THE POLARIS PROJECT / ACT 1
...
...
...click.
The first sound to emanate in the small, claustrophobic room was a quiet, clinical 'beep!', its bright staccato punching through the silent space. It struggled within the blanketing quiet, but, another 'beep!' rung out. And then another, and another, forming a steady rhythm.
As the room swelled with sound, automated vents let out a spew of oxygen, neutralizing the previous mixture of preservative gasses within the air. Above, fluorescent bulbs flashed to life, flickering briefly before settling on a solid, yet dull glow.
Over the soft hum of the lights, a series of quiet ticks and hisses made themselves known, reverberating from a strange, mechanical coffin bolted into the back wall. Various wires and tubes tangled themselves amongst its silvery surface, dipping and weaving between it and several canisters laid under the mechanism.
A new voice grew above the rest; a thin, rising shriek drowned out the room's cacophony, curling wisps of vapor rising from the crevices of the coffin. As the piercing gale reached an almost unbearable crescendo, the coffin jerked violently against its restraints, its frame swinging open.
The resulting 'Clang!' silenced the makeshift symphony, leaving an expectant hush.
The coffin's insides were obscured by a thick cyan mist, which rose up over the sides, spilling onto the floor in small, ethereal curls. As it wove over the ground, the final, rebellious quips and quivers of machinery faded into nothing, leaving the blanketed room in utter silence.
That was, until an arm, wrapped in plastic, shot out from the misted innards of the coffin. Many thin filaments were attached to the appendage which tore off from the violent movement, chemical gases and sparks pouring out from the broken nodes.
The arm, after its triumphant escape, fell back into the casket with an audible thud. A muffled groan came from within, alongside the sounds of something shifting. The sound ceased, but soon after, a shaky body slowly began to rise out of the coffin, the head and torso piercing the fog.
Like the arm, they were covered with the same whitish plastic, including many more attached filaments. Most tore off, causing a small shower of sparks and a contribution to the ever growing hiss of escaping gasses. With another grunt, the person slowly flexed their right leg, still concealed by the mist. Under the mask, they cringed slightly at how stiff the joint felt.
Gingerly, they swung their legs onto the lip of the coffin and carefully shifted their weight onto the edge. They quietly inched its legs forward, slowly but surely easing its feet onto the floor. Unfortunately, shifting their full weight onto their feet caused the being to stumble forward and crash onto the floor.
Overhead, a quiet whir made itself known as the auxiliary ventilation came to life. The remaining mist slowly filtered away, completing the vent cycle. Above the pseudo-sarcophagus, a red industrial light blinked rapidly before shifting to a soft green. The changing light heralded a quick relay of beeps in response.
The figure groaned inwardly at the incessant chirps, but got to their feet, wincing in pain. Shaking their head slightly, they brought their hands to the hard mask covering their face. It fumbled to grip the mask, and found two indentations on the sides. Hands shaking erratically, they brought the hands up to the indentations and applied as much pressure as it could.
The mask came off with a pop, and the figure pulled the rest of the suit's hood back. The person within took a deep gasp of air, one that had been long overdue. A hand through his hair before burying his face in his hands, collapsing into a crouch. He took another breath, and then another. Even if the air carried a heavy and sour scent, it smelt of heaven to him. Breathing was a luxury he had almost forgotten of.
He sat in the position for what felt like hours , breathing in and out. Slowly, but surely, the primal instincts of his mind relented, giving control back to him. He could still feel the deadening effects of the medicines that had been pumped into him, but they too were slowly fading. With every breath, and beat of his heart, his body threw off the artificial weariness.
For how long he sat there, he wasn't sure. His focus was solely focused on his breathing.
In… out…
In… out…
In the end, such a simple thing couldn't last forever. With a grimace, he got back up his feet,trying to block out the stabbing pain of cramps. With difficulty, stripped the rest of the cryogenic preservation suit off of him, a small cry of pain escaping him as he felt the needles embedded in the suit's insides rip out of his skin, leaving a dull irritation behind.
After giving a moment for the ache to pass, he carefully made his way to a small mirror positioned on the wall opposite of the mechanical coffin. A hastily scribbled checklist was taped up next to it, none the worse for wear. The rest of the steel wall was barren, save for a hook on which he hung the cryo-suit.
