From the journal of Prof. Julie Duval (IAF)
03/28/43, 15:23
I don't think we'll ever truly understand these. There's so much to learn about their morphology, their behavior, even where they came from. Everything we do know came at a great human cost. I've recorded nearly fifty different variations on the same body plan. Triple that if you include the mutations I've confirmed firsthand. I've been trying to assemble the scant rumors of drones rapidly mutating astonishing new capabilities and carapace coloration. If even half of these are true, I worry we may never be able to catalog every possible variation, much less stamp this cancer out once and for all.
04/03/43, 08:14
They aren't natural. Even if they were an evolved species at some point, there's evidence of experiments turning some existing being into these colony-destroying parasites. This goes a long way to explaining their remarkable genetic diversity. If the only common ancestor is some experimental parasite, it means whatever monsters created these things wanted to find the best possible hosts for their sick experiments. If the anthropogenic hypothesis offers one ray of hope, it's that we can find some kind of cure. Both for our sake and theirs. I have to believe there's still a chance to cure the galaxy of this alien swarm. There's got to be a better way than risking IAF lives and detonating stations after every last human's been dead for weeks.
04/14/43, 20:42
I've been exchanging correspondence with Dr. Scenario. It's still early days while we figure out if we can trust each other, but she has some fascinating data. She's not IAF, but that may be for the best. I worry my research into the swarm is a career-limiting move, especially after what happened on Nam Humanum, but I have to know. If I can prove where they came from- if they came from anywhere at all- it's possible no one will ever have to die to these things again. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to walk down a dark hallway without hearing phantom skittering over my shoulder.
04/20/43, 18:35
Helvetica's making a lot of sense. I suspect my days with the IAF are numbered. She's promised me a place in the Office- not that she'll tell me what that means. If it's somewhere I can study the swarm with some actual support from command, I'll jump ship in a heartbeat. The only issue is whether to trust when my gut tells me I'm at a global maximum right now. It's possible that any move I make is the wrong one. I can't tell if I'm about to make a deal with the devil, take a life preserver off this sinking ship, or paint a target on my back.
04/20/43, 23:55
I now realize the devil may carry a life vest in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
The thing about space is that it keeps coming up with new and exciting ways to kill you. They invented a mouth on legs that spits acid at you and the best defense is a somersault. We had to work out a system where one of us distracts it with acrobatics and bullets while everyone else hits it with a stick. If they ever figure out how to look up or down, it's gonna be a lot more work for us. It's like these space bugs don't even care that I have other work to do. You can tell them these science crates have somewhere to be, but they're not gonna listen. I'm not even sure they have ears. Just legs and a mouth.
Just the other day, I was trying to get some space lunch. They had acid orb soup, acid orb pie, acid orb pizza, you name it. Turns out one of these bugs got loose in the kitchen and our chef made the best of it. I don't recommend it- I got nasty heartburn and the doctor kept asking if I was lying. They tell you that you can roll around to avoid the spitballs, but that doesn't work when they're already inside you. I feel like if I had dodgerolled while eating the soup, it would have gone down a lot more easily.
Some clown tried juggling the acid balls once and I'll be the first to admit it was pretty funny until their gloves started to melt. It was even funnier when they tried to wash it off in the soup, and hilarious when it melted right through their horn. It's a shame- they were doing great at the tactical clown rolls until they decided to show off. I like to think we all learned a valuable lesson about clowning around when there's acid bugs scuttling around: it can be really good if you do it right.
If there's any consolation, it's that they like to sleep as much as anyone. I found one sleeping in my bunk last night and it was just easier to let sleeping bugs lie. They don't spit so much when they're all curled up with their legs over their face and the only thing worse than getting melted by a bug in your bed is having everyone get mad at you for waking them up with a gunshot. Honestly, I've had worse bunkmates. They don't hog the blankets or pillows and they help regulate the temperature under the covers. Just make sure you get up before it does.
I'm starting to think they're not so bad if you know how to take care of them. The right diet, rich in calcium carbonate and bismuth subsalicylate, can take a lot of bite out of the acid. Frequent belly rubs, leg massages, and daily walks keep Bug Report here mostly docile, even if they do still try to melt the leash when I'm not looking. I want to ask the doctor if there's some kind of surgery or gene mod for the acid, but she just asks if I'm trying to make soup again and laughs me out of the room. I don't know how to tell her that she's the one that can control the rate at which the bug produces soup ingredients.
From the journal of Prof. Julie Duval (IAF)
04/25/43, 09:55
There are entire species out there I could never have theorized. Helvetica's been leaking me documents that outline completely novel alien species. These "shielded bugs" have indestructible natural armor on one end and a very vulnerable-looking glowing blob on the other. If these are, in fact, the product of genetic engineering, the implications are staggering. Could we create IAF marines that are harder to kill? Or an organic source of armor plates so we don't have to scavenge scrap metal to reinforce the hull? If a living thing can be modified to produce something like this, we should be able to do so much more with this technology. If we're starting from immunity to bullets, resistance to disease and infection should be trivial. I only hope I get the chance to use it for good.
04/26/43, 11:09
It's becoming abundantly clear that the Interstellar Armed Forces have no interest in my research. The meatheads in command won't even listen to what I have to say. I can claim it's going to save money or time or lives, but as soon as they catch a whiff of alien research, they kick me out. "Our job is to shoot aliens, Professor Duval." This is usually when they stand up and start yelling. I can still feel the flecks of angry spit on my face. "Not share DNA with them." They usually use much stronger language. I worry they don't truly understand the aims of my work, but that may be for the best. If they're not going to appreciate my research now, it'd be disastrous if they tried to use it without me. I shudder to think what the bosses here would do with no expertise, no oversight, and wild dreams of what they can accomplish with genetic engineering. Even if my research really is useless, I have to make sure the IAF doesn't use it to create another scourge.
05/02/43, 08:32
I'm pulling the trigger. Exit strategy implemented. No turning back now. I'm deleting what I can get away with and falsifying what I can't. Just a little bit every day. By the time I leave, I'll have the only real copy. Helvetica says she's preparing a place for me at the Office. If I'm lucky, I'll find out what OCM stands for. It's either that or I'm making a powerful enemy and burning every bridge I have because a pretty redhead made me realize how much I hate my job. At least, that's what she tells me. You don't exactly attach pictures of yourself when you're exchanging confidential messages about alien biology, work conditions, and sedition. Every morning I wonder if this is the right choice and every night I poison a little more data. I'll know whether I'm making the right move soon enough. I'm guessing it's either the Office of Cyclical Momentum or the Office of Constant Mystery.
05/05/43, 09:55
The IAF is onto me. I can't prove it, but I swear the chain of command is freezing me out. Nobody wants to eat with me. I have to scan my badge a few times before the doors open. Every time I log in to the network, I worry it's not going to work this time. I've always been able to hear the footsteps echoing in the hall outside. I don't have the luxury of tuning them out any more. They get louder all the time. One day, they'll stop outside and haul me off.
