John Harland is having a great day. He got his paycheck, he paid his rent, he paid his bills. John Harland is a free man today, without a sense of dread of eviction, without fear of not having food in his fridge. He was delighted. Smiling as he sat on his favorite chair, and reached for a book, John heard a whistle, and a gust of air going past him. He shook this off. Gust of air always happens. And so does whistles. Nothing was going to stop him from feeling great today.
HEAT SINK DEPLOYED. RECALIBRATING.
John Harland went to his kitchen, to grab a snack and make himself a cup of warm tea. Coffee is for when he's knee-deep in things, but not today. He's as light as a feather, on cloud nine. He took himself a plate of biscuit, and poured himself a warm cup of tea. The heat of the drink soothes his soul. He took a bite of the sweet biscuit, and went on to read more of his selected book. John Harland is happy. More delighted than his usual gloom. Going for another sip of tea, a gust of wind blew on him. It shook the cup a little, spilling a little bit of the warm tea. But that's not going to stop him from feeling great today. Today, John Harland is having a great day.
GYROSCOPIC RECALIBRATOR DEPLOYED. RECALIBRATING.
John Harland went outside to his yard. He grabbed a hose, and turned the water on. He was watering the plants, and he was happy. He watered the plants until they looked fresh, and turned off the water. He stood outside for a while, soaking in the warm and friendly sun. He was ecstatic to feel the comforting warmth enveloping his skin. He had not felt this great in a long time. All those time sitting at his work, typing mundane things on the computer. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, and exhaled gladly, with a renewed sense of vigor. As he went to store the hose, a gust of wind went past him, and a beautiful flower fell off its stalk. But he did not mind. Nothing was going to stop him from feeling great today.
TARGET LOCKED. RECALIBRATING.
John Harland went inside again, to sit on his chair, and to finish his book. He opened the door, and closed it behind him. He walked, gleefully, to his favorite chair, and took a seat on the soft leather. Reaching for his book, John Harland was distracted as he caught a glimpse of a bright glint from his window. He was curious. Why is this glint here during this great day, he thought. He went to the window, and stood in front of it. He looked for that glint everywhere, neighbors to neighbors yet to no avail. He felt bad, but that's not going to stop him from feeling great today. Today, John Harland is having a great day. But before he could close his blinds shut, he felt that gust of wind again, but this time not anywhere near him. No, he felt it going through his head.
TARGET NEUTRALIZED. RECALIBRATING.
John Harland is now on the floor, a sad lump of hope and joy. He wanted to have a good day, but seems that everyone else doesn't want him to. Why, are they jealous? Why are they jealous of him? He was just trying to have a great day. Blood pooled where his head used to be, his cup of tea shattered on the floor. Figures surrounded his house, scurrying around, fixing everything that doesn't seem right. They replaced the shot flower, threw away the broken cup, replaced the shattered window and broken blinds, and before one could tell something wasn't right, everything was already in order. One figure dragged the now lifeless body of John Harland away, putting him in a black body bag. They zipped him away, and now his house was empty. But that's not going to stop him from having a great day. Today, John Harland is having a great day, and nothing is going to stop him, ever.
"Boss, you sure this guy is dead?" asked Agent-022, "I coulda sworn I saw his foot wiggled a second ago."
"Don't be such a paranoid," replied Agent-020, "you saw that shot go through his head. Do you even see his head now? It's a mulch."
The agent squirmed at his superior's response. He wasn't disgusted over the fact that the man was shot, he was disgusted because of how many times they had to repeat the same procedure over and over again for the past few months to neutralize the guy. Tougher than a damn cockroach, he thought to himself. This man, known only as John Harland, was designated as SOC-442 a few months ago after the resurgence of the Clockwork Lord, also known as SOC-1921. He was amongst the less hostile one, but considering what the rest of the Clockwork Lord's legions of anomalous subjects can do, it's best to expect the worst so they could prepare the best.
"Well, least he's dead now." said Agent-025.
"It's all fun and games until he wakes the fuck back up." said Agent-024.
"Shut your damn mouth, Mark." Agent-020 scoffed.
John Harland is sad, disappointed, and let down. Three times they surgically assassinated him, three times he came back. Four times they lethally sabotaged his home appliances, four times he came back. Five time they shot him, the fifth one brought him inside this van. And now he's cold, dead inside a body bag. Knowing the road ahead was clear, all the personnel inside the van rest as easy as their job would let them. But John Harland was supposed to have a good day today, and he's not going to stop until he gets his day.
At some point, the driver passed out without a clear reason. He leaned to the side, his hands turning the steering wheel sharply to the right. The van took a sharp swerve, and in turn caused it to flip multiple times on the road. The agents inside the van was thrown all over, but the secured body bag stayed in its place. The van crashed into three cars that was in front of it, causing a pile up. When the van flipped onto its roof on one of the car, most of the agents inside the van were badly injured, some already dead from their neck being snapped like a twig.
Agent-022 woke to a bloody nightmare, with some of his friends somehow had got themselves shot with their own guns, some stabbed by their own knives. He remembered everyone putting loose equipment inside a locked gear box in the trunk, and securing their guns' safety switch moments before they got in the van. How did the switch flipped over, and how did their knives got here? He tried to stand up, but a sharp pain shot up from his broken and mangled legs, preventing him from moving. Agent-020 woke up moments later with minor scratches. But not without a substantial amount of pain to accompany him. He forced the back door of the van open, and dragged the impaired Agent-022 out. Not a second later, the van caught on fire, as one of the fuel line must have been damaged from the crash. The two surviving agents watched as the fire engulfed the bodies of their teammates, together with the body of SOC-442.
