To: O5-7
From: α-1 "Tanner"
Subject: Cam Footage

Sir,
Attached you will find the requested camera footage of Armed Site-21 for the week of 8/9/2021. What is done with this information is entirely up to you.
Attached Files: camfootage.zip
Please contact me if you require anything else. I hope you enjoy your vacation.
V/R
Agent Tanner

Agent in Charge, MTF Alpha-1 "Red Right Hand", C Team
Secure, Contain, Protect

This correspondence is subject to being monitored for suspicious content as per the Foundation Internal Security Decree of 7/08/2001. Stay Vigilant.

.

<< ACCESS RECORDING 8/9/2021 >>

>> ACCESS GRANTED <<

ARCHIVE DATE: MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 2021

LOCATION: ARMED SITE-21 BREAK ROOM

[BEGIN VIDEO LOG]

[A Level 2 humanoid researcher, Researcher Alex Wong, is making coffee in the break room. She appears visibly stressed and fatigued. She sighs loudly as she inputs her personal settings into the coffee machine, sets her thermos under the spout, and waits for the machine to start.]
RESEARCHER WONG: Fucking Mondays.
[The door opens, and a Level 2 humanoid researcher, Researcher Brian Forrest, enters the room. He is sipping from a mug which displays a bootleg Bart Simpson in a desert camo uniform strangling former Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein. He seems lively and upbeat.]
RESEARCHER FORREST: Hey, Alex!
[Wong takes her coffee, along with one pack of cream, and two packs of sugar.]
RESEARCHER WONG: Morning, Brian.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Man, we've got the mother of all research projects today. Didja hear? An anomalous humanoid cadaver got delivered to Xenomaterials by Dr. Ward's team. It's on ice now, but it's freaky. Real freaky.
[Wong rips both packs of sugar open, dumping the contents into the coffee. She does the same with the pack of cream.]
RESEARCHER WONG: And they want us to dissect it and run some tests on it?
RESEARCHER FORREST: Yup.
[Wong rolls her eyes, scoffing. She tosses her trash in a waste bin and grabs a stirrer.]
RESEARCHER WONG: You do know how we got that thing, right?
RESEARCHER FORREST: How?
[Wong begins stirring the contents of her thermos.]
RESEARCHER WONG: Dr. Ward iced it himself. Stone cold killer style. I hear he's been getting smoked for it.
RESEARCHER FORREST: I wonder why.
RESEARCHER WONG: Word around the grapevine is that he broke OPSEC to terminate it himself. Ward's containment teams had a shitshow trying to explain what happened to the civvies.
[Wong tosses the stirrer into the trash.]
RESEARCHER WONG: Luckily, only his son saw it, but all the high-ups are pissed about it. Don't know much else.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Woah.
[Wong takes a sip from her thermos.]
RESEARCHER WONG: Yup. I don't blame him, if that was my kid at the mercy of a monster like that, I'd do anything to keep him safe.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Yeah, that's for sure. They, uh, also let L-4's have kids…?
RESEARCHER WONG: They'll let L-4's do anything, man. Except becoming an O5.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Right.
[A pause.]
RESEARCHER FORREST: So, uh… who's gonna be overseeing our projects now, since Doc Ward's in limbo?
RESEARCHER WONG: Dunno. Shift lead still wants a full report on it done by COB today.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Damn. Right.
[Approximately sixty seconds of silence pass as Wong takes periodic sips from her thermos.]
RESEARCHER WONG: …Is that all you came in here for, Brian?—
RESEARCHER FORREST: Oh, uh, no, I was, uh, gonna grab a, uh—
RESEARCHER WONG: —'cause I really should start on that report early before we start doing the—
RESEARCHER FORREST: —donut… uh… y-yeah…
RESEARCHER WONG: Yeah.
[Silence. Forrest awkwardly steps past Wong, grabbing a pastry from a donut box behind her. Forrest steps to the door, then pauses.]
RESEARCHER FORREST: Anyways, uh, Alex…
RESEARCHER WONG: Hm?
RESEARCHER FORREST: So, uh, I was wondering, uh…
[Wong stares at Forrest.]
RESEARCHER FORREST: Maybe, uh, after we do all that stuff, and, uh, after we— if the, uh, week clears up, do you think, maybe, uh…
[Researcher Wong opens up her mouth to speak, but is stopped when the loud intercom chime plays.]
INTERCOM: RESEARCHER ALEX WONG: PLEASE REPORT TO XENOMATERIALS ACCESSIONING ON SUBLEVEL TWO.
RESEARCHER WONG: Thaaaats me. I'll see you around, Brian.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Yeah. See you in an hour.
[The door opens, and Researcher Wong exits, thermos in hand. Once it closes, Researcher Forrest lets out a loud sigh.]
RESEARCHER FORREST: Damn it…

[END VIDEO LOG]

<< ACCESS RECORDING 8/10/2021 >>

>> ACCESS GRANTED <<

ARCHIVE DATE: TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 2021

LOCATION: ARMED SITE-21 CAFETERIA

[BEGIN VIDEO LOG]

[The cafeteria doors slowly open automatically, allowing a man in business casual wear to enter: Dr. Marcus L. Crassus. Dr. Crassus adjusts his golden aviator sunglasses as he holds the door open for someone behind him. His Level-4 keycard, on a retractable lanyard, returns back to the carabiner on his waist.]
DR. CRASSUS: Smell that, Ward? Bacon.
[Another man in a labcoat enters: fellow Level-4 researcher, Dr. Jonathan Ward. Ward looks visibly upset and sulks in beside Dr. Crassus, clutching an aluminum storage clipboard close to his chest.]
DR. WARD: Last meals typically happen before executions, Marc.
DR. CRASSUS: Oh, cheer up, mon. You're not dead yet. Come on, can't work on an empty stomach.
[Crassus pats Ward on the shoulder as if to reassure him, much to Ward's chagrin. The two step over to the buffet, grab plastic trays, and begin serving themselves.]
DR. WARD: I thought you hated grits.
DR. CRASSUS: You kidding me? I love grits. When they're done well, that is.
DR. WARD: Mmm.
[The two make their way over to get some drinks. Ward grabs a coffee mug and begins inputing his personal settings into the coffee machine, while Dr. Crassus fills a plastic cup full of water. Nearby, a custodian is seen putting a plastic lid on his drink. He looks over and sees the two doctors, and assumes a wide smile.]
CUSTODIAN: Oh! Heyyy, it's bird-man and Doc Ward! Loved the diversity seminar speech, man, they played it here on the television in the rec room! It was great, man.
DR. WARD: I appreciate it. Have a good day.
CUSTODIAN: You as well, sirs! Thank you!
[The custodian smiles and leaves, drink in hand. Ward and Crassus move over to an empty table and sit down. Ward takes a napkin and wipes something off the table before he begins eating. Crassus scratches his arm momentarily, plucking a small green and red feather out out of seemingly nowhere and setting it aside, which Ward looks at uncomfortably.]
DR. CRASSUS: Oh, heh. Sorry. You and your OCD.
[Crassus pockets the feather. Ward sighs, poking at his scrambled eggs with a plastic fork.]
DR. WARD: You know, Marc, you didn't have to—
DR. CRASSUS: Yea mon, didn't have to invite you to breakfast at the DFAC, but I did, so now we're here. We don't get these kinds of opportunities very often, John. Foundation don't like interpersonal relationships.
DR. WARD: …I meant that you didn't have to defend me during that meeting. Sorry—kangaroo court is the better term to use.
[Dr. Crassus crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. At this angle in the camera, more green and yellow feathers can be seen on his body.]
DR. CRASSUS: You're walkin' away with only a disciplinary warning on your record. One. That's it. Listen, knowing someone like you, someone like me—
[Dr. Crassus points to Ward's arm, then to himself.]
DR. CRASSUS: …shouldn't you be glad you got off lucky? I mean… shit! They hired me for God's sake. We don't get these kinds of opportunities very often in life, John. Yes, I didn't have to defend you; doing that probably ruined my chances of making Site Admin or even Site Director…
[Dr. Crassus begins eating a piece of cubed fruit.]
DR. CRASSUS: …but should I have defended you? Absolutely. We stick out for each other.
[Dr. Ward sighs.]
DR. WARD: I understand why you're saying this, I made a whole speech about it for the diversity seminar. I just don't feel like you understand why I broke protocol. It could've costed you a lot more than just your reputation to defend me.
[Dr. Crassus scoffs, then begins mimicking Ward's voice perfectly.]
DR. CRASSUS: [Mimicking Ward's voice] "Could've costed you a lot more than just your reputation to defend me." [Normal voice] I already knew what I was getting into among the higher-ups when I went in defending you during the tribunal. Enlighten me.
[Dr. Ward stops eating, looking straight at Dr. Crassus.]
DR. WARD: Have you got any kids, Marc?
[Dr. Crassus shakes his head.]
DR. CRASSUS: No. Look at me, man.
[Dr. Crassus holds up his hands for emphasis. At this angle in the camera, his hands appear as a cross between parrot wings and human fingers. The forearms are similarly feathered.]
DR. WARD: So you don't understand what I mean.
DR. CRASSUS: What could I possibly not understand, John?
[Dr. Ward sighs.]
DR. WARD: Do you remember that cheesy oath they had all researchers recite before they were officially considered hired?
DR. CRASSUS: Something about us "dying in the dark so that they may live in the light?" Yeah.
DR. WARD: Over time, I've realized it's stuck with me. For a while, when I was younger, I was just like everyone else. Running tests and experiments, going out in the field like you, documenting countless horrors and phantasmagoria alike, and studying folks who don't quite fit the norm, so we could find better ways to hide them. But hey, that was all part of the job description and requirements, right?
[Ward places his fork on his plate.]
DR. WARD: Then, life came. I got older. Got married—you were at my damn wedding, for God's sake. Had a kid. Suffered loss. I realized that cheesy little oath wasn't just about the Veil. It was about Protection. The "P" in the SCP Foundation.
[Dr. Crassus nods slowly.]
DR. WARD: When I saw that thing strangling my son, I was very well prepared to take it down with me. It's one thing to die in the field, but it's another thing when the anomalous comes after you, and I took it personally. I didn't want to have to bury yet another person I loved, that died to something I study. Not me.
[Dr. Ward sighs loudly. He opens the clipboard and scatters out some documents with several teenagers' photographs attached.]
DR. WARD: And now they want me to study my kid? His friends? They want to put the blame on me for something he did? For terminating an anomaly that was threatening my son?
[Dr. Ward scoffs in disbelief.]
DR. WARD: Johnny's a good kid, but this is unacceptable, Marcus, and I stand by what I did.
[Dr. Crassus looks over the files for a moment.]
DR. CRASSUS: Christ. I didn't even know.
DR. WARD: That's why I was so hesitant on getting breakfast.
[Dr. Ward collects his files. Silence ensues for about thirty seconds.]
DR. CRASSUS: Well… shit. [Chuckles] Aren't you glad you said yes now? I mean, listen, John. I care about you, perhaps in more ways than one. It may seem like Admin hates you right now, but you've still got allies in this. You've got a whole-ass research team on your side, and you've got me. No matter what happens, I've got your back.
[Dr. Ward smiles.]
DR. WARD: Thanks, Marc.
[Dr. Crassus takes a forkful of grits and eats it, but almost immediately spits it out into a napkin.]
DR. CRASSUS: Fuck. That's nasty. Maybe you're right, John. I do hate grits.
[Dr. Ward chuckles.]

