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Co-written by BlazingPie and Ralliston
BlazingPie's Authorpage
Ralliston's Authorpage

⚠ Content Warning: The following article concerns topics related to body and gender dysphoria, depression, and deadnaming.

⚠ content warning

There is something wrong with Jacob.
He feels it, everywhere he goes. His arms, too long. His hair, too short. His skin, too rough. And his face — oh god, his face. There is too much wrong with his face to even begin the list.
When he is alone and buried deep in his studies, for just a moment, he can almost forget. Molecules and viruses see no outside appearance, merely people they can interact with. Their company is therefore automatically preferred to anything human. And ever since they've established the Orange Zone back in February and thrown Jacob to work in the lab again, there's been much for him to do indeed. Even though it is hard and grueling work, deep down, he is almost grateful for it.
But work doesn't last forever.
In those short yet infinitely painful moments he's out of the lab, everything feels wrong. He can see it as he awkwardly stumbles into the cafeteria holding a tray of food with those two awful, shaking appendages others call his hands. He feels it as he sits down in the furthest corner of the room, hoping the shadows cover his figure, so incorrect in every way imaginable. And he feels it when he takes the first bite out of the lukewarm dish, unable to quite decide whether his stomach revolts at the thought of ingestion, or at the thought of himself.
Putting one spoonful into his mouth after another he rubs his eyes, trying to remember when the last time he slept was. One day ago? Two days? He can't find a satisfactory answer. Either way, it doesn't matter; the only thing that does, now, is to get Procedure Lilac up and running. That's the only way to restore humanity back to normal, they've told him, and he's going to make that restoration plan a reality. But he doesn't believe those words. Deep down, he knows that the Empyrean Parasite and its spread are too far gone to undo it, now. If it ever even was undoable in the first place, that is.
Jacob shrugs, unable to really care, and writes down a few notes to himself on the napkin they gave him with the meal. As pen touches paper and ink splatters upon the serviette's fragile texture, he suddenly stops. He swallows, slowly moving his sight towards the other people present around him. They can see him.
A paralyzing shiver goes down his spine, and he's more than sure that they can see through him, too. The two colleagues that sit in front of him are buried deep in their own conversation, but he's sure it's just an illusion, some awful masquerade put up so that they can try and peek into his life. He swallows again — this time much harder — and suddenly stands up, ready to take his leave. To the company of laughs and smiles not directed at him, he rapidly leaves the cafeteria, not thinking for even a moment about the hunger that burns his insides or the food he'd left behind that could quench it. All he can focus now is those eyes, always so keen on nothing but drilling through him and seeing all those insecurities and flaws and putting them up to the public, like some twisted display.
If he could run away from here, he would. There is no doubt about that in his mind. The claustrophobic bunker of a Site they'd buried him and the others under wasn't a home. It never could be. At best, it is an imitation of a prison, decorated ever so slightly as to try to remind him he's here to do his job instead of weeping at the misfortune of his fate; at worst, it is an actual cell. He can't decide whether it or his body do a better job at caging him in.

As the midnight clock reminds her to wake up, Jane opens her eyes, exhaustion still unwilling to leave her body.
She knows she should be sleeping. She has a big workday coming up tomorrow, and nearly every single calendar, schedule, and phone she could think of are now reminding her of that. But she doesn't care. She cannot resist the urge of the night and its freedom. Not anymore, at least.
Slowly, Jane gets up from her bed seated among the rest of her colleagues laying atop the cold floor. There were too many of them to fit properly once the quarantine began, so they had to somehow cut loose ends. And their doctors were the first to fall. After all, they were expendable. The guards fighting off the endless hordes of mutants (as they were forced to call them down here) were not.
One slow step after another, she makes her way through the sleeping bags and snoring doctors, eventually opening the heavy metal doors leading to the shared bathroom. Nothing but silence fills the world, and though the creek of those doors is so quiet, she's more than sure someone has heard her. And that scares her. Someone must have. Someone—
With a quick inhale, she cuts the thoughts of the day away, knowing they are of no use. Her mind now clear, she enters through. The tiled floor is chilling, its cold, cold embrace traveling up her two naked feet. But what awaits within is too valuable to even dare to complain. She knows that all too well.
A still calmness drowns the entire room as Jane silently walks up to the mirrors which line up the walls. With the curiosity of a toddler, she gently touches the glass, too afraid it would break upon reflecting her figure. But it doesn't. And for the first time since the last time she'd been here, she sees herself for who she is.
And she is beautiful.
Jane doesn't know why, but she is. She just is. From her hair to her hand and her lips, everything is right. Everything is as it should be. For a moment, she forgets about the world out there and the raging storm within the wastelands above. She doesn't need to remember them. The only escapism from all of this she ever needs right now is to stare into that perfect figure glancing at her from the other side of the world, ever so close yet so infinitely distant.
She smiles, just sitting there on that awfully chilling floor like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
And, for those two hours she allows herself to do that, everything is okay. For just a moment, she feels like she's home.

Jacob wakes up, a terrible headache plaguing his thoughts.
Absentmindedly, he picks up his research and wanders into the lab. It's not home — he isn't even sure if he has a home he can really speak of — but it's the closest he's probably going to get, frankly. He corrects his glasses and sits by his desk, a bite or two of an old bagel finding its way in between steps. The pile of documents in front of him is large. Larger than anything he's been given so far. But in some deep corner of self-pity, he cherishes that strangling work schedule. Perhaps even worryingly so.
So he works.
He works until the sun goes down and then back up again, his pen never stopping, green-checking one box after another. He sees whether the data matches, and — if necessary — corrects it, reporting one Lilac iteration after another. All of them fail, of course; even down here, with all the propaganda they try to feed him to tell him it could work, he can see it's useless. It always will be. Lilac tries to fix people that aren't broken. People that don't need fixing. And somewhere in his soul, Jacob feels bad for them.
He wouldn't ever tell anybody about it, naturally; to ever conceive of such an action is unthinkable, no matter how much he hates the hierarchy he's a part of. But as he sorts through tens of pages describing nothing short of torture strawn upon people whose only crime was willing to be free, some part of him that still remembers empathy tells him it's wrong. Maybe he's not correct, maybe it's just his inner bias speaking. But he cannot shake off the feeling that… things aren't like they are meant to be. Like they should ever be.
And yet, something in him tells Jacob those thoughts are wrong. Whether it's his real mind speaking or some deep-coded Foundation beliefs he doesn't quite share, he can't decide. But for the short moment he allows himself to even considers that, he's—
Not happy, no. He snaps out of his work. He cannot be happy. Not like this, he thinks to himself as he sees his hands again. Not ever, not in a thousand years, if he remains who he is now. Hoping for at least a bit of relief, he looks at the mirror hanging before him. But it is still day. There is no happiness inside. Only reminders of why he's as horrid as he is. Jacob closes his eyes, not wanting to ever look at himself again, and tells himself it's time to get back to work. It's the best he can do.
So he suppresses all of those thoughts, and gives in to being a mindless drone once more.

Though the night still calls Jane like it always has, this time, something is different.
She cannot quite decide what it is as she stands up, but something… something feels wrong in the air. It's not the nauseating stench that ripples all throughout it; she's already gotten used to it. It's something much worse. Like a heavy weight in her stomach, that unsaid expression of worry lingers on the footnotes of her mind, never quite making it into full text. So — even knowing she really shouldn't — Jane gets and walks her route all the same.
The floor is colder, tonight. But that's okay, she thinks to herself as she makes sure nobody is there with her. It's too important of a day for something as small as that to ruin it, she reassures herself as she checks whether the water below the showers has already evaporated. It has. Jane sighs, and slowly approaches the mirrors. It is time.
Gingerly, she pulls up the box from behind her labcoat. As if she was carrying a baby, she puts it on the counter, trying her very best to not damage what is inside. It was too difficult to get it in here, smuggled in between lab supplies, to even consider not dealing with it with utmost respect and worry.
One by one, she works with the items from inside the box, like a sculptor would with a chisel. With each passing second, the mirror of her face slowly turns itself into the form she desires. It's not easy; but then again, nothing worth doing ever is. And when she is done, she stares. Stares at herself, and almost cannot believe her eyes. Because, dear god, to ever think she could be so right would be preposterous during the day; but tonight, it isn't. And she likes that. More than anything during her whole life. Her lips unconsciously express that thought with a slight but honest smile.
And with that, time just simply stops existing for her. Her eyes affix on her reflected self. Nothing else matters; the cold beneath doesn't bother her in the slightest, and the only sounds she can hear are the rhythmic ticks of a clock on a nearby wall.
Everything is as it should be. Everything. She feels like she's where she belongs. Like she's where everything is okay. If that place even exists somewhere out there — or has even ever existed, for that matter — it is here and now.
Suddenly, she jumps in place, her peace disrupted by an unforeseen, horrible sound. The door a few meters next to her slowly opens, and — with a heavy step — someone enters through. She hears their footsteps; they may be distant, but the unsaid threat within them is still there. She swallows hard. In just a second, two billion options go through her head, none of them right. Shee tries to swallow again; this time, though, her throat is empty.
"Jacob?" A rough voice inquires. In it, he recognizes Alex, one of the folks who have just returned from the front yesterday. They're tall, scarred, and jacked, but in the shadow of the unlit bathroom, their squinting eyes barely notice him; just the rough shape of him standing next to a mirror.
"H-Hi," he quietly gets out, moving ever so closer to the dark corner of the room next to him. "What… What are you d-doing here?" With a slow movement, he gets the box out of Alex's view, and back into his labcoat.
Alex shrugs with theatrical indifference, but still makes sure to show off the large scar now decorating their forearm. "Not much. Just got up for a midnight piss." They quietly make their way toward the nearest stall, not paying even a bit of attention to him. He shivers with fear all the same. "You?"
"I… Yeah. M-Me too."
Awkward silence lays the room.
"So, uh, how's the front?" He asks, preferring to start the conversation up again on his terms; the last thing he wants right now is confrontation. "Any news?"
In response, Alex just laughs. "'twas the best hunt we've got so far, bud."
"Y-Yeah?"
"Yeah. The kill count's on forty-seven now. The shits got me bad, but hey, whatever gets those little fucks to meet the maker more quickly's fine by me," they chuckle. "The scar's worth it!"
As they flush the water, he doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch. Even when Alex gets out of the stall and washes their hands, he just cannot; the only thing reverberating through his head are those words, and the tone they said them in. It wasn't just normal soldier obedience, no; it was… it was as if they didn't see those people as human. At all.
So much so that they enjoyed every moment of it.
Alex leaves the bathroom, and now, she is utterly alone again. And she just stands there.
Whatever gets those little fucks to meet the maker more quickly's fine by me.
She looks down at the floor, but doesn't speak a word.

