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The Cure, 01: The Fusing




Welcome, human! The following material is a brief overview of our way of life in Metravā in the year 3433. This welcome package is intended to introduce and explain concepts that you may find alien. It is vital that you are aware of how our kind exists and how different we are from you. We hope you find this enlightening.

The planet of Metravā is approximately 54.6 million kilometres away from your current planet. Covered entirely by Synthetī insulation that provides generated heat, air and a fully operational ecosystem, everything within Metravā, from vegetation to nature, is artificial and scientifically generated.
Metravā is governed by Peār, its headquarters located within Metravā City, the central hub of the planet. It is divided into subs, which layer from the city in a circular formation.
Metravā is populated by the U-man, an advanced version of the human. U-mans commence at the Begin Station, have a life cycle of 151 years and cease at the End Station. They live in their allocated sub in the home lots. They attend pre-edūcation, edūcation, higher edūcation and are then allocated a life partner as well as a mandatory at the age of 25. For the duration of their lifespan, U-mans live in the pattern of their mandatory and their reflect period. Once coupled, U-mans are allowed one child.
U-mans are fused with their U-chip at birth. The U-chip is a multi-faceted complex piece of engineered technology. The U-chip is fused to a U-man’s inner left wrist. It restores and repairs cells, boosts the immune system and energies the body, thus eliminating the need for sleep. The U-chip constantly syncs to Peār’s headquarters, neutralising emotion, removing waste and refreshing cognitive function through wireless transmission. The U-chip has a major update annually and minor updates periodically, with new and advanced functions added to improve the quality of life and to introduce trends into society.
Once pressed, much like a button, the U-chip projects pliable, physical pixels into the air. Visible to the public, but abled to be switched to private mode, the U-chip’s screen can be manipulated to be as small as a palm or as wide as three meters in length.
Amongst many things the U-chip is the hub of all communication, from a U-man’s records, to their currencī, to their U-Media platforms. Parents monitor their child’s U-chip until the age of 14 when, come their 14th annual update, Receivers are installed into a teenage U-man’s ears. Receivers remotely connect audio to the U-chip. U-chips ping when there is an alert and can connect to Edū tabs, Edū Screens, Home Receivers and to Public Receivers.
U-mans replenish their body with Nutrī, a mass-produced blend of essential vitamins, protein and nutrients provided by Peār, in varied Pear Approved flavours. U-mans swipe their U-chip under a Nutrī Dispenser to receive their allocated and pre-calculated meal, decided by Peār based off of a multitude of factors such as age and gender. There are three meals: early meal, mid meal and late meal, as well as one snack allowance during the daāy.
U-mans travel in their Navīgator, a compact vehicle that self-navigates to the encoded destination. The commute to Metravā City is usually taken in Communal Navīgators.
U-mans complete their mandatory or edūcation for 15 hours, with reflect period filling the remaining nine.
U-man’s speech and communication have advanced beyond that of humans, so much so that the common word is no longer necessary. The following docūments have been translated for the current reader’s benefit. Some words have not been translated with complete accuracy, thus leaving accents and spelling that will not be of your norm. The Metraviān interpreter has completed this translation to the best of its abilities, taking into account both of our languages, our grammars and our spellings, but there will still be inconsistencies.






