Today's task was simple enough: give 83 an injection he needed before the treatment proper begins tomorrow. As far as I could tell, 83 was comatose when I arrived; I guessed he'd been like that since the ordeal of his change cycle. Neither Smith nor Miles were there, but they'd left detailed instruction on how to give 83 his injection.
I walked into his cell and lifted his arm in my gloved hand. His skin is like incredibly thick callous, and moving his arm required a lot of force. When it finally did move, the skin ruptured and oozed translucent fluid. With my stomach churning, I took a metal implement and began to scrape away at the skin. I was sweating by the time I'd removed enough to give 83 the injection. The room smelt like an abattoir, and I couldn't look at the bloodied chunks of flesh I'd left piled on the floor.
I injected 83 and left the room, heading straight to decontamination, where I threw away the scrubs, gloves, and mask I'd been wearing, and stood under a hot shower for a long time. I couldn't get what I'd seen, what I'd done, out of my mind. I'm beginning to hate myself.