Running Behind
There's a tag hanging on his storage pod, instead of the clipboard that documents his progress. On that tag, there's a single word stamped in red: defective. NH-01987's feet stick on the metal of the catwalk. Behind the ever-present metallic mask, his eyes grow huge.
He knows what that tag means. It means that, in the morning, while the other MT units are collected for training, a guard will come for him. He'll be restrained and escorted down the metal corridors toward the east wing, into the double-doors that house the correctional facility. But he won't be up for re-programming, not this time.
This time, they'll strap him down to a table for the last time ever. They'll pick him apart, to try and learn what caused his failures – and he has so very many of them, no matter how hard he's tried.
When they're finished, they'll take what's left to the crematory. That will be the end of him: a pile of ashes and a wisp of smoke.