[END VIDEO LOG]

<< ACCESS RECORDING 8/11/2021 >>

>> ACCESS GRANTED <<

ARCHIVE DATE: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2021

LOCATION: ARMED SITE-21 TRAINING FACILITY

[BEGIN VIDEO LOG]

[A Level 3 Mobile Task Force operative, Agent Jericka "Lynn" Brown, is standing behind a computer screen at a station outside of a mock house in a large, open space. On the screen, a masked MTF trainee is clearing out the kill house. The trainee methodically scans his corners and every room in which he enters, and quickly snaps his training rifle up to engage pop-up metal silhouette targets as they appear in each room.]
AGENT LYNN: [Muttering] He's taking too long…
[The trainee clears out the room he is in, then rushes into the final room. In the final room, he is stopped by a final pop-up target of a monster, but this one has a spiraling fractal pattern painted on it. He pauses and flinches, before adjusting his stance, and fires three rounds into the target. As it falls, he steps over to the window and attaches a rappelling device to the side of the window, before climbing out the window and descending vertically down the side of the house.]
AGENT LYNN: Come on! Sense of urgency with everything you do! Let's go!
[The rappel device retracts back to the device on the trainee's waist as he sprints to the finish line. After crossing it, he jogs to a stop, lowering his rifle and approaching Lynn.]
TRAINEE: How'd I do?
[Lynn inspects the computer.]
AGENT LYNN: You passed, but you could always be better. Let me show you something real quick.
[Lynn gestures for the trainee to follow her over to a smaller firing range adjacent to the killhouse. She stops by one of the stalls.]
AGENT LYNN: Your stance, breath control, trigger squeeze? All that is perfect. Room clearing? Spot on. But the one thing which you struggle on…
[Lynn inputs a setting into the range computer beside her and faces the range. About three yards downrange, another monster target with a fractal painted on it pops up. In one swift motion, Lynn draws her sidearm from her hip and fires three shots downrange at the target. The trainee instinctively flinches slightly at this. As the target falls, she holsters her sidearm and turns back to the trainee.]
AGENT LYNN: …is hesitation. I didn't even need to turn around to know that you were going to flinch. You already know that the average gunfight occurs at a distance of around three yards, with three rounds fired over three seconds. But for monsters, it's much closer, and much quicker. You would've died in that last room if you were any slower. Tracking?
TRAINEE: I guess.
AGENT LYNN: You guess? Agent, if you hesitate, that could cost you, your team, and countless civilians their lives. Don't "guess," just do it.
[Lynn sighs.]
TRAINEE: Yes, ma'am. Sorry, it was just unex—
[Lynn holds her hand up. The agent stops.]
AGENT LYNN: Relax. You know, we don't put up those minor memetic hazards on our targets at random to fuck with you guys. Well, maybe a little bit—but that's not the point. They're supposed to condition you to operate under stress, and to make you more confident. Learning to operate under stress, by conducting challenging and realistic training under stress, is what makes this become second nature.
TRAINEE: Understood. What can I do to fix my deficiencies?
AGENT LYNN: Well, when I was a rookie, I was kinda like you. I was hesitant, quiet, a little scared, but I did what I was told. But when my commander got cornered by superhuman cultists, I didn't have time to hesitate, so I had to drop the injured POW I was dragging and go save him. I'm telling you this because that was my "wake-up-call." Back then, we didn't have fancy fractal targets or high-tech training guns, so I had to learn to adapt with my training.
[The sound of doors unlocking is heard behind them. Lynn turns around to see the doors to the training facility open, as a bearded, middle-aged man in monochrome fatigues and a cowboy hat approaches. He is instantly recognizable as Mobile Task Force Commander Sam "Colt" Davidson.]
AGENT LYNN: Hopefully, your wake-up-call is here, and not the field. You're a good agent, with lots of potential, but you have room for improvement. I've gotta handle something, so you're dismissed.
TRAINEE: Understood. Thank you, ma'am.
[The trainee turns around, standing at attention for Colt for a moment.]
TRAINEE: Sir—
SR. AGENT COLT: Carry on.
[The trainee leaves. Colt approaches Lynn, hands in pocket.]
SR. AGENT COLT: They've got you training the greenhorns now, Rookie?
[Lynn smiles.]
AGENT LYNN: You'll still call me that, after all these years? How long has it been since Golden Orb, Colt, twenty years?
SR. AGENT COLT: Twenty-four. And, as you can see, I am still in my prime.
[Both agents chuckle.]
AGENT LYNN: Where's everyone else at now, Colt? I hear Spade's finally retired, guess he got tired of spending most of his life fighting. He told me the amount of NDAs he had to sign from us and the GOC combined was insane.
SR. AGENT COLT: Eyeup, Brodie's back in Cape Town or wherever. He's doing alright, last I checked.
AGENT LYNN: And Buck?
SR. AGENT COLT: That's… Director Pierce now. He still answers to Buck, though. You wouldn't believe it, madman got promoted to security director of some site in Japan. I hear he's doing well over there.
AGENT LYNN: Nice. Good for him. And what have they got you doing now, Colt?
[Colt reaches into his side for a badge, which he presents to Lynn.]
AGENT LYNN: Ohhh. Should I—
SR. AGENT COLT: Nahh. The title means I essentially do your job, but large-scale. Recruitment, creating and disbanding task forces, commanding large groups of agents in the field and the like. There's only one Task Force I have no jurisdiction over, and we both know what it is.
AGENT LYNN: Yeah.
[Silence.]
SR. AGENT COLT: You know, I oughta get the team back together again someday.
AGENT LYNN: [Scoffing] What, for another op? They'd laugh at the idea, of a bunch of old-heads going in the field again.
SR. AGENT COLT: No, not for an op, stupid. I mean like, a get-together. A reunion. Going out somewhere and having a blast, being normal. Command encourages us L-4s to do it either way. We've been all over the world, Jericka—it was in the name "Instant Action", of course, but I never really got a chance to just stop and see it. You know?
[Another pause.]
AGENT LYNN: You thinking what I'm thinking, Sam?
SR. AGENT COLT: I have an inkling, and I don't like it.
AGENT LYNN: It's in the containment procedures, Colt. "Delta-6 are the only Foundation personnel authorized to use SCP-5778 as a means of deployment." Why don't we "tactically" check up on our partners, see how they're doing?
SR. AGENT COLT: …As much as I hate to say it, they technically can't get us for that, but Doc Crass might have a fit if I step anywhere near the tunnel again. I'll touch base with you tomorrow once I get an official ruling.
AGENT LYNN: Sounds good.
[Colt turns to leave, stopping at the door.]
SR. AGENT COLT: It's good to see you again, Rookie. Keep up the good work. You've come a long way.
AGENT LYNN: I'll see you around, Colt.
[Colt leaves the room.]

[END VIDEO LOG]

<< ACCESS RECORDING 8/12/2021 >>

>> ACCESS GRANTED <<

ARCHIVE DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 2021

LOCATION: ARMED SITE-21 ONSITE DORMS

[BEGIN VIDEO LOG]

[The camera displays Level 2 humanoid researcher, Junior Researcher Cole Willard, at his desk in the dorms. He appears to be taking an online test on a laptop.]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: [Muttering] Ohhhh, I get it now. So, a cognitohazard is triggered if it's sensed… an infohazard is triggered if you know about it… and a memetic agent is just infectious information…
[He selects an answer on the laptop]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: …so that must make a memetic agent an infohazard!
[The screen displays "INCORRECT." along with a lengthy explanation at the bottom.]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Aw, what?! They're the same thing!
[An extremely loud alarm suddenly goes off in the dorms, and similar shrill alarms begin blaring outside the room. Red emergency lights begin to flash everywhere as Junior Researcher Willard gets up from his desk.]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh shit—oh fuck!
INTERCOM: SITE-21 IS CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING MULTIPLE KETER-LEVEL HUMANOID CONTAINMENT BREACHES. A FULL SITE LOCKDOWN HAS BEEN INITIATED.
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh, god, fuck fuck fuck—
[Junior Researcher Willard runs to the door, frantically referencing a laminated map of his floor of the facility and its evacuation routes.]
INTERCOM: ALL NON-COMBAT PERSONNEL ARE TO PROCEED TO THEIR DESIGNATED EVACUATION SHELTERS IMMEDIATELY. SECURITY ARE TO REPORT TO THEIR ACTION STATIONS.