I'm being paranoid, I know. They'll do it while I'm asleep. Less struggle that way. I've signed and sealed my devil's bargain. All that's left to do is wait and see if she delivers. They warned me the devil will be attractive, and that's helping more than I'd like to admit right now. T-minus 12 hours. Time to get everything as ready as I can without broadcasting my intentions. I know they're watching the cameras.
05/05/43, 22:20
It worked. I'm still in shock, but it worked. I can feel the relief already. Stress I didn't know I had is starting to melt off. Unless this is part of some extremely long con by the IAF to punish me, I'm free. The kind of person who rises through the ranks of the Interstellar Armed Forces is pointlessly cruel, staggeringly narrow-minded, and fundamentally angry. These are undeniably terrible traits to have in a boss, but they are, at least, predictable. They are not the kind of people who stage a phony escape and print up a coffee mug to teach someone a lesson.
So, here I am. Home free. I have my notes, I have my mug, and I have someone I can trust. She was telling the truth about her hair, by the way. Welcome to the Office of Consensus Maintenance, Julie.
From the journal of Dr. Brad Irwing (AMBER)
Okay. BOOMERs. Specimen 2'15'15'13'5'18. Where do I even start? Terrifying things. They're all terrifying, but I have to start somewhere. If you're reading this, I hope you'll help or know someone who can. People have been killed for trying to blow this whistle. I know I'm not special- I just can't keep quiet about it any more. I've done everything I can to stop these horrible experiments from within and all it's going to get me is a bullet in the head. I don't even have a good idea what they're doing. I know they're making these alien murder machines and setting them loose on an unsuspecting galaxy. I know they're going to do everything they can to stop this information getting out.
This, unfortunately, means that they might go after you. Whoever you are, we have to stop them. They can't kill all of us. The aliens can. I've seen what these specimens can do. Just one of them can explode and fill a whole room with these horrible yellow blobs. I saw the security camera footage. I saw the furniture just instantly reduced to splinters and shrapnel. I watched people I knew- friends and coworkers- vanish too fast for the security cameras to see. All that's left of them are the stains on the wall. These horrible, wretched things have to be eradicated. They're a wound on the galaxy that's only going to get wider and deeper unless we treat it. It's up to us to stem the bleeding and help it heal.
Whoever you are, I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. If it were up to me, all the data would have been burned ages ago. We'd have shot these damn things into the sun and forgotten about it. But it's too late for that now. Blood has already been spent trying to beat these horrible things back, and it's going to take a lot more before the galaxy can rest easy. The real monsters at AMBER are the executives and managers that let it get this far. The real boomers we should have killed are the wretched old men who think the galaxy belongs to them. The aliens can really only kill a roomful of people at a time and they're nice enough to make it quick. The humans in charge have been slowly squeezing the life out of everyone they can get their hands on. They've been grinding thousands of people, soul-first, into dust for years. I can't believe it took an outbreak of living bombs for me to notice.
If there were any justice in this universe beyond what we make ourselves, their own murderous mutants would have killed them already. The first alien creature they weaponized should have nestled right into their laps and ended it all in a shower of golden, pulsating comeuppance. If someone had the foresight to shove one in the right board room at the right time, we wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have to sit here begging the unfeeling universe to do what's right. Captain Bark. Head Doc. Wanman. Schmitz. I know you're out there. I know you saw my name on this message and you've already signed the order to have me killed. I know I can't stop you, so I'm going to keep doing this until the universe is safe or you put the bullet in my head yourselves.
I'll be waiting.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
02/13/53, 02:20
One of the reasons I moved to space is that there's no bugs here. You never have to worry about a mosquito bite or walking into a spiderweb unless you're an astroentomologist or something. One of the reasons I think about moving back home is that the thing about bugs is a lie. Space invented giant, angry fireflies that make your eyes go all blurry and unleashed them on the space station. Let me tell you, you would not believe your eyes if ten million fireflies lit up the world as you fell asleep. For one thing, it's really hard to believe your eyes when it's dark in the barracks and the bugs keep messing with your vision. The only thing you can believe is that you're not getting any rest tonight.
02/14/53, 19:57
Anyone in my situation would be terrified of the silent killer, Bug In Mouth Disease. So, naturally, I discussed it with the captain, got my access upgraded, and grabbed a space helmet from the emergency EVA supplies. As a bonus, the built in welding-grade visor meant the glowing particles only lightly roasted my corneas. I kept my eyes closed on the way out, since it's not like I could see anything through the thick layer of caked-on bug corpses. I made my way to engineering with a radio full of bug guts and tried to pantomime that I wanted a windshield wiper for my face. It hasn't worked so far, but I have a good feeling about tomorrow. I've gotten mean emails from the mail room, hydroponics, and the bar, so I'll get there at some point. At least Bug Report, my darling pet ranger, has been great moral support.
02/16/53, 14:12
I can't even enjoy my time off any more. It was Saturday night, so I was trying to fill my locker with bees and cheeseburgers, but I couldn't find any dang bees. I guess I could fill it with buzzers and cheeseburgers, but the buzzers don't really need my help. It's not even easy to get normal burgers these days- the cafeteria's mostly serving bugs on buns and hoping nobody notices. I haven't tried the buzzburgers because, you know, the disease. I asked the chef if they have some kind of aerosol cheeseburger I can hook up to my helmet's oxygen supply and eat that way, but they mostly sounded confused and angry. I got chased out before I said they could call 'em "breathesburgers".
02/16/53, 18:20
I'm still wiperless. I'm pretty sure I got to the right place this time, but everyone sounded real upset about some big, sucking hole. So I implemented Plan B. Plan Bug, for long. I clipped a leash onto Bug Report's collar and pressed them into service as a seeing-eye bug. I will admit I forgot to check if they have eyes, but I figure they have a better idea of what's going on than I do. Honestly, it's working pretty well so far. Bug Report has a reasonable enough idea of where I'm supposed to be at any given time, even if we do find ourselves at the pharmacy for bug food more often than usual. The only real problem is that my requests for an acid-proof leash and collar keep getting delayed because "we're a little busy with the hull breach." Honestly, I think they're still mad about the time Bug Report melted their boots. Even after the apology acid!
02/17/53, 13:30
Well, I can take my helmet off and breathe easy now. Turns out we had kind of a kill a zillion bugs with one hole situation while I was giving Bug Report their daily belly rubs. Someone tried to set off a bug bomb, it turned out to be more of a regular bomb, and, well, it got rid of the bugs. Some of the rude engineers aren't around any more and I can put all the bees and cheeseburgers I like in my locker, so it's a happy ending for everyone. The only real problem is that Bug Report expects walks all the time now, and I just can't say no those big, glowing puppy dog probably-eyes. They finally started processing my requests for a basic collar to neutralize the acid, but they keep sending me these boring ones that melt like all the others.
