As much as a day in Spring can be said to be normal, what with cherry blossoms, new leaves, and flowers in bloom and all, it was a fairly normal day, a calm sea under a sky perturbed by the whine of a police helicopter, flying like a madman through the buildings as it rabidly pursued the latest unlucky soul to run afoul of the unholy system that ran this city, the sound of the blades sending shivers down the spine of a fox who was rather un-blissfully unaware of his own impending demise.
Whether it be the people, collectively glued to their screens as the latest police chase unfolded on live TV, or the puppets of the system itself, who were all busy all the time brainwashing everyone else, nobody, not even one person realized that there was an intruder in their midst. Perhaps LIGO noticed, not that it mattered: The people, like always, ignored the reality they were seeing and swept any discrepancy under the rug, marching into the machine with screwdrivers and soldering irons in their latest attempt to blind it to the truth.
The intruder itself, an oblong green striped thing that was roughly 1.5 times the size of a bowling ball, fell from the sky with little fanfare, landing with a dull splunk in the water, where it proceeded to bob for the next hour or so, before vanishing.
An edgy, angular, retro-futuristic car gently came to a halt by a rectangular, minimalistic white booth, its path blocked by a matte grey metal arm that was neither polite nor menacing. Its mirrored driver side window rolled down with a soft whir.
"Dr. Feldman, early as always!" said the guard, as he pressed some buttons at his desk.
"Long time no see, Gerald. Where were you last Friday?" Indeed, the man in the mirrorshades at the booth had not been present last Friday morning, and they'd had to get some other guy to fill his shift.
"My great uncle died recently. The funeral was that afternoon, very last minute." The gate was now rising, as if it were a soldier performing a slow motion salute. At this point, it must be noted that, technically, Security Officer Gerald Calhoon was required to require all personnel to produce an ID to gain access to the facility, and that whether or not his failure to do so would get him fired largely depended on whether or not the inspecting officer in question was having a bad day. However, Dr. Feldman just so happened to be the Senior Administrator of Site 19, all of the really classified stuff was hidden behind several other ID checks, and even if he hadn't been good friends with Officer Gerald since sophomore year of high school, he could've reasonably expected the officer to at least know who he was. Wrongful termination lawsuits and all, not knowing the guy who you worked for wouldn't get you fired, but it could certainly jeopardize your prospects of getting a promotion any time soon.
"Well I'm awfully sorry to hear that, sir."
"Oh yeah dude, the guy just randomly dropped dead one night, no warning at all!" If Dr. Feldman had been a recently promoted manager with no friends and 20 different high brass on his ass, he might've taken offense to this lapse in procedure. Alas, none of those things accurately described Feldman, or his predicament, and so, he continued the conversation. Yes: There was in fact some very serious business that went on in the depths of Site 19, but as a long-time veteran of paramilitary bureaucracy, Feldman knew that conducting very serious business 24/7 was enough to make most people lose their minds, so, in the interest of maintaining everyone's sanity, certain necessary concessions were allowed to slide.
"Wow." Feldman was taken aback, a sad look staining his decidedly primate face. "He seemed so-"
The doctor was going to say "healthy" but was instead cut off by a bleating horn and a raspy, tired sounding voice.
"Hey slowpoke-" the voice paused for a moment, coughing furiously. "-can we get a move on?"
Officer Gerald Calhoon was a life long friend, and thus, Dr. Feldman tolerated the occasional "dude" from him. This guy, however, was not a friend, and Dr. Feldman found himself incensed to such a degree that he was actually reaching for the lever, intent on opening the door, getting out of the car, and chewing out whoever in the minimum wage, chain-smoking, janitorial hell it was that had just usurped the interpersonal decency of Site 19. Indeed, he did exactly this, getting as far as the bumper of his car before he was quite rudely surprised, for it was none other than the Fox McCloud in the driver's seat of the other car.
For reasons that will be discussed later, the greymuzzled vulpine had paid this facility more than a few visits over the years, and he was at the very least a familiar acquaintance with most of the Cornerian high brass, including Dr. Feldman. Not to mention the fact that he was a world recognized war hero, or whatever. Dr. Feldman, meanwhile, was in such a position that unless General Hare or President Cuthbert were present on base, he was the supreme authority here (and even then, both the general and the president would probably defer to his judgement). Sure, Fox McCloud had been on a first name basis with former General Pepper during the Lylatt Wars, and the current General was himself a Star Fox expy. (Hell, if the rumors were true, he may have even 'dated' Yaru de Pon's daughter back in the day!) Still, there were things here that were well beyond his security clearance, secrets that had been kept even from the great Fox McCloud, things that Dr. Feldman did know.
Secrets that he would kill Fox to protect, if necessary.