But the two survivors soon watched in horror as, amidst the raging flame, a figure slowly crawled out of the van and onto the street. He had scraped off what was left his burnt clothes, and his missing head was back and charcoal black. His burnt flesh took form, and his hair grew. His burnt arms were solid charcoal. They were cracking and falling apart, only for him to grow a pair of new human arms. He was naked, but who cares? He had come back, with a renewed sense of vigor and joy. He had no mind for the dead bodies licked by the fire inside the van, all he cared was that he's now free to enjoy his day. He spotted the two men on the side of the road, trembling. He wasn't sure why, but they looked afraid. He waved his hand at them, and said:
"Nice day for a walk, yeah?"
The two men could only nod.
John Harland is out for a walk. He bought himself some clothes from a shop filled with oddly terrified customers. The children that were inside that store were crying, but he gave no mind to it. He got himself a nice shirt and a pair of nice trousers, and went to the park. He bought himself some chocolate wafer bars from a vending machine, one of his favorite snacks. He sat on a bench and watched the birds pecking on their grains. It was a good day at the park. Oh sure, the blaring sirens and the crackling fire weren't that nice, but who cares? John Harland certainly does not. He was sitting on a bench, and he was enjoying the air. He gave some seeds to the flock of pigeons in front of him, and he ate his snacks. Say all you want, John Harland is having a great day today, and no one is going to stop him.
That day, John Harland is having a great, wonderful day.
Sergeant Cole Raines sat at the end of the hallway, blood pooling under him. His wounds starts to dry up, as his heart began to run out of blood to pump. Holding on to his life, Cole managed to say a prayer or two. He wasn't sure what he had said, because he couldn't even hear himself say anything. All he could hear was those screams. The screams of men getting their limbs torn apart by the Breacher. The Institute had called in his team to assist with a Breach, but neither did any of them expected for members of the SCD Foundation to crash into the already mad as all hell party. But that attack didn't last long, for the Breach had overpowered everyone. Now everyone is as deep in the shit as he is.
He knew his time is coming, but he wasn't at all done. He grabbed a green glowstick he had on his vest, snapped it, and threw it ahead of him. At least they'd realize that someone threw it. Green glowstick means 'search', and if that's not enough, he snapped a red glowstick and hung it on his vest. If the green glowstick doesn't do the trick, least they could do was acknowledge the fact that he had died in action because a bright red glowstick means a dead soldier was nearby if there's no body near the glowstick. With the last bits of his strength, Cole moved a bit to the left so any rescue part could easily spot him. He was too weak to keep himself awake anytime longer, so he just sat there, slowly drifting away into a sleep.
MEOW!
Something wet was touching Cole's hand, and it sent him wide awake. It was coarse, slowly moving on his fingers. Squishy, too. Please don't be a monster, he said to himself. He slowly turned his head towards his hand, and lo and behold;
A cute and fluffy tomcat was adorably gnawing at his fingers. The cat was playfully toying with his fingers, softly clawing at his glove. It playfully caught his glove's loose strap, and gnawed at it until it was wet. Cole didn't know what to make of this, but at least he was not going to die alone. At least a cat was going to be with him. Cole's eyes slowly began to close, but for some reason, he felt rather fresh and energetic. Forget that, he felt very well alive and healthy, like nothing had happened at all. He noticed the bottom of his pants was dry, and when he looked, he was just sitting on a floor. The pooled blood was gone. He scrambled to pull his vest off, and to his surprise, there was not a single wound on his person. He was just…fine.
What, he muttered to himself. He looked at the little cat, who was still happily playing with his glove and fingers. It was nibbling on his fingertips, and then it licked them. Cole felt ticklish, and he sat there for about an hour or so, just watching the cat playing with his fingers.
"You're cute, lil guy. Too damn cute."
And Cole just, kept sitting there for God knows how long, he couldn't tell, just watching the little cat play with his glove. The cat flips on his back, exposing its ginger belly. Cole tickled the cat, and it playfully gnawed at his tickling hand. It was a cute cat. Only a monster could resist the temptation to rub the belly of such a cute cat. The cat flipped over and stood on its cute and stubby legs, and walked away meowing, as if it wanted Cole to follow it. Cole, without a question, stood up and followed the cat. The cat playfully led Cole to a vending machine, and it then began clawing on the machine's window. Cole pieced together the cat's action, grabbed the cat and placed it inside his vest pocket, grabbed his rifle, and shattered the window with his rifle's stock. He grabbed a few bags of meat jerky from the vending machine and walked away. Once somewhere more peacefully, he put the cat back on the floor, opened the bag of jerky and gave some to the cat. He ate some of the jerky himself. He had no idea what the hell is happening, but the taste of food does makes him a little happier.
"You know your food eh, lil guy?" Cole asked the cat. The cat meowed adorably in response.
Cole just sat there, again, sharing the jerky with the small cat. After a while, the cat stood up and walked off meowing again, and Cole followed suit. They went down a quiet hallway. There were glasses shattered on the floor, bullet casings left from the gunfight, debris and rubbles from the breach. But Cole was unfazed by it. He didn't care. Somehow, the presence of the cat was soothing enough for him to be able to look past and not give a damn about everything else. Somehow, he only cared about the cat, and nothing else entirely.
Cole kept on following the cat, with the adorable little guy just kept on pressing forward, courageous in its stride. He found himself following the cat to the lobby, where debris and shattered glass littered the ground. The insertion team hadn't had a very gracious entry, but it was effective enough to send the SCDF attack party into disarray. He went over some fallen concrete, following the little cat ahead of him. The cat meowed and began to growl towards something, sending Cole to a stopping halt. He took cover behind a large piece of concrete, cocking his half empty rifle. He's not entirely sure how many rounds he had left in his magazine, but he's pretty sure he had enough to kill something, and to shoot himself if he needs to.
There was a faint whispers of voices entering his ears. He doesn't really remember if the Breacher has some sort of ability to mimic voices, but judging by the aggressiveness of the Breacher, he doesn't really think it needed such ability if it just could tear apart everything to look for food. He propped his gun on the concrete in front of him, and aimed to where he thought he saw the shape from which the voice came from. He switched his gun's safety off, and his finger firm on the trigger. He took a deep breath, and waited.
