Authors all the way up, authors all the way down. On all sides. Within and without, their sleeves rolled up and forearm deep into your psyche.

Billith

NARRATIVISTICS AND YOU: Abandoning the Notion of Fiction vs. Non-Fiction
Written by Billith.
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NARRATIVISTICS AND YOU:
Abandoning the Notion of Fiction vs. Non-Fiction

SEMINAR HOST:
Sr. Researcher J. Anselm Harkness
Conceptual and Ontological Studies, Pilcrow-Minkowski Center's Hybrid Theoretics Division
on behalf of the Metaphysical Sciences Department

Welcome to the discourse on the Narrative Relativity Model, cornerstone of the Narrativistics Division, novel branch of the Metaphysical Sciences Department. I am longstanding Foundation wi-fi and reality repair man, Senior Researcher James Anselm Harkness. I don't exactly know why I am here. I don't believe I'm the best at explaining this model, nor have I worked with anything even remotely relevant. This narrative stuff, as I've come to understand it, just a few days ago, is being worked into the Metaphysical Sciences Department and outward to be eventually covered by all fields of natural sciences studied in Foundation research facilities. That means, like it or not, Narrativistics will be a part of your core education at the Foundation. It is integral to your understanding of the anomalous, integral to your understanding of this universe's place amongst everything else, and integral to understanding everything else's place amongst everything beyond that.
Now, I'm glad you're all sitting, because I have some shocking news to share with you all. If you know a bit about Pataphysics, you probably know what I'm going to say: Did you know that the Pataphysics department says we're all fictional?
Yes, yes. All of us here have heard it at one point or another. "Pata saw God and it's a fanfic writer from New Jersey" or some variation of this sentiment.
Let me assuage your fears with a little Narrativistics. There isn't a lone horror writer in New Jersey who dictates the thoughts of this entire multiverse. That you can be certain of, my dear friends.
No, instead it is a constant, vast, and ever-nesting web of complex storytelling. Authors all the way up, authors all the way down. On all sides. Within and without, their sleeves rolled up and forearm deep into your psyche. You're a fanfic writer from New Jersey, I am, God is, and the Devil, too. Everything and everyone.
No, you didn't hear me wrong. And yes, I know some of this seems… unrelated to natural sciences. Before you throw a Pata- onto any of this, however, stay with me, and allow me to say my piece. If all goes well, we'll all be better for it in the end.
Yes—I can see your looks now, especially from my, uh—I guess we'd be colleagues now, wouldn't we? From my colleagues here in the Pataphysics and Narrativics departments, shaking their heads. "Why not Pataphysics? It can handle substrates and authors, it can handle this and that!", I can hear you say, and while I agree that Pataphysics can explain many of the concepts I will put forth to you today, it cannot explain all of them. It cannot explain its own relation to the universe and reality as a whole. Furthermore, Pataphysics is simply not scientific enough. Pataphysics is a philosophical system of governance. Narrativics works incredibly well for a small bundle of worlds but breaks down in others.
These extant models exist to bring local order to an "increasingly chaotic" macro system. Here's the issue with that line of thinking though: This system is not increasingly chaotic. Chaos has always been there, while we've become more accustomed to order, and our grasp weakens on the corner of the multiverse that we've tried so hard to control for as long as we have. In the end, we've only grown more aware of its absurdity. Some of us understand that level of chaos cannot truly be contained at this scale. It's a pipe dream.
We can, however, do our best to understand it and quantify it. That's the thing about chaotic macro systems; the further you zoom out, the more ordered it appears, the more familiar are the rules it abides by. Narrativistics is to zoom out. All the way out.
And while Narrativistics has very clear, quantifiable applications for understanding the Grand Cosmology as a unified system—we'll get to that—the Pataphysics flavors of Foundation edge-case narrative studies have always been nebulous, at best. You may have found yourself at one point or another on either side of the many debates—on the existence, the relevance, the reasoning behind failure to broadly cohere with all timelines, or of which demiurge you ascribe to as your Pataphysical higher power—though the debates are always being had. Most often, this is the fault of the hard "rules" of popular Pataphysics models, or lack of hard rules, I should say. Models derived from the prototypical postulations of S.A. Swann's research into the topic regarded such granular aspects of reality in the same way a proto-Hermeticist maneuvered through the esoteric studies of alchemy. Indeed, you will find many personnel on Foundation territories espousing Pataphysics jargon as if the mere use of the lingo serves as an incantation to bring about further understanding.
Likewise, while deriving gold from mercury was indeed possible to even the least talented of members of the Golden Dawn, we know today, even a century ago, that the methodologies used were less than optimal. They were messy and inaccurate, unlike the physical sciences that grew to explain much of the phenomena in the centuries to come. In 1941 the first proof of this was synthesized via particle accelerator, though humanity's quest for fiat-based economic systems derived from scarcity made these methods cost prohibitive. Today, advanced Foundation technologies can 3D print bars of gold for a fraction of the value, and if you don't believe me, just ask the U.S. Federal Reserve.
Don't actually do that. They won't know what you're talking about, but we will. We also have very powerful drugs to administer to people who spill Foundation secrets and to those who hear said secrets. They begin with an "A", although I can't seem to recall the name…
[chuckles] Okay, we have some levity, good. We're gonna need it.
To my original point—Conversations surrounding the usage and validity of Pataphysics within the scope of Foundation operations have been around since the department's inception. While we've confirmed the need for a division specializing in variably-real realities, it is time for us to move past the assumptions we have about narrative works and, frankly, our own reality. Once you understand the relationship between different narrative substrates, you will see the parallels between Ontology and Narrativistics, and the rest will follow suit.
First and foremost: Narrativistics, what is it?

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Narrativistics is a reframing of the roles of the narrative, character and author that is infinitely extrapolatable and fully inclusive. It has three main pillars of understanding:
One. There is no difference between fiction and non-fiction, as the title of the seminar suggests. There is something of an illusion of fictionality or lack thereof, due to the perception and origin of the observer within the "narrative stack"; Narrativism, Believability and Realism are byproducts of narrative relativity and the origin signature of the observer. Thus, all narratives are equally "real" to the characters experiencing them; it is, by all intents and purposes, their reality.

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I should clarify: the "narrative stack", unlike most other models, is simply a visualization tool, like the point-line-plane postulate; usage of this system to describe literal narrative reality is erroneous and obsolete, as there is no linear vector to/from other narrative planes. Many narratives exist with similar Narritivism/Believability/Realism (NBR) levels but do not interact and are, in all actuality, disparate in nature. Thus, you can assume that narratives are not "stacked" in the traditional sense. It may help you better understand narrative realities to picture them as frequencies on a radio that exist out-of-phase with one another, in tightly wound groups of related stories called canonical bundles. "Tuning" into a specific plane involves moving the dial a certain distance from your origin station, which is harder to complete, the further your destination is from your origin. If you turn the dial one way, you become less relatively real to people in your origin station. If you turn it the other, you become more relatively real.

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This is pillar number two: Perceived realness fluctuates in two directions, either unreal or hyperreal, and each narrative has a unique signature or "frequency" that you retain when you move across layers. Being hyperreal or unreal accounts for all ontokinetic activity; all reality bending anomalies can be filtered as either hyperreal or unreal. For ease of understanding, consider all realities as being on this spectrum, ranging from negative infinity to positive infinity, but without an absolute zero; nonreal phenomena is distinct from real phenomena, be it hyperreal or unreal. Nonreal phenomena by definition cannot exist, even in places where it absolutely should; the act of conceptualizing or otherwise providing an example invalidates said example as truly nonreal.
Worry not about the potential for fuzzy, anomalous science-induced migraines, as nonreal phenomena cannot impact you or your career in any meaningful way…we're relatively sure, anyhow. There is a working theory that nonreal matter/energy makes up most of the unseen portions of the multiverse, though its nature precludes any possibility of true understanding whatsoever. Let's focus on the other two instead.
If you travel "up" a narrative layer, the layer you enter into is more relatively real than you are, you are therefore relatively less real. Anomalies that can manipulate those spaces are unreal reality benders, and they often do so by using their own less real narrative causality to invoke "storybook/fairytale"-style abilities. These reality benders usually only impact their immediate surroundings, contingent on their situational awareness; while powerful entities at times, these reality benders are typically cocky, fallible, and have large cognitive or perceptual blind spots which can be exploited for containment or termination purposes.
If you travel "down" a narrative layer, you are more real than your surroundings. Thus the area is relatively unreal and you hyperreal. A hyperreal reality bender is far more dangerous and destructive on average; we're looking at top-down control as opposed to bottom-up. Of course, both hyperreal and unreal ontokinetic anomalies exist on a spectrum of power. A particularly weak or untrained hyperreal entity might fare worse than a confident and well-prepared unreal entity. A rule of thumb to identify one over the other is to ask yourself: Can it alter reality itself? Can it destroy the universe if it so chose? If both are yes, the entity is hyperreal.

