Faraway Voices Hub (TBA) | Showing the Way »

Janice sighed as she settled back into the seat of her rental car. Behind closed eyelids, she wearily tried to wipe everything about the past several hours from her memory but found that the attempt merely recalled the tedium and annoyance with even more clarity. She slowly pried her eyes back open, took in and released several deep breaths, and started the car.
People were the problem, really. They always were.
Pulling away from the airport parking lot, she left the noise, mess, and chaos of her former fellow passengers behind to join the noise, mess, and chaos of her new fellow drivers on the highway. She knew her nerves should be jangling with every horn blast, sudden cut across her lane, and occasional traffic jam, but they had already been jangled to death during the coach-seating flight from Missouri to California and unexpected two-hour layover in Colorado.
She wanted to find a hotel. Preferably one with soundproof walls and staff that understood that they were performing their job at peak efficiency if she never even knew they were there doing it, like the deftest of stagehands between scenes, completely unseen as they restocked her towels and placed tiny mints on her pillow.
But, much to her dismay, her employers wanted her on-site immediately and for the duration of her stay. There would be no downy mattresses, no fluffy towels, no room service. There was only the red eye flight, the interminable drive, and the eventual arrival at the site halfway into an ungodly hour in the morning.
Serenity Cove Psychiatric. Janice's eyes felt like they were sliding across ice from the moment she first spied the lettering emblazoned across the building in the distance. She could feel her brain rebelling against retaining memory of the name or building, wanting simply to believe that it was some kind of normal psych ward, nothing else, not worth noting or talking about. With the practiced ease born of Foundation training, she forced her eyes to focus and clamped down on her scattering thoughts. As much as she wanted to let the sign's soothing memetic effect tell her that Site-3408 was somebody else's problem, she had a job to do.
Someone's itchy horn finger got the best of them as Janice moved into the far right lane. She fought and lost to the impulse to flip them off as they zoomed around her left side, then pulled into the short drive that led up to an automated security booth. Her Foundation ID slid easily into the provided slot, which spat it back out a moment later.
The parking spot that had been temporarily assigned to her ended up being a bit more difficult to find than she would have assumed. Her original intent had been to simply look for whatever empty spots there were in the undoubtedly overcrowded lot and check each one until she saw her number-letter combo. The hope of not actually having to look up at the aisle signs was dashed when she saw that, aside from a handful or two of other vehicles, the massive lot was entirely deserted. It struck her as a bit odd given the size of the attached facility, but she quickly shrugged it off. It was early morning. The non-essentials were probably out getting coffee and donuts.
Having finally found her spot, she pulled in, shut the car down, and threw off her seat belt and glasses. Her hands swiped across her eyes almost of their own accord as a cavern-deep yawn escaped her chest. Perhaps she could snag one of those coffees when everyone got in. She could dream, anyway. Throwing her glasses back on, she stepped out into the salty air.
The car beeped twice, loudly, when she pressed the lock button on her key fob. The sound echoed oddly across the enclosed lot, bouncing around between the evenly-spaced palm trees that were softly swaying in the ocean breeze. Her boots thumped dully on the asphalt as she made her way toward the front entrance. A warm, floral fragrance hit her, and she breathed it in, letting it suffuse her system and calm her nerves a bit.
Fewer people currently at the site was a good thing, she reminded herself. With any luck, she would be able to get in, get whatever it was she was supposed to be doing done, and get out with the minimum amount of human contact possible.
A soft whir from overhead caused her to look up. A surveillance camera bolted just above the entrance was focusing in on her. Janice didn't smile or wave, and after only a few seconds of eye contact with the lens to ensure security got a good look at her face, she dropped her gaze back down. She stepped through the first set of double doors, then the second, something that always reminded her of going through an airlock. Which, undoubtedly, the small vestibule would operate as in case of an emergency. On the other side was a large waiting room with a wide counter lining the right-hand wall.
"Good Morning, Miss Bell," the man behind the counter said, his friendly face beaming widely at her. "I hope you enjoyed your flight."
"Doctor Bell. And I didn't," she stated flatly.
"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe the flight back will be better. In the meantime, if you'll just have a seat, Director Wilson will be with you shortly."
Janice frowned but nodded. She turned around and found that, aside from the receptionist and herself, the waiting room was entirely empty of people. Several plush chairs were arranged in rows while a few were set around small tables covered in various reading materials.
The closest table was clean, neatly arranged. Not a single corner of the rug spread out underneath it was curled up or otherwise out of order. The magazines and newspapers sitting atop it were carefully set into a precise, complex arrangement rather than simply spread out all willy-nilly. Either the man behind the counter or someone on the site's maintenance crew obviously took their job seriously. A stickler for neatness herself, Janice made sure to memorize the exact location and positioning of the local paper she picked up before settling into a chair and opening it.
She had just finished reading everything of even the slightest interest to her and had resorted to opening the sports section when one of the elevators behind her dinged softly and let out an older gentleman wearing a tailored suit and tie. She quickly stood, folded the paper neatly, and had just gotten it back in its place before he had made his way over to her. With a smile that oozed with the kind of confidence that sent Janice's hackles up, he offered a hand that she begrudgingly but firmly shook.