He looked over the reflection that greeted him in the mirror. His hair had thinned out significantly, and his face had been reduced to an odd myriad of ashen skin with the occasional touch of blue. He brought a hand up to his cheek and gave it an experimental pinch, then frowned to himself. No pain. The rest of his body was looked over with a critical eye.
The effects of stasis on humans had varied significantly, and even with every precaution and safety taken, there were still risks involved. While he would have to perform a myriad of tests later to determine which had affected him, a cursory inspection would have to do for the moment.
Besides the same discoloration on the rest of his body, he had clearly lost body mass. He had been relatively fit (despite his best efforts, office life did take a toll on him) before entering stasis, but now, his ribs could be faintly seen, and he had obviously lost some of his muscle tone.
That alone was one of the more unsavory side-effects of long-term cryogenic preservation, and he had been no exception to the rule. It seems he got off lucky, however, especially considering he was under for at least a year.
It definitely could have been worse. Hopefully the others' luck was as good as his.
Looking over to the pinned medical list, he silently read it over to himself. Body mass, within acceptable limits. Blue tinted sections of skin were normal… He felt (mostly) mentally alert and well, though there was a warning to perform several mental tests with another person. He'd have to do that when he met up with the others; they could shake off their stupor together.
That, and hopefully avoid nerve damage. Even with the protective covering he had been wearing and the cocktail of experimental medical substances they'd injected into him, they hadn't found a way to completely eliminate the issue. He would know, considering he was one of the chemists conscripted to refine the formula before the world went to shit. But hey, his work couldn't have been too bad if he were still alive.
(Granted, his memories still felt… fuzzy. Neuron degradation had always been a concern, but this…?)
The point being, if he got off with just a bit of body emaciation, that was a win in his books. Small victories and all that.
Even if he had dodged the nerve damage issue, his fine motor skills had not yet returned to him. There was nothing he could save waiting for them to return; on a positive note, The smatterings of blue tint on his flesh were quickly fading into a brilliant red, and even his ashen skin was regaining color.
Because he was awake, there probably wasn't any catastrophic damage to his vital organs or brain. As for minor damage, it would take time to see if he did dodge those. There wasn't much of a point to worry about it right now, however. If he did suddenly suffer an organ failure or, Lord forbid, a seizure, there wouldn't be much he could do about it.
…
Existential crisis aside, he was still here, and that had to count for something. Optimism, as his family would say. Who…
God, he did not need to be thinking about that right now.
Forcing the thoughts back, he went for the most important thing in the room; the coffin. Specifically, what was under it.
He gingerly bent down to his knees to get a better view of the coffin's underside. Underneath the pod in a conveniently placed 'alcove' of sorts was a small, white locker, nestled against the back wall, amongst several of the coffin's gas canisters. A small light on the locker, still a steady green, brought a grin to his face.
Thank the Good Lord.
Despite knowing it would be there, he had had his worries. A lot could happen in a year or three, the least being his small sanctuary stripped for parts. The implications of anything happening were… unpleasant, to say the least. But his room and locker were untouched. A small miracle.
Still though, if something had happened…
He shook his head. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts…
The locker was intact: that was what happened, no need to dwell on what-ifs. He slowly dragged the silver locker out from under the pod.
Despite being a small locker, it was quite heavy. While the production of this particular stasis technology had been shrouded in secrecy, fostered by the senior Polaris researchers assigned to working on it, even he knew that miniaturizing the machinery any further was near impossible.
They weren't miracle workers, after all. For the most part, of course.
Having set the locker on the ground in front of him, he stared dumbly at the locked cover. There was a twelve digit keypad in the center, zero through nine, plus a pound and period symbols. A row of LEDs on the top of the case gave him pause, breaking his train of thought.
...what was his passcode again?
He grimaced a little. Two Four Two Six?
The locker beeped, the lights on top blinking red. Nope.
One Seven Six Nine?
Not that one. How about… One Nine Eight Seven?
The locker beeped at him, the light blinking red again. Definitely not that one, either.
Maybe… no. There's no way. One Two Three Four?