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Hyperreal reality benders are akin to simple proxy authors; as author intentions dictate all events across all planes of existence, an entity written into the story with the ability to change up fundamental rules is more-or-less an author entity written into existence by an author even further "above". This is because of pillar three:
There are an infinite number of narrative layers that can be hypothetically accessed. There will always have been a layer between two layers, even if they appear identical, because the "layers", as stated prior, are a visualization guide to help our feeble human minds parse a more abstract phenomenon. Narratives, being a spectrum of frequencies, place you out-of-phase with your current plane, one degree on either side, increasing in dissonance as you travel from your Point of Origin. The farther you travel "upwards", the less and less real you are relatively to the current plane, thus you have less and less influence over the planes themselves. Inversely, traveling "downwards" any distance does not impact your control over the layers below you, however, narratives continue to be less relatively real to you as an observer and thus become inherently less meaningful the further you travel "downwards".
Of course, there is a workaround for this loss of meaning/believability: writing author entities into substrates to act on your behalf. Any characters written by you will be relatively less real than you, making them ideal for injection into other narratives. They, like all characters/authors, lack agency other than that which is given to them by another author/character.
Likewise, a character does not typically incur on the plane of their Author, but it becomes a greater possibility on "lower" substrates. This is because the H-Energy/cognitron density required to manifest an entity is less when generating characters within narratives possessing lower NBR values. We've heard stories about entities ascending upwards to attack their Swann author entities, but these are all fallacious by design; take SCP-3812, for example.
If you ask a handful of people about 3812, you'll hear at least one person erroneously mention the entity is ascending up narrative layers to attack the author entity above us that wrote it into existence. While I'm sure the anomaly wants to attack its author, the series of events that would more likely occur would involve the author entity writing a proxy author into a lower plane to get punched on his behalf. This way the author can write 3812 into layer -2, then the proxy author into -1. The entity would then ascend (as per the author's intention) and fulfill its purpose.
In the end this was the intent of an author, however, no present narrative beings had their own will in the matter, though they might feel like they have their own intention. Only the intention given to the characters will be the intention they have, this intention is passed on via author to creation, who authors a creation and continues the chain.
Author intention is the only thing that matters in the multiverse; indeed, some of you might have noticed by now that you have a great deal of inconsistency in your day-to-day life. One day Humes were a reliable measurement system, the next day they weren't. What's the deal with that? Some people in Metaphysical reported a complete alteration of certain fundamental forces, others reported discovering two versions of SCP-3125, one a dead memeplex and the other a giant fuckoff starfish. Well, you can blame sloppy author intention for that. If an author wants to mess up your continuity, or introduce conflicting rules, they can do so, and narratives cohere just the same.
Don't be too hard on them, though, as they're being driven by other authors' intentions. Same with those authors, and the ones above that. Ad nauseum.
And yes this implies that no beings have free will or agency, even ourselves. We only exist as a link in a possibly infinite chain of authors writing stories, a nested loop of creative worlds that evaporate as soon as the medium is disrupted.
On that note, you might find some of this information distressing or despair-inducing. If you begin to feel this way, just wait, as the pastries and coffee you've all been consuming were laced with a minor anxiolytic, something of the -azepam or -azolam variety, very mild. Shouldn't be a problem unless you've all been drinking, in which case, yeah- you? And- one, two, three, four-four? Okay, you five, please excuse yourselves to the medical bay at the end of the hallway. Let me check my watch.
Okay, yeah. You're fine. Just walk quickly.
Don't worry about it. I'm sure it's better than potent hallucinogens, although I'd be remiss if I borrowed anything else besides the route of administration used in the Type Green seminars we used to give back in the day. I'm sure you've heard the stories. The psychiatric costs alone—
[cough]— Regardless, I'd like to shift gears and talk a bit about the physical structure of narratives. We all know at least some of the typical fundamental particles that we believe comprise our reality; photons, quarks, bosons, etc. It turns out that these particles are a projection of reality; a hologram, if you will. These particles have little to do with the actual rendering of a narrative plane, only for it's reconciliation within three dimensions. Instead, we have to look at the table of fundamental Narrativistic particles. Many of these are used to render a narrative into a specific format, so that its information can be conveyed repeatedly and as effortlessly as possible. Particles such as the glypheme, chememe, and lexeme are fundamental units of specific mediums; written language, sign language, and spoken language, respectively.

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"Particles" may seem like a bit of a stretch, but none more than precedent. These particles represent discrete regions where phenomena is taking place, and we know the phenomena is happening. Yet, as with typical wave-particle duality, we cannot measure the forces at play and know their exact location simultaneously. They are instead physically represented by the spherical region in which the measured data still checks out.
H-Energy and cognitrons are the most important of the bunch for this discussion. H-Energy, also known as Headcanon Energy, is used in the creation or cementing of worlds, It is derived from the cognitron, which is the fundamental unit of thought. Cognitrons are produced from creative reserves en masse during periods of emotional distress, and less so in various other situations, which are usually spent on generating internal landscapes. When used on the creation of a narrative substrate, the conversion of cognitrons to H-Energy creates canonical potential that aids in the cementing of these worlds in a medium through concentrated effort.
I'm oversimplifying, as the production of antiparticles is not particularly relevant to this seminar, but the H-Energy converts into narremes and a mix of ideologemes, lexemes, phonemes, morphemes and/or graphemes depending on the medium. The remaining H-energy loses potential and converts back into cognitrons which remain in the system for later use. If a story is stored in a digital medium, its fundamental components are converted into bits until recalled by said medium.
Narremes form complex compounds called devices; tropes, themes, and, depending on the medium, additional materia—phrasemes from morphemes, diaphonemes from phonemes, ethos from ideologemes, et cetera. Various devices and narremes combine into segments called sujets. A Fabula, or complete worldline, progresses through its sujets at a rate of pacing, which is calculated via chronon density per sujet. This force is called Continuity and the natural, sensible progression of Continuity is called Narrative Cohesion. This is synonymous with Causality, as we know it. Narrative Causality, on the other hand, is related to concepts such as synchronicity, serendipity, deus ex machina, plot armor and similar. These concepts impact a narrative's Believability when overused, reducing perceived versimilitude to more real realities.
Exponential reduction in cognitron density observed within narratives suggests that subsequent nested Fabulas possess less narrativisitic particle density, barring a downward flow of H-Energy from some higher system.
The one thing worth mentioning regarding antiparticles is that the generation of such is the cause of all hazardous phenomena. We still don't know why or how anomalies manipulate antiparticles, but we are confident that hazards are caused by antiparticle interactions; antinarremes to narrativohazards, antimemes to memetic hazards, iconomeres to iconohazards, antisemiomes to semiohazards, so on and so forth.
While H-Energy is responsible for the creation of canons and worlds in general, it can also be expended on making a story element faintly more "real". It takes quite a bit of effort and collective headcanonizing, but it is theoretically possible to have an idea be believed enough such that it manifests on the material plane. We call this process psychogenesis, which requires simultaneous and sustained cognitron expenditure by many, many authors at once. When an idea undergoes psychogenesis, the resulting creation is called (in our typical understanding) a thoughtform or tulpa—basically concentrated belief manifesting as real.
Sorry, that last part—I'm not entirely sure it's true. I mean, I know it's true, I just didn't know it until a few seconds ago. That's the thing, right? Someone has to give me these ideas, just like someone put me on Narrativistics' Erudition Project. I don't know who; I woke up one day and had the promotion. Certainly an oddity, but not as much as this seminar. Do any of you remember what you were doing before this? Anyone? I don't.
That's Narrativistics at work. Narrativistics is why I'm here giving this seminar, but it is also why none of your faces are visible. I just realized that. You're all facing away from me. This is fine.
I'm going to ignore this development and calmly wrap up my diatribe before I get too bogged down in the minutiae. The closer you look, the more you realize you didn't want to know in the first place. Still, we take the good with the bad here; it's all part of the game, as I'm sure you're aware by now, yeah?

[Silence for five seconds. Harkness' eyes dart left to right, then upwards. After a moment, his gaze falls to the floor. Complex, conflicting emotions coalesce into confusion. It's not unbearable, but it is exhausting. I'm so fucking tired. Are these my feelings? Are these my thoughts? Why does everything feel so familiar? I hear this noise, like a bell, reverberations overlapping, all-encompassing, carrying intentions given by parties unknown. At the center, myself, a conduit, broadcasting my thoughts and dreams, influenced by me. Characters, civilizations, entire worlds, all living their lives, all unique and equally real as mine is to me. It's terrifying. Terrifying that they believed it all, felt every moment, yet still ceased to exist when I awoke this morning. In that fraction of a moment between synapses firing, all that work was lost. Yet I am still here. They didn't deserve this. How is that fair? How?!]

All part of the game.

[I bore witness to the death of a billion worlds and yet they fade from my memory only moments after execution. The only truth is impermanence. The destruction of a server, the growing gaps in a god's memory, the pencil eraser. Fire damage. Humidity. How long until it happens to me? To you?]

S-So—woah—uh, I, uh, shit. Sorry. Spaced out for a sec there, I think—? [pause] D-did anyone else feel that? That, uh. Ah, nevermind.
Right, right. Let me just- [exhales]
To summarize: [pause] Narrativistics is the multiverse theory of Pata-superset models. It assumes all stories are equally true to the characters and relatively real to the observer.
All theories, canons, stories, good and bad, believable or otherwise, exist on some level. Things like plot holes and incompatible crosslinking can be accounted for; The author's intention is the only thing that matters. If I write two incompatible stories to crosslink into each other, they will magically be compatible, but only in the small isolated narrative bubble in which I write them to be so. If someone writes a story that is purposefully discounting of Narrativistics, it still works under Narrativistics, because that plane still exists, somewhere. This framework is not confined to any one timeline, nor to the multiversal subset in which the SCP Foundation exists and dies within. It is not a narrative on its own; this seminar is the narrative substrate in which Narrativistics is being conveyed upon in this instance, but its origin is more real than myself, even my author, for that matter.
Narrativistics is a grand unified scientific framework of narrative causality that includes all stories, real and imagined, future and past, SCP and non-SCP. Your story. My story. The stories of Gods in places far above and motes of dust far below, of collective consciousnesses in existential grandeur and the fleeting daydreams of single-celled organisms. Everything. Everything and everyone.
And now, I return to that liminal space I exist inside, that one found between recollections of narratives within which I am present. The audience is nonexistent. I am speaking to a blank wall. There are no questions.
Goodnight.

If you're reading this message, it's because the Foundation has successfully neutralized the most powerful entity in your current cosmological headcanon. Sorry/you're welcome, I don't make the rules. In fact, all I did was use this gun I found. It was very easy.


