Four Years of Darkness

How long has it been since I met my last volunteers?

How long has this place been dark for?

Will anyone please tell me how long?

How long...?

All the thoughts ran through Buzzy's head, as he remained seated on his seat, from whence he used to demonstrate his brain piloting skills to groups of volunteers. That was four years ago, should a volunteer risk his all to tell him how long he was trapped in his own prison, his former demonstration stage...

...his only career and dream of being a Cranium Commando.

The demonstration stage was now his prison, pitch black, save for the strobe lights that remained switched on to illuminate the sheer emptiness of the room. It was deathly silent, save for the faint noise of other people working, and ignoring Buzzy's presence altogether.

He turned to look over his shoulder, and with both eyes (despite his right eye weak and unable to open at will), he stared at the seating where the volunteers used to sit and watch his every move, squinting as he attempted to make out the shapes of the seats altogether.

He sighed in despair, bowing his head down a notch, as he proceeded to take a nap, just like he did for the last four years. But a noise coming from outside woke him up - some of the drywall cieling crumbled and collapsed onto the floor, interrupting his naptime, and even shook every single nerve deep inside. Some nights, he was able to enjoy a long night's sleep between periods of his working life. But not this time.

It seems this place is beginning to fall apart, Buzzy thought, frightened that he would be the next unfortunate victim of a structural collapse. But for me, myself...

Worries for his own health plagued the inside of his mind. He ran his right hand on his head, underneath the cap perched on his head. The hours he counted from the minute of his last demonstration to the audience until now began to stress him more... perhaps this explained how poor unfortunate Buzzy began to lose his brown hair in small clumps at a time. He glanced at the clump of hair gathered in the palm of his hand, as he finally realised that he was suffering from a condition he once educated his volunteers to steer clear of... stress.

It was the stress that remained bottled up inside him, from counting the minutes before his next call back to service... it was too much to bear. He never felt so miserable since he got dismissed way back in January 2007, after New Year's Day. Rubbing his left eye as if to wipe off a tear, he already knew too well of losing part of his left eyebrow that day (even having to wear a false eyebrow not to long ago). The Buzzy of today bore one thing that was a far cry to the Buzzy of the past... what once was a hardworking, optimistic and proud young Commando hired for duty, had somehow ended up tired, worried, miserable and lonely... from stressing over the minutes stressed in his prison, devoid of any contact, maintenancewise or from the crew.

But the crew... Buzzy pondered, figuring out what happened to the rest of the body crew that accompanied him during many times together. I'm sure they haven't forgotten me... He gave one glance at the robotic figure - the one who once went by the name of the Hypothalamus - remaining motionless and still. Buzzy paused for a moment, apd tried once more to revive him.

"Crew, report in," Buzzy started off, a tremble of anxiety in his vocal cords. "Hypothalamus? Diagnostics please?" A long pause ensued. "Hello?" Still no response. "Relay instructions...?" Buzzy stopped long enough to wait for a response from the Hypothalamus... normally he would inform the cadet of the various goings-on within the body - heartrate, breathing and such. But no word from the monitor, alas.

I guess they put him out of his misery. He was the only friend I could count on when there's nothing on schedule. I'm so alone... alone!

Slumping in his seat and planting his face into his hands, his pent up misery bottled up deep inside him gave way. His sobs and whimpers filled the dusty prison, where he spent his time being lonely, with nobody to encounter and rescue him from years of neglect. He felt powerless, weak, and ignored by others outside his prison.

After what seemed to be countless minutes of bursting into sorrow, Buzzy moved his head a touch upward, tilting his head to look at the very workspace he used to pilot - the mechanical cranial innards of the person he so used to pilot in his heydays. Buzzy looked back on his own memories - nostalgia of piloting  people in his past life, even keeping in touch with the organs of the body, reporting their status and standing by for Buzzy's instructions. So he decided to call in for reinforcements once more.

"Crew? Left Brain, Right Brain?" Buzzy asked, as if trying to get their attention once more. "Come in, please. Gastrointestinal section? Adrenal and endocrine? Anyone out there? Please say something!!"

Minutes slipped past since he gave one last call to any member of the body crew. But it was no longer.

So this means... Buzzy stopped to reflect on what just happened, in between sniffles. ...poor Bobby... I guess it's what happens when... no... can it be?

Buzzy assumed the worst - that the host body he once used to pilot was no longer responsive as it used to... all thoughts racing through Buzzy's head consisted of a few short but powerful words that shook him once more to emotional turmoil - poor Bobby had died.

It was the last straw for his emotional center. Buzzy planted his face into the controls and screamed loudly, wailing and pleading for mercy, pleading for someone to rescue him from his prison.

"Somebody help!", he whimpered and wailed, tears down his face, his vocal cords quavering from all forms of misery plaguing him on the inside. "Somebody get me out of this place!", he pled to the outside world, but to no avail. "Somebody..."

He broke down, sobbing, and wiping the tears off his eyes, but the expression of four years of misery still hung onto Buzzy's face. He had nothing left except memories, and worries for his too-near future. With a depressed sigh, he slumped over the controls, resting his head in his arms, and cried himself to sleep. All hope had left every nerve and fiber of his body, it seemed...