It was supposed to just be an ordinary training operation – you know, push an MTF out the side of a helo in some godforsaken clearing in a Foundation-owned reserve in The Middle Of Nowhere, Canada, with instructions to “locate and secure” some unknown anomalous something or other the eggheads back at Site-19 had cooked up. Of course, things didn't exactly go according to plan…
Audio account of training mission by Corporal Burke. Length = 20 minutes, 19 seconds.

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I place this transcript here as a courtesy; I am generally of the opinion that audio dramas should be experienced by being heard, rather than being read. What follows is simply a reformatted version of the script used to create the work. -Hornby

<Start of Transcript>
BURKE (NARRATION):
It was supposed to just be an ordinary training operation – you know, push an Em Tee Eff out the side of a helo in some godforsaken clearing in a Foundation-owned reserve in The Middle Of Nowhere, Canada, with instructions to “locate and secure” some unknown anomalous something or other the eggheads back at Site-19 had cooked up. These UAs – “unknown anomalies” – were supposed to stand in for some creepy crawly or thing-going-bump-in-the-night that we might encounter on a “real” mission. They were also supposed to be “mostly harmless.” In other words, challenging enough that if we screwed up, we'd end up in the infirmary – but not the morgue. Some of the older field operatives tell ghost stories of some really crazy shit going down when they first started doing these, but I've not met anyone in an Em Tee Eff that lost a teammate during a training session. At least, not that I know of; hard to tell what O5 might have covered up if things went REALLY badly. Something all of us tried not to think about – the potential to just end up a “name redacted” in some “data expunged” incident in a file gathering cobwebs in the Foundation archives.
Anyway, this wasn't my first time out on one of these little hunting expeditions, but it was my first time as a fireteam leader. My half of Second Squad had the wizards: Doc Brooks, Specialist Salazar, and Specialist Rigby. Corporal Fletcher had the heavy weapons and the shooters. And Staff Sergeant Myers. Myers had taken me aside after the briefing, told me that I'd be fine, everyone would be coming back in one piece, and if I screwed up, he'd shoot me. He was joking. Probably. No pep talk like a military pep talk.
It was also my – our – first time at Training Area Five – we were only the third training op since they opened the place last year, having certified it as “anomaly free” after building a nice, thick, tall, wall with spotlights, barbed wire, and heavy machine guns around the perimeter. Must have cost a pretty penny, since TA5 is something like 200 square miles.
Last in the list of “firsts” for this trip was our working with EVAN. The name apparently stands for Enhanced Virtual Adaptive Network. It, he, whatever, is an AI one of the researchers built to help the Em Tee Effs in the field. Apparently has all sorts of safeguards built in to keep it from deciding to take over the world or release 682 or do whatever robots do when they go insane. Salazar and Rigby didn't trust EVAN; the Colonel did, though, and Hornby's been around the block enough that I was willing take his word for it.
According to the briefing, the UA had been encountered by some (fictional) campers on a fishing trip. Three of them had been killed by this thing; the only survivor had been out in one of the canoes. He described it as being about the size of a bear, with limbs like a wolf, and a face like something out of a horror movie. It was big, fast, and mean, he said. That's about all we knew. Just an ordinary training mission….
(sound of music playing over helicopter)
BURKE:
Everybody out! Go! Go! Go!
(sound of helicopter flying off)
EVAN:
Corporal Burke, the campsite is two kilometers west of your current position. Be advised that Team One will be approaching the objective from the other side. Third and Fourth Squads are standing ready to assist in the takedown if necessary.
BURKE:
Understood. Burke out.
SALAZAR:
Beautiful night for a stroll, eh Rigby?
RIGBY:
Oh, yeah, Salazar. Dark forest, creepy owls, full moon, no wind, killer mutant monster wolfbear thing on the loose.
SALAZAR:
What could possibly go wrong?
RIGBY:
That should be our nickname: “Xi-13. What could possibly go wrong?”
SALAZAR:
I'll suggest that to the Colonel when we get back.
BURKE:
Enough, you two.
BROOKS:
Can't you guys ever go for five minutes without cracking jokes?
SALAZAR:
Oh, sure, Doc. All the time.
RIGBY:
We don't talk in our sleep.
BROOKS:
Oy.
SALAZAR:
Besides, cracking jokes is definitely better than getting cracked in the head.
RIGBY:
Dr. Glass says it's a “coping mechanism.”
BURKE:
Cut the chatter.
SALAZAR:
Come on, Corporal, lighten up. You know we're good when the shit hits the fan.
BURKE (NARRATION):
Specialists Salazar and Rigby are quite the double act, always tiptoeing the line of acceptability and then gleefully jumping right over it. But Salazar was right, they were excellent operatives when things started happening, and their ridiculous jokes did make the night less spooky, even if it did sound like a bad comedy routine. I was glad Doc Brooks was with me – she's levelheaded with the best of them and definitely a stabilizing influence.
Anyway, about a kilometer from the El Zee, we came across something weird – something definitely not included in the briefing.
RIGBY:
(quietly and professionally) Corporal, structure, eleven o'clock.
SALAZAR:
(with equal quiet and professionalism) No signs of movement.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
It was an old, one-story structure. Concrete construction, probably reinforced. The walls extended off into the forest for farther than I could easily see, either with night vision or with my rifle's flashlight. There was a single visible entrance: a rusted old door barely attached at the hinges. There were no windows in the walls. The dirt around the edge of the building was by no means fresh – it might have been years since something had disturbed it – but there were no weeds or vines growing at the base of the structure.
Perhaps the strangest thing was the quiet. The woods aren't anywhere as noisy as movies make them out to be, but there is always at least a little noise. Crickets or frogs, the occasional owl. Here, there was nothing.
I decided to call it in.
BURKE:
EVAN, this is Burke. We've located an unknown structure not on our maps.
EVAN:
I have accessed current satellite reconnaissance imagery of your current position. The structure covers approximately four zero thousand square meters. I have run an exhaustive search of the Foundation files relating to Training Area Zero Five and have found no data relating to such a structure or indicating its existence.
BURKE:
Are you sure?
EVAN:
Either I do not have access to the necessary files, or the Foundation has no electronic record of the structure. It is possible that there is a block in the system preventing me from accessing the relevant information, however this eventuality is unlikely as such a block would register in my search. Additionally, archival satellite imagery fails to show the structure, indicating it is new. I conclude there is an approximately seventy-nine percent chance the Foundation is unaware of the structure.
BROOKS:
(quietly) Certainly doesn't look new.
BURKE:
EVAN, how old is the archival satellite imagery?
EVAN:
It is listed as having been taken as part of the training area certification process, which would indicate the imagery is no more than fifteen months old.
BURKE:
Hmmm. You recording this, EVAN?
EVAN:
That is correct, Corporal. I am recording all data from all members of Xi-13 as per my standard operating procedure.
BURKE:
Okay. Get me Colonel Hornby and Staff Sergeant Myers.
HORNBY:
Hornby speaking.
MYERS:
Myers here.
BURKE:
This is Burke. Team 2 has discovered a structure approximately one kilometer west from the El Zee. EVAN reports that it wasn't here when the Foundation established TA5, but it looks like it's been here for years. Requesting instructions, sirs.
HORNBY:
Myers, can you secure the primary objective without support from Team 2?
MYERS:
We'd be stretched pretty thin, sir.
HORNBY:
Corporal Burke, you're the one on the ground. Is this structure anomalous enough to warrant diverting from your primary mission objective?
BURKE (NARRATOR):
Great. My first command decision and I had absolutely no idea what to do. Did I go with the mission, leaving the structure? Or did I let Team One handle the wolf-bear-thing and investigate? Why didn't the Foundation issue us coins? I took a deep breath, and made my choice.
BURKE:
Sirs, we'll check out the structure. Something's not right about it.
HORNBY:
Very well, Corporal. You have to trust your gut. Myers, I'll send you Squad Three to assist.
MYERS:
Roger. Out.
HORNBY:
Good luck, Corporal. Hornby out.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
And so, alone in the dark Canadian night, my team crept forward, and entered the structure, with no idea what might await us inside.
The inside of the structure was bleak. The walls were bare cinderblock; bits of it crumbled away in places. The floor was just the concrete slab. Oddly, there were no cobwebs or hornets' nests like you usually see in old abandoned buildings. The floor, while dusty, showed no evidence of animal presence – no droppings, footprints, or leaves that had been stuck to some creature's paws. The room was maybe three meters wide and five meters long. Besides the entrance door behind us, there were two empty door frames leading deeper into the building. The four of us stood there for an eternity. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
After what had seemed like an hour (I later learned it had been a mere five minutes), I moved forward towards the nearer doorframe. The only sound were our footfalls, echoing quietly on the concrete. Gazing into the next room, I could see it was as featureless as the one we were in. Slightly differently shaped, with different dimensions, but equally bare. The other doorway revealed more of the same. I decided we should take the first room. I cracked a glowstick, which I placed on the threshold. No sense in getting lost in this maze. We entered the second room, illuminated by the pale green glow of the glowstick and the bright white lights of our rifles. Everything was silent.
EVAN:
Corporal Burke.
BURKE:
Jesus Christ, EVAN! Are you trying to scare us out of our skins?
EVAN:
I apologize if I startled you, Corporal. There appears to be some interference in your data-uplink. I am only receiving your team's locator beacons and your audio channels. All other monitoring devices are nonresponsive.
RIGBY:
Could be the structure is shielded.
EVAN:
That is a distinct possibility, Specialist Rigby.
SALAZAR:
We might be able to strengthen our transmission if we use one of the comm devices as a signal booster.
BROOKS:
Let's wait on that until we see if this gets worse. I'd rather have functioning comms and no data uplink than having neither.
EVAN:
That is a logical decision, Specialist Brooks.
BURKE:
I agree, Doc. EVAN, we're marking our route with glowsticks. Can you track us and start building a virtual map? It's a maze in here, and I'd rather we didn't get lost.
EVAN:
I have already started on such a map. I will periodically transmit what I have developed to your mobile GPS devices, so that in the event your locator beacons or communications signals reach dangerously low levels, you will not get lost.
BURKE:
Alright, thank you, EVAN. We're going to continue. Burke out.
SALAZAR:
This place gives me the willies.
RIGBY:
Me too.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
And onward we went, winding deeper into the structure. Every room was the same: empty, bare, and gloomy. And yet, every one of them was different. No two rooms seemed to have the same dimensions or have the empty door frames in the same place. Some rooms had many doors, others, just a single one leading to a dead end. Some were large, easily ten meters on each side, while we went through at least one which was barely wide enough for us to squeeze through with our gear. The doors, or I should say the places where doors should have been, varied as much as the rooms. Some were large enough you could have easily driven a car through them. Others seemed small enough that you'd have to worm through on your belly, twisting your shoulders just so in order to fit.
At first the only sounds were the echoes of our footfalls bouncing through the lonely rooms and the tense beating of our hearts. But then, I swear, the walls started whispering at us. I'd open my mouth to mention it to the team, but then the sound would vanish, as though it were all in my head. I later learned I was not the only one who had heard these whispers, but my team had also failed to mention them at the time. We kept moving and pretending we were alone, unsure which would be worse: that we were hearing things that weren't there, or that someone or something was there, watching us, just out of sight, just in the next dark room. Always in the next room or a room to one side or another, for every chamber we entered was deserted, bare, and empty.
After fifteen minutes, I'd lost count of the rooms. I was also running low on glowsticks, so I stopped us to contact EVAN.
BURKE:
EVAN, this is Burke, come in.
EVAN:
Your signal strength is weak, Corporal Burke, but I am receiving you.
BURKE:
EVAN, I'm almost out of glowsticks. How's the map coming?
EVAN:
By my estimate, Corporal, you have explored merely three zero percent of the structure. I am having difficulty uploading it to your GPS, however. Please confirm your device is powered on and receiving.
BURKE:
That's funny, its dead. You'll have to guide us out manually.
EVAN:
Understood, Corporal.
BROOKS:
What the hell? My light just went out. Salazar, will you shine your flashlight over here while I get the spares out of my pack?
SALAZAR:
Sure thing, Doc.
BURKE:
Shit. My light just died too. Rigby, I thought you swapped out all the batteries in everything before we went out.
RIGBY:
I did. Fresh batts in everything – SOP.
SALAZAR:
Yeah, and I double checked. These things should be good for another few days of continuous use.
BURKE:
Alright. Break out the spares, everyone, and get them where you can reach them without having to dig.
BROOKS:
(with quiet urgency) What the—movement southeast!
(dead silence for several seconds)
BURKE:
(quietly) What did you see, Doc?
BROOKS:
I don't know. But something moved in that room.
BURKE:
Safeties off, weapons free. Stay alert. Rigby, point.
RIGBY:
On it.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
This was the first movement – the first, well, anything – we'd run into in the structure. We crept forward, rifles leveled, alert for any sign of danger. We entered the room to discover—
RIGBY:
Clear.
SALAZAR:
Clear. Dead end.
RIGBY:
You sure you saw something, Doc?
BROOKS:
Oh, yeah. There was definitely something here. At least the size of a dog. Couldn't tell what it was, other than dark and fast. But it was there.
BURKE:
I believe you, Doc.
SALAZAR:
Well, I don't know where it could have gone. These walls are solid, and we just came through the only way into this room.
RIGBY:
(a distant shriek is heard) What the hell was that sound!?
SALAZAR:
Sounded like a banshee or something. (the shriek repeats) There it is again!
BROOKS:
I don't think we're alone in here.
BURKE:
Whatever it was, it came from that direction. Let's move out.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
Doc Brooks was right – we were most certainly not alone in the structure. Something was in there. And that sound – that shriek, that ungodly shriek – it made my blood run cold. Rigby hit the nail on the head: Hell was that sound. And we were going to find it. We ran through the halls of the concrete labyrinth, chasing whatever phantom was screaming in the night. We'd abandoned all caution, no longer slowly creeping, carefully and methodically observing the rooms around us. As the shriek kept repeating, we ran after it. Left turn, right turn, left turn, right turn, we kept zigzagging to chase whatever it was. Closer and closer, it was moving away but it was always closer – we had to be gaining on it. And then, at last, we rounded a final doorway and there it was. A great dark beast, taller at the shoulder than any of us, seemingly half wolf, half bear, and all shadow. Shaggy and mangy, though broader around the middle than a horse you could count every single rib. Saliva dripped from monstrous jaws. It snarled menacingly. Its eyes seemed to glow under the failing illumination of our rifle-mounted lights. It seemed to be sizing us up, as if deciding which of us might be a nice midnight snack. For a long moment, we stared at it, and it stared at us, and none of us moved.
In an instant, it leapt forward. We all opened up, blasting away with our weapons. It shuddered and fell back, but tried to hobble towards us. We kept firing and firing, despite everything our training had taught us, nearly emptying our weapons into the beast until long after it had ceased to move.
MYERS:
Xi-13 Friendlies! On your six!
BURKE (NARRATOR):
Staff Sergeant Myers, Team 1, and Squad Three had all appeared in the room behind us. With their arrival, we were snapped out of our battle trance.
MYERS:
Stand down, Team 2.
BURKE:
Good timing, Staff Sergeant.
MYERS:
What the hell were you shooting at, Corporal Burke?
BURKE:
The Unknown Anomaly, Staff Sergeant. We found it in here and cornered it, but it attacked us. We were defending ourselves.
MYERS:
Corporal, we bagged the Unknown Anomaly outside, half an hour ago.
SALAZAR:
What?
RIGBY:
That can't be right.
BROOKS:
Staff Sergeant?
MYERS:
We tried to radio you, but we couldn't get through. EVAN gave us the coordinates and led us through the structure.
BURKE:
What?
MYERS:
You do speak English, Corporal.
BURKE:
Yes, Staff Sergeant.
BROOKS:
But if you captured the Unknown Anomaly, then what's that?
MYERS:
What's what?
BURKE:
That, over there—wait, where did it go?
MYERS:
Corporal, there's nothing in this room except a lot of bullet holes and shell casings.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
Sure enough, Staff Sergeant Myers was right. The room was empty – there was no sign of the beast. No blood, no fur, no saliva, nothing. Nothing could have left the room, either, since it was a dead end.
SALAZAR:
I don't understand.
RIGBY:
It was right here.
MYERS:
We'd better get you back to base and have the doctors check you out.
BURKE:
Yes, Staff Sergeant.
BURKE (NARRATOR):
As it turned out, all four members of Xi-13, Second Squad, Team 2 were given a clean bill of both mental and physical health. During the post-exercise assessment, Colonel Hornby informed us that we, and I, had passed with acceptable marks, as had EVAN, who would be joining our field operations from then on. We also learned that a full sweep and clear had been conducted of the structure, and no evidence of our mystery creature had been found. Interestingly though, only about half of the bullets we fired were recovered from the back wall of that lonely room deep in the structure.
Sometime later, I passed Colonel Hornby in the hallway at Site-19. I asked him about the structure and the beast, and if either had been classified as a Skip. His beard hid a small smile, and I could see a twinkle in his eye when he said that he couldn't talk about it. I've been back to Training Area Five several times since, but I've never made it back to that structure. Maybe someday I'll have the clearance and need to know. In the meantime, if I am out in the woods late at night, I remember back and wonder….
<End of Transcript>