Although Anne loathed to admit it, those Foundation doctors absolutely knew their stuff. She was fine enough with the doctors who patched her up and the ones who came to check on her when she was still under armed guard, but once her security level was downgraded all the nurses who kept an eye on her were way too fucking chummy. They didn't even bite when Anne tried to bait them into stupid shit, they just kept asking her shit like 'how many fingers am I holding up behind my back.' If Anne had anything to say about it, they wouldn't be able to move those fingers very well for much longer.
"Miss Byrne?" The portly grey-haired man in the chair a respectful distance from her hospital bed called her name. He busied himself with checking the recording equipment he's set up next to himself. The Foundation recorded fucking everything, even if it was just a redundant follow-up to the information she'd already supplied the actually threatening-looking woman who asked about her Insurgency involvement. "How long did you say the Insurgency… experimented on you?"
The man looked as though he was struggling for a sensitive way to word that phrase, but Anne didn't really care. "Four-ish years. Until I was thirteen," she said with a yawn as she leafed through an outdated magazine.
"And you're certain this did not push any of your anomalous capabilities past, er…" The man leafed through his notes. "'A weak ability to sense emotions when in the absence of… external factors?'"
Anne sighed, closing the magazine and turning to look at him. For someone who supposedly dealt with anomalies all day, he seemed almost spooked. "You mean the conflux, right?"
The man nodded.
"Well, actually, I've really be lying to everyone since I go here," Anne said matter-of-factly. The man sat up into an alert position. "Really, I can kill anyone just by looking at them. For example, now that the guard rotation has been changed, I'm going to kill you with a brain aneurism and break out of here in three…" Anne held up three fingers, then two, then one…
Beads of sweat began to form on the man's forehead. Anne watched him squirm for a few seconds, then just shook her head. "Relax, I was joking."
He cursed quietly, clearly flustered, and Anne rolled her eyes and opened her magazine back up. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat, his 'official' voice coming back. "Do you have any more questions?"
"Uh, yeah," Anne said as she turned to a new page. "What am I gonna do once I'm out of here?"
"Oh, well…" The man thought over what was, doubtlessly, several hundred dense pages of procedure he had memorized. "Well, as a wanted POI from a hostile GOI, normally you'd be a medium-to-high risk CPOI, depending on your cooperation. As an infovore, that almost always means SCP designation, though your limited showing could lead to a CPOI assignment, but I'd have to look over the RAISA filing system again. So, you might just be a CPOI for now."
Anne blinked. The man waited for a response, looking at her like he had just said actual, normal words.
"…Did someone fall asleep on a fucking typewriter when you set all this shit up?" Anne huffed. She was getting really sick of how all the people here talked in code, especially because she didn't think they were doing it on purpose. "Do you people use, like… fucking words in here?"
The man sighed deeply. "Look, why don't you just ask me what you wanted to?"
"Am I going to be able to interact with other people?" Anne asked in a slow, overpronounced cadence as though she was speaking with a toddler.
Another deep, exasperated sigh, and Anne knew she at least still had her mojo if she'd done this to the poor man in under five minutes. "Typically, no, but due to some, er, 'recent changes to procedure' as well as your cooperation, it's a decent possibility. Why, was there someone you had in mind.
Anne felt at her teeth with her tongue. The doctors here were damn good, she couldn't even tell which teeth were fake and which ones were reattached. "Oh, nobody in particular," she replied with a smile.
Anne figured she wouldn't mind seeing a certain someone again, even after everything. At the very least, she was easy to get a rise out of. And it's not every day Anne found another woman so willing to get on top of her.

PHYSICS Division After-Action Report (Abridged)
Submitted by Fireteam SPARKPLUG Leader, Operator #43856518/735 "Bullfrog"
Objective
Secure intelligence on Foundation operations from a third-party broker.
Result
Mission failure. Bad or intentionally misleading information led to the anomalous Foundation special assault team being deployed for the same objective, who were able to secure the package quickly due to anomalous capabilities.
Personnel Report

Team Leader "Bullfrog" 43856518/735: No injuries.
"Skunkboy" 43852165/735: Moderate testicular trauma. 96 hours of medical supervision recommended.
"Kitten" 43857764/735: Minor cuts and bruises. No medical attention needed.
"Spider" 43861212/735: Possible psionic contamination. 24 hours of observation recommended.

Threat Entity Assessment

Two (2) possible humanoid UTEs, one male and one female. Foundation affiliation. VERITAS scanning returned abnormal readings but no anomalous capabilities were returned.
One (1) confirmed UTE, appeared female. Foundation Affiliation. Possible physical augmentations, appeared to teleport upon death. More information needed.
KTE-11971-Green Ember. Foundation affiliation. Capabilities on par with what has been previously documented, barring one change (see below).
KTE-12275-Green Carcinoma. Insurgency affiliation. Capabilities possibly augmented by unknown paratech (see attached documentation on the incident in Wild Rose, IL. shortly after the operation).

All Threat Entities returned to or were captured by the Foundation.
Fireteam member Spider attempted a thaumatological link with KTE-11971-Green Ember in order to retrieve information about the KTE's identify or Foundation intelligence. Spider reported that this resulted in the KTE corrupting the link which forced Skunkboy to manually disrupt the link to prevent further psionic contamination.
Spider is an accomplished Thaumaturge and not prone to mistakes. The event described points towards possible latent memory-affecting or memetic capabilities from KTE-11971-Green Ember.
I recommend that additional resources be allocated to combating the Foundation's special assault force making use of humanoid anomalies.