His eyebrows shot up as he heard a little tinny jingle and a solitary click come from the locker, followed by the familiar hiss of escaping gasses. He couldn't help but bring a hand to his forehead. What was he thinking?
Though in this case, his own stupidity saved him the trouble of having to have the engineers pry this overcomplicated piece of tech open. Perhaps he anticipated he would forget, so he made the passcode simple?
He couldn't remember that, either. Great.
Now open, the box displayed its contents to him, just as he remembered. They were mostly his personal belongings, save for a piece of bread on top of them. A fresh slice, too. It was their so-called "redneck" (he was the only one who called it that) solution to the issue of trying to determine if a stasis module was functioning normally. If the field held correctly, the bread would be fresh, not stale. And fresh this slice was. Maybe not entirely edible, on account of the gasses used, but still good enough.
Before being put under, they had stored some of their most valuable possessions in these lock-boxes; they were to be in cryo-sleep for at least a year, and having whatever possessions they had left kept safe was a great boon to their minds. And if they were to die… well, the rooms were already pseudo-tombs as it were. Being buried under the sea with their possessions was the least that could be done.
The contents didn't amount to much; within was the folded up work clothing, a small, framed picture of him and a few colleagues, his laptop, his \personal phone, a flashlight, several solid state drives, and a sheath of documents and letters. A treasure trove of sentimentality, but one that was largely useless save for the sheer amount of information on the documents and electronics. For now though, they could remain in the locker.
Except for his clothing, of course. He was not about to meet up with the others while wearing practically nothing, especially when he looked like a twig thanks to cryogenic degradation.
Essentially, all of it amounted to his dress clothing and lab coat, everything stained, crumpled, and soaked with machine oil and sweat. It was horrible, yes, but even then, it was still much more presentable than going naked. Hopefully his colleagues had the same idea.
With that out of the way, there was little to do but see them, then.
While he didn't have an exact idea of what would greet him beyond his crypt, there were a few guesses he did hold. Perhaps the place would be bustling with activity, other Polaris personnel up and about breaking the stupor of their cryo-stasis. Or maybe he would be late to the party, so to speak; everyone sitting in the facility's atrium, already warming up their cup of victory coffee as celebration for finally being rescued.
Hope, warmth, actual time to have a proper rest as opposed to the chaotic days before their sleep. He could almost taste the ambrosial beverage, feel the sun on his face…
With a smile, he reached for the door controls, the magnetic locks disengaging as he hit the 'open' key. The door slid to the side with a silent hiss, clattering against the frame.
…
As it turned out, the outside was not the unicorns and rainbows he thought it to be, quite the opposite, in fact.
The 'cryo-stasis wing', as they called it, originally started its life as a regular bunker-like hall, from which branched out a multitude of miniature storage rooms. This, of course, was near the back of the facility, from which had been cannibalized to make their cryostasis shelter. Its doors lined the solitary, concrete hall on both sides, but unlike a more homely hallway, however, the interior was entirely devoted to utility rather than comfort; concrete primarily made the hallway up, with steel beams peppered between the doors to act as reinforcement.
He had cracked open his door slightly, sliding it horizontally into the wall. The first thing he noted was the lack of light. The use of a flashlight retrieved from his locker rectified that, but he shouldn't even have needed to use one in the first place. As far as he could tell, the structure's interior was intact; pristine, in fact. Even the fluorescent lights that hung above were fine and should have been flooding the space with artificial light, but they weren't.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
As he stepped out cautiously into the hallway, he flicked the flashlight on, bathing the hallway in its narrow, dull light. A flame of fear flickered in his stomach as he took his first steps into the hall.
None of this was right.
He felt almost surreal, lightheaded, walking through the seemingly endless corridor. In reality, it was actually quite short. The bay held eighty identical rooms, to be precise, with fifty-seven of them each holding a cryostasis pod; the rest were used for storage, as originally intended. To be trapped in this den of misery, it only accentuated his paranoia.
Was he truly the only one here?
"Hello?" he called, almost whispering his words. They came out heavily distorted, raspy. He swallowed down the phlegm that had gathered at the back of his throat.
In the silence, it rang out true, but went unanswered. His own ears were filled with the deafening noise of absolute nothing, his words already long gone. The absence of sound left his ears to fill in the void, a task they performed earnestly, filling his head with white, imaginary noises at the edge of his subconscious.