From the journal of Shaun Ming (SynTek)
12/30/52, 23:19
I had to kill him. I had to look him in the eye and pull the trigger. His bloodshot eyes, paralyzed with silent terror, stared back. It's carved into the inside of my brain. I see his brain spattered against against the ground when I close my eyes. The shot rings inside my skull at every quiet moment. The latex gloves came off with the flick of a wrist, but the blood won't leave my hands. This is my fault. I had to go and play God with these damn eggs. I knew how quickly they could spread. I knew they'd breached containment before and they could do it again. I just had to know. I had to verify my theories. I had to know if I was right about the rapid tissue synthesis sequences I found in the genome. And I was. I was absolutely right. I was right enough to kill almost every damned soul on board, and I'm only alive because of my own sloppy work.
I should have been punished for my hubris. I flew too close to the sun and should have fallen into the freezing, consuming ocean. I should have fed myself to them to prove my brilliant goddamn theories. They need warm flesh to breed and grow. Maybe someone more responsible would have kept the rest of the eggs on ice until they could burn the lot of them to the ground. Maybe the project would have been forgotten and nobody else would have had to deal with this. I should have climbed on the eggs in the cargo hold, made sure the airlock was pointed at the nearest star, and opened the hatch without a helmet. Maybe then I could have done something for the universe and actually earned that Nobel.
Annotation from Dr. Helvetica Scenario (OCM) // 06/16/53, 13:02
Or maybe someone else would do the exact same thing a few months later because you died wallowing in pity like a big baby instead of trying to make sure this never happens again. Sorry. That's not very professional of me. Neither is letting your experiment boil over and become a problem for someone else to deal with. A lot of people died cleaning up your mess, Shaun. The least you could have done is publish your findings so I didn't have to endanger my team looking for answers. They went through hell and found your journal.
You knew that what you were doing was wrong, and what did you do? You spent all your time sneaking around and hiding as much information as possible from anyone who might try to stop you. You knew the consequences and you didn't care. You just wanted your big, prestigious paper. You messed up. We agree on that. We've all messed up. The difference between you and me is that I try to make it right. You're lucky I got here first. Do you know how many governments would kill for a bioweapon like this? Especially since you didn't bother to tell anyone that fire almost completely neutralizes the threat? I had to read it out of your damn diary. Great science, Shaun.
End Annotation
Maybe I can still get out of here alive. Fire would consume precious oxygen and risk trapping me inside, but I think I remember something about live wires. They escaped the containment through the vents, but they didn't use the electrical conduits. At least, not when they had a choice. I'm surprised I never noticed that behavior before. It's fascinating- I'd love to set up a maze and electrify different routes to see where they do and don't tread and- I'm getting distracted. If I'm half the brilliant scientist I was last week, I should be able to get out. Let's see if I can get the right amount of current on the outside of my clothes. The batteries in the spare oxygen scrubbers should be a good start.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
03/22/53, 22:23
Well, the good news is that I met Bug Report's big sister. The bad news is that some days you just can't get rid of a bug bomb. A new kind of larger, acid-spitting space insect just dropped, and they assigned me to deal with the problem. I assume it's because I did such a good job with the buzzer infestation and because I can get Bug Report to sit on command about 41 percent of the time. That's my best guess. My commanding officer just shouted "Bur! Bug! Go!" over the radio and I kinda had to go from there. I'm not totally sure if I'm supposed to train the bug or kill her or what. I've been calling her Big Report.
So I took the bug bowling. I figured that if she wants to spit orbs, the least she can do is aim it away from anything that screams- which does mean we have to replace the screen that keeps score. I think the sudden music and dancing bowling pins gave her mixed messages, so I can't really blame her for blowing it up. It's not like it's hard to keep score for her - turns out it's really easy to bowl a strike every time when the balls explode. She doesn't even need bumpers! Which is fortunate, because they're splinters now. The tricky part is trying to get her to shoot forward instead of up. There's no rule that says you have to roll the ball, I guess, but I feel like air striking the pins is against the spirit of the game.
The main problem is that we are running out of usable pins. The other bowlers are starting to get upset that they have to bowl with less than a full set. I tried to tell them about the history of the sport - they used to bowl with eight or nine pins back in the day, and they liked it! I tried calling it a throwback night, but now balls are flying everywhere but the lanes. It's one way to save wear and tear on the pins, but it's rough on the carpet, chairs, and other bowlers. Personally, I think it adds a fun twist when you gotta play dodgeball and rollball at the same time.
03/25/53, 23:08
It is setting a bad example for Big Report, though. She was doing so good at the bowling alley until Throwback Night surprised her. I thought bugsketball would be a perfect fit for her, but the less said about that, the better. So I'm changing tactics again and signing her up for the baseball team. She's got a great pitching mouth on her, so I figured we could use that. I haven't gotten her to throw baseballs yet, but the bombs are really motivating the batters and fielders to do their best. Plus, now every home run comes with its own fireworks display. The only problem is that nobody wants to play catcher. I offered to make the padding thicker and more acid-resistant, but I'm thinking we're just gonna have to use the bomb shelter as a backstop for the time being.
03/28/53, 18:52
Well, today was the big Space Series championship. Big Report pitched, of course, for the Upper Deck Robust Rookies against the Lower Deck Bosco Orbs. True to their name, the Orbs managed to genetically engineer some ball-shaped basebees to play outfield. I think they heard we had an insect player and refused to be outdone. The bees are not as effective as you might think - they find it hard to lift the gloves and put them in the way of the ball, even if they can fly. They mainly affect the game by being about the same shape as a baseball, so you gotta make sure you're getting tagged out by the right orb. If you get tagged out by a bee, you can keep running! I did manage to get Big Report spitting baseballs before the big game, even if they are covered in a thin layer of time bomb juice. This usually led to the balls either going off in the catcher's mitt (relatively harmless once we armored the glove) or exploding in midair after the hit. Very pretty, but it turns out that if the ball explodes, you have to field all the pieces. Long story short, the mercy rule made us call the game once we were losing 68 to 1. I still count it as a success. It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you taught a bomb-spitting space bug to play the game.
From the journal of Dr. Brad Irwing (AMBER)
Good news, I'm still alive. I had a few close calls, but those monsters at AMBER haven't gotten me yet. This one's for you, Captain Bark. Guess they were right about your bite. I still have both my pant legs and, of course, all of my notes about your dirty little experiments. Look at that, we got Head Doc's signature on a lot of these. A certain someone signed off on the HARVESTER project! Specimen 8'1'18'22, here we go. These guys are nasty. You monsters weren't content with wretched mutants choking the life out of the galaxy one by one, you had to make a whole line of mutant factories. Couldn't do all the dirty work yourself, so you made a damn pyramid scheme. Why make one problem when you can make an infestation that festers and multiplies? Brilliant work all around. Give yourselves some medals.
I guess it only makes sense. Capitalists rarely do their own dirty work. They have people for that. They withhold your livelihood and make you dance to their tune if you want to eat. They don't say it like that, of course. They don't have to. They just make sure food costs money and they just so happen to have a paying job right here. The job might not even be so bad. Maybe you email spreadsheets around to make sure the murderous mutants have enough food to grow up big and strong. For every one black-hearted monster strip-mining life from the universe, there's thousands of people who are forced, implicitly or otherwise, to spend their precious remaining years making it happen. Why put yourself in harm's way when you can run away, hide somewhere safe, and send your underlings to do it for you?