"Sarge!"
You're not fooling me, you piece of rotten Cheetos. Cheetos? Cheetos, really? He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, but goddamn it does the Breacher actually looked like a giant piece of Cheetos when the containment squad first dropped in. The cat stood besides Cole, licking its coat. It was not bothered by what's happening, but it wasn't hissing at what Cole thought was a threat. There's this feeling that he had that somehow, whatever that he was aiming at wasn't an actual threat. He dropped his gun, and comes out of his cover.
"Jessie? That you, man?" Cole asked towards the figure.
"Hell yeah, it's me! You alright, Sarge?" the figure became clearer the closer it approaches Cole, and it became clearer that it was indeed Jessie, his squad's lieutenant and his close pal. Holy shit, am I happy to see your face, Cole whispered to himself. Jessie went and propped Cole up, his expression of worry clear upon his grimy face.
They both went out of the lobby, and arrived at the field infirmary the Institute had erected in a day's time, as Jessie had said to him. They hobbled to an infirmary to check on Cole, but he insisted that he's fine. He remembered that the cat had helped him, and he's not in any way injured.
"You nuts?" Jessie said, and pointed at Cole's vest. He looked down, and saw his vest was ripped apart and was soaked in blood. A huge chunk of flesh was torn off his right arm, and blood covered almost half of his face. He was puzzled, when suddenly a massive wave of pain washes over him, which forced him to the floor grunting in pain. The medic helped him onto a stretcher and rolled him into intensive care. Jessie was left puzzled, thinking;
"What cat?"
When Cole had come to, a researcher was already next to him, running test and all. He was a bit drugged up and confused, but he managed to ask the researcher something that he really needed to know.
"Where's the cat?" he asked. The researcher, startled that Cole had woken up, paused for a moment before answering Cole's question in an uncertain note.
"Cat? What cat?"
Cole was disappointed, but he wasn't about to give up. He described the cat in full detail to the researcher, from the color of the cat's fur, the color of its glittery eyes, exactly how long its tail was, the pattern of its coat and everything that he remembered about the cat. The researcher paused for a while, before coming up with an answer.
"You met Bobbie, haven't you? Most of the men that came out alive from the site told us the same thing. That there's this really cute cat that led them out and guided them out of harm's way. We call him 'The Baiting Cat.' He baits you to do your job. He's pretty helpful when we're on the crunch. Works as a stress relieve too."
And so Cole got his answer. His job was to stay alive. He was given assistance by a really cute and fluffy cat so he could stay alive.
And he's not even a cat person.
Adler sat on his grandpa's old rocking chair, looking over at the distant ripple of smoke. The Chinook crashed somewhere on the plain not far from where his house is, but he's not going to look for them. Let them be, he thought. There'd be nothing left when they all burn. For the time, he just sat there on the rocking chair, enjoying the cool air before the sun rises.
He rose from the chair with a huff and quickly went back inside his house. The windows were boarded, covered by thick black sheets of cloth and reinforced with metal pieces and then covered with reflective blankets. The inside of the house was minimally furnished, with sparse decorations and a few chairs here and there. He had used the couch somewhere more useful. As Adler opened his fridge, he heard fervent knockings on his door. It was a series of loud knockings, but he doesn't mind. Then the shouting comes.
"Open the door! Please, open the door! Oh god, please help me!"
Adler sat in front of his TV, ignoring the desperate knockings on his door. It goes two ways; One: there'd be ashes to sweep, and two: it'll leave. Maybe it's one, maybe two, who knows. But he's not opening the door. Not again. The shout grew louder and louder, then screams. It was loud first, but then it slowly dies out. As the ear-piercing shriek and scream comes to a halt, Alder whispered to himself:
"One it is."
There wasn't any particular event that evening, and the night was quiet and still. Usually, life would come out at night since it's safe, but maybe they're tired. Or they're taking what's left of the crashed Chinook. Either way, Alder slept soundly that night. He slept early. It's always seven, sometimes six, but that day he slept at four. There's some cleaning that needed to be done tomorrow. Or tonight, whenever he wakes up that is.
It was twelve sharp, so it is tomorrow. Adler woke from his bed, a thin double bed covered with reflective blankets. He had packets of ice underneath the blankets. He had intended to go look for cooling liquids later, but that would have to wait. He had put on his shirt and his black scarf and had grabbed himself a broom and a dustpan, when a sudden knock on his door surprised him. But it was night, so that he had expected at least. He unlocked the deadbolts on his door, and swung it slowly open. To his surprise, there was a courier waiting for him. But no packages, so it must be messages.
"You Adler?" the courier asked. Adler nodded, the broom and dustpan still in his hands.
"Good. Freedman asked me to tell you that they got some extra cooling tanks from the crash and-" the courier stopped when she noticed the broom and dustpan that Adler had been holding since he opened the door. She noticed Adler was staring at her feet, and when she looked down, she noticed the pile of ashes that she was standing on. She gave him a look.
"That was someone, wasn't it?"
Adler nodded. The courier stepped aside, and Adler swept the ashes into the dustpan and set it aside for a while. The cooling tanks sounds interesting. He signed at the courier to carry on. She continued.
"Yeah, so, cooling tanks. The Chinook was full of it, so Freedman thought he wanted to share with you. As a token of gratitude, y'know. For saving him from that place." The courier had a noticeable frown on her face when she mentioned about it. It had been a long time, but Adler wasn't surprised Freedman still remembered.
Adler nodded, and waved her goodbye. The courier went away, and Adler went on with his day. Just a few hours left before the sun comes up. he thought. Might as well do some farming.