Jacob's head feels like death.
He tries to ignore it, making his way to the cafeteria for a morning snack. However, all attempts prove futile as the intercom announces that "ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL ARE TO IMMEDIATELY REPORT TO THEIR TEAM LEADERS" in a tone so loud and spiky it almost makes him vomit. He eughs, but carries through.
Slowly, he sits down near the isolated table, and starts to chew on the tasteless canned meal they've given him. He knows it's better than nothing, but he still misses real food. The type his mother always gave him. The type that just satisfied every single culinary need the seven-year-old Jacob could possibly ever have. It smelled so good, he remembers, but just briefly. He'd trade pretty much anything to be back at home, and to share just one more meal with grandma.
Home.
Home.
That single word goes through his head like thunder splitting air. He hasn't thought about home in a long while. He isn't even certain if it's still out there. Because he's sure as hell it isn't down here, buried beneath tons of dirt and steel he's forced to call a safe haven. He doesn't want to admit it, but he misses it. He misses that freedom of coming home after every night of work, of actively being able to choose to be somewhere else that wasn't the Foundation. Some of his colleagues trapped here with him wouldn't trade away their safety to see home one more time, of that he's sure.
What he would do if given the chance, though, he's not as certain.
Having finished the meal he stands up, ready to take his leave. But as he's about to head out, he hears something; a faint whisper, coming just from behind him.
"—two days away," the worried voice says, trying its very best to make sure nobody but its friends hears it. "That's what they've told me. They're two days away."
"…Christ." Another one chimes in. "How many?"
"Around ten thousand," one answers.
"Fuck," a third voice concludes. It's scared. Even Jacob can hear that. "Fuck."
"And we don't have nearly enough men to with—" the first one tries to get out, only to be stopped by two's elbow meeting its belly. All three suddenly turn and look at Jacob, their words stuck in their already tight throats.
He doesn't need any words to get the message.
With a quick step, Jacob turns for the lab two floors below. His headache is no longer a concern; the only thing that still troubles his mind are those people, and what they said. From their words it's clear there's a mutant army approaching, from their tone — that they are worried. If what they said is true — and, judging by their Level 4 insignia, Jacob doesn't really question their sincerity — the whole Site is in danger. In most danger it has probably ever been in.
And yet, Jacob cannot care enough to worry.
He doesn't know why, really. He just can't. It's not quite indifference or some sort of cosmic acceptance of the fate he's been expecting for months now. To be honest, it's an emotion he finds difficult to articulate. More difficult than words can manage. It lies somewhere between nostalgia, sadness, and longing for—
—yeah, for what, exactly?
Freedom?
The ability to be himherhimself?
Home?
Or all at the same time?
She doesn't find an answer.

Tonight, Jane doesn't long for freedom; instead, she longs for something infinitely less complicated.
She longs for memories.
Sitting down cross-legged on that tiled floor she knows all too well, she doesn't look into the mirror to see herself. She ponders into it solely to see the two wells into her soul she likes to call eyes. And that, the surface reflects well; well enough for her to immediately fall into a trance.
Without really thinking much, she lets her thoughts wander around in her head freely. She can't truly articulate why, but tonight, those thoughts find only one destination, only one end to their destination: home.
To Jane, "home" isn't quite as material as she would have liked. Ever since she was a kid, she's been in and out, living in whatever place her parents could at the time afford, so the word doesn't have as much resonance with her as she was sure it has with others. But there is still some ethereal quality, some ungraspable trait to that almost Platonic ideal of "home" she holds in her mind. And that ideal is beautiful.
Jane had never been one to long for… anything, really. Sure, she had always had goals in her mind — from getting that degree to finally scoring a promotion, they were always there, but they were just that, goals, physically achievable plans she could put into her schedule and actually acquire. But to dream of something — to truly dream of something — she never did do that. She was too grounded in that awful reality around her to be able to give into a fantasy where everything was good and she was happy.
Until now. Tonight, she lets that change.
Her soul feeling like it had almost been freed, she stares into those beautifully brown eyes of hers, and thinks. She imagines that metaphorical home, for just a moment considering how wonderful it would be. How strong its walls would stand, and how warm the fireplace would burn. And, most importantly, how safe its insides would be. How free she would be to be herself inside of it. How… How sure she was she would never need to hide within that house.
That's all it takes for her to truly long for home.
She isn't sure if she could truly find herself a place like that, now or ever; but… she knows that it's possible. Now, it is no longer a dream — it is a plan put into her schedule just like the whole rest of the things she wanted to achieve. What's best, however, is that she knows exactly how to achieve it.
Somewhere out there, she's sure, her home lies. Stranded in between the mutated cities and equally changed people, the place she wishes to live in sits, just waiting for her. She's certain. It just has to be.
And she's going to do anything it takes to find it.

As Jacob wakes up again, he begins to sense a pattern.
Not a strange one, naturally; to work in the lab — or any other Foundation job, for that matter — was to surrender oneself to the corporate hell of repetition ad infinitum, that he knows well. But there is something particularly peculiar about the loop he's found himself in. Some tingling feeling behind his back, always there to remind him it's not your normal ouroboros of duty given to a normal man, always there to silently whisper into Jacob's ear that things are not as they should be.
What the feeling truly is, though, he once again finds no answer. And at this point, he's not even sure if he wants to have one.
The snake of infinity's grasp on Jacob's throat tightens as he enters the rehearsal of research once more. He sits down and, like a mindless drone, begins to work. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. One filed-up lab doc after another he reads and he reads and he reads and he reads until the only thing that's left inside of him is pure data, all describing that horrible, torture his higher-ups designated as Lilac. Perhaps others would surrender to the horrible euphemism and call it salvation, but he — he sees what it is. What a petty and cruel torture inflicted upon those that wished nothing but freedom it really represents.
But he cannot find it in himself to be afraid of it.
Every cut and poke so vividly described within those documents hurts, that is for sure, but he… he doesn't feel true terror when he sees it? Some part of him tells him it's because of the shape of cold indifference he molded his brain over the years of work for the Foundation. But a different part — perhaps more wisely — recognizes it isn't that, no; that ancient, ancient part of his consciousness whispers into his ear that he doesn't fear it because deep down, he knows he would take the risk. Even if he knew he would inevitably fail and end up strapped down into those test tables every time he ran for it, he would still take the chance. Every. Single. Time.
And sometimes, he even listens to that part.
In those few minutes of rest he allows himself every hour, he gives in to those strangely dark dreams. He hears as the night voice of a mind so his own yet so alien tells him it's okay to think of them, actively showing him where to look to find them. And, in time, it points him to the SCP-3396 containers stored in biohazardous material storage.
So he listens.
In just a single split second between infinitely long sessions of hellish paperwork, he wonders the white halls of his prison, always finding his way into one place, one haven among all of that fire: the place his mind ever so willingly tells him to visit. Those wonderfully transparent glass panes open up to show a room, so infected with SCP-3396-mutated organisms it's almost rotting. And Jacob feasts his eyes upon them, drinking up their immaculate beauty in every second of freedom he and they can create together within his work days.
For his Overseers, they are monsters. For his friends, they are enemies. But for him, they are nothing short of perfect.

Jane cannot quite articulate why, but tonight, she feels like the happiest person on Earth.
She knows that if she would just think for long enough, she would be able to get into her day self and understand the source of her joy. But, putting on the gown of the night and all of the freedom that comes with it, she does not want that. Not now, not ever.
So she just repeats her usual path, so wonderfully blissful to her state of content existence.
With an almost dancing grace she treads into the bathroom like it's her own, her tools of beauty already prepared. This time, she has something special; she's not quite sure how she managed to get that lipstick, but that doesn't matter. Those thoughts do not concern Jane. Not during the night, at least.
Slowly, as if what she had in her hands was the most valuable item on the entire planet, she opens it up. With the precision of a surgeon, Jane starts to apply the lipstick on her dried-up lips, ever so careful to not mess something up. She could not afford to make a mistake now, for to do so would cost her what is most likely the best moment in her life. And as she's about to move her hand in a final gesture that would conclude the whole operation, a horrible sound ruptures her eardrums, causing her to drop the item and break it.
"ATTENTION ALL ON-SITE PERSONNEL! WITHIN EXACTLY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, A RAMPANT ATTACK OF APPROXIMATELY A THOUSAND SCP-3396 INFECTED MUTANTS WILL REACH OUR CURRENT LOCATION. YOU ARE ALL HEREBY TO PREPARE YOURSELVES AS BEST AS YOU CAN WITH YOUR CURRENTLY AVAILABLE RESOURCES. YOU ARE TO PROVIDE YOUR OWN MILITARY EQUIPMENT, NO MATTER HOW PROVISIONAL IT MAY BE. NO FURTHER MILITARY KITS REMAIN TO GIVE OUT. SITE COMMAND APOLOGIZES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE."
Jane doesn't know what hurts her more; the broken lipstick, her messed-up makeup, or the awful headache that mechanical voice awakes in her once more. Perhaps, she thinks, it might even be all of them. But she doesn't feel anger at that; she doesn't even feel sadness. The only thing that her thoughts dare to oscillate around is the attack that's about to— well, "attack" was a very… liberal term for the upcoming event, she thinks. Perhaps…
…perhaps "liberation" was the more appropriate word.
With a fist full of determination, she picks up her accessory, now snapped in half. She doesn't see it as broken, however; she finds it to be just as good as it has always been. Just as good as it is about to be. She closes her eyes, and within that darkness she doesn't find worry — she only finds anticipation of what is about to come.
When she opens her eyes once more, for the first time in a long time, Jane smiles with nothing but sincerity.