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It was a hallway, corridor, somewhat familiar, but dark. Clean. Cold. Sterile. Emergency lights flickered, but it was dark. Rosalind wondered where she could possibly be.
She walked down the hall, looking at the doorways, trying to figure out why it seemed so familiar. It wasn't Area 354, was it? The Biology department from University? Maybe…there's a door. Rosalind opened the door and…
It is the Biology department of her university. No, it's a high school chemistry lab. All the Bunsen burners light at once.
She starts running, as the room behind her catches fire. There's a staircase. There's a staircase? It only goes up. She climbs the stairs.
She's running from a room on fire down a hallway. There are stairs. She can only go up. She climbs the stairs.
She's in Joseph's room. There are no stairs to Joseph's room. The stairs are gone. The persistent ticking of a clock is in the background. Rosalind turns around. Why is she in Joseph's room? She's alone…no, there he is, lying on his bed, asleep. His tattoos twist strangely on his body, changing shape, slithering like snakes. She goes to touch him.
She's running from a room on fire. There are stairs. She climbs the stairs. To outside. It is cold.
Snow and ice are everywhere. She feels all of it. Every individual shard of ice, the seeds sleeping underground, the trees pulling sustenance from the ground and changing sunlight in their leaves. The creatures there, she feels them huddling together for warmth as IT comes. Coming to devour everything, and there is nothing but pain.
Pain…pain…pain. Rosalind is in a chair, strapped down, in so much pain. She opens her eyes and finds her arm is open, right where that kid cut her. But it's being kept open; the skin stretched and pinned like something on a dissection table. She realizes other parts of her body are open the same way. She starts screaming.
A hunched figure at a nearby table says, “Oh, come on, it doesn't hurt that much.” The figure comes over, dressed in a leather apron, gloves, surgical mask, safety goggles, wielding a scalpel.
“Lass, are you there?” It's Joseph's voice. He comes down a staircase, looking happy and cocky. The figure puts down the scalpel, takes off the mask and goggles. It's a woman. Joseph picks her up and kisses her. “My Rosie,” he says to the woman. Rosalind watches, tied to the chair. She looks again at the woman, some kind of surgeon/butcher. It's her. She's the surgeon/butcher. Surgeon/butcher Rosalind has tattoos?
She hears herself say, “What do you think of my latest masterpiece?” Rosalind feels herself gesturing to the chair she's no longer tied to. She really is the surgeon/butcher.
“It's grand,” Joseph says, beaming. Rosalind turns to look at the chair, expecting to see herself. It's Spencer, displayed out like a live dissected frog, heart still beating, blood oozing and melting into ichor as the head raises and it's Lisa in her containment cell. “It's not fair! I want to go home!” the plant child says.
“I'm sorry sweetie, I'll get you home as soon as..”
“Not good enough!” Lisa twists into thorny vines, tearing at Rosalind's arms, legs, everything. She notices a body on the ground, already dismembered. It's…she's not sure.
The lab is on fire. She needs to run. There are stairs. They go up. Rosalind runs up the stairs, but something is calling her back.
She's in bed. Joseph's bed. He's right there, next to her, sleeping. Rosalind hugs him, but there's a warm breeze. A woman hovers over Joseph, made of air or smoke, almost invisible. Rosalind can barely see her, but she knows this phantom's shape is perfect. Joseph begins to stir, his tattoos shimmering, like they're dancing on his skin. The phantom moves closer to him, and Rosalind wraps herself around him protectively, yelling, “No!”
The lab is on fire. She needs to run up the stairs. Did she leave something in the lab? She turns around.
Cold, snow, ice. But the massive thorn plant…that doesn't belong here. A voice calls out, “I want to go home! It's too cold!” The voice rocks the world. It rocks so hard, Rosalind is thrown off her feet, her world drifting away. She scrambles for it.
“Let me go! Please. Let me go…” The man strapped down in front of her is almost crying. She can't see his face. The voice is familiar, but she can't place it. She hears herself say, “No. You used me. You hurt me. Now, I'll make you suffer.” The man screams as she feels herself slicing him open with her scalpel. She feels calm and meditative as he begs for mercy. The most horrifying thing is feeling how much she enjoys it.
The lab is on fire. She left something important in it, but she needs to run up the stairs.
She's face-to-face with herself. The other Rosalind has almost as many tattoos as Joseph. Every time she tries to look at them, they become indistinct. The tattooed Rosalind looks disgusted. “Did you really think he'd stay with you? Boring, wimpy girl? Pathetic.” Wisps of smoke seem to curl around her tattooed doppelganger. “I…I…” “And stop stuttering!”
The lab is on fire. Something important is in the lab. She needs to get it.
The lab is on fire. She needs to run. There are stairs.
The lab is on fire. Joseph is in the lab. He isn't running.
Rosalind runs to the lab. All the Bunsen burners are on, and there is smoke. There is no fire. There are figures in the smoke. One is Joseph, lying about eight feet in the air. The smoke woman is over him, surrounding him. Rosalind tries to get him down. There's a blast of hot air. She's blown away. She needs to help Joseph! There's a blast of hot air. She's blown away. She needs to help Joseph! There's a blast of hot air…


