The Mechanism, The Core, 1
"My precious,
You are smiling at me from inside a photograph. As if it's real, as if we could exist together... But life hates our togetherness so much that every time it sees us, every time it touches our magnificent throne, we lose our love. I thought only death could part us, but I've realized even that cannot. Sometimes, instead of asking why, you are forced to understand how it will be. The world has lost its balance; how can your smile be enough for me? While your flesh is heaven to me, how can the world be such a hell? I am looking after my little one, I want to be everything to her... I do all of this with your nothingness."
He stood ordinarily in front of the multiple screens, watching nothingness. He frowned as if the black screen had stolen all colors from his hands and looked at the little girl beside him, busy with a puzzle. Her pink dress seemed separated from the most beautiful parts of life. Only, by being separated from there, she had faded; all that remained was her death, like a fruit plucked from its branch.
"This one is finished too," Melek said joyfully. She clapped her hands. "I finished this too, father. Will you bring me a new one?"
The man shifted his eyes to the photograph of a smiling woman standing on the table.
"Of course." He took his hand out of his pocket. "But will you be able to put that many pieces together?"
The deadness on the screen didn't seem to interest the girl much.
"I'll do it tomorrow," she said, maneuvering her wheelchair away from the table.
"What happened, did you lose your spark?" the man laughed gently.
"I want that movie again," Melek said, with the sadness she felt inside.
"There was a small commercial for that movie," the man said.
"And we're waiting for it, right?"
The man approached his daughter in a few steps and, kissing her hair, said, "Of course, my dear."
"Father?"
"Hm," he said, pressing his daughter to his chest.
"22.37, what does that mean?" A childish excitement was overflowing from the curiosity in her voice.
"That is a player," the man said in a whisper; "Just like the actors you love..."
Melek continued, "I-I see. Then she plays her role very well."
"We could say that," said her father, resting both hands on her shoulders. "Is she your favorite actor?"
Melek suddenly fell into confusion and said, "I-I'm not sure." But without her excitement fading for a moment, she turned her eyes to the completed puzzle on the table. "But that woman looks like someone very strong. What was her name?"
"You only need to know her as 22.37," the man said, lowering his voice gently.
"Okay father, what about the other one?"
The screen suddenly glowed behind them, and application boxes appeared through the flood of white light. In digital, everything was simple.
"There, our movie has started again," he said, turning his daughter's wheelchair back to face it.
"He..." Melek said, covering her mouth with her hand. "The one lying there on the ground... It's as if they read my mind, father. That's 22.31. But I don't like him because he killed someone."
"You're right."
"Then why is he just lying there wounded?"
The man took a deep breath and replied, "This part of the movie was cut for the sake of being convincing." The wave of curiosity in Melek's eyes was growing. Trusting her father's sincere words, she nodded slightly. "But I'm curious about that part too..."
"That part was left to the viewer's imagination. Okay?"
Melek nodded and said, "22.37. The woman in the tunnel... The one talking to the lamp-man."
Her father nodded slightly, "Yes."
"I watched the scenes belonging to that woman simultaneously," the little girl confessed.
"Because the lights in the tunnel hadn't gone out at that moment," said the father, stroking the girl's hair.
"How so?"
"The electrical systems of the tunnel and the arena are separate from each other." The man's eyes shined with a deep mystery. "But never mind those... The only thing that is eternal and important is your happiness."
At that moment, randomly ordered patients appeared on the screen. The camera rose from player number 22.31 lying on the ground and zoomed in on 22.37. There was extreme fatigue and ambition in the woman's eyes. A blonde woman was standing, and a man was waiting beside her. They seemed to be talking about something among themselves. Body language. Moving lips. Faces with slightly shifting pixels. There was a lack of the same thing on all their faces. With the same frozen expressions on their cheeks, they were looking at reality, or at the horizon where reality could only be seen as a tiny dot. That horizon was like a kind of hell that none of them could reach.
The man, whose eyes drifted back to the face of the smiling woman in that photograph, moved a few steps away from the screen his daughter was watching, went to the back, and took the frame on the table between his slightly burnt fingers. As his eyes narrowed while looking at the picture, layers of lines appeared on his forehead. These were the traces left behind by a war, unknown where it came from or when it was waged.