The Site-wide announcement systems scream so loudly as to nearly deafen Jacob.
If he were asleep when they began, they'd make his life a living hell. But the restlessness of it all simply didn't allow for this; the only thing still remaining in Jacob's organism was a high, mixed up together from exhaustion,
worry,
and anticipation.
He doesn't smile — he would absolutely never allow himself to do that; not here, at least — but the happiness he wills manifest is still there inside him, just brewing to get out. Just a little more, he thinks to himself as he corrects his tie. Just a little more, and…
and what, exactly?
The question hits him like a brick wall. Ever since he heard that announcement, he knew he was waiting for its fulfillment, but now, he's not even sure why. Surely, he tries to rationalize, to want to meet the source of one's stress is logical, in some sense; if you were to simply confront the problem itself, you'd no longer have any reason to fear it in the first place. So why — why — is he uncertain of that explanation? Truly, why?
If he had the time, Jacob would absolutely try to answer his own inquiry. However, the non-stopping rush of his colleagues around him paired with the blasting of emergency announcements makes concentrating on anything quite impossible. So he shrugs, and gets back to pretending he's preparing for the attack, fiddling around with whatever empty weapon he was able to find last night. As long as it does its job, he supposes.
"Ramirez!" A sudden voice shakes Jacob away from his thoughts, making him immediately snap into reality.
He opens his eyes, and looks at the newcomer. "Sir?" He recognizes some security higher up he can't quite place.
Without any further words, the combat-weary commando forces something into Jacob's hand. Not really knowing what else to do, he accepts it. The item is rough and cold, and — worst of all — radiates death. For just a moment, Jacob swallows hard.
"Listen up, kid," the man continues, looking directly into Jacob's eyes. "The rest of the lab Level 4s are up prepping-up Lilac. But not you," he gets out before Jacob starts to turn away to join them. The man points at the lab around them: "You stay here, and make sure if anything goes wrong, you put this where it belongs. Got it?"
Jacob nods, both from indifference and just wanting the man to go. Before he can even answer the other, the soldier disappears into the corridor, another personnel already their next conversation target. So Jacob does the only thing he can do, really; he looks at what he was given.
And then he gulps.
Under normal circumstances, nobody below Level 5 would ever get one of these in their hands. But he supposes times must have really gotten desperate enough that they're giving out Site nuclear launch codes to people like him. He supposes it makes sense, though, somehow; he's the guy that knows the lab's layout the best, so he'd know how to get to the place the key belongs. But that doesn't make it any less fucked-up. Or any less irresponsible.
To the sound of continuous sirens blaring above, he simply stares at his new acquisition, truly unable to decide what he's supposed to think about it.

The night is already late when the attack arrives.
In just a moment, every single alarm previously screaming atop its lungs about the incoming invasion stops. The only thing that remains now is a silence, so thick Jacob can nearly touch it. And within it, sit thousands of people, their guns grabbed tightly to their chests. The only break from that constant is Jacob, his hand tentatively focused on the nuclear launch key.
For what feels like hours, nobody speaks. Nobody even dares to breathe. They simply sit there, buried underneath tons of steel and hidden behind a glamour of darkness, their hearts beating as fast as their thoughts. Each of them lets out a silent prayer, and tightens their lips.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
With an explosion equivalent to that of a dying sun, the ceiling of the Site tears itself to shreds. The gunfire begins almost immediately, quickly followed by screams and shouts, both human and not. As reality tears itself into shreds, rain starts to fall from nowhere, and Jacob hears another explosion. This time, however, it comes in reverse; because time itself indeed starts to negate its own path. Jacob stumbles backwards as the universe most immediate to him stops working like it should, now trapped in a bubble of chronological nonsense.
With a silent hiss, a figure made solely from shadow emerges into it, seemingly unbothered by the time dilations. Were Jacob anybody but himself, he'd already be running. And the time serpent knows that, coming ever so closer to his throat.
As the mutant's hand was about to reach Jacob's throat, a scream and a gunshot fire. A bullet returning from nowhere pierces the shadowman's head, quickly returning to its original sender, who stands behind it. Just as confused as Jacob, the MTF agent blinks twice as the time bubble breaks, not really quite sure what just happened. Before he can ask Jacob anything, though, he stands up, and starts to run with as much strength as mother nature gave him.
Navigating through a labyrinth of labs, dorms, storage rooms, and offices, Jacob tries to observe the world around him. It's chaotic, now — more chaotic than he has ever seen — but he cannot… he cannot say it isn't, in some strange way, beautiful. The colorful clouds of smoke that talk and the myriad humanoids that had once been chained spread their wings and traverse the Site.
And wherever they walk, only one thing follows. They bring down the awful Lilac apparatus and, leaving only the men and women that had no complicity in such crimes against beauty. And all of that — all of that wonderful, unorganized, borderline nonsensical chaos — is stunning. Stunning beyond words.
Slowly, Jacob stops in his tracks. As the realization of where his feet brought him dawns on him, a sudden spark of consciousness goes through his mind. Not to say he wasn't conscious before, of course — but in that very moment, he could feel that he was the most of himself he had ever been. Like the involuntary marathon he had to run to get here was not a subconscious decision, but his true mind and soul itself steering his wheels without him realizing.
The 3396 containment units.
Suddenly, another explosion occurs behind him. As a man with four legs and a woman with mantis eyes and arms emerge from the end of the corridor, they do not notice Jacob. They instead take out another one of those security guards that so desperately tried to prove their firepower as equal to the power of the now-unbounded people. So Jacob does not notice them, either, and simply walks up to the doors leading into his heaven.
To the death of consensus reality around him, Jacob opens the doors and steps into the airlock separating the Site and the biocontainment chambers. For just a moment — for just a single, infinitely long moment that feels like an eternity — he stops in his tracks before his hand can reach the control panel of the room before him. Before he can fully open the final wall separating him from freedom, Jacob looks down at his hand, and considers the nuclear key.
He looks at its cold, rough form, and truly considers what he should do with it. Quietly, he gazes out into the corridor he stood in just moments before. Now, it is entirely empty, the only thing still inside it a few corpses of people that were too blind to see that what they were truly fighting was themselves. He swallows, but not out of fear. Jacob isn't one of them. Jacob isn't going to be one of them.
Jacob has never been one of them.
With the most certainty he'd had since he was born, Jacob inputs the security pin. Slowly, the hermetically sealed doors begin to open, a wave of unpressurized air running through them. And, in just two moments, they are wide before him, inviting Jacob to make his decision.
If he wasn't sure of what he's going to do, he would stop here and consider his actions for even a moment. But now, he knows what he wants to do more than ever. He knows what he needs to do.
So he makes his decision.
But then again, she's already made it days ago.
With a heavy heart, Jacob steps in,
and Jane takes a relieved breath, truly free for the first time since she was born.

The world is ruined.
For all intents and purposes, what had once been considered civilization is now gone, replaced by a burning wasteland built atop what had once stood tall. The skyscrapers of man that reached into the skies above are nothing more than warm rubble, laying between the wide cracks broken within the rotting roads. The only thing left where they once were is the sky, open like it had never been.
And among those skies, Jane Ramires soars.
Free from the shackles of her mortality, she spreads her wings wide, and takes to the heavens above. The cold wind caresses her long hair and her soft skin, and it blows past her as she accelerates up into the cosmos. Now above everything and everyone, she sees the whole world below. If most people saw what she saw, they would call it ruined; she, however, has a different word for it. A word that reflects the state of the world just as well as it reflects her own.
The world is liberated.
Everywhere Jane can see, it is no longer bound by the idiocy of the old reality; it is now itself, and only itself. It is the only version of itself that could ever be free, finally unshackled from the chains of normalcy. For all that it's still worth, it can finally thrive.
Just like herself.
As Jane flies higher and higher, she smiles a smile so wide as to be barely containable by her now-perfect face. Her wings feel the cosmos around them as she breaks the speed limit, and, now and forever, she feels free.
For some, the world has ended.
For others, though, it has merely begun.


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The Set Of All Numbers Which Might Be Bears

An Introduction to Counterabstractional Phase-Transitions in Number Theory
or, The Set of All Numbers Which Might Be Bears
by Dr Howard James et al., Highly Pathological Concepts Division (HPCD)

You are likely already aware of the existence of SCP-1313, but in case not, here is an overview: a set of logical operations, definable in terms of mathematics, which when completed will produce a fully grown bear. The act of completing the calculations, which are notably simple enough to complete by hand, causes what we call a counterabstractional phase transition. Prior to the phase transition, a full description of the abstract object including coordinates and a movement vector exist in possibility space.1 When the calculations are complete, the physical location where they were performed becomes the frame of reference for the coordinates in the abstract description. The abstract object will then naturally lose its abstract nature and manifest in the appropriate physical location (notably, an identical abstract object will continue to exist in possibility space. It cannot be decided with our current set of extended axioms whether this is the same object or a copy).
SCP-1313 is, itself, a moderately pathological concept at best. However, it has always been the firm opinion of the HPCD that where there is a bear, there may possibly be lions and/or tigers in addition. For this reason, and due to its various attributes which are extremely annoying to mathematicians2 SCP-1313 has been the subject of intense scrutiny by HPCD number theorists.
SCP-1313 (and the similarly annoying SCP-033) are what we call "mirage numbers" in anomalous number theory.3 A mirage number is, under normal circumstances, unreal4. We did not "miss an integer", and the square of a prime number cannot be "neither even nor odd". The key to a mirage number's existence is in the calculations used to determine it (this is why said calculations tend to be unusually round-about, and more direct methods often lead to inconsistent results). The calculation process itself is essorhetorically active and inserts the mirage number into local reality at the appropriate point in the number line. Essentially, when you find a mirage number, it is because you have convinced the universe it must exist in the process of finding it. Most mirage numbers decay very quickly, existing just long enough to, say, manifest an adult bear. SCP-033 is extremely unusual in its high level of stability and self-propagating nature; it is the prevailing opinion of the HPCD that it was originally produced intentionally as a weapon of some sort.5
The HPCD considers these counterabstractional phase transitions to be a form of nomenclative hazard. The calculations which lead to the relevant number, in conjunction with the number itself, amount to an elaborate way of identifying the abstract object. The act of naming imparts additional features to the object and it manifests as mentioned above.
The principle goal of SCP-1313 research has been finding a way to identify similar abstract objects and determine their properties without manifesting them. The universe contains a very large number of objects which, were they to suddenly manifest anywhere in the vicinity of Earth, would bring an abrupt and unceremonious end to human life. As modern computing technology has vastly expanded the scope of calculations which can be performed, assessing the risk of accidentally manifesting such an entity was considered a priority.
While the research was arduous and involved the manifestation and subsequent demise of an inordinate number of bears, Site-89's HPC team was eventually able to devise a method of searching for bear numbers.6 "Bear numbers" are numbers in the "bear set", which is short form of "the set of all numbers that might be bears". The construction of the bear set cannot be described without going through most of the calculations involved in SCP-1313 and it is quite easy to accidentally complete the calculations from that point. As the authors of this paper do not wish for a sudden ursine encounter, that exercise will be left to the reader, should they so desire it.
Fortunately, from this point, determining the effects of each object in the bear set proved trivial, as the numerical identity of each object is the same as its identity when manifested. This sounds nonsensical, of course, but such things are the norm when dealing with mirage numbers. Within the distorted reality produced by the bear set's construction, it becomes obvious that, for example, SCP-1313 is both a number and a literal adult bear.
With this brief introduction out of the way, the following is a representative list of entities within the set of all numbers that might be bears.7 The point at which calculations are performed is described as the origin. Velocity is relative to the origin. Adjacency refers to how likely the calculations are to be encountered while doing various types of math.

