The three hopeful finalists sat in the front row, -a young woman wringing her hands, a guy with pronounced musculature escaping a skinny vest and the staid, 50-something, balding Phil. They had been informed the elimination exercise would follow briefing presentations.
Phil surveyed the cavernous, somehow claustrophobic lecture hall. Wood panelled ceiling and walls reminded him of horror films that in an earlier career-phase he had scoured, researching replicable facial expressions to convey being entombed alive.
Work opportunities as a character actor were becoming sporadic; it was the right time to diversify, to move on. The once familiar minimalist sets of The Grand, – a laden bookcase stage right. a chair centre stage, French Doors with greenery and birdsong stage left, were distant memories since the Catastrophe. How he missed the multiple curtain-calls, the whooping and whistling of an appreciative audience, the after-play drinkies with sound and lighting crews, the informal advice sessions to aspiring drama school students! Commercial Crisis Acting had never been on the radar but what could he do? The mortgage had to be paid, and in order of priority, the dog, 3 children and a wife fed and clothed. That ranking was correct. Phil prided himself in being particularly self- aware.
Compromises for the sake of his art were not new. The Controllers had insisted on the sub-cutaneous monitoring chip and the memory suppressor. Both were minimal intrusions compared to the “alteration.” And a substantial contribution to reaching the final interview thought Phil smugly.
I know all that. Like being talked to in the kindergarten. Phil’s irritation at the Acting Coach’s presentation, was equalled by surprise at the avid attention of his two competitors and his own ability to awaken memories of the kindergarten.
Probably an outage coming soon.
The second speaker was a Content Marketing Manager. “Your job is to sell the story not the product. Customers are interested in how the “alteration” makes them feel, not the gears and levers. They have to be convinced, they cannot live without it.
How much of her is left? Phil’s mind had wandered. The waxy skin, the breathily seductive voice and slightly staccato gait as she approached the lectern gave it away. A Mark 3, 3% human?
“Malfunction, malfunction.” The Controllers watched as full system shutdown progressed. The lecture-room lights dimmed, air supply failed and automatic door locks triggered. Muscle-man feinted; the young woman charged the stage and attempted a reset of the Mark 3 presenter, before throwing herself at the locked fire-exit door, screaming for help. Only Phil kept his cool. As the memory suppressor failed, blanked-out neural pathways regenerated, rose and breached the recall fog, then solidified into consciousness.“Don’t yell, panic increases the heart rate, leads to fast breathing and depletion of air supply. Don’t breathe then swallow, hyperventilation results. Take deep breaths and hold for as long as possible before exhaling.”
The elimination exercise was concluded, the outage reversed. Order was restored. The Controllers had noted.
Phil got the job.