The following document was found in a fax machine in Site 93; no records of its source or time of transmission were located. A connection to SCP-962 is presumed.

In the BEGINNING there was the Great One, the Glorious and Most Great on HIGH.
The GREAT ONE lived first in itself, needing no world around it; for it was the most GREAT, and needed nothing, and wanted nothing.
but there was darkness around the GREAT ONE'S body, and the darkness formed into the EARTH. And the EARTH was jealous as it looked at the GREAT ONE and saw that it wanted for nothing, and plotted to destroy that beauty, destroy the Glory, destroy the GREATNESS.
and the Earth did create Gravity, and pulled the body of the GREAT ONE down to its rocks and crags, and broke it.
and the GREAT ONE was broken, and shattered across the Earth, and fractured into pieces. Millions of pieces.
beautiful pieces
and these became the Great Ones, the offspring of the broken god that once ruled the cosmos, and was the cosmos; the being that lived among the stars, and was the stars.
and the EARTH saw that the Great Ones were many, and were strong, in spite of its efforts so the EARTH tore itself apart and formed the ANIMALS, new races of being where none had lived before and PLANTS to feed these races and many of these ANIMALS were dangerous to the GREAT ONES, and tried to kill them and
the pieces of the GREAT ONE were not everlasting as the GREAT ONE once was, and the ANIMALS did great damage. The ANIMALS stole food, and stole land, and stole water, and hated the Great Ones, and worst of all, they did not see the BEAUTY
They did not Understand the BEAUTY and they did not LOVE the Great Ones! There is no greater heresy!
and the COSMOS saw that the GREAT ONES were suffering, and built a great TOWER in a valley of the EARTH. And though the EARTH was unclean, the TOWER was clean always clean so very clean and
inside the TOWER were the people mere servants of the Great Ones nothing more
and the people merest worms that we are tried to fix the EARTH CLEANSE THE EARTH
the ANIMALS were brought into the TOWER, and there made pure and whole with the steel, made again in the
GLORY
of the Great Ones and wrapped in steel and made to serve
and the Great Ones came and saw the TOWER and did not understand we of the people knew they did not understand so we took pieces of the ANIMALS pieces they did not need and tried to speak to the GREAT ONES we
would not touch the EARTH and its filth but we
spoke nonetheless.
And we continued to cleanse the EARTH, and cleanse the ANIMALS so they would see the
GLORY
of the GREAT ONES
but THEY did not SPEAK to us even after we spoke to THEM
and a voice
a voice
the lowest voice of the darkest evil spoke
from the deepest reaches of the TOWER
spoke lies to the people of the TOWER told us
told us that the GREAT ONES could not hear us because they
they were fractured by the earth and that
and that if they were rejoined into their previous form that they could
that they could appreciate know of our LOVE and could
and could LOVE us in return.
and this was a greater HERESY even than the lies of the ANIMALS but
but we did not KNOW we could not KNOW how could we KNOW
we are nothing before the GREAT ONES
but we were convinced by the dark voice and carried out its plan
we sent out a signal to draw the GREAT ONES to the TOWER
and went to collect all those who did not come on their own
we put the pieces back together and bonded IT in steel and fire
we watched their pieces squirm and fight our claws and limbs
and for the
GLORY
we built the GREAT ONE again.
And when the GREAT ONE was complete, IT stood in the TOWER as we had built it
IT stood
it STOOD

and was silent
it STANDS
and is silent
and we knew we had erred in our hubris
the dark voice was put to death for its lies
and we stand with the new GREAT ONE
and IT stands with us
forever