"Todd Wilson," the man said by way of introduction, "and you must be Miss Bell. A pleasure to meet you, and let me officially welcome you to Site-3408."
Janice took her hand back as quickly as seemed socially appropriate. "Director Wilson?" she said skeptically.
"Ah, yes," he chuckled. "Assistant Site Director, to be precise, but I'm sure even that may seem a bit unusual to you. To say 'we run things differently here' would be trite, and I'm afraid that any other explanations will have to wait until we're in a more security-controlled area. If you'll just follow me … "
Wilson nodded briefly at the receptionist as he led Janice through a nearby security door and into a wide hallway. "So, Miss Bell-"
"Doctor Bell."
The assistant director didn't miss a beat. "Of course, Dr. Bell. How was your flight?"
"Miserable."
"Ah, that's unfortunate. Can I get you anything? A bottle of water? An energy drink? Perhaps you would like to see your room before we get started?"
Janice huffed. "To be honest, director," she said, "I'd really just like to get this over with. Blind calls like this always end up being a fucking bitch, and it never gets any better by putting it off."
Much to her surprise, Wilson let out a genuine-sounding laugh and flashed his perfectly straight teeth at her in a wide grin. "Doctor, you are refreshingly to the point. I assume they didn't tell you much about Site-3408, then?"
"Next to nothing," she said. "All I know is this is some kind of experimental containment facility, which is almost always code for 'don't bother trying to read anything past this point unless you're really into black marker'. I'm kinda surprised that I got clearance to know the address instead of just showing up outside with a blindfold and an amnestic headache."
"Yes, that does sound about right, and I do apologize about having to keep you in the dark, but our situation here is a bit delicate. Thirty-four-oh-eight is one of the most technologically advanced and sophisticated sites that the Foundation has ever built."
"I'd assumed as much already," she groused. "I wouldn't be here otherwise. So, what did you break?"
Rather than answer her, Wilson turned to a door near the end of the hallway and held it open for her. "Please," he said, motioning her inside.
The room beyond was large, with a high ceiling and a small stage set up on the far side. Metal folding chairs were set up in rows facing the stage, and in one of those chairs was a man that appeared to be all arms and angles. He jumped up and spun around when Wilson firmly shut the door.
"Oh! Mr. Wilson, hey, you're here! I was just-"
"Dr. Bell, this is Leroy McAllister, the head of our IT department," the assistant director said, cutting the other man off. "Leroy, this is Dr. Janice Bell, who I very much hope will be able to solve the issues we've been experiencing."
Leroy simply gaped for a moment, then recovered and stuck out a thin hand. "Hi!" he said. "Uh, sorry, I kind of lost track of time. Welcome to Site-3408."
"Thanks," Janice replied, reluctantly and only briefly taking the man's proffered hand. "So what did they break?"
Leroy laughed nervously and glanced over at Director Wilson. "Ah, well, the thing about that is … we don't exactly know. Kind of."
"Of course you don't," Janice said, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose. The answer wasn't unexpected, simply disappointing. "Director-"
"Mr. McAllister, is the presentation ready?" Wilson asked quickly. "The glasses then, if you would please."
The technician was nodding fervently, grateful for the distraction. "One sec," he told them, then stalked over to a fold-out table sitting next to the entrance. There, several pairs of safety glasses were sitting in a thick, grey base that looked like a charging station to Janice. Leroy plucked three pairs from their cradles, handing one each to Janice and Wilson before sliding the third on himself.
Janice turned her pair over in her hands, noting the silvery contacts set into the ear- and nose-pieces.
"You are, of course, familiar with augmented reality, Dr. Bell?" the assistant director asked.
"Aside from the current generation of smartphone tomfoolery and military applications, I'm familiar with the fact that the Foundation has been developing its own system," she said. "I assume you're going to tell me that part of being 'most technologically advanced and sophisticated' is that you already have functioning site-wide AR?"
Wilson tapped the arm of his glasses and smirked. "I wouldn't presume to tell you something that you obviously figured out on your own."
Ignoring the ham-handed flattery, Janice slid the AR lenses over her own wire-framed glasses, making sure the contacts were unobstructed by her hair. Once everything was in place, she looked up, down, and to each side.
"Okay, so where's the 'on' button?"
"Let's have a seat first, shall we?" Motioning them forward, Wilson led the doctor and technician down to the front row. "We have a small presentation set up to showcase the most pertinent advancements we've included in Site-3408's construction."
"I'm sorry, director," Janice said, trying to keep her temper, "but I don't really need the press junket."
"Naturally you will be given access to all the necessary technical documentation," Wilson continued, "but it would take quite some time for you to read it all. Weeks, perhaps. This presentation was initially created for the O5 Council, Ethics Committee, various site directors, the usual suspects. Since we still have it on file, it's use here is simply convenient to introduce you to our little problem and how it could potentially turn into something more serious, as well as show you what parts of the documentation you should focus your attention on. Everyone comfortable? Then let's begin. Mr. McAllister, if you please."
Leroy, seated on Janice's right, pulled out his Foundation-issue phone and started tapping away at it. After a few seconds, Janice felt the AR frame's contacts warm slightly against her skin. All around her, the dull grey room began to fill up with small blocks of text and images. Arrows pointed her to the emergency exits. Small signs let her know that the fire suppression systems were primed and ready to activate for her safety. The wall behind the stage had lit up like a movie screen with the Foundation's logo rotating serenely in the center.