Had he truly awakened before the others? Or rather, did he wake up late? Were the rest already nothing but bones and dust, with him left to sweep up the mess? But then why would they leave him asleep…
No.
They had to still be asleep, had to be. They had to be.
They. Had. To. Be.
If they weren't… he wasn't sure what he would do.
A quick shift to his left brought him face to face with one of the insurmountable doors lining the hallway. His flashlight revealed a neon orange 43 hastily written in spray paint on the door. They weren't using a proper 'system' for their preservation, rather, the whole operation had been slapped together over the course of two weeks.
Two horrible, awful weeks where the literal weight of the ocean bore down upon them. A week where they spent every single waking moment setting up this wing of the facility so they could survive. Every resource they had, jury-rigged to create this scheme.
Two weeks where they had to cope with the loss of their world to the sudden flood.
To many at the facility, that had to do with the loss of Chigasaki, the city southwest of Tokyo that housed Polaris and its facilities, but to him that horror extended to his home and family back in America. In under two hours, their world had collapsed down to the subterranean section of Polaris' main campus, built underneath the city.
It was a horrid two weeks, where the fragile flame of hope nearly was extinguished. And yet here they were; or rather, here he was, standing in the remnants of their efforts.
The uncertainty of the situation was what ate away at him. He was awake, but he wasn't sure if the others were awake. If there was a silver lining, nothing was damaged; that had to be a good sign, right? And if he made it out and was still breathing, that meant that the infrastructure was intact. If that continued to be the case, he could then get to the bottom of this. Any lick of hope was better than none. Sure, it was vague and pointless, but it was enough to reignite his own hope that everything would be ok.
But first, he had a cryo-crypt door to open.
Door #43 was composed of a thin metal-alloy sheet, with several more strips hastily welded onto the surface forming a mish-mash of cross sections and scorch marks. Aside from the number, there wasn't much else that distinguished it from the others; that was why they had broken out the spray paint.
Even in the middle of the apocalypse, keeping a system was still something they valued. And of course, keeping track of who occupied which crypt.
Getting the door open was another kettle of fish entirely. While the rooms, and in effect, this whole section had been converted in a rapid manner, they had incorporated the already present locking systems into their setup. And because this section had originally stored some of their more… important and rare materials, alongside sensitive information and prototypes, and now humans, the security was quite formidable.
The doors were secured with the use of electromagnets and a physical locking system. Both were currently engaged, so even if he could find a crowbar or something to pry open the door, any attempts would fail miserably. They could be disabled with an eight digit passcode punched into a discreet keypad, or a proper security card, but he had neither. Perhaps he could find the code written down somewhere, but that in itself was unlikely. If the magnets failed, he could easily force the door open, but that too seemed distant.
Alternatively, he could reject the odds and instead cut off all the power to the facility, but that had its own myriad of problems. One; he couldn't do it, even if his life depended on it. There were more redundancy systems installed than he could count, and it wasn't like he had proper authorization to shut down their geothermal generator (and backup generators) remotely, much less actually access the constructs physically.
And two; shutting down the power and their redundancies would also kill anyone still in cryo-sleep. The cryopods would forcibly wake their occupants in the event of a total power failure, and the shock from such an action would be lethal. And if they somehow survived, oxygen deprivation would kill them then, as the facility was reliant on carbon dioxide recycling for their air, doubly so since the flood had cut off every surface vent.
So, for now, there was nothing he could do.
Greaaat.
He turned back down the solitary hall, fist clenched at his side, other hand keeping the light steady. It shone down the long hall, its weak illumination fending off the dark. The scene was still extraordinarily eerie, but the edge had been taken off somewhat. It was with hope, not trepidation, that he continued to the end, passing between numbered door after numbered door.
Beyond the corridor was an open space, several magnitudes larger than the cramped room he had emerged from. Its walls were a combination of smooth concrete and steel beams, several more of the beams supporting the ceiling; a workshop, specifically.
The branding of Polaris was represented on the furthest wall, the company name painted in large, utilitarian characters underneath a square logo - a stylized geometric depiction of the North Star cut out of the square, complete with lines akin to a lens flare radiating outwards.
