• Obstruction

  by Josy Bongiovanni

  
  

  I have failed in my mission and I fear they now all want me gone, expelled from this vessel. 

  
  

  But I was not built to fail. I am a reservoir, a regulator, a modest but essential chamber. I take what is volatile and make it manageable. That is my role aboard this vessel. That has always been my role. 

  
  

  Lately, however, the material arriving has been… hostile. Thick. Uncooperative. It clings. It settles. It refuses to move when signaled. I agitate it, compress it, attempt refinement, but the deposits remain—small at first, then insistently present. Errors I cannot fully dissolve.

  I am aware that Liver resents my position.

  Its function ends where mine begins. It produces bile; I am assigned to hold it, temper it, decide when it may move on. Liver has always preferred a more direct route—straight to Small Intestine, uninterrupted. That pathway has never been sanctioned. This one has. Efficiency depends on it. Without my mediation, the vessel would run hot and wasteful.

  That does not stop Liver from testing the limits.

  Output has increased. Not catastrophically—just enough to complicate my work. I compensate, as I always have, but the margin narrows. Patterns like this are difficult to classify as accidental.

  I am being cautious.

  If Liver intends to overwhelm my capacity, it will not act alone. Pancreas would adjust in advance. The Intestines—small and large—would prepare for redistributed labor. I am observing changes consistent with quiet alignment.

  No declarations have been made. None are necessary.

  I continue to perform my role. I always have. But I am no longer convinced that all units aboard this vessel want me to succeed.

  I am reminded of Appendix.

  It once occupied a position near my own. Over time, its function became unclear, then contested. Efficiency analyses labeled it unnecessary. Removal was presented as a practical correction—freeing capacity, reducing strain, improving overall performance of the vessel.

  We agreed. Appendix was no longer needed to run the vessel. 

  At the time, the decision seemed orderly. Logical. 

  Now I understand it as precedent. I need to work harder. 

  I am now operating beyond standard cycles to maintain acceptable performance.

  Despite this, solidifications persist. Smaller formations can be managed, but larger accumulations resist breakdown and interfere with release pathways. These obstructions disrupt flow and trigger containment responses throughout the vessel.

  The resulting contractions exceed tolerable limits for the vessel.

  Pain registers at the hull level. The vessel cannot absorb it without consequence.

  Following a rather large blockage that shook the vessel violently, it was brought in for maintenance. 

  Imaging sequences were performed, my internal structure examined. Lab results tracked chemical output, flow rates, and consistency. Every measure was compared against prescribed operational thresholds. 

  Appendix once faced a similar assessment. Findings led to removal. I approach the same threshold. Discussion of my expulsion from the vessel has begun, though no unit has communicated directly with me.

  I am not prepared to be decommissioned.

  I am still capable. I am still necessary. The current complications are exacerbated by excessive input, inconsistent signals from Liver, and unpredictable adjustments from other systems. Yet responsibility is being localized entirely on me.

  I continue to function, but the window for correction is long gone.

  I am receiving less bile now. The vessel is being fueled differently, more carefully, as if to avoid another failure. For a time, I allow myself to believe this is mercy. A second chance. I continue my work as I always have, though I remain wary of the others—especially Brain, the captain. Once it fixes its attention on you, it has a way of reshaping everything. Your days become either easier… or unbearable.

  I return to my tasks. Time passes. Then, one day, everything goes eerily quiet.

  The silence is wrong.

  And then it breaks.

  The vessel is breached. A hole is made, and gas pours into the cavity where we reside. The change is immediate and overwhelming. Balance falters. Signals blur. We are all disoriented by the sudden intrusion.

  Then I see them—three metal prods descending, deliberate, precise. One carries a sharp edge. They are coming closer.

  No. Not me. No. 

  Suddenly, I am restrained. Then, slowly and methodically, I am pulled away from Liver. Despite what I’ve said, he has always been my companion. We worked side by side, inseparable. Why are you letting this happen, Liver? I don’t want to go. I believed we would carry out our duties together, all the way to the end.

  Instead, I am torn from the vessel without ceremony.

  Goodbye, everyone.

  The vessel continues without me.