LOCATION: HALLWAYS; EVAC SHELTER D-1

[Junior Researcher Willard sprints through the hallways and approaches an evac shelter labeled D-1. He runs in and stops, and inside is met with a throng of personnel in jumpsuits, hard hats, and yellow reflective vests. A man in a green reflective vest at the center of the room, Senior Technician Jack Carter, is taking a headcount. Personnel answer audibly as their names are called.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Watson. Prelesnik. Johnson. Lynch. White. C-Dog. Powell. Martinez.
[The senior technician pauses.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Yo. I miss anyone? Anyone get tickled to death by the slime-ball? Anyone get spooked by the peripheral jumper?
TECHNICIAN DOUGLAS: Powell's mom saw my peripheral jumper last night.
[Everyone in the room, sans Junior Researcher Willard, breaks into laughter. Willard raises his hand.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: C-Dog, that was the dumbest joke I've—yeah, you in the back?
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Uhhh… J-Junior Researcher Cole Willard? Is that on your list?
[Carter looks down at his clipboard, then back at Willard.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: The fuck? Egghead, you're supposed to be in D-11, not D-1. Did you misread it or somethin'?
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh, I—
[The large blast doors to the shelter shut, locking loudly behind them.]
INTERCOM: RESPONSE TEAMS ARE CURRENTLY CLEARING OUT THE SITE. ALL PERSONNEL ARE ADVISED TO STAY IN THEIR SHELTERS UNTIL THE "ALL CLEAR" NOTICE HAS BEEN GIVEN.
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Welp. Fuck. Guess you're stuck here with us now, nerd. Get comfy.
TECHNICIAN WATSON: Fuckin' rookie mistake.
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh.. uh.. I-I'm sorry. It's my, like, uh, fourth day here.
TECHNICIAN MARTINEZ: [Sarcastically] See you all in here next week!
[Carter looks at everyone else.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Tell you what, since you're new, and since I don't want to have to do this shit again next week…
[Carter takes out a handheld radio, holding it to face level. He keys it.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Carter to Ward.
[There is a pause, before a three-tone chirp is heard on the radio.]
DR. WARD (RADIO): This is Ward. Go ahead.
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: This, uh, one of your guys here? Some Junior Researcher here. Cole Willard.
[Another pause.]
DR. WARD (RADIO): Yeah, he's one of ours. Where is he?
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: He's here with us.
DR. WARD (RADIO): Understood. Tell him to see me after this is over. I'll count him as present. Ward, out.
[Carter lowers the radio, and grins.]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: I'm fucked, aren't I?
TECHNICIAN LYNCH: Hey, chin up, kid. It's a rookie mistake, happens to everyone.
TECHNICIAN POWELL: Yeah, dude. At least you weren't taking a dump when a real lockdown happened. Worst day of my life, man.
[Everyone, sans Willard, chuckles.]
TECHNICIAN JOHNSON: Task forces wouldn't shut up about "toilet-man" here for a week.
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Hey. Knowing Dr. Ward, he'll let it slide.
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Really?
TECHNICIAN WHITE: Yeah. Knowing Ward, most you'll have to do is a five page essay on why containment procedures and lockdown procedures are so important.
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh…
[Everyone chuckles again. Willard laughs along uncomfortably.]
TECHNICIAN WHITE: Just fuckin' with you man. Like I said, rookie mistake.
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Wait, so this isn't an actual containment breach?
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Fuck no, man. We have our monthly drill every second Thursday of the month. Today's Thursday, and I haven't heard anything go down. You're fine.
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: How do you know if shit's gotten bad?
TECHNICIAN DOUGLAS: Trust me, you'll know, bro.
[Silence ensues for about ten seconds before a buzzer is heard outside the door. A voice is heard from a speaker inside.]
VOICE: All up, Carter?
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Yup.
VOICE: Alright.
[Silence ensues for another thirty seconds.]
TECHNICIAN POWELL: You'd think they'd install a bathroom in here…
TECHNICIAN PRELESNIK: Don't even think about it. They'd never sign off on the idea.
TECHNICIAN WHITE: Maybe they'll consider it when the coffee machine in Admin "magically" breaks, and they want want us to fix it. I swear, no one cares about us technicians.
TECHNICIAN DOUGLAS: [Ominously] The way of the handyman is an esoteric, ancient craft, refined over many millennia, perfected by modern technology and engineering. Mastered by few, but appreciated by all. Few know this!
TECHNICIAN POWELL: Your mom told me she needed a handyman in her life last night.
[Everyone chuckles.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Alright, guys. Next person to make a "your mother" joke has to take inventory.
[The intercom chime plays.]
DIRECTOR HAWKINS: Director Hawkins to all personnel, ALL CLEAR. Good work in getting this done in record time. Please resume normal operations.
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Alright, back to work! Xenomaterials still needs deionized water and reagents, and someone please get the coffee machine in Utilities fixed.
[The blast doors begin to raise slowly. As everyone begins leaving, Carter holds his hand out for Willard.]
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Senior Technician Carter. If you need something fixed, restocked, whatever? Come to me.
[Willard shakes Carter's hand.]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh.. uh, yeah! Thanks.
SR. TECHNICIAN CARTER: Also: don't let that happen again. If we screw up on these, we'll have to do it again the following week.
[Carter leaves the area.]
JR. RESEARCHER WILLARD: Oh… noted.

[END VIDEO LOG]

<< ACCESS RECORDING 8/13/2021 >>

>> ACCESS GRANTED <<

ARCHIVE DATE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2021

LOCATION: SITE-21 AUXILIARY FACILITY, "SASHA'S CLEANING PRODUCTS OFFICES", ████, ██, USA

[BEGIN VIDEO LOG]

[Dr. Ward and Dr. Crassus, both wearing white oxford shirts and black slacks, are standing in a large corporate training room, filled with several rows of chairs and desks facing a large smart board in the front of the room. The logo for Foundation front company Sasha's Cleaning Products is displayed on the smartboard.]
DR. WARD: Well, food certainly smells good, Marc.
[Dr. Crassus smiles, looking at a large buffet of catered Jamaican food in the back of the room. Soon, personnel assigned to Dr. Ward and Dr. Crassus's teams begin making their way inside the training room, including Researchers Wong and Forrest, Junior Researcher Willard, Senior Technician Carter, and a plethora of field agents and administrative assistants. Wong and Forrest hang their labcoats up by the door. Everyone seems to be wearing civilian clothing.]
RESEARCHER WONG: Ooooh, what's thiiis, bird-man? Party?
DR. CRASSUS: Nah, it's Friday, the hell yuh talking 'bout, Alex?
[Dr. Crassus chuckles. A large, burly man in black military-style fatigues suddenly enters; the identification on his uniform indicates that he is Level-3 Agent Hank Pitman, of Dr. Ward's field team. Everyone seems to stop for a moment as the man enters. Pitman looks at Ward indignantly.]
DR. WARD: Agent Pitman. Glad you could join us. Is your team joining us today?
AGENT PITMAN: Yeah, they're comin' in.
[Pitman steps aside. A few more agents walk in, noting the platters of food.]
DR. WARD: The more the merrier.
DR. CRASSUS: Alright, that should be… everyone! Powell, could you shut the door for a moment?
[Technician Powell closes the door. Everyone takes a seat, facing Dr. Crassus and Dr. Ward. Crassus clasps his hands together.]
DR. CRASSUS: Alright, everyone, thanks for coming! You know how we do things here with my team, every second Friday is a team lunch. You're welcome to take some of the tasty Jamaican catered food in the back once I'm finished. I've got a couple announcements first! I'm tracking that we have a couple new faces in the room—don't think I don't see you, Willard! I've got good eyesight!
[Researcher Wong encourages Willard to stand up, much to the Junior Researcher's chagrin. Everyone gives a quick round of applause for Willard.]
DR. CRASSUS: Willard's the newest member of Ward's primary research team, you might've seen him in Xenomaterials this week at AS-21, or doing paperwork here in town. Let's be nice. Anyways… we have a couple more announcements: Today is Dr. Chenault's last day at AS-21, effective Monday he'll be gone. He's transferring to Site-19 for ontokinetics work. We'll miss you, Kev.
[A bespectacled man stands up, giving a few waves.]
DR. CHENAULT: I'll be sure to come visit when I can. It's been a pleasure working with you all. Willard, you'll make a great addition to the team.
RESEARCHER FORREST: I'll miss you, big man.
DR. CRASSUS: Next up, great work on that containment breach drill yesterday, I think that was a record! Again, for the new folks, we do those every second Thursday of the month. Also, for our field teams and task forces, we're working with AS-21 R&D to get you outfitted with more non-lethal and less-than-lethal equipment. I am tracking that Agent Lynn at AS-21's also been busy with training the new recruits, so you may see a few new faces in your ranks soon.
[Dr. Crassus looks at Dr. Ward for a moment.]
DR. CRASSUS: Lastly, Ward's got an announcement. I'll let you take it from here, John.
[Dr. Crassus retreats back to a table in the front of the room that he promptly leans against. Dr. Ward steps forward and clears his throat.]
DR. WARD: Before I begin, I'd just like to say… great work, everyone. Team leads, project leads, task forces, research personnel, containment specialists, and, yes, our technicians, too. You all have done a stellar job over the last couple of weeks. We live in a changing world with a variety of threats and anomalies. At times, it may seem like the larger Foundation is containing less and less humanoid anomalies, but the work we do here is critical to the success of the Foundation, and the safety of the the ordinary civilians outside who live their everyday lives.
[Dr. Ward sighs.]
DR. WARD: With that, I would just like to make an apology for the events that happened earlier this week. As you may know, there was an incident at my home. A hostile humanoid entity attacked my son in my own house. I terminated the entity and called in my recovery team. To Agent Pitman especially, I take full responsibility for the lengthy recovery process and the ad hoc containment of the incident, as it was short notice, but let it be known: It is my personal belief that I was in the right for what happened.
[A few personnel in the room look amongst each other for a moment.]
DR. WARD: I know many of you in this room are not parents, and I understand that for virtually everyone in this room, this is your only job for operational safety reasons. However, I implore everyone in this room to stay grounded, and remember what it is we do at the SCP Foundation, and why we do it. Everyone knows that we Secure and Contain anomalies, but let us not forget that we also Protect humanity from them. We do this not only because containment is necessary—mankind cannot coexist with murderous statues or hostile humanoid entities roaming around freely—but also because it's our duty. We die in the dark so they may live in the light. No civilian under our watch deserves to suffer or die from forces totally unknown to them.
[Personnel in the room begin nodding in agreement]
DR. WARD: Whether or not you share Site-21 Admin's sentiments of disagreeing my termination of that entity is entirely up to you, and I won't hold you against it. I'd just like to reiterate the one thing I tell every new hire: sometimes, not everything has hard-coded instructions you must follow.
[Dr. Ward pauses for a moment.]
DR. WARD: Sometimes, you must simply do what you must to protect those you love. With that emotional speech out of the way… I'd like to make one last announcement: the tribunal ruled that my actions that day were in accordance with the Foundation's mission statement. Ultimately, I will not be receiving any punishment aside from a verbal warning…
[He pauses again, as if for dramatic effect.]
DR. WARD: …and I look forward to continue working with you all for the forseeable future. Thank you.
[Applause fills the room. As it dies down, Dr. Crassus steps forward.]
DR. CRASSUS: Right, go get some food! Enjoy your lunch!
[Everyone steps up and moves to the back of the room to grab paper plates, plastic silverware, and napkins, to begin serving themselves. Agent Pitman steps forward and gives Dr. Ward a firm handshake before moving to the back of the room.]
DR. CRASSUS: Come on, even you, Willard! Don't make me throw away good food, man!
[As some time passes, some of the staff have finished eating and leave to resume their duties. Researchers Wong and Forrest remain in the room, chatting.]
RESEARCHER WONG: So, last thing we've got to do today, I think, is prepping the thermal cycler and putting some of the tissue samples in there, and maybe just storing the rest on ice for next week.
RESEARCHER FORREST: Then sending those results to Site-88?
RESEARCHER WONG: Yup.
[Some silence passes.]
RESEARCHER FORREST: Anyways, uh, Alex… since tomorrow's the weekend and all, and since we aren't on the skeleton crew, I've been meaning to ask you—
RESEARCHER WONG: Hm? You were going to ask me the same thing Monday. What was it?
RESEARCHER FORREST: Do you, uh, like, wanna, um. Do anything tomorrow? I mean, you're not busy and—
RESEARCHER WONG: Yeah. Sure, let's do it. Just remind me after we finish today's work, yeah?
RESEARCHER FORREST: Y-Yeah. Sure thing.
[Wong leaves the room. As she does this, Forrest gives a silent yet dramatic celebration as he tosses his plate the trash, then proceeds out of the room.]