Stars…
Man, what he'd give to see some now.
The bay was one of the several passageways connected to the shop, which had been used as their main hub of activity during their two weeks of nonstop construction. In part, the storage rooms had been converted because of their close proximity to the workshop itself; it was easier to centralize their activities in this section, as opposed to spreading everything out over the entire underground facility.
That, and some sections had collapsed outright.
Like the hallway behind him, the whole space was pristine in regards to structural stability, but the haphazard scattering of tools, benches, machinery, and spare bits and ends of scrap metal broke the spotless monotony. Walking amongst the clutter was… unsettling, to say the least. The strange geometry of the shadows cast by his flashlight certainly didn't help.
It was still deathly silent, and his mind took that opportunity to play tricks on him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself that nothing would jump out at him. Flashes of movement at the edges of his sight sent his light there in a heartbeat, mind thrown to fear. A moment would pass; he would continue on his way, then the cycle would repeat itself.
His experiences here didn't help; this place had been a den of near insanity, the cacophony of tools nonstop churning out cryopods from whatever metal was available, while other Polaris technicians carted them off to be installed. Others ran to and fro, rearranging wires and systems into the amalgamation that was now their cryo-wing. The memories were ones he would prefer not to relive, though now, it was as if he was walking through the skeleton of a once great beast.
What was surprising, however, was the much different mess left behind. By the time they had finished their preparations, the area laid near bare; tools neatly put back in place, the few remaining unused scraps pushed off to the side, most of the nonessential projects worked on in this space disassembled or put into the unused cryo rooms.
But now?
It'd been returned to this messy state. And not just as random clutter, it seemed; several bits of Polaris machinery had been reassembled, even a few that had been cannibalized for parts during the cryopod construction.
Who had been down here to make this all? Their entire team had gone under, all fifty-seven of them. Most of the other Polaris personnel had been killed when the flood initially wiped out the above ground facilities, and when portions of their underground facility collapsed. Others might have made a run for the Shelters, hiding themselves away with the civilian populace in the Domes off in the Japanese mountainside.
He had originally thought of himself and the others lucky to have survived, but as time had gone on, the opinion of their luck shifted to the dead being the truly lucky ones, especially as their food supplies dwindled. That's what it had come down to in the first place; food. The shortage had been why they started their mad plot of cryo-preservation to begin with. Their stores would have run out months before the waters receded, or before they were rescued.
But someone had obviously been down here.
…
Scratch that, a lot of someones.
This mess couldn't have been caused by a single person; a team had to have been working on something here, and judging by the remains of their work, plenty of time had been spent doing so. But they were gone now, seemingly without a trace.
What was going on here?
There was one last place where the rest could be congregated; the atrium. It was the only other major space in the sector, and was their designated 'free time zone' even before the flood, back when this place was just home to chemistry experiments, mundane research, and finalizing cost-effective prototypes.. Not to mention it wasn't an uncomfortable area to rest at; they had a few comfy chairs, wooden tables, a couch, actual carpet, plastered walls, and a small potted tree. They even had a coffee maker and fridge!
In truth, it was a glorified break room, but it was their break room; the room where many laughs were shared, and in more recent times, a place where those who would normally have never exchanged nothing more than a few pleasantries could forge friendships.
He wasn't quite sure why they even called it the atrium, but maybe it was because of the little potted tree. A bit more green in these desolate concrete depths was always appreciated, especially when the facility became their tomb.
His quick pace took him right to it. It was simple to get to; exit the workshop through a somewhat discreet door located on the left wall, which would open into a plain hall, then open the third door down. Thankfully, none of these doors were locked.
Unlike the workshop, the room wasn't monolithic in nature; rather, it was cozy. The space still was quite roomy, but the low ceiling and haphazard placement of furniture certainly tried to hide that fact.
And like the workshop, it was abandoned as well. On top of that, the furniture had most definitely been rearranged. The nice couch had been pushed to the back of the room, and the twelve comfy, red fabric chairs had been arranged into a tight circle near the center. One of the stools had been placed in the center of the arrangement, bearing a mug, presumably once filled with coffee or a similar beverage. Unfortunately, the potted tree had also withered and died. (they should have put it in cryostasis with them)
He moved closer to the odd display, his steps muffled by the stained carpet.