She looked down and saw small badges floating just under Leroy and Wilson's left shoulders. As she focused on Leroy's, it suddenly sprang out from his chest, rotated to face her, and expanded in her field of vision. Where before the badge had shown a few bits of general information such as his name, job class, and clearance level, the new pane she was skimming through had what she assumed had to be an abridged version of his employee record.
Leroy looked over and gave a lopsided grin when he noticed her staring at the space in front of him. "Pretty cool, right?" he asked her, then pointed down at her chest.
She looked down and wasn't entirely surprised to see that she had her own spectral badge floating a few centimeters from the collar of her jacket. Instinctively, she reached up and grabbed the badge to get a better view, suppressing a small gasp of shock when the badge actually moved. It wasn't a perfect illusion since she couldn't actually feel anything there and her fingers were phasing through it at points, but it was still one of the most sophisticated displays of three-dimensional contextual recognition she could remember seeing. After moving one of her fingers out of the way, she could easily see that the badge was her guest identification.
"All settled in, Dr. Bell?"
Janice looked over at the assistant director and let the badge fall back against her chest. "Yeah," she said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Ready whenever you are."
At Wilson's direction, an image of the site's Serenity Cove exterior popped up on the screen. "We'll spare you the full presentation," he said. "Just imagine stirring music playing over the boilerplate attempts to secure funding and allay the fears of the non-technical crowd. 3408, as you previously mentioned, is indeed an experimental containment site, one focused not simply on technological advancement, but on how that advancement can help the Foundation maintain the veil of secrecy necessary for our work.
"I'm certain you know the old saying about how three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Given the tools we have at our disposal, that could be amended to 'if two of them are amnesticized'. Site-3408 seeks to expand that list of tools even further, and one of the primary ways we are doing that it through the use of automation."
A montage began to play across the screen, showing a variety of automated systems. Some of them Janice was quite familiar with while others she was not.
"Of course, many containment procedures already require elements of automation," Wilson continued, "from simple systems such as drains and sprinklers to wash away various anomalous and non-anomalous substances to more complex machines designed to apply extremely precise computer-calculated levels of atmospheric pressure to an anomalous object's ever-shifting outer surface. Processes that extend outside of Foundation sites are also using more technology more often to achieve our goals. Drones exploring extra-spatial areas, webcrawlers searching the internet for memetic triggers, and much more.
"Despite this, we still have security personnel. We still have maintenance staff. Supply and logistics, constant streams of administrative busywork, almost all of it still being handled by human beings, each one of them a potential break in the veil. Here at Site-3408, we are trying to eliminate as many of those breaks as we can."
"So, what, you've got a whole fleet of Roombas?" Janice asked sarcastically.
Wilson laughed. "Something like that," he said.
"Well at least it explains why the assistant director and head of IT both have time to meet me personally. How many people actually work here on a regular basis?"
"How many humans, you mean?" Wilson looked off to one side, and it only took a moment for Janice to realize that he was looking at an employee list that she couldn't see. "At the moment we have fifteen D-Class personnel, thirteen junior researchers, seven senior researchers, twelve technicians, two security officers, two maintenance workers, and five members of the administrative staff, including myself. Site-3408 is also home base for our local mobile task force, but they have been away on assignment for the past week."
As Wilson read from the list, personnel dossiers briefly flashed across the screen. Janice hummed lightly to herself. "And I'm guessing you're not about a thousand people shy of what you should have just because the place is new," she said.
"Since the troubles started, we've actually been running at around half-capacity to keep potential human casualties down," said Wilson. "Under optimal conditions, 3408 could, in fact, run smoothly with a skeleton crew of ten humans."
A crease formed in Janice's brow. "'Humans', not 'people'." She sighed. "You had AI running everything, and you broke them."
"Ah, well," Leroy, silent for the entire presentation, suddenly interjected. He cleared his throat, looked miserably uncomfortable, and said, "Not 'broke', exactly. And not 'them'. Most of the artificial intelligences are just fine and dandy, still cleaning up and making sure the doors stay locked, stuff like that. It's just … well, here." He tapped at his phone again, causing the shifting slide of employees to slow and come to a halt.
Dispassionate green eyes stared out from a long, female face. Dark hair framed that face and fell long behind a business suit that was so perfectly cut to the woman's figure that it made Wilson's thousand dollar outfit look like it came straight off a department store rack. Janice tore her eyes away from the striking image only to find that the accompanying dossier was redacted to a fault. Only two pieces of information were not covered by blackboxes: name and occupation.
"Dr. Bell, meet Isanna Yamaguchi," Wilson said, his voice suddenly weary. "Site-3408's Director and Central Intelligence."
Janice leaned forward in her seat. Things had finally gotten interesting. "So if you didn't break it, then what exactly happened?"
"She, um … " Leroy swallowed hard. "She's missing."