Identity
Risk
Adjacency
Notes

An adult male giraffe. Manifests three light years away from the origin, travelling in a random direction at 33% lightspeed.
Notice
Very High. Easy to accidentally manifest while performing quartic algebra.
Many of these have likely been manifested over the course of human history.

SCP-1313
Caution
Medium
None.

A squid. Manifests about twenty meters from the origin in a direction determined by the local gravity field (above the origin, in case of origin points on Earth). No initial velocity.
Caution
Low.
Recommend not doing too much calculus outdoors.

A single proton. Manifests in a random location within π light-seconds of the origin, moving directly toward the origin at a random velocity between 99 and 100% of the speed of light.8
Notice
Medium-high.
While it's technically possible, this is statistically unlikely to account for the Oh-My-God particle or any similar phenomena.

A small potato composed mainly of isotopes of element 121. Manifests within five meters of the origin. No initial velocity.
Critical
Negligible.
Theoretical only. Manifestation of the base object would be extremely destructive. Attempts to manifest a much much smaller derivative in a controlled environment to study decay chains of element 121 are under consideration.

An adult male sun bear. Manifests within about a kilometer of the origin, moving in a random direction at 3% lightspeed.
Danger
Low.
This one is on the Riemann Hypothesis watch-list, although as the calculations include several cognitohazards, it is considered unlikely a civilian would be able to complete them.

Approximately one trillion adult lions, manifesting in random locations which do not intersect solid objects, including other lions, within about half a light second of the origin and with no initial velocity.
Critical
Very low.
This confirms our previous theory about the likely presence of lions. No tigers have been located as of yet.

Footnotes
1. Possibility space is the abstract space containing all possible entities, phenomena and ideas. It overlaps only partially with the noösphere (the abstract space containing all possible human thought) which contains only some possibilities and a small number of impossibilities.
2. Particularly being an integer which is neither even nor odd.
3. "Non-real numbers" or "imaginary numbers" would have been more obvious names, but for some inane reason those names have already been assigned to a set of numbers which actually exists.
4. Unreal as in not existing, and not as in not being a part of the real number group. Why are these names like this?
5. Major dissenters hold that it may have been the result of a project to find the most stable possible mirage number. SCP-033 is not the most stable possible mirage number, but may be the most stable possible positive mirage integer.
6. Regrettably this is now the official name for this phenomenon, as my colleagues are evidently all clowns and jokers.
7. Contact your HPCD representative if you require the full list.
8. Excluding the limits, obviously.


Let the circle be unbroken.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

I was born with broken legs. With barely functional arms. With just one lung. I was blind in one eye and half blind in the other. My body was a mass of dull aching pain. I was 5 years old when the doctor said in hushed, saddened tones that I would not live to see my 30th birthday.
My father believed the charlatan.
The first of the surgeries happened then. My parents became poorer and poorer as these con-men claimed that I could not be repaired. It was not long before my mother had her fill of pain and passed on. After that, my father broke .
He became convinced that there was a plan for me. The mechano-priests of the Church agreed. And he asked for their forgiveness. So they granted it. He gave over part of himself to their machinations to become steel and bone.
They called their deity broken. They said God was like me. And then they granted me sight. Granted me the ability to walk. By the end I was as much machine as boy. My father thought I was finally saved.
But they were, all of them, deceived.
God cannot be broken.
My father fell away from the faith after a time. He had transacted with them and gained a working son. So we returned to a somewhat normal life. Hiding our modifications underneath false flesh.
I grew and the metal grew within me. The mechano-priests may have been ignorant of their God's true nature, but they were masters of their craft. I excelled. I was stronger than my peers. Faster. And sharper.
But I knew a deep abiding truth; I was incomplete. And so as I became an adult I returned to the church. For a time I felt a belonging. I said my vows. Became a mechano-priest. I refined my skills. I took flesh and turned it into something beautiful. My patients screamed before but blessed me after.
And with each person I repaired, I brought myself ever closer to God. But the other priests, jealous of what I was becoming, called me heretic. They said that only those who chose this life should be modified.
But how will we complete the great work if we wait? I left. Built this chantry. It was I who found our God's discarded heart. Who placed it here in a place of worship.
I drained the heart into the baptism chamber. Now we bathe in the oils. When I slipped into it I could feel it working into the gaps of who I was. I felt my skin harden. My bones break and reform. It finally repaired me. Just as it repaired all of us.
The great machine continues apace but it is not complete. I will turn every piece of flesh on this earth to steel. I will replace every thought with code. I will drag you all here, screaming or not, to complete our God.
Coming here was correct and good. I will not stop my great work as you've asked. But I will show you God.
And we will unbreak you.
I swear it.


Dr Kira Moto

Want more?

<GlassMoto has joined the chat>
GlassMoto: Um, hi. So what's this?
MotoK: Its a multidimensional chat for every version of ourselves. Youll get used to it.
GlassMoto: I see. How did this happen?
NDMoto: That would be me…
NDMoto: i started this accidently.
GlassMoto: Oh? How'd you managed that?
NDMoto: I'm not sure. Mum tried to explain it to me, but I didn't understand.
GlassMoto: Who's your mom? She sounds like she knows a lot about all this.
NDMoto: Yeah! She

Ned jumped as the door to his room opened. He hid his phone in the first place he could, in his desk drawer.
"I just came to tell you that dinner will be ready soon." Ned's adoptive mother stated. Well, mother was one word for her. Ned wasn't sure he understood it all, but apparently, they were the same person from different universes. Whatever that meant.
She came over to him, kneeling down to look him in the eyes. He averted his gaze, looking to the ground.
"Ned." His body tensed, waiting for the pain his few years had taught him was soon to come. "Everything alright? I know you're struggling to adjust, but no one's going to hurt you for being a normal kid. Okay? I promise nothing will happen if you're on your phone." He didn't answer, not even looking up at her.
Ned could feel her disappointment, the swirling, hard knot in his stomach only growing with intensity. He didn't dare move until she left, his door closing softly. His gaze locked to the handle until he was sure she was gone.
Only once he heard her shuffling around their kitchen did he retrieve his phone.

GlassMoto: You there buddy?
<KilerMoto has entered the chat>
KilerMoto: Ah, Glass! I see you've met ND.
GlassMoto: Yeah. But he hasn't responded for a while. Is something wrong?
KilerMoto: It happens sometimes. The kids had a rough life. Just give him some time.
GlassMoto: If you insist…
KilerMoto: Anyway. I got on for a reason. Anyone available to help?
MotoK: Whats up?
KilerMoto: MotoK, it's been a while!
KilerMoto: But yeah. Would anyone be able to drop by? I've got a few assassins after me. Our leadership is attempting to kill me. I
MotoK: Kiler?
FanonMoto: Someone killed her.
KiraPoyo: rip
KilerMoto: Sorry. One of the fuckers got in. Valration's not going to step in until one of us is dead.
MotoK: Why is it every time you speak something fucked up has happened?
MotoK: What do you need?
KilerMoto: Would KiriMoto be able to send over that MTF of hers? Those dimension hoppers would be helpful. Or if one of you knows how to fight off an army of highly trained cyborgs?
GlassMoto: I knew this chat was a mistake.
GlassMoto: But no. I can't help you there.
MotoK: Sorry mate.
FanonMoto: KiriMoto?
NDMoto: Kilers in trouble?
NDMoto: I can ask mum. She won't respond though cause her phone broke in a breach a couple days ago.
NDMoto: Someone will have to invite her again cause I dunno how we even got here to begin with.

Ned swallowed, dreading having to ask for something. It wasn't his place to do so. He needed to be quiet and stay hidden. No one should have to deal with him. He was a waste of space. He didn't deserve anything. He doesn't-
A knock came at his door. Ned jumped, gasping for breath. It took him more than a few moments to recognize who it was.
"Dinner's ready. Do you want to take it here, or at the table?" There was kindness in her voice that he didn't deserve. It took him several moments more to find his voice again.
"H-here." He swallowed harshly, berating himself for letting weakness slip. Surely she would see it and her facade would fall. It had to. Any time now. She had to be waiting for him to slip up. There was no other reason for her to be acting so kind. It had to be a facade.
His door creaked open. His mother approached with what he guessed was supposed to be a warm smile. To him, that was the one his old parents used before hurting him. Ned hardly let out a breath, turning back to his computer. At least on the web, he didn't have to be himself.
A plate was sat before him, the scents of his favorite meal wafting to him. A large glass was set beside it. He caught as her hand began to make its way to him, only to stop a few inches away. She sighed, beginning to walk off.
"Enjoy your meal. I'll be out here if you need me. Alright?" He managed a stiff nod, waiting until his door was shut once more before daring to pick up the fork and begin eating. He looked around quickly, then, without stopping to breathe, wolfed down the meal in front of him.
Without another thought, he picked up his phone again, read through the multitude of messages and set it back down. The winding, twisting, terrible knot in his chest tugged at him as he sat there. He wanted to help Kiler. He really did. He knew his mom would help if he asked. He just couldn't bring himself to do something he knew he would get punished for.