[END VIDEO LOG]


Chaos hasn't truly been experienced by humans in thousands, perhaps millions of years. That said, on extremely rare occasions, we come pretty damn close.

Shades and Polo
Act One
The Show is About to Begin

It is considerably rare that man experiences true, unrelenting chaos in the modern day. Chaos occurs only when there are no plans, no clues, no rules or guidelines to follow, not even personal senses of morality. Chaos hasn't truly been experienced by humans in thousands, perhaps millions of years. Perhaps it never has been experienced at all. That said, on extremely rare occasions, we come pretty damn close.
"Jesus, dude, what the hell are you doing?"
"Taking inventory."
Bottles of cleaning chemicals and sponges cascaded to the floor as the man in the aviator shades dug through the supplies.
"Okay, sure, but why?" The man in the polo shirt looked up at him and asked, with genuine curiosity and a slight tinge of annoyance present in his voice and across his face.
"You saw those guys out there as much as I did, hell you were walking next to them. They aren't just going to let us out."
"Why would they want us? I'm sure they're just getting us out of their way, and when they do whatever they need to do and leave, they'll let us out."
"Yeah, and what do you suppose they want to do? Kill Saturday? Take Jacobsen back? Plant C4 and light this whole studio up like a cigarette in a gas station? Even if they don't intend to march us out and execute us, I don't want to sit around and find out what they do have planned."
The man in the polo pressed his back against the cold concrete wall and slid down to the cold concrete ground. He sat for a moment, arms crossed, mildly upset. The exorbitant number of boxes laid out across the various shelves in the small room began making it feel smaller.
"So what do you propose we do?" He asked.
The man in the shades hopped down from the wooden shelf he had climbed up, bringing a cardboard box down with him.
"Once I work out a way out of here, I'm hopping the fence and running off into the woods. Hitchhike home. Ditch the country maybe."
Polo crawled over to the locked door which confined them to their small makeshift prison, and peered out the small window.
"There's like, two of them, in that room alone, and all they're doing is standing around. No, wait, there's a third next to the door here. Anyway, what makes you think they don't have the whole place surrounded?"
"Hope? Is that good enough for you? I'd say I'd steal Saturday's helicopter and get the hell out of dodge, but then, he probably took it himself."
Shades rummaged through the box, tossing its contents out. He then tossed it to the side and went back over to the wooden shelf.
"What are you looking for?" Polo asked.
"I don't know yet. Do you usually ask people this many questions, or just me?"
"Well fuck you too, I guess. I figure if I'm simply waiting on my own demise, I could at least make the best of it with a little talk, or something like that, but noooo, you have to be all dark and broody."
"So you intend to sit there and wait to die?"
"Your plan isn't any better. Once you get out of this room, they'll mow you down."
"When I get out of this room, I'll make a run-"
"Ah! So you don't have a plan! Don't try to tell me otherwise, you know you can't outrun a bullet, much less a constant spray of them. Fucking look at them!" Polo threw his arms in the direction of the window rather dramatically.
Shades pulled another box down from the shelf, and peered through the window. They were still there, in their grey suits, complex camera helmets, and carrying almost comedically large guns. Three of them, one by the door, one against the wall to their right, one at the far end of the room. The one on the right turned to look at them, face obscured by the dark plastic one-way viewer. The one in the back shrugged his shoulders and lifted his gun slightly, showing them (in a stunning display of extreme confidence) that if they tried anything, they would be issued a one-way express ticket to the afterlife. Shades waved, half-taunting them, then sat back down and began digging through the box.
"Well I don't suppose you have a better idea." Shades remarked, mildly upset.
A few minutes of silence passed. Shades had dug through several boxes by now, without finding anything he felt like not kicking across the room. The couple of lights dangling from the ceiling flickered. The back room they had been stuffed into began to feel increasingly more cramped. Polo tapped his foot against the concrete floor; the sound bounced off the walls. Shades groaned.
"Would you please stop doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Tapping your foot! It's already hard to think."
"It's a nervous habit, alright!"
"Well can you at least do it less?"
"I can."
A few moments passed, and Polo did not slow down his rhythmic tapping. Instead, he made it slightly faster.
"Oh, you're one of those pricks. Fine then, would you please do it less?" Shades snapped, with a pinch of genuine distress in his tone.
"Depends, what do I get in return?"
"If you stop, then I will not light this can of spray paint and set you on fire."
"You don't have a lighter."
"Yeah, well.."
Another few moments passed. Polo stared at Shades, lost in thought, considering what he could get.
"Alright, I want two things. One: Tell me who you are, and how you got here. Two: Take me with you."
"I thought you wanted to sit around here and wait for death."
"Yeah, well, I've decided I want to be shot sooner rather than later, especially if you're just gonna leave me here alone."
"And you want all of that just to make you stop tapping your foot?"
"It seems just as valuable, it's just information really. I can keep up with you."
"I don't need a fucking tagalong, throw something else in."
"Twenty bucks?"
"Deal, but I'm not telling you who I am. If they drag us out and interview us, we won't be able to tell them who the other person is."
"Ugh. Fine, I don't like it, but you're right. Anyway, then, if you haven't worked out how we're getting out, you can start by telling me what brought you here."
Shades hopped down, slumped against the wall and slid down to the ground next to Polo, then began his usual routine with the box of things.

"So, I went to the Berkeley College of Art and Design, right." Shades stated, emptying the box. Polo nodded, half-listening. "Computer Animation. Wanted to worm my way into the credits of some Hollywood movie, some big animated feature film. Pixar or Dreamworks, something like that. Got through half a semester, couldn't keep up with the work. Eventually I was so far behind I just up and stopped going to classes. Er, hey, could you hand me that box?" Shades tossed the now empty cardboard container into the corner and pointed at a box on Polo's left. He stood up and lifted the box over to Shades, who flipped the lid open and returned to rummaging through it.
"Anyway, school throws me out. Took a greyhound back home, tried to come up with some story to feed my parents. I think I tried to convince them that I was just taking an off year, but I guess Dad didn't buy it. Funny how you're only family until you lose 20k. Decided I'd go out to Hollywood anyway, got a cheap apartment at the corner of Rat Drive and Dumpster Fire Road, stole a paper from the front desk and found the job offering."
Polo stared silently for a few seconds, then responded "Jesus man. I'm sor-"
"Don't even start. I'm breaking the arm of the next person to tell me that."
"Alright, alright, my bad."
Another few seconds passed. Polo laid back against the wall and lost himself in thought, trying to formulate a proper response.
"So why a tour guide?" Polo finally asked.
"It was what he had open. It was also one of the few things you didn't really need prior credentials for, given that it's just walking and talking."
"Does it at least pay alright?"
"It's minimum wage. Better than nothing, I suppose. Better than serving customers at a coffee shop."
"Ain't that the truth. My turn then, I guess. I was-"
"Woah, hang on."

Shades pulled a small firearm out of the box. He turned it around in his hand, ran his fingers over the barrel, held it up like he was going to fire it. The two looked at it, awestruck. They then both reached the same realization, being the power of the object in Shades' hand. If used properly, this could turn the tide, this could give them their escape. Shades peered into the barrel, but found it empty.
"Holy shit." Polo whispered.
"In-fucking-deed." Shades replied.
"Do you know anything about guns?" Polo asked, cocking his head to one side like a confused dog.
"Fuck, I was hoping you did. I think it's out of ammo anyway."
"Can I see it?"
"How should I know?"
Shades shot Polo a smug smile as the words left his mouth.
"Alright, alright, you got me. May I see it?"
"Sure, give it a shot."
Shades tossed the firearm at Polo, who fumbled it around in his hands in an attempt to catch it before it finally fell into his lap. He admired it, held it in his hand as though he were about to fire it at something, and stared into the empty barrel himself. Nothing, still.
"Making sure I'm not lying?" Shades remarked flippantly.
"I suppose so."
Polo began to fiddle with barrel, evidently searching for a method of opening it. He tried to twist it, pull it, felt around it for a switch or lever, a button somewhere, a slot to put a bullet in.
"Be careful, dude, that's ou-"
*click!*
Polo pushed down on the barrel and it shifted, the front end of it now pointing towards the ground and the back end of it now pointing up in the air. Detached from the firing mechanism, Polo now found that he could look through the back of the barrel and see out the front of it.
"Aw you fucking asshole, you broke it." Shades attempted to withhold his anger, less because he didn't want to explode and more because his therapist suggested it.
"I didn't, at least I don't think so. I think that's how you load it." Polo pushed under the barrel and it shifted back up into place, aiming forward once again.
"I think you slide the bullet in the back and then flip it back up."
"I guess I don't know for certain but that seems like a pretty big barrel. What do you think it takes?"
"How should I know? Shotgun shells, grenades maybe? If you found the gun in the box, then there must be ammo in one of these boxes too."
"That does track, I suppose."
Shades flipped the box upside-down, dumping out the remaining contents. A couple of palettes of amateur face paint fell out and crashed loudly onto the ground, followed by the fluttering of a handful of receipts. Shades stood up again, kicked the palettes away, tossed the box into his ever-growing pile of boxes, and grabbed a new one off one of the shelves. This time, Polo got up and grabbed a box of his own, setting the gun down on the dusty floor.
They both sat back down next to each other, the firearm laying on the ground between them. There was a short period of silence as they both began digging through the boxes, pulling out and tossing away empty containers of various makeup products. Polo then remembered their ongoing conversation, the one that had been haphazardly interrupted.
"Oh, yeah, anyway, where was I?"