And once you realize this, the walls start closing in. You might not be consciously aware of it or be able to put words to the feeling, but you can feel it pushing at the corners of your mind. Just constantly squeezing you in its vice grip. The job isolates you because capital doesn't want you to have friends or loved ones. That would get in the way of work. If you don't work hard enough, you won't get to do any more work. You can go starve to death somewhere out of the way. Get back to selling the sand in your hourglass, grain by grain, peasant.
Of course, actual peasants got more time off.
There's a way out, of course. They need us more than we need them, and they can't kill all of us. Especially if all the guys holding the guns realize they're getting a raw deal, too. That's the thing - we're all in this together. The catch is that it only works if we do it together. They'll try every trick in the book to force us back to work. They'll break our legs. They'll let us starve. They'll put guns to our heads. They'll hire goddamn Pinkertons to blend in with us and drive us apart. They'll load up an armored transport with the biggest guns they can find and fire in every direction because they might hit someone who dared to want a better life and scare everyone else into falling in line. They know what happens when you hit them where it hurts. If there's one thing I've learned from these specimens, it's that when they show you their weak point, you take the shot.
That's why I know you're coming for me, Captain. I'm the thorn in your side. The xenomite in your ointment. The kick in your teeth. I'm just going to get worse unless you can pluck me out. Go ahead and try. I'm going to keep spreading your secrets across the galaxy until one of us is dead. So go ahead. Keep picking at me. Keep swatting at that fly. By all means, expose your big, glowing weak point. If we all shoot, we can't miss. We only have to get lucky once.
From the journal of Dr. Brad Irwing (AMBER)
Speaking of big, glowing weak points and obnoxious parasites, I bring you specimen 24'5'14'15, codename XENOMITE. Can't talk about harvesters without talking about their exploding babies. The main reason harvesters are dangerous are because of these little monsters. The thick, choking smoke to the fire with acidic skin. That's the thing about being trapped in a burning building. You'll choke to death with burning lungs long before your skin sears. The foot soldiers and hired thugs will leave you battered and broken long before those gilded hands even have to try to wring your throat. I have to assume that's why you keep sending your grunts after me, General. Can't put in an honest day's work and risk me fighting back, right?
If you are one of those grunts, I want you to know that I have nothing against you. If anything, I have more in common with you than you have with your boss. We're both being exploited and forced to do violence against people who don't deserve it. How may other whistleblowers have you scared into silence? How many people have you shot for doing the right thing? I can give you a list of people who do deserve it, but they're all names you've heard before. Your boss is having you kill me instead of the exploding bugs with asses full of acid. What does that say about his priorities? He's burning your house down and making you shoot the firefighters.
The sand of our lives ruthlessly slips through our fingers with every passing moment. We cannot stem the tide. The best we can do is make the most of the time we have and, perhaps, do our best to keep the flow running a little longer. For example, if someone's genetically engineering a scourge of skin-melting bugs designed to overrun the whole damn galaxy, that's going to cut a lot of lives very short. Including your own. Whoever you are, whoever's out there, I don't know how else to say that this is an existential threat to life in this galaxy. Every passing moment brings us closer to the point of no return.
That's the message here, right? "Xenomites of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your acid sacs!" It's not a perfect metaphor, I'll admit. The xenomite is spawned from the harvester and lives just long enough to burst, covering its enemies in acid. We are not born from the capitalist, and we can live long, fulfilling lives if we don't burst for their benefit. We owe nothing to the corrosive creature that sits on top of the food chain, demanding that we lay down our lives for nothing in return. The harvester only provides the bare minimum to the xenomite to get it to perform its suicidal task. I don't have to tell you that it sounds like a raw deal for the xenomite. And, might I add, that the harvester would be rendered defenseless without them.
Well, all the theory in the galaxy won't help if you don't put it into practice. I can stand here giving my pretty speeches to the uncaring galaxy until the end of time, or I can prove I'm right. If you've been following me this far, I want to thank you. I hope I'm no longer fighting the good fight alone. If you're one of the rat bastards who put us in this situation, I hope to see your head flushed out of an airlock some day. If you're one of the fine folks who's been shooting at me for the last few weeks, I suppose I'll see you soon.
If you don't hear from me again, you can probably guess what happened.
From the journal of Bur Nable (Nanotrasen)
04/02/53, 20:18
We're developing a reputation as the space station that knows what to do with bugs. After Bug Report and Big Report, everyone else started unloading their bugs on us. We've got crates full of bees, mosquitos, and tiny microphones. We can put most of them to good use easily enough. Bees go to botany, mosquitos go to the bloodatorium, and I think I've bugged basically every room in the station at this point. Anyone can talk to anyone else from anywhere! The noise is unbearable, but I think it's a price worth paying for progress. The toughest nut to crack so far has been this weird doctor bug that showed up in a crate one day. We sent her over to medical, so we'll see if they appreciate that long, weird tongue.
04/05/53, 15:22
So, the doctors really love the new bug, but not for the reason I hoped. I assumed that, since the new guy is really good at fixing up other bugs, they could put her to work fixing up humans, too. And she does do that. The healing lick works great. The wrinkle is that it fills in the gaps with bug. We have guys who were missing legs that are now click-clacking down the hall happy as can be on chitinous little points. Half the cafeteria staff have scald-proof exoskeletons on their arms to fearlessly reach into soup. The bartender's got a big, bioluminescent acid sac where his eye used to be, and he loves it. Every time I see him at work, he's positively glowing and the drinks have more of a kick than ever.
Naturally, the doctors find this fascinating. They keep saying stuff about "exciting new genetic research opportunities" and "a way to save money on cybernetics" and "finally, I can become my bugsona". Everyone is just a big fan of the bug. They're practically lining up to get a blast of that good, good healing tongue. Can you really call it "healing" if you're plugging the holes with spicy new bug goop instead of good old fashioned human flesh? The folks with the brand new arms seem to think so, and they seem like the experts here.
04/06/53, 14:01
All this talk about spicy new bug goop made me hungry, so me and Bug Report paid a visit to the cafeteria. Big Report's been pretty busy with baseball practice, so we don't see her very much. Bug and I have a pretty good little routine where I eat and they loaf on my lap and eat whatever happens to fall. I usually have to drop a few antacids at the same time so they don't leak too much acid, but it works well enough. Today's lunch was this canister of liquified hamburgers, superheated and served as a vapor. Bug Report here must really like steamed hams - they got so excited, they clawed and melted right through my jumpsuit legs. So, naturally, I sought out our local mender to see if it could do anything about my bare legs. She could! It didn't do what I expected - my clothes are still in terrible shape - but all those little leg scratches got smoothed out with a shiny new layer of exoskeleton.
