This is a tale of a man who is thrown into a sensory deprivation chamber (basically, a vary small room with specially padded walls and no lighting to "nullify" your senses) and his experiences therewith.
"Another one dead?" The man sighed. He was getting incredibly tired of all his test subjects dying in the Chamber. As of the newest death, a Mr. Robertson, he believed, it had claimed 47 lives. Technically, I claimed them, he thought, but such frivolous details don't matter at this point.
"Fetch me another for the test, then, would you?" He asked.
A rhetorical question, of course, but his assistant knew much better than to question him in any fashion. As the assistant scurried out the door, his eyes followed him every step, as if he might turn around and stab him in the back. (The previous one had tried that and got him in the center of the stomach.) While thinking of this, he moved his right hand to the scar of where the scalpel, a rather large scalpel at that, had penetrated to the outside of his body.
"I can't believe I was that careless; I should've seen it coming." That blond assistant who stabbed him had been displaying signs of anxiety and uneasiness ever since she discovered what the tests really did to people. Soon after, she just skipped an entire day, and our security force had to hunt her up. She said she was sorry and made up some class-C lie to cover it, but he'd been too involved in his research to fully notice her psychological status. Uneasiness, anxiety, paranoia. All of which could show that she was having severe difficulties in her life; like deciding on whether or not to make a rash decision.
He got up from his chair and looked out the window of his office on the 18th floor of a colossal 120 story complex. My research could change mankind's attempts at getting from point A to point B, he thought, but what could be so much more important that 98 other "projects" occupied the upper 102 floors. After thinking this, he glanced at his desk and the objects lying there.
"Dr. Blane Galloway," the sign stating the owner of this office read, his Windows 9 that kept backups (in triplicates) of all the files related to his research, his onyx desk (he still couldn't believe that they actually purchased this at his request), and much miscellaneous junk. He ran his fingers along the white scratches in the darkness of the onyx (he had it made like that). Those marks always shone brightly in comparison, and he loved it like that. They're symbolic. They represent the light, the hope, that is there within the darkness of ignorance, he thought. If my research proves true, then that darkness will be burned away by one light that shines brighter than any other, one supreme intellectual, one man.
As Dr. Blane gazed at the intended streaks of white on his polished black desk, the new assistant returned to his office and said, " Subject 48 is waiting to be, uh, deprived, sir." He said this with such distaste that Galloway eyed him for a moment, being reminded of how his previous intern had acted before that incident.
"Yes," Galloway asked. "Go ahead and prep the chamber, and I'll be there in a moment or so."
Subject 48, or Mr. Deckard, as his medical chart read, was completely unconscious as he was carried to the Chamber. As the assistant led the guards to the Chamber, he didn't even stir. Not even when his head collided with the wall in the main hallway of floor 18.
"Careful," the assistant almost yelled, apparently not worried about waking subject 48 up at all, "we don't need him having brain damage, you brutes!"
The guards quickly dismissed this because Galloway's assistant and Galloway had no power over them. Those two are far more expendable than us to this facility, one of the guards thought.
As the guards, Galloway's intern, and subject 48 entered the preparatory room for the Chamber, Dr. Galloway was admiring the Chamber, as it was so often referred to. A sensory deprivation chamber of his design that was entirely in its own class; nothing like what the American military or any other government or military branch had created. This chamber had padding of his design that caused whatever was in close contact to lose all neuron capability. The padding also absorbed sound that resounded unto it, and, just in case the sounds would bounce off of the subject's body and back to his/her ears, they contained experimental magnets that would pull the sounds towards them within .01 of a second. As for the subject's sense of smell and taste, those were unnaturally deadened by isolating certain sections of the mind from itself.
"It's not perfect," Galloway muttered, "but it's the closest I'm going to get at this time."
During Galloway's activation of the opening sequence, his assistant hustled up to him and told him that Subject 48 had undergone the preparatory requirements and was then ready for full sensory deprivation.
"Good," Galloway replied. "Go ahead and place him inside," he told the guards.
The guards began to place him inside the Chamber (more like toss him into the Chamber, the assistant thought) when Galloway put his hands on the set of dials and buttons that operated it. The guards were about to say that they'd just finished laying him down, but he could tell from the cameras and so began to shut the door of it.
"Let's hope that this one turns out better than any of the previous subjects," the assistant said.
"Or at least, if he does die, it shows something that may help for future references," Galloway said.
"As long as it doesn't turn out like Subject 27."
"Quite. Anything but that, would just about be better."
"He just... he just bashed his head against the padding padding over and over..."
"I know; I remember. So much collision, he ended up dying of severe hemorrhaging, even though it was like colliding your head with a pillow for hours on end.
"Well, if he, Subject 48, I mean, starts doing the same thing, are we going to stop him?"
"No; all this research is far more important than just one life. Besides, he's just some drunk, right? Don't worry about any major repercussions."
"Right. Whatever you say, sir."
A few hours later, Subject 48 began to stir.
"Wha... Wheh am I," he slurred.
Then his hangover began to leave him quickly. He realized that no matter what he said, he didn't feel his mouth moving or hear the sound of his own voice. He even resorted to licking himself for taste or to feel the saliva against his skin and -nothing.
All that he truly had was his thoughts.
What's happened to me?!?