AN: Somehow autocorrect changed the word, 'Hydrochloric' to 'Hydrofluoric.' in the previous chapter. This has been fixed.
I've chosen to split this 10k chapter into 5k parts. So this chapter is 5k and the next will be 5k as well. The next chapter will therefore still be Chapter 2, part 2. The other part needs editing, with Halloween, it'll probably be out in about two weeks~.
Anyways, thanks for reading.
That is all.
Chapter 2 Part 2 - Looming Bureaucracy
Agent Jack - Facility Guard Private
Date - [REDACTED]
Time - Unknown
Location - Site-19 Entrance Zone: 2-level office room 3A
Knowing that the immortal reptilian lizard known as SCP-682 specific containment measures were failing wasn't good. The fact that one of the fundamental resources for its containment was possibly being adapted too, was to put it simply, even worse.
Hydrochloric liquid acid was an extremely corrosive substance - In addition, this was where my knowledge regarding the chemical stopped. Why 682 hadn't adapted to it before was a mystery, why it worked in the first place - I didn't know.
Given 682's remarkable regenerative properties, it should've surely adapted to it. Considering it hasn't, I can only conclude there is something in the acid that does prevent its regeneration or at least delays it long enough to be a relatively effective way of containing 682.
Why this supposed substance suddenly started to evaporate at an 'alarming rate' according to the Mediterranean-looking man named Simmons, was also undetermined. Looking down at those below, some of whom had resumed their duties, others gossiped about what had happened, it seemed they didn't know either.
Inconspicuously shuffling just slightly closer to the waist-high wall, I tried to overhear one of the conversations taking place below:
"-Saying it for some time, maybe the pressure is finally getting to him? He's seen more than any of us."
"Lin's been working for the Foundation for twenty years. I doubt he's flagging now."
"You say that, but, he's what, nearing his sixties? It wouldn't be so strange for something like Alzheimer's to pop out of the woodwork at that age."
"Regular medical checkups ensure that isn't a possibility. Lin's a respectable researcher, he's been acting oddly recently, yes, all the same, a level of eccentricity is to be expected in senior staff if empirical evidence is to be believed. And I do. I've worked with Doctor Gears, trust me, he's equally an enigma. Whic-"
"Gears is a consummate professional Thomas, the definition of ice-cold. I've heard he's being considered for Site Director even… Doctor Lin… Isn't. That's the crux, no? Lin is notorious for his temper. White said there's been rumours about a potential demotion; I guess that could be the reason for his recent sporadic behaviour."
"White said that? White, the man who's chummy with Novak, who's firmly in you-know-who's camp. He'd say anything if it would increase his chances of getting between Novak's legs. Novak knows that, in fact…"
Glancing down, the two men had huddled together, whispering furiously, one of them gesticulating with subdued zest so as not to disturb their desk neighbours.
Jesus Christ, they're acting like gossiping forty-year-old suburban moms, 'Did you see what Petunia did to her lilies yesterday, she poured salt over them, it's dreadful really.'
So, no dice on the eavesdropping this time, shame.
Kay, let's see, what do I remember about 682… In the game 682 was a distant figure, adding ambience with its roars and some fluff in the Gate B endings. Now, from what I knew of the SCP by information gathered outside the game, it was able to regenerate and adapt to more or less anything. And it hated humans, each containment breach involving it racking up deaths in the triple-digits.
Funnily enough, I wasn't scared - ultimately if it did escape containment, there wasn't much on an individual level I could feasibly do. Frankly, in a scenario where it does break free, my best method of survival was to run whilst the Foundation was busy taking care of the rampaging Godzilla reject.
So despite hyping it up, it wasn't that bad. Oh, morally from a human's perspective it puts the E in evil, eating children without remorse. Yet when it comes to leaving the mortal coil, getting chewed up or slammed by fifty thousand jules courtesy of 682s tail are rather merciful ways to die, relative to the universe of course.