/=/

MotoK: Hi ND. Did you ask Kiri?
NDMoto: …
MotoK: I take that as a no? Did something happen?
NDMoto: No…
NDMoto: I just…
NDMoto: I cant
NDMoto: I…
GlassMoto: I think I understand. You're having trouble opening up, yeah?
GlassMoto: The others told me about your situation. If you would like, I could try to help you. I'm a therapist.
NDMoto: No. I
NDMoto: no.
GlassMoto: Alright. If you want to talk, just ask.

KilerMoto: Guys.
KilerMoto: Somethings warong. I fel weoiird
MotoK: Kiler?
MotoK: What happened?
KilerMoto: dunnoo. cannt see strsight. Thingsre blurry.
KilerMoto: rums spinnings.
MotoK: You sure you werent poisoned? Or drugged?
KilerMoto: SHOT
KilerMoto: That muss be it i thinks i havve som e drugs around here to helpp/
<KilerMoto has left the chat>
MotoK: ND you doing okay? This has to be hard on you.
NDMoto: im fine.
GlassMoto: You don't have to be alright, you know.
NDMoto: I don't want to talk about it.

Ned brought his knees to his chest. The soft mattress under him nearly swallowed him whole. His lip quivered. Everything was his fault. He was so useless. Why couldn't he do anything? It was his fault Kiler was in this situation. If he had only been able to ask Kiri. She would have sent Kiler help. Why couldn't he do anything right?
Salty tears stung his eyes as he muffled his sobs. The first few began streaming down his face as the tight knot made itself known once more. Useless. Why couldn't you be better? Why was he so bad at existing? I shouldn't have given birth to you. He should have let himself die back then. He's just a waste of space. His own parents didn't even want him. He was just a burden.
Why can't you be useful like other children? His mother had told him. You're so useless. You can't even do chores properly. He just wanted her to leave. It was better to be alone. You cause your mother and I so many problems. His father had told him. Stay down here and be quiet. Don't cause us any more problems. The cold, dark basement was comforting in a way. He was alone there. They didn't go down there much. It was there that he found the others.
You don't deserve to live. No! He wanted the thoughts to leave. You're just a waste of space. No! You're own parents didn't even want you. No… Hot tears streamed down his face. He didn't want to be useless anymore. He didn't want these thoughts in his head.
He hardly registered as his door closed, a dip in his mattress coinciding with a sob. Ned didn't register as a warm body pressed against his, or that a blanket snaked its way around him. He did register the soft humming coming from nearby, as well as the single spot on his back where soft circles were being drawn.
Ned found himself leaning into the warmth beside him. It felt so wrong, yet it was everything he needed. He wanted the warmth beside him even if it hurt more later.
He managed to pull himself together enough to figure out that his mother was holding him. His mother was holding him?
"W-why?" The word was a struggle with how tight his throat felt. She didn't answer, choosing to hold him close.

/=/

KilerMoto: Good news!
KilerMoto: I've managed to not die! And I've figured out who it is that's trying to kill me! It's our current leader Sam Yusuf Thalrision Yvor Carlos Fanon.
MotoK: Im glad youre still alive.
MotoK: That certainly is a name.
KilerMoto: Yeah.
KilerMoto: Apparently, he's somewhere in the capital. I've already checked the couple of gangs we have. He's not there.
MotoK: Any new injuries?
KilerMoto: Lost an arm yesterday. Still getting used to it, but I should be able to get a replacement. Going to be a lot harder to fight until then, though.
MotoK: You lost an arm?!
KilerMoto: Yeah. Bleed a lot, and nearly died getting away. A friend of mine helped patch me up.
KilerMoto: NDMoto not to be pushy, but you got an ETA on those reinforcements?
KilerMoto: Would really be helpful here. My friends keep getting targeted for helping me.
NDMoto: I'm sorry…

/=/

Ned's chest hurt as he opened the chat. His throat threatened to close as he became aware of everything around him. He just needed to open the chat. He needed to do this. He had to.

<NDMoto has started a private chat with GlassMoto>
NDMoto: GlassMoto?
GlassMoto: What's up?
NDMoto: Can…
NDMoto: Can we talk?
GlassMoto: Sure. What about?
NDMoto: You're… not going to tell anyone, right?
GlassMoto: Nah. Not if you don't want me to.
NDMoto: You said you're a therapist, yeah?
GlassMoto: Yup!
NDMoto: I… I don't want to feel like this anymore. i want to be useful…
GlassMoto: Alright. Let's talk for a while and see where to begin. Okay?
NDMoto: Yeah, sure. Where should I start?
GlassMoto: Wherever you want.

"Ned? Everything alright? You've been quiet for hours." Came the worried voice of his mother.
"Yeah…" His voice was hoarse and scratched at his throat. He knew she wasn't convinced. She always had a sense about these things. He wasn't surprised when she came in. He wasn't even surprised when she approached him. He was surprised when she set down a pitcher of water, shot him a smile, and left his room.
He wasn't sure about Glass' advice. He wasn't even sure he would be able to change. But he did feel better after talking to them. Ned wanted to do it more.

KilerMoto: Guys! I found him. I found Fanon.
KilerMoto: Not sure I can get to him. He's got a ton of guards, and I could really use some help. Any idea when I can expect it? NDMoto?
NDMoto: I… um. I'll try.
GlassMoto: You can do it, ND!
NDMoto: If you say so…
GlassMoto: You got this, bud. I believe in you.
NDMoto: But what if I can't? What if she says no?
GlassMoto: You know Kiri better than the rest of us. Do you really think she would say no?
NDMoto: I'm not sure.
GlassMoto: After leaving her world to come save you, you think she would refuse?
NDMoto: When you put it like that…

Ned couldn't move. Anxiety welled into a knot closing off his throat and freezing him in place. He read over the messages a few more times. Glass was right. He just had to trust in himself and his mother.
"Mum?" His shaky, uncertain mumble came.
"Ned?!" She exclaimed, "What's up."
"I…" Come on, you can do it. "Its… ah… Kiler… She's…"
She waited patiently for him to finish even as the lump in his throat grew worse. "She needs help. She… uh… Wanted to know if you could send some?" His mother looked at him fondly for a few moments, even as he waited for the pain he knew wasn't coming.
Finally, she said something. "Yeah. I can get the MTF and see what we can do, alright? You can tell Kiler that they should be by soon. It'll take an hour or so to get them ready and maybe an hour to get approval from the Foundation." Ned nodded. Looking back at his phone.

NDMoto: KilerMoto. Mum agreed. it'll be a few hours yet tho.
KilerMoto: That's fine. I'm sure I can last a few more hours.
<NDMoto has joined the channel {Therapy time}>
NDMoto: I managed it…
GlassMoto: Good job!
NDMoto: It was scary. I didnt want to ask cause i thought she might hurt me.
NDMoto: im not used to this. Mum seemed really happy that I asked.
GlassMoto: That's good. I knew you could do it!
NDMoto: Thanks, Glass…

/=/

NDMoto: The MTF set out a bit ago. I wonder how Kilers doin.
<KilerMoto has sent a photo.>
An image of a grinning, blood-covered woman appears. Her left arm up to her elbow is metallic. She is sitting on a ledge.
KilerMoto: Thanks NDMoto! Kiri's MTF was really helpful!
KilerMoto: As a side note, I now rule the Valration. You can expect your guys back in a few hours.
NDMoto: Its alright. I'm glad youre okay.
MotoK: Im glad!
MotoK: Wait. Youre the Valration leader now? Doesnt that make you the ruler of your world?
KilerMoto: Yes. Yes it does. At least no one will be wanting to kill me again any time soon!
KilerMoto: Anyway. I'm tired. I'm going to head off.
<KilerMoto has left the chat>

GlassMoto: Good job. I'm proud of you.
NDMoto: Thanks, Glass.
NDMoto: I appreciate it.
GlassMoto: <3

Into the Motoverse

Motoverse

{$nexttext}


Guaire

You can find more of my articles here.

F4NT4ST1C 03/04/1991 (Wed) 15:49:30 #79426920

Last year, while strolling through the American South, I learnt of the small town of Fairhaven, a settlement at the mouth of the Blackwater River in Florida. Life there was calm but I could immediately tell there was something off about the place and its people, so I set myself to learn more of what took place in that town. What you're going to read now is the result of some 8 months of investigations, taking place between June 1990 and February 1991.

The factory in question, still the largest building in the town.

The relevant story begins in 1951, it was this year when the town's chocolate factory, which even now towers over the rest of the structures in the town, was recorded to have been built. While the building itself was completed by summer that year, it seems it did not start working until two years later, as eyewitness testimonies have consistently noted the lack of activity in the factory, or the area surrounding before the year 1953. It should be mentioned that by the time its operations finally started none of the employees working at the place were locals.
The chocolate plant would start its operations in 1953, and did so without interfering in the town's affairs up until the year 1956, it is at this time that representatives from the chocolate plant would speak with the town council to propose what would become Fairhaven's most peculiar characteristic for the next 2 years: they were going to turn the town's kid population into chocolate tasters.
I could explain what I mean by that exactly, but a John Williams, a resident 9 years of age when the original events took place, did so better than I ever could:

Twice a month trucks would come from the plant, parking in the schoolyard. Inside the vehicles were the chocolate bars, many varieties of them, though we never came to taste more than 7 at a time, whenever it was a “chocolate day” we all felt as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. The envelope of the bars was made deliberately unrecognizable, instead only being marked with letters from A to H, so that they knew what we were eating, but we didn't, making eating them all the more exciting. After taking a bite we were asked to chew slowly to taste it better and after finishing swallowing the product we were asked to note how it tasted like, what it made us feel, what would we improve or what we liked, as well as other similar stuff. They wrote down all our answers. I sometimes wish I still was there, though that sentiment never lasts long.