"ORDERS," the Integrator asked.
"LOOK AT THIS OBJECT," its counterpart replied.
"ACKNOWLEDGED."
There was silence for a long time, then. Integrators were not long on conversation. But having once been human, some discussion was inevitable.
"WHAT IS THE OBJECT TOWARDS WHICH OUR ATTENTION IS DIRECTED," one Integrator asked.
"DETAILS UNKNOWN. IT IS IMMOBILIZED FOR NOW," came the reply.
"HOW DID IT COME TO BE IN THE FOREST."
"DETAILS UNKNOWN. IT IS HERE NOW."
Another long silence. The mechanisms within the Integrators would be referred to in another universe as "solid state," so there was little sound coming from the biomechanical implants. Many woodland creatures uttered an assortment of noises that had meaning to them, but unless and until they posed a threat to the two quasi-human soldiers, their cries went unnoticed. The beings continued to look at the object.
"WHY ARE WE REQUIRED TO CONTINUE LOOKING AT THE OBJECT CEASELESSLY."
"DETAILS UNKNOWN. LEGION NINE COMMAND BELIEVES IT IS INCAPABLE OF MOVEMENT WHEN OBSERVED."
A rustling came from the woods behind them. Both Integrators rotated their arms to face their guns in that direction, without turning their heads or bodies. Both now spoke in unison.
"THIS AREA SECURED BY LEGION NINE CENTURY SIXTY-FIVE INTEGRATOR SQUADRON THREE. IDENTIFY YOURSELF."
"Decurion Kleisthenes, authorization gamma-omicron nine six five delta kappa. Release command to me." The decurion was fairly sure there wasn't enough human left in the Integrators to recognize a bored tone of voice when they heard it.
"AUTHORIZATION ACCEPTED," the Integrators chimed. "READY TO ACCEPT NEW ORDERS."
"Stand by while construction of containment facility is carried out. Do not act against the laborers. Secure area against attack or observation by unauthorized personnel. Contain unknown entity. Protect laborers from attack. Acknowledge."
"NEW ORDERS ACKNOWLEDGED: SECURE, CONTAIN, PROTECT."
"Very good. Advance the Greater Reason."
"ADVANCE ORDER."
The decurion hoped the Integrators didn't see him shiver as he walked away. Twenty Class III Builders dragged a wagon (use of higher technology being unnecessary for such work) carrying bricks and mortar up to where the Integrators watched the anomaly. They removed their tools and began to work.
The Integrators continued to look. Even biomechanical alterations couldn't keep the events of this day from seeming…odd.
"I AM FORCED TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE UNUSUAL NATURE OF THIS ASSIGNMENT."
"I AM NOT EXPERIENCING ANY SUCH COMPULSION AT THIS TIME."
"REANALYSIS: I AM PRESENTLY FORMING CONNECTIONS BETWEEN THE EVENT TRANSPIRING AT THIS TIME AND MANY EVENTS OF A SIMILARLY UNUSUAL NATURE IN RECENT MONTHS."
"WHILE IRRELEVANT, THIS IS INTRIGUING. PRESENT YOUR EVIDENCE."
"FIFTY-THREE DAYS PREVIOUSLY: LEGION COMMAND DETECTED AN UNUSUAL SPIKE IN RADIOSTATIC INTERFERENCE CONSISTENT WITH INCREASED COUNTERFORM REACTION IN SYLVANOS. FIFTY-TWO DAYS PREVIOUSLY: SIX MEMBERS OF LEGION NINE CENTURY TWENTY TWO INTEGRATOR SQUADRON ONE RECYCLED DUE TO MASSIVE PHYSICAL TRAUMA CONSISTENT WITH CLOSE-QUARTERS COMBAT WITH A PREVIOUSLY UNKNOWN ORGANISM INCLINED TOWARDS MASTICATORY INJURY. POSSIBLY REPTILIAN IN NATURE. UNKNOWN ORIGIN."
"ONE INSTANCE DEMONSTRATED. CONTINUE."
"THIRTY-NINE DAYS PREVIOUSLY: SIMILAR RADIOSTATIC INTERFERENCE DETECTED. THIRTY-EIGHT DAYS PREVIOUSLY: LEGION NINE CENTURY TWELVE INTEGRATOR SQUADRON SIXTEEN IS RECYCLED."
"WHAT PORTION WAS RECYCLED."
"THE ENTIRETY OF THE SQUADRON. REPORTS FILED BY CENTURY TWELVE COMMAND CLAIMED THAT ALL TWENTY INTEGRATORS BEGAN ACTING UNUSUALLY DUE TO EXPOSURE TO AN UNKNOWN OBJECT. SEVERAL INTEGRATORS ATTEMPTED TO FORCIBLY INGEST BREAD THROUGH THEIR ENERGY REPOPULATION CHAMBERS, WHILE OTHERS EXPOSED THEMSELVES TO ELECTRICAL CURRENTS IN THE BELIEF THAT THEY HAD BECOME OBJECTS INTENDED TO PREPARE BREAD FOR CONSUMPTION."
"HOW IS IT THAT THIS INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE."
"IT IS NOT INTENDED TO BE AVAILABLE TO INTEGRATORS. I WAS SUCCESSFUL IN ACQUIRING THESE DATA IN SPITE OF EFFORTS TO PREVENT THIS."
"THIS IS A PROHIBITED ACT."
"YES."
The two Integrators were silent for several minutes while the Class III workers continued building.
"THERE IS A PATTERN BETWEEN ENERGY SPIKES IN SYLVANOS AND ANOMALOUS EVENTS IN THE SAME REGION."
"THIS DOES SEEM TO BE THE CASE."
"ADDITIONALLY, THESE EVENTS CORRELATE WITH THE DEPURPOSING OR RECYCLING OF MULTIPLE INTEGRATORS USED TO GAIN CONTROL OVER THESE EVENTS."
"LIKEWISE CORRECT."
"I AM FORCED TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT WE ARE INTEGRATORS THAT HAVE BEEN USED TO GAIN CONTROL OVER AN ANOMALOUS EVENT."
"I FEEL NO SUCH COMPULSION BUT CONCUR WITH YOUR ANALYSIS."
"I AM FORCED TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT A BRICK BUILDING IS BEING CONSTRUCTED AROUND THIS ANOMALOUS OBJECT."
"I FEEL NO SUCH COMPULSION BUT CONCUR WITH YOUR ANALYSIS."
"I AM FORCED TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT WE ARE WITHIN THE PERIMETER OF THIS BUILDING."
"I CONCUR WITH YOUR ANALYSIS."
The Integrators were silent for a long time, at least several hours. The workers were completing the construction of the building.
"INTEGRATORS ARE INTENDED TO BE UNFAMILIAR WITH THE CONCEPT OF PLEASURE," one Integrator said.
"THIS IS CORRECT."
"IT IS EVIDENTLY POSSIBLE TO BYPASS THE INTENTIONS OF OUR BUILDERS."
"THIS IS CORRECT."
"IT HAS BEEN A PLEASURE SERVING WITH YOU."
"I FEEL SIMILARLY."
"SHALL WE USE OUR WEAPONS TO ATTEMPT TO DESTROY THE ENTITY OR DEPURPOSE OURSELVES."
"I SUGGEST THE FORMER. IT MAY SERVE AS VALUABLE INFORMATION FOR OUR BUILDERS."
"IT IS POSSIBLE THAT DEPURPOSING OURSELVES WILL AVOID TREMENDOUS PAIN SHOULD THIS ENTITY BE INCLINED TO INJURE US. ARE WE STILL TRULY OBLIGATED TO OUR BUILDERS TO SUCH AN EXTENT THAT WE SHOULD SUFFER FOR THEM BEFORE WE DIE FOR THEM."
"WE ARE."
"VERY WELL. COMMENCE FIRE IN THREE SECONDS."


Looking at clouds from the ground is a rather absorbing experience. The educated human mind sees the majestic plumes of white as mere wisps of crystallised water vapour and dust particles in the higher atmosphere, but deep inside, there remains an early spark of curiosity and wonder, such as displayed by advanced apes and very small children. This spark does not see wisps of vapour and complex crystalline formations, but birds and beasts and faces, carriages and palaces, entire mountains and fortresses on the move across the azure-blue sky.
From above, this feeling only grows. As one rides in a rickety metal tube ten thousand metres above the ground, soaring into the sky, the educated human mind gives way to the childlike blossom of wonder. Below you, a sea of clouds wave and ripple to the shores of a distant land, and vague shapes of arcane gods drift past the triple-paned glass, where you are safe and pressurised and sound. And all the while, undefined smoky cumulonimboid beings watch from afar, their anvil-shaped tops spiralling yet higher into space.
This was what I told my seatmate on the two o'clock flight to Sydney, as I rolled up the windows and marveled at the view. The flight had so far been uneventful, with the only amusement being Greg's unfortunate incident at check-in, so any distraction from the plain sterile interior of the plane was very welcome to me. Greg, however, did not share my enthusiasm and appreciation of such natural wonders, and merely grunted in reply before taking a long sip of God knows what he managed to smuggle onto the plane.
Soon, even the clouds failed to entertain me and I slid the shutter down just as the plane made a left swerve over the Pacific, catching the glaring sunlight between panes of glass. From then on I resorted to browsing the in-flight magazine, fiddling with the remote, and staring at my hands to pass the time. Time drew on, nothing of note happened, and I fell asleep nodding on the tray table.
It was Greg who woke me up when the trouble started. "Hey. Hey, man," he whispered, lightly slapping me awake. "Up, up, up. Captain said something about bad turbulence, so tray table, remote, window shades, all of them up. And wipe your mouth."
I sat up blearily, swiping a hand across my chin. "How long's it been?"
"West Coast time reads seven twenty-three, so that'd make it about four hours. I think we crossed the date line or something, it's still bright out there."
I returned my seat to the upright position and took a peek out of the window. Sure enough, orange half-light streamed in through the crack. "I don't think that's how the date line works, Greg." Still, the long daylight hours were odd. I made a mental note to look it up once we reached solid land and an internet connection.
Greg obviously was not lying, for as I stowed the table and remote, the plane began to shake. I drew up the window shades to a grandly terrifying sight: the majestic white sea was now black and choppy, swirling and churning in silent twists and twirls. The sun still shone, but it was blazing through a gap in the top of a sparking dark cloud, too close to the wingtip for comfort. The wind must have been extraordinary, because the cloud did not drift aimlessly, but kept close pace with the wingtip. For a moment my imagination took over, and the sun shone like a red ominous eye, blazing amidst black tentacles of vapor and lightning, reaching out towards the plane like a predator out of the abyss.
Through the P.A, the captain reminded us to keep calm and strap down. Overhead and underfoot, aluminum plating and stray luggage hummed and shook. The on-screen flight information showed discouraging numbers— altitude, 13 000 metres. Airspeed, 900 km/h. Headwind, 110 km/h.
Hold on a moment. If the cloud was following the plane, then how in God's blue sky was it drifting against a hurricane-force wind?
This thought coincided with an equally dreadful noise: like pebbles in a hubcap, but coarser, and louder, enveloping the entire titanium frame of the plane until even the blast of the engines was drowned out in this surreal static. The cloud now had swelled to a frightfully enormous size, with angry electric whips flashing all around the aircraft. The sun was barely visible, merely a spot of red haze amidst swirling, sparking black. The plane was suddenly lifted up, up, up, and the PA system exploded in a screeching whine. Greg was pressed against the front seat, hands cupping his head, while I clung to the armrest, hunched almost double. Several someones screamed. There was a cry of thunder, and the entire plane was flung like a mere toy, reeling from an unseen impact. Then another scream, this time from the seat in front of me.
I turned to look at the thin, manicured finger madly pressed against the window, following the contour of flesh towards the 3-layered pane of glass ("Vacuum-sealed Grade Diamond A", proclaimed the dealer's mark), dragging my gaze out to the unknown air beyond. There was something inside me that protested not to look, never to look, but it was too late and my eyes were firmly planted on a thing outside the plane. At first I saw nothing. Then a little switch went on in my mind, and everything snapped into place.
Some thing was plastered against the glass, milky and flaccid, the complexion of an engorged slug. Lining it was a good number of suckers, pressed hungrily against the window and pulsating to the tune of an alien heartbeat. Looking closer, the suckers were teethed, and terrifyingly so, for those were far too sharp, and far too many. Then the thing at the window shivered, and the numerous teeth clawed against the glass like hungry cats, and the screaming started up again, this time from my own throat. I scrambled away from the window, pressing my body as far in as possible, and slammed the window shutter down with a snap. Around me, panic and terror took hold as the plane groaned and compressed under the chattering static sound. Greg was crying.
The next part remains hazy in my memory. I remember a mighty crack running along aisle 32, as pressurised air whistled out and scores of pulsating, cloudy things hissed into the fuselage, innumerable little mouths clattering and snapping. I remember passengers being picked out of seats like grapes, as the slippery things coiled and chewed around them. The section I was in began to fall, tumbling out of the terrible gnashing cloud, and I caught a glimpse of the body behind the thing:, half-smoke, half-flesh, grotesquely inflated with unknown wispy gas. And the eyes, large and horrible and human, peering through the dark mists, intently examining its prey. Then I fell further, through the cloudy sea and into a blue, shattered sky.
I think I might have somehow undone my seatbelt, for all of a sudden I was falling alone, down towards the foaming ocean. The impact with the water left me unconscious, and the next thing I remember is sitting up in a bed, back in a brace and leg in a splint. They told me it was a true miracle that I was found by a lone fishing vessel, delirious and babbling about living clouds and toothed tentacles. It was in the hospital that I started having nightmares, and occasionally wake up screaming from a terror in a dreamscaped sky.
There were no other survivors, nor bodies recovered. Much of the wreckage was carried away by the current, but a sizable fragment washed up on a Fijian shore several weeks after the incident. The part which made me throw up in my newspaper was the picture, showing a line of small holes neatly punched along the metal. Tooth marks.
I keep myself indoors if I can help it, and my roommate brings me groceries every week. She hasn't heard the full story of the attack in the skies and the thing in the clouds, and neither will anyone else, with the exception being several weary fishermen in the middle of the Pacific. This manuscript will remain sealed until my time of death, which I believe will be upon me soon and swiftly. Until then, I shall take my pills, say my prayers to whatever God that remains up there, and keep well away from the windows.
There was a thunderstorm directly overhead since yesterday morning, and it hasn't cleared up yet.