Adler went to the barn behind his house. Inside was what you would expect from a barn, but this time, Adler took notes. He had first covered every cracks in the woods with sealants and then covered it with black clothing. Then he covered them with reflective blankets, and then he had put some farming works in the barn. He had planters, water tanks, even tilled the soils to plant vegetables and fruits in there. It's enough, he used to say to himself. Even enough to send to others. He liked it just like that.
He went back into his house before sunrise and went on with his day. Made some breakfast, washed the dishes, did the laundry, fold some clothes. If he felt like it, maybe make some adjustment to the cooling systems, maybe make something else. He wasn't sure what else to do that day, so he read some books after all the works. They'd go on a night raid back then, to stores, libraries, shopping malls. If it had even the slightest of uses, they'd take it. Others do the same, and they'd trade. Mostly books, or food, or games. They had people at the grids, so they still had electricity. They once planned on sending people to work the internet and whatnot, but for now electricity will do.
At sundown, Adler grabbed his old leather duster, his trusty backpack and a flashlight, locked his door and went to see Freedman. Just west of his house, in the thick forest, there's a village. A sizable one, for the group. Adler consulted them when they intended to build some sort of protective walls and canopy to protect themselves, and it surprisingly worked. Freedman once invited Adler to stay with them, but he prefers his house. Beside, he had his farm long before they got there.
A few hours walk, and Adler saw their torches. And there was Freedman waiting for him. The two friends caught up with each other as they walked towards the village hall. Freedman was 47, looked quite old for his age. It's not something to bother, looking old. Living here takes quite a toll, but they're still alive. At least.
The village hall was packed with villagers, working on the cooling tanks. The engineers and mechanics went here and there, machines to machines, refining the cooling systems and upgrading. They had people sorting out bullets, too. The Chinook had quite a supply. Freedman gestured to Adler to follow him to the back, and Adler followed. What greeted Adler was quite a surprise; a still living, breathing pilot. Luck of the devil, Adler thought. Freedman whispered to him that the pilot was the only survivor of the crash, and that she got to the village sometimes during the afternoon. Adler looked at the pilot top to bottom, spotting bits of charred spots and black soot on the uniform. He sat on a chair in front of the pilot.
"Can you tell us your name?" asked Freedman. While the pilot was reluctant, she was willing to answer.
"Sergeant Abby Staines, 5th Air Transport Squad."
Freedman nodded, and signed to Adler to talk to her. He does have the adequate experience to properly address such a person. He used to be once back then. When the sun was kinder. Adler paused before slowly yet firmly tapping on the pilot's kneecap. She looked at Adler, maybe a little confused. Adler signed to her to stay at ease, and pulled down the scarf on his neck, revealing a burn scar that surrounded his neck. He spoke with a little difficulty.
"Can't speak much. Flyers knows signs, yeah? Major Staswell can't speak too."
The pilot nodded, taking a much more confident stature. Adler went on, asking her in signs about her purpose and why the Chinook was flying close to that place.
"That place?" she asked, "You mean the old Valya Reactor? We had a job there. An important one."
"They were planning to drop cooling tanks in there, weren't they?" Freedman cut in, his arms crossed upon his breast, his face blushing red. The pilot nodded.
"They sent you to die, then."
The pilot had this uncomfortable look on her face, as if she knew exactly what her fate would have been before Freedman said it. But her eyes, there were vigor in her eyes still, a long lost hope still clinging onto her, still waiting for a chance. Adler knew that look. They all had it back then. But now, all that were left were husk of a time now forgotten, swallowed by the vicious light. But it's nice to know someone still had some hope, at least.
"You knew." said Adler. His eyes glistened for a moment, the croaking of his voice a little more pitiful. The pilot could only afford to turn her head away.
"Always." she said.
"Then why? Why did you carried on with it?"
She looked Adler dead in his eyes, her mouth trembling. Droplets of water starts to form in her eyes, and her face turned red. The outburst that followed was understandable.
"We had to. We had to try. There were still men trapped in the area, struggling to survive. Every day, we hear them scream for help, shouting for a chance of salvation. We heard their bones cracked, their skins burned off their flesh, their blood boiled out of every possible orifices. Those that had a quick death, their radio went silent in seconds. But those that didn't, those that starved, they started to turn. All flesh was an option, even their own. We heard them scream, and we can't turn off the radio. We can't. Maybe some survived. Maybe. They turned vibrant, of man and fire, and they burned. We tried to save them, dropping tanks of coolants on them just so we can save some. Tell me, tell me, if that wasn't a reason to carry on. That that wasn't a reason to try. We had to. WE. HAD. TO!"
She lunged towards Adler with full force. He hadn't a chance to evade, as she wrapped her hands around his throat. His scars felt numb, as the world began to grow dimmer. She pressed on hard, crushing his windpipe, all while chanting the same thing over and over; we had to.
Freedman tried to rip her away from him, but for whatever reason, her petite physique was difficult to move, as if she had been planted upon the floor. Adler desperately tried to gasp for air, his hands scrambling hard on trying to push her off of him, but he was failing to. She was stronger still, pushing down on his throat, her eyes now running in tears. She knew what she had signed up for. She had to hear her friends scream and eat and die. If she had to kill just so she can continue on with her mission, she will.
Adler's hands fell to the floor. He couldn't breathe. The more he tries to gasp for air, the more painful it becomes. He looked at her through a greying gaze. Her face was of sadness and grief, of broken hope and rage. But somehow, there was hope still. Maybe broken, but a hope still. He tries to stay awake, but that doesn't look like a possibility, not anymore anyway. He came to the village to get some cooling tanks, now he's probably going to leave in a body bag.
Ah, should've told them about the farm, he thought to himself.