With that said, when it came to the lizard's containment, there wasn't much I could do but cross my fingers and hope Foundation staff figures out a solution. Obviously, that sucked. In fact, it really, really sucked.
Nevertheless, it was out of my hands. Even better, if everything goes right and I manage to escape, 682 will be a distant concern.
Shifting my weight restlessly on the spot, I waited for the escort to arrive.
Gazing at the other two guards it was clear they weren't interested in chatting. An inexplicable subconscious instinct told me both were in an ill mood. This instinctive feeling I believe was commonly referred to as; reading the room.
All of us awkwardly stood in place for a while, not interacting. Idly, I lightly tapped the square-tiled office floor with the toe cap of my boot. You know, the stories never described the waiting - I'm starting to see why. Languidly rotating my head, I peered around, the gossipers had resumed their click-clacking. Huh, their computer screens had the Windows 98 logo, that's a blast from the past.
Our waiting was accompanied by muffled expletives and silent grunting derived from the SCP restrained. 'Puuhs~' came out from the captives mouth, air escaping through small pockets as it attempted to spit out the towel, expression strained with veins visible, it would be able to spit out the washcloth in thirty seconds give or take, I estimated.
At the tail end of our waiting, the subject finally managed to spit out the towel, only for the guard holding him down to take the saliva-covered fabric and stuff it back inside of the SCP's mouth, making it repeatedly choke.
It was some pretty callous behaviour - tears were streaming down the SCP's face from the strain.
I averted my eyes while inaudibly whistling, doing my best to remain unbothered. It's not my problem.
It took four minutes for backup to arrive. When they did, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Heralded by a quiet hiss, they stepped inside, assessing the scene.
Approaching in lockstep, one of them walked up to me, presumably because the other guy was occupied and the other dude, as mentioned previously, was very wet.
"That's the skip then?" The guard asked, jerking his head toward the red-faced man.
"Yep," was my terse reply, not feeling particularly in the mood for small talk.
The newly entered guard glanced at the wet agent. The veritable waterfall of water droplets previously seen now having tapered off to a trickle. "Is he contaminated?"
"I'm not s-" I started to reply, before the guard straddling the SCP spoke up, "Wounded pride, it's just wounded pride. He's upset that he got outsmarted, that's all. Now get this damn freak out of my hands, so I can go and grab a coffee Ulgrin." Oh? Ulgrin, another character I recognized. He's the security guard in light containment who leads the player character to SCP-173's containment chamber for testing.
"I hear ya," Ulgrin drawled, in a decidedly unsympathetic tone. The guard who'd accompanied Ulgrin, seeing the SCP already wearing zip ties, stashed the ones he was holding back into one of his vest pouches.
Ulgrin moved to relieve his ally, "Alright, get off." He requested. The unnamed guard mounted on the SCP, swiftly stood up as Ulgrin took his place. A short struggle ensued, where the SCP tried to take advantage of the brief lack of weight.
"Stop resisting," Ulgrin warned, while the SCP did a scuffed rendition of the worm dance. "Stop resisting or we'll do this the hard way." He repeated, to no effect. The SCP continued to struggle, impressive really, considering the strength needed to fight back against a man weighing approximately 110 kgs with all that gear on him is ludicrous.
"You've got to be the dumbest anomaly I've ever seen!" Ulgrin gruffly exclaimed, taking the stock of his P90 TR in one hand, he forcefully butt-stroked the SCP on the head, causing it to instantly go limp.
The other guard who had accompanied Ulgrin questioned with mild surprise, "Did you kill it?"
"I don't think so." Watching the proceedings incredulously, I saw Ulgrin put two fingers on the man's neck. "Pulse is fine; he's alive."
"Alright pick him up and let's go."
"Not even you-" Ulgrin hauled the body up in a fireman's carry, "-can ruin today. It's Pizza Friday and I have exactly one hour until the cafeteria closes. So you're going to stay unconscious so I can get back in time." Ulgrin handed his P90 to his counterpart and patted the unconscious SCP's cheek in faux affection. "Isn't that right?"