Death, if it hadn't taken that woman away, would undoubtedly not be the worst thing in the world.
The Mechanism, The Core, 2
When Mr. J watched a visual showing 22.37's facial expressions in a close-up, the doctor had put his hand in his pocket. They both looked at each other as if wanting to escape the sheer tension of the moment.
Mr. J's desire to smoke was postponed with a stack of papers placed in front of him. Which postponement was this today? One or two? Three? While numbers spun in his head like complex cards in a gambling deck, what remained was the dull self-confidence he felt for himself. But at that moment, a foreign expression appeared in his eyes. An expression foreign to himself, to his soul, to everything. "22.37," he said without looking at the papers yet. "Judging by the current data we received from the neurocognitive activity chips... Patient 22.37 has a high impulse for individual movement. Contact with people is successful compared to the week she spent. Responses are almost comparable to a healthy human. According to the special staining in the brain region we think is affected by depression, a new synapse sequence is seen in the patient's brain. Regions that used to be separate like this..." he said, and flipping through the papers, he opened a page. He waited.
Mr. J clenched his teeth and looked at the red dots on the white paper. They all seemed scattered in different places.
The doctor said, "No sir, it's this one," and showed another one of the papers. "If you look at this, you will see that the green areas have been added."
The green areas had created a pattern in an almost impressive order between the brain lobes. They appeared lined up side by side, interacting and active.
Mr. J did not seem impressed by the image. "What about 22.31?" he asked.
There was something the doctor didn't understand. Why 22.31? Why didn't any of the other patients have a specialized second name? If he could have maintained that old friendship between him and Mr. J, he could have gotten the answer to this question. But perhaps it would be an answer that would never let him find peace again. What would happen if he tried his luck and asked once? He looked carefully into Mr. J's eyes.
"You're curious, aren't you?" the voice said, making him pause. Mr. J had asked in a rather thick voice and placed his hand on the paper.
"My old friend... Don't I know you?"
The doctor nodded in surprise at this reaction from Mr. J. "I am curious... Why is 22.31 so important to us. Moreover, he is no longer a group leader or anything... I-I... I thought you wouldn't ask me anything about 22.31 anymore. But everything has changed. This man..." He paused. "Ah, I don't understand what's going on."
This time it was Mr. J who nodded slightly.
"If you know everything, you won't be able to sleep."
"I'm aware," said the doctor, taking the moment of silence as an opportunity. "I understand everything, but why? Why did the Mechanism allow 22.31 to kill some—"
Before the sentence was finished, the door opened. A man with his hair tied at the nape and a white bandage entered. "Mr. J, the Master wants to see you."
The man, who did not neglect to cast a hasty glance inside, allowed Mr. J, who rose from his chair, to glide past him like water.
Mr. J knew the corridors like the back of his hand, but not the people.
People thought he drew power from the gun at his waist. But this time, it wasn't like that.
As the man accompanied him to where he was going, the sound of footsteps rang out as if being nailed into his ears. This increased the tension even more, occasionally forcing one into deep questioning. Mr. J, busy opening and closing his fingers, passed behind a shield full of iron railings and entered a dark corridor. "I can handle it from here," he said, looking at the man standing right beside him.
This was a young man; he was young of age. It was obvious from his face. Mr. J tried to calculate how he ended up here. Although he wanted to press his teeth together and turn his back, he suddenly wanted to say something to this young man. But that youth... He seemed to have already lost the energy of life on his face, even the meaning of life. The gun hanging at his waist had ceased to be a symbol of power in those withered hands, perhaps turning him into a weary protagonist. Mr. J knew that everywhere was monitored by cameras. Even stopping here for a moment and looking at this young man was suspicious. But then he thought of the tumor growing in his stomach. Exhaling a deep breath, he looked at the youth. The young man was intimidated.
"What is your name?" Mr. J asked. His eyes rose from the tips of his shoes and turned to the young man.
"Alem."
"Well, Alem, this is not a place for you..."
"Who knows what you came here for?" he thought to himself.
"I know, sir." Alem bowed his head, his chin trembled.
"Is money the problem?" Mr. J asked in a softer voice.
"Money is the problem most of the time," Alem murmured.
"When all the things you poured money into are gone..." Mr. J said. "Only your conscience remains."
But what about his own conscience?
What had happened to him, to Mr. J?