Jackie's back stiffened as she stepped out into the cold early spring air, cursing under her breath. Not that she wasn't used to it, of course. With all the freezing hells she'd been to on her 'expeditions,' she'd become well accustomed to far more extreme temperatures, but even after all these years stepping out from under a space heater and into the cold was as hard as ever.
She scanned the scene, only seeing some cheap, disorganized chairs facing a drab overlook of the mountains. It probably would have looked much nicer with any leaves on the trees, or snow, or flowers, but this was that special time of year where the forest had started to thaw out but not yet begun to wake up. Well, at least this forest can wake up, Jackie reminded herself.
Truly, only an idiot would want to spend time sitting out here.
"What do you mean you're 'okay?' You're in a chest brace!"
…Or someone trying very hard to avoid other people.
Even in passing, Iris had made it clear how much she hated the cold. Something about calling every state where it got below 40 degrees a 'shithole' in that comically divisive way she did. However, this seems to have led her to overestimating how much other people disliked the cold. Or perhaps just the tenacity of a couple of teenagers.
"Look, it's… fine, it'll heal up." Iris clearly looked uncomfortable, but managed to maintain a smile when speaking to the two teenage girls. The girls, for their part, looked pretty concerned to see Iris wrapped in bandages.
"We were worried about you when we didn't see you in the cafeteria this morning…" The smaller one - Stacey, Jackie recalled - said in a small voice.
Seeing her chance to continue pushing Iris, the louder one chimed in again. "You always say you've got 'testing,' but then you come back looking like this all the time! Why don't you just quit? You always say that we shouldn't agree to that stuff!" Her eyes narrowed. "Unless there's something you're not telling us."
Iris moved her mouth around in silence, clearly backed into a corner. The fact she was sitting down and looking up at them probably didn't help, as the whole scene looked more like an interrogation. "Uh, look, Leora, I…"
Jackie sighed, making her way over to the three of them. "Alright, you two. Let's give our friend here some room to breathe, okay?"
The two girls looked up at Jackie, mouths opening slightly as she made her way over. Iris met her eyes for a moment before looking away, trying to cover up a look of shame.
"Oh, s-sorry, we just…" Stacey stuttered, having to crane her neck to make eye contact with Jackie as she spoke. "We were just worried about Iris."
It made sense, Jackie figured. From what little she saw around Site-17, Iris was somewhat nicer than usual to the kids who were contained here. They seemed nice enough, at the very least. "If she was really hurt, they wouldn't let her out of the medical wing, you know," Jackie told them.
"Oh, yeah… That makes sense." Stacey quieted down, but it still looked like there was something she wanted to say.
Her friend, however, didn't have any reservations. "Well, we're still worried about her! Is that so wrong?" The girl, named Leora, asked while speaking with her hands. "She must have hurt herself somehow, and she's been avoiding us! I think we have a right to know what's going on."
"Well, um," Jackie said as she scratched the back of her head, "I just don't think she wants to talk about it right now. Maybe you two should, er…" What did kids in containment do again? Hell, what did kids do again?
Mercifully, Iris chimed in again after a few agonizing seconds of silence. "I haven't been avoiding you two, I just wanted some space." The two teenagers turned back around to look at her again. "I'll come talk to you two in a bit, okay? I think they got some kind of… game thing set up for the anomalies now as well, so you can go check that out in the common area." Her voice was soft.
Leora huffed upon hearing that. "No, wait-"
"Okay! We'll head over there now!" Stacey tugged on Leora's arm while taking a step back through the doors, though whether she was driven away by the awkwardness of the conversation or her visible shivers was anyone's guess. Leora bristled, but allowed herself to be dragged back inside.
Once the two of them were gone, Iris' face hardened back into the combative, cold expression Jackie was more familiar with, though it didn't seem like her heart was in it this time. "I suppose you came by just to tell me you told me so?"
"Guess again, sir." Jackie smiled as she handed Iris a box with warm-ish food in it. "I'm here to make sure you're eating. As the team medic, and all." They both knew this wasn't part of her duties, but neither said anything.
Iris cautiously reached out and grabbed the box as though she was scared it would bite her before opening it up and inspecting the contents. Eggs and hash browns with some vegetables. She grimaced, though it seemed like it was more at the offer than the food. "I thought I told you to stop calling me 'sir.'" It certainly looked like that wasn't what she wanted to say.
"Oh, uh, force of habit." Jackie opened up her own box of food, and Iris quietly groaned as she realized Jackie wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. "I just figured it was the respectful thing to say."
"Respectful, huh…?" Iris said ruefully as she poked at her eggs with a plastic fork. "Well, 'sir' isn't actually a gender-neutral term, for one."
"Sorry. You know, I, um… I'm new to this whole thing," Jackie replied, thinking back on her years as a scientist. "…Ma'am."
Iris cringed so hard she cursed and brought a hand up to her chest again. "Oh, god, fuck that. Stick with sir."
"Got it, sir," Jackie chuckled.
Despite Jackie's hopes that maybe Iris would be willing to carry on a conversation from there, she just set about to poking at her food in silence. Jackie just sighed and got to eating. She'd learned that she couldn't really force things with Iris. At least she seemed a little bit more willing to talk now.
The face Iris had was softer than it normally was, somehow. Iris always looked at her with a cold sort of distance, similar to the way the people from this Foundation had treated her when they first 'contained' her. Jackie wasn't entirely sure why she kept trying with Iris. She'd known plenty of people who she just had to take a professionally distant stance from in her past, many of them looking down on her for her SCP designation. But there was something about the way Iris looked at her that always gave her pause. Whatever was behind those cold eyes wasn't ignorance, but something far deeper. Something that reared its head when she shot at Jackie back in the basement on their last operation.
"You know, I don't hate the hash browns." The sound of Jackie's own voice nearly startled her, falling victim to her habit of feeling like she needed to fill up awkward silences. She glanced up at Iris, expecting some scolding, but she just kept lethargically poking at her food. Her annoyed expression had shifted to a troubled one, but she still didn't say anything.
"My mom used to make them for me when I was a kid," Jackie continued, more to the air around herself than to Iris. "Always threw a bunch of shit into it and undercooked it. But, um, you know… I didn't think it tasted bad. Though maybe that's just since I always had them on Saturday mornings, heh…"
"What do you know about Omega-7, Jaqueline?"
Jackie was about to put another forkful of barely-cooked potatoes and onions into her mouth when Iris finally spoke. Caught off guard, she let it hover there for a moment before placing it back down and responding. "Um, not a lot. Probably just what, you know, most people know."
Refusing to look away from her food, Iris didn't immediately respond. It seemed like she was still arguing with herself. Eventually, though, she did continue, in a restrained tone. "I was really just a proof-of-concept then. Something to say 'hey, think of all the other neat gimmicks we have.' But the real…" Iris took a shaky breath. "…The real centerpiece of the whole thing was A-"
Iris sucked in a breath before finishing the word. "Was Able."
"Well, the, uh… name rings a few bells," Jackie said in what she hoped was her most nonthreatening voice. She could scarcely believe Iris, of all people, was coming out and saying this, but didn't want to spook her. "I was told not to mention him too much." He tended to get brought up in conversations with her research team whenever someone needed the most extreme example of a past fuck-up, which was told off for being in poor taste each time. All Jackie really knew was that he ended Omega-7.
Iris looked like she was shaking a bit, and not from the cold. "Ab- He always got results. Throw him at a problem, and hey, at least the first problem's gone, one way or another. He was… a real machine. Right up until he just… killed the whole team." Iris spat out her last few words like they were poison, staring at the ground in front of her with unfocused eyes.
The chair Jackie was sitting on was starting to feel very uncomfortable. It was clear Iris didn't want to be talking about this, but it seemed like she felt that she owed Jackie some kind of an explanation, although for what, exactly, was still unclear.
"I could have stopped it, you know. I could have-" Iris cut herself off, voice breaking. That unapproachable hardass Jackie had come to know suddenly looked like she could have been shattered by the breeze.
"Hey, hey," Jackie half-whispered as she scooted closer to Iris. She reached out a hand to rub her on the back lightly, but remembered how she screamed when Jackie tried to help her when she was hurt and instead just leaned in closer. "You shouldn't have been expected to do any of what you did. You did so much more than enough." Jackie only knew bits and pieces of what had happened to Iris, but she knew she wasn't much older than those two girls when it happened.
"Probably. You're probably right," Iris said grimly. "But back then, I couldn't even try. I mean, I had worked with him. Talked with him." Her gaze fell back to her food once again, now cold and unappealing. "Ate shitty powdered eggs with him."
…Oh.
"They knew what he was from the start, and they didn't tell me. I don't know if they told anyone back then, really," Iris muttered, breaths uneven. "I guess I just… didn't want to get burned again."
Jackie wanted to lean back, just to take it all in, but she felt like backing away from Iris now would be wrong, so she just rubbed her chin. She supposed this was Iris' way of apologizing, or at least offering an explanation. An actual 'I'm sorry' would be nice, of course, but seeing Iris so vulnerable almost felt wrong. Still, if she had felt like this until now, what made her come clean now?
"I'm… scared of dying. Scared of getting hurt, too," Iris stated once her breath had become even again. "Of course, I get hurt, and I… I've thought about dying before, but it still… really scares me. I see it in other people, too. That fear. I don't let myself forget that. I don't let myself forget what it means when I pull the trigger.
"I know he forgot that," Iris added bitterly. "And for the longest time, I thought it was because he didn't have that fear. That he couldn't see it in anyone else since it became so foreign to him.
"But back then, at that house, when it was just me and Anne… There was a point where… There was a point when I…" Just like before, Iris was having a hard time speaking, though this time it seemed more out of shame than fear. "There was a point where I… I lost sight of that, too. Since then, I've been thinking, maybe it's not the fear. Maybe it's just knowing you can do it."
Tears welled up in Iris' eyes as she refused to look up. Jackie took a deep breath, and reached out to place her hand on Iris' back. Her whole body seemed to tense up as her head jerked towards Jackie, but she didn't make eye contact - nor did she swat the hand away. That was progress. "Sometimes things get the better of us, sir. I know that," Jackie said, just barely louder than a whisper. Her hand started running up and down "But you stopped. You kept sight of yourself. You…" Jackie struggled to find the words for a moment. "You're a good person, sir. I know you are."
Despite Jackie's attempt at comforting her, or perhaps because of it, the tears welled up even more as Iris made a pained noise in her throat. Before any of the tears could actually fall, though, Iris turned away again and wiped her eyes, gently pushing Jackie's hand away with her other arm.
Jackie leaned back a little bit to give Iris some space, but not so much it felt like she was pulling away. After taking deep breaths until she was sure her voice was even again, she started up once more. "Do you want to know what scared me the most about him?"
It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Jackie didn't want to seem like she wasn't listening. Luckily, though, Iris answered before she could think of a response. "Sometimes, he almost looked human.
"Sometimes he seemed sad, or almost lonely, but I'll never know if that was just another lie." Iris finally, finally turned to look at Jackie in the eyes as she spoke. "He never talked about how shitty cafeteria hash browns made him miss his mom."
"I think I get it," Jackie said, more to show that she was listening than anything.
"Thanks," Iris whispered. After another pause she cleared her throat, straightening her posture back up. "I'm sorry. As your commander, it wasn't right of me to treat you like that. I felt I owed you an explanation for my conduct, but it isn't an excuse," she said in cadence Jackie was far more used to.
As your commander. Iris was clearly trying to put some distance between herself and… whatever that was just now. Building those walls of professionalism back up. Well, Jackie supposed that was to be expected.
Deciding not to rest her hand on Iris' arm, Jackie put on what she hoped was her most reassuring voice. It was important to validate people when they come forward to you. "I'm really proud of you, sir."
"Pr- tch!" Iris flushed, bringing a hand up to block her face and looking away. Not that it did much, Jackie could still see her ears turning red. "I wasn't… Look, don't expect me to make it a habit, alright? I just… felt like I had to! This one time!"
"Alright, alright, I get the picture," Jackie chuckled as she leaned back in her chair.
Another silence fell over the balcony, but this one was a far less choking stillness than before. Jackie rested her back against her chair and looked out over the balcony for a while, letting Iris scarf down some cold food in an attempt to calm herself down in peace.
After a little while, Iris tuned back to Jackie. "I… sort of figured you'd have a bit more to say, if I'm being honest."
Jackie raised her arms above her head and stretched. "Not much for me to say, really. I'm just glad I know what's up now, I was wondering what the deal was."
"What do you mean?" Iris asked with a furrowed brow.
"Well, uh, if I'm being totally honest…" Jacke scratched at her cheek while wondering if this was even a good thing to say. "…I kinda thought you might have just been, like, racist or homophobic."
If Iris had flushed before, she turned beet red. "I- What- That's not- Why would you even think that?" She hissed.
Failing miserably to stop herself from laughing, Jackie doubled over in her seat, making weird noises as she tried to choke back her laughs. This only seemed to incense Iris even more, who started blustering incoherently.
"Look, look, look," Jackie gasped out while trying to catch her breath, "I was just wondering what was up is all. I know you're not like that now."
"A-Alright! A-And don't forget that!" Iris attempted to form a more coherent sentence. "And what do you even mean with that second thing?"
"Oh, uh…" Jackie sat up straight in her chair again, hastily trying to wipe the smile off her face. "I don't know if it's come up before, but I'm a, y'know, lesbian."
Iris blinked. "Oh. Okay." She seemed to trail off as she squinted. "Why would I have an issue with that?"
"Well, uh, I don't know. It's not anyone's business, really, but some people take issue with it," Jackie explained.
"Rude of them," Iris muttered. She opened and closed her mouth a few times as though she wanted to say something else.
Jackie suppressed a groan. "Look, if you want to ask me something, you can. I'm open about it."
"Well, um, I just…" Iris seemed confused. "I thought you said you were from Michigan."
"…"
"…"
"…"
"…"
"Iris are you fucking with me right now?"