Faraway Voices Hub (TBA) | Showing the Way »


Two stolen wheels and five days preparation (for good luck), and they're off.
The five men in a beat up RV barrel down the road at fifty miles per hour, at the request of Father Anna. Brother Perkins sits at the wheel munching at a pretzel, trying to ignore the thumping echoing around the RV and the shaking in his hands. The "Holy Communion" behind him had to be locked behind a padlock, the enthused worshipers banging on the door in a frenzied state.

Communion, within the First Southern Fifth Church of Texas involves significantly more drugs and alcohol than any communion rightfully should. The "Holy Cocaine" was split into five lines and distributed among the congregation, in an attempt to bring them closer to the Starfish. The "service" had dialed down, Brother Hines passed out on the floor, Brother Miller still bouncing around the small mobile home. Brother Jones had declined the offer to commune, and was sleeping in his designated corner.
Louis Anna clumsily stands up, clutching onto a bottle of whiskey.
"Congregation, congregation, settle down, its time for a sermon." Father Anna slurs his speech as some of his whiskey spills on the floor, "The hooooly spirits *hic* uhh, the Five, are really compelling me right now, so sit yer asses up."
A few lazy eyes turn up to Louis as he starts his speech.

Brother Perkins attempts to focus on the road ahead of him. The four hours of driving he had endured thus far was starting to get to him, as his eyes wander to the locked door behind him.
"Nah, I can't ask them to drive, those dumbassess'll kill us all" He thinks to himself as he turned his attention back to the road. An unseen pothole bounces the RV sharply, dislodging the glove box and revealing its contraband…

A sharp jump in the RV causes the previously standing congregation to fall, the somewhat destroyed facade of a room falling apart as any order takes its final breath. Groaning, Louis wobbles to his feet, and turns his gaze to the overturned room, spotting a dark stain growing on the ratty carpet. Brother Miller's red hair takes on a new shade as his blood spills from his head.
Louis Anna stumbles over to Miller, turning him over.
"You uhh, you ok?" Louis inquires of his fallen friend, "Open yer eyes man, that's an order!"
Not observing any response, Father Anna moves to wake Brother Jones, when a loud gasp interrupts his movements. Turning around, Louis Anna sees Miller sitting upright on the floor. Staring at the wall in front of him, he stands…

A dime bag of cocaine, unconsumed by the general congregation, sits in the broken glove box atop a sea of maps.
"I can't do this right now, Father Louis would kill me. 'Sides, I can be strong, I got faith." Perkins thought to himself, attempting, and failing to close the glove box, spilling its contents into the passenger side. The bag of cocaine lays on top of the stack, standing out like a jewel to Brother Perkins.
Brother Perkins hits himself lightly on the face, refocusing his attention on the road, trying to ignore his shaking hands.

Brother Miller never takes his eyes off the wall, as Louis Anna watches incredulously. Stopping just short of ramming into the wall, Miller touched his forehead, letting the blood pool in his hands. Examining the wall like a painter examining their canvas, Brother Miller starts to draw on the wall, using his blood like paint…

With a freshly powdered nose, Brother Perkins doesn't notice the curve in the road in front of him. The crude guard rail falls apart as the speeding truck runs into it, falling down the hill, and into a tree.

The now-unconscious passengers of the RV lay clumped on the front wall of the RV, while Brother Perkins lay slumped at the wheel. The left wall of the RV was adorned with words that read:
★
ONE MORE

The first to awaken, Louis Anna pans his eyes over the ruined RV, his eyes stopping at the bloody mosaic on his wall.
"The… fuck does that mean?"

« Recruiting | Hub | Coming Soon! »


Hello! Enter your login information for Foundation WebNET.