81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.8.3433 / 07:52āam |

Dear Reader,
You must understand this: if anyone were to find out what I am about to do I would die. Automatically, with a Nitrobullet to my head. It is of the upmost importance that this confession is respected with the highest confidence and never falls into the wrong hands. That said, before you read our story, let meē introduce myself.
My name is Dr. Såvje Singkū. I was born on the 13th of Uarjaān 3379. I migrated from 27Sub to 81Sub when I began my pledge as a doctor of Metravā. Now let that sink in, it may be a lot for you to take in at once. For meē, my entire life changed as I knew it when I became a doctor, and maybe not in the way that you may think. See reader, the following is a compilation of docūments that have (hopefully) been sent and translated to you in order to prevent our existence from becoming what it is. To prevent you from becoming us. What you are about to read are internal thoughts that have been extracted, compiled and decoded into your language for you to understand and to hopefully take wisdom from. I urge you to keep this information safe, hold it in your hands like a precious beacon of hope and remember that you can make a change with what you know.
The cure will not become you. Do not join the cure. Join the right cure by ensuring that you will never need to be ‘healed’. This may not all make sense to you yet, dear reader, but it will in due time. Please keep everything about you that is whole and unique and different sacred; wear every ounce of dissimilarity with privilege like a badge of honour. Never conform and never give in.
I will now allow you access into the thoughts of those involved in the ‘Knijä Project.’ The following is a collation of memories from those who hoped that their rebellion would one daāy save your life and your individuality. Trust in that as much as I am trusting in you now.
As we say: farefarewell.

[Closing line],
[Signature tag].
– Dr. Såvje Singkū






81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 07:52āam |

Todaāy is not like any other daāy. Todaāy it all begins. I walk down a corridor of 81Sub Memorial just as the sky is lighting up in preparation for the saān to burst through and reset the daāy for the citizens of Metravā.
I huff quietly to myself, knowing that the saān is rising earlier than scheduled, mindful to keep this huff so soft that not even the walls with eyes and ears can hear.
Peār is increasing the amount of generated daāylight to force their people to work harder, faster and for longer. What was once a uniform starting daāy of 09:00āam is now 08:00āam and will eventually become 07:00āam. They will do this by gradually changing the pre-encoded time for saānrise, ensuring no one will react. Yet some of us will.
The Begin Station of 81Sub. My daāy begins and ends in this place. Each sub has a memorial, comprising of many stations, the Begin and End Station being the most prominent. The main operating room within the Begin Station, the Begin Room, is the only locked space in any sub. In fact, the only operation of any real significance happens in the Begin Room and is only ever performed on a female U-man. Most other procedures are mundane, like faulty U-chip repairs or expensive cosmetic enhancement for the elite (rarely done in an outer sub like 81Sub, however). The following procedure that I am about to perform is the most sacred, protected and secretive of procedures.
Nurse Eight is waiting for meē outside the Preptorial Room, a room just to the side of the Begin Room. Nurse Eight is exactly the same as Nurse Two or Nurse Ten, or any nurse really. Or any other female in Metravā. She stands at exactly six feet, projecting Peār’s ideal vision of what a woman should be. She embodies the sky, with skin as white as the clouds, healthy, even, plump and smooth. Her hair is lustrous, thick and the colour of a shining afternoon saān. Blonde and golden, smooth and shiny. Her eyes are the purest blū, clear, vibrant and illuminated by the constant supply of fresh oxigeēn that pumps U-man blood through her. Nurse Eight’s only difference to any other woman in Metravā is that she is dressed in a white skirt and shirt, wears a white surgical mask around her face and has an ‘eight’ printed in the smallest black typesetting on the front of her shirt.
“Goodgoodmorning, Dr. Singkū,” Nurse Eight addresses meē politely. I have worked with her for the last eight years and I have never asked, nor felt the need, to ask for her name. “Your first patient for the daāy, Neēreē Tāu, is inside the Preptorial Room already sedated.”
“Thankthankyou, Nurse Eight,” I reply promptly. I nod at her and Nurse Eight turns and walks off down the corridor.
I open the door and, as if to remīnd meē that they are always watching, the saān rises at that precise moment. The sky now is neither pink nor orange nor any other colour than blū.
I remember how, as a child, Peār removed seasonal Synthetī changes, believing that it affected the working conditions of the people of Metravā. If there is no artificial rain to block you from your morning commute, there could be no excuse not to come to your mandatory. Rain. Hmmm, I briefly remember that. Synthetī snow falling down to the ground, the crinkly sound of amber leaves. That is all gone now like a deleted U-file. Snow now disappears from the sky before it can be touched. Autumn leaves remain un-fallen and un-crinkled on preened Synthetī trees.
Neēreē Tāu is lying down on the surgical table as rays of sāanlight stream through the large clear windows and illuminate her unconscious body. Again, she looks exactly like any other woman in Metravā with the exception of her stomach. She is much like Nurse Eight – lean, long limbs and supple, even skin. She has long strands of blonde hair that have been styled into a ponytail for the procedure, and if her eyes were open I am sure I would be staring into bold blū irises. Her differences to other female U-mans are minimal, much like her thoughts. Peār wishes for every U-man to believe that they are a part of something bigger than them. It coaxes them and soothes them into believing that their similarities are necessary and vital to our way of life. Yet not all of us can be persuaded and not all of us are the same.
“Goodgoodmorning, Mrs. Tāu,” I say to her, despite knowing she cannot answer due to her sedation. “You have already had a peculiar daāy, but it is about to get a lot more interesting.”
Todaāy has already been filled with many firsts for Neēreē Tāu. This is the only time in her whole life where Neēreē can take a scheduled daāy off (aside from the annual daāy off in Winter). This is also the first and last time that Neēreē will be unconscious. She will wake up and feel the oddest sensation: having rested. It is something that as a doctor we were trained for. Before our time, during ‘The RevolUtion’, there was a thing called sleep.
I take Neēreē’s limp left hand and feel her U-chip, the little metallic piece of technology that was fused into her inner wrist when she was born. I press it and billions of tiny pixels burst into the air, before arranging themselves into a thin pixelated screen above meē. I begin swiping and moving things away until I get to her Medīc records. Instantly, a notīfy pops up:

