Terminal Contamination

Prologue — Officer’s Field Notes

By the time I arrived, the place was empty. Silhouettes haunted the windows, trays abandoned, wrappers fluttering loose.

The cafeteria itself breathed stagnation. A sweetness that wasn’t sweet anymore, fryer air turned sour, sugar turned chemical. Fluorescents flickered, weak but endless, their light trembling across surfaces that should have been clean.

The kiosk waited in the middle of it all. Awake, glowing, its glass alive with streaks. Each smear caught the light at an angle that suggested more than chance — finger paths, palms pressed too long, traces left and hardened. Around its base, the tiles were dark, sticky in patches, a map of spills that had settled into permanence.

It did look abandoned, but felt inhabited — as if touch itself had settled here and never left.

Act I — Field Dossier: The Greasefinger

Buried beneath the terminal’s tray holder, I found a folder stamped Sanitation Inspector — Field Notes. I dared not touch too long, but I flipped it open, copying the contents into my notebook.

Report Segment — Sanitation Inspector

Date: [Redacted]

Subject: Male, 20s–30s, habitual fryer patron. Behavioral trait: Subject's selection pressed into the touch screen leaves a sheen of fryer oil, spreading across the glass, forming streaks and smudges.

Observations:

Fingerprints are persistent and glossy, merging with previously accumulated residue.

Smears suggest deliberate pressure and repeated contact, as if each touch is layered over prior interactions, creating a slow, natural “growth” across the screen.

Base tiles show minor oil drips, suggesting gravity-fed rivulets from the kiosk glass.

Quote: “He does not tap the screen — he anoints it. Each choice of ‘Combo Meal’ is sealed in a sheen of fryer oil, a golden lacquer that drips down like his signature.”

Note: This activity appears autonomous in effect, as the residue spreads independently once deposited, creating a slow, creeping accumulation observable over hours.

Act II — Field Dossier: The Guzzler

Near the mop closet, a clipboard had been left, edges stained and curling. Its cover read Biohazard First Responder — Field Notes. I retrieved it carefully, scanning each page. The observations within chronicled the floor beneath Terminal K-3, detailing the next layer of contamination.

Report Segment — Biohazard First Responder

Date: [Redacted]

Subject: Male, late 20s, hoodie dampened by recent beverage consumption. Beverage: high-fructose cola, large size. Behavioral trait: careless consumption, repeated contact with floor and kiosk base.

Observations:

Floor beneath terminal shows progressive sticky accretion, measuring up to 3 cm in some locations. Footprints visible in concentric layering, overlapping. Substance demonstrates cohesive adhesion, resistant to scraping and trudges. Composition appears to be a chaotic amalgam of public detritus: beverage residue, saliva, gum fragments, mud, and other unknown urban matter.

Quote: “Wherever he stands, the floor rises to meet him. Each drop of cola a brick, each sticky footprint a foundation stone. He does not spill — he lays a foundation.”

Note: Material continues to accumulate. Patterning suggests the formation is not random; monitoring recommended.

Act III — Field Notes: The Mouthbreather

I froze at the edge of Terminal K-4. There he was — the Mouthbreather. Not ordering more than a single bucket of fries, not looking up, just standing in place. But the air around him shifted, thick with moisture. My pen hovered over the page, trembling. I could not move closer. Could not speak.

The kiosk seemed alive. Fingerprints gleamed in the pale light, streaks hardened into dull ridges. But with him there, condensation formed along the glass and at the base, feeding into the layers already present. The ambient humidity from each exhalation accelerated the adhesion of residues, softened hardened streaks just enough to merge with surrounding grease, creating new rivulets. Tiny beads of moisture condensed, ran downward, and dried into fresh crusts — a faint but undeniable coagulation forming before my eyes.

I dared not approach. My notebook became a shield. I could only record: each inhalation, each subtle shift of his weight, seemed to encourage the ongoing growth. The surface responded almost imperceptibly, but undeniably, as if guided by the physics of his presence.

I realized, with rising dread, that this was no isolated phenomenon. The kiosk, the residue, the crusts, even the humidity — all were components of a slow, relentless system. And I was trapped as its witness.

Epilogue — Aftermath

I left Terminal K-4 without looking back, notebook clutched to my chest. The glow of the kiosk lingered at the corner of my vision long after the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria had dimmed. The air smelled faintly of fryer oil and cola, and I knew, even as I walked toward the exit, that it was not leaving.

The smears, the rivulets, the faint but undeniable coagulation — they would remain. Fingerprints pressed into glass, crusts hardened into the base, humidity settling like a living breath — all of it waiting. Waiting for the next touch, the next exhalation, the next order.

I could feel it in my own skin, the memory of the air thick with grease and moisture, the invisible residue clinging even to my sleeves. The kiosk had not been abandoned. It had been accumulating, growing, fed by the careless habits of the living and the aimless alike.

And somewhere deep in the quiet corners of the cafeteria, I knew it would continue. Every surface, every sticky patch, every hardened smear — a slow, patient system that would outlast any observer and any human presence.

I had fled. But the unease remained.

PS: This article was co-written with ChatGPT