│ /serv IDENTIFY PIETROVITCH-W
│ ++ Accessing user… (100%)
│ ++ Please enter password:
│ /password skipsecurity231225
│ ++ Welcome, PIETROVITCH-W.
│ /email
│ ++ E-MAIL loading…

Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
to: Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
date: Tuesday, Aug 8, 2001 at 3:29 PM
subject: RE: Non-anomalous item

I've got the thing behind me right now. How many tests did they do on this thing? And who on? Maybe some random D-Class?
After looking at the evidence you sent, I've got to agree with you whole-heartedly. This game isn't anomalous whatsoever. It's just a couple of people getting too involved in a goddamn board game. I've shown your work to junior researchers Syrek and Wright. They both agree. We've got a plan to make a report to the Director and we'll need your help. Reply ASAP if you are interested.
- Researcher Harmon

Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
to: Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
date: Wednesday, Aug 9, 2001 at 11:08 AM
subject: RE: RE: Non-anomalous item

Jack,
Regarding those initial questions, documents suggest they took "friendly" D-Classes to test this thing. Twice. Clearly not enough to prove any anomalous effects. I can help you with your report.
When going through the logs, I found where it came from. Some kid was selling it because he blamed it for "ruining mommy and daddy's marriage". He'd gotten it for his birthday, but when his parents played it, they got in an argument over real money and divorced. Kid dead hated that game. I don't blame him, although it's not like that marriage would have lasted if you ask me.
Anyways, what do you need? A co-witness? Report verification? It can't be on-shift though, I've got to lead research on my current skip.
- Piet
» AO-2175.log

Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
to: Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
date: Wednesday, Aug 9, 2001 at 3:34 PM
subject: Need your help

Thanks for your interest. We aren't planning to send a normal report, per se. We're gonna play the thing ourselves and take a video of it. Saves us at least two weeks of paperwork just to clear this thing. We package that up with the report, send it off to the Director. He's a man of common sense. I've got Wright, Syrek, me, and hopefully you. Eckhart's gonna videotape it. Let me know if that's fine with you. If so, meet at the recreation room tomorrow in Sector 17.
- Researcher Harmon

Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
to: Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 1:53 PM
subject: RE: Need your help

Jack,
I'll be there.
- Piet

Hello! Enter your login information for Foundation WebNET.

│ /serv IDENTIFY HARMON-J vyzetrit126479
│ ++ Accessing user… (100%)
│ ++ Welcome, HARMON-J.
│ /email
│ ++ E-MAIL loading…

Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
to: Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 4:02 PM
subject: Cheater

You piece of shit. I won't forget this, you worthless fuck.

Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
to: Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 4:09 PM
subject: RE: Cheater

I can't believe I ever trusted a person like you. You saw. Syrek nearly tore Wright's throat out. I'm talking to the Director about this.

Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
to: Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 4:13 PM
subject: Don't care

I don't fucking care what you do or who the fuck you talk to. If I ever see your miserable ass with another miserable plan, I swear I'll send you to the miserable infirmary. Wright fucking deserved it. What maniac puts 2 hotels on a property?

Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
to: Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 4:15 PM
subject: RE: Don't care

If you don't care so fucking much, stop emailing me, you unqualified degenerate. You're the one who decided to tax us all to hell.

Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
to: Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 4:16 PM
subject: RE: RE: Don't care

You sold me out for Reading Railroad and Electric Company. Look who's fucking talking.

Jack Harmon <pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah#pcs.noitadnuof|jnomrah>
to: Walter Pietrovitch <pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip#pcs.noitadnuof|whctivorteip>
date: Thursday, Aug 10, 2001 at 4:19 PM
subject: fuck off

That goddamn "non-anomalous" bullshit you were spouting about obviously isn't fucking true whatsoever. That's why we can't stop goddamn fighting, I bet. I wouldn't be surprised if we get shipped to goddamn Alaska, you Russian fuck.
- a winner at games

NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION PERSONNEL DIRECTOR — SITE-409

Researchers W. Pietrovitch, J. Harmon, and Junior Researchers D. Wright and R. Syrek were reprimanded and will be re-assigned following their contact with an anomalous item from Site-19.
Listing here:

W. Pietrovitch — Sector 17
J. Harmon — Sector 3, Site-408
D. Wright — Sector 10
R. Syrek — Sector 6

We would like to welcome Researcher Harmon's replacement at Site-409, Researcher J. Fynegan.
— Carl Pilliken, Site-409 Director

Item Description: A standard 'Monopoly' board game that, when played, will invariably incite an argument between the players that will ultimately lead to the cessation or annulment of their marriage, partnership, friendship or whatever other form their relationship took.
Date of Recovery: 07-03-2001
Location of Recovery: ██████ family yard sale, Illinois, US.
Current Status: Site-19 storage.