"How you got here," Shades replied.
"Oh yeah." Polo cleared his throat and laid back against the wall again, putting his hands behind his head. "I was born in LA. Nice enough apartment, lived with my dad, never knew my mom. Well not really anyway, she just up and left a couple weeks after having me. I just always figured she didn't want to have a kid or something, and, uh.. I'm rambling too much."
Shades had been staring at him with an unmatched level of coldness and disinterest. He then turned his face back towards his box and tossed a few more things out of it.
"No, please, continue," Shades responded, more in an attempt to be polite than a genuine interest.
"Uhm, well, okay. My dad started giving me fighting lessons when I was ten. It was the back end of Los Angeles, so you kinda had to have them to live. Got good at it after a while, joined the boxing team. Eventually, the coach told me I was good enough to 'make it big'" Polo made quotation marks with his fingers as he spoke the words. "Said I could make money. Money was tight, my dad's income didn't really support us. Coach took me to an underground boxing ring, he put a few bucks on me and we split the winnings fifty-fifty. I kept the money to myself so I could save it up and show him once I had a lot, just to impress him. Coach and I would go back on the weekends, eventually the fifty-fifty started getting big. It also started getting harder to explain the black eyes, split lips, and bruises everywhere to my dad. Eventually he made me explain. I.."
Tears started to well up in Polo's eyes, so he bent his head down over his box, pretending to be more focused on it. He rubbed his eyes and closed them for a few moments, forcing the water back down the ducts.
"I dunno, man. I'd never seen him that.. disappointed? Distraught? He wasn't angry, just.. disappointed. I didn't know what to do, I thought I had done something good. I didn't go back, I tried to live with it for a while but some gears inside him had changed. Heard about this job from a friend of mine, a bunch of the guys had been trying to get in. Us unarmed guards get a bit over minimum, so the money was good. I send that extra bit back home when I can."
Shades sat silently. He gained an interest now. He couldn't quite work out why but there was a sense of pity growing in his chest, like he just had to help him.
"Well you might be a knucklehead, but at least you can punch, I suppose." Shades told him, trying to feign carelessness. Polo smiled and chuckled slightly.
Shades' attention turned back to their couple of boxes. "Also, I got nothin' in here, what about you?"
Polo turned his attention back to his own box, realizing he hadn't really touched its contents at all since he started talking.
"Oh, well, I guess I forgot to look. Sorry, I'll start now."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."
Shades pulled the box out of Polo's arms and started tossing things left and right, before coming to a sudden stop. He carefully pulled out a bronze cylinder, which was coincidentally just the right length and diameter to fit into the barrel of the gun.
"I guess that's our shot, so to speak." Polo said, smiling weakly.
Shades picked up the gun and opened the barrel, then slid the bronze cylinder in through the barrel's back. He shifted the barrel back into place. The round fit perfectly. He felt the new weight of the gun in his hands. He felt unusually powerful. As he held it in his palm and wrapped his index finger around the trigger, he found it took every ounce of willpower in him to not fire it into the wall, just to see what it felt like.
"Alright. Let's do this," Shades declared, jumping to his feet. He took a deep breath, stretched his arms and rolled his shoulder, and pushed his head from side to side. His body emitted a crackle of popping bones with each twist.
"Wait, wait, just like that? There's three guys and we have one bullet. We don't even know how to get the door open!"
"I bet you could kick it open."
"I am all upper body here, I have no kicking power. I could punch it, maybe, but that still wouldn't get it open."
"The lock's cheap and flimsy, just like everything else Saturday ever bought. You'd think he'd at least bother to keep his storage rooms safe but you can see the rust on this thing pretty clearly."
"Yeah, okay, fine. If I can't get it open, we can just work out a plan B, I suppose. God, I really don't like this plan. How do you intend to get past the goons out there?"
"Well, when the door flies open, it'll hit the guy here by the door. If my aim is good, then that'll take out the guy at the far end, I suppose."
"Okay, what about the third guy, the one against the wall on the right?"
"Uh, well.. I've got a bad idea."

30 minutes ago…

Beginning Video Log Playback..
File Name: GOI-6656_InfiltrationLog1
MTF Team(s): Beta-2
Mission Lead(s): Beta Command Team Leader ██████, GOI-6656 lead investigator Dr. Patra
Camera: MTF Beta-2 03
Foreword: MTF Beta-2 has been tasked with securing a section of the facility owned by GoI-6656. GoI-6656 is believed to be housing gateways to numerous temputoric anomalies.
Begin Log

[[Skipping to designated event portion. A full transcript of this log may be acquired from the office of Dr. Patra, Head of TATS1 ]]

Tour Guide: Okay folks, that's going to conclude the first portion of our tour! Before we continue, is there any building you would like a tour of from this section of the studio lot that we didn't see?
Beta-2 01: Well, what about that building over there?

01 gestures towards a relatively-small garage building.

Tour Guide: Uhm, are you certain? That's a special effects storage building, it's mostly crates of effects materials, paints and things.
Tourist: I think we should just continue on then.
Beta-2 04: Actually, I'm curious about it as well. Could we at least look around?
Beta-2 03: Yeah actually, I'm attending college for film special effects.
Beta-2 02: Oh yeah, I am too, so that would be really cool.
Tour Guide: Er, well, okay then. Follow me, folks.
Tourist: I would really like to see some of the buildings on the rest of the tour though! I don't have a lot of time.
Tour Guide: Sorry, sir. We'll continue right after this.

Seven minutes pass as Beta-2 and the rest of the tour walk towards and enter the storage building.

The garage area is mostly empty. There are a number of doorways leading to various storage rooms that go deeper into the facility.

Command: Find a suitable area to detain the guide. We'll be sending other teams in through this site entrance shortly. The facility is considerably larger than we initially thought. Hold tight.
Beta-2 01: Understood, command!

Beta-2 06 and Beta-2 04 pin the guide to the ground.

Tour Guide: Guard! H-Help!

The tourist turns Beta-2 01 to face him and throws a strong right hook, sending 01 stumbling backwards. The tourist then turns to 02 and 05, and attempts to fend them off. 02 also gets knocked to the ground before 05 and 03 pin the tourist to the ground as well.

Beta-2 01: Coughs Christ almighty.. Put them in one of those storage closets. The smaller one, over there, maybe.

Beta-2 01 gestures to an unmarked storage room.

Beta-2 01: Ah, fuck. Okay, uh, once we do that, some of us are gonna have to go get proper gear. After that, uh, we can probably set up three of us in here, and the other four can go take the building across the road. Wait for the other teams to come in and set up camp here. That work, command?
Command: Understood, we'll be waiting here with your gear.

Back to the present…

Beginning Video Log Playback..
File Name: GOI-6656_InfiltrationLog2
MTF Team(s): Beta-2, Beta-3
Mission Lead(s): Beta Command Team Leader ██████, GOI-6656 lead investigator Dr. Patra
Camera: MTF Beta-2 02
Begin Log
Foreword: MTF Beta-2 has secured an open building for moving a mobile command hub into the studio. MTF Beta-2 is holding the site until the hub can be brought in.
Command: Okay, Beta Two, we're ready to start sending in Beta Three through Beta Seven.
Beta-2 01: Understood, command. We're getting terminally bored out here.
Command: Understood. Sending in Beta Three to clear section one.
Beta-2 04: Sounds good, command. Nothing happening in our building either, ready for action when you are.
Command: Understood.

A few minutes pass. MTF Beta-3 is seen running past some of the building's windows. Gunfire can be heard coming from outside.

Beta-2 02: Command, permission to engage?
Command: Negative. Open the garage door, though. We'll be bringing the mobile command hub in there shortly.
Beta-2 01: Understood.

Beta-2 01 presses a button on the wall next to him, and one of the garage doors begins to raise.

There is a blaring sound as the studio lot's PA system activates.

PA: Finally, some real fun! Come and get me, bitches!

The PA begins to broadcast "Saturday Night's Alright" by Elton John throughout the studio lot.

Beta-2 03: Command, are you hearing this?
Command: Loud and clear! Disregard at this time.
Beta-2 03: Understo-

An iron cannonball lands in the cement road outside of the building and explodes, leaving a large crater.

Beta-2 01: What the fuck!? Uh, Command!? Did you catch that!?
Command: Beta-2, we're currently sustaining heavy artillery fire! We're working out a new plan!
Beta-2 01: Okay, okay! Unders-

The door to the provisional detainment room swings open. The heavy steel door crushes Beta-2 01's arm.

Beta-2 03: Oh f-

The tour guide and the tourist are seen standing in the doorway before camera view is obscured by a bright red flare. The flare strikes Beta-2 03, who gets wounded as a result.

Beta-2 02 turns towards the door and raises his rifle when his visor is hit by the back end of a flare gun. Beta-2 02's helmet camera is damaged in the process, and video feed is lost.

Less than a second after he chucked the gun through the air, Shades turned and ran towards a door labelled "FX Acquisition Office 4." He grabbed Polo by the hand and pulled him in his direction, stopping Polo from running to the open garage door. It occurred to Shades at some point while the two were scrambling for the door that if he had missed that throw, there is a very good chance he would be cold and dead. A volley of bullets sprayed at them from behind as the guard by the door reached around it and attempted to shoot them. Shades grabbed the door handle and ripped it open, sprinting into the office with Polo trailing behind him. The LED lights in the room buzzed as they ran around a small group of office cubicles. Polo slammed his shoulder against the exit door in the back of the room, sending the two of them cascading into the open area between studio buildings.
"Oh shit, ohhh fuck!" Polo yelled, to no one in particular.
"Fucking hell!" Shades yelled in response. "Uh, quick, in here!"
He slammed into the door to the building next to the storage room and slammed it shut as Polo ran inside. They found themselves in a small janitor corridor. They both collapsed against opposing walls, desperately trying to suck in oxygen.
"Why.. why didn't we just go through the big.. the big door?" Polo barely managed to spit out.
"They.. fuck.. they came in from that entrance. There's.. there's probably more there.." Shades struggled to spit back at him.
"Uh, okay, what's the-"
The last uninjured "guard" threw the door open and ran into the corridor. He turned to see Shades and Polo standing in the hall, and for a brief few moments, the three stared at each other in utter shock and bewilderment. The guy managed to raise the small pistol in his hands, but before he could get a shot out, Polo, acting on instinct, drove his right fist into his stomach. Shades pulled the gun out of his hand and opened fire, putting three rounds through his chest before he even managed to process what he was doing. They both stood still, staring at the dead man at their feet.
"Shit, shit shit shit, oh fucking hell!" Polo yelled, again at no one in particular.
"He.. he's dead! He's fucking dead! Uh, shit, what do we do?" Shades yelled back.
"Uh, oh fuuuck. Uh, we could just leave him!"
"Shit, yeah, okay, sure! What now?"
"I don't know, this was your plan!"
"I barely had a plan! Okay, fuck! I'm gonna go look!"
Shades stepped over the body and through the open door. He carefully moved himself across the side of the building and peeked his head around the corner. Teams of heavily-armed people seemed to be flooding in from every direction. Two groups were coming in from his right, another running across the studio's road directly in front of him, and to his left, there was a small team of them-
"-heading straight for us!" Shades yelled at Polo, in the corridor. "We gotta get through the building!"
Shades ran up to the door at the other end of the cramped hall and threw it open. Before him stood an empty space filled with pitch black nothing. The darkness from it seemed to creep down the hall. Shades would have found it particularly dark and depressing, were he not in a state of total panic.
"No, wait! You can't go i-" Polo attempted to shout out, but by then, Shades had already ran in to the open space. Polo looked around frantically, eyes darting around the room. "Fuck! Okay then!" He took a deep breath, then followed Shades in to the emptiness.