As he drew closer to his last breath, his ears rang. A loud bang filled the room, followed by screaming and shouting. But he heard that faint wail louder. That soft wail of a person lost to madness. Air rushes into a damaged windpipe, and he felt horrible. He coughed violently, struggling for a breath of air. He sat upward, his hand clutching his pained throat. He looked down, and saw her there. Lying on the floor in a pool of blood, her face riddled with anguish and sadness. He knew that feeling, he does. He felt pity for her. Freedman came to his head, supporting him out of the room and into a clinic outside. He had people taking care of the pilot.
"Bury her properly. She deserved that, at the very least. For her friends." said Adler, the pain in his throat still flaring. Freedman nodded, sullen.
Adler was fine, and Freedman sent him off with a gloomed farewell. He'd send some people to deliver the cooling tanks later, but for now, he sent Adler off with some fresh farm produce and parts for his machines. Adler bid farewell, and went on his walk home. Along the way, he couldn't help but think that if in any way they could have predicted the reactor to malfunction, in any way thought that something could have gone wrong, all this wouldn't have happened. But who was he kidding? The entire thing was destined to be doomed from the start. They played with forces way beyond their league, and they paid dearly for it. For the pilot, like all her friends, was just another victim of what their pride had brought them to. Just another victim of the flare.
REPORT 1
SUBJECT: EOI-570 AKA THE EVER LIVING MAN
INTERVIEWER(S) ON DUTY: ALLEN CRIMSON/PETRA DWIGHT
TIME: 2-HOURS
DAY: WEDNESDAY
SUBJECT'S MOOD: CALM
[I've had my fair share in some mad things for the course of 23 years working with the Institute, but this one case is way too much that I had to bring in Dr. Dwight for the interview for my own sanity. Subject is a human male, about 16 of age, degraded mental state with signs of extreme emotional stress. Added precautions were taken to not further aggravate the calmed subject.]
Good morning, Spencer.
570: Hello.
You look good today. Had a good sleep?
570: Breakfast.
Oh, you like the breakfast? What did you ate?
570: Toast.
They had toast in the cafe? Well, I gotta check that out later. Kinda just filled myself with coffee this morning. Doesn't really help with my digestion.
570: Coffee?
It's a nice drink. I like mine with a little bit of cream. Freshens people up in the morning.
570: Oh.
So, how are you feeling today? Feeling great?
570: Good.
And how are you feeling the day before?
570: …
Spencer?
[The subject completely shuts down afterwards, refusing to talk and maintain eye contacts. We wrapped up the interview and he's sent back to his room. As the texts implies, the subject manages to answer only in a single sentence, but shows no sign of further degradations such as slurred speeches and stutter. Further interviews were requested]
(ADDENDUM)
[Y'know, I woulda changed the "man" part to "child", because he's a literal kid. A [EXPLETIVE] kid. I can't even remember the last time I had to interview a kid. If I had to guess, I don't even think I had to interview a kid before. His mental state reverted so far he can barely speak at points. I had to resort to using hypnotic agents to get him to talk, and even then I felt bad for that. I swear to god, if you damn Ops can't find the bastards that did this, I will drive over to your HQ and skin your commander alive myself. And tell the Board that I am going to need a lot more things if this kid is gonna be in my extended repertoire list. And if you ask me one more time to run test higher than Clearance 5 or anything above the Costanzo Psyche Test, I swear I will shoot you in the head.]
REPORT 2
SUBJECT: EOI-112 AKA "A LITTLE TOO AGGRESSIVE FOR MY LIKING"
INTERVIEWER(S) ON DUTY: ALLEN CRIMSON
TIME: 45 SECONDS
DAY: MONDAY
SUBJECT'S MOOD: DISINTERESTED
[I brought my 5-7 this time. Not gonna fall for that again. I didn't request any additional interviewers; we're just wasting bodies then.]
Morning.
112: Blesseth be the light upon us. Your mind is incapable of perceiving her true beauty, birthing instead the atrocious concept of 'morning' in her stead.
We just call it morning. Do you want me to open the roof?
112: The light hath blesseth my kith and kin. Shame it hadn't yet in the millionth of years blesseth be your kind as she did mine.
The sun is pretty nice. It's warm. Flowers and other plants bloom, the birds goes out, rainbows.
112: You speak ill of her powers. By her will does creatures of her realm comes to live, and no being else will be her.
Euphemism for god, I suppose? I didn't know you believe in god.
112: DON'T YOU DARE MENTION HIS FILTHY NAME IN MY PRESENCE! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A WORTHLESS SOUL LITTERING THIS DISGUSTING CONSTRUCT!
[The subject was effectively subdued before security units were mobilized. I will pass that as a free service, and require no compensation. Subject quickly showed signs of aggressiveness at the mention of 'god', though I hardly believe he believed in one. He probably had one to believe in, probably not one we know. Subject was removed and returned to his chamber. As a side note to other researchers or interviewers, do not make a single mention about any gods or Jesus in the presence of EOI-112. Or Peter.]
(ADDENDUM)
[Board rang me up, ranted on me and gave me a strike form. I gave them the empty magazine that I had unloaded all the ammunitions into 112. They paid all the spent bullets. That settled most, I guess.]
SUBJECT: EOI-066 AKA TACTICAL CUBE
INTERVIEWER(S) ON DUTY: GRADY JONES/ALLEN CRIMSON
TIME: 4-HOURS
DAY: FRIDAY
SUBJECT'S MOOD: WHAT A TACTICAL METAL CUBE WOULD FEEL
[Grady was on main duty and I stayed on the side line. After incident Aliopth-233 #2 (refer to Grady's note on Aliopth-191 #6 for EOI-723), only Grady has the clearance to 'interview' EOI-066. However it is you're supposed to interview a carbon-fiber-based cube anyway.]
Hello, my metal friend.
066: rattles
How are you feeling today?
066: rattles
Of course. Anything good about your wife?
066: rattles
How sweet. Your daughter bought some new coloring pencils?
066: rattles
That's adorable. How's your dog?
