You wake up during the transfer to see your heart pumping on a silver platter, which is next to a silver platter, which is next to a silver platter—a line of silver platters, each with its own pumping heart, on a steel work table that stretches miles, into a heat lamp red void. You start fussing and nail digging, red in the face, flustered. This facial expression is protected with polyurethane, coated liberally by some zip-lipped assistant donning a dust mask. The assistant is startled at how visible your bones are, without the aid of machines. The machines, at this time in the future, perform their tasks automatically. The assistant is more humorless than the machines. Hospital security recording rebounds the incident, its nervous energy. A killer, in a mask and a jumpsuit, covered in red corn syrup, walking stiffly through strobe lighting, is added during post-production. The director sees to it personally.
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