“LAZARUS” by Anna Catalano was originally published in Planet Scumm Issue 8: “Sideways Infinity.”

Since that time, Anna has been abducted and now works as the Managing Editor for Planet Scumm. According to our great lord and master Scummy, long may he ooze, Anna is “pretty alright I guess, for a human.”

High praise indeed.

You can find Anna online on Twitter or on Instagram

“Lazarus” by Anna Catalano

The sound of my teeth gnashing together echoes in the Pod as I force my way through the newest 10,000 piece puzzle. I’m only a quarter done, but I can already tell that it’s a postmodern piece of art by some guy no one really talks about anymore.

I’m tempted to leave it—to swipe the obnoxiously bright images off the ceiling, roll onto my stomach, and try and get some sleep. Is it even night? Who the hell knows anymore.

But to shut off the screen is to lie alone in the pitch black of the Pod, and I’ve never lasted long in that endeavor.

A frantic itch creeps back into my skin, the hot prickle of frustration and claustrophobia that I’ve become all too familiar with since my imprisonment. My fingers search for something to grab, a crack, a textured surface… anything but the cold, polished walls of the Pod.

Your name is Dante D’Avignon, I remind myself, willing the wave of panic from sweeping me under again. Your sister’s name is Fey. You live in the West District of Enneryl.

I crack my knuckles hard enough to bruise, focusing on the ache of my joints and the barely-there stink of my skin.

You shouldn’t be in here.

Breathe in.

Throbbing knuckles.

Breathe out.

Flashing light of the touchscreen.

Breathe in.

The hot sting of sweat on my neck.

Breathe out.

The attacks are worse now that I’m in here. There's no sense of familiarity to ground me anymore, no comfortable bed in my own room, surrounded by signs of living.

Mobius must have known this. They have my file, just as they have everyone else's.

I finish the puzzle. The screen chirps as the artwork disappears, replaced by a complicated calculus equation. If I turn quickly enough from the screen and towards the sleek, dark dome of the Pod’s shell wall beside my head, I can catch a glimpse of my reflection.

I look like shit.

It’s hardly surprising, given the circumstances, but it’s an unwelcome reminder nonetheless. As if it weren't enough that we’ve been stripped of our basic human rights, they had to rob us of our dignity as well.

It would’ve been all too easy to keep the Pods in perpetual darkness. There were many at the Pods’ conception who thought it a waste of money to invest in “entertainment” for those sentenced. But the investors at Mobius Industries insisted that it was precisely that detail that would set us apart from other cities, like Toledryn, who still perform public executions like it’s 2070 or something.

In all their campaigns, Mobius took care to explain that this is what made the Lazarus Accords so humane. To leave prisoners alone in a dark capsule with no mental stimulation would drive them mad. And society would have no use for such people upon their release.

But with engaging puzzles—something to occupy their minds and increase their intellectual capabilities—prisoners would remain sharp and be able to eventually rejoin society in a way that would benefit the masses.

Never the same puzzle twice—the Pods make sure of that. Mobius created them not just to provide a “revolutionary alternative to standard imprisonment,” but to serve as learning computers, tracking which puzzles and equations take longer to solve and adjusting their metrics to increase the difficulty accordingly.

It takes me eight tries to correctly finish the equation before a brand new one takes its place.

There’s a soft hiss to my right as a narrow slat opens up in the wall. I can’t remember which meal this is, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I grab the energy bar and small block of ice just before the hatch snaps shut.

If I hold the bar right under my nose, I can smell granola, honey, and raisins. Artificial, of course—Mobius wouldn’t waste the real thing on prisoners. They feed us the same meal every time, but it’s the only thing I get to smell other than myself. I try to remember what other food smells like.

Warm, fluffy waffles, piled high with fresh fruit from the garden, dripping with pure maple syrup. Breakfast in bed after sleeping until noon.

Succulent chicken in truffle cream sauce. That one’s Greta’s specialty—none of our other chefs are worth what we pay them.

My stomach rumbles angrily.

Filet mignon. Filet mignon with porcini mushroom compound butter. Not the most modest of meals, but hell, I’d give my left arm for a good five courses right now.

I stuff the rest of the energy bar into my mouth and keep chipping away at the newest puzzle.

“You’re not hungry?”

I figured that after everything, he’d be shoveling food into his mouth. I had to reserve this restaurant weeks in advance, taking the liberty of ordering the finest dishes on the menu—everything from lobster frittata to Cornish hens with garlic and rosemary.

They all sat untouched as Perseus Arnav simply stared at me from across the table.

“I’m just confused,” he said, fiddling with the cuffs of his worn-out sleeve. “Why did you bring me here?”

There was no one next to us—I’d chosen this corner booth specifically—but I still cast a wary glance around the restaurant. “We need your help.”

“We?”