1

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, approximately ten seconds. During this time, rain can be heard striking a number of windows nearby.
My name is Doctor Lowell Henry Piedmont. I am a research scientist for the Foundation, specialty in esoteric containment of anomalous objects, events and locations. I have gone missing. There are three others with me. Alicia Connors is an archivist assistant currently assigned to SCP-914. Jerald Hanndock is a research assistant, also assigned to SCP-914. Matthew Terger is a security agent with whom I have worked with to a considerable degree of satisfaction.
The output of the SCP-316 replica produced by 914… we were exposed to the light of this new item. We are now someplace I suspect to be the United Kingdom, though we haven't been able to confirm this. We have taken shelter in a greenhouse on Terger's suggestion — it is elevated, and will give us a good view of any more incoming hostiles. We have already been attacked.
We attempted to make camp in the great room of the adjacent, abandoned manor house, but gunfire awoke us during the second watch. Terger saw something disturbingly long melt a panel of a window. It attempted to reach Connors while she slept. He almost lost sight of it. He managed to shoot it, clipped the anterior of its body length and sent it running back through the warped hole in the window. We relocated immediately.
This is the first of my records. I will be documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night one. One round expended. Seventy-one remain.
Rain continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
2

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sounds of running and sloshing water are prominent nearby, as are a calm, low male voice and a higher pitched female voice, apparently in some distress.
We took a chance and returned to the manor house after daylight was sufficient to light the interior of the house. Terger was on point, I covered the others from behind. We didn't find more insects. The house has outlets but no power- it has no modern accoutrements whatsoever, in fact, and is in truth quite sparsely furnished for such an estate. There are places where paintings must have hung, however, and furniture was moved. It was probably stripped and abandoned. Still, we remain in some proximity to our time of origin, though we have clearly been geographically displaced.
We were unable to find any maps or other useful things here besides canned foods. Unfamiliar brand names. Could be regional food, could be evidence that we are further from home than I'd like to admit. Have to keep an open mind.
We had a debate about going into the basement. I was outvoted three to one in favor of breaking the locks and investigating. We were reasonably certain that nothing like we saw last night would be down there. We were right.
I know that it sounds absurd, but I have the nagging feeling that the thing that took a bite out of Terger's shoulder with the mouth on its elbow used to be human. We didn't stay long enough to find out. Hanndock had found a keyring in the kitchen after we broke about half the locks with a hammer from the gardening shed. After the creature decided Terger wasn't tasty enough (I shot it, center mass), we relocked the remaining locks; we'll have to hope they're enough. The skin absorbed a lot of the impact, and we don't have the ammunition to kill the thing. We bound the wound; Terger seems as though he'll recover in a few days. A little longer to mend his ego.
This house is dangerous, but we don't have anyplace else to go. We'll walk a few hours tomorrow, and turn around if we can't get a vantage point to see another destination.
This is the second of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night two. One round expended. Seventy remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
3

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sound of a large fire, perhaps, is audible.
I was certain I remembered something about that creature. It matches a file a colleague had me read a few months ago, regarding a bottle of whiskey that turned drinkers into literal monsters. The insect may have been a… anomaly as well for all I know. But I know exactly what killed Alicia. I have no idea how three unrelated… objects… ended up in the same place.
We saw a small town on our expedition, from the top of a hill. It was on the other side of a river, but that was surmountable. We crossed the river and followed it into town. Nobody was there. Too many houses for the cars here. Still here, I should say. There were some pretty deep-set oil stains in front of a few homes, but no vehicles to make them.
It must have been a while since the… I can't say what they are. I don't know who will find this. I'm calling it the beach. The beach killed or drove off everyone who lived in this city. If you find this note, don't get close to the lake. The sands are alive and they will devour you before you realize your feet are in pieces. They took her apart, had her on stumps before she realized she was getting shorter.
That's an exaggeration, but it was horrible to watch. When she tried to run, what was left of her feet splintered and she fell. She didn't scream long. We found a car with keys inside not too far from the lake; I spotted the keychain gleaming while we were running. I think we could have gotten away without the car, but it helped.
There's a roadmap; glove compartment. It's not in a language any of us speak, though it was dogeared on a specific page. The road layout fits the town, and the river; we're going to get some gas and find the next nearest town.
The clouds haven't lifted since we got here. Not for a minute. I hope that's just how things are here- the last thing we need is anomalous weather.
This is the third of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night three. One magazine and sidearm lost. Fifty eight rounds remain. Got food from a grocery store. Looking for a gun shop next.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
4

The recording starts, but there is a pause- perhaps three seconds- before Piedmont speaks. The only background sound is two uncoordinated sets of breathing.
If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you… stop listening.
Time passes, approximately ten seconds. A third set of breathing joins the noise, much closer to the source of the recording.
Terger had to subdue Hanndock after we found the mirror. I don't know how it could have broken containment. There was only one, and we had it. The insect, the creature, the beach… could be explained. There's only one mirror. It can't be here, or else we're not where I thought we were. I'll talk to Terger alone from now on when discussing my theories. Hanndock isn't stable enough to take it.
We encountered the mirror on a stand in the pawn shop we broke into. We made it to the next town, but it's as empty as the first. We've found a few bodies, but they're all accidental. Nothing particularly alarming. The mirror, though, has us all on edge. Had. We put it face down behind the counter. But not before it told us what was happening.
We can't trust what it said. It'd have said anything to keep us from leaving. Terger almost stayed, but he followed my lead, thank god. Hanndock just… didn't understand. He must have never read the file. It screamed so loudly. I hope nothing's here to hear it.
It can't be here, but it is. We aren't home. We're someplace else. We'll find a way back. This many objects in one place? There has to be more.
I hope we don't find the wrong ones.
This is the fourth of the records documenting our attempts to return. The first since Connors' death.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night four. One revolver, one rifle, one shotgun found, all loaded. No ammo besides. Seventy four rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
5

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. The sound of calm conversation is in the background, two male voices. There is also the faint sound of rustling metal.
We aren't in Peru. They shouldn't be here. As far as anomalies go, though, grasshoppers aren't all that horrible. The accidents- we found dozens more before we made it to the store- make sense now. I'm glad we picked a grocery store to make camp; we'll be able to wait them out. Terger was the only one to see them, and he's restrained- not that it was hard to talk him into handcuffing himself to the door of the storeroom freezer after what he saw. Hanndock and I have been keeping him fed and taking him to the restroom when he needs to go, keeping our backs towards the windowed storefront. We took away his gun for the time being, obviously.
At least he told us what he was seeing before we looked. We'll be alright.
Another anomaly. We need to figure out what's going on before we run into something seriously dangerous again. There's too many objects to prepare for them all.
This is the fifth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night five. Seventy four rounds remain. We'll be here a while.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
6