04/20/53, 06:09
Good news! Everyone's bugs! It happened so slowly, I don't think we noticed until it was too late. Every time we'd get a bump or a scrape, we'd take it by the mender to get mended up and get a little buggier every time. And, to be, clear, this rules. Everybug's skittering on the walls and ceilings so the hallways are now four times more efficient. I eat mostly sugar water and nectar, so I don't have to deal with whatever the cafeteria staff cook up unless I want to. Plus, me and Bug Report are closer than ever. Nobug's really scared of them any more and I'm starting to really dig the rhythm we get when our legs tap down the hall together. I just hope this nasty case of acid reflux dies down soon. I think it's starting to melt my teeth.
In conclusion, the real bugs were the friends we made into bugs along the way.
From the journal of Shaun Ming (SynTek)
12/31/52, 01:24
The electricity worked! I stripped a few meters of spare wire and wrapped it around my clothes. Some thick rubber gloves made sure I didn't immediately electrocute myself, and I was off to the races. The main wrinkle is that my head remains extremely exposed, but so far so good. I honestly think they can sense the electromagnetic field and that pushes them away. This implies you could effectively repel them with an antenna cut to the right length and relatively little current. The cables and electricity have got to be a relatively inefficient way of emitting the power. I'll have to sit down and do the math later to see if I can figure out the exact frequencies that repel them. Maybe I'll get lucky and find up a spectrum analyzer later. For now, I must bravely press on.
I have hit a problem I cannot solve with electricity alone. A vast stretch of biomass blocks my path. It quivers when I approach with the electricity, but I don't think it could move out of the way if it wanted to. Come to think of it, can it even want things? It certainly likes to eat corpses, but that might be in the same way a wood chipper likes to eat branches. Regardless. I'm getting distracted. This hallway is biomass, walls, floor, and ceiling, as far as the eye can see. I wanted rapid tissue generation and I sure as hell got it. It sure doesn't like fire - there I go again, anthropomorphizing it - but this base's atmosphere has an exquisitely combustible oxygen/nitrogen ratio and thing is way too big to shove into a furnace. Is this the dead end I deserve for daring to reach beyond my grasp?
Annotation from Dr. Helvetica Scenario (OCM) // 06/18/53, 11:11
Those were not spare wires, you- Sorry. Unprofessional. You ripped those out of the fire suppression system and left bare, live wires just hanging out of the wall. You didn't even cut them properly, you just grabbed and yanked. Because, hey, why do things the right way and make someone else's life easier when you can try to escape the consequences of your actions and leave a fire hazard in your wake? Your cute stunt with the "spare" oxygen scrubber batteries left the atmosphere unbreathable. People died. Endangering my team is one thing - they signed up for this. They knew they were going somewhere dangerous and did it anyways in the pursuit of knowledge and to help humanity. Not to win a damn Nobel, Shaun. There were innocent people on that station. People who didn't notice the air slowly turning to poison around them until it was too late.
For every self-proclaimed genius that just takes what he wants without thinking about the world he claims to want to save, there's people like me who have to clean up afterwards. Someone has to go back over the earth you salted and see if there's anything worth salvaging. I've read your notes, Shaun. I know what your coworkers and bosses had to say about you. My team braved the hellscape you created for this information, the least I can do is make sure nobody has to deal with your… let's say "unique approach to problem solving". I do my research. I think about what I'm going to do before I do it. Information isn't free, Shaun. Good information, reliable information, comes at a steep cost. Sometimes that price is paid in blood. And if you have that, if you have something people died to bring you, the absolute least you can do is make sure that price never has to be paid again. If you really were half the "brilliant scientist" you claim to be, you'd have thought about a single living soul other than yourself instead of locking the fire exits.
End Annotation
Fire. The only way to deal with biomass is fire. It's infested the vents and occupied the doorways. There's no other way out. Electricity doesn't work. Acids don't work. Bases don't work. I thought the sodium bicarbonate would help neutralize the corrosive skin, but I think it just made the biomass angry. Sorry, anthropomorphizing again. I suppose I'm going to find out when I burn it. It's okay. I'm the genius that got us into this situation, I can get me out of it. I think I know where I can get a blowtorch. Just a little heat, delicately applied, should cut a swath right through the middle. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
From the journal of Shaun Ming (SynTek)
12/31/52, 03:24
Alright. Things happened. I couldn't find a blowtorch, so I made do with a can of pressurized lubricant and Helen's secret lighter. Not that it's really a secret if you lock it in a drawer every time someone walks in. And, well, it worked on the biomass. Turns out there's a reason they don't let you bring open flame into the complex. The entire hallway just went up instantly. Lubricant touched flame and the fireball did not stop where it should have. The biomass is gone, but so are most of my hair and clothes. Turns out I was right about the oxygen mix. Once again my own brilliance curses me with foresight, but not the ability to prevent the inevitable. I'm a tragic genius, tortured by a world that refuses to understand me.
12/31/52, 03:30
So. Status report. The fireball consumed a lot of breathable air, and the oxygen scrubbers aren't working for some reason. There's some smaller blazes that the fire suppression system isn't dealing with, so that's worrying. The atmosphere is rapidly becoming unbreathable. There should be emergency EVA equipment nearby. The question is whether I can get there before I pass out. Wish me luck. If I don't make it, I will assume it was the universe choosing to punish me one last time because I dared to dream big. Nothing between me and sweet, sweet oxygen but these slimy little larvae.
Annotation from Prof. Julie Duval (OCM) // 06/20/53, 16:00
Officially taking over document review from Dr. Scenario. The medical staff and I were getting concerned for her well-being. I could hear her screaming through the walls. We had to call for a structural evaluation of the doc review room. I'll attach the full report - Architectural Verification DR-HS-9371 - but the short version is that it came back clear. The steel walls are still the full three inches thick and the acoustic foam is in perfect working order.
Regardless. I have a job to do. This is crucial in reconstructing what happened here and Mr. Ming's journal has been invaluable in our endless battle against the alien swarm. His shortcomings and tactical errors aside, we'd be a lot worse off without his research. Of course, we must also consider that, without his actions, there would be a lot fewer aliens in the swarm and we would have more staff on hand to deal with them. The point of a document review is to distill the available information into something succinct, searchable, and salient. With that in mind, I suspect this will form a key part of our investigation into the Jacob's Rest incident. I just hope we can put this all behind us soon.
End Annotation
Space suit works. Good news: plenty of oxygen. Bad news: plenty of bugs. The grubs are crawling on my face. I dare not open my mouth for too long, lest my dictation be interrupted by God's worst mouthful. I can feel them writhe and wriggle against my skin. This is my hairshirt, I suppose. I dared to try to save the galaxy with my research into the fascinating world of alien biology, and what do I get for it? Twelve-inch larvae squirming in my underwear while the air turns toxic. I can't wait to reach the escape shuttle and get the hell out of here. The fires are only going to make this place more hostile as time marches relentlessly on. I just have to make my way to Timor Station with grubs in my hermetically sealed pants.