« Voices Carry: Part 4 | Devil's Advocate Hub |


After a stretch of time that was at once agonizing and imperceptible, the colors swirling around Iris returned to things meant for human eyes and brains and settled into a collection of drab browns. Unfortunately, she only had about half a second to feel relief that she did not, in fact, get entirely spaghettified before she got dumped flat on her face into a puddle of cold mud.
Cursing her inability to recall any sufficiently spiteful turn of phrase to capture her feelings about the entire situation, Iris slowly wiped the mud off her face and willed herself not to scream. After taking just another second to feel sorry for herself, she stood up and looked around.
She couldn't see much of anything but some barren trees that offered no cover from the cold wind that pulled warmth away from Iris. Well, she was still in the northern hemisphere, at the very least, and likely still in North America since it was still night.
Wait, just where was she? This wasn't bear country, was it? Were bears still hibernating by now? Iris started walking towards what she thought was a break in the tree line, though it was hard to tell in the low light. Stepping over the half-melted mounds of snow and detritus, she tried looking for some kind of leaf she could identify, to no avail. Iris' hand instinctively reached down to her jacket pocket - just to grab GPS or something - only to have her hand wave around in the air.
Iris felt her stomach turn. Shit, she didn't even think about her jacket. She hastily patted herself down, but only found the photo of a first-aid kit in her back pocket from before. Gritting her teeth, she took it out and folded it up, running her thumb around it like a good luck charm. Iris didn't spook easily, but without her photos she felt absolutely naked. Not that actually having lost an article of clothing helped that feeling, though.
Before she moved on, Iris pulled out her last photo. As a safety measure, Iris had made sure she placed a GPS tracker into all of her photos, just in case she got split up. She pulled it out, activated it, and jammed it into her pocket before moving on.
Once that was done, Iris' pace quickened. Maybe it was just her adrenaline coming down, but she had an awful sinking feeling, like something was closing in. Nothing but the wind and the crunch of her footsteps on the ground accompanied her, and she tried to focus on any more sounds as the hair on the back of her neck stood up…

Oh, what luck! I was beginning to think you were spaghettified in there - it's a real danger, you know - but you handled that great! Ten minutes to pass through a Way isn't bad for a first-timer!

Iris bolted upright, hand flying for her revolver. "What the hell?" Iris half-whispered, half-yelled as she looked around. The voice sounded like it came from every direction at once and from nowhere at the same time.

Your friend's quite the mechanic, you know. She got the conflux working, so we'll have a much easier time talking! Are you looking forward to it? I'm looking forward to it~!

"I- I don't-" Iris was having a hard time keeping up with the chipper voice. "I don't know what- what the hell is that? Where's Anne?" Iris spun around at the sound of a branch breaking behind her. "Where even am I"

Slow down, slow down! One thing-

Iris whipped her hand up, pointing an accusatory finger at the sky. "And that woman is not my friend."

…As I was saying, one thing at a time, now. In truth, I've only been able to see things through you. It seems like everyone else here just shuts me out. It's odd, though. I usually don't have any trouble at all with that. But, ah, I don't expect you to be confused about things for much longer.

Just as Iris was about to chastise the voice for not giving her a straight answer she felt a wave of noise wash over her. Not literal sound, but noise in the same way the voice was a noise, but this was far less intelligent. It felt more like someone forcing her to watch a screen than have a conversation, projecting ideas of anomaly and veil and Foundation. She doubled over, leaning on her knees as she tried to shut it out. Almost to her surprise, after a few seconds, the noise started to fade out.

Oh, you could shut that out! That bodes well for [me/you/us]. Unfortunately, I don't expect many others to be so resilient.

Taking a few deep breaths, Iris stood back up, recentering herself. "Was that her?"

Almost certainly, yes. Unless there's some other Type Green around here, in which case… well, it would at least be rather funny.

"I don't think so," Iris sighed. She rubbed her forehead again, ignoring the sting from the mud in her cut, and tried listening for Anne's noise again. Just like before, Iris was able to see them in her mind's eye - the words, ideas, and memories floating before her. Though she could feel the slight throb of an oncoming headache creeping up, she dedicated herself to analyzing the sounds, and quickly saw that they arranged themselves neatly along lines. The threads from earlier, she thought, gently focusing on one and tugging it lightly. It snapped into place, delineating a path out of the trees, straight to Anne. Iris let go of the thread, taking a short break to let her brain settle again.

Bravo, bravo~! I didn't even have to help you out there, you are quite the fast learner!

The voice seemed rather excited, but Iris ignored it, pushing forwards again. "You never answered me before," she started, hoping to cut through the silence of the air with her whispering voice. "Just what is that thing Anne took?"

A conflux, of course.

Iris blinked. She felt that, given the circumstances, the disembodied, tone-deaf voice in her head could stand to be a little less patronizing.

Ah, you probably haven't made very many of them, have you? Well, how should I put this, those dreadful things really are quite complicated… Do you know how a Type Green functions?

"Um… no?" Iris hopped over a dead log, careful to not slide of a decomposing tree. "I don't really think anyone does."

Heh! Well, not everyone!

Iris groaned quietly at the self-congratulatory tone.

At the end of the day information's the name of the game. Us Greens need to process it before we can do anything with it - which, ah, I still don't really have down all that well. The point is, the conflux just… straightens things out, makes it a bit easier to process, a bit like a loom weaving thread. This one must not be very good, though, if it lets me through it. It's bleeding through all over the place. Now, the ones I directed the creation of are far more advanced, I'll have you know. Although I suppose I can see why none of you were particularly interested in speeding along its development…

Iris scoffed, eventually tuning out the voice's explanation as she left the tree line. This thing just loved to hear itself talk, but she had bigger issues. Before she left the cover of the forest, she surveyed her surroundings, which were more visible now that her eyes had adjusted to the moonlight. Looked like she ended up on some broken-down farm, by the looks of it, recalling all the decrepit structures in disused fields she used to see when her family drove up to see her uncle in Chicago. Based on the total lack of any visible elevation change, it was a sound bet. A small lake to her left, then nothing but an overgrown field until a small shed and a farmhouse in front of her. That had to be where Anne was.

…Which, of course, they tried to stop, but when you've got eyes and ears everywhere its hard for anyone to get very far ahead of you, you know…? Did you get all that?

"Uh huh." Iris' hand went reflexively for a photo with some binoculars in them, only to leave her cursing her luck. "Son of a…

You needn't rely on such petty parlor tricks, you know.

"Hey, if I'm you're only way to see this world, then by God, I can take you out of it," Iris said sternly, not thinking through what exactly she was implying there. She decided she had just about enough of this thing talking down to her.

Relax, relax! It was a compliment. Look, you can feel that friend of yours through one of the threads, no?

Iris twitched. "She's not my-"

So, just read her, then! Believe me, it's much easier than what I do. It's almost harder not to read emotions and intent once you learn how to do it.

Reminding herself that loudly cussing out an incorporeal voice would probably just end up with her looking schizophrenic and getting shot, Iris once again found the thread from earlier, which felt like picking up a photo after doing it so much. Pulling on it, she felt a familiar yet somehow novel pressure behind her eyes. Concepts floated down the thread, bearing the same general feeling as the ones from before. Worry, resignation, anticipation… but nothing like murderous intent.

Aha, see? That wasn't so hard! You're a wonderfully fast learner, even if it is rather basic material.

Iris cautiously but steadily began making her way over to the house, ignoring the feeling of indignation creeping up on her. "Mouth off like that again and I swear I'll kick your ass… once I find out how.

Believe me, dear. Many have tried.

Iris decided to ignore that… mildly foreboding comment and instead focus on making her way to the house without attracting any attention. The grass underneath her hadn't yet frosted, but its old yellow leaves crunched slightly and scraped her ankles as she walked. Iris hoped that the gentle wind blowing the waves ashore on the lake was enough to cover up the sound.
There wasn't any light coming from the house, either. If Iris hadn't been paying attention to the threads like she had, it would have looked just as desolate as any other abandoned homestead in the heartland. Even with her eyes adjusted, everything just looked drab and muted underneath the moon. The cold was seeping into her more noticeably than the wounds on her hand and head. Iris thought that she probably felt the same way an old deer did when it got lost in the woods.
Even though she knew it was a poor idea, Iris broke the silence. "So, um… What do you think Anne's trying to do?" she asked in a breath as soft as someone's lungs deflating for the last time.

Oh? I would think it would be obvious, based on what you felt earlier.

Iris sighed as she closed in on the shed before the house. Maybe the suffocating silence was better than whatever this thing was. "Just answer the question."

Well, as you felt earlier, she's using the conflux to spread those ideas she was putting in your head to as many people as she can. Mm, probably not good. For you. I'd be fine, though. But I'm still helping you anyways. Do please try to keep up, it's the least you could do.

Deciding that whatever the hell this thing was on wasn't worth the energy to deal with, Iris came up on the shed, now only about twenty feet from the house. Still absolutely no movement, but Anne had to be inside there somewhere. What, now that woman wanted to shut up? "How would she manage that, anyways?"

I- You- Will you listen to me when I speak to you? What did you even-

Bang.
A flash lit up the room overlooking the yard Iris was standing in for a fraction of a second as she felt something fly past her face and heard it smack into the dirt behind her. Instinctively, Iris threw herself behind the shed - or at least tried to, except that she was standing right next to it and just ended up banging her head onto the concrete wall with a dull yet painful thud. In spite of the new lump on her head, Iris scampered behind the shed before another shot came fired off.
Iris pulled her gun out of its holster and pressed her back to the wall, struggling to keep her breathing normal. She knew where the shot had come from, but it was pitch black in that room. Anne wasn't so stupid so as to poke her head out. Iris would be dead by the time she made out Anne's outline.

Wowee, I'm surprised you even got up after that one. Maybe just concede this time and see if there's anyone nearby who would be willing to let you hitchhike to a hospital with them.

"Goddamn, you are persistent." Anne's voice came from the window, barely reaching Iris' ears as she hid behind the shed. Somehow, she still understood exactly what Anne was saying.

Odd. Either she's much better at masking her intent than I had assumed - which is unlikely, I'm never wrong about these things - or she really wasn't trying to kill you there.

Not like that did Iris much good from where she was standing. She didn't have any backup or photos, and she didn't even know where she was. Taking a literal shot in the dark would probably just end up with her in a few more pieces. She had to think of something…
"You know, I think… I think I'm glad you're here." Anne's voice didn't just sound muted from the distance, Iris realized, her tone itself had changed. "At least now there's someone to remember me. I made my peace with doing this alone, but… you know."
Iris ignored Anne's voice. She was probably just trying to pull what she'd done when Jackie first got ahold of her, all crocodile tears. Glancing at the ground, Iris looked for the impact of Anne's shot. Small, spread-out marks in the grass - a shotgun, then. Maybe Iris could bait out a couple shots and close the distance if it was a double-barreled shotgun, but she couldn't bank on that. Anything like a semi-auto and she'd be dead.