Both men had been expecting to get into a pissing contest against some no-name no-body, and they recognized each other's status immediately. They stared awkwardly at each other for the next few seconds, like that one time Fox had bumped into Wolf O'Donnel at the preschool drop off.
"Oh-"
"Uh-"
"Er-"
"S-Sorry, um-"
"Tell you what" Said the now thoroughly embarrassed Fox, his head protruding slightly from the window. "Let's just pretend this never happened, OK?"
"That would be most advisable. I'll see you later, Calhoon!" He said, turning back to his car as Fox McCloud rolled up his driver side window.
Dr. Feldman, who had decided not to bother with re-buckling the seatbelt, climbed back into his car. He shut the door, reached for the INTERRUPT switch, thought better of it and put the belt on anyway, and then toggled the switch back to the off position. The edgy silver thing that was his car then proceeded into the idyllic white parking garage with a soft hum, gently making a right and ascending up a ramp to the 2nd deck. There, it swerved to the left, neatly slotting into the rectangular space in a manner more befitting of extensively choreographed docking maneuver in orbit than of a vehicle in a parking lot. When he'd first set foot here as an intern in his senior year, parking lots had never been this tidy, and any hotshot driver capable of parking his car in such a way would've attracted a considerable crowd. Now, however, Andrew Feldman had been promoted to Senior Researcher at Cornerian Anomalous Materials Research Facility Site #19, cars drove themselves, and parking lots were invariably tidy. The vehicle itself really was quite ironic: A 20th century icon of automotive design, powered by what was essentially 19th century reciprocating engine technology, and retrofitted with a state of the art level 4 autopilot system.
The gull wing opened with a subdued hiss, as if it were a spaceship, prompting Andrew Feldman to first put down his book, then rise from the orange bucket seat, and finally emerge from his DeLorean Motor Company DMC-19. Fox McCloud, meanwhile, was one of the few people who still drove his own vehicle, and had parked his inconspicuous minivan on the third floor, a bumper sticker reading "my other car is the landmaster" being the only clue to the identity of its owner.
Meanwhile, somewhere deep underground, a little fox boy giggled.
His name was Marcus, and he'd seen something funny.
Only, he hadn't actually seen it, and he wasn't the one laughing, yet he was amused all the same. The couch upon which he rested, having been sealed away in one of the many rec rooms of Site 19, had therefore evaded the ionizing photons responsible for radiation induced photochemical degradation. Having never confronted the sun nor its rays, its scarlet upholstery was still just as bright as it had when it left the factory in the year [DATA EXPUNGED]. The tape, however, which had been viewed countless times over the years, had not been so lucky, and was beginning to wear thin in places. Not that the little cerulean fox cared. Although he perceived and reacted to the gag onscreen, he wasn't actually watching it at all, for the regions of his brain that concerned themselves with the interpretation of ocular input had been dormant until moments ago.
Marcus McCloud had been born blind, and although feeding the raw output of someone else's optic nerves into his own brain wrought forth immense joy, such an activity was still considerably exhausting for the up and coming telepath. Meanwhile, receiving the conceptual, abstractified, and heavily processed data that someone else's brain outputted was considerably easier upon his own, and as he had had a long day today, Marcus had found himself doing precisely this, literally reading the contents of his chaperone's mind as if it were text on a page. Although he was wide awake, his own emotional perturbances prompting Jordan to chuckle at the sight of Thomas the Tank Engine mistakenly ramming into and subsequently getting stuck in a pile of snow, you could easily mistake him for being fast asleep, especially since nap time was only 30 minutes away. Considering how hard it was for him to see with his own visual cortex through someone else's eyes (a feat necessary to truly appreciate a good sight gag), he'd likely fall asleep well before that.
Marcus McCloud had also been diagnosed with autism that, while not being severe enough to count as downright mental retardation, was in no way mild enough to make independence likely. In other words, if you were trying to guess if he'd ever go on to live by himself, a coin flip would've been just as accurate a prediction as any one of the many tests they'd conducted over the years. The fact that Marcus McCloud was also a full blown savant certainly complicated matters, as did the fact that he was one of the most abnormally gifted telepaths known to Cornerian science, even as a 4 year old who'd only recently graduated from diapers.