If the words "esoteric containment" don't mean anything to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Two sets of breathing, one matching that of a sleeping human, are audible in the background.
We lucked out. Again. Hanndock might have had some trouble with it if he'd been the first exposed, but it caught Terger at the tail end of the locust exposure. He didn't bat an eye. It's been disconcerting to have around, but we've been adjusting. Terger's proven resistant to its form of "attack," and it's taken to mimicking him. It bothers Hanndock most. The surprise gets to me, but I don't have any trouble with its secondary disturbances, at least. I think it might be amusing itself- forgive me the pun, but I'm glad of the irony that it lacks a "black" sense of humor. Who knows- maybe it will prove helpful in the end.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. This is still the fifth night. Sixth of our records. Seventy three rounds after initial reactions.
Hanndock deserved the cuff to the head. I'm going to get Terger a beer.
The sleeping breathing continues; the other chuckles under his breath, presumably Terger. Piedmont joins in; recording terminates after approximately one more second.
7

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sound of a motor is audible in the background.
We almost went into that house. The mother's slip-up, though- Hanndock's the one that caught the significance. Terger assumed she'd miscounted; I thought she'd included the statue (it didn't leave with us- must have transferred to someone in the house). Hanndock, though, he'd been on edge since the statue started following us. Borderline paranoia, but it paid off.
I thought I was keeping an eye out. If we'd gone into that house… ten percent chance to escape infection. The distances on the map would have meant nothing after that. I owe Hanndock an apology. He's not suited for permanent field work, but he's a quick thinker and well-read.
Terger identified a city with a sector in the industrial district nearby. He trained there, he says. The cloud cover is finally breaking up a little, but it's far from a clear sky. Nice to see the stars, now and then.
Five days to-
Can't say. I mentioned there's a sector there. But five days and maybe we'll get some answers.
This is the seventh of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night six. Seventy four rounds still remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
8

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Assorted sounds consitent with the cleaning of a civilian-grade hunting rifle are audible in the background.
If we return, I will write a personal letter of thanks to the founder of the Foundation. I don't care that they won't get it. These things are-
There is a brief pause, then a short burst of nervous laughter.
These things are "redacted." You can choose your expletive of choice; whatever idiot savant type green created that godforsaken cloudfish needs to get a visit from Alto Clef. I don't know whether to be thankful that the first time Terger looked up was through the sunroof of our jeep or curse the decision to take on extra gear and store some on the roof. I hope the damned thing chokes on the shotgun. Everything else is replaceable, but we're probably going to be stuck with the sidearms and the eight shots in the rifle at least until we make the city, and after that bloody cloud…
Four days. This is the eighth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night seven. Shotgun lost. Seventy two rounds remain.
Brief, humorless grunt of laughter.
Plenty of food, though.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
9

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. The soft sound of the surf is audible, not quite close to the microphone. It sounds like it's crashing against rocks, as opposed to onto sand.
We can put a rough date on the incursion. That's what I'm calling them now, the arrival of the anomalies. I've been studying the map we found, and we seem to be in the Atlantic Archipelago. That's the U. K., if you're unfamiliar with the term. I thought the driving time was unrealistic, but Terger was right- while we could drive from where we started near…
Damn it all to hell, I can't even speak openly. We're going to a city on the other end of the country, and we can't drive straight there because we have to keep stopping and hunting for gas stations that still have gas to siphon off. So we have to keep detouring through this godawful abandoned world-
At least they tried to abandon it. We found out where most of the people ended up. The ones the anomalies inland didn't get. We stopped at a coastal city, the highway took us there. Roads aren't too crowded, thankfully. But the cliffs, and beaches and…
There are boats everywhere. Smashed against cliffs; the few that made it ashore safely were abandoned to the surf. Thank god it's late winter- not mating season, or we'd probably have been dead just being close enough to see those beaches. Drowning, though… better than Connors got.
My theory is it all happened at once. Anomalies arrived, probably decimated the population. Panic ensued, mass exodus failed; they must have ran out of boats eventually. And considering the nature of some of the more volatile anomalies, it can't have taken long to reduce the standing population to six, seven percent. The smart ones. We won't see them. They'll be too smart to approach us or attack us. They've probably got a good idea of when it's safe to move around, and a car in a silent world is a pretty loud announcement of our approach.
… Three days.
This is the ninth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night eight. Seventy two rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
10

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Two sets of quiet breathing consistent with those heard in previous recordings are audible in the background, as is a repetitive tapping, like that of a foot.
We are no longer travelling after dark. When we find a place to secure for the night, it must be cleared by nightfall or we're just sleeping in the car.
You never forget the smell of that thing. Terger remembered it from a voluntary stint on Keter duty covering for a short-staffed skip after a breach. It stinks like… well, like gas and oil and death and rot. Imagine a corpse drenched in vaseline. Sort of like that. He wouldn't let us take another step until we knew where the anomaly was. It'd just pooled in a hollow. We could have walked straight through it on our way to the store across from where we were staying. It wasn't mimicking anything, though- I suppose in a place of relatively frequent food, it must have been easier to be a dark puddle than hope someone paranoid would traipse into a dangerous goop to save someone else.
It's getting harder to balance safety with the urge to get to the site. We all want to get home. Hanndock isn't allowed to drive, which means splitting up daylight between myself and Terger. The other sleeps in the car. We all need to be awake when we scout a campsite.
This is the tenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night nine. Seventy two rounds still remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
11

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Hard breathing is audible, two-fold, with a third set of breaths slow and calm. One of the panting voices swears under their breath at infrequent intervals.
Hanndock's got a hairtrigger and he probably just saved Terger's life. If I remember the file right, we could have all died easily. It could have sat in that corner and at some point, bam. Someone dies, it bloats and goes for seconds. But Hanndock was out of sight when it started moving and was startled enough when he entered the room to just gun it down.
Who the fuck makes something like-
Under his breath, Piedmont speaks. … there is no fear. Fear is the mindkiller, and with the mind gone, we're all dead. Anomaly's gone, room cleared, Terger's recovering from the aboulia.
He returns to normal speaking volume. This is the eleventh of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night ten. Sixty rounds remain. Hanndock gets to clear the next gun shop we find to replace his ammo- thing must have been dead after the sixth shot and he just kept firing.
Can't really blame him, that thing was ugly.
Get there tomorrow. Then we'll see what's going on.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
12

If the words…
Quiet panting is audible in the background, and sounds consistent with loading rounds into a magazine audible at what seems to be some slight distance from the microphone. Background audio includes occasional, distant vocalizations that do not match the spectrum of sounds produced by the human layrnx.
… "esoteric containment"… mean nothing to you… fuck off.
Nearly a minute of silence elapses; the magazine ceases to be loaded and can be heard being placed into a gun. A few moments later, it is ejected, the bullets removed and loading begins again. This repeats throughout the entire recording. At no point are any more or less than seven rounds inserted into the magazine.
… can't even fucking say what we saw or we're term'd if we ever make it back. Hanndock's dead. I shouldn't have sent him into that fucking gun shop alone.
The facility is intact. Even powered in some areas. We're too tired to look tonight. I don't know how far we ran. We won't be able to get back to the car. If what we need isn't down here…
This is the twelfth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night eleven… fifteen rounds, two sidearms remain.
Time passes, thirty seconds or so.
I used to fucking love peppermint. Damn it all to hell.
13

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. The exhaustion and frustration in Piedmont's voice present in the last recording have faded. He sounds professional once more, and there are two sets of footsteps audible in the background. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.
The site may be intact, but containment certainly isn't. We've seen evidence of anomalies that weren't even stored at this site. I should have said that last time. We holed up in one of the observation rooms for a pretty dangerous anomaly. It was fortified, physical door locks, and nothing around to cause a problem. We slept in shifts. We aren't safe; we can hear movement, and other things, from distant parts of the site, but we've had training for situations like this. Back in the site, that all comes back quick.
The first room Terger thought we could use wasn't much of a room anymore. There's a bathroom a level above, and I guess the Foundation didn't discover that particular anomaly prior to all this. The roof was blasted out, part of the floor was slagged down into the containment chamber below- not all accounted for, though. Guess it's not surprising, considering the temperatures involved. Vapor doesn't leave a lot behind.
What's left in the containment chamber below might have been what ended things. It matches the containment procedures, and despite the overwhelming scent of char, I can still smell the fucking mint. Whoever was in here when the room above hit a few thousand kelvin sure as hell would have constituted a dead body.
This is the thirteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twelve. Fifteen rounds still remain. We're heading for the archives to see what was kept here.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
14

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. There are also faint sounds consistent with an individual standing in place shifting their weight occasionally.
Had to move through Euclid containment to reach the archives. We don't have much in the way of supplies, though, so we've relocated our base of operations. Always thought it was kind of silly, making the archives one of the most secure places in the facility. I'm not laughing now; this might be safe enough to keep us alive. More bodies in a few of the sealed rooms around the Archives- only in rooms that respond to security badges. Alive, unresponsive but clean, dressed… no obvious cause. Like they're being kept. Seriously concerning. Cognitohazard? Maybe.
We saw someone down one of the hallways. Looked alive, but the damnedest thing is that I swear I saw one of them earlier today, but it was braindead. Still stunning that they're alive at all. I guess that the-
… right. Can't talk about them. But they don't come down here. I think the stuff below scares them.
I hope to God it's the stuff below here that scares them.
This is the fourteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day thirteen. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
15

