Signing the final dotted line, you smiled. Your first day on the job, a job with a very vague job description. ‘Must not be squeamish’ was the only line on the application form. That’s how you found yourself in the scorching Namibian Desert. Miles from any form of civilisation, not even the animals dared to venture this far in preferring the safety of the more coastal reaches.

The silent figure whisked the page away, seemingly annoyed that you took the time to read the small print. Then they were gone schlumping out of the bland cubicle, large wellington boots slipping with every stride. Alone, you scratched your head wondering if this had been the right decision. Was the good pay enough?

Loudly the door banged open and a towering man with a shaven head entered. Advancing menacingly with handheld clippers buzzing. One minute there was hair on your head and the next there wasn’t. “This wasn’t in the contract!” You protested loudly, clutching your smooth fuzzy scalp.

Bending down to meet your gaze the giant growled, “It is the rules,” His thick Russian accent barely understandable, “You no like it, you should no sign the contract! Put this on now!” A heavy bundle was thrust at you, forcing you to grab at it clumsily.

Taking a moment to process the personal violation, your icy grey eyes tracked the Russian’s movement as he left. Shaking out the loosely folded bundle you leapt back as a pair of black wellingtons burst out heading eagerly to the ground. You were left with stark white overalls in your hand; matching those worn by the two men you’d seen.

Clambering into your new outer garment, you slowly zipped up the fastening. The fabric felt strange under your hands, not meshy paper or dense cotton. Neatly tucking in the trouser bottoms into the the boots, you wondered how much worse it could get. Exiting the pod you found the Russian standing with authority. “Follow me,” a single barked instruction had you pulled along like an obedient dog.

Roughly, large paws shoved you into a large sterile room. Gazing around you noticed it was lined in dusky plastic; from the ceiling to the floor. Rustling like autumn leaves under your thick soles, you went to study the table on the far wall. As you reached the stainless steel work surface blinding LED lights blinked to life. Temporarily stealing your vision.

Surgical gloves snapped tightly around your hands, the mask felt suffocating wrapped around your face. Unable to bare the suspense you yanked the shiny dome off the platter. One hand flew to your mouth trying to quell the rush of digestive juices, the other jettisoned the lid with such violence that it bounced before clattering to the floor.

Served up to you was a single grapefruit sized greyish-pink blob. It closely resembled a large walnut, carefully folded and creased into perfection. For better terms: a brain.

A noise behind you snatched your attention away from the gruesome discovery. Bewildered eyes rested on a small child with cocoa skin, a ghost of a smile graced their lips. Dressed in a plain tunic they shivered in the artic blast. Bare feet sounded like Velcro on the static plastic sheet as they walked deliberately towards you. Molten chocolate pools lay dead in a stony face. Cracked hands extended balancing a wicked slither of a blade.

“You must kill me. You must take my brain. You must serve it to the master. I am a test subject. No one can know what you have done.” Their voice was dry as the desert wind.

Backing away you raised your arms, firing out bullets, “I. Can’t. Kill. You! Y-you are a child!”

Pity briefly flickered around their tiny frame, sweetly they asked, “You don’t know where you are do you?” Furiously, you shook your head and with a gentle grace beyond their years, “You are in the Research Centre of the Mind. Or RCM. I have been chosen to be studied to help understand the complexities of the human brain. I do not fear death, if that’s what you are scared of.”

“I physically can’t kill you! That is murder! RCM or not. How many brains-“ it was impossible to finish your sentence. Holding up the blade they plunged it into their stomach, their eyes never leaving yours.

Sprinting forward you caught the fragile frame as they tumbled to the floor. Tenderly you cradled them, as they gurgled out blood from their mouth. Desperately you pressed your hand to their abdomen trying to hold back the crimson flood. “What is your name?” The question came flying out unprovoked.

“Tamaylah.” A broken whisper, a choking gasp. Her long eyelashes quivered once before finally sliding shut. You heard the soft rattle of death and you knew you couldn’t save her. Weeping tears of remorse and grief, you sobbed holding Tamaylah’s body to your chest uncaring if the ruby shame tainted you.

You couldn’t save Tamaylah, but what if you could save the other children?