I mutely watched Ulgrin carry the SCP away while the other guard, now akimboing P90s followed a metre behind.
I blinked and muttered to myself, "So that happened."
The pneumatic hiss of a door opening behind me made me turn. Looking back, I saw the waterlogged agent and his partner leave as well. Leaving me the sole agent left in the 2-level office space.
Okay… Not even a heads-up? Mhm, it doesn't matter. I mentally mapped out the final stretch: Straight twice, a left, and then two rights. Think that's correct. Well, I'll notice if it isn't.
Taking a step to my right, the immediate splash made me realise I'd stepped into the puddle left by the hydro-man agent. Nostrils flaring, I took a deep breath, in and out slowly… Putting an optimistic spin on it, at least I know the boots are waterproof now. Props to the designers and manufacturers, thanks to them my socks weren't wet. Every military man who's ever existed salutes you, unknown footwear manufacturer.
Giving a final sweeping look over the office room – seeing nothing to justify me remaining – I left for the gates.
Agent Wilkenson - Facility Guard Sergeant
Location - Entrance Zone: GATE B
Agent Wilkenson considered himself a conventional guard. He dutifully followed the egghead's orders, partook in defending researchers during testing, dealt with unruly D-class and endlessly patrolled the sterile halls to the point of lunacy.
If the brainiacs were feeling particularly merciful he also guarded pivotal locations to the site, which meant a monotony of standing around, doing near nothing.
At the time having the dubious fortune of being stationed at one the most boring - safest stations in the site, the GATE guarding post. This station was colloquially known as the 'Wall Watchers' posting, for its mind-numbing tedium. To be posted at a gate, not facing outwards, because the surface guards held jurisdiction over external security, was to be stationed for eight hours watching a wall. Facing the inside of the site.
The only company the unfortunate guard would have - their equally suffering partner.
All guards were appointed a partner, taking inspiration from the buddy system developed by the US Army. That partner slept in the same bunk bed, did almost always the same tasks as his fellow guard and in general unless ordered otherwise by a higher-up, was always in close proximity to each other. The act of partnering up with another guard was generally labelled as a 'sentry'.
Although there was no official denomination, it was the common unofficial term, used by researchers and security departments alike. Wilkenson didn't know for sure, he suspected however that it was inspired by paramilitary and official infantry organisational structuring. Sentry, fireteam, squad, platoon, battalion and so on.
Instead of four guards being considered a fireteam, they were considered as two sentries. Which was where the Foundation's security department strayed from the military paradigm. Amongst many other examples, the Foundation's general modus operandi deviated a great deal from the mundane military organisations mirroring it. To an extent one couldn't compare the Foundation with the mundane - it was an anathema to normality. So, while some parts of the Foundation on the surface level looked similar, it was a veneer hidden by concrete and paperwork.
Wilkenson exhaled, a metre abreast of him, was his assigned partner, Agent Harn.
Harn had been a part of the backup storage site since his inauguration at the Foundation; he'd told Wilkenson so himself.
Wilkenson however, most certainly hadn't. He had been stationed at Site-19, the real Site-19 at the time of the Insurgency raid. Gaining firsthand experience of the assault and the containment breach that followed.
To his lament, he'd suffered a shot to the arm midway through, which ultimately saved him, being escorted to an ad hoc field hospital located within a secure vault, his Site-19 partner helped maintain his balance and when blood loss caused him to go unconscious, carried him the final stretch, allowing an enterprising medic to stymie his demise in time.
Rolling his shoulder, the soreness still clearly persisted.
The partner, Agent Ysir, wasn't so lucky. After rescuing Wilk the well-meaning fool returned to the battlefield and perished at the hands of an insurgent goon. Wilk had known that man for six months, he wasn't a good man - Wilkenson wasn't either, yet they'd established a rapport. He owed a debt to Ysir for the act of saving his life. How that debt was going to be repaid, when that debt was going to be repaid, Wilk wasn't sure, nonetheless, he'd find a way.