Just a passing thought I had.
Edit: Also did an audio adaptation of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypj1aUXG9-M

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Dear Ms. Jacobs,
It is with the deepest regret that I write to you today. Your son, Mickey, has been killed in action in the course of his duties under my command. The loss of a child is difficult for any parent. Yet you should know that Agent Mickey Jacobs was one of the finest men I ever commanded.
Mick was dutiful and kind; with an easy smile. A smile he professed on several occasions, he got from you. The impact that his loss has had on us can only be a fraction of that which you must now be experiencing.
His devotion to the principles of honor and self-sacrifice lived in every part of his life. And it was self-sacrifice of the highest order that led to his death. It is left to me, then, to provide my fullest devotion to the principle of honor, and it is that honor that demands from me a truthful retelling of the events which led to his passing.
First, in the interest of frankness: your son was not a security guard for a lumber company. Your son was a hero.
On August 18th of this year your son was stationed at one of our organization's facilities in South Alabama. A security breach occurred in one of our high risk sectors and your son was sent in as part of a team of individuals to stop the threat. Your son was at the front of a formation of 7 agents when an automated door sealed him inside the facility without his team.
With no support and spotty communication, your son made his way towards danger, providing fire support for the site's security staff on one of the lower levels. He was then tasked by the site director to rescue several of our research staff from the monsters that now roamed the site.
He was killed during the final rescue of these staff. Today a dozen of our best minds are still alive because of your son.
I cannot begin to understand the sorrow you must now feel, but know that your son's death was not in vain, and that he will be remembered by all those who knew him as a brave, dutiful, and honorable man.
Sincerely, and most remorsefully yours, Agent Jonathan Bradley

SITE-88'S INFOSEC AI HAS DETECTED AN ATTEMPT TO DISSEMINATE CLASSIFIED MATERIALS.
INTERCEPTING, REDIRECTING, AND REPLACING WITH INFOSEC APPROVED COVER STORY.
AGENT JONATHAN BRADLEY IS TO BE REPRIMANDED FOR THIS ATTEMPT.

Dear Ms. Jacobs,
Enclosed is the remainder of Mickey Jacob's severance pay. As you are listed as Mr. Jacob's emergency contact, we trust you to remit this payment to him in our stead.
It should be noted that despite Mr. Jacob's recent problems with drug addiction and sudden disappearance, we will be willing to provide rehabilitation services at any time should he return.
Thank you for your time.
Chief of Security Jonathan Bradley, Southern Crosscut Pines.


System. The Fifth Church started a pilgrimage directly into the Sun, and the Solar Occult Coalition is currently attempting to eliminate the Crab Pulsar. The primary cause behind this interstellar expansion was the destruction of Earth by SCP-094.

For close to 800 years, the Foundation has protected the world from a variety of anomalous threats. Secrecy went out the window by the late 2000s, but their principles remained the same throughout the centuries. As humanity grew closer to the stars, the Foundation began to manage threats across the entire Solar System. The Fifth Church started a pilgrimage directly into the Sun, and the Solar Occult Coalition is currently attempting to eliminate the Crab Pulsar.
The primary cause behind this interstellar expansion was the destruction of Earth by SCP-094.

When the sphere reached the size of a small village, the Foundation tried to hide it from the world, altering satellite images and quietly funding space programs to escape the Earth. When it could be seen from Buenos Aires, however, global focus was now on abandoning ship. Alliances between paranormal organizations were formed to utilize anomalous technologies to colonize and terraform Mars, moons of other planets, and anywhere else in the Solar System that could be made to support life. To this end, the goal was accomplished – but not before South and Central America were absorbed by the void. As billions fled to the final frontier, a black dot covered their tracks.
Humanity has now been living on foreign planets for a few hundred years. There were bigger issues to deal with, from the anomalous to the political to the logistical, than the state of the dying planet. When half of the Blue Marble was blackened, hardly anyone noticed; Titan's Got Talent had made its television debut the same night. Cultural ties had been lost many generations ago. The former residence of the entire human species was now as significant as Mercury. It was just another lifeless object orbiting around a ball of burning gas. Similarly, when a mere 10% of Earth remained, the only evidence of it was at the Foundation's yearly celebration of the successful evacuation of the Lunar Sites – the natural satellite was now free from its gravitational chains, given the lack of anything to orbit around.
And finally, on April 9th, 2690, as humanity's home for the hundreds of thousands of years died with a whimper, just one man watched it come to an end. Dr. Bright, the last man in the universe to have seen the Pacific Ocean, a snow-capped mountain range, or a clear blue sky, witnessed the remains of Earth be blotted out, removed from existence. A harbor for the human race that survived asteroids, solar flares, and, despite all odds, produced intelligent life capable of containing the anomalous, simply faded into the growing shadow.
Despite this tragedy, life went on. Over time, fewer and fewer people remembered that beyond the event horizon lay an abandoned planet - an abandoned home. It just wasn't relevant in the new world.
Humanity had not died in the darkness.
But the Earth was consumed by it.