The PA system blared again, briefly cutting the music. A feminine, robotic voice took over.
"Studio Set Seven now filming!"

To be continued... In Part Two!

Footnotes
1. ((Department of Temporal Anomalies Temputoric Subdivision) Temputoric Anomaly: Any anomaly that alters the standard flow of time.)


The settlement of Abirtleit, Domain of Abirt, was of little interest to nearly all who came across it. It was a small fishing village roughly a day's ride south of Kalefheit, mainly known for being a resting stop on the way to that grand trading hub. None of its inhabitants really benefited from its location, save for the relatively wealthy innkeeper, but they didn't mind. Its poverty had saved it from attacks by bandits, and traveling merchants brought in enough food for trade to supplement their own subsistence farming and fishing. Abirt seemed to approve of His town's obscure existence.
But for one particularly inquisitive calico, Abirtleit was just about the most fascinating sight she had ever seen.

“Nelea!”
The little girl jolted, quickly hiding the impromptu game she was playing with rocks and a stick.
“Food will be ready in an hour!” Her mom continued to yell. “All of our clothing better be washed by then, or you will not be getting any!”
Nelea sighed as she heard the door slam and picked up one of father's shirts from the basket. Washing clothes was among her least favorite activities, but her parents were always serious when they threatened to withhold her meals.
After a few moments of scrubbing the shirt, she felt eyes upon her. Her heart skipped a beat when she looked up and saw a small cat on the opposite side of the river, but she did her best to ignore it and continue cleaning. Cats were very rare, and father had told her that they were easily startled and would run away if you tried to approach them.
This gambit succeeded until the cat began acting in a ways that a cat should not.
At first Nelea saw it fishing around in a sack next to the river, and paid it little mind. When, out of the corner of her eye, she next saw the cat appearing to throw something from inside the sack onto the river, she couldn't help but look up. And her eyes widened in wonder as she saw some sort of “bridge” appear out of thin air above the water, which the cat then used to walk directly across and bypass the river entirely. She kept staring as the cat slowly made its way toward her, mouth agape.
“It's rude to stare, young lady.”
Nelea almost jumped in the air. The cat had talked! That could only mean one thing. She hastily threw the clothes aside and placed her right hand over her chest, eyes fixed to the ground.
“‘O mighty Abirt, this humble servant thanks you for blessing her with Your presence,'” she carefully recited the phrase mother had taught her, hoping the powerful god would not demand any further utterances of her.
She wasn't sure what would happen next, but about the last thing she was expecting was for Abirt to laugh. And yet He did, heartily and for quite some time.
“Oh my! I have been called many things, but a god…that's a first. I can assure you I am not Abirt.”
Nelea looked up, her face wrinkled in confusion. Cats don't talk, but if this cat isn't Abirt, then what is it?
“I can tell you have quite a few questions, young lady,” the cat said, tilting its head as it spoke. “How about this: I'll ask you a question, and you have to answer truthfully. You will then get to ask me a question, then I'll ask you another, and so on. Sound good?”
Nelea nodded eagerly. Whatever this creature was, she wanted to know its story. The cat sat down next to her, staring off into the sunset as it spoke.
“I'll start with a simple question. What is your name?”
“Nelea,” she replied easily.
“Nelea.” She paused for a moment. “Pleased to meet you, Nelea. You can call me Primrose."
“Prim…rose?” Nelea struggled with the unfamiliar pronunciation.
“It's from another language, long forgotten by this world.”
“Forgotten? Are you from the Old World?” She blurted out, realizing too late that she had just asked her question.
“No, not quite,” Primrose replied. “I'm from another place. A place where the Old World never ended, and where Wonders are shared by all.”
“What do you mean?” Nelea didn't know what was meant by “another place.”
“I believe it is my turn to ask a question, Nelea,” the cat replied, a hint of amusement in her tone. “What is life like here in Abirtleit for you?”
Nelea blinked, unsure of what to say. She understood what Primrose was asking, but nobody had ever thought to query Nelea about her feelings on life. Why would they? The gods gave each person their fate, and it was not their place to question what they could not change. But it had been asked, so she thought about it carefully.
“I think…” She began. “I think things are alright, but they could be better. Last year father was sick for weeks, but when a physician came from Kalefheit we couldn't afford his medicine. And sometimes we're hungry because our crops don't have as much food as they should.”
“Goodness…” Primrose seemed shocked, and looked away from the sunset and back at Nelea. “Nelea, that is no way for anybody to live. And if I have anything to say about it, Abirtleit is going to see some changes soon.”
Changes? The statement was a perfect springboard for her next question. “Primrose, why are you here? What do you want with us?”
“That's two questions, but I'll allow it. Nelea, this is not the only Earth that exists. There are many different versions of this world - places where the way of things is different, so very different from what you know.”
Primrose produced a small circular object, seemingly out of thin air, and handed it to Nelea. “Eat this.”
The little girl examined it briefly, then did so. Within seconds, her pangs of hunger vanished. Her stomach was suddenly and inexplicably full, and she felt more nourished than she had in her entire life.
“That is what we call a food pill,” Primrose said. “In the world where I'm from, nobody ever wants for food and shelter. It is a land of endless abundance, one where the ‘Wonders' you know of work with the ordinary people to create a beautiful place for us all to live in.”
Nelea's eyes widened again, captivated by the story.
“I am here,” the cat continued, “to help you, and everyone else who lives in this world. What do you think of that?”
Nelea thought for a moment. “The gods won't be happy that you are interfering in their plans. Mother said that the world was destroyed as punishment for the mistakes of those who came before us. And Abirt might stop protecting us if we become as rich as Kalefheit.”
“That is an excellent answer, Nelea,” Primrose replied, to the former's surprise. “We have to be careful about how we help you. There's plenty we can do to make your lives easier, but if we start giving you everything we have, you will become too much like us. What makes you different makes you special, and we don't want to change that.”
The little calico jumped onto Nelea's legs and stared directly at her.
“Now I have one more question. Can you keep a secret? We will help you soon, but before then, we must spend time watching you. I will be back to visit you again in one month, but until then, you must tell nobody you saw me. Do you think you can do that, Nelea?”
She nodded vigorously, knowing neither of her parents would believe her if she told this story anyways.
“Good.” Primrose jumped down again and walked over to the clothes Nelea had been washing. “How about I help you with these?”

“Nelea, what's wrong?” Her mother asked sympathetically. “You washed our clothes as a cleaner from Kalefheit would. You deserve all of your food!”
“Sorry, mother,” she replied sheepishly, doing her best to get more of the meal into her very full belly. Even as she tried to eat, her mind raced with thoughts of the talking cat that promised to make their lives better.
I will keep your secret, Primrose, but please come back soon!


Dirt began to coat Huxley's wheelchair as he forced himself through the unpaved dirt path. The sun was halfway through setting. He had stayed by the river for far too long, trying to think but not exactly succeeding. The boy had left him a few hours ago, but he hadn't left. His body was transfixed to that spot, to that moment. It was like his mind needed the world to move on without him for a little bit.
His lungs heaved as he hurried to get back to the campsite. The few remaining drapes of light were quickly receding. The mountains in the distance were growing black like charcoal. He was half-expecting his mind to lash at him for making this observation. Why was Huxley noticing something so irrelevant? He should have been trying to find Emma.
Still, as he gasped and wheezed, his memories started to work their way into his thoughts. He remembered the way the water flowed past his feet as he sat next to the boy. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but always moving. He remember the way that the boy had leaned his horns against his wheelchair.
Huxley had looked over with as much warmth as he could manifest. He watched the boy for a moment, then said, "If you had a choice, would you rather not listen to everybody's thoughts all the time?"
"Mmm." The boy had responded. "I don't know."
"It's like rivers, right? That's how the thoughts came to you."
"Kind of. I don't really know. They're not rivers, but they're pretty close. My dad told me not to poke around them much since people think a lot of bad things he doesn't want me thinking."
"And do you ever think those things?"
The boy pulled his knees up to his chest. "Sometimes, I guess." He looked across the river like he wanted to run. Huxley watched him jerk for a tiny fraction of a second before remembering that that would certainly be a death sentence for somebody like him.
"What does your father do when you think bad thoughts?"
"He um…" The boy sniffled. "He gets close to me. Real close, until I can smell his breath. And he says to me, 'Don't you ever, ever think that again.' Then he kind of just, I don't know… he stands there and he stares at me until I stop. If I don't, then he gets mad and I want to stop, I really, really do, but I can't for some reason and he just stares at me and I'm crying and I can't stop."
The boy's speech deteriorated into sobs. Huxley looked away instinctively. The sound drilled itself into his ears. Stop, stop, stop, his brain yelled. He tried to wrestle his brain, but it refused to stay still. No, the boy wasn't just laughing, he was crying. The boy was crying.
Then the boy buried his face into Huxley's arm.
The first thing he felt was the overpowering cold and wetness. It made his muscles spasm and give up control of his arm as the boy wiped his tears on his sleeves. His fingers and those bony white claws he considered his fingers, were quivering. They refused to stop no matter how many times he ordered them to. All he could do was look away towards the sun that was beginning to set. He only had a few minutes left.
"Shh," Huxley said to the boy. "Is that why you come out here to the river so often?"
"Yeah," the boy replied between sobs. "They can't see me here. Not this far away."
Huxley nodded and awkwardly patted the boy on the head. "You sit here to get away from it all, don't you? You need a moment of peace to stop thinking about all of the bad things. That's a normal thing to want."
"I guess… But, um, I like to do something else." The boy swiveled his head to the settlement. "Sometimes when I'm here, I like to watch what the other people are thinking."
"I thought your family couldn't see that far."
"They can't, but I can sometimes, if I try really really hard. To my father, the rivers look different. They look like branches. To him, everybody is a tree and the thoughts fall down like leaves during fall. But people are small trees. Rivers are a lot bigger."
Huxley murmured an agreement. "What does he think about? The soldiers?"
"No. He just thinks normal things. Good things, sometimes bad, but mostly normal things."
Huxley studied the boy's face. It was distant, like the boy was trying to understand something but it was just too complex for him to comprehend. He wasn't ready for it yet. Huxley felt an urge to stop him, especially when he saw frustration start to take hold.
"Hey," he said. The boy looked at him. "You can't see my thoughts right? I'm not a part of your bloodline." He nodded.
Huxley half-smiled. "I bet that must feel weird, huh? Talking to somebody and not knowing exactly what they're thinking?"
"No, it's not." His grin disappeared. Had he made a mistake? "It was for a little bit. I'm still kind of scared of like, the soldiers. I don't like it when they look at me. But I… I don't know, I don't get that feeling when I'm talking to you."
Relief set in, followed by something slightly strange. "Why do you think you like it?"
"Because it lets me, um, think. I can just think whatever I want in front of you and you don't know what it is. You can't know, even when you're sitting right there."
"But you know that means you don't know what I'm thinking either? If I was thinking something bad, you wouldn't be able to tell. You couldn't tell whether I wanted to help you or if I was lying to you this whole time—"
"Are you lying to me?"
"Of course not," Huxley said. He had managed to hide the fact that the question had made him gag. He had already prepared another question, a tiny breadcrumb to lead the boy to the correct decision. But now the conversation had veered wildly off-course. "Why uh, why would I have any reason to lie to you? I'm just here to talk."
"Yeah. So am I. I know I won't lie, and I know you won't lie either now." There was a long bout of silence. "I think I like talking like this."
He must have left soon after that. The only thing Huxley remembered before he went into his trance was a feeling of great weight falling off of his chest. In its place, however, was this feeling that was being pumped into his heart. It weighed him down and dulled his mind, telling him that it wouldn't matter if he died right then in there. In fact, maybe that would have been a good thing. Huxley was not a good man, if he even deserved the right to be called a man.
He looked down. The stain was still there on his sleeve. Huxley was nearing the settlement now. As he neared a tight pack of trees, something flickered in the corner of his eye. He turned to see Emma, her form concealed slightly, leaning against them. Her face was still, stoic. Even from a distance, Huxley could tell that there was something more distant about her.
He pulled to a stop in front of her. "It's past sunset already. Let's leave before the soldiers think something happened to us."
"You're talkative today." Emma emerged. Each step she took carried waves of confidence and apathy like a prisoner scheduled for execution. "Did you get your subject to agree?"
"I did." She had already begun to walk. Huxley sucked in a harsh breath and followed. "It took longer than I — huff — expected. I had to listen to his — huff — life story before I could get anything."
"'His'?" Emma shot a suspicious glance at him, and he winced with embarrasment.
"Sorry, it. It was a boy. A — fuck — a young boy. It told me about its home life. It… confided in me. It told me how it wanted to leave."
"Don't tell me you empathized with it, Huxley."
"It's allowed. I'm a — huff — human being who was talking to… a thing that considered itself human. 'It' would be considered an insult, make them not want to talk."
"Hmm. It is certainly allowed." The oncoming moon made Emma's pale skin glow a little. Her voice grew stranger, like it was coming from something that was more than human. "It's still dangerous. You don't want to find yourself getting attached to these things, Huxley. They see us as just another set of labcoats. They want to kill you."
"I know they want to, I just…" Huxley groaned in pain. He shook his head. "Never mind. This is going nowhere. Let's just get — huff — back to camp."
"Oh, don't deflect."
"What are you talking about?" Huxley grabbed Emma's sleeve, causing her to spin around and face him directly. She cast his face in a deep shadow. "Why are you talking like that? Are you alright?"
She broke away from his grasp. "I'm talking normally."
"You've never talked like this."
"So what? I did my job, and in a lot more timely manner than you. And I didn't have to try and relate to monsters while doing so."
Huxley sniffed, choosing to let go of the fight. The two were silent the rest of the way back. Occasionally, Huxley's wheelchair would buckle against a large rock or an unseen crack in the road, causing Emma to remember that this man was her partner. Outside of those fleeting moments, though, it was quiet. Emma's boots filled the air with sand.
The sound, the cold, the things in the air; it all floated around Huxley's head until, before he knew it, his mind began to wander.