In the aftermath of the 'Insurgency blitz', the site directors and their higher-ups began the restoration process. Normally a guard like him wouldn't be privy to any information outside the Site he was stationed at; this wasn't a normal situation.
With many shell-shocked, picking up the pieces of their labour, they naturally were more liberal in their speech, not holding as tightly to their oath of secrecy.
This meant Wilkenson overheard information he probably shouldn't have - as was standard procedure for guards really.
So the knowledge that a lot of sites had been hit, Site-19 in comparison coming out relatively unscathed wasn't really what he wanted to hear while guarding one of the temporary mobile containment units.
See, with a lot of sites being near annihilated, Site-19 required to be revamped and reconstructed, with the infamous Jack Bright spearheading the new designs along with Site Director Dmitri Strelnikov, the new site was supposed to encapsulate the words, bigger, better, modern and even more defensible. With the O-5s signing off on the idea-(Not that Wilk knew that the O-5s existed, knowing them only as the 'Higher Ups')-desperate to gain stability, the predicament remained, where would they store the Keter, Euclid and Safe SCPs during the construction? They wouldn't be able to hold them in mobile containment units - the construction efforts were projected to take three months.
All was not lost, procedures existed for occasions exactly like this, the solution: Utilise the backup sites made to contain SCPs temporarily if a site gets destroyed or overrun. The largest two were able to store 5~ Keters, 15~ Euclids 80~ Safe SCPs.
That was the clincher, these backup sites were able to hold a site's worth of SCPs, stressing the singular.
Concealing a grim smile behind his balaclava, he reiterated, multiple sites, as mentioned, got hit. So the backup sites baulked when the Higher-ups commanded them to contain these various anomalies until restoration efforts finished.
Suddenly every backup Site Director found themselves in an overload scenario, whereas some facilities meant to house one Keter and five Euclids, found themselves housing four Keters and seventeen Euclids.
Complaints piled, incidents increased, pandamonium ran rampant in the first month. Two backup sites had sitewide containment breaches, one unsalvageable.
At that juncture, someone higher on the Foundation's totem pole realised that the state of affairs wasn't tenable. So seeking solutions, they transferred additional personnel, gave additional resources, signed off on prototype ideas that hadn't been rigorously tested - all to prevent a total collapse of the backup sites.
Wilkenson was one of the personnel transferred from Site-19 to Backup Storage Site provisionally named Site-19 while construction of the real one was underway. He didn't have a clue as to why the backup had been redesignated. Taking a guess, probably because a majority of the SCPs came from Site-19 and it looked better or helped protocol in some way.
Nevertheless, he, alongside the rest transferred, was meant to stop the bleeding. Beyond the backup not having the capacity to hold the amount of SCPs it now held, personnel of the site had grown complacent, inadvertently imposing an incredibly lax standard. Not a single major incident in two years, remarkable, if it hadn't led to almost criminal negligence.
This complacency produced its own share of chaos, as the original workforce found themselves abruptly held to a higher standard. Stress lines metaphorically lined even the youngest of researchers, hunched backs were commonplace, morale reaching the bottom of the Mariana trench itself.
This torpor, this lethargy, caused drama. With everyone tired, irritable, stressed, and up to their neck in work, old arguments intensified.
It didn't take long for these arguments to become ugly, causing irreparable damage between previously amicable people.
Blocs formed, all with differing ideas on how the site would run most optimally.
Security Chief Franklin's faction argued with support from Doctor Lin's smaller clique for the abolishment of the Modular Project.
Maynard held an iron grip over the Engineering and technical departments, nearly all of them firmly on his side. Wilk could only name one person belonging to tech who hadn't drunk the Kool-aid. Hooper, one of the senior electrical technicians, was very vocal about the idiocy of not solely the Modular Project, but also the Overload they'd been suffering.