"So, have you got everything down? The previous crew should be arriving in half an hour."
"I think so. Man, this is the strangest assignment I've ever been on."
"Yeah, 2771 duty is…memorable, if nothing else. There's no rhyme or reason to Tutella, but it doesn't change, so if you memorize it you're golden. You get the currency back as bonus pay, so don't screw up."
"Got it."
"Oh, and one more thing. If they smile, you're fucked."
"…what?"
"We don't know what to do. We've tried a lot of different things, but none of them are the right response. It's the procedure's biggest weak spot at the moment. Just consider it an early end to your shift."
"Alright then. Can I smoke?"
"No. One guy tried, and apparently he caused an earthquake or something. They don't let that guy back in anymore."

After over five years in the Foundation, Michael had grown numb to horror. The nightmares come to life that he'd help to contain had lost their ability to haunt his thoughts or terrorize his subconscious. Nothing, however, would ever tame his sense of wonder at the sheer amount of strange. As another traveler approached his toll booth on the tongue-road that seemed to have no beginning or end, he remembered a saying the Senior Researcher he'd studied under had been fond of: We all sometimes worry about the monster that'll eat our face, but it's our job to ask why it wants to eat our face.
The traveler presented him with a rough approximation of an ID. Trying his best not to cringe, he bit off the top half of it and wrapped the rest of it with the foil his instructor had given him. Traffic resumed, in his mind and on the road.
OK, they don't use language, we know that much, he thought to himself as the next muscle bulge moved forward. Their verbal cues are the same for frustration and anger, but different for everything else. What's the logic?
The traveler moved up to his toll booth.
Eating IDs, tearing off their faces casually…what is the reasoning in this?
The traveler smiled.
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Michael mentally went through the list of non-appropriate smile responses he had read and tried to pick one he didn't think was there. Saying no doesn't work, letting them through doesn't work…uhh…
There was a loud knocking on the toll booth door. Panicking, he took the roll of foil he had and threw it at the traveler's face. Just as the 2771-1 instances were taking him away, he thought he saw her expression change.

"…so you threw foil at her?"
"Well, I didn't know what else to do, so yeah. Still didn't work, though."
"How did they react when they took you away?"
"They shook their heads and slammed their fists on their palms really loudly."
"They did the same thing to me when I got a smile. I gave the dude the stink eye for a minute or so and he turned around and went the other way. Next thing I know, the cloth guys are all over me."
"What are they trying to say with that, anyways?"
"I think it's their way of going 'this wasn't good enough, do something else.' Problem is, they never tell us what something else is. They get annoyed when we encounter the smile dudes, but the angriest we ever saw 'em was after we let one of the smiles through the toll booth. Damned if you do, damned if you don't."
"Pretty much. I hope I get a few 'normal' people before a smile today. They just raised the tax on cigarette packs and it's killing my wallet."
"Hah! Well, they're a lot less worse for your health than half the assignments we get put on."

This time, it took him six hours. He had managed to rack up five grand and had almost forgotten Procedure 366-Tutella wasn't perfect. His mind was briefly lost in contemplation as to how he would spend his riches for the day's work when the bliss was abruptly shattered with a charming grin from an old man.
NO! Goddammit, not again, I was doing so well…
His face grew redder as the seconds ticked away. He thought about the months he would have to do this, the countless times he would be rudely abducted after screwing up, how none of this made any sense…
…and, just as the toll booth door burst open, he snapped. He pulled out his pistol, screamed "FUCK IT!" at the top of his lungs and shot the traveler in the forehead.
Time seemed to stop for a moment. He turned around and saw that the 2771-1s were staring not at him, but the road. The "earth" below him began to shake and the tongue-muscles oscillated wildly, their passengers completely nonplussed. As his eyes returned to the road, he saw the tongue twist itself into a bottomless DNA-esque helix and slide the corpse down into oblivion.
The 2771-1 instances nodded at Michael, simultaneously made cutting motions across their mouths with their fingers, and left the toll booth.
Traffic resumed.

Behavior
Response
Results

Traveler smiles.
Loudly exclaim "Fuck it" and engage traveler with sidearm.
The transportation system will distend into a helix and engulf any injured or terminated travelers. Traffic resumes.

"I can't believe that worked."
"Honestly, I'm surprised you were the first one to try it."
"One thing, though. I don't think you have to yell and curse to get it to work. That was the only part that they seemed to disapprove of."
"Alright, I'll take it off. They deserve it, though."

Behavior
Response
Results

Traveler smiles.
Loudly exclaim "Fuck it" and Engage traveler with sidearm.
The transportation system will distend into a helix and engulf any injured or terminated travelers. Traffic resumes.

"This job is so weird."