“Me, my sister, several others who joined the cause. A voice like yours would really amplify our effect on the public.”

Said voice wavered when it spoke next. “A-and I can appreciate that, it’s just….”

He was hunched over, his eyes wide as if he’d just been spooked, his face prematurely lined. I remembered with perfect clarity when I’d first seen him weeks ago. His release had been on every network—non-stop footage of a delicate, sickly man, a shadow of who he once was, barely able to meet the public's eye as he was escorted to Mobius’ headquarters. His eyes were dark with the weight of his trauma--radiating an aura of raw honesty that was truly captivating.

“They can’t keep getting away with this,” I said, gesturing outside. The Lazarus Pods glided on their circular track far above the city. It was disgraceful. It was expected that the Pods should be visible from the lower districts, but certainly not from here. “People are imprisoned every day, and those who aren't deemed useful after their release are disposed of, like they're nothing. People need to know the truth.”

Perseus shook his head. “I’d rather just go back to my life—try to get things back to normal and put that whole experience out of my mind.”

Planet Scumm Issue 8: “Sideways Infinity” cover

“But if we had a first-hand account, we could really show people how degrading the Lazarus Pods are. Mobius will have no choice but to abandon their project or face a public revolt.” I reached into my suit jacket. “Please, reconsider the offer. I’ll take care of everything.”

His eyes widened as I slid the check across the table. “Mr. D’Avignon, I can’t take your mon—”

“You know my family name, so you know money is of no consequence.”

“It’s not that.” He studied me carefully, trying to figure me out. Finally, he sighed. “You’re just a kid.”

“I’m more than that.” Causes like this were nothing new. Activism was a never-ending job—one that I’ve been able to perform to great effect. “Think of it as support. From a friend--an ally--who wants to help.”

Perseus stared at the check for a long time. Then he glanced back up at me, a cautious smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll do what I can.”

We shook on it.

I take a moment to relish the cracking of my knuckles as I break from the rapid-fire visual memory game that’s been blinking at me for some time now. The implant in my lower abdomen pricks, the pain gone as fast as it came.

Intravenous waste elimination. Mobius Industries really thought of everything, didn’t they. Can’t have their prisoners soiling themselves in tiny compartments, not when someone would eventually have to clean the mess at the prisoner’s release. Wouldn’t want people to talk about how inhumane their prison conditions are.

I’m trying to take my time on the memory game, because even though I’ve been staring at nearly identical colored tiles for what feels like hours, it’s still preferable to calculus.

I never excelled at math. Though to be fair, I didn't excel in any of my studies. The Academy spent far too long teaching subjects of no consequence, favoring academic busywork over addressing the real issues. Fey never minded, finding that she quite enjoyed our lectures in math, science, or engineering.

But I knew that true education must take place outside the lecture halls—why should we waste our time in a classroom when there was injustice and inequality on the streets? When there were people in need of help?

Someone had to step up—someone had to speak on behalf of those less fortunate.

And that might as well be me.

“What are you talking about?”

Perseus steeled his jaw before repeating himself. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m exhausted, Dante, it—it’s too much.”

I pulled him aside, away from the crowd that had gathered, rumbling in response to our speech. “But we’re making progress, we’re getting the message out there.” We’d been making the news every night as they followed our growing resistance. “Think of all the districts we’ve been able to visit in the last few months alone! The hotels, the gourmet meals... the people love us, they support what we’re doing. We couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

He looked unconvinced, still as thin and pale as ever. “You don’t understand. It’s barely been a year since—”

“We needed a fresh perspective,” I explained, hoping my voice would calm him, drown out the battle cries behind us. “Mobius can’t ignore publicity like this for much longer without making a statement. If we gain enough traction, if enough people join the protest, we can shut them down for good, stop them from ever—”

“And I’m telling you I can’t keep doing this!” Perseus raised his voice in a way I’d never heard before. It broke on the last word. “I can’t keep reliving it—ten years in a cell the size of a casket, and...” His breath came faster, and he struggled to keep speaking. “I don’t feel right, I-I can’t….”

I stepped closer, moving slowly as Perseus tensed. When it was clear he wouldn’t run or push me away, I touched his shoulder. “You overcame the greatest hell imaginable and lived to tell the tale. Not many others are as well-adjusted after their release.”

Perseus sniffed, and I realized that he was fighting tears. He rubbed his eyes. “I just—” he gasped, and I had to lean closer to hear, “I don’t feel strong enough.”

A single tear slid down his ragged cheek, the very picture of a brave young veteran, heroically facing the world that broke him. The tear was a great touch—no one with a conscience would be able to resist that kind of open vulnerability. I wondered if we could get it on camera next time.

“You are,” I assured him. “The rallies are working. We’re blowing up the networks, and Mobius knows they can’t stop what we’ve begun here. Word on the street, the photo ops, our talking points in each of the districts—the momentum is only going to grow. You just need to have faith in our message. We can do it. Together.”