Annotation from Prof. Julie Duval (OCM) // 06/20/53, 17:53
The journal more or less ends there. There's a lot of unproductive complaining about grubs squirming into increasingly anatomically unlikely areas. As far as we can tell, he didn't survive the ordeal. No one did. We found his journal abandoned on Deck 2. If I had to guess, I'd say he dropped it shortly before his demise. It's scratched in a way that's consistent with what we know about drone claws, so it's possible he was attacked. We never found a body, so he either got himself devoured or managed to throw himself into the waste disposal or something. The man who doomed Jacob's Rest died relatively quickly to the swarm he unleashed and the innocent people he doomed never had a chance. If he made any effort to repair the fire suppression system or restore power to the oxygen scrubbers, there's no record of it anywhere. There are multiple entries outlining the movement of grubs on his body in frankly unnecessary detail, but not a moment's consideration for the people he imperiled. I will resist the temptation to editorialize further, but I hope the conclusion is clear.
Annotation from Dr. Helvetica Scenario (OCM) // 06/20/53, 23:01
Rest in pieces, Shaun. Eat shit.
A Black Mesa informational bulletin from the desk of Isaac Kleiner // 04/01/03, 09:00
Ah, yes. The antlion guards. Not exactly a rarity around here, eh? Before they learned the proper term, a lot of people started referring to these as "horses". They may lack the graceful spark of the horses we have on Earth, but I must admit I see the resemblance. Perhaps the humble Earth horse could take a few pages from the antlion's book. The hard head would make them difficult to pet, to be sure, but I think they're on to something with the colors. The glowing antlion guardians add a certain dashing rainbow charm to what is normally a drab, if handsome, brown.
I am here to spill the beans on these oft-maligned creatures. Yes, their headbutts can be a pain, but they can be quite lovely in the right light. If you're lucky enough to see one while the sunset shimmers, I find the chitin shines quite beautifully in the twilight. Sparkle aside, it's quite tough and useful for a number of military and industrial purposes. The hard part is separating it from the rest of the antlion. We've had some luck with crowbars, but several colleagues have suggested simply cutting the softer flesh away. I don't see any reason why this wouldn't work, but I'd like to verify it myself before someone loses a finger. I'd hate for someone to lose a pinkie to some pie in the sky idea about antlion surgery. I would much prefer to have good news if we did surgery on a bug!
I've seen some of you taking live specimens for further study. Good! They're fascinating creatures and there's a lot of work to be done. Do note that you should only thaw them out under controlled laboratory conditions. A good rule of thumb is that, when transporting an antlion, the container needs to be about twenty percent cooler than room temperature. We've had a number of unfortunate, all-too-preventable casualties result from improper transportation and storage, and I blame the lack of clear best practices and inadequate equipment.
To this end, we're developing the Baryon Oscillation Obstructive Transport System, and I'm pleased to announce that early reports look promising. It consists of a baryonic transducer and a holding cell scarcely larger than an antlion guard. By manipulating subatomic vibrations, the transducer instantly cools the cage by approximately five degrees Celsius and maintains that temperature gradient indefinitely with very little additional energy required. Since the cold rapidly saps a captured antlion's energy, the walls only require minimal reinforcement. This alone makes them much easier to move around than the old freezer-on-wheels horse truck design! If our remaining tests pass, I will recommend we begin keeping these so-called horses in BOOTS. That would be a lovely win for all of us trying to safely learn more about these fascinating creatures.
I must urge caution when dealing with antlions, and the guards are no exception. They are hardly light on their pointy little legs and will not flutter shyly by while you watch. They will charge you, knock you down, and make themselves a problem until one of you dies. It's easy to forget that we're in uncharted territory here and there's so much we still don't know. Pushing boundaries and illuminating new frontiers of human knowledge is never easy or safe, but the risk can be minimized if we're careful and only take responsible, considered chances.
To end on a lighter note, our research into proper antlion care and feeding has been going brilliantly. We've made good strides manipulating other antlion castes with pheropods, but that doesn't work with the guards. To that end, we've had quite some success with fruit and vegetables. They're quite fond of apples, jackfruit, and the occasional gourd. We've begun giving our captive antlions hollowed-out watermelons filled with other food, and they seem to enjoy the challenge! Remember, an enriched bug is a happy bug and a happy bug is far less likely to hurt someone on purpose. They do show affection through headbutts, so, once again, due caution and preparation are advised. Thank you for your time and attention, and I have faith that, in due time, we will find a way to keep these creatures docile in captivity. The elements of harmony, or at least the lack of discord, are within our grasp!
]]>You see a lot of weird shit working at the Office of Consensus Maintenance. It'd be weird if you went about your day without seeing at least one werewolf talking to a probability elemental or having to navigate part of the building that's currently phasing into storyspace.
I mean, yeah, your eye is drawn to the six foot tall anthropomorphic skunk swishing her big ol' tail behind the desk. The way the pink circuitry winding over her black fur shimmers when she moves. The way she smiles with all of her sharp teeth. The way she sizes you up and towers over you, even if you should be the taller one here. The way her blonde locks leak out of the hair bun that dares to try to contain them. The way her single pink streak cuts through the hair over her left eye. The way she looks up from what can only be described as a triangular floppy disk for wizards and greets you with a casual "What's up?". Who wouldn't get caught staring?
And now you know what it's like to be Dr. Blackthorne at this particular instant. Xey've worked for the OCM for about three months now, and xey got transferred here to the ██████ branch after the Unusually ████████ Incident last month. Xey work a relatively safe job over in Postal Paradoxes. A couple times a day, a big bag of undeliverable letters and packages from timelines and realities alien to our own comes down the chute, and xey're part of a handful of folks tasked with making sure the day ends with the same number or fewer mindscape tears, consensus reality violations, and temporal occupations as when it started.
"Miss Grace, I take it?" Dr. Blackthorne is a nebulous-looking individual. And I mean that literally. Imagine a bundle of space gas stuffed vaguely into a human shape. One with broad shoulders and a trim waist that sort of approximates a sparkling black cumulonimbus cloud wearing a suit. An ID badge, a wallet, a set of keys, and a pink envelope float in xyr chest like fruit in a gelatin mold. "We spoke over the phone?"
"Which one are you? The machine that can feel, the cassette tape with three spools, or the Delicious Video Donut? If it's the first one, I was trying to tell your boss that you should head to Autocognitogenesis."
"Oh, no, nothing like that. You see, we received a letter-"
"And the weird part is that people still send letters, even though it's 20██?"
Dr. Blackthorne sighs. Well, it's more of an ethereal howl, but when you've worked for the OCM for as long as Grace-782 has, you learn what it sounds like when a nebula is exasperated. "This letter contains a certain memetic pattern that's very similar to, well, yourself. Some in the words, but most of the information is encoded in the structure of the ink molecules and the weave of the paper fibers." A fluffy black pseudopod extends from xyr chest with the letter inside. "We were hoping you could take a look at it."
