UNMASHINABLE
[MEATload Spot Preview]
In the prevailing silence, the only sound is the crunch of gravel under rolling wheels. A van is captured from above white rectangle, little more than a shape moving across an expanse of vivid green countryside. The early morning light is crisp, bathing everything in clarity.
The shot cuts to dewdrop-laden blades of grass. The camera begins to move, drifting past a wooden fence, as if slipping through it, gliding toward what, once in focus, reveals itself as a model farm-complete with impeccably kept barns, pristine white walls, and gleaming photovoltaic rooftops.
The ambient sounds of nature slowly rise, seamlessly blending into the muffled sound of footsteps pressing into bare earth. The van is quickly forgotten.
Cut to a pair of boots-green, like the land around them. They walk forward, their tips slightly muddied. The frame widens, then shifts upward.
Inside the boots are legs wrapped in snug jeans, already rolled up to mid-calf. We know, with certainty, they belong to a beautiful woman, but her full allure remains deliberately veiled. The shot follows the curves of her body, tracing the outline of a crisp, open lab coat, then cuts again, revealing from behind a cascade of hair the color of ripe wheat.
She reaches the barn’s entrance, pausing momentarily to remove her boots before stepping inside what is, unmistakably, an equilibrium chamber.
With a graceful motion, she takes a step forward, slipping into a pair of sanitary clogs-green, once again. She gathers her golden hair into a sterile cap-green, of course.
The camera lingers on her neck, then her nape, slowly leading us to her face. She isn’t just beautiful. She radiates health, vitality almost irresistible presence. She smiles, never once looking directly at the camera.
A leading tracking shot reveals the long, pristine interior-a luminous white, so clean it feels almost unnatural. Rows of rounded devices line immaculate workbenches on either side of her as she walks, moving toward us. Her eyes are focused. Her touch is light yet deliberate as she interacts with control panels. This is her domain.
Cut. A closer look at the machines. Their upper sections oscillate rhythmically, hypnotically, in perfect synchrony-like the pulsing of a heart.
Beneath each one, a ceramic tray rests on an immaculate conveyor belt linking them all. The only color interrupting the near-total whiteness is the rhythmic presence of a vivid, raw red.
It is meat, but also something else. Its appearance is too eerily perfect to be mere flesh. It does not glisten with juices-not because it is dry, but because it lacks any unnecessary excess. It falls into the tray in neat, precise mounds, dropping from what would be an extrusion nozzle-if extrusion were involved at all. Instead, it simply emerges, fully formed, from the tidal depths of its dark, chemical womb.
One could call it ground meat, if not for the fact that it was never whole to begin with. It has never known a shape.
She selects a tray from the final machine in the line. Lifting the compact mass effortlessly with the aid of a delicate film beneath it, she transfers it onto a plate.
She has reached the far end of what we initially believed to be a barn, and we suddenly realize that, in a way, it is. It is a meta-stable. We knew this moment would come, and now it simply has.
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Another equilibrium chamber awaits-larger than the first. She steps out, removing her clogs before slipping into another pair of boots waiting outside. This time, they are colorful.
Cut to the exterior. The van reappears, its rear section open as it slowly reverses. It emits a soft, intermittent flute-like sound melody of sorts, harmonizing with the docking bay of the equilibrium chamber.
Only now do we notice the absence of a driver’s cabin. From the side, it is nothing more than a clean rectangle. Its wheels are barely visible, concealed beneath the lower edge of its body. It will complete its task autonomously, seamlessly interfacing with the meta-stable.
The bold red logo stands out at the center of its side panel-inviting, almost enticing in its own way.
Cut to a warmly lit kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of amber light. She is cooking. We see her from behind-her lab coat is gone, but we recognize her by her hair.
The camera shifts to a stovetop with four burners, a cast-iron skillet resting upon them. The heat shimmers just above the pan, and then, with a careful, practiced motion, she places two thick, juicy patties onto the sizzling iron.
The sound is familiar-the unmistakable sear of meat meeting heat. The gestures are the same as always.
Cut to a young boy, his hair a color we already know.
He is drawing on a paper napkin with a fat red crayon.
When she sets the two plates on the table, we realize he has drawn a heart.
She reaches out, ruffling his hair with a gentle touch before sitting down beside him.
Zoom out. The two figures begin to eat.
Fade to white.
In the luminous void, we hear it again-the crunch of gravel as the autonomous van departs.
The MEATload logo appears, animated, its loading bars filling up one by one with a deep, rich red, from the first to the very last.
The tagline follows an instant later, with a perfectly timed reassurance:
SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE
This story is part of CHRONICLES FROM THE FUTURE: 111 Stories to Survive Tomorrow — a collection of short tales about the strange days ahead.
