5AM

By Cerys Shanks

He wakes up at a rounded time. Red, angular numbers prod him out of his bed, gently chiding his reluctance with intermittent flashes and pointed beeps. He exhales the night's stale breath and scrubs away crust from his eyes. The red chases him past the curtains of his eyelids, 5:00am's ghostly spectre wavering between the veins. Time to wake up. Time to get up. It’s His Time to begin.

He stands, unknowingly in sync with thousands, to do just that- begin the day and complete the cycle. His Breakfast Can is waiting for him, sitting idly at the counter as it gathers perspiration. The logo faces outwards, turned to his entry like a quiet, conciliatory 'good morning.' He makes a humming noise, almost a returned greeting, and grasps it. Pops the tab open even as he raises it. The angle makes a few drops spill prematurely onto his shirt instead of his latching mouth.

One gulp. One gulp. One gulp. 

The energy fizzles through his bones, the drink settling into its new container with the same ease and fickleness as any normal liquid. It wraps a hand around his heart and helps it beat. The aches and twinges of humanity are cast off, swept away with artificial adrenaline, and sweet satisfaction. Fleeting, but oh how fulfilling. A cornucopia of action, spilling out onto him, anointing him in preparation for another day. 

His mouth tingles, last night's dryness lost at last. 

His eyes feel odd. No - normal. Just slightly dewy, like he could last hours without blinking, like gelatin flowers on a cake.

His eyes feel wet. That isn't important.

It gets the job done. He doesn't know what is in it. He doesn't need to. It gets the job done.

That is what is important. A recurring mindset in human ideology: he is no different and doesn't know enough to wish to be. And even then, even then it just might not matter. Humans settle on the comfortable, and the surface level is where it is safe. Digging deeper only leads to trouble. Mines. You could end up buried if you keep on searching.

The food tastes good, don't question how. The heating is on, don't ask why. The TV is on, don't you dare look outsid-

One more gulp and the drink is drained. He tips it higher, the angle steeper, shakes it lightly. His tongue traces along the edge for spare drops, lightly winces when the sharp metal almost slices into the muscle. 

Blood would have ruined the flavour.

He lifts the shirt to his mouth and sucks up the earlier spillage, savouring what he can.

It's done its job. Energy enough for the next day, including his ** hour shift. 

Now it is His Time to leave and do his job. Complete the cycle.

The next batch won't deliver itself.