Bioprocessing looks like how a cockroach might if viewed from inside-out. Its function and age stain it a morbid shade of seinna with rusty mange covering any exposed metal on the pipes and repurposed metal sheeting which composes it. A fully-grown adult must hunch over to not feel cramped by the low corrugated printfibre ceiling which turns sunlight a color similar to a thirsty man’s piss. For an interface levers, switches and knobs bristle out from a curved panel sporting an array of pressure gauges. Contrast the decrepid look of the hut with the clearly foreign sleek MedCorps-licensed tech, slotted into rough-cut spaces in the metal. Right beside the pressure measurement panel several matte black Context-Surface readouts scroll real time assessment of the biomaterial brewing process, the origin of the thrumming and humming beneath our feet. An overgrowth of shock white and cobweb gray tubes snake in and out of the panel wall which was built by hand out of scrap sheet metal torn from Big Teeth and ported by foot across the miles to the compound. Like the proboscis of a giant insect the assessment scope hangs limply beside the ergonomic trawling manipulator controls. My hand grasps the handle of the input bay, a seesaw-mounted chute cover which yawns open when yanked back.
A familiar scent, olfactory adjunct to many common smells such as dog vomit and rotting animal, clarified and unobstructed by other elements to offer its sensory delight in a pure bacterial state, rolls out of the chute to fill the room with its humid odor. Nothing inside except pidgeon feathers and tar-coloured slime. Leader and Big Kid stand in the bath of stench, watching, as I close the lid and examine the readouts. Stage 2 processing is ten minutes and four seconds away from engagement, perfectly on schedule, and I let loose an involuntary sigh when I see that the farming crew hasn’t fiddled with the batch preset that I prepared last night. Pressure is nominal, if a little on the low end, and solid waste capacity is at 72%, which should be just enough to permit the mass of Swayze’s corpse. The only thing left to do now is dump him in. However, Leader and Big Kid seem content to stand and observe. I turn to them with a cheerful expression and nod, trying to give them the hint that their work here is done, but they loom expressionless with their bodies between me and the exit. Swayze’s shit stench begins to mix with the already potent odor from the chute creating a truly horrifying experience for the nose. Breathing in through the mouth doesn’t help, as the air itself tastes of human excretion as if one were standing in a fog of urine. My faithful brothers standby without even a grimace or cough as a little inside joke inspires an involuntary [smirk]: I, Swayze, footed the entire bill for this little agricultural wonder last year.