MAID of Honour

We put the can into Canada, read the poster in the lobby, where a range of minorities, herself included, linked arms in the shape of a maple leaf—an inspiring symbol of societal progress, which, incidentally, took nine sore hours to shoot, due to the director’s bug-eyed insistence on capturing that perfect moment of ‘universal compassion.’

‘Can someone PLEASE explain to that one what an actual smile looks like?!’

Before the accident she’d merely been a successful and high-performing individual, but now she’d achieved that mythical status, beyond the realm of simple hard work and dedication: she was registered disabled.

Though while her body had changed, her resolve had not. In fact, unsurprising to all who knew her, it overcompensated: quickly mastering this new reality, with plenty left in store for other pursuits. A Paralympic career in ice hockey, a gold medal in canoeing—rising to the status of national diversity hero, featured in all sorts of awareness campaigns and TikTok dances. Yet when it came to mundane daily tasks where no heroics were needed, it turned out her needs were more basic.

With her number called, she wheeled herself into the office of Terrance Lamprey, Lead Resource Coordinator for Life-Quality Solutions.

“Well, well! It’s not every day I get a visit from an actual legend!” he said, slapping a hand to his cheek. “And to what do I owe this great pleasure?”

After eighteen months of emails, forms and phone calls, it was quite a shock to see real flesh and blood behind the system—someone she could appeal to on a human level. And while his eel-like face projected very little visible empathy, she at least took comfort in the various framed slogans on the walls.

Have the courage to care.

Live. Love. Repeat.

The most important step is the first.

“I’m afraid it’s the same boring topic,” she said, filling in his blank, screen-saver expression. “Er, the ramp?”

“Of course! The ramp, the ramp! My kingdom for a ramp!”

She let out a weak laugh, as his head swivelled to the screen.

“Well, enough with the theatrics. Let me bring up your case file…”

His glasses reflected webpages of varying informality being hastily closed.

“Ah, yes—here we are. LG7863D: Your official ramp request. Annnnd it’s amber.”

“Is that good?”

“Let’s say it’s somewhere between green and red.”

“Oh, I see. Well, if it’s any help, I created a blueprint for where exactly I need it installed, along with a cost analysis.”

She laid the A4 wallet on the desk, causing his left eye a defensive flash.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

“I mean, it’s no trouble,” she shrugged. “All it takes is a measuring-tape and a few clicks online to compare prices.”

“No, I mean you really shouldn’t have. By presenting unauthorised external assessments or cost evaluations during a pending case—without prior documentation—you are in violation of code 437F. In fact, it would now be illegal for you to make any altercations yourself to said property without departmental review and compliance approval.”

“So, you’re saying by trying to help I’ve made my situation worse?”

“Well, the good news is, our new coffee machine takes Starbucks capsules. May I offer you anything? A pumpkin spice latte, perhaps?”

She shook her head.

“Well, okay. You don’t know what you’re missing though: these things are too damn good!”

Over by the coffee machine, he continued. “Listen, I know you mavericks don’t like to play by the rulebook, but we must insist on observing proper protocol.”

“But I don’t understand. It’s only a ramp!”

“Oh, sure. Today it’s only a ramp, but tomorrow we could be dealing with an illegal jacuzzi. Then imagine, if ten thousand similar requests were accidentally approved at the same time. Budget meltdown. Civilisation collapse. Complete anarchy!”

With his long, almost boneless body, capable of wriggling out of any argument, and a gaping mouth that paralysed his victims in hypnotic jargon, Terrance Lamprey was an evolutionary marvel; a spiteful mutant, thriving in the darkest depths of bureaucracy. With every expert gesture and facial expression, the hope of accessing her back garden without nearly tipping over each time slipped further away.

“I suppose,” she began, after a long sigh, “I suppose, I feel kind of…”

“Helpless?”

“Well…yes.”

“Exhausted and alone?”

“Yes, I’d say so.”

“And I’ll add finally anxious and uncertain in there too,” he said, with a conclusive double-click. “Well, all the symptoms indicate depression.”

“I’m not depressed. I just need a ramp built.”

He gave a jagged smile.

“But a person in your position—how could you not be?! Of course, denial is a completely natural reaction. Studies show that seventy-two percent of sufferers are actually unaware of their condition. I mean, you’ve achieved so much despite your limitations, been an inspiration to so many. You’ve got every right to feel this way—that the best times are behind you; that beyond all the inspirational quotes and heart emojis the world is fickle, callous, indifferent to your real concerns. That in the end, it’s not the ultra-marathons or mountain summits that break you; it’s the little things—like being stranded for ten hours halfway up a faulty stairlift, for example?”

Her body sagged, tears stung, as she remembered the humiliation—this absurd defeat. Hating herself, her own body, for its chronic uselessness.

“That’s right; we know about that too,” he continued, now almost luminescent with empathy. “We keep everything on record to understand what our clients are going through, to offer them the best life solutions.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, clutching her wheels, knuckles bone-white. A futile, sweaty mess.

“Well, I figured an influencer like you wouldn’t be content with anything other than the best…” He walked over to a closet door – “And I think…”

He grunted— “If I can get it out of park mode…Ah, here we go!”

He dragged the human-sized pod behind him and into the centre of the office.

“Good thing it’s got wheels. There! isn’t it a beauty?!”