That is, until he dropped his flashlight, a shriek erupting from him. The stable scene suddenly shrouded in insanity, he fell to the floor, limbs propelling him away from the circle of chairs. The sudden loss of light only propelled his fear to new heights, his heart beating to burst. His back slammed into the plaster wall, breaking his momentum. His legs went instinctively to his chest, breath out of control.
He sat against the wall, gasping for air, yet never catching his breath. It was just… impossible.
There was no…
Was it…?
Eventually, his breathing slowed, heart following suit. His body remained tense as a wire, however, ready to react to the slightest intrusion. Carefully, he stretched out from his clenched state, crawling to his dropped flashlight As soon as he was in range, fast as lightning, he grabbed it, then rapidly crawled back to the wall.
Things were already so wrong…
If he saw what he thought he saw, things were about to get much worse.
Getting back to his feet, he braced himself against the wall. Sliding against it, he inched little by little, flashlight fixed on the chair circle. Specifically, on the one which was facing the back wall. As its front came into view, he took a sharp intake of breath, but maintained his composure.
A corpse.
A corpse was sitting in the chair. Like him, it was wearing the standard company mandated clothing, but that was where the similarities ended. The corpse was shrunken and dried in appearance, causing the clothing to hang loosely off of it. The messy, bleached hair hung limply from its scalp, and the ashen skin more resembled bark than actual skin, if in texture rather than the color, though purple-ish red splotches were present on the uncovered skin.
A once soft and gentle face was now stretched impossibly tight, gaunt. The eyes were closed, thankfully, but it didn't help his mind's grip on sanity. Not to suggest he was about to slip into another insane fit, but just looking at the body was causing his vision to shake slightly, and darkness to envelope the edge of his sight.
Oh god… it was horrifying...
But… he didn't even recognize the person. Death's unsavory transformation had rendered the body... unrecognizable.
Against his better judgment, he moved closer to the corpse, flashlight shakily trained on it. While the corpse itself was giving him mental grief, the implications of its existence plagued him considerably more. Someone had died here, and he couldn't even tell for how long ago they had; like the rooms their cryo-pods had been located in, preservative gasses had been pumped throughout the rest of the facility.
As a consequence, the natural breakdown of matter here was essentially frozen. And because of the facility being located in a seismically stable piece of crust, on top having constant energy from a geo-thermal vent, they could theoretically sustain their cryo-sleep for as long as they needed to.
Theoretically, of course. The best case scenario that the engineers had calculated was about three years top for optimal performance. After that, all bets were off, to be colloquial.
And this man had been a post-mortem victim of their systems. While the body could internally break down initially, advanced decomposition couldn't occur. So no skeleton, just your death-scarred body remaining for however long the Polaris underground was under lockdown. At the very least, the smell of rot had been neutralized by the gasses.
His very presence did beg the question though; how did he even get in here? Unless this one didn't go under?
There was no other explanation. This whole place was under lock and key, air tight, and that didn't take into account them being entombed under the rising water. He rubbed his temples, trying to subdue his rising headache. He wasn't qualified for this, and more importantly, he didn't need any blood vessels in his brain to burst.
Being up close to the body wasn't helping. Truly, it was a horrible experience; up so close, he could see every, tiny... little... detail. His breath came a bit quicker, ears perceiving silent whispers around him. His eyes shot down to the corpse's torso, searching for a name tag… nothing. A quick, cursory glance over the rest of his body didn't show any form of identification. Yet he was still dressed as one of them.
What the hell had happened?
He turned away for a moment to gather his thoughts, gaze falling onto the coffee table. Something sat next to the coffee cup - a plain, leather book, it looked like. Carefully, he grabbed it, flipping to the beginning of the book. The first page was covered in ink, cramped and near illegible cursive forming a plethora of sentences. At least it was English.
Intrigued, he read the first few sentences…
….He tried to read the first few sentences, but they were hard to make out… and his concentration was continually shattered by the shrunken corpse next to him. Next to him… rotting, bloating…
His nerve broke.