My, my, you're overthinking this! The threads connect you two, remember? Just give her a nice, firm yank!

"I don't even know what the fuck you're talking about!" Iris hissed.
"I suppose that makes sense," Anne said. Iris cursed. She really didn't want to talk to Anne right now. "Well, um… To start out, there's a reason I came here, the middle of nowhere. I lived in this house until I was nine… I still remember it, you know? I know this probably isn't the best place to be doing this from, but I just wanted to take one last look." Anne laughed, but not in the way she had earlier. Iris got a sense of sadness from her, though she once again wasn't sure if that was from her voice or something else. "Looks like shit now."
Iris felt a twinge in her gut, a feeling she'd learned to ignore long ago. She thought about her home. How well she could remember it. How hot the Arizona sun was. What it felt like to walk back in after spending the day outside.
She shook her head as if to get the thoughts out. None of that mattered now.
"Used to be a nice place, you know. Probably doesn't look like it now - as I'm sure you noticed - but that's hardly our fault." A hint of anger started creeping into Anne's voice. "I wish I could tell you what happened to the place, but the goddamned Foundation swept the whole thing under the rug."
The cold wind blew across the field as far as Iris could see, stiff yellow grass barely moving. No cover to retreat to, nothing she could take advantage of. She was boxed in against the concrete wall behind her. She couldn't bank on the cover of night, either. In that dark room, Anne could probably see better in the moonlight than Iris could.
Light…
Iris suddenly looked at the lake next to the property. She could see how big it was now, large enough for a boat to get stranded in the middle.
"A boat…" Iris whispered, quietly at first, but with growing excitement. "A boat."

…What the hell? Have you finally cracked? Honestly, couldn't you have lost it sooner? This was just a waste of my time.

Either Anne didn't hear Iris, or she was too wrapped up in her little monologue to care. "You Foundation people, you think you're just the best, don't you? You think you're just so on the ball when it comes to cleaning these things up, that nothing gets past you." Anne's voice was becoming more forceful now, and Iris could clearly hear her even from behind the shed. "Bullshit. You've just got your head too far up your own ass to see all the little rats running circles around you."
The rant probably meant Anne wasn't paying as close attention to Iris as she should have been, but Iris still felt a stifling sense of discomfort, like she was watching a stranger get into a screaming match in public. Iris inched down the wall of the shed as though she expected the ground beneath her to explode if she crunched the grass too loudly. She made her way over to a weathered door on the other end of the wall. A quick yank on the tarnished doorknob splintered the wood and the door creaked open, a draft of stagnant air hitting Iris in the face.
"The Foundation just covers up anything they can't explain. People like you and me, who get caught in the middle, we get written off, given some bullshit cause of death. Everyone we used to know gets fucking closure. They forget us. When was the last time your parents thought about you, Iris?" Anne continued. Iris stopped in her tracks, a knot in her chest holding her in place.

Oh, look, your boat. Wonderful. Maybe if you wait for it to rain, you'll be able to row your way out of here faster than your friend can react.

Shaking the thoughts - and that goddamned voice - out of her head, Iris moved to the side of the boat, illuminated by the scant light that came through the holes in the roof. It was small, and the decrepit motor probably hadn't been in functioning condition for a number of years, but there were still some odds and ends in it. Iris threw a tarp aside and found an old metal box, its red EMERGENCY label still legible. Pulling it out, she unlatched it, careful to not cut her hands on the rusted metal, and looked inside. Next to some discolored bandages was an orange break-action pistol and three flares. Iris breathed a sigh of relief and took them back outside.

Ohoho, I see! Intuitive and resourceful! We have a lot in common.

Iris didn't respond as she checked the firing pin on the gun and condition of the flares.

…Though I believe I'm a far better communicator.

"And then - after all that - after all they do to make sure nobody comes looking for us - they don't even have the decency to keep track of all of us who go missing. One more humanoid gone? Probably dead, who gives a shit, right? One more thing off the to-do list." Anne was yelling at this point, and Iris fumbled with the flare gun with her cold, bloody fingers. If she could get a shot off now, she might be slow to react. All it had to do was blind her for a second… just long enough for her to close the gap.

I can respect your dogged commitment to carving your own way through this, but really, there's no need. Just a light tug will stun her long enough.

"As long as they're gone, who cares where they end up, right? If they're just being sold like a hot fucking commodity, at least they're not threatening the veil." Anne's voice turned colder than the wind, and Iris stopped. She reached out for Anne through the thread the same way she had earlier. Still, no murderous intent, but she wasn't hiding her emotions as well. She was angry, nostalgic, and… resigned. Almost proud in a way.
Checking that her revolver was holstered tightly, Iris loaded the flare gun, telling herself that her hands were shaking just from the cold. Just twenty or so feet to the window. All she had to do was blind Anne for just a second, but this trick wouldn't work twice. What… what was the muzzle velocity on these things?

Will you listen to me already? There's no need to-

"Do you ever shut up?" Iris snapped, pressing her lips together as soon as she heard how loud she had said that.
A long pause. Iris held her breath and wondered if Anne was doing the same.
"Hah, all that, and that's all you had to say?" came her response. It sounded defeated.
Iris listened to the wind for few seconds. She knew she shouldn't say anything, but…
I miss them too.
"Why are you telling me this, Anne?" Her voice was quiet, and she stared at the ground as she said it.
"I'm, uh… I'm not very good at this, y'know? The whole Infovore thing?" Anne's voice shook as she inhaled before continuing. "Maybe it's selfish of me, but I want someone to remember me after I'm gone. Not the Insurgent."
Iris felt like she should follow up on that - ask her what she meant - but she just stayed still. Everything Anne had said was being played over and over in Iris' head. Was she telling the truth? Why was Iris even here, really? She hadn't stopped to ask herself that once today. She just kept pushing on. Maybe that's all she's ever done.
The wind started to become weaker. Iris exhaled.
Then, for one second, there was absolute silence. Not a single blade of grass moved, and Iris held her breath. The moment seemed to last for an eternity in her head as she steeled herself for what she was about to do.
Iris swung around the corner.
Lining up the flare gun as well as she could with the window without any sights, Iris saw slight movement from inside the house. Within half a second, she pulled the trigger, dropping the gun and sprinting like hell without looking to see if she hit her mark.
"Shit!" Iris heard Anne's yell and the sound of confused footsteps from above her. She didn't stop to look up.
The sound of her pounding footsteps and heavy breaths filled her ears as she closed in on the door. Not risking slowing down, Iris just raised her forearm up to brace herself.
She slammed into the door, head spinning, the sound of shattering glass and breaking wood cascading around her as she skidded to a stop on the ground.
"Motherfucker!" Anne yelled from upstairs, stumbling around before firing a shot through the half-rotted wood in the ceiling. The broken glassware on the counter in front of Iris shattered, and she jerked her hands up to cover her head on instinct. Not half a second later, another shot slammed into the tiling on the ground next to her, pelting her in chipped stone and wood.

Get up.

Once Iris' brain had caught up to what happened, she rolled over onto her back and grabbed her gun, firing three times into the ceiling above her in a panic. She heard footsteps above her stumble and retreat several feet away, accompanied by the sounds of hollow, discarded shells hitting the floor.
She's reloading. Must be a double-barreled shotgun, Iris thought, getting back up on her feet and running deeper into the house, away from Anne. That was odd, though. For how meticulous she'd been up to that point, Iris figured she would have stashed something a bit more lethal here. She would have just found that laying around.

Honestly, do you have a death wish, or do you simply distrust me so much?

Hey, Iris thought, at least it-

And don't you even tell me 'ohhh, at least it worked' when if that woman moved her aim five degrees you'd be another indiscernible stain on that filthy floor you faceplanted on.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing here, huh?" Anne spat, voice echoing slightly around the closed hallways. "Don't you get it? Don't you see what I'm doing?"
Iris didn't need the threads to tell her how Anne was feeling. Her voice was vitriolic, but more than that, she was frustrated. She must have been, too, because if she was thinking straight there would be no way she'd be giving herself away like that.
Even though Iris was trying to force the threads from her mind, they started to bleed through into her vision. The 'sound' from the conflux was getting louder.

Odd. I thought she'd…

A trail of fresh footprints in the settled dust led down the hallway and up the stairs. From the size of the house, it didn't seem like there was any other way upstairs. Slowly, silently, Iris crept forwards, stepping near the wall to prevent the floor from creaking.
Slight creaking noises came from upstairs, restrained and deliberate. Although Iris strained to hear, she couldn't make out where they ended up before she came to the foot of the staircase and froze. She didn't know what the second floor of the house looked like. Anne had to know where she was coming from. Iris could barely make out anything of the inside of the house in the dim lighting. How was she supposed to know where Anne was?
The noise from the conflux was getting louder - droning on and on, starting to drown things out. It all felt like Anne. For all Iris knew, she could be anywhere up there.

Oh, I see. She's overdoing it.

Iris blinked, still stuck at the foot of the stairs, listening for any real noise. She wasn't really sure how that was supposed to help her.

She must not actually be capable enough to do what she's doing. Once she reaches enough people, her brain will overexert itself and shut down. So… I suppose you don't really have to do much, then? Just wait things out.

Iris' stomach turned. Fuck, she should've know what Anne was trying to say.
She thought of Anne, lifeless eyes open, limp on the ground in a cold, decrepit house…
She thought of Johnathan face-down in a red puddle in the depths of a containment site…
She squeezed Adrian's revolver and started walking up the stairs.
As if taking notice that Iris was still coming close, Anne started talking again, her voice low and angry. "Do you think you're protecting someone with this? Anyone? Come on Iris, you don't strike me as an idiot. Think for a second."
In the dim glow of the moon coming though the holes in the roof, Iris could see the top of the staircase, almost at eye level. One more step and she'd be exposed. Anne's voice seemed to be echoing in from every direction, and even the threads were becoming too chaotic to rely on.

