adults taken from their homes are imprisoned in, as an extreme method to get them to lose weight. Overweight children are sent off somewhere differently � a special school for the physically challenged.
Patients are monitored by guards in case they dare attempt to make escape or give the RSPCPC explicit and truthful insight on the institute. Usually each one guard is stationed for four cells. That is usually more than enough once you count the gun in their holster, the taser that they carry and all the juicy methods of torture that they can inflict on them dare they disobey. They all live in fear, and it is this fear that has made the program a success. They lose weight from the stress and from what little food they are given, effectively making it successful from a rather sinister perspective.
The van is now parked outside the structure. Barbara is humming the jingle as she grabs a bag from the passenger seat.
From the back of the van a man cries out: �We there already Barb?�
�Sure are hon!� she answers, getting out of the van. �And we are not expected.� She pauses, thinking about the intercom. �Well we are now!� And with this she breaks off into a piercing laugh. It is fortunate that she never laughs when selling ice-creams, for the RSPCPC would have fallen flat long ago.
Bill has now retreated to his office, afraid to come out, not wanting to come out, and still sweating like a madman. The office is cosy, the carpet is fluffy and the walls are red. It is a beautiful contrast to the colours of the institute. He has positioned himself in front of a mirror and is quickly perfecting his fake smile. �Good� good, yes� A little forced yes.� Behind him his phone starts to ring and he quickly snaps out of his fake smile, eyeing the mirror suspiciously. After six rings he gives in and swings around answering it.
�Yes?�
�There�s a problem.� It is one of the guards.
�What is it?�
�It�s Sector G sir. There�s been a suicide.�

Author's Note

Advice on setting transitions (the reason this one is set out horribly is because I had to use the old text editor, the new one bugged out on me whenever I tried to post it (around twenty times I tried) and I got sick of re-entering information.