The gasoline sun doused the room with yellow flame. The walls were made of dried red flesh mostly, with the occasional bit of the house's skeleton sticking through at points. Inside was a FATHER. His head was resting upon a kitchen table that shined like ivory, mumbling nonsense to himself. The air was warm, but it could easily have heated up if left unsupervised. The wind pushed through the room so it never came from one side or another. It was like sitting in a room of ghosts that were all rushing past one another.
A BOY entered. His muscles shivered from the weight of the door. The ghosts fled before he could even take a step inside.
"It's almost dark," the FATHER groaned. Even though he wasn't looking at him, the BOY still felt his gaze.
One moment passed. That was far too long.
"When I speak, I expect an answer."
"Um…" was all the BOY could say. The sound entered the FATHER's mind a half-second before it was uttered. He groaned, louder this time. Why was he forced to listen to this? He already knew what the BOY was going to say half the time, but still his mind forced him to replay those noises again and again. The BOY shuffled in place, "You didn't really ask a question."
"That's not what I said!" The FATHER erupted from his chair. The BOY's yelp passed through his mind, but got caught in his throat. "That's not what I said. I wasn't asking a question." FATHER got closer, almost to the BOY's ear. "I was telling you that when I speak, I expect a response back, okay? Is that clear? I want to hear you say it out loud."
The BOY nodded. All that he could think about was crying.
"Wait, no." The FATHER flushed. "Don't cry. Why are you crying? We're only talking, son. Listen, all you have to do is say something back. Anything, I'll take it. Please, just give me some actual words, not the stupid piles of crap in your head. Err, that's not what I mean. You know what I mean, right son?"
"I… know…" The BOY added another bite mark to his lips. A single droplet escaped. He tried to wipe it away, but the FATHER caught his hand.
"What did you say? I couldn't hear you. If you have something you want to tell me, I'm right here. You don't have to mumble. Don't you trust me?" The FATHER smiled and his smile held a fire so hot it made the BOY start to sweat. The FATHER had tried to calm the boy, but now his thoughts were just coming faster. Fear, anger, frustration — they were all building inside his skull. Please, please disappear.
The BOY stammered. "N… no."
The FATHER's eyes widened like a starving predator finding a rotten piece of prey.
"No, no, son." He crept up to his full stature as she spoke, "you know we share things here. You shouldn't be afraid of me. I love you, remember? How many times have I said that? Do you remember?"
The BOY's face was wet and soft like clay. His thoughts were spilling out now. The FATHER ignored them for the most part, but there was one that he couldn't ignore. While the rest fell to the floor and dissipated, this one kept knocking and knocking and knocking on his brain, desperate to let itself in. The curious idiot opened the door.
"You… don't remember?" the FATHER asked. Why couldn't he just say it outright. Didn't he know that the FATHER wouldn't get angry? The only time that he was angry was when the BOY lied. Something worked its way beneath the FATHER's skin. What else was the BOY hiding? Did he secretly hate the FATHER? Did he never love the FATHER?
The BOY's eyes quivered as they saw what the FATHER was going to say. He was seconds away from screaming. The FATHER, knowing now that he was correct, shot first: "You don't fucking know!?"

"You're seriously telling me you don't know?"
Huxley came back to reality. Emma was standing at the entrance of the base, arms folded, as a uniformed woman in a security booth shook her head. It was ice cold now and getting colder with every breath.
"Yes, I am seriously telling you I don't know," the woman said.
"Why would he tell us to come back at sunset if he's not going to be here at sunset?" Emma replied.
"Well, he told you to be here at 1700 hours. That's before sunset."
"And?"
"It's night."
"Okay? We're interviewers, and interviewing takes time. We can't just go in there, wave our guns, and magically convince them to accept treatment." Emma leaned forward slightly. Huxley had never noticed the way that she naturally towered over people as she spoke.
"Of course, ma'am."
Emma rubbed her forehead. "Just check our credentials, alright? They're good. If Enrique doesn't want to see us, then just send somebody else to meet him."
"He can't take meeting while on a mission. I can notify you when he returns if you'd like."
"Mission? What mission?"
"That's classified."
"I have Level-3 clearance. So does he." She pointed to Huxley.
"It has Level-4 classification. All I can do is notify you when he gets back."
Emma sighed. "Yeah, okay. Just tell us when he gets back." She took a few steps forward, then stopped. "And I uh, apologize for being a… never mind."
Huxley could have probably guessed what she was going to say, but he chose not to.

”I can see your thoughts, boy. Stop lying to me.” The FATHER growled.
The BOY was broken on the ground before him. One of his arms went limp and the other was swollen and blue. The FATHER did not cry. He just stared at the floor with a blank look in his eyes like his soul left his body.
The FATHER closed his eyes and thought about reaching out to the BOY. Branches began to sprout out of his fingers and slowly stretch over to the BOY. In his head, they were bright blue, so light that they appeared to be clear when held up to a light. They reminded him of the sky during those winter months when the heat had left the sky.
When he reached the BOY, he instantly saw everything that he wanted and even more that he didn't. He collapsed next to the BOY, tears seeping down his face. "Why do you lie to me still!?" he roared. "You said you would be back when I said. You promised me you would be back."
"I…" the BOY stuttered. His mind was already forming another lie.
"Stop. Just stop, okay?" The BOY avoided the FATHER's eyes. "You don't need to say the correct thing. You don't need to hide things from me. You know that. You just… please, just be honest with me. Say whatever you want. You won't hurt me.
The BOY kept silent. Please stop. Minutes passed by without a word escaping his mouth. Please just speak. Say anything. The FATHER looked up, and saw millions of thoughts streaming from the BOY's mind. No, no, no. He was losing it now, all of it.
"Goddammit, speak!" The FATHER wailed. The BOY collapsed into another bout of tears that gave the FATHER a dark sense of guilt. He was hurting him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so, so sorry. Hello? Can you hear me? Are you—"