Paradoxically, this blind and seemingly dumb toddler could often be spotted wandering the many halls of Site 19, often with Dr. Jordan Ridgeford in tow. He'd already been to see many doctors for the autism, and just as many researchers had come to see him once he began stacking crayons end to end, bending spoons, opening portals to [REDACTED] at the dinner table, screwing with compass needles from a distance, or other spooky eldritch shit like that. This last one in particular attracted considerable interest from the scientists, who saw immense potential for weaponization. And, as this base was (partly) run by the Cornerian Army, such prospects were always on the back of their minds, a fact which did not exactly bring comfort to either of his parents. However, as the research facility had pediatric therapists, thaumiel class anomalous objects to assist in containment, scientists and technicolor test tubes up the wazoo, endless creepy concrete hallways with flickering, buzzing lights, and multiple highly trained mobile task forces on their payroll, it was an almost perfect place to grow up for the little misunderstood autistic boy with scary mind powers. Combined with the fact that the boy's father was on a first name basis with many high ranking personnel in the Cornerian armed forces, and his desire to keep his son away from the paparazzi, it was no wonder that Marcus McCloud had spent half of his life down here, and was already learning to navigate the facility.
But as of right now, he and Dr. Ridgeford were giggling at the misfortunes of a sentient, cherubic piece of 19th century technology.
"Oh," Gordon the steam locomotive hissed, as he plunged into the ditch onscreen. "get me out! Get me oooouuuut!"
Speaking of surprisingly old technology, Fox McCloud and Dr. Feldman were now descending into the depths of Site 19 in an elevator that was almost old enough to be Fox's grandfather.
"You feeling alright?"
"No, actually." Said Fox, his voice sounding as if he had vocal chords made of gravel, "I've had the worst cold for the-"
Fox McCloud interrupted himself with a fit of coughing.
"Gee, I'm sorry to hear that."
"And how've you been doing?"
"As good as I can. Progress has been slow, but we're finally ready to test."
"Is that why you called?"
"Oh, right. As a matter of fact, we do have something to show you. And for once it isn't about your son, as interesting as he makes life for us down here."
"Interesting?"
"Well what else would you call it? He's one of the only documented cases of early childhood psychic ability in our records!"
Contrary to popular belief, telepathic powers were not the sovereign domain of emotionally unstable children who've lost their innocence too soon at the hands of mad scientists or abusive parents. In reality, the overwhelming layers of meta-abstraction upon which psychic powers of any sort relied, combined with the egocentrism of the prepubescent mind, conspired to make anything more than painting a breath picture at a distance all but impossible for anybody under the age of 11. Indeed, be it ancient Cerinia or modern Corneria, the odds of telepathic powers appearing before puberty, and the organs of rational thought and irrational desire that came with it, were literally one in a million. Thus, while there were enough psychic children out there such that one could actually write a textbook on the subject, rather than one or two case studies, any given civilian was extraordinarily unlikely to have ever met one in person.
"...Fine then. Interesting. Now what was it you wanted me to see?"
"I'd rather wait for the briefing to discuss that matter, but the short version is that we might have a mission for you."
A lizard man in a labcoat was standing before them. "Uh, you guys do know the door's open, right?"
And so they stepped out of the elevator.
Some time later, back in the little white booth, Security Officer Gerald Calhoon was eating a sandwich when off in the distance he heard quite the ruckus. It sounded as if someone tried playing "Dixie" on a car horn, a la the Dukes of Hazzard, and shortly thereafter a cloud of black smoke appeared on the horizon. An old fashioned school bus came skidding 'round a corner, its left tires coming off the ground as it very nearly rolled over in the turn with a painfully audible squeal! Flopping back onto its wheels, it belched an unholy blast of neon green flame from its twin vertical exhaust pipes as it pulled a wheelie and charged for the facility parking lot. Oh, did I mention the bus had been on fire this whole time, looking more like an escaped hellhound than a passenger vehicle?
Security officer Calhoon placed a pair of foam cones into his ears, and pressed a big, specially marked red button. This caused a wall just behind the entrance of the parking garage to retract and swing away, revealing a long, downhill tunnel that lead into a specially constructed bomb-proof bunker.
"Dr. Gerald, good to see you!" He said as SCP-666j flew past in what had once been an ordinary school bus at +100 km/h, black death metal music basting from the windows at ~91 decibels. The diesel's roar echoed off the 1.4 meter thick concrete walls as the bus descended into the depths of the facility, the engine somehow drowning out the music. Officer Calhoon knew better than to close the bunker door.
The ground shook, as a tsunami of orange flames emerged from the gaping maw of the tunnel as if it were a solid rocket booster. The flames died down, followed several seconds later by a single burning tire that lazily rolled out of the garage, under the bar, and past the security booth.
"Good ol' Dr. Gerald, right on time as always." He said, removing the earplugs and closing the bunker door.
NOTE: Some of you may have noticed that chapter 2 released very shortly after chapter 1. I figured it was worth doing, since there was very little to go off of in chapter 1. But now that I've posted something more substantial, I'll probably be updating this story on something more like a weekly basis. The story's mostly complete, but there are a handful of parts I've yet to write, and I'd like to give myself some time to finish them up before I run out of content, and have to go on haitus.