The design was sleek, dynamic; futuristic chrome and dreamy blue—the contours gliding towards a large convex window in its centre. She stared in silence, clouded in a moment of déjà vu, wondering if she hadn’t seen it somewhere before; craving answers, yet instinctively afraid to ask.

“What is it?” she murmured finally.

“This provides the very best TLC, whilst upholding the highest ethical and environmental standards.”

“Tender loving care?”

“Well, almost—it actually stands for transitional life care: assisting you on your new journey with the upmost efficiency and care. This is their latest model: the TLC-600!”

She remembered something about cryogenic freezing—patients put into suspended animation until a future medical breakthrough could cure them. But wasn’t that still sci-fi? Technology that, if it even existed, remained solely in the possession of maniacal billionaires? Or perhaps she’d completely misjudged Terrance Lamprey. Maybe he really was a loyal public servant, working tirelessly to ensure these miraculous advancements were made available to the common cripple.

“Yep…” He gave the thing a wistful pat. “You can fit so many broken dreams inside this bad boy. True, some were sceptical when they expanded the criteria for its application—but not me…” He gestured at a poster: Here we embrace change.

“…I mean, why should we deny someone their status just because we personally can’t ‘see’ it? Well, let me tell you right now: I see you, Corinne. Your illness is valid, deserving of respect, dignity…”

(In his altruistic passion, he had forgotten her name)

“…the understanding that when you do finally make that decision, we’ll be here to assist you every step of the way.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you,” she said, trying to settle her gaze on the ever- moving ever-talking figure before her. “I only came here to discuss disability ramps, not…whatever this is.”

Terrance Lamprey froze for an evolutionary second. The next moment he came flying face first at her.

“As a qualified TLC guidance instructor, I assure you, I can recognise a cry for help when I see one. The first step is facing the truth: this isn’t about ramps. It was never about ramps.”

“It was never about ramps.”

“Very good. This was all about denying reality. Distracting yourself so convincingly that you almost forget who and what you were—that you’d trade all the achievement and awards for your old life back. That you’d do anything to undo it all, to go to sleep and wake up… new again.”

“New again,” she slurred, eyelids drooping, a whirlpool of words dragging her down. All she wanted was an end to it.

“And the TLC-600 is here to help you get there, in peace and quiet…”

A clipboard drifted towards her on a wave of persuasion.

“…Just a few things to sign before we get going…”

“Yes.”

She could see her name—that she agreed to the transitional life care, understood the procedure. She saw the pod beyond, cool and refreshing, not forcing anything: a simple inevitability, the silent solution.

A lighthouse flashed on the dark horizon, a faint memory of her former training. Resistance to interrogation. Reverse neuro-linguistic programming. Irresistible commands. She inhaled, caught his eye, and pulled the trigger.

“I’d like you to show me how it works first, please. I mean, by the time I figure out what to do, I’ll have forgotten why I was here in the first place.”

Terrance Lamprey reeled back, clapping his hands together. “Oh, it’s really dead simple! All you need to do is download the app from the QR code on the side here. The user interface is very intuitive—simply swipe on ‘yes’ to gain access.”

The pod’s hatch opened with a pneumatic sigh.

“There’s plenty of space so you don’t feel claustrophobic,” he continued, climbing in one limb at a time.

“Right, once inside I can switch to the onboard touch-screen to continue. One of the fantastic new features on their six-hundred model is the communication system, allowing you to stay connected with those closest, plus a larger viewing window so as not to miss a smile! There’s also a wide variety of personal choices to really make you feel at home! Let’s see what’s on offer here…Ambient jazz, Tibetan rain-gong…hmm, how about reiki soul-cleansing music at 396 Hertz? That’ll help wash away any pre-transition nerves! You can even scent the gas: I think I’ll go for… Wet grass, jasmine dreamer, alpine meadow, sea breeze, POPCORN!? Fresh stone-baked bread? Yes, why not live a little?! That smells positively moreish! So, we’ve got the sounds, the smell…Oh, I almost forgot—you’re going to absolutely love this! The TLC-600 is inquiring if I want to offset my carbon footprint by having my redundant biomass reformed into a green energy source. Well, duh! Who doesn’t want to be remembered as a climate hero?! What are the options here? We’ve got a waterproof USB keyring flashlight to help Ugandan soybean farmers; ergonomic handlebars for electric scooters in Ecuador. Both very tempting, but I think it’s got to be a portable solar panel for villagers in Bihar province. Now, a few more terms and conditions: Am I really sure? Yes-blah-blah-Yes-read and agreed–unfulfilled, unresolved trauma, nothingness of life, etc…They really help cut through a lot of the red tape… And here we are: the final swipe!”

“No, wait!” she blurted. But it was too late. The window darkened, followed by a rhythmic hum, a tremor, a long, gaseous hiss, then a rather underwhelming ping—not unlike a microwave—and a compartment tray opened.

There was Terrance Lamprey, newly heat-pressed into a sleek A4 sized solar panel, along with an italic inscription. Teach me to care, and not to care.

She picked him up—still warm to the touch—placing him on his desk, between a furry toy moose and a half-finished green smoothie. Then she went to his computer, found her ramp application and clicked ‘approved.’

“Well, erm, thanks for your time,” she said, and rolled the fuck out of there.

Max AK is an amateur thought criminal and satirist trying not to be replaced by AI. You can read more of his work on his Substack.

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