066: rattles
I wish I can meet your dog one day.
[I was sat beside Grady, hearing nothing but his questions and the indeterminate, strange rattles coming from the cube. Grady shows no sign of any basic psychic interactions, nor is he known for having any psychic ability. So I just sat there silently, hearing rattling for the entire 4 hours of the entire session.]
(ADDENDUM)
[So, I had read the Aliopth-191 #6 report. Let me tell you what, I have never read such [EXPLETIVE] in my entire life. I mean, I understand some of the restriction put on some of the subjects affected by the event, but cutting off psychological support and the funding for those subjects completely to mitigate possible future damages (if I am being honest, are highly improbable of occurring at any given time) is probably the worst thing the Board could have ever came up with. All those subjects, all those possible future damage, cutting off psychological support won't help any of them, it'll make them worse. I've written a new report on both Aliopth-191 #6 and Aliopth-233 #2 (with Grady's permission), and I've sent them over to the Board. I don't care if they cut off my pay, if they're not fixing these two Aliopth cases, I'm not coming to work.]
FINAL NOTE: My name is Allen Crimson. I've worked for the CENTARS Institute for 23 years as a Level-4 Psychological Expert and as Head for Department of Anomalous Psychology. I have been undertaking multiple cases which I am sure are terrible options for the sake of my own sanity, and yet, here I am, still breathing and only slightly insane. But for the while, I am in a state of perpetual back and forth with the Executive Board of the Institute on many cases, and while I am confident that giving them all of my emptied-on-work magazines could certainly make my points on some of the cases, I really need an upgraded funding for my department. There's been an influx of more deranged [EXPLETIVE] over the course of my 23 years, and if I am being honest, the newer researchers and interviewers are packing bags faster than anyone else in other departments. I'm putting in more requests for upgraded facilities, equipment, and better training for new personnel. And to add as a final side note, I, Crimson, really needs a f***ing raise.
Allen found himself awaken by a strange dream. In it, a strange man dressed in a suit, clad in black, with his face missing any signifying feature of a human, was chasing him down like the man was a vicious predator. His arms and legs were terrifyingly elongated, his fingers glimmered as if they were blades. Allen was running through a dark tunnel in his dream, with the man very close behind him. The sound of metal scraping onto concrete resonates all the way through the tunnel. His heart was beating faster than he could breathe, his legs numb. Just as Allen could see the light of day in front of him, a chance of escape, five metallic blades pierced through his chest, dragging him back into the tunnel. As the blades retracted, the man turned Allen to face him. The featurelessness of his face, the disproportionate limbs, those were the only thing that Allan could remember before he was drowned by his own blood filling his lungs.
Cold sweats ran down his face from his forehead, his breathing erratic. He reached the glass of water he had put on his bedside drawer, if he ever came across such dreams again. This wasn't his first time dealing with such things, those nightmarish dreams. But he'd guess that's what a man of his job would have to deal with. He whetted his dry throat with a gulp of water, and setting the glass aside, he went to his bathroom to wash up. As the water ran over his head, he could hear his alarm loudly blaring in his bedroom. Great, earlier than the alarm again, he sighed to himself. He turned the alarm off after he had dried himself, and went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. He was quietly contemplating his life choices as he slowly munched on his cereal, while still in his boxers. Doesn't really bothered him much anymore. He's seen much worse, anyway.
Whispers of madness filled his mind as he made his way to his office. They'd really thought by now to get some more psychic dampener linings for the place but no, they don't see it as 'necessary for duty at hand.' They're not the ones going crazy here anyway. Not yet. Allen settled in his office chair, and turned on his computer. Just some more extra data sets he had to insert into his report for the interview on a subject the other day, and he would like to finish it before he goes into a catatonic state from extreme mental burden again. It's no rare incident in his department. As a matter of fact, it's nothing strange to see researchers and interviewers blankly staring at an empty screen or blank pages of their report, lost in thought of endless possibilities of why in the world of everything else did they applied for a work here. He's used to it, but the gush of emotion that would flood one lost to their thoughts here never failed to snap him back to life with his emotion kicked up into overdrive. But for now, he just wants to get his report done, that's all. Keys clacking, clock ticking, mind racing, and before he knew it, he would have his report finished. Yet, before that could happen, someone had knocked on his door. He asked them to come in, and in they did went. It was another one of the newer researchers, Emmett Callaghan. A good kid, well-trained researcher, but poorly attuned to psychic interactions. Not that it would make him bad, just slightly luckier than the rest of the bunch.
"What brings you here, Callaghan? Another researcher packing their bags?" Allen asked the young researcher, with a hint of sarcasm and tiredness in his voice. Callaghan has been a major boon for the Department of Anomalous Psychology, mainly for his ability to quickly dissociate with things or events that would normally challenge the mental faculty of most researchers or interviewers to process them without losing their grip on their own sanity. Thanks to his inability to process psychic interferences, Callaghan was major star, or better yet, a target, amongst task forces that mainly deals with psychic threats, though Callaghan insisted that he's more interested in the science than in the action. He's had it right, to be fair. There's enough action already in the department to kill any task force members that does not come prepared.
"A subject, boss. They're…" he was hesitant to say it, but Allen managed to coax it out of him, "They're… changing." Allen rose from his chair.
"Changing? How?" this time, there's a hint of urgency in his voice. He asked Callaghan to show him the containment chamber that the subject in question was held in. After a short run to the containment section of the department, Allen knew something dead wrong was happening there. His ears were ringing, and his head became lighter with every second he spent there. He almost keeled over on to the floor because of the burden, but Callaghan, unaffected and unfazed, was at his aid. He shook off the feeling, and braced himself for the worst.
"This one, sir. EOI—" Callaghan was interrupted by a deafening scream, one that even shook him to the core. Allen can see it in his face, the kid was afraid.