Well, all things considered, a shotgun blast to the face isn't the worst way to go. It's rather quick. And, hey, by the sounds of it, it's not like your family would be having an open-casket funeral for you anyways.

"The Foundation, the Coalition, all those motherfuckers who keep everything hidden, you think they do it for our sake? To protect people like us?" Anne continued. "Or to make sure nobody finds out about all the shit they've done? Every day, they dig their hole deeper, throwing lives away -our lives - just to keep themselves from the judgement they know they deserve. The 'veil' isn't for anyone's protection but the ones running the show!"
Iris clenched her jaw. What was she doing, really? Making sure there were just going to be more Iris Thompsons in the future? Helping the people who did this to her in the first place?

…Well, Anne's going to die if you stay here. You can hardly turn back now, hm?

…She'd come too far. Forcing everything but the here and now out of her head, she took two stairs at once, raising her gun into the upstairs hallway.
One door to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead. The window Anne had been shooting out of was visible from where Iris was standing, the faint red glow of the flare illuminating the room at a stark angle.
Keeping her hand perfectly level, she scanned the hallway, eyes jumping from doorway to doorway. Her finger tugged on the trigger, tight, but not tight enough to fire the gun, as she looked for any inkling of movement, from the left, middle, right, left, middle, right, left…
A shadow cast by the red light of the flare shifted across the hallway, coming from the middle doorway. Iris snapped her aim towards it and fired right at the frame, sending splinters of wood out. She heard a cry of alarm as the shadow pulled back again, and she sprinted towards the doorway on the right, taking cover closer to Anne. The two couldn't have been more than ten feet apart, each pressed against a door frame.
Iris popped out the cylinder of her revolver. Only two more shots. She knocked it back in and looked back out into the hallway, the red glare still visible from where she was standing. There was no way Anne would have stayed in the one room with a light unless she was guarding something. The conflux must have been in there, then.

Well, it makes sense she couldn't move it. Once they get going, they're really quite delicate, if you don't know how to use them. Although, of course, I know how to-

Iris banged the back of her head on the wall.

Point taken.

The droning noise from the conflux, the threads swimming around her, the pain from her injuries, and just the goddamn exhaustion was getting to Iris. She forced herself to stay alert.
"I want a goddamned answer, Iris. Are you really just that whipped…?" Anne's voice dropped down into a mocking tone. "…Or do you really just not give a shit about your family on the outside anymore?"
A cold anger settled into Iris, threatening to push out the concern she had for Anne. What the fuck would she know, huh? She doesn't know a damn thing about me!

Oh, you're absolutely right, you know. Are you just going to sit there and take that?

All Iris could hear was that incessant fucking droning. Sucking in breath through her teeth, she pushed herself off the wall and swung out.
There was Anne, leaning against the door frame, face covered in shadow, pointing a shotgun right at Iris. She tensed; maybe she wasn't expecting Iris to come out so soon. The unshakable Image of Anne's lifeless body held heavy in her head, keeping her gun pointed below Anne's vital organs.
For a split-second, Anne's face was lit up by the muzzle flash, determined and cold. In the next instant, her hips jerked to the side as a splattering of blood came out. Her arms fell ever so slightly-
All the air was forced out of Iris' lungs as her ears started hurting. A white-hot pain pressed down on her chest. A moment later, her head slammed on the ground. Her head was swimming, the walls around her fading in and out. She opened her mouth to gasp for air but couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

Get up, get up, get up! Come on, you lug. After all this, now you want to fall before I can see the ending?

After several agonizing seconds, Iris did manage to breathe in again, only to find the act of breathing felt like knives being stabbed into her chest. Between everything from the conflux and how beat-up she was, Iris barely felt conscious. Even so, she felt herself staggering back into the doorway.
Trying to slow down her breathing, Iris brought a hand to her chest and pressed lightly. It fucking hurt, but there wasn't any blood. The ballistic fabric of her shirt, as thin as it was, must have stopped the shotgun pellets from going through her. It did little to stop the sheer kinetic energy of the blast, however.

Well, I think Anne came off worse for wear, at the very least. Looks like a clean hit right in the gut. Not sure why you lowered your aim, though.

"Do you even…" Anne was wheezing as she spoke, her anger replaced with confusion. "You have to… care…"
Staggering, unsteady steps came from across the hall with no effort to conceal them. Iris told herself that now was her opportunity to push, but even tensing her muscles brought searing pain.
A weak, raspy chuckle floated over to Iris. "Okay… I know how to find out, yeah? You'll see…"

What is that woman playing at now? Just hurry up and get her, will you?

Iris was controlling her breathing, acclimating herself to the pain, when the threads swimming in her vision suddenly synchronized their movements, forming around a point in the other room.

Iris, watch out! She's trying to-

All the threads converged on her.

"Thanks, Iris!" Tommy could barely speak as he devoted all his energy to eating his ice cream cone before it melted, huge smile showing the gap in his teeth. The midday Arizona sun was shining down on his blonde mop of hair so harshly it almost looked white.
Iris, with the foresight to instead order a cup, took the spoon out of her mouth to respond, placing it back in the soupy mass of strawberry cream. "You're welcome. Just don't tell mom, okay? I barely get an allowance as-is, and she told me not to let you get any sweets."
Tommy nodded. "Mhm!"
"And be careful alright?" Iris leaned over him, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. "It'll be a lot harder to explain to mom why you have chocolate all over your face."
Tommy just giggled, barely giving Iris enough time to pull back again before he set about demolishing the cone again.
(Tommy…)
Picking up another scoop of ice cream, Iris looked around at the park. It was starting to fill up with kids, some of which she recognized from school. There was a good chance those jerks who liked to give Tommy a hard time would show up soon as well, and Iris didn't want to see his face drop from that look of glee he had. "Alright just finish up and we'll head back. You can wipe your mouth with the water fountain before we go."
Tommy pouted, though there wasn't any real sadness behind it. "Aw, come on. Can't I stay here.?"
"Sorry, but I do have to at least keep some of my promises to Mom," Iris replied as she scooped up the last of the liquid in her cup. "I said I'd look after you. Plus, I'm your older sister. It's my job you know," she said as she puffed out her chest.
(I said… I said I'd… take care of…)
Iris scratched the back of her head. "…Even if I don't make an allowance from it."
Tommy laughed, accidentally smearing more ice cream around his face. In spite of herself, Iris laughed too, deep laughs that hurt her stomach after a while.
She did not laugh like that again.
(What… What is this?)
— Goes home — Meets friend — Photo — Stabbing — Couldn't save — Blood — Court case — Insane plea —
The sun was low in the sky, casting impressive shades of red across the horizon. Iris tried to focus on that, rather than her mother trying to comfort Tommy. Her last day with her family before she was committed was supposed to be something to remember, but it had all felt agonizing, and she'd been confined to her house. Now she stood on the steps of the psychiatric facility, the gaze of unfamiliar doctors causing the hairs on her neck to stand up straight.
Her father was never good as expressing his emotions, but with his teary eyes and his smile, Iris felt that he was showing too much. Likewise, she noticed her vision blurring as she began to cry for the first time that day. Most of the time now, she just felt too tired for it.

Oh? After all that, you'd let yourself fall victim to such an ignominious tactic?

"I know it might be very lonely where you're going…" He had to stop to take shaky breaths that sounded horribly wrong coming out of the strongest person Iris knew. "But I know you're a good kid. I know you are, Iris. I love you."
Iris choked on a lump in her throat. After everything she's been through, after everything they say she did… her dad still… he still…
She shut her eyes and fell forwards into him, little body wracked with sobs. He caught her, held her close, and ran his hand down her back. "Promise me you'll make lots of friends. I know you can," he said into her ear.
Burying her face into the crook of his neck, she nodded emphatically, as though showing her father how much she wanted to do the right thing would convince the doctors and the police and the judge that she really was a good person.
Eventually, her father moved his hands to her shoulders and pushed her so that she was standing upright, still refusing to let go. "I know there's going to be times where you feel like you don't have anyone with you in the entire world…" He brought his hand up to her face, and cupped her cheek like she might break. "But Tommy, your mother, and your dad… We'll always be with you."
By the time she was old enough to understand what he meant, she couldn't bring herself to agree.

Memories are a sacred thing - the most sacred thing. And you'd let her tread on them? You'd let her defile them? Your memories?

— Faked death — Site-17 — A few favors — Omega-7 — Killing — Refusal — Punishment —
The sound of the outer door to her containment cell opening finally caused Iris to bring her head out from between her knees. Maybe they were finally letting Beatrix through so they could talk. Iris didn't have a clock, but from the last time they gave her a meal, it had to be after 4:00.
Iris' hopes were dashed when she saw Adrian walk in. He looked at Iris with something like tiredness, as though she were no more an obstacle for him to get through before he got to go to sleep than a stack of fax papers.
She put her face back between her knees. He wasn't always like this. She wanted to go back to when they'd met, and he showed her how to trick people at rock-paper-scissors. Beatrix seemed happier then, too.
The stiff bed Iris was curled up on shifted and she held herself tighter. Why couldn't he just bring up a chair? Was he still pretending to be her friend after everything?
"Iris." Adrian called out her name once, stern and professional. Like she was just another solider. Iris didn't move.
(My… My memories? She's…)
He sighed. "Iris, if you actually can't hear me, I'll need to get a doctor, which would make all of this much worse," he said exasperatedly.
Not like a doctor would make it that much worse. But, still, she hated psychologists. All they ever did was tell her she's crazy. "…What do you want?"
"I am here to persuade you to be more cooperative with the Foundation's initiative." Perfect, practiced cadence. So like him.
"Killing people, you mean?" She put emphasis on the first word, turning her head slightly to glare at him.
He just sighed again. "That's… a part of it, yes."

Yes, she's trampling on them. Sorting through them. Reading them like little tabloid stories.
Doesn't that make you mad?