"We don't have the power! We don't have the space, we don't have the personnel, we don't have the training, I'm getting slugged with shorts and connection problems on the daily - I'm running the boys ragged here and we're still behind! I'm warning you, we can't sustain this for much longer. It doesn't matter if a containment breach might happen, the grid will crumble before an anomaly has that chance! And then this potential breach becomes multiple, thus becoming sitewide!"
That had been an enlightening conversation to overhear. Terrifying as well. Hooper beseeching Franklin, and getting a 'It is what it is' in response led to Hooper being vocal about Franklin's 'short-sightedness', thus effectively isolating him from almost all blocs. This caused Lin to take him under his wing, which unsurprisingly resulted in several of the more fervent supporters of Franklin to view Lin negatively. Further fueling the division. So on it went, office politics with lives on the line. Not the typical consequences of such squabbles.
Bizarre, Wilk affirmed.
There was one more faction, Doctor Harpers. Composed solely of scientists, they advocated a very simple doctrine. Let us research, if you hinder our research, we'll work against you.
Modular Site Project? Harper's toadies didn't care.
There's an overload? Great, more to research.
Everyone is at each other's throats? How unprofessional. 'Pushes up glasses'.
A very laissez-faire approach to a site on the brink.
In conclusion, the site had an overload, power was failing, they were short-staffed, and the staff themselves were doing an accurate portrayal of the Cold War.
And here he was, standing, staring into a wall, unseen fires surrounding him.
Should've taken that vacation time when the opportunity presented itself.
Agent Wilkenson silently cursed.
I was standing in front of the door that was supposed to be the last, having followed the directions given by the electrician. In my little jaunt, I'd passed more people clad in white lab coats along the way, barring that, no extra problems arose. Thus this nondescript door was the threshold that, when opened, would reveal the massive iron gate of GATE B.
I hoped.
I hadn't really planned out what to do if I was able to just… leave. I'd still be in the SCP universe, without ID(I assume) and without a single dollar to my name.
My best bet would be to go somewhere far, far away, with my head up in the clouds~
Ehrm, not the time for Slade, it's a good song though. Anyhow, anywho, by all means, the smartest thing to do would be to find some random rural village in midwestern America and bunker down.
It's the 90s or something, right? I should be able to swagger into a hard labour construction site, slam my hand on the foreman's desk, and confidently declare, "I'm your guy!" He'd go, "You're right boyo, you're starting tomorrow." With that I'd get income, I'd ask for my salary to be cash to avoid any pesky bank trouble and I'd be home free.
With my experience in construction, I'd be lauded as a revolutionary genius. Probably.
I'm sure there's something I'll be able to point out that is outdated, allowing me to say, "Here's how you maximise your profits foreman," causing me to get a promotion for having the smarts. Slowly over the years the foreman and I would grow closer until one day he'd ask me to sit down for a talk, whereupon he'd say, "You're like the son I never had, I want you to take over as foreman." We would hug, he'd retire and my financial stability would be assured. It's a surefire plan. No delusions here, no sir.
Up until I die of something, whether by hunger, accident, sickness or murder. Because ignorant as I was, I had no idea what the afterlife in the SCP universe was like.
Knowing the narrative, it'd be a horror, an anomaly, to set the scene that even death wasn't an escape from the madness. Which was a definite flaw in my plan, one I wasn't sure how to rectify.
Not to mention, when I die, though I don't want to bank on it, I might resurrect again, somewhere, for some reason beyond my comprehension, for now.
Now it had happened once, maybe twice, so I couldn't rely on it. I didn't even know if I wanted to rely on it. There were certainly mixed feelings all around for me, in regards to pretty much everything.
Detecting a high amount of depressive reflection, initiate countermeasures! Repress, repress, repress!
I think that's enough… What's a '90s word for what I've been doing, gotta get with the times…
Lollygagging? Lollygagging!
Enough lollygagging, time to face the music, Nirvana music specifically because they're generally considered the most iconic music band of the 90s. I think.
Anyhow, I scanned my keycard on the door scanner.
The door swept open and..!
There are two guards inside along with a large sign above the iron door, saying 'GATE - B'.
How anticlimactic.