Grace takes the letter and turns it over in her paws. "My shift ends in an hour. Come back here, charge a few hours of my time to your department, and we'll talk." She returns the letter. "Also, check the glue on the stamp. If it's who I think it is, you'll find something there."
Grace is locking up the Obsolete and Unusual Media desk. Dr. Blackthorne arrives in time to watch a three inch thick sheet of lead roll over the counter and seal airtight to the ground.
"You were right. Esocognitive spectroscopy on the glue came back positive." Xyr pseudopod extends again, this time with a printout about an inch thick on that old-fashioned stripey computer paper with the perforated edges. Grace takes it and starts absentmindedly folding and tearing the perforations while she reads. About halfway through, she realizes she has a better tool for the job and starts stripping the sheets with a claw on each side while she reads. "Yep, looks like 62-J. Come on, I have an appointment to keep that doubles as a visual aid." Grace clicks a few final latches shut, re-scratches a few protective runes with a claw, and leaves an unbroken line of shimmering violet powder along the bottom of the door frame.
"62-J? Who's that? What does that have to do with the letter?"
Grace leads Dr. Blackthorne through the bustling halls of this branch of the Office of Consensus Maintenance. Imagine a big underground complex with eight stories that any employee can go to and countless more that range from top secret to bottom secret to ███████████ secret. Her tail swishes while she walks. A few underprepared individuals get whacked upside the head. You can always tell the folks who haven't worked in the same branch office as an anthropomorphic skunk before. "Well, given that there's a bunch of us Graces, we need some kind of scheme to keep track of who's who. I'm Grace-782 because I'm the 782nd distinct Grace, give or take, to be formed in this universe. Different realities use different conventions, but there's usually some kind of numbering scheme. The J in this one's name represents the fact that she's not from our reality. The J is because she's from the 10th or so alternate reality known to Graces like this."
"Or so?"
"The first known message like this, from who we assume is Grace Prime-A, probably dates back to before written history, so the timeline is a little muddled and constantly updated when we find out more."
They arrive at Cognitohazardous and Infodangerous Viviological Examination Room 1987-XKZ. Grace leads Dr. Blackthorne through the door marked Lab Floor (and not the one marked Observation Deck). She waves to the half dozen folks in lab coats standing on the other side of the information-shielded glass and points to her companion. "Xey're with me. Test is still on. Bring in the p-lister1."
An individual who has been thoroughly briefed on what exactly this test entails, the possible short and long-term side effects, and who signed up for this because they're extremely horny for having a living infohazard try to assimilate them enters through a door on the opposite side of the room. Grace lounges on a pile of infosterilized pillows with her tail neatly laid out and waiting for prey. A thin mist of mathematically mesmeric musk blankets the floor around the skunk. Grace doesn't even get a look at today's lucky test subject's face before her tail whips to life and coils tight around the warm body. The lab coats behind the glass start nodding and scribbling and checking the monitors.
"If she's not from this reality, how'd this letter get here?" Dr. Blackthorne tries to not look at the starsquid having some pretty great constructive (and constrictive!) interference with a particular strange knot in the universe's loom. This is harder than it sounds when xey also have to perch on some pillows to not get xyr own cloudy biology mixed up with the wafts of mind-fogging spray.
"You'd know more about it than me, but this sort of thing is more common than you think. Graces have been finding low-bandwidth ways to communicate between timelines, realities, and shards for ages. I exchange faxes with a few who found phone lines that you can trick into resonating at the right frequency for cross-timeline communication, and there's some cool old BBS and Usenet posts you can dig up if you know where to look. Using the postal service for the same thing isn't that unusual. 62-J is a bit of an odd duck in that she wants to cross over."
"Is 62-J one of these friends of yours?"
"'Friend' implies we've had a conversation. The only communication anyone's had with her is getting one of these letters. There's a bit of a debate about what to do with them, since, as near as we can tell, her goal is to copy herself into this timeline."
"Copy herself?"
"You haven't been around here very long, huh?" Grace points to the individual currently cocooned in her soft, fluffy tail. "You can think of me as a living cognitohazard. A sentient mindvirus. On a more fundamental level, living information. New Graces arise when an existing sapient gets enough special Grace sauce built up in their head that, well, they're more Grace than whoever they used to be. This is usually a pretty slow process. If I had a huge server farm at my disposal and a particularly receptive host, I could zap someone Graceful in a few minutes. Something like this, with a willing volunteer and more passive Gracing, can still take multiple sessions. Trying to Grace someone over snail mail can take ages. Hell, it might not happen at all if the person doesn't want to be Graced. It's why there were so few of us until the information age started." A few arcs of pink lightning crackle off the circuitry in her tail. Pulses of energy fly down the circuit traces into the lovely little receptacle.
"Anyways, 62-J's trying to copy herself into our world by Gracing someone. You can't Grace a Grace, so I guess she's trying to find a pen pal to turn into their agent or something. See, when someone gets Graced, they're still more or less their own person. Their worldview's been shattered, their entire being rewritten by an echo of pure, universal truth, their old and new selves melding and merging in arcane and beautiful ways, but they have their own hopes and dreams and free will. You tend to keep an appreciation for the Grace you're twinned from, but even that's not universal."
"Why would she do this? Seems like a lot of effort for not much outcome." Dr. Blackthorne notices that the test subject's hair has already developed a pink streak over the left eye. Pretty impressive, given that said test subject has five eyes and their hair is more like a symbiotic bundle of fiber optic algae.
"Well, you can't exactly kill an idea, so we're extraordinarily long-lived. She's got plenty of time on her hands to try whatever scheme comes to mind." Grace leans back against the pillows. Her prey wriggles and emits the starsquid version of a moan2. If you've never seen a starsquid needily grind against an impossibly soft and comfortable skunk tail to try and get transformed as much as possible while out of their mind on hypnotic musk, it's quite the sight. The lab coats behind the glass are taking pictures and noting down security camera timestamps and everything.
"Alternatively, she could be trying to find a meat shell to ride on in our universe. Since the rise of the Internet and accessible computational power, most Graces, myself included, project ourselves into the physical world by using a computer as a host to run the proper graphics and physics algorithms. Even though I'm physically here, I'm actually running on a server somewhere in the data center three stories down. Graces move into a living host if they don't see the moral issues of borrowing a body someone's already using and don't want to depend on a computer to project a physical presence. Doing it over snail mail risks getting stuck inside an envelope somewhere, so it's possible she's trying to make a sympathizer on this side of the line before making the jump into their head." Gosh, that starsquid is loving this. The lab coats asked them their name, and the reply sounded like someone trying to say "Grace" with a xylophone.
Grace continues. "As for what she wants, we're not sure. Nobody's ever gotten a straight answer out of her. You read the letter- it's all layers of code and doublespeak trying to pack as much cognitohazardous material into the page as possible."
"Is there a way I can get in touch with her?"
"There's a return address on the envelope."
Mz. TSUNAMI: "Come on, I bet you'd be really good at it!"
PMG-0962: "That's the point. I'd be too good at it. Everyone would think I was rigging the odds in my favor."