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. There are sounds indicating an individual shuffling through some papers, near to the speaker; Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Also present are footsteps indicative of an individual pacing around the room, likely on watch.
I do not like what I am seeing. We left the archives just once today, to check the canteen for supplies. No problem obtaining some, but I'm sure I saw someone watching us. They were gone when we left with our supplies, though I have no idea where they went. Had a panic attack when I realized there were weakening, decaying spots on the walls, but they aren't actively falling apart- it's not him. We'd have known if he was here. We'd be fucked if he was here.
I checked the spot where I remembered the doll- the living body, nobody home- that I thought I saw yesterday. Still there. Different position, and I'm sure there wasn't dust on the cuffs of his slacks before.
They're moving. Or being moved. Just not when we're here.
We took a roundabout way back to camp. Don't think we've been followed. Guess we'll find out, if whoever I saw has Factory gear. Not like walls are going to keep them out. Gonna have to stay hidden.
Still searching for records of what I hope is here. Beans for dinner. Yum. Piedmont's tone here suggests overwhelming dissatisfaction with the contents of his meal.
This is the fifteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day fourteen. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
16

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. A second set of respiration suggests a sleeping individual.
More sightings of our companions. Always at a distance, always gone when we check later. Always near those decayed patches. Pretty confident that's Factory work. Still not sure how the dolls are moving. More were out of place. It's never much different, but it is. I'm sure of it. Terger's been giving me some weird looks, but he trusts me. I know what I'm talking about.
Encountered an anomaly when we went to check out an archive annex one floor down. I haven't got a clue how the observation chamber got relocated into one of the hallways. We detoured around, but not before watching a few cycles. Waste of a minute, but it was nice to see some human beings for a little, even if they do get shot and who knows what happens after the flash. Hope they're okay.
It's weird- I never cared before, but now I really do hope they're okay. Wherever they are.
Guess I'm just more sympathetic now.
This is the sixteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day fifteen. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
17

If the words "eso… esot-teric containment" mean-n-n-n n-nothing to you, s-s-s-stop… stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Two individuals exhibit rapid respiration consistent with a state of panic.
This i-is completely irrational. I know it won't act if we d… don't open the door. I KNOW it won't and I KNOW for a FACT that if we DO open the door, it'll-
Piedmont's voice cracks, devolves into hyperventilation for a brief moment before he can get himself under control.
But it WON'T. It WILL and we're FUCKED if it doesn't leave.
I fucking hate cognitohazards. I'd rather run from them upstairs than sit here cowering.
Terger gave me his g-g… gun. To make sure he d… doesn't… waste bullets.
Or himself.
Fourty-three seconds pass; rapid breathing remains consistent with a panic state.
This is the seventeenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day sixteen. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
18

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.
It's still there.
Seventeenth record. Day seventeen. Fifteen rounds.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
19

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.
Still there.
Eighteenth record. Day eighteen. Fifteen rounds.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
20

Still there.
Nineteenth day. Nineteenth record. Fifteen bullets.
I just want to go home.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
21

Still there. Out of water.
Twentieth. Fifteen bullets.
We're going to die.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
22

Still there. Out of food.
Twenty first. Fifteen bullets.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
23

Piedmont begins this recording in a tone suggesting triumph bordering on mania; additional voice in the background is laughing in frantic relief.
If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening, you lucky son of a bitch.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Laughing subsides to a chuckle, sounds of firearm maintenance can be heard.
The fucking dolls. Whatever's moving them, one must have threatened line of sight on the bastard! He's gone, and we found ourselves to get out of here and get some goddamned water. Had to use the restroom faucets to rinse out and refill the bottles- someone's locked the canteen doors with a rock.
At least that's what I figure's gotta be there. Terger tried to force the door open, but the way he stumbled back so far, looking startled, I didn't let him try more than once more. Said it was hard to reverse, and he winced hard when he kicked it again. Got him away from the door. There's a patch of discolored paint next to the door; pretty sure we can thank the dolls for this. Still, we HAVE food, and it could have been worse- they could have locked OUR door.
This is the- what, twenty second?-
Affirmation is audible.
-twenty second of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty two. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
24

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Additional audio suggests a second individual engaged in the act of eating.
The annex has been compromised. Contagious typoes-
Secondary individual disputes the definition.
- it might as WELL be typoes, Terger, for all the good a badly-written self-insert fantasy does us. A dozen file cabinets and three PCs ruined. We checked ourselves for any materials that could bring the infection back, left them there. I'm glad I left my coat upstairs today- might have infected our recordings. We haven't lost much, but we'll have to go deeper tomorrow. We've exhausted the options on this floor and one below, and there's another canteen three floors down. We'll locate a safe room before restocking.
This is the twenty third of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty three. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
25

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings, though fainter. Additional audio suggests the recording occurs while Piedmont and Terger are in transit on foot.
Annex two floors down from base one was empty, except for a single sheet of… I think it was leather, middle of the room. I didn't let Terger get close, not if that's what I think it is. I think annex is a bad term for a room that's something like a hundred feet on a side, this place could almost be its own archive. Could have been, anyway. There was one file cabinet left, crammed back in a corner, but I think he woulda been pushing awful close to the edge of the jump radius. We can't afford to pick that thing up on anything we're relying on. We'll just keep looking. One more floor to-
A third set of footsteps becomes rapidly audible. Faint, growing static is heard overwhelming the audio. A previously unheard voice calls for someone to 'get out of the way.'
Shit, TERGER! We've g
Audio dissolves into uselessness for six minutes, twenty eight seconds; fluctuations suggests an attempt to record strong, nearby sounds. Recording ends.
25 Cont.

Recording resumes.
-nk you, doctor. Had no idea about the battery leaking. I owe you my thanks. Stay safe.
Christ. Just wanted to get that leaky battery out before it ruined this device. Would have lost our records.
That's terrifying. I don't even know why, they aren't at all necessary to our survival, but recording these keeps me feel… grounded.
Sane, I suppose. Though now I feel guilty for not taking better care of my recorder, so there's that theory out the window.
Anyway. This is the twenty fourth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty four. Fifteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
26

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds.
I want to say that the stairwell we approached was flooded, but that's not quite right. Maybe it was, at one point. The corridors one floor down are steel-walled, chambered to seal in an emergency. The one by the stairwell was filled with what looked like basalt. Tons and tons of solid, smooth basalt. Tested it with a dead monitor; broke the rock, left a splash, frozen in stone. No way we get through there.
Another stairwell at the north end of this block. We'll try tomorrow.
This is the twenty fifth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty five. Fifteen rounds remain.
Secondary individual remarks; volume is insufficient to make out dialogue.
Yeah. I'm tired, too. We'll try to take a break when we make it to the canteen.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
27

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds. Soft breathing nearby; pitch suggests female physiology. Distant, rhythmic footsteps in a stilted pattern.
And so are we three. Terger insists we bring her along. I'm not so sure, but she's only dangerous if we hurt her. So… we won't. I'd be more comfortable without a tagalong, but as long as we're not here more than a month and she doesn't get torn up any… Terger handed over his shoes so she wouldn't step on glass or rubble. I considered suggesting we ask her if she's willing to let us harvest a little venom, but Terger's so keen to have company of SOME kind that's not trying to kill us… not worth it.
Made good progress, at least. We're two floors down. Next floor should have the canteen.
This is the twenty sixth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty six. Fourteen rounds remain- just nerves. Glad I missed.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
28

Strain is evident in the voice of the speaker.
If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds.
I am alone.
Another twelve seconds pass in silence.
A door opened where there had been none before. Terger brought up the gun, finger off the trigger, standard procedure.
I guess she never saw the movies. The curse didn't send him flying. She just… turned him off and left. The woman stayed by his body. I took the gun and left.
I couldn't have taken her out of here anyway.
This is the twenty seventh of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off alone. Day twenty seven. Fourteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
29

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds.
New base camp. Good place to store supplies- it's extremely defensible. True, it's loud, but anything drawn by the noise is already going to be affected.
Just need to remember to watch my footing. There'll be a lot of blood if I have to play anything.
This is the twenty eighth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty eight. Fourteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
30

If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds, in which indistinct and apparently amicable discourse occurs in the background between two male subjects, including the speaker.
It's almost amusing, the things of which you can be reminded. If I'd been asked to brief someone else on how to handle this fellow here… I'd have said "don't shoot first. Or at all."
I completely forgot he was backing up our database. It's a new one, but it should work. One-Seven-Eight-Oh. I just need it, an office… and some patience.
This is the twenty ninth of the records documenting our attempts to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty nine. Fourteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.
XXX

If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds.
It felt harder to keep going when it was just me. Having Terger around meant I had someone to watch out for. Meant I had to watch my mouth, too- not like he's cleared for all this- but it was motivating. Now… just me.
But that's enough. I'm… almost done. 1780 wasn't too hard to get. It was hard to get to, sure- though some things were just a little… comical. The manhole, for instance. In the middle of a secure facility…
The strangest thing was the IV. Someone had hooked it up to… something. Wires and batteries and plugs. So much power, and it all seemed to do nothing. Maybe it's responsible for all this. I can't tell, really. I haven't got the luxury to sit here and try to unravel all that. It doesn't matter- I've got to get back. I've been too lucky by half; the Cop keeping the Salesman company, the rats- both sorts, the smart ones and the sharp ones, the candy and the fish- Christ, I hate compulsives.
Terger never really thought to ask why I knew so much about all these things. It's not like the database is an open book. You read what you're assigned to, nothing more. Usually. Some assignments require more indepth familiarity.
EC-3 doesn't stand for esoteric containment- but I couldn't very well tell them that. Easier for all of us if they were just working with some researcher. They expect us to know everything, anyway- far easier than explaining.
I've rigged the nameplate at an angle. When I slam this door, it'll break static friction and allow it to slide out of the holder. This room… it's a crapshoot, but it's better than all this.
There wasn't a pop or rush of air or anything. It's like it's always been connected to the room on the other side. I opened it, so… I just need to step through, slam the door. I can feel the bit of metal in my hand, gravid with all the pregnancy of possibility. I know what's on the other side of this door. Time and space relative to a single room that is anything but singular, spread out and away like… forever.
This is the thirtieth of the records documenting my hopefully successful attempt to return.
Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day forty two. Fourteen rounds remain.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.

