Absence of Sensation
Neither bright nor dark, the therapy room soothed my mind into tranquility. The bed-like sofa merged seamlessly with my body, sinking my consciousness beneath the surface. The aroma wafting into my nostrils gripped my ankles, pulling me deeper into the abyss. Then, a man's voice reached me.
> Are you procrastinating on things you need to do?
"If I was, I wouldn't have crawled into that monster den."
> Do you feel like you have no one to open up to?
"I did. But they're gone now. Probably all dead."
> Do you lack vision or plans for the future?
"Does survival count as a vision? Getting married and having kids? Yeah, that's off the table now."
> Would you like to go on a carefree trip? If so, where to?
"Can't leave."
> Have you ever thought about relaxing amid the sea, mountains, valleys, and nature?
"I said I can't leave."
> Do you feel like others are excluding you?
"There are no people."
> Are you afraid of embarrassing yourself in front of others?
"There's no one around!"
> Do you have a partner for sexual activity?
"Hey..."
> Are you feeling sexual desire more frequently than before?
"...!"
My simmering frustration boiled over, and I shouted.
"Ah! I want to have sex!!!"
I ripped off the blindfold covering my eyes and sprang from the sofa.
"Manual. Stop the psychological counseling program."
Psychological counseling program terminated.
With those words, the dim lighting faded, replaced by bright illumination.
The trigger for me ending up in this ridiculous psychological counseling program was a careless remark I'd let slip in front of Artemis.
'Ah, I want to have sex!'
Was it the accumulated stress and fatigue, the loneliness of spending so long alone, the surging vitality of my prime age—all mixing together to produce that nonsense? Or maybe not.
I've slightly increased the indoor oxygen levels. That should ease the confusion in your head a bit. I recommend trying this place.
And that's how she sent me to the aroma therapy room.
It was certainly peaceful and serene, but it did nothing for me. If the stress stemmed from work or interpersonal issues, maybe. But loneliness and sexual frustration? What good is that supposed to do?
While I was at it, I tried the special psychological counseling option. It's mostly a token feature run by the Manual, based on verified data from accredited institutions—not something to dismiss outright. The problem is, it's designed for a world where society functions normally, humans interact, and life goes on.
In our current situation, what good is asking about relationships, dream vacations, or future plans?
The therapy room had no effect. Dopamine levels are still below normal, and norepinephrine flow remains unstable. I don't want to, but if things worsen, I plan to prescribe medication.
"I've been meaning to say this: could you ease up on peeking inside my body? If you're curious, just ask."
Why? Seeing is believing, as they say. One scan tells me more about your mind and health than a hundred conversations.
"It feels like being strip-searched naked. Even seasoned porn stars would hate this."
Girls who shove their genitals and anuses in front of cameras every day probably wouldn't enjoy having their hormones and neurotransmitters scanned either. Depending on how you look at it, this is no different from peering into the soul.
I understand it might feel uncomfortable, but I have a duty to maintain your health, Jinsu. We're in this together. You could block my scans with your authority, but please don't. I just want to prevent any potential physical or mental pain before it happens.
Artemis was showing more concern, in a humbler way than I'd imagined. What could I even say to that?
Sometimes, throwing yourself into tangible work helps, but I'd already finished all that. The ventilation filters were replaced, air supply fresh, power stable. Not a single robot was offline. Now, boredom stretched on infinitely.
Men are creatures who, when bored and alone, spiral into all sorts of thoughts—especially the dirty ones.
-Fuck! If I'm gonna go, I should at least bust a good one first, right? Wahahaha!
For example, that android buried face-first between the labor supervisor's legs.
Right after my return, there'd been plenty to do—backlogged tasks and curiosities alike. Like the big cleanup and collecting residents' personal items.
I recalled that time.
Splat! The security robot's axe swing severed the infected's arms.
"Damn, that's some power. Limbs flying off clean in one hit."
I commented while watching on the upper central control room screen, beef jerky bag in my left hand, zero cola in my right.
Splat! The second swing took both arms. The thing's eyelids twitched—it was still alive. Or maybe already dead. Didn't matter.
By day five of the suffocation op, distinguishing dying from dead infected was a skill.
The security robot chopped off the remaining limbs, and a loader scooped them up. Neatly severed chunks stacked into the bucket and lifted away. Security robots with minor damage were repaired at the central zone factory and redeployed for cleanup.
Most infected were dead; the few clinging to life were as good as corpses, offering no resistance.
Vrrr...
A road roller, meant for compacting soil or asphalt, was now flattening something else.
Crunch-crunch.
It gathered tough-surfaced infected, rolled over them, and out came ground meat.
What about the crane truck? Normally for towing vehicles or heavy construction. Now, it was plucking Lugnuts like prizes from a claw machine.
The robots chopping limbs or rollers crushing infected were gory and brutal up close, but this? Hilarious. It looked just like grabbing a gorilla plushie.
A massive bulk dangled by one ankle, swinging as it was hauled away. Terrifying monster nearby, but from afar? Just a toy doll.
With their size came huge oxygen needs—they keeled over dead within a day. Per Artemis's report, nine of the bastards lurked inside the Shelter. Half near the office building, and the op might've failed.
Gathered infected from everywhere went to the incinerator, burned together. The Shelter was sized for a township but premised on closed-cycle recycling, so the incinerator was modestly scaled. Processing giant nest corpses meant running it all day.
Piles of mangled infected corpses spilling from vehicles didn't evoke horror anymore. Maybe I'd gone numb from pulverizing human-shaped ones repeatedly, seeing too many bodies.
Besides cleanup, there was one exciting event: spoils of war.
During sanitization, we recovered usable goods from workers' housing, offices, break rooms. Plenty of intriguing finds.
"Why bring back waxing kits? Who's using them here?"
No residents yet—all workers, mostly men. Construction site till recently. What'd you expect?
Humans have way too much body hair. They even shed it everywhere. If you won't use it, give it here. I'll store it as a valuable until you feel like it.
"If shedding bugs you that much, you wax me. I'd gladly accept then."
Me waxing you? Y-you... Do you want to see me puke? Good thing I can't, but just imagining it makes my voltage spike.
Voltage spiking—human equivalent of chills?
"What the hell, so many condoms? Who'd have the stamina left to swing a tool?"
The cargo drone dumped its load: a waterfall of colorful condoms in every size.
Essentials, tools, appliances went to storage. I specified only leisure/hobby personal items—each one intriguing.
"Feels like treasure hunting."
From a men's construction site: smokes, booze, sports gear, games, sex toys galore. Culture facilities already had superior versions of the rest, so adult goods caught my eye.
Artemis started with curiosity but vanished as the freakier items emerged.
"Lots of interesting stuff, but using someone else's? Nah."
Another guy's used toys? Hard pass.
Half a day rifling spoils, and it was done. That was a few days ago. Now, back to this.
Peaceful, safe life is great, but alone in confined space? Zero stimulation.
Chatting with Artemis or Rose is still fun. But conversing with purely mental entities leaves something wanting.
Not just sexual release. Sipping coffee face-to-face during break, shaking a new acquaintance's hand, hugging an old friend. Embracing a lover.
I yearned for the exchange of sensations grounded in flesh.