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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
Depiction of torture
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“Okay, listen,” says Kondraki from inside the bathroom door, “I just want you to understand that this is not my proudest moment.”
It's hemorrhoids, thinks Alto Clef from where he's standing outside the bathroom door in Benjamin Kondraki's apartment, I'm calling it right fucking now, he cancelled our date because of hemorrhoids. It's going to be a wasteland in there. Just fucking decimated. Like the scene in psycho with the blood bath.
“Completely understandable,” says Clef.
“I don't- this doesn't happen to me regularly,” says Kondraki. “Like seriously, if I thought I could drive like this I would, but it kind of hits a certain point where your body's structural integrity is kind of negligible, you know?”
He's going to have ass stitches, thinks Alto Clef. He seems like the kind of guy who would be constipated to the point of ass stitches.
“Of course,” says Clef.
“Don't laugh,” says Kondraki after a long, thoughtful pause.
I bet he's just constipated, thinks Clef. Like, he's been holding in one massive shit for the entire time he's been director and it's time to give birth to that stress-based monstrosity.
“I won't laugh,” says Clef.
“We've been friends for, what, twenty years? Thirty?” says Kondraki. “I met you in ‘89. You watched me raise my son and everything, even, like, you know, I trust you, and you know, as we discussed recently I do have feelings for you, but it really is kind of a delicate situation here.”
“Konny,” says Clef, “I've seen you half dead three whole separate times. No state I can possibly see you in at this point will surprise me, okay?”
“So to reiterate the plan here,” continues Kondraki seamlessly, nervously brushing over Clef's response, “You don't have to look at it. Seriously. Just. Drive me to the infirmary, and if we can get there without anyone seeing us I'll consider it a victory. And we're not telling Draven about this, either.”
“Okay, yeah. Understandable. Do you need help like- god, I don't know- getting up?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Okay.”
“The door is unlocked.”
“Alright.”
“Really, I didn't mean for this to happen.”
“No one ever does.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, I'm coming in.”
The Kondraki household is an apartment situated a short walking distance from site. It's an overall happy and comfortable living space adorned with books, manuscripts, and scratches on the walls. There's a bedroom for Kondraki and a now-empty bedroom where his son grew up; there's a kitchen and a living room, an office, and a currently occupied bathroom. Clef has been here many times over the years, and has been here more often since the onset of Kondraki's surprisingly potent empty nest syndrome several years back, beginning with Draven's moving out and into the task force barracks for training and onward. He'd gauged easily, when they'd met up again for the first time after several years of working on separate sites, that he was feeling lonely- a destroyed marriage now a little over twenty years in the past, kid out of the house, moving through middle age in a strange and alien stupor. Clef himself was more acquainted to living on his own, but it didn't mean he wasn't prone to underfulfillment himself. They'd been close for years. This elevation of their relationship from strictly friends to testing the waters of a potential partnership was a very recent one, but not one that was necessarily unwelcome at all. There was an element of trust that wasn't there before; an element of strange security and even something like affection, admiration, love.
But Kondraki was lonely. Clef, being asexual himself, admittedly may have underestimated this element in his newfound partner. He wasn't quite sure why he didn't consider it- Kondraki had been notorious for his sexcapades in his grad student years, before the Foundation and a child had tied him down- but Clef had really just assumed that he had it, for the most part, under control, and had therefore ignored his partner's impulsivity and stupidity when it came to mundane decision making skills. It was impressive he had been able to keep himself alive, and a downright miracle that he'd been able to successfully raise a child. Kondraki was brilliant- they wouldn't have made him a director if they hadn't been sure of his capability, his grasp of spontaneity, his mental agility under pressure- and this is what he thinks about in defense of Kondraki when he reflects on the next thirty seconds of events unfolding at the Kondraki household, which are recorded as follows:
Clef opens the door. He sees Ben there, pantless, which he expected. He sees him also without underwear, which he didn't quite expect but wasn't out of the question. Ben isn't making eye contact, and Clef opens his mouth to say something along the lines of do you need help pushing or some equally snarky response when he sees a plastic cylinder between his legs and it dawns on him that Kondraki is a fifty-five year old Foundation administrator with a water bottle stuck on his penis, and he feels that thought curl up and die in his mind more quickly than anything he has ever experienced in his life. He feels his brain short circuit, then leans forward from the door to make sure that he's seeing it right, and he is. It's stuck. That's the problem here. His dick is stuck in an Aquafina brand water bottle. The bottom of the bottle is rested on the toilet seat like a display case for an unfurled flag of surrender.
“So you're probably wondering how I ended up like this,” says Kondraki. “And I just want you to understand that the main problem here is really the aerodynamics of the thing. I kind of underestimated, like, when I was starting out here a couple hours ago-”
Clef leaves the bathroom. He leaves the apartment, actually, and stands in the hallway. He has surpassed laughter into tears. He takes out his cell phone and dials.
“Draven,” he says, “Kiddo, you're not gonna fucking believe this.”