Good. That's a good thing, we like anticlimactic. Means the chance of dying to monsters decreases. Five stars from me.
Walking inside, I raised a hand in greeting. "Need to pass through," I said, nodding towards the gate. Keep it cool Jack, keep it smooth.
One of the guards acknowledged by crouching down to grab a handheld keycard scanner which I just noticed from the floor, the scanner in question having been leaning against the wall by the guard's feet. Obscuring it.
While the other guard took a step forward and in a dry customer service voice spoke, "Present your badge number. State your reasons for leaving. State who authorised your departure. Failure to do so will deny exit." The guard took a breath and continued, "An automatic notice will be sent to the security department if you fail any of these steps, disciplinary action may be rendered as a result. Do you comply?"
Ha. Ha. Called it. Fuck. Can I backtrack? No, that'd be equally suspicious. I have to bullshit again; it's all I've been doing so far, it's what I'll have to do this time as well.
"Uh, I'm new so if anything is out of order, do go easy on me, yeah?"
The guard stared before slowly rotating his head toward his partner who'd approached with the scanner device, the other agent, having heard our conversation, shrugged in response to his compeers stare.
The staring guard unhurriedly turned back to stare at me, then sighed as if dealing with a particularly dim-witted customer. The guard entered a thinking pose, intentionally withholding an answer to make me, what, sweat? Messing with the newbie or something, I don't know, everyone's a bit off their rocker here I've noticed. It took five seconds of awkward silence before he gave me a thumbs up that I could tell radiated dispassion, his body language screaming, 'I'm here for my paycheck and nothing else'.
"Right, so, here." I handed my keycard to the guard with the scanner, "The reason for leaving is classified, the person who commanded me to leave is classified, uh, yeah, that's about it."
This is never going to work…
The guard who was looking at the screen of the scanner slowly raised his head to accompany the other guard in staring.
There's a lot of staring. I don't like it.
The guard standing in front of me snorted. Lightning fast, he placed both of his hands on both my shoulders, coming close enough that our visors almost touched.
Enunciating every syllable slowly, clearly, he abrasively explained, "Rookie, you're stupid. Nobody can go 'Everything is classified, let me through' and expect it to work. You've been hazed, it happens, suck it up. If you're familiar with headlight fluid and elbow grease trick, you know the deal; it's the same principle. Some researchers or guards like to trick the new guy. Standard fare is to send a rookie somewhere they're not supposed to be and the justification they're supposed to give when confronted is 'classified'."
The guard leaned back, dusting off my shoulders briefly, "The less funny part is that fact that the rookie has to go through additional screening, and the person who 'apprehended' the potential infiltrator has to go through a lot of unnecessary paperwork." The guard waved a single finger in a no-no motion, "And I don't want to do a lot of unnecessary paperwork. So let's make a deal, this never happened. Capiche?"
There's an escape route, I'll gladly take it. "Y-yeah, capiche."
"Good, you're learning." This time the agent's voice held a tone of humour, "Harn, he didn't actually have access, right?"
The other guard called Harn responded, having tilted his head back down to read the scanner, "Nope, no temporary gate access, not much at all in the registry. Says you've been working here for two years, a clerical error I assume. Did you transfer here, Jack?"
I nodded rapidly, "Yup-yup."
Harn seemed to accept that, "That'd do it, yeah. Bit embarrassing to fall for the oldest trick in the book with two years of service… But… Happens to the best of us, no sweat."
The other guard playfully boxed me in the chest, "Should've realised that the only way for us door jockeys to leave the facility is to get approved vacation time by HR. Good luck with that; the overload requires all hands on deck."
So guards have vacation time! I'll pretend I didn't hear anything about the low chance of getting vacation days. Indeed, selective hearing is a powerful tool.
"Since I'm new here, how do you guys get leave on holidays? We had a system back in my old place, could be different here though, s'why I'm asking." Bait is set. Hook?
Harn raised a finger for a second, hesitating, he lowered it. Turning to his guard buddy, he asked, "Wilk, you recommended me the new transfer from 37?"