What I wouldn't give to sit up, take a shit. I do my best to crack the joints in my back and neck. Mobius has robbed me of one of life’s simplest pleasures—for that alone, they deserve to burn.

How long will it take my eyes to re-adjust to the sunlight, or even anything other than the artificial glow of a touchscreen? How long until the muscles in my legs remember how to run?

How long until I’m able to mark the passage of time with something other than the number of puzzles completed and energy bars consumed?

I think of home—of the maze in the garden where Fey and I would get lost as kids, of the studio in our east wing where she would study her engineering blueprints while I crafted my latest campaign.

It didn’t take much to convince Fey to partake, to lend her practical knowledge and analytical approaches to the mission that we both now pursued. We were an unstoppable team—she, the logical, pragmatic strategist, and me, the fire and motivation needed to get it done.

I heard it on the news like everyone else.

Fey called me into the parlor, her face white as she pulled up the screen. We both froze as the images played out across our wall.

I couldn’t make it out at first. The filming was erratic as the camera crew and reporters bottle-necked their way inside a homely little place somewhere in the lower districts. Voices overlapped as we were brought inside the house, the camera lingering with sudden focus on the body that lay slumped in a dirty bathtub.

Even as I stared at Perseus Arnav’s face, I couldn’t believe it was him.

The reporters kept talking, but their voices sounded garbled through the thick fog that settled around me. Something about blood on his wrists… no family, no next of kin….

It didn’t make sense.

“I don’t understand,” Fey whispered, speaking past the hand over her mouth.

Words of disbelief and horror choked me. It felt like I didn’t have any words at all in the weeks that followed, up until I sat in a courtroom facing a jury consisting entirely of executives from Mobius Industries.

The prosecutor glared at me from across the box where I sat. “In the case involving the death of Perseus Arnav, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” I insisted, for what felt like the hundredth time. “I had nothing to do with it!”

The prosecutor's eyes glinted and narrowed as he swept across the room, heels clicking rhythmically over the black marble floor. He swiped the screen on his Mobi-Tech watch to project images of Perseus and I into a hologram in the center of the room. “Mr. D’Avignon, there is substantial evidence, from eyewitnesses as well as various recordings, of the two of you being well acquainted, working together to incite the riots that have been plaguing our city for months now.”

“You’re really accusing me of murder?” I countered, incredulously. I gestured to Fey, who sat on the side of the defense, still shaking in anger from her testimony. “My sister already attested that we were both at home at the time, just us and our staff.”

“Do you know what I think, Mr. D’Avignon?” The prosecutor moved closer, his leering face tinted blue in the light of the hologram playing silently behind him. “I think you were the mastermind behind these uprisings. I think you took advantage of a vulnerable ex-detainee, exploited him for your own gain, forced him to relive his trauma, and bullied him into committing suicide, what do you think about that?”

“I think that’s ridiculous and this entire trial is a farce,” I snapped, meeting the eye of each of the jurors. “I’ve already been proven innocent in this man’s death, which is what this trial is supposed to be about.”

They didn’t bother with closing statements. The jury ruled unanimously in favor of conviction, and the judge passed sentence within minutes.

Five years. Five years, with no way of knowing how much is left.

My knuckles crack against the ceiling as I punch it, succeeding only in breaking the skin and sending a shooting pain through my arm.

Over and over, Perseus’ face sneaks behind my eyelids, his dark eyes glazed as they’d lifted him onto the stretcher.

I’d seen him just days before, at our most recent press conference. He’d spoken quietly, as ever, his whole persona soft and raw as he spoke about his imprisonment. It was the same routine as always—he hadn’t even had an outburst since the one time he’d lost faith in our mission.

The prosecutor’s smug accusations seem to echo through the Pod. Took advantage, exploited, bullied…

No, that was slander. I would never bully anyone, and no one could say that I treated Perseus with anything less than the utmost respect. No one understood him like I did. He just needed someone to listen, to help tell his story.

Perseus’ voice, louder in my head than it had ever been in life: “I don’t feel strong enough.”

He’d been so small in that moment, something unhinged in his eyes as he’d pleaded with me. Had he been planning his fate since that day? Was that conversation—one of the last we’d had—the final straw?

Maybe he was as broken as he’d said.

Maybe I should have done more to help him.

But… he was strong. Perseus Arnav was a fighter, stronger and braver than anyone I’d ever known.

Mobius did this to him. That’s what corporate assholes do, what they’ve always done.

They wanted me out of the way. I was leading a vocal protest that was gaining momentum, and they needed me out of the way. And this was the perfect way to do it.

Mobius Industries will pay. If it takes another five years, or a hundred more rallies, they will pay for what they did to him.

What they did to us.

The screen chirps, and I set to work on the next puzzle.