08:00āam: Birth of [female] child. Name pending.

I look down at her bulging pregnant stomach and nod. “It is time.”

81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 08:17āam |

I wheel Neēreē and the surgical table that she lays on into the next room, the Begin Room. I swipe my wrist over the control pad beside the door and, as the metal recognises my U-chip, it snaps open. The room is completely covered from floor to ceiling in darkness, a stark contrast from the light in the other room. I wheel Neēreē into the centre as a backdrop of dark blū lights hum to life and colours up the room.
“You must understand, Mrs. Tāu, that this was all done by … random allocation.” I walk over to the Well behind meē and put my hands out. As Waterlite washes over meē, my U-chip pulses, and an advert interrupts the calm on the side of my wrist in a neat squared pixelated box, “Try Waterlite Blū Plus todaāy! Waterlite’s new formula now comes in a—”
“U-chip: Work Mode,” I instruct, having forgotten to silence advertī and other unimportant notifys whilst I work. As my U-chip pulses twice to signify that it is now in Work Mode, I let the Waterlite soak into my hands.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. Tāu. Where was I? Ah yes, random allocation.”
I place my hands under a spout beside the Well and a clear line of anti-bacterial gel evenly distributes onto my palms. I allow the gel to dissolve before putting my gloves on.
“We could not think of any other way to do this but by random allocation.” I walk over and stand above Neēreē. “I volunteered to complete the procedure and your name was drawn out. There is no bias.”
I sit in front of her and begin the task at hand. The incision is simple and quick. Expertly trained and at the top of my class, I slice open my patient and extract the tiny little thing that has being living inside of her for eight months and three weeks without any complication or unease. I place the tiny little thing down and marvel at her a moment.
In my surgical box is the tiniest little box imaginable, the size of my U-chip. I place my wrist on top of the box and it clicks open.
“Inside here is the first of its kind.” I take out my surgical pliers with one hand, the other holding the tiny little thing’s wrist, and use the pliers to pluck out the new U-chip inside of the box.
“This is the most special U-chip of all,” I say to her and her new child, even though neither of them can hear nor understand meē. “This is the beginning of the real ‘begin’, Mrs. Tāu.”
I hold my breath, my eyes dilate, and adrenaline sparks through meē as I proficiently fuse the tiny little chip on the baby’s inner wrist.
This is the first faulty U-chip of its kind.” I then hold up the newborn’s arm to the light and it shines like a second saānrise. The procedure is complete.
“This is the start of the rebellion.”


  • The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
  • The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
  • The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue next Monday.
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