Chapter 8.5: "Practical Joke"

SV-98 goes to a vacant dorm, and finds something interesting.

Late into the evening, the once bustling dorms had now turned completely vacant. Most had already been called upon for their daily tasks, whether it be training, logistics, or something else. However, none of this applied to SV-98. Her continued antics in the commander's quarters eventually landed her right outside them. With no other choice— and with not even a simple task assigned— she made for the dorms.

There, she discovered the sight to be just as described. Simulated light of dusk flooded into the room by window, casting a reddish tinge onto it. She paced slowly into the empty room, making for the nearest sofa.

She sat. At least here, she could be alone with her thoughts, right? She could easily tell the commander had a marked soft spot for her, but why did he neglect her so..? It's been a while since SVD was here. It'd be nice to… Talk about...

...Before she could even get into her own brooding, she glanced to her right, and noticed something.

On the far side of the room, a large bookcase had been messed over, with dozens of books being strewn about the floor. She groaned to herself. Had no one bothered to clean this mess? Nonetheless, she dragged herself to her feet, and shambled over to it. She began picking up and sorting them— not like there was much else to do.

Eventually, one in particular caught her eye. It was smaller, and solid black. On the front, a single red star. Faded pen was scrawled onto it, but black-on-black rendered it hardly legible to the human eye. Then, she noted its familiarity… Wasn't this 19-01's book?

She went to open it. From the first page, she immediately recognized it as a journal; the very first entry dated back over 9 months ago. She stopped herself before continuing. Her colleague wouldn't appreciate such a major breach of privacy, would she..? On the other hand… It was either now or never. Besides, she'd bore herself to death in this room otherwise. She flopped back onto the sofa, and pressed onward.

The first dozens of entries were fairly typical: they detailed PP-19-01's life on practically a day-to-day basis, such as random occurrences, her changing relationships with former teammates, doubts, fears, and struggles… Successes and failures; desires and dislikes. The more personal the entries became, the more intruding she felt. Still, she couldn't help but feel just as increasingly curious.

This continued until entries dating back about 4 months ago, when SV-98 noticed a particular change.

Entries started to become gradually less coherent, and more 'succinct.' She could tell that the mood had changed, and the writer had seemingly become more depressed and anxious. In fact, the rate of degradation began to fall almost exponentially per page, until one entry in particular made her gasp. The words were practically scribbles, as well as having hardly any meaning nor reason to be gleaned. "What the—?"