"011." said Allen, completing Callaghan's word. Everyone knew EOI-011. The most annoying and irritating anomalous entity, the two conditions only caused by their sometime uncontrollable psychic capabilities. Otherwise, EOI-011 is known to be the most gut-wrenching, disheartening, and depressing entity, thanks to their background. Allen knew what he was facing, but he had to follow protocol at the least, just to make sure the other subjects and researchers would be left unharmed. He called in reinforcement, Delta-6 'Psychotropic Compliancy', before he proceeded and they arrived as quickly as he had called them. They surrounded the entrance to the chamber, and Allen can begin his work. His mission is simple; calm down EOI-011 just enough that the task force does not find the need to break into the chamber and exterminate the threat.
The chamber door slid close behind him, the metallic clunk resonated within the chamber. Allen didn't expect the psychic burden to be as heavy, but it seems that he underestimated how upset 011 was. The two researchers approached the subject slowly as to not startle her. Allen's hand was kept close to his service gun, a tool he found most handy in hairy situation. Though the Executive Board was very against his style, Allen had always reminded his researchers that "they're not the ones going crazy down here." Being close enough to the subject, Allen went on one knee with Callaghan at the ready just behind him. Allen shot a look at Callaghan, signing him to be ready. His ears were ringing, as if someone had installed a broken alarm bell inside his cranium. Slowly, Allen called out towards 011.
"Edie? Hey, it's Doctor Allen."
Almost instantaneously, the psychic burden present within the chamber subsided. Allen quietly gasped for air, as 011, or Edie turned towards him. Teary eyed, 011 reached for Allen. She wept in his arms, as Allen hugged her dearly. She sobbed for quite some time, the psychic burden slowly disappearing, giving Allen more chance to figure out what was wrong with her. He scanned the room from top to bottom, looking for something that may be amiss. He looked at 011's bed; a little children's bed with light blue cover, with a mandatory psychic dampener lining underneath the bed. Allen had noticed one of 011's teddy bear was missing, and instructed Callaghan to look for it. He still was holding a now much calmer 011, although she was still slowly weeping. He had tried his best effort to console her, and it seems to be working. Callaghan waved to him, telling him that there was not a sign of said teddy bear.
"Ain't here, doc." said Callaghan. Allen stared at him.
"What do you mean the damn teddy bear's not there?"
"Well I looked around. It ain't there."
Allen turned his attention towards the calmer Edie. She was still softly weeping, but she's not as inconsolable. He calmed her down a little bit more. and then began to ask.
"Edie, who took Mr. Picklefluff? Did a bad man took him?" Edie nodded, further instilling a sense of aggravation and anger in Allen. After a few words of comfort, Allen went out the room, dispersed Delta-6, and dragged Callaghan with him. That's just about it, Board can go screw themselves ten times over, he thought to himself. He went into his room, took a field knife he had randomly kept in his drawer for a reason he couldn't really remember, and went to the western side of his department, where most of the psychic dampener linings are put. Callaghan was behind him, throwing slew of questions, which fell on deaf ears. Allen just about had enough. If the Board is going to make the life of everyone working at his department hell, then he's going to make their life just the same. He went into the Process-Psychic Room, and with his knife, slashed a big hole through the psychic dampener lining until he hid the concrete wall behind them. Satisfied, he asked Callaghan if he wanted to go out and have a drink, to which Callaghan, through a worried voice and confusion, simply said yes.
It didn't take long before Allen's phone started ringing non-stop, a non-ending barrage of the Board trying to reach him. Allen just simply turned off his phone, and drove off with Callaghan to a favorite coffee spot of his. Please, the psychic pressure driving the Board crazy? Try having to work with it and having to be exposed to it 17 hours a day. Fuck the psychic burden, YOU'RE driving me crazy, Allen thought to himself, enjoying a cup of coffee.
It had been quite some time since the package had arrived. Cadie had been staring at the small cardboard box for quite some time now, trying to determine whether or not she had ordered something online before. She didn't remember buying anything for the past few weeks, she didn't even remember looking at her phone the past few weeks. She didn't feel like it, to just, feel like something. Not since her father had passed a month ago. But the box just showed up on her porch one day, and now it's on her coffee table, inanimately staring at her, asking her to open it without a voice nor a gesture. She tried to find at least some identifying mark on the box, maybe an address or a company stamp. There was nothing else present on any surface of the box. No stamp, no letters, nothing but a beige wrapper and a white twine. However suspicious, she felt compelled to actually open it. So much for safety practice, she thought to herself. But the box beckoned, and it beckoned hard. Like an irresistible box of sweets or chocolate, or an adorable dog asking for a belly rub. She couldn't help herself, and cut the twine keeping the box tied. She unwrapped the box, revealing an unassuming small cardboard box. Again, no notable identifier, but now a single stamp appears to be stamped on top of the box. The stamp was circle shaped, circling two letters: JT. There's nothing else present on the box but the stamp. With bated breath, she opened the box.
Inside was a little toy, with metallic surface and an orange, almost crimson finish. It looked like a cube with two metallic rings circling it. However, the rings were floating around the cube by themselves, with no external force acting upon it. Cadie was perplexed. She knew her father worked in robotics, and she herself was an engineer at the Collano Institute, the youngest engineer at the age of 15, but some things shouldn't be possible. And a small cube no bigger than the size of her palm should not be able to house a moderate sized artificial gravity generator strong enough to keep these two metallic rings floating around it. And God knows how long it had been active. She carefully took the cube out of the box, the rings knowingly evading her fingers and moved away, so that she could grab onto the cube better. Cadie was impressed with how well made the cube was. For something that looked like a toy, maybe to a person of high technological understanding the box may look invaluable, it was very well made. She was impressed by how well whatever it was that was powering the cube to make the rings float could fit inside the small cube. It was lightweight too, and quite comforting to the touch. It didn't hum, didn't rattle, nothing. It just exist to be a cube with rings floating around it. Her father would have loved it. Working at a tech company as large as the Henderson and Jones Robotics, she was still amazed at how easy her father would be amazed at her simple inventions when she was a child. A flashlight powered by potatoes, laptop she had made into a fully functional GPS tracker, and their house's dryer that could unshrink any shrunk clothes they had put inside it accidentally on too high a heat. He would still be impressed. It didn't matter what sort of advanced, one-of-a-kind life saving robots he had built, or what sort of advanced technology he managed to come up with, he would always be impressed at what his daughter could come up with. He even told his colleagues about their dryer, which prompted a lot of requests from these crowds of super genius for her instructions on how to alter their own dryers. He would be home every day, to spend time with her and her mother, and had fun.