Wilk replied, "Yeah, Anderson. He's a transfer from the Human Resources HQ based in Site-37." Wilk turned to address me, "Has a good head on his shoulders, lax yet not too lax. Knows where to draw the line. If anyone's going to get you vac time during an overload, it'd be him for sure. I might make my own attempt; beats getting chewed up in this powder keg." Hook confirmed.
"Where would I find his office, hypothetically?"
Wilk laughed. "Hypothetically, I genuinely have no idea. I've been stationed here for a month, definitely haven't figured out the modular project yet. I've talked with Anderson during lunch, a lot of the transfers congregate in the cafeteria during lunch and dinner. It's the only reason I know he exists in the first place." Wilk scratched his neck, "Harn you wouldn't happen to know?"
"I know where HR is located, presumably he has an office there?" Harn placed the scanner on the floor, "It's a full three lefts from this direction, then two straight ahead. That should be the admin office plaza. Unless engineering has restructured the site again, that ought to be it." Sinker!
"Great. Thanks. I guess I just go now, unless..?" There's a chance I could get vacation time today. It's low, but there's a chance. Sadly it means facing the greatest opponent yet: bureaucracy!
Harn handed me my keycard while Wilk started talking.
"You're off the hook," Wilk confirmed, "Don't repeat it."
"I won't."
"Good, now, shoo, we're watching paint dry here, very important business, cannot be delayed."
Saluting casually, I said, "Then I'll leave you two to do your very important task."
Turning around I unhurriedly walked out, knowing the agent's eyes were on me. The door to the GATE room opened and closed swiftly by applying my keycard with a quick flick both times.
Making sure the door was closed, I sagged like a bouncy castle without air - I'm tired. I've not slept since… I don't know, an indeterminate amount of time, I might've been awake for fifteen hours or something. I wouldn't be surprised.
My own thoughts had been growing erratic, growing worse recently, a level of it can be attributed to humour in horror.
A larger chunk to supreme fatigue. I needed to push on for a bit more, then I could rest in a fluffy bed.
This wasn't the fatigue generated by an exhausted body, this was of the mind.
Nonetheless for now, even as each step rattled my skull, drowsiness threatening my consciousness, I kept trudging along.
My stomach rumbled… Oh, Come on!
Wilkenson watched the disoriented guard leave.
Still standing abreast of Harn.
"Red flags upon red flags, the hazing was suspect but possible, the service record without a single notable procedure logged was near impossible to ignore," Harn paused briefly, "When he failed to leave through the GATE he sought an alternative approach through HR." Harn interlaced his finger behind his neck, turning to Wilk he queried, "What do you think?"
Agent Wilkenson gave his own two cents, "He's Foundation personnel, that's clear."
Harn nodded, motioning for him to continue.
"Maybe he got lucky? His previous post could've been a Safe storage site."
"It's possible," Harn hummed.
"We're looking for a motive where there might be none; the gate could've been a bad taste hazing, while the HR was a coincidence."
"Yeah, there exists reasonable explanations to everything if one wishes to go on pure conjecture," Harn noted.
"Exactly, but if anyone notices anything suspicious, especially back in Site-19, it's incredibly important to notify the nearest superior."
"It's the same here," Harn confirmed.
"But we don't have to do that this time; he's an outlier."
"Why?" Harn didn't seem surprised, mild curiosity lacing his inquiry.
"He's Foundation personnel."
"Right, Foundation personnel, he's loyal then?" Harn metaphorically asked, of course, Agent Jack was loyal; he was Foundation personnel.
"He's Foundation personnel."
"Right, he's Foundation personnel," Harn repeated.
"Right?" Wilk asked.
"Right," Harn replied.
Wilkenson returned to watching the wall, tedium made manifest. Not giving much more thought to the loyal guard who'd briefly entered previously.
There wasn't a need to overthink it, after all, Agent Jack was a loyal Foundation staff member.
Right? Right.