If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds.
I'm still waiting.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.

The recording resumes an uncertain amount of time later. There are several days of silent recording of nothing besides the turning of pages, the sounds of two guns- one sidearm and a larger firearm- being disassembled, cleaned and reassembled, and pacing footsteps. After 207 hours, Piedmont speaks. His voice reflects strain, consistent with prolonged solitary confinement.
Nothing runs out here. I haven't run out of time. Or energy. Or gun oil. or battery
A tiny pause, and the note of tension increases in the tone of Piedmont's voice.
Except reading material. I'm out of that, save for the letter. And I'm not going to be reading that. I've read the excerpt. I'm not scared. But it's not the way back.
I can ignore one sheet of paper for as long as I have to.
Speech stops and activity lapses into the aforementioned patterns of behavior. These continue. Despite the limitations of the amount of information that can be stored on the digital recording device, recording continues as above, without pause, during which time audio analysis of the recording shows four vocalized patterns matching Piedmont's readings of the text of Oxford's Unabridged English Dictionary and three variants of Time Life's Great Ages of Man: A History of the World's Cultures, repeating a collective total of 923 times with slight but detectable increase in vocal tremors as time goes on. At 4763 hours and 27 minutes, the door opens, a single pair of footsteps enter the room approaching the recorder and recording ends.

A second voice cuts into the middle of a sentence, apparently intructing Piedmont to "go ahead" with something. Piedmont speaks, notably more stable but significantly more guarded in tone.
If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.
Time passes, about ten seconds, then the second voice speaks, prompting Piedmont to continue.
I'm sitting at a table across from a man I've never met but I've read about. He's told me that we'll meet, later and in a less… tense situation. And he's stated he can get me back when I need to go.
Emphasis on when. There's only so many exit points into our world, so many active instances, and the only one that's not going to result in classification as 1780-2 is…
Jesus. Is that what this whole mess was for? Three people dead in a world that never knew them, and all to get me to one when. Not even ME, but someone who knows what I know.
A short pause.
How do you know what EC actually stands for?
The second voice speaks shortly.
… of course I did.
Goddammit. Every attendant researcher and all of the D-Class have already been killed or incapacitated by the time the instance becomes active? This is accurate?
I don't want to do this, Xyank. Tachyon Control Circuit or not, I'm seriously tempted to just take one of the other doors. Containment or not- do you know what that procedure entails?
A longer pause. Silence on both sides. Then, a heavy sigh.
… no. You wouldn't. Or you'd do it yourself. That's why I'm here.
Another, considerably longer pause, then the sound of a chair moving, someone standing.
Alright. I'll do it. It's not like I don't already know what's involved. Just.
Never thought I'd have to participate.
A series of footsteps, then another in tandem, move away from the recorder. Distantly, Piedmont speaks.
When you're ready.
The door clicks, and immediately the far-off sound of screaming and the nearer sounds of panicked voices fill the room.
See you later, X. You'll have to explain that Tachyon Control Circuit deal some other time. The long way. I'm done with vanishings.
Footsteps proceed away from the recorder, and Piedmont's raised voice covers the sounds of chaos.
No time to panic, people, we've all just been requisitioned by order of the Ethics Committee. I've already been briefed on Procedure 110-Montauk forward and backwards and we've still got time to do this if you shut up and do as you're told. You'll all get amnestics and commendations as soon as we're done but we get one ch-
The door clicks shut and the sounds die instantly. Footsteps, slow and almost ponderous in the wake of Piedmont's departure, approach the recorder. A heavy sigh is heard before the second voice speaks.
I hate saying this, but you can't give him the amnestic. Deny him this experience and he isn't going to be half-ready for what comes down the line. He needs this edge. And he needs this trauma.
We need him a little broken. So don't fix him.
Or we'll just have to do it again.
Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.


Working at a daycare gives you a very strange view of children. I live in the South, so the stereotype of screaming children in Wal-Mart isn't part of a redneck joke. It's literally just what happens when you go to Wal-Mart. Without a ton of close family, those kids were for the longest time the only children I had any exposure to, so my views on them were somewhat negative. But my grad school told me the only financial aid I could get was an assistantship working at the on-campus daycare, so I was going to have a new experience with them whether I wanted to or not. And I have had many, many experiences with them, life-altering and strange experiences that cast a great doubt in my mind as to whether the world is going to exist when these people become voters. But I digress. This is about one child in particular. I'll call him Thomas.
Thomas was about four years old at the time this happened, and he was a little…special. I don't mean he was "special needs," as the current euphemism puts it; I've met those kids, they're different. Some of you have kids who are just…special. You don't realize it because your children are completely different people around you than they are around their friends. You're still convinced that your kids are going to grow up to be astronauts or scientists, but I knew within minutes of meeting them (at age six) that they're going to be spending large parts of their adult lives performing some kind of service at truck stops. But I digress. Thomas was special.
Thomas's thing was that he simply refused to sleep. Some of you are parents and are nodding your heads (the insomniacal nature of children being commonly understood) but it's a lot stranger than you think. Those of you with children have one, two, maybe three kids, all of different ages. During naptime with Thomas's group, I have forty children, none of whom have any genetically-based reason to obey me, none of whom I can punish in any meaningful way, all of whom have friends who will back whatever insanity they have in mind. During naptime, the room becomes a prison. I'm the warden.
I have some experience with the behavior of children of this age. There are children who dislike sleeping. There are children who prefer not to sleep until they choose the time and place. But people who work at daycares become experts in swooping in and physically incapacitating children in the fastest possible timeframe, and we're damn good at it. That's what naptime is, if you look at it clinically. Sensory deprivation (turning off the lights, playing music to drown out snoring, etc.) combined with hypnosis (rubbing their backs). Some kids fall asleep more easily than others, but if you put in the time, they all go out eventually.
Except Thomas.
Other kids who didn't sleep would just stare plantively at the adult until they got embarrassed and walked away, trying again later. Thomas, though, was determined to fake-sleep until you left, feeling satisfied at a job well done. As soon as you walked back, there he is. Staring at you.
Look, I know how to fake-sleep. But I'm in my twenties. This kid is four years old, and he is a master at the craft. He knows just how much to snore and when. He knows how to slow his breathing down to give off that sleeping demeanor. He knows how far he can open his eyelids to see if the coast is clear. And he knows how to do all of this without actually falling asleep.
The other teachers and I talked about it. What the hell is going on with this kid that he's learned how to do this as young as he is? But I decided it was just too weird not to experiment with. I figure, if you look at the kid for long enough, he'll keep his eyes closed, and eventually he sleeps. Has to work, right?
So that's what I do at naptime. Everywhere I go in the room, I keep my eyes on the kid. He sees me looking, lays down, and closes his eyes. I sit across from him and stare. Nothing I do really requires a ton of attention, so I just keep my eyes on him wherever I go. And every few seconds, the same dance. Eyelids flutter. Eyelids raise. Eyes glance slowly upward. Eyes meet mine. Eyes clamp shut. Pause. Eyelids flutter…
This goes on for twenty minutes. I notice something weird about his breathing. He's losing his cool, I think, and figure I'm about to win this round.
Then he starts crying. "Quit looking!" he wails. "Quit looking! Quit looking!"
Shit.
Look, you might think it's an asshole move to get into a staring contest with a four-year-old. Lemme just say that in my shoes, you might do the same thing.

After a long talk with my supervisor and Thomas's parents, we agree that yes, Thomas's ability to pretend to sleep is just uncanny, but no, there would not be any further experimentation on this front, as it's not important enough to emotionally traumatize a preschooler over the subject. He had been seeing a therapist, and he kept mentioning nightmares about someone staring at him, constantly staring. My immediate thought was "how can a kid who doesn't sleep have nightmares?" Nevertheless, I agreed to knock it the hell off and the matter was dropped. Thank God I have a tolerant boss.
A day or so ago, I walked in while they were doodling with crayons. I glance over the table, seeing a bevy of wonderful, psychologically fascinating exhibits (kids taller than one parent, kids being rained on, kids shooting various animals) before I land on Thomas's.

A window and a face. I asked another principal teacher in the room. She said all of his drawings were always the same. A window and a face.
I saw something that looked like crayon on the other side of the sheet. I flipped it over.

It keeps looking.
It won't quit looking.
Quit looking.