All of the above was corroborated by further testimonies of townspeople at 1st, 2nd and 3rd graders at the time of the events.
Others also added how eventually the questions from the factory workers would become more esoteric. They asked if the kids started feeling dizzy or tired shortly after eating the chocolate, or if consuming the product brought up certain emotions in them. Something all testimonies agreed on was that, while good, the chocolates always contained too much sugar. Per one testimony: ”I cannot recall a single day in which we didn't suggest reducing its amount, the sweet taste prevented us from truly noticing any of the other flavors present and occasionally made us sick.”. This was never changed despite consistent feedback to do so.
This playground “tradition” started with the beginning of 1956's school year, and would continue up until 1959. Witnesses universally agreed that while initially the bars given were of common flavors (milk, dark or white chocolate), as the school year came by they diversified into a much larger number of exotic varieties, few of those being recognized by the town, as the kids had never tasted something similar before or after. A bitter, or sometimes acidic, taste was said to become common in these new flavors according to some witnesses. Though by their own admission the amount of sugar made recognizing any taste difficult.
At the end of the 1957-58 school year a small drop in overall school grades was noticed throughout the town (I even looked at some old school documents in the town's archives to corroborate it). This was blamed at the time on the children spending too much time playing and thinking about eating chocolate rather than studying as they should. Many thought the experiment by the chocolate plant would come to an end soon after classes ended, this couldn't be further from the truth.

F4NT4ST1C 03/04/1991 (Wed) 15:55:17 #71913980

All witnesses agree that during summertime the amount of chocolate distributed increased significantly. As many bars were dispensed the three months of summertime as during the entirety of the school year. The main disagreement amongst witnesses concerned where these products were given to the child population of the area, some claimed that it was done right outside churches, others said that they were given right outside the doors of their houses, most claimed that it was done in various other community gathering areas. It isn't wild to assume all these claims are truthful.
While consumption obviously increased during this period, most insist that individually the amount of chocolate one was willing to eat was significantly reduced, all the kids had started to get tired of eating it, amongst other issues that arose. Summer would go on mostly without issue, many of the interviewed said that their memories of this time were foggy and unclear. A local newspaper from around July noted that the children were unusually forgetful and prone to mood changes; this was blamed on poor sleeping schedules or various illnesses. The first real confrontation Fairhaven's townspeople had with the factory would occur due to something entirely different.
In late September a large drainage pipe broke outside the land owned by the plant, pouring large quantities of various chemicals into the stream of the Blackwater. The issue would be solved fairly quickly, but this was the first straw for many of the adults in Fairhaven.
It would be easy to blame the things that occurred from here on now on this leak, it would be reassuring to know that the following events were as a result of an industrial accident rather than deliberate malice. However after looking at environmental reports from the area following the leak, I came to learn that contamination of the territory was so minimal that it basically had no effect, despite what someone may initially think. Still it became the first truly negative incident to the average adult townspeople when it came to the chocolate plant.
When school started again the children had by now learned to not trust the plant's workers, nor many of the other adults for that matter. Trucks became an increasingly common sight, coming ever more frequently, even when most of the kids had long since refused to participate. This relationship would mark the entirety of the school year. It was clear by early 1960 that the factory workers had also lost interest in trying to feed chocolate to the children, they still came to the schoolyard, but to observe, especially those who used to eat large quantities of the stuff and now suffered from severe brain fog. The kids obviously tried to complain to their betters, but outside a few cases it was all for naught, and the school year came and went without anyone taking even the smallest action against the chocolate plant.
Tensions against the chocolate plant wouldn't truly appear till summer 1959. A neighbor by the name of Louise Corbin wrote a series of strongly-worded letters in the local newspaper urging action against the factory. In these letters Louise claimed that the chocolate factory was at fault for all kind of local problems, many in which its involvement cannot be doubted, like the ever increasing brain fog of the children population, and the resulting increase in repeated grades as a result, others such as the accusations of forcefully keeping Fairhaven's economy stagnant were more dubious though.
These accusations were apparently enough for the mostly unconvinced adults to finally take action against the chocolate factory through protests, though here is where the different versions of this series of events severely diverge. According to some, the protests never reached more than a few dozen members, others argue that instead there were a few hundred of protestors at any given time — a significant portion of the town's population if true. Other common disagreements occur over the weather, a widespread claim is that while the protests were on the weather was awfully warm, another common version says that, despite the month, the northern wind made it an awfully cold day, what all versions agree on however, is the heavy rain.
It had already started raining around late July according to various reports, but by September 3rd 1959 the rain had become so intense as to make the Blackwater river flood. The process was as fast as it was unexpected, quickly covering much of the town under a shallow murky brown liquid, it too washed away the protestors, who came back home not achieving much of anything. As the rain continued to fall, a deep dense fog would fall into the town the next day.
My attempts to obtain meteorological data of the town to corroborate this have failed, and information from neighboring settlements don't support the idea that any of this happened, there wasn't any registered rain, nor significant enough cloud cover. However this memory is one of the few things all townspeople agree on.
I wish I could say what happened next, but the truth is that I don't know, nor does anyone else in the town. I must have asked some 100 people, in hopes of trying to get that information, but no person who was alive back then knows anything that transpired that day. I even drove to Tallahassee and Jacksonville in hopes that those who left the place for greener pastures could tell me anything. Nada. The town went to sleep on September 4th, and woke up on the 6th without recalling any event that took place the prior day. The chocolate factory was later found to be empty and abandoned.
This is where this story ends, up until this day Fairhaven has the largest per capita cases of Retrograde Amnesia, the town too has been in a state of economic stagnation since the 60's, that only now seems to be starting to end.
The biggest enigma of this whole debacle is still the chocolate plant, Stewart's Chocolate Plant, the moment I started this investigation I put the brunt of my efforts in discovering what the hell was up with that place. The chocolate produced there has not been found anywhere else in the US, nor any other countries for that matter, attempting to research owners, suppliers, or customers only lead to dead ends. The entire investigation into the company should itself be called a giant dead end, since it is as if it didn't exist.
I'm usually not one prone to believing most conspiracy theories, but with cases like this, there is seldom any other explanation.

rating: +89+–x


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Content warnings- Very mild/implied xenophobia, and… gayness, a whole lot of gayness.

For every number that decreased on the GPS– time until arrival, distance until arrival– my anxiety increased by roughly 1 notch. What a notch was, I wasn't sure, but they sure were increasing. We were headed towards my last known location: the rebel base.
Thankfully, at all of those heated meetings I'd been more or less forced to attend, they had to use maps. How would you make plans and mobilise your people without being able to communicate where you're going?
I think they realised that I wasn't going to tell on them when someone had gone into my room to change my bedsheets. I cringed thinking about it; ‘Where'd all this blood come from?' with that blank expression, like I had a good and sane-sounding explanation. ‘Oh, my skin just falls apart randomly. I don't know why, haha.' I couldn't even remember what I said, just that they didn't offer to change my bedsheets anymore.
They had failed to realise that I wasn't some high-spirited, brilliant young soul that was tragically sacrificing myself for the greater good. I just wanted to be done with everything, and if I could help fix things– even by being a botched experiment that they learned from, to do it better the second time– then that would put a meaning to my stupid, miserable life.
But my negative train of thought crashed and lost all of its rotten cargo when the man in the driver's seat put his hand on my thigh.
“Ça va?”
“It's just, like, I keep thinking about all the reasons that snowballed into everything, you know?”
“I do know. I understand how you feel. I never thought I would have gotten off of that ship. Some days I felt so cynical, for it would stain my hands forever if I… well, I eventually did what I had to do. And I cannot bring myself to feel regret, because even as the image of their mangled bodies is disturbing… I would have rotted on that vessel. Yes, I was captured by the Foundation, but if that had not occurred, what would have come of you?”
“I would be dead,” I admitted. “I, uh, yeah, I probably would have killed myself. I would have found a way.” It was weirdly raw, and squicked me to say out loud. But it was true.
“I am glad you didn't do that.” He gave my thigh a gentle squeeze. “Life is infinitely more bearable with you around.”
“Right back at you.” I placed my hand over his, so extremely grateful that he was there. So, so extremely grateful that he'd been there, and decided to stick around after it all.
As if reading my mind, he spoke again. “It is not a chore to be around you. I know you think it is, as if you are simply that unbearable, but, ah, ce n'est pas la vérité. You are a joy in my life.”
The GPS chirped, letting us know that we'd arrived at our destination. The Doctor pulled up to the small patch of worn-down grass and I undid my seatbelt.
Okay, well, here goes nothing.
“Are you sure you don't want me to go in with you?” he asked as I opened the door.
“No, it's okay. I keep a much lower profile than you. People would probably be disturbed at the sound of 100-kg heeled footsteps. Also, I think you would hit your head on the doorframe.”
“All valid points. I will be waiting right over there,” he indicated a spot just outside of the door's view, “unless you do not return within the allotted 8 minutes.”
“I'll be careful,” I said as I shut the door. He nodded, but looked troubled as he watched me turn.
The vehicle rolling away made me tense, and I had to remind myself it was literally just right over there. It was literally a 10 second walk away. Well, it wouldn't be once I was inside the building…
It's going to be fine, everything is fine. Nobody will notice, you won't get caught. You won't get separated again, you won't get separated, you will not get separated from him.
The keypad attached to the door was worn in places, and I tried to piece together the most used characters in my broken– no, decimated– memory. I'd left through this door to take midnight walks, and more importantly, I'd re-entered it every time.
The code was… it was, uh…
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.
A light inside the mechanism flashed red. Um…
Beep, beep, beep, beep-beep.
My finger slipped, pressing two buttons simultaneously. It flashed red again. Okay, well, this other one had to be it.
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.
Weirdly, the handle turned despite the keypad flashing red. I reached for it absentmindedly, but before I could, it withdrew; the door opened inwards.
There was someone standing there, looking at me in confusion. Definitely not part of the plan.
“Hi, I left something inside,” I explained, trying to force my face into something friendly.
“What did you leave?”
“Field visor.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who left its field visor.”
It squinted at me. “No, who are you?”
“Please let me get my field visor.”
“How did you leave it inside if you don't know the code?”
“It was a while ago.”
“How long ago?”
“At least 2 seasons.” Was it? Maybe.
“Why did you leave it?”
“I didn't think I'd need it.”
“What's your designation?”
“Prefer not to answer.” I pushed past it, starting down the long hallway.
“Hey! Who are you?” It was right behind me. I walked faster.
“I'm on your side.”
“You're a blasted Two! Do you think I'm blind? Do you think I can't see your eyes?”
“Cosmetic surgery,” I lied as I turned a corner, making the mistake of glancing back. It was very close behind. Where was that room again?
“And you bleached your skin, and you filed down your teeth, too?”
“Extensive cosmetic surgery.”
“No, come back here, tell me what business you have in this place!”
I started running. Its footsteps pounded behind me. Oh no, oh no, was my room this far back? Would it even have the same things inside?
Just as my chest started to hurt from exertion and fear, I saw it: A door, unlike the others; it had a sign on it, printed in large letters.
Do Not Enter, or the equivalent in Kepler. I turned and slammed right into it, barely keeping upright as it flung open, hitting the wall with a loud noise.
It was right there, right on my bed. I knew instantly that the visor was mine, because it was the only one I'd ever seen that was small enough to fit my head. Its weight was all too familiar in my hands as I slipped it onto my head, wiping the dust off the front.
I hit the power button, and it took multiple precious seconds to turn on. Then it displayed an updating symbol– Now? Seriously?!
It dawned on me that I didn't hear any footsteps. Whirling around, I checked to make sure the room was still empty; it was. And I didn't see anyone in the hallway.
Screw it, I thought. This might be a trap. No, this is definitely a trap. But I'll get a head start anyways, because I have literally no other option.
Quietly stepping into the hallway, I scanned it more thoroughly; empty. Silent. Not a single open door.
Until the one not two metres away from me opened.
I didn't even look to see who was coming out; I bolted. My legs hurt, and my lungs hurt, and it felt like someone was stabbing me right in the vena cava. But the adrenaline was enough to make a One vomit, and I kept going despite the thundering strides behind me.
My visor finished updating; an interrogation mark displayed across the screen.
[Please input credentials.]
I couldn't even take a breath, how was I supposed to–?
“You think you can get away?!” the person called, dangerously close.
[Invalid credentials. You have 10 seconds to input the correct credentials, or this unit will lock.]
[10.]
Oh, no.
[9.]
I'd gotten out of worse situations.
[8.]
I was going to be fine, everything was going to be fine, right?
[7.]
The corner was close.
[6.]
The person chasing me started yelling. I didn't even register the words. I covered the mic with my hand; if the visor picked it up, it'd think I was some thief, running away with government property–
[5.]
“Authorise Unit 5a82!”
[…]
I turned the corner, but it must have been too sharp, because I ran into something, hard. I fell, rolling, hitting the wall– Oh.
[Loading…]
The person I'd run into looked stunned. They had managed to stay upright, but I felt like one of those human cartoons with the birds flying around their head.
The One chasing me had caught up, but as I regained my mental faculties, I realised it was just standing there; the person I'd bumped into was actually standing between it and me.
[Voice pattern recognised. Hello, 5a82, thank you for your service.]
“Don't. Don't try anything. Do you know who that is?” it asked the other.
“I… but… that's not… possible.”
“It saved our lives, yes? That too felt impossible.”
I scrambled to my feet, almost falling back down again, but nobody tried to stop me from going to the door. I was about to open it when someone spoke.
“What happened to them?”
“What-” pant, “happened-” pant, “to who?”
“The five scientists.”
“They died.” I tried to catch my breath. “Burned. Crashed.” I pushed down on the handle, opening the door and stepping out.
“They will never be forgotten.”
Before I closed the door behind me, I turned back to look at them. “How do you know my designation?” It came out hoarse, strained.
“You were never forgotten.”

