—Create! It says create. I used his real family.
—No you didn’t! How do I know you didn’t? Because none of it is real, you moron. None of them are! If they’re in there, you made them. Now grab a pen and start filling out forms. We’ll be here for a while. . . . You better hope that little stunt of yours doesn’t land us all in jail.
Jail? Deep doesn’t understand.
—What forms? We need to finish the test! He hasn’t done K4 yet.
Laura shakes her head.
—You really don’t get it, do you?
—No! I don’t get it. He passed! . . . What kind of forms?
—There’s the incident report. You’ll need to explain what happened. I have to sign off on the test interruption.
—What? He—
—He passed, I know. But it’s over now. . . . Then we need authorization to erase this whole mess. They’ll want to make sure this never happened. We need a warrant to wipe his memory without a failed test, another one for deportation.
—Stop. Stop. You just said this wasn’t a failed test. I know I’ve said this before, but he passed K3. He did! You saw it! Don’t punish him for a technicality. Don’t . . . don’t send his family away. Can’t we just keep going? Finish the test?
—No. That’s not possible anymore.
—Why?! He’s here. He’s doing it. He can do this.
—K3 doesn’t count, Deep. You fucked it up. Even if it did, what are you going to do about K4?
—What do you mean?
—Imagine you just escaped the zombie apocalypse and watched all your friends being eaten alive. Now I’m asking you which fabric softener smells nicer.
It is just now dawning on Deep that no matter how clever his rendition of K3 may have been, he didn’t anticipate the problems it might cause for Idir in K4. During the BVA, subjects are placed in traumatic situations. While government studies show that the vast majority of subjects recover completely given the right medication, most show symptoms of Acute Stress Disorder in the immediate aftermath, often during the test. ASD is similar to PTSD in many ways—patients suffering from the former will be diagnosed with the latter if the symptoms persist—but with a focus on dissociative symptoms. These include, but are not limited to, derealization and depersonalization—nothing around you feels real, not even your own thoughts or emotions. Detachment, emotional unresponsiveness, and a general feeling of numbness.
—You’re saying he won’t make the right decision because of his dissociative symptoms?
—I’m saying he won’t give a shit! It doesn’t matter who or what you put in front of him. He won’t care! This is a man who just watched his wife die! You made him kill his wife! Do you get that? Do you really think he’ll care about the asshole or the single mother now? He can’t continue.
—Is there any way to fix this?
Tom emerges from the filing cabinet with a stack of paper in his hands.
—What are you two talking about?
—Deep here wants us to finish the test.
—It’s over, son.
—No, it’s not! He can continue! He can!
Tom looks for the score sheet on the desk but can’t find it.
—What did he get on the written test?
Laura gets the score sheet from underneath Deep’s manual.
—He . . . he did question nine, but one of them he didn’t know the answer to. We had to give it to him.
Tom whispers to himself. He’s never been good with numbers and needs to do the math out loud.
—Eight points won’t do it, son. He needed K3 to pass. Even if he aced K4 now, which he won’t do, that’s not enough. Wipe him clean and put him on a plane.
No one is noticing Idir on the large screen. He’s pounding at the floor with both hands.
—No! He passed! He’s selfless, and courteous, and environmentally conscious. He passed!
Deep is upset. He’s not thinking about himself at this point. Surely he failed his own evaluation, but he wants to see Idir through this. He needs Idir to succeed. Guilt hasn’t set in yet. What Deep is experiencing is just narcissistic identification and a very strong case of narrative transportation. At this point, Deep is incapable of separating Idir’s success of failure from his own. He’s so caught up in the simulation that his feelings and opinions are filtered through the rules of the game. He’s seeing the world in BVA terms. Idir is environmentally conscious because he recycled the plastic wrapper. He’s selfless because he chose the preferred option in K3. He’s a good man because he has thirty-two points. Good men don’t get put on the plane.
—Can we give him another chance? Erase his memory and let him try again?
Tom waits for Laura to answer.
—Can’t do it.
—But the manual says it’s completely safe.
—It is. It won’t kill him. But I’ve put people on the plane, and it’s not as pretty as what the brochure says. He’ll forget everything that happened, that’s for sure. He’ll also forget he has a dog, or where he went to school. He might forget what he likes for breakfast, how much he loves his wife. He won’t be the same man, and if he fails again . . . We do this to him twice and we’ll turn him into a vegetable. I’m sorry.
—He won’t fail! He hasn’t failed! He passed!
—I know. I know. I wish there was something we could do, but there isn’t. It’s time to let go.
She turns off the monitor showing Idir in the hospital bed. She hands Deep his manual and his notebook. Deep picks them up and grabs his backpack from the floor. He gets up and walks away with his head down. He mumbles: —He passed. . . .
Laura reaches forward to turn off the large screen. She pauses.
—Wait. Wait.
—What?
—Look!
8.
IDIR IS KNEELING ACROSS the window from his wife’s body, his head against the floor. He’s crying, whimpering, hitting the ground with his fist. He looks up at Tidir’s lifeless body and starts pounding with both hands, screaming. The man in charge asks him to stop. Idir doesn’t.
In the control room, Laura grabs the microphone.
—I think he’s losing it. We need him to calm down.
Behind the glass wall, computer technicians are frantically typing instructions.
On the big screen, the man in charge knocks on the window with his fist.
—Samaritan, you cut this shit right now. . . . Did you hear what I just said? Stop it now or I’m going to really hurt you.
Idir is pounding harder and harder.
—Now you’ve done it, Samaritan. What’s your son’s name? Do you want to make him an orphan? He’s a little short on parents already.
Idir doesn’t stop. The man in charge nods at the terrorist in the test room and Idir gets the butt of an M-16 to the back of the head. He falls to the side but won’t stay down. He shakes it off, touches the back of his head, and wipes the blood on his shirt.
Laura gets closer to the microphone, but Tom stops her.
—No, no. Wait.
Idir rushes the man standing over him. He grabs him by the legs and sends him to the ground. Idir is on top, punching as hard as he can. Blood gushes from the man’s nose. Idir keeps hitting, screaming. He unleashes all his rage; fists keep raining down until the man’s face is no longer a face. Idir gets up and grabs the weapon.
In the control room, everyone just stares. Even the technicians have abandoned their computer to watch.
Idir points the weapon at the man in charge and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He lowers the weapon to look at it, pushes and pulls the arming handle a few times. He tries firing again. Nothing. He looks at the weapon on both sides and finds the safety mechanism. He lets out a small sigh of relief, then the other four terrorists start firing at him.
Idir stands in the middle of the test room. Windows are exploding all around him. He gets hit in the leg, then the gut. A bullet tears through his chest. Another. And another.