Iris looked at the wall ahead of her. She could see the photo they had given her along with the gun. A man in a bathrobe, fixing his hair in a hotel bathroom. Singing along badly to the radio. "I can't. He wasn't hurting anyone."
"He has, Iris." Adrian leaned forwards, giving Iris a pointed look. "He will again if we let him. Do you know what kind of person he is?"
She did. They had told her. She knew he probably deserved it. She just stayed silent.
After a few seconds of waiting for a response, Adrian leaned back again, fiddling with his equipment. He pulled out his revolver - some kind of heirloom, or at least something he stole from his dad. It was nice, and Iris could tell. She'd learned a lot about guns, all of it against her will.
"Sometimes…" Adrian stared at the revolver, sounding more like he was talking to himself than to Iris. "If you want to protect the things you care about, you need to hurt people. Sometimes you know that for a fact, sometimes it's a judgement call. But you will have to hurt people."
(Mine… My… My memories…)
Another silence. Iris stared at the gun for several seconds before speaking in a small voice. "How will I know what to do?"
Adrian blinked, and shook his head as he put the revolver back. "I can't answer that. I don't know. Only you can answer that, and you'll never really be sure, either. That's just how it is."
Staring at the wall again, Iris felt resolve returning to her voice. "I know it's bad to kill people. I… I don't want to hurt anyone. I want to keep helping you guys. But I won't kill anyone."
(They're MINE.)
"The thing is, Iris," Adrian said, huffing though his nose more out of exhaustion than anger, "at the end of the day, you don't really have a choice."
Iris finally met his eyes, her gaze cold and unyielding. "Do you?"
(MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE.)
The threads surrounding Iris were taut and inflexible, going into her and dragging parts of her. She grabbed them and pulled. Yanked. Tore. They ripped up parts of her as they broke, but Iris kept tearing. Pieces of her memories floated in front of her like shredded photographs blowing in the wind.

Yes, yes! Wonderful!

"-Iris, Iris! I just saw a video on how to make a new type of cookie! Can you ask Mom if we-"
Iris squeezed the revolver and pushed herself out into the hallway, pains all but forgotten.
"-He was stabbed! I-I tried to help, but - just call 911! Please! I can explain-"
She dragged herself across to the door of the other room, old wood creaking underneath her.
"-Due to the plaintiff's inability to distinguish reality from her imagination, we would like to move to an insane plea-"
Staggering into the room, she saw Anne hunched over the conflux, one hand on it, the other covering a bleeding wound.

There she is. She tried to take your memories.

Almost tripping, she shoved Anne to the ground, who put up no resistance as Iris straddled her. She seemed aware of Iris, but was too slow to react.
"-Iris, this is Able. I know he might seem a little, ah… unapproachable, but I don't think he's all that bad once you-"
She gripped the revolver in one hand, brought it up above her head, then down again, onto Anne's face. Then up and down again. And again.

Brilliant, brilliant! Make her pay!

Anne coughed, a spurt of blood spilling onto her chest. Iris would make her pay. She'd hurt her. She deserved it. Iris knew she did. She knew…

We really are alike, you and I.

Bloodied hands came up to Iris' face, too weak to do anything. She felt the warm liquid spread across her face and continued bringing her gun down, hearing the cracks of bone as it struck Anne's mouth.
-Iris looked up at Able, as he turned to look at her through her photo. He must have known she was watching what he was doing to her friends. Iris' eyes went wide, an expression of-
Pure terror. Like she was looking at Death itself. Anne's bloody, battered face looked up at Iris with pleading eyes, as if hoping against hope that she'd let her go. And for a moment, Iris understood how Able must have felt that day.
Slowly, Iris lowered her hands from above her head and stared at them. The red sheen coating them was made harsher by the light of the flare. She couldn't make out where her hand ended and the gun started.
"Guh… uh…" Iris felt the pains return to her, exacerbated by her physical action. She felt disgusted with herself, and like she was going to vomit. After everything how could she… how could she…

Oh, it's over? Aw.

Slowly, painfully, Iris stood back up, peeling herself away from the mass of blood and sweat that the two of them had become. The threads around her were still swimming, and the noise from inside of her head was louder than ever. Her gaze shifted to the conflux, and she raised her gun towards it.

Wait, wait. The feedback from that would kill Anne outright. You stopped short, didn't you? Seems wrong to deny yourself the pleasure, but kill her regardless. It needs to be deactivated manually. With the threads.

"Fuck me," Iris said under her breath. She took a couple steps over to the conflux before collapsing in front of it, every action feeling like a thousand shards of glass in her chest. Her hands sluggishly found the conflux and pulled it into her. After taking a deep breath, she focused on the threads, hoping it would be for the last time.

Well, now, our time is running short. I believe you'll be able to handle things over there, but once that's destroyed, I won't be able to speak with you. For now, at least. I truly did enjoy our time together, and I hope you did as well. I do have a request to make, of sorts, before I leave you.

Iris plunged into the tangle of threads, whipping and frothing violently as they radiated out from the center. The sound of the thing was deafening, and it was screaming all the unhappiness Anne had felt. That much was clear now.

As I am, I find myself rather… sedentary. Lacking excitement. But I've been searching for someone like you for a very, very long time, and I think you could help me in that regard. And I believe you could benefit from my assistance as well. I'd like to propose a mutually beneficial partnership.

After looking at the chaotic mass of threads, Iris began to see a pattern, the openings between the thread snaking down to the center in a predictable pattern. She followed this opening, and found a core of threads, all bound by some inscrutable force within the conflux. Iris reached out for the core-

I understand that you may not understand the request fully, and that's fine. Were we to meet in person - or as close to that as I can manage - I'd be more than happy to fill you in on my idea. Until then, don't worry about getting an answer to me. I'll come to hear it myself.

-And with a simple tug, the entire thing unraveled. The threads that had once been bound by it lazily snaked away from Iris' vision and disappeared into the background entirely. The noise was gone along with it, and Iris couldn't feel the presence of the voice.
Nothing but the cold wind blowing across the grass and Anne's labored breathing.
Iris huffed, dragging herself across the splintered floor towards Anne. In the dimming light, her head turned slightly to look at Iris. It was hard to make out her expression from behind the viscera, but she said nothing.
Pain stabbing her chest with each action, Iris hissed as she pulled out the last photo she had on her: one of a set of first aid equipment from earlier. After putting on a pair of gloves, which, at that point, may have been a pointless gesture, she tugged up Anne's shirt and gingerly felt around for entry and exit wounds. There was only one, though, as her shot seemed to have taken a chunk out of her side but missed anything important.
"Why…" A weak voice pulled Iris' attention upwards. "Why did you…?"
After waiting for her to continue for a few seconds, Iris sighed - and immediately regretted her decision with the chest pain that came from it. Even so, she reached for disinfectant swabs. "You're probably right. I know," she said, morose and exhausted.
Anne's face shifted almost invisibly, eyebrows pushing together, though whether in surprise or confusion Iris couldn't tell. Anne groaned slightly as her entry wound was cleaned, but otherwise barely moved.
"But I know if I don't do this, they'll get someone else to," Iris continued. She shrugged as she met Anne's eyes. "I don't know. The task force is good for politics of some higherup or something. All I know is that if I fuck up, I'm out. And then…" Iris gingerly removed a sterile gauze pad from its sealed container. "…There's another me."
After a short silence, Iris began applying the gauze, and Anne rolled her head back to look up at the ceiling. "How many of us do you think there are?" she asked. Iris looked back up to her face as she heard the word 'us.' "How many more… do you think there are every day?"
She couldn't think of an answer as she pressed her lips together. After a few seconds, she looked back down to the wound and continued dressing it. "I don't know. I don't know if I can… fix everything. Maybe I'm just a coward." Iris paused a moment to gingerly guide Anne's hand to keep pressure on the dressing. "But I know the people I'm helping. I just… I'm stuck here, but I want to help as many people as I can." She looked up, to Anne's face. Paused for a moment to take in the sight of her. She was battered, sad… but more than that, she just looked tired. "And that includes you."
Seeing that her work was done, and getting the sense that Anne wasn't in a talkative mood, Iris pulled out her GPS tracker to make sure it was still operational. She then slowly, painfully, lowered herself down onto her back and laid next to Anne.
Nothing but the cold wind blowing across the grass and Anne's steady breathing.
After a short while, Iris heard Anne shifting lightly. "You know," Anne said, "I could think of a lot of things I think you are, but I don't think you're a coward." Iris turned her head to see Anne looking at her.
"A coward wouldn't have rushed me with…" Anne seemed to be… stifling a laugh? "…That piece-of-shit six-shooter."
"Piece of-" Iris tried to shift to a more indignant pose, but the pain in her chest quickly forced her back down, which only led to Anne's laughter becoming more apparent. Iris felt her face get warmer despite the surrounding air. "It's important to me, okay? It's like - It's like an heirloom," she said, as that was the most dignified word she could think of.
"An heirloom?" Iris could hear the smirk in Anne's response. "Well shit, if I had know I would have come at you with a fucking… Union Army calvalry saber or something, goddamn."
"A sword?" Iris groaned. "Yeah, maybe you would have done better with that, asshole. I still beat your ass with the piece-of-shit six-shooter."
"Yeah, well… I couldn't see very well." Oh, Anne had definitely responded too quickly.
"Then don't look right at a fucking flare, dumbass," Iris drawled.
Pthooey. Anne responded by spitting out a loogie with blood and a piece of a tooth at Iris.
"Wha- You fucking-" Iris recoiled from the spit. "Don't fucking spit at me! What are you, six?"
"Ay, you're the one who knocked out my teeth, you don't get to complain about this," came Anne's mock-indignant reply.
"Well than at least, I don't know, turn the other way," Iris huffed.
"Ahh, can't." Anne groaned exaggeratedly as she grabbed at her neck with one hand. "You hurt my neck, too."
Iris started shimmying across the floor over to Anne. "If you're gonna be so damn ungrateful, I'll just take the damn bandage back."
Anne moved into a defensive position. "Ah ah ah wait a second wait a second-"

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