"S̶̻̊ţ̶̄͜͝o̵̫͛̈́p̵̫̬̄ ̵͉̌͝f̶̞̥̈́̀i̶g̸͔̬̈͝h̶̔n̸̥̖̈g̸͉̝̐ ̸̛̘̻̃i̸͍͐ṫ̸̻̣?̷̢͓̾̈́ ̴̮̀͝T̵͕̓͘h̴̩́̑e̶̩̠͘.̶̢̝́͆ ̴̝̈̉g̴̠͖͋r̸̳̈ȇ̶̤ä̶̰̺̌t̸̼̝̄e̸̺̚s̷̮͇͑t̵͈͔̾͠.̷̧̛͝ ̴̧͓͑͌t̵̘͛̂h̴͖̉̎i̷̢̿n̵̳̈́g̸̼̱̀ ̴̬̹͛̿ą̶̙̉̚b̷̰͗ȯ̵͙ǔ̶͎̕ṫ̴͕̳ ̵̭̈́t̷͉͐ę̷͕͋̕c̷̨͕͗͝h̴̭̜͒n̶͙̈o̵̬͠l̶̤̎̎ȏ̸̠͈̀g̶̭͠ẏ̸̺,̸͔̇̚ ̴̺̑i̸͙͔̇͗s̵͇̓͘n̴̲̍'̵̣̺̊̃ţ̸̰̊ ̶̹͊ĩ̴̺̦t̷̻̽̕ͅ?̴͉̠͝ ̷̧͙̊̑W̴̻͙̍͝h̵̦͗a̵̗̲̾t̴̟̑ ̴̬̑ͅI̴̫̖͂ ̵̻̀́ͅb̸̹̄e̷̞̾̾l̸̬͌ỉ̶̭̱̇e̵̖̅̈́v̵̧͖͑è̷̗̥ ̴̡̂t̸͓͖̃o̷̳͙̍ ̶̡͘b̴̖̳͗̓e̴̼̟͐͝ ̸̞͓́̐t̶͇̊ḧ̴̹́͜ḙ̴͐͑͜ ̷̝̊̈c̶̡͐a̵̯̩̓̚s̵̮̋̔ȅ̸̟ ̵̪̉̔i̶̳͍̎̌ś̷̺̣ ̶̋ͅt̴̡͗h̵̬̅a̸̕͜ț̷̈́ ̶̨̐̋m̶̳̱͒͑ȍ̷̖͎͠s̸͕̃t̴͖͍̐͂ ̷̧̌̚ḑ̷̦͗o̷̺̎l̸̦̫̑l̷̗͋̅ș̶͌ ̸͇̑w̴͚̆ó̴̼̘̅ȗ̷͚̟͘ļ̷͗d̵̨̽͋n̸̜͔͊͗'̷͇͠t̵͖͂ ̶̢̣̈e̵̡̦̊v̴̗̍̋e̷̛̒͜n̶̘̈́͂ ̸̞͈͊c̷̠̰̍a̴͍͝ř̵̰̂e̵̻͒͝ ̶͖̳͗a̶̘͂b̵͚̖̆͠ö̶͚́́u̸͓̐̂t̴̙́̔ ̸͍̀̉e̶͈̊x̶̖̼̒i̸̤̓ş̶͓̌t̶̠̘͒̽e̵͔̝̓ǹ̶͔͕͐c̶̺̄͠ḛ̵̃̀.̸͕̓̑ ̸͍̪̈́B̵͇͒u̴̲͓͑̈ţ̵̳͑̀ ̵̟̞̈̏N̸̝̒O̷͔͋͋T̸̗͔͝ ̸͝ͅm̷̗͙͒è̵̢̼.̴̐̈͜ ̷̲̊G̴̠̎̓e̵̻͛ͅẗ̶̖̩͗ ̶̦̮̌ǫ̷̡͒̌u̸͙̭͌͗t̵͇͝͝.̵͕̿͒ ̴̧͍͐T̷̞̲́h̶͈̜̐i̵̡̗͌̓n̸͈̈̕k̸̪̑̓ ̶̹̺̓a̸͖̥̓b̸̗͕̏o̷̢͒͜u̵̟̍̌t̵̰̺́͘ ̷̘̯͌t̷̜͒h̷͔̰͊̅ḯ̷̻͙s̷̤̈́̚.̸̭̺͠ ̵͕̈́T̷̙̂̀h̴̬̞̑̈́i̶̪̣̎ņ̶̾k̶͉̻̆͝k̴͕̈́k̸̭̇̕ͅk̸̲̊̽ ̵͓̀̾a̸̹̻̒̽b̶̞͗̆ȍ̶̟̭u̸͈͉͝t̵̙̱́͠ ̶͙͈̋̾ẇ̵̳h̷̗̗͒a̴͚̥͒t̷̮̳̀̂ ̶͕̉ÿ̷̘́o̷̲͊̋'̶̙̆r̴͚̆̽͜ë̸̠́̈́ ̸͕̀ͅǵ̷̠ȯ̸̤̲ī̸̠̤̈́g̶̭̀ ̶̠͚̌t̸̰̀̐o̵͇̳͒ ̵̖́̏s̵͍̎à̶̼̱y̴̟̳͛̇.̸͍͘͝ ̴̜́̌Ȁ̶̡͕̒s̵̈̊͜ͅ ̵͎͠I̷̻̗̐ ̷̣̬͋͋s̵͇̤̄͠e̴͈͍͗̍e̷̬͙̊̒ ̸̠̀́i̴̠̫̓͌t̵̰͑,̶̜̑ ̴̨͔̊y̸͖͕̐̕ö̶͍́u̵̡͎̕ ̶͖͝m̶̳̔i̶̛̱͜ģ̶̚h̴̡̑t̸̩̦̊ ̸̰́͜ȃ̷̼s̴̻̎ ̶̹̼̍̒w̶̚͜ė̴̱l̶̲̘̋͋ĺ̷͕̬ ̵̪̓j̸͉̭̄ú̸̢̱̽s̵̩͑̇t̷̠͍̍͝ ̴̛͔̲t̸̞̗͋â̶̭k̴̺̜̄̚e̷̬̅ ̵͕̑a̷̭͛͌͜a̸͉̻̾ ̶̩͗ǵ̶̟͚ǔ̸͈n̸̤̋ ̷̯̐ͅţ̶͑o̴̻̝̐͝ ̷͕͐̈́ͅm̷̙̿̂ÿ̸̩́́ ̶͈͖̈́͆h̴̾͆͜ȅ̸̤̊a̷̙͓͐̔d̵̘̼̓ ̷͎͊ä̷̬̂n̶̨͋d̵͙̀́ ̵̫͗̕s̴̝͂̑ẗ̴̥̠́a̴͖͍͒ȳ̷̢ ̸͎̃̕t̴͈̰̉͛h̴̫̻͋e̷͚̐̏r̶͙̿̓é̷̡̤̓.