“—even listening to me?”
The first two things Huxley saw were Emma's dark brown eyes. Then he saw her beady black pupils and her pale face and her tired body. She was hunched over him, lightly slapping his face. His daydream had turned into an actual dream.
"Yeah, yeah. I am." Huxley rubbed his neck. "I'm just tired. Stress and the interviews and all that."
Emma stood back up. "We don't want Enrique to catch us sleeping when he delivers our results." She yawned. "But if you can't, then I can stay awake for you."
"Don't…" Huxley shot up a hand.
"Hmm?"
"Don't… uh, never mind. It doesn't matter. Let's do that."
Emma laughed. It wasn't her usual friendly-but-slightly-grating giggle, but something slower, more deliberate. It was a signal that she knew he had just slipped up and revealed too much information. Why was Huxley still fighting? All they needed to do was show their hands and the entire conflict would be resolved.
But that meant that he would have to show his hand. She would never open up first. The thought wouldn't have a chance of entering her head if she thought she had an advantage. Huxley shivered. Emma did have the advantage. He was too tired to continue playing games, but she refused to give them up. It would only be a matter of time before he spilled out something criminal.
Emma pushed him through the camp as he tried to keep himself awake. He dug his fingernails into his fragile palms until he left deep marks. Regardless of his efforts, he couldn't fight his overwhelming need to sleep.
"Oh, someone must've set this up for us."
Her voice made his head throb in pain. Her playfulness, her fakeness, the way that she played around with her meal, refusing to give it the dignity of a quick death. Emma stopped him before a three-log campfire that was second away from collapse. Emma quickly threw in a few twigs and leaves, giving it a few more minutes of life.
Something in Huxley's head — some combination of his conscience, his anxiety, and his rage — ordered him to fall asleep right then. The world felt like it was made of fire, and his thoughts were even worse. He rubbed his temples, but that didn't do anything.
It was a mistake to just blame Emma for this feeling. Everything was wrong. The world was terrible. It was a cage that held back every good being that was forced to live on it. There were thousands of books and millions of poems written about how it would be better to have been born anywhere else. Huxley had to sleep. Should he crawl? If this world was truly the work of a god, then it must have been so terrified of what it created that it abandoned this world and hoped it would burn out. Or maybe Huxley had just gone batshit crazy.
"Hey, is there something on your mind?" Emma snapped him out of his thoughts. She had gone inside the tent and retrieved a small foldable chair for her to sit on.
"No. Just a little… tired."
"Okay." Emma rubbed her hands together. She did it slowly. "You just seem to have a very… oh, I don't want to say 'troubled' look about you, but something like that." She was only a knee's length away from him. If she really wanted to, she could stab him in the thigh and drag him into the fire. Huxley watched her eyes and saw a joyous look within them. She knew nobody was watching.
"Why are you like this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry." Huxley was silent for a few seconds. "It's just… why are you acting so different now? Back at the Site with David and when that soldier hit on you, you weren't like this? You acted polite, like nothing was wrong. But now you're—"
"What? Rude? Bossy?" Emma's eyes narrowed. "Bitchy?"
"I… I don't know." Huxley felt so pathetic. "It's like you flipped a switch and now you say what you mean. You're direct. You're honest."
The two accidentally locked eyes. It had happened so quickly that neither noticed it and neither knew how to escape it. A few awkward seconds passed: Emma relaxing in her chair and Huxley trying to find a position that was comfortable.
Emma finally said, "I guess you're right. I did feel… something change in me. When I was talking to my subject, the girl, I just… I thought about something. Some little voice in my head asked me, 'Why are we doing this? Why am I talking to this thing? Why is it talking to me?' I realized that even if I could somehow get it to agree, the rest of them will still probably resist. We'll have to force treatment sooner or later, so what's the point of me being here trying to act like some kind savior. So I stopped."
Emma looked down. She made a circle in the dirt with her foot.
"It looked like me. Did you know that, Huxley? Its eyes were the same color as mine. Same thing with its hair and its skin. Sometimes, it even spoke like I did when I was younger. If we had just stumbled onto each other one day, I would sooner assume it was an illegitimate daughter than believe it was a subtherium."
"That's empathy," Huxley replied. It wasn't a threat, but it still unnerved Emma slightly. "You're empathizing with… it."
"No I'm not, Huxley." Emma tossed the words out as if she hadn't realized what they meant. "I mean, I don't know if I am. I'm not very experienced with empathizing with monsters that murder innocent men and women indiscriminately. You might know more about that than I do. I should talk to the shrink after this, try some new distancing techniques."
"Wait, wait, wait, no. Why'd you stop?"
"What?"
"You were talking there. Actually talking. We were having a conversation for a second there, I know it. You were talking like David does."
"But you don't like David?"
"What? No I don't…" Huxley's voice trailed off. He looked down and saw that all of his cards were strewn out on the table. "I… I like how he says what he's thinking. I don't have to play a guessing game with him. You talk like you're always interviewing people. You always talk with that authority tone, but I swear just for a second it left."
"Oh. I'm sorry then."
"No, don't apologize."
There were crickets chirping in the distance. Their lunar calls filled his ears and scared away his thoughts. He closed his eyes. There was a warmth in his chest, one that didn't come from the fire. His back was soaked with sweat, his feet ached, and his neck was tired of supporting his head. But still, despite it all, he was warm.
Then, in a flash, that warmth left. All that remained was a bitter chill in Huxley's head.
He had forgotten something. His plan was to end this game, to throw out all of his cards so that she would never know what he held, but he hadn't. There was still one card in his hand — one tiny detail that Emma had no clue even existed, but would rattle her so much if she discovered it that the conversation would end right there and then. It would also probably throw him in front of a firing squad, or worse.
Huxley began breathing faster as he stared at that card in his hand. He already knew what it said. The words had formed in his mind a long time ago. He had tried to abolish them. He had tried to ignore the card, the game, everything else. He had tried to tell himself that all he needed was sleep, but his body persisted. It clawed at him to throw that strategy away, to quit, to stop caring.
"No!"
Emma whipped around, fury in her eyes. Huxley froze. He didn't mean to say the word out loud, but it slipped between his teeth before he could catch it. Fuck, this was really it. He had to either pull the trigger now or let himself die. She knew, he knew. He had to just say it.
"Hey, Emma. I…"
The words dried up in his throat. He couldn't do it. Huxley would rather let himself be consumed rather than share this one secret about himself. It probably wouldn't be anything significant. He was such a coward. He was just doing this for sympathy, for her pity.
"Never mind. Sorry."
It was three words. Three words and the game would be over. Anxious shadows hounded his mind. He couldn't do it. He could never do it. Talking was death. Admitting to anything was death. Why was he even doing this? Was it even for pity anymore? Or was it a half-hearted attempt at suicide?
"I… know about your talk with David."
Emma's face was undamaged. She didn't even blink. It was like she knew that it was a diversion. Huxley's heart pounded like a drum. He couldn't escape this now, not even by giving her a slice of the truth. She had caught him in her bear trap. She was the predator. She was the victor. And she wanted the entire meal.
"I wasn't spying on you. The walls were just very thin. David probably told you," he said. "They look thick, but there's a, um, a few spots where you can hear through. And I was awake and I thought I heard something, so I…"
He was falling in quicksand. Any attempt to escape just made him sink deeper and deeper into the hole he dug for himself. Thorns pierced his flesh, salt burned his wounds. The only way he would make it out of this alive was by being silent, but every second he spent without speaking only heightened the chills that were crawling down his neck.
"Listen, okay. Please." Tears were beginning to well up in his throat. "I know that you're not the type to give up an investigation easily. We're both interviewers, that's our job. Well, I guess I don't know if you're like that, but I can assume so because you're here with me. I know what David told you and I know that you are concerned about me. But could you please stop? Could you please just let this go?"
Huxley leaned forward, but Emma turned away. She refused to give him anything in return. "There's a reason I don't want people to know about this. You can understand that, right? Everybody has things like that. Everybody has things they'd like to keep private. I just want to move past—"
"Huxley."
It happened in one second. Emma turned, raised her head, met his gaze, and reached out to touch his hand. The fire had died. The only thing illuminating the two was the soft moonlight. The night and the wind settled around Huxley. He could feel it.
"Do you know my mother?"
He could only see the outline of her face. He said, "…Yes."
"Do you know about the things she did? You've heard of her accomplishments, her research. Defeating the anomalous, ushering humanity into a new age. You probably studied her in school, right Huxley?"
"Y-Yes. I did."
She paused. "Why do you hate her?"
Huxley erupted. "I don't hate her!" he shouted. "What does this even have to do with her? Everybody knows her! Everybody knows you're her daughter! Stop playing games with me. It's not healthy for your relationships."
"Oh, don't deflect." There was that tone again. The one that she used when she was grinding a suspect into the dirt, the one that made them feel like the smallest thing in the universe.
"Shut up." Huxley's face fell into his hand. The dirt beneath him became wet. "Stop talking like your mother. You're being a b…" He knew what he had to call her to stop her in her tracks, but he refused to use that knife. He couldn't bring himself to stab her in the throat and stop her from speaking.
Emma pounced. "Is this why you were so accusatory of me when I met David? You already knew he suspected something. Maybe you slipped up once or twice, said something you shouldn't have. You didn't want me to talk to him, because you knew that I would be able to tell. That's why you like him, don't you? He's too stupid to put the pieces together."
Every muscle in Huxley's body was quaking. His head felt like it was splitting apart, even when he pressed it together with his hands. Today couldn't be real. Now couldn't be real. This was a fever dream, a stress fantasy, a joke; anything other than reality.
She grabbed his hand. He tried to yank it back, but her grip was steel, her fingers iron hooks. Adrenaline was boiling his veins. If he didn't do anything soon, he would die from the stress.
"What… are you talking about, Emma?" His lips didn't have the strength to fake a smile.
"I want you to tell me why you're acting this way."
Huxley stopped breathing. She already knew what he was going to say. She just wanted to hear him admit it. She wanted to see the humiliation on his face as he spoke those three little words. He said he didn't care, didn't he? That's what he had said to himself hundreds of times. The game was bullshit. It was pointless. He hated it. Didn't he?
So why was he still playing?
"I'm…"
His mouth moved without command. Panic stabbed him in the back.
"I'm a… um…"
Emma pulled him closer, into a small slit of moonlight where both their faces were visible. He could see her eyes. He could feel the heat of her breath. It was like looking at a giant, and seeing it notice you. She slowly bore her teeth.
And she said, "Huxley, are you a subtherium?"

The FATHER collapsed to the floor in a pool of tears and sweat. He clutched the BOY to his chest. He couldn't feel the child's chest moving, but he refused to let go. Nothing was wrong, so why was he crying? Why was there blood on the floor?
”I'm sorry,” he said. “You scare me, you know. You terrify me when you think those things, because I'm…” He crumbled just a little bit more. “I am those things. I am the man you think I am.”
The FATHER sat in silence for hours. Sometimes he looked down at the BOY, but he couldn't keep his eyes on him for more than a few seconds. His chest would ache and he would realize how cold the BOY had become.
”Do you want to sleep?” he asked. The BOY was silent. He was just a thing now. A thing for the FATHER to hold and to control and to know every little detail of. That's what the FATHER always wanted, didn't he?
”I'm sorry,” he whispered into the BOY's ears. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
He cried. Not because of the lack of warmth, not because of the pain in his heart, not because of the body in his hands. He cried because despite everything that had happened, he was still happy. He was overwhelmingly, ruthlessly happy. He had won, and he couldn't stop loving that feeling.

“Hey! Are you two the interviewers?”
An absurdly bright lantern was shoved into Huxley's face. He raised his arm, barely able to make out the form of a soldier. "Hello!? Are you Emma Sandaran and Huxley Williams?"
"Yeah… yeah, that's us," Huxley responded.
"You two need to come with me immediately." The man turned and called for the two to follow.
Emma said, "Wait! What is this? Where's Commander Enrique?"
The man stopped. "Commander Enrique was kidnapped fifteen minutes ago."

Post-Foundation
<< Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 >>