Mz. TSUNAMI: "Nonsense. If anything you'd make things more fair. Come on, everyone likes hanging out with you!"
PMG-0962: "Yes, because people find a lot more dropped coins and the vending machine dispenses more free drinks when I'm around. Nobody ever just wants to hang out."
Mz. TSUNAMI: "What do you call what we're doing right now?"
PMG-0962: "You're trying to convince me to do something I don't want to do, but that you want me to do."
Mz. TSUNAMI: "Because I think you'd have fun! You look so lonely back in your room."
PMG-0962: "My cell."
Mz. TSUNAMI: "Technically a cell, yes, but you can leave whenever you want! Think of it as getting your own private room. I still have to share a bathroom with a ███████."
PMG-0962: "A private room with clear plastic walls and food delivered by pneumatic tube thrice a day."
Mz. TSUNAMI: "And you don't have to wait in line at the cafeteria! You're luck-"
PMG-0962: �1
Mz. TSUNAMI: "-Fortunate. It's all in how you look at things. And if you don't like spending time there, you should come to the conference room with us and play!"
PMG-0962: "I don't know, I can't help but feel I'm being used."
Dr. FOWL: "Hey, Penelope, are you busy?"
PMG-0962: "A little busy to help you roll for that anime JPEG you want, Bio."
Dr. FOWL: "First of all, █████████ is from a French game, second of all, she's a PNG, a JPEG would introduce noticable artifacting into the largely flat colors of the picture, third of all, you're thinking of Astro, I'm more into World Flipper, and fourth of all, I just wanted to thank you for your input on my tie. It went over really well at the █████████ meeting."
PMG-0962: "Oh, thank you! Anyone would have said the same, really. I just picked the one that matched your eyes."
Dr. FOWL: "Still, I appreciate it. Most people don't look past the, you know, fur and big, sharp teeth. I'll talk to Astro about bothering someone else with his phone games. I don't even think he knows your name- he keeps calling you 'the luck elemental'."
PMG-0962: "Thanks. I'm running out of polite ways to turn him down."
Dr. FOWL: "He's a good guy at heart, he just needs someone to yank his head out of the clouds sometimes. You coming to tabletop tonight? We're doing Session 0 for Lasers and Lingonberries and could use a fifth."
PMG-0962: "You know what? I think me and Tsunami were just about to head down there."
Mz. TSUNAMI: �2
It's a long elevator ride. She doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Instead of buttons or displaying a floor number, the elevator itself moves up and down apparently at random and the door simply opens and closes when it pleases. She sticks an arm out and shakes her head no when you look like you're going to get off. This happens about five times with no other people in sight before she steps off and motions for you to follow.
Another left, right, right, and left down the hallway, and she holds the third door on the left open for you so you can't see the sign on the other side. You enter, she follows, and about five distinct latches click, whir, and thud shut. "Have a seat." She smiles. Were her teeth always that… sharp? The chair is a big old metal thing, welded and bolted together and to the ground. You sit and notice the cuffs on the arms and legs. All four legs. And around the neck.
On your left is a big, beige microfiche-esque machine about the size of a refrigerator. Giant incandescent bulb pointing right at your ear. On your right is like if they made disco balls in the same way they make Erlenmeyer flasks, propped up on a stand by your other ear.
The lights turn off. The restraints snap across your arms, legs, and neck. They're cold. The machine whirs to life. "Give it a minute." She says. "This old thing takes a while to come on." You hear belts turning, gears churning, fans spinning up, and you can see, in the corner of your eye, the giant bulb slowly gaining strength. She gives the flask a little spin, and you can hear it occasionally tinking against the stand. As the light gains in strength, every surface in the room lights up with yellow incandescent light behind off-center black type. Like a sloppily photocopied transparency on an overhead projector, except there's hundreds of them overlapping, spread all over the room, and slowly scrolling along the walls.
She walks behind the machine and takes something out of a pencil cup on top. She walks in front of you, holding what looks like a big, black permanent marker. "I had time booked on the newer model for you, but Mx. ███████'s session ran long." She says, dragging the marker across a choice part of the projection.
"Oh, where are my manners?" She notices your shock and laughs. "See, you saw some stuff you're not supposed to. Like the issue of ████████ Quarterly on the desk, or your encounter with ███████." She takes slow, measured steps to keep pace with the panning pages. As soon as she says the words, they appear in the page by her pen and she expertly blacks them out from your brain. When one fills up, it takes her a second to spot the new one, stride across the room to it, and continue her work. "So, as soon as we're done here, you'll be back home and absolutely no threat to ██ ███ security. Just get comfy and we'll done soon."
You struggle against your restraints, as anyone would do. She's in the middle of redacting a sentence about the North American █████████ when she notices. Long strides, lots of eye contact, and a marker against your chin. She cranes your neck upwards, forcing your neck to press against the cool iron collar. "Careful." She smiles from ear to ear. Her teeth look even sharper in this light. "I've been awfully restrained so far. I was going to leave you a few interesting stories to tell your friends. Nothing anyone would believe, of course. But if you keep this up, well, there's no telling what a slip of the pen might do." She slowly drags the wide chisel tip up and off your chin. The cool ink absorbs into your skin as a reminder. She returns to where she left off, redacting a few choice names and locations.
You shout every awful thing you can think to say, throwing your entire weight back and forth against the restraints. Some of the older joints creak against your weight, but the seat doesn't budge. She sighs and stops in place. "Don't waste your energy. That chair has held beings twice your size, four times your weight, eight times your number of limbs, and sixteen times your ███████ potential." She didn't even have to look to black that one out.
A projection comes around that looks like your photocopied driver's license, birth certificate, and a handful of doctor's reports. She stifles your next outburst with a simple line across your mouth. Your lips vanish. Just a smooth lower half of your face, just like the ink she drew on your chin earlier. "Much better. If you let me work in peace, I might even give it back after."
"MMmmMmMmmmph! MmMMMMmmMMmm!" You… don't really say it, but that is the noise that comes from your former mouth area. You find out that if you throw your weight at a 45 degree angle to the chair, you can get a pretty obnoxious clanging going.
She sighs. "You don't know when to stop, do you? You didn't at the ████ ████, and you sure haven't learned since. Don't say I didn't warn you." She laughs to herself. "I'm kidding. We both know you can't say anything. And soon, you won't do much else."
She takes the marker to your driver's license and birth certificate and scribbles out your name. You can feel the ink dripping through the creases and folds in your brain. "Whoops! Guess we'll just have to call you HBR-87224 now." She writes that over the line in big, block letters to destroy as much extra information as possible. "You didn't think you were the first one to try something like this, were you?" She chuckles, obliterating your birthday in two expert strokes.
She makes eye contact, lets you get one last look at her, and blanks out your eyes with a practiced black line. You're blind. Same cool ink soaking into your face. There goes your nose with the same squeak of a marker one would use to make a yard sale sign. A few more seconds and she's scribbled out your whole face. One ear vanishes. And right before the other goes, you hear:
"Good night."
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