̸̣̩͆ ̸̢̂̊E̵̢͙̎v̴̛̯̅e̸̘͆̈́n̷͔̈ ̷̨̏t̴̛̖͘h̶̞̾e̵͈̕n̸͔̍ ̸͚͘I̷̜̓͌ ̸̫̂d̷͖̳̏̇o̷̜̪̚n̷̮̰̈́'̸͈̥͂̍t̸̫̺̐ ̴̙͐͊t̶̼̀̏h̴͈̄̐î̸͇̈́n̵̢̻̿͑k̵̮̼̈́͝ ̴̯͂̋m̷̥͕͆͂y̴͍̞͑ ̴̥͈͗̎p̵̭̾ā̶̜̿ͅr̶͙̊e̶̞̪̓͛n̶̝̎ͅẗ̴̠ş̵̑̎ ̴̙̓̋ȏ̵͔͆r̶̯̟̍͝ ̸̠̦́̚m̵͓͒͠y̴̦̝̍̀ ̵̦̦̽̓f̷͈̦̅a̸̳̒̕ṯ̴̅̂ḧ̸̭́̃h̷͖̑ͅe̴̺̜͑̎r̵͈̾̎ ̵̝̝̉c̵̹̙̆o̸̥͌͝u̵̹͛̔ḷ̸̢́͐d̷̼̪͝ ̷̬͠e̴͙̱̓x̸̢̬̆i̷̫͇̾s̷̻̖̋t̵̟̔ ̵͔̖͒́p̶̰͕̾͝r̴̗̾̓o̸̟̓̒p̷̗̒è̴͔̘r̴̫̯̄͝l̶͌ͅỹ̵̞͚̓,̴̟̂̌ ̷͖̋̐ṣ̸̢̓́o̶̰͒ ̵͔̪́i̵͑͘͜ḟ̸̛̭͚ ̸̀̂ͅy̶̩͛͘o̷͉͊̾ṳ̵̔ ̵̮̪̅͗c̸̫̿̈́ą̸͔̋͘n̵͍̽'̵̭̩̀t̴̛̻̑ ̶̱̎ǘ̶̲ń̷̬̰d̴̛͎ë̶͕͈́r̵̳̥̍̋s̶͓͊͘t̴̗̔̚ã̸̗n̴̗̋͊d̸̳̱̈́ ̴̢͚̉͘w̷̖̎h̵͔̋͊ÿ̶̬̠́̀,̵͚̥̽ ̸̹̯̂̾t̴͖̔̀h̶̺̬̉e̴͚͙͊n̴͉͖͠ ̵͍̓̉j̸̳̱̎j̵͍̼̚j̵̭͗͜j̸̼̇̏u̶̧̽s̷̙͊͘t̴̢̻͊͠t̴͈̭͌̊ ̶͚̓d̷̮̎ͅo̷͖͗͂ͅn̷͓̊͌'̵̆̀͜t̴̔͜ ̴̼̈́͝ė̵̘̳̚v̴̧̭͌e̴͍̪͝ṋ̷͍͋ ̶̥͕̈́b̴̗͔͗ǒ̵̡͆t̸̠̎͘h̶̬̜͋́e̴̅̓͜ŕ̵̲.̵̢̖̉ ̶̜͊I̶̛̩t̵̟̫͑́ ̶̡̩̉͝h̷̙̤͝u̵̫̾̎r̶̙̈t̵͔̺̓́s̸̻͋ ̶̡̪̈́s̴̯͑ȍ̵̤̀ó̸͕͕ő̶̻͝ ̵̬̠̔m̴̳͝ü̶̺c̶̼̿͘ͅh̷̪̭͛͠.̸̘̦̈́ ̷̘̿͠W̸̫̽̿͜ḥ̶͚͌̀h̴͕͕̓̿h̷̝̞̏͘a̶͈͝t̴̡̙̑̕à̶̲̓m̷̱̱̐ ̵͙̾I̷̪͈̓̕I̵͎͗͠ ̶͉̹̔s̵͍̲͊a̸̤̩͌̑ý̶̢̌i̴͇͂ǹ̷͖g̶͍̊̾?̷̤͠ ̵̥͛Ì̷̗̮͠f̴͌ͅ ̵̫̈́̎t̴͎̞͘͠h̴̤̃͘á̷̟͉t̷͚̙̍ ̵̻͂ͅi̷̫͒ẗ̶̺́ ̸̖̇͝e̷̩̱̓̕n̴̪̻̋d̵̨̮̊ê̸̯͠d̵̙̘͘͘.̴̻̏͠ ̴̨̺̓Y̴̤̹͛ḛ̵̑s̷̞̽́,̵̛̺͉̎ ̵̨̂̈́I̷̟̋̚'̵͎͕͛͝d̵̝͓̀̂ ̸̫͆h̵̗̄͠a̷͍̍v̴̭̭͘e̴̳̓ ̸̱͆͛n̶̢̓͊e̴͇̐v̴̺͝e̷̹͂r̴̞̔ ̷̯̒͋g̷̞̮̚õ̷̘̮n̵̺͝é̴̱͚͐ ̷̜̓̀o̶̢̎̾ͅṵ̶͝t̷̛͕͛.̷̡̣̾ ̸͕̑T̸̞͘o̶̬̊͒o̵͇̾̄ ̵͍͊͘ẘ̴̞̺̕e̶̞͂a̷̦̅̎k̵͕̽͂ ̶͉̍ą̷̹̐n̸͠ͅd̷̫̉̕ͅ ̵͍̥͐t̸̫́̕ö̶̤̼͛ọ̴̢͆ ̵̣̫̅̀s̴̮̃ṯ̸̖͗r̸͙͒o̴̹̓͗n̴̨̝͠g̴̺̉;̶̥̲̓ ̸̬̼͛Ṋ̴̠̔̂o̷̢͙̒ ̶̤̍̐o̶̳͋͗n̸͉̍e̵̲͑́ ̸̛̪̓t̸̝̍o̸̙̐ ̶̲̉̓ͅb̶̯̿l̷̲͙̚a̴̗͍̔ḿ̴̤͝ė̶̟̩ ̵͓̀b̶͎̿ų̸͉̔t̶͇̃ ̴̭͒̒y̸̝͖̎̀o̸̗̹͛̏ü̴̚e̵̝̞͗͐l̴̼͍͌͠f̷̡̰̄͑.̷̡̠̎͠ ̶̧̅D̵̘̈́͊ͅö̷͓́ ̴̢͕̏ñ̸̦̗̒ȯ̸͈t̶̻̀ ̴̢̓̄ĺ̶͔̓͜ẹ̸̕t̸̛̺.̶̦͂ ̷̹̋I̸͙̾͘t̵͕̐'̵̭͍̂͂l̵̺͠l̴͉̾ͅ ̷̯̓b̷̹̱́é̶̥ ̴͕̽̑ô̶̞v̴͙͊e̴͓̎r̴͕̣̓́ ̴̢͜͝͝s̴̡̛ọ̴̜̌̕o̶̝̯̊̈́n̴̝̏͜.̴̺̗̅̏ ̸̧̰̃̆G̵̽̿͜e̷̥͆t̵͎̱̽̓ ̵̗̘̚ó̵͔̞ů̴̢̞̐ţ̷̅͊.̶̗̪̌͋ ̴̠̂P̷͕̫̏̄r̸̙̍ó̵̳͘o̴̞̕͠f̷̲̘̂̽"

…

…

What… What the hell was this—? The nonsensical scribbling sprawled for several more pages, eventually containing neither words, nor letters for that matter.

The air in the silent room became truly ominous; SV-98 lurched over, as though she wanted to vomit. Truthfully, she now wanted to throw the book at the wall, and forget it ever existed. Regardless, her morbid curiosity bested her better judgement once more, and she skimmed through the defiled pages once more. Abruptly, It returned to normal... Or at least, the writing did. The impression, however, was different from before— wrought with uncertainty...

"That's… Enough." She whispered to herself. After stuffing the book into a pocket, rationale tried its best to take hold. Most likely, 19-01's diary had simply been vandalized as part of some practical joke, which probably made her much more insecure. She nodded reassuringly to herself: yes, that had to have been it. Such childishness shouldn't go overlooked… She could've ripped them all out at any time. Still, it was pretty weird. She rested her head on the sofa arm, and closed her eyes in wait.

She decided the best course of action would be to hand it over, and when they crossed paths, she'd pretend she never opened it.

END