My name is simply W14A. Veronica is W14B, and the Captain, who has been housed in our cell since returning from Quarantine, is W14C. And, lest we should ever forget, the surgeon’s assistants have permanently branded our upper right arms with these classifying codes by means of a simple needle and black ink. With hundreds of inmates now tattooed like criminals, we are easy to identify, and no one need bother us with a proper name ever again. People have names, and we are not people. We are bodies. Numbered parts. Nothing more.