After a lot of staring out the window and checking the mirrors to make sure we weren't being followed, my companion seemed to pick up on something.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Does what hurt?”
“You keep touching your shoulder and hipbone. Are you in pain?”
“Oh, I just slipped and… yeah. I fell, but it's really not that bad.”
Silence. He was trying to get me to talk more.
“My profile was kept relatively low, but not that low,” I finally admitted.
He sighed. “I knew I should have gone in with you.”
“No, there was actually someone standing right by the door, that would have been worse.”
“What?” His head turned towards me, and I shrunk down against the seat. He seemed to realise my discomfort and looked back to the road.
“It- It's not that bad, I have the thing I needed. They, well, so- they know who I am, but nobody will believe them about that. The most likely outcome is, is that anyone they tell will think someone broke in to steal my visor, and they made up a ghost story to not get into trouble.”
“Because you are dead.”
“Yes. Officially, I am dead.” I punctuated it by making a soft chopping motion against the top of the visor in my lap. “Officially, I died a while ago. Officially, I don't exist. So I hope I don't give 7cb7 a heart attack when I do this.” I raised the gear up and fumbled with the closure, then tried to hold my hair out of the way as I put it on my head. The hum of the car was dulled as the earpieces filtered the environmental noise.
[Hello, 5a82. Please input a command.] the screen displayed, one tiny line of characters in front of each eye, calibrated specifically for my face shape and interpupillary distance.
“Display notifications.”
[Loading…]
[26 missed calls. 3 voice messages. 104 text messages. 728 missed reminders.]
Fuck, that's going to take a long time to go through.
“Uh… sort by sending feed address, descending by quantity.”
[728 missed reminders - internal
69 text messages, 18 missed calls, 3 voice messages - UNKNOWN
26 text me-]
“Isolate line 2.”
[69 text messages, 18 missed calls, 3 voice messages - UNKNOWN]
“Why is the sending feed address unknown?”
[Encrypted sender.]
“What's the form of encryption?”
[Encryption does not match government standard.]
What?
“What is it?” the Doctor asked. I realised I'd been silent, just staring at the text.
“Disregard following input.” A mute icon popped up in the corner. “I- I don't know what this is, someone messaged me, like, 100 times, and their address isn't listed. They're not with the government, I don't know who it is. I don't-”
But what if…
“Do you have any idea who it could be from?”
“Unmute input.” The icon disappeared. “Play oldest voice message.”
[Playing voice message from 286 sols ago.]
The quiet buzz of background noise from a bad microphone came alive in the headphones.
[Transcription is as follows:]
[Hey, what's up. I'm just calling to say] – I knew that voice.
[that I'm okay, and you don't need to worry about me.] Even through the awful mic.
[Just wanted to make sure you're doing okay.] Gah, my eyes were burning.
[I hope you don't feel too bad] I blinked rapidly, the fluid that had collected inside spilling down.
[about everything. I don't even know if you're getting this message.]
[Call me back, okay? It's lonely here, and… (laughs) I guess I miss you.]
[Voice message over. Replay?]
“Ah… cancel… close notifications.” I took the visor off, rubbing my eyes.
The voice had been so distracting that I hadn't even registered the fact that the Doctor had already pulled over, parked in a small space between the clusters of trees that surrounded the road.
“I need you to talk to me. Please tell me what's going on.” He was turned towards me, face creased with concern. His hand reached for my shoulder, but hovered, like he wanted to touch me but didn't know if he should.
I placed my hand on the back of his and guided it to the side of my face; I leaned into the touch, craving comfort in my shocked state.
“Someone that I thought forgot me… it turns out that they didn't.”
His thumb caressed the outer corner of my eye, wiping away the hints of sadness. “Nobody could.”
“No, it's easy… I'm not really… important…” My hands hid in my sleeves save for the fingertips that were picking at each other in my lap.
He leaned across the console, clicking his tongue softly as his other hand brushed away the stray hairs that had fallen into my eyes. “Not important? I would take bullet after bullet for you… I would kill and die for you… I would start a war… I would, I would…”
His words were making my eyes damp all over again. “You don't need to, I'm… I'm not… I'm not worth it.”
“You are worth the world.”
The thoughts going through my mind made me turn away from him, undeserving of his soft touch. “No, I'm horrible. I'm worthless,” the words tumbled out.
The Doctor's hand followed, body shifting across the console. “Mon chou…” His hand slid down to my side, other arm following in a loose hold. I could feel his eyes on me, searching my face, but I stared at my clenched fists, wishing I could suck the tears that were threatening to fall back in like Earl Deveraux.12
“You are the sweetest, kindest person I have ever had the delight of knowing. You are perfect,” he assured me softly, hands repeatedly shifting like he wanted to pull me closer, but was uncertain.
“I… I… I…” My throat was doing that thing again, where it felt raw and tight; I could only breathe, not talk. I repeated over and over in my mind what I wanted to say, the sophisticated response that would make perfect sense, but all that came out was a strained “Um…”
Despite not having lacrimal puncta draining into my nose, I sniffled; I was trying to take even breaths, but my body had other ideas.
“It is alright. I understand how you feel,” he sympathised.
“What?” I managed to choke out. “B-But how? You're- you- but- you're so-” I managed to look at him, dark robes blending in with the dark interior of the car like a shadow. The large bulk of his body made me feel comforted, even safe; as a person who was much too small and weak to guarantee my own safety, it was invaluable to have such a sturdy person looking out for me. And I could look at his face for hours; it was so angular, sharp, but his eyes went softer than silk when he looked at me. I hated when anyone else looked, but oh, not him, never him. I never hated anything he did.
Swallowing, I laced my fingers through those of one of his hands. “I-I don't understand. You're… you're perfect.”
“My sweet… that is the point. I do not have such problems with my esteem as do you, but I do not quite hold myself in the highest regard. Sometimes… I have feared that no ends justify my means, and so what does that make me? But if you, such a pure, lovely… angel,” he breathed, eyes crinkling slightly in a smile. “If someone as innocent as you could care for someone as condemned as I, perhaps it is so that I am not as terrible as I once thought. On the other side, if someone as hardened as I can appreciate the softness of you, that means you can shine through even the thickest of clouds.” He squeezed my hand. “You are not as terrible as some have tried to make you believe. In fact, you are not terrible at all.”
“I… I do care about you. I care about you lots and lots.” I immediately bit the inside of my cheek, fangs digging in as I realised how utterly immature I sounded.
My emotional intelligence was that of a rock; it's not like I ever was a child that got to grow up, so while the logic and reasoning centres of my brain were fully developed, I was hopelessly lacking social skills– even more than other Twos. I hadn't experienced the same meaningful connection with a caretaker that most of them had; relationships rich in emotional maturity were not something I was privy to.
His exhale turned into a fond noise of amusement, not loud enough to be a laugh but in the same burst-like pattern. “I know. I care about you very much as well.”
A small smile formed on my face, and I rubbed my eyes with my sleeve again; the man next to me settled closer, pressing the space between his eyes against my cheek, giving me a gentle squeeze with his arms.
I took a moment to just sit there and breathe, looking out the windshield at the beautiful flora surrounding us. Dappled light came in through the trees' leaves, making the whole scene look like something out of a painting. It was relaxing, peaceful, even.
“I know what I have to do,” I said finally.