But for the past few months, he began, and she couldn't put it clearly, to slowly just not be himself. It's easy to make him laugh. But those past few months, he wouldn't laugh at all. He stayed at work most of the time, and wouldn't come home at all sometimes. It was like he was actively evading them. She had always looked out the window for a sign of him coming back, or staying awake late at night to see if she could hear the sound of his car's engine. But he never came around. She began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this slight, almost improbable and theoretically impossible chance, that he may not love them anymore. But she persisted, and with her whole heart believed that he would still come home. But that day never came. He never did come home, save for some presents or sweets he would send home by mail. She became afraid, afraid that her father may not love her anymore. She was crushed, and began to not be herself as well. She didn't want to come to school, or even go out of her room. To be fair, she didn't even need to go to school. For all that she had achieved, she could've been at a university. But her father had told her once, that school is a place to grow before you're grown. A place that you'd find a lot of things that you can use later in life. Hardship, sure, but childhood only comes once, and that's something her father told her to get first, because you can always be a child, but a childhood you can never get anymore once it's passed. Now, her own father won't even come home, so why should she go to school? She sulked, and wept, and for all those time grew a feeling of hatred for her father. She hated him for it, but deep down, she wished he would come home.
He did, finally, after all those time, came home. But he didn't look like himself anymore. He was just not him. And she saw that. But she saw that he tried hard to hide it, so she just let it slide. She still hated him, and told him that. He didn't respond, but he just hugged her. The warmest, tightest hug he had ever given her, and whispered, "I'm sorry." She could tell he meant it. For the next few days, he stayed home and talked to her, and she told him of all the new things she made. She still felt mad that he left for so long, but she couldn't help but feel excited to show him what she made. He was, as always, still amazed at what she made, and laughed at all her silly little ideas on how to improve whatever she had made. They were having fun, like always. She shared how she had felt for the past few months when he wouldn't come home, and he would tell her how sorry he was for not being there. He told her that he had some very important things to do, and that it had required all his attentions. He even told her that maybe, once his work is done, he would show it to her first before anyone else. She was excited, and they both hugged one more time before her father went back to his office. She was happy that he's home.
The morning came, and she was happy that her father would be joining them for breakfast. But hours had passed and there was no sign of him coming down from his room. So she had put some breakfast on a tray and brought it to his office. She opened the door, and saw him asleep at behind his desk. He had some bunch of papers on the desk, maybe his recent work. She carefully put the tray on the bedside table, and went to wake him up. He looked sound asleep. He's not a snorer, but if he did, she knew he must've had a very hard day at work. She gently tapped his shoulder, but no response. She gave a little nudge, and his arm on the desk fell to his side, dropping the pen he was holding on the floor. She nudged harder, but he still didn't wake up. At this point, she wanted to believe nothing is wrong, but she knew something was. She held him tight, hugging him, not hearing a single breath coming out of him. She couldn't hear or feel his heartbeat either, and he felt cold. So she just hugged him, hoping that it would do something. Not yet, please. Not yet, she thought to herself.
The rings continue to rotate around the cube, steadily circling. She watched as she remembered her father, the thought of him being excited for something this small made her happy. The presence of the cube gave her comfort, simply rotating and existing. She took the cube in her hands, and realized that there was a small slot on one of the cube's surface. It was small, but very noticeable to the touch. She pressed the small slot, and the cube split open in half, revealing a small locket inside the core. It was gold in colour and had a centerpiece that consisted of two letters: "CJ".
Cadie Jackson.
The cube fused together after she retrieved the locket, and from the cube itself came a voice. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't pin it down. It played a message, and from it she heard her father's voice.
"Hey, Cadie. It's me, dad. I…uh… I just want to say that I love you. So, so much. I'm sorry I didn't come home or even answered the calls, but I was on the crunch, deadlines I couldn't keep up with. I'm sorry I put work ahead of you and your mom, and I knew that was wrong. I missed the two of you, I really do. And I wished I could've gone back home, spent more time with you. Built some more things, and just have fun being engineers with you. I'm really sorry that I, uh, hid things away from you. I should've tried and find a way to tell you that, uh… I w-I was sick. I'm sorry that you didn't know. That I hid that from you, that I scared you for not coming back home at all. I wished I had more time to spend with you, my sweet girl, I really do. I missed you so much when I didn't come back home. I would guess that if you are hearing this, you've probably got the generator sent to you, and that I'm not with you anymore. I'm sorry, Cadie. I love you."
The message stopped. Cadie looked at the locket in her hand. She remembered it now. It was hers, when she was a child. It got all dirty and dented, so her mom took it to get it repaired. To tell the truth, she didn't even about remembered it then. All she cared about was her many, many projects. She took the cube in her hand once more, and tried to find more answers from it. The message mentioned a generator. Was the cube the generator that it had mentioned? She had the cube close when it spoke out again. Another message was played. This time, it sounded more like a conversation.
"Introducing Project CADIE, brainchild of our wonderful Sasha Reyes, and me, Owen Jackson. What do you say, Reyes? Ain't she beautiful?"