Someone rolled up their sleeve to check the ping that came to their watch; it was an absent movement, but once they saw the feed address, they stopped speaking mid-sentence and just stared at the LED display.
Are you alright? The person they were conversing with asked in Kepler. Is there an issue?
Um… Can we continue this discussion later? They smiled with large, sharp teeth, but didn't wait for a response; they brushed by the other and quickly walked through the busy station, breaking into a run once they were out of sight. They only slowed periodically to check their watch again, to make sure they weren't hallucinating…
Once they got to their room, they rushed over to the feed interface, aqua eyes fixating on the notification.
There was no way.
It couldn't be.
It had to be.

I'd actually done it. I'd gotten ahold of 7cb7 through its hacked feed address, and we'd arranged a time and place to meet.
I was actually shocked how trusting it was; it must have been anxious to see me, because it didn't even ask me to prove my identity. I could have been someone with the government, someone who'd made a ploy to lure the resistance out to be able to capture members and extract information. But why would they do that after such a long time?
On the other hand, what if the hacked console was more of a community thing rather than a private one for 7cb7's usage, and it was someone hoping I was with the government, hoping that I would meet up with them so that they could capture me and extract information…
…Were the resistance and the government even at odds anymore? I'd heard snippets of conversations from the crew aboard the ship that brought us there, but they spoke more about technological advancements, trade routes, and intergalactic cargo hauling than politics. Was it simply not much of an issue anymore? That being said, nobody ever really talked about politics. Everyone liked to simply ignore it, pretend nothing was wrong, pretend the world wasn't falling apart at the seams.
But I tried to just shove that all to the side as I walked across the dewy grass, water condensing on my boots as I took even breaths of the cool, foggy air.
It reminded me of the night that was my turning point, the night that made everything cascade in such a way; the reason why the Doctor was following behind me, instead of me going through it all alone like I always had previously.
The reminder was entirely intentional– we were meeting up at the same place where we last parted, all that time ago. The suspected rebel base, that had turned out to be nothing; the sacrifice, the life that was almost lost, that had turned out to be pointless…
Lost in my thoughts, I tripped on the curb while crossing the silent street. Instead of eating pavement, I was caught around the chest and pulled back upright against a solid body.
“Careful now, you wouldn't want to get your clothes all dirty,” The Doctor chided.
“Oh– thanks,” I tried to un-wibble-ify my legs. “Sorry, I was just a little distracted…”
Once I was standing upright on my own, he let go of me, but kept a protective hand on my back as we slowly walked forward. Glancing at his feet, I wondered how he did it with those heels– though, I'd never seen him trip or stumble before, his movements being rather steady and fluid, well planned out. Everything about him was planned out.
“What are you thinking about?” He asked as we approached the building.
Luckily, I was able to find my train of thought again. “It's… It's not pointless,” I realised aloud.
“What's not pointless?”
“I was just thinking… all these awful things that have happened on this planet, even awful things that have happened to me… maybe it wasn't good that they happened, but they ultimately brought good things.”
“I suppose so,” he hummed in agreement.
“I don't know if I would have ever met you… Even though it's, like, a completely random set of events that made us end up here, together, it's still a special random set of events.”
“Oh, I wouldn't call them random.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he mused, “it is true that things such as the rate of evolution on our respective home planets, and therefore technological advancement, and therefore the succession of events that lead to your species being aware of Earth, then building spacecraft to get there, et cetera… even if you take into account that there may have been a planetary mass ejection that caused the spread of life between my Earth and your Kepler billions of years ago– even though that may have been a toss-up of fate, as soon as you ended up in my containment chamber that August night, I knew.”
“Knew what?”
The Doctor's hand trailed down my back, to my hand that he took in his. “Did you really think it was accidental?” I glanced at him– he was looking at me, the hazy light catching his yellow eyes. “No, as soon as I saw you… when you stumbled into the room, chest heaving, I could tell immediately that you were different. You just looked so… ah, les mots… t'es craquant, ouai, in a way I'd never seen before. Your face, flushed blue, body too slender for a human, heterochromatic eyes… moreso, you didn't reek of the disease as nearly every human does. And you still do not… you cannot. The sickness will not take you– cannot take you– and that made you, makes you so special.
“You looked like you would faint, and normally I would not care about such issues, but yet I reached for you so carefully; I was extremely aware of every place your uniform covered your body, for I would never forgive myself if I touched your skin and… extinguished such an interesting flame. That's how it started, interest, intrigue, but the way you looked at me, even as you were shoved to the ground, cuffed, dragged away… I knew, I knew. Nothing would stop me. You would be mine.”
Thank goodness I wasn't an endotherm, or my hand would have been a clammy mess– I would be his? What exactly that meant, I didn't know. But I did know how he gave me this feeling, a feeling I hadn't ever felt before, a feeling that made me… happy? Calm?
I couldn't remember ever feeling fully 'happy' before meeting him. Maybe this was how people were supposed to feel now and again.

The inside of the empty building wasn't exactly well-lit, but the dim light was perfect for this kind of off-the-cuff meeting. 7cb7 firmly closed the door behind us, latching the various haphazard locks attached to it.
And we looked at each other, and that little spark of happiness came up again. "Hey, you're not dead."
“Yeah,” it smiled at me with that smile, the smile. The one that looked so other at first, the one that was a physical marker of our division, and the one that I'd grown to seek out with any stupid little jokes I could think of. “Yeah, nice to see the same for you, dude.”
“I missed you,” was all I could think of to say. I thought it might be weird to talk about all the nights I'd lain awake, wondering what had come to be of my friend. Wondering if it was my fault, or what I could have done to prevent it.
It reached out and ruffled my hair. “Yeah, yeah. It's crazy, so much has happened since you were gone. Well, so much, and so little at the same time, right? ‘Cause, like, I dunno. It just never felt right without you there, so I've been almost procrastinating shit like you'd just magically appear back here. But you have, haven't you?”
“Well, now, I wouldn't say it was magic! I had a lot of help, from…” I turned my head towards the Doctor. “You know, this guy.”
Its eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Yeah, who's that?” It nodded towards him, mouth turning down slightly.
“He's my…” I faltered, unable to come up with any kind of designations or descriptors.
“He's my patient,” the Doctor filled in, stepping a little closer to me. Good, the live translators were still working. Despite him learning at the speed of light, I wasn't the best teacher, and he hadn't exactly learned the full Kepler language yet.
“Patient, huh?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Though, not in the same way that maybe we have on Kepler.”
“So it's not from Kepler? Where'd it come from?” 7cb7 crossed its arms.
“Well, I mean, where do you think I went?” I asked lightheartedly.
“It's an other, then?” Ah, that word. In a society so highly valuing conformity, nobody would want to be an ‘other' now would they? It was a more polite version of some rather insulting things one could say. It was an expected reaction, of course, but I was still disappointed; I'd thought my friend would be more open-minded after everything it'd been through.
I shrank down a little bit. “Um… well, technically, but it's not like-”
“We are all aliens to each other, are we not?” The Doctor spoke up. “It is best we put aside our differences.”
7cb7's eyes snapped to the space behind me. “You tryna tell me what to do?”
“No, I'm sure that's not what he meant,” I responded.
“Maybe that would be for the best for 6118, or as you know him, 5a82,” The Doctor shot back. Okay, that wasn't helping.
“You think you know what's best for 5a82?” 7cb7's normally rounded, friendly eyes looked quite menacing, its fist clenched against a tense bicep. “News flash, I dragged its vertically challenged ass to the hospital when it had liver failure. Oh, and I visited it there every day, when nobody else gave enough of a shit to.”
“You think you know what's best?” The Doctor laid a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back a step. “Good sir, the atrocities we have faced together, the depths I have pulled him from, from injury, from wretched others, from illness and even imminent death… no, I do not believe you know much at all about him in comparison to the things I do."
“Oh, what, just ‘cause you helped him out a little, you know better than me?” 7cb7 leaned in, challenging. "Tell me one thing from his life on Kepler."
The Doctor thought for a moment. "Well, can't we let the past be the past?"
It burst out laughing, perhaps mocking, perhaps self-satisfied. "So you admit that you know jack all. No, no, it's okay. I wouldn't expect him to tell you about—"
I caught its hand that was being gestured about. I didn't really want it to blurt out events of my horribly messed-up life, and not to one-up the Doctor in a contest of who was closer to me.
7cb7's expression fell for a brief moment before it took on a more relaxed, playful stance. "…About the time I introduced him to Earthen media. He likes that stuff a lot."
The Doctor kept a firm grip on my shoulder. "I know."
"Oh, so you do! Cool." It glanced at me, seeking approval. "Wow, I guess that settles it, you know him better!"
"Sure."
“Well, um, anyways." 7cb7 cleared its throat. "I was actually gonna ask you, or I guess both of you, to come stay with me at our main base of operations– us being, you know, those with a strange relationship with the government. It's a lot safer than it used to be…” I lost track of what 7cb7 was saying as I was once more immersed in my thoughts.
“5a82?”
I glanced up. “What?”
“I said that I'll send the station's address to your visor. Return to your vehicle and then drive there, okay? I'll be expecting you by dusk.”
“Right…”
“You make sure it gets there safely,” 7cb7 said pointedly to the Doctor.
“To neglect such an important task would be unlike me.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets, balling them into fists as I thought about all of the horrible things my friends didn't know about me.
"Run along, now, it's getting dark."
With any luck, they would never learn them.

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Footnotes
1. Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, he says something like “This is enough to make a grown man cry… but not this grown man, get back in there, tear!” and it goes back into his eyeball. I'm pretty sure it made a slurping sound, too. It haunts me.
2. My beta reader told me that she "could have gone [her] entire life without that information" and I'm sorry to anyone who feels similarly. (However, not sorry enough to cut that line! /lh)