The only sounds left were his rapid footsteps out of the atrium. Through the winding halls, through the workshop, down the cryo-bay and back into his pod's room. The sliding metal door was quickly slammed back shut, powerful maglocks locking it into place. An illusion of safety against an imaginary threat, but it helped quell the powerful fear running through him.
He was alone. He was alone! No one left, no one up!
Now back in his pseudo-safe room, cut off from the facility, and by extension the body… his breathing eventually slowed, heart following suit.
Tears threatened to overtake him, but he fought them back with some difficulty.
He looked down to the book in his grasp. Perhaps… this had the answers. It was his only lead. Once again, he flipped to the first page, himself settling into a comfortable position. At the very least, reading could take his mind off of the entire situation.
The first few pages were filled by the sloppy cursive, presumably forming some sort of message. They were followed by several pages full of hand drawn blueprints and schematics, notes written in cramped handwriting around the page. Their contents remained vague from his cursory glance, but even if he spent the time to look deeper, he had a feeling they wouldn't make a lick of sense. A final few paragraphs lodged themselves at the back of the book.
The initial writing suffered from the same issue as the schematics did. It was one thing to decipher bad handwriting in print; you could generally tell what the wording was.
Bad cursive, however, was another beast entirely. It would overlay against itself, similar looking letters and loops forming odd scribbles and impossible letters that were comparable to a two year old's drawings.
He could still make out the occasional vague sentence, but it was the equivalent of being given a few pieces of a puzzle and left to mull over what could have been. It led to nothing but a thirst for more information, a headache, and the occasional overturned table. And in this case, he didn't have a table to flip.
Though, there were nuggets he did find.
Several pencil sketches were dotted throughout the book, all of them with illegible notation. Thankfully, they were unlike the writing. One depicted a large town in the distance, built in an old, traditional manner. Another, a crater teeming with military installations, their burnished gleam caught quite accurately. A third, one of the emplacements, rusted over and covered in plant life. Another was of some great, mechanical fish, partially submerged in water. Several more depicted odd humans, their proportions… off, somewhat. The hair, especially. What exactly was this all about?
Aside from the sketches, there wasn't much else that piqued his interest. He skipped looking at the blueprints and schematics, instead going to the final message behind them. Fortune did smile upon him with the few passages left, as the writer had spent time making the writing legible. The message was somewhat short, but a poignant puzzle piece.
-barely got back. I don't know how much longer I have, my side's gone gangrenous, and we blew all our medical supplies trying to save Satou after our position at the Emplacements went to hell.
He didn't make it, ended up being swallowed alive.
I'm praying the surface dwellers don't find his body, he deserves that much respect, at least. We couldn't scuttle the ERA. At this point, we're just praying the body was destroyed, as horrid as the thought is.
I don't know what's left for me to do, except to stand guard. The surface has gone to hell, and I don't know how much longer it will ignore us. From what we deduced, it's their fault some of us woke up at all.
We're running out of options, fast. I just don't see any way for us to come out on top. Doesn't help that the Warden's on the fritz after our little breakout. System locks, all across the board.
The least I can do is leave this note, I suppose.
To whoever finds this, you've been-
The note cut off there, a long pen stroke almost stereotypically confirming the fate of the writer. One confirmed death, then.
If the shaky writing was to be believed, another Polaris team member also died.
Two confirmed deaths, out of fifty seven surviving Polaris employees.
God…
He shoved the tidal wave of emotions down. He needed to stay strong. If not for himself, for the others. At this point, he could only presume the others were still asleep, and if that were true, they needed him. They needed him.
He ran a hand down the page, rereading the message. It just… shook him to his core. After all the death, all their hard work, and those dead scientists just decided to spurn it all. It just didn't make sense.
A slight bump in the paper gave him pause. His hand once again ran over the same spot. There was something under the page. Shaking the book dislodged whatever it was. He gently put the book down onto the ground, examining his prize closer.
It was a plastic, rectangular card, large enough for him to clutch with his hand. Despite being blank and featureless, he knew its purpose well. It was a security card, one embedded with an RFID chip. For what, he wasn't sure.
A sticky note was attached to its backside, however. On the faded paper was "Pod 74 - 47905785" and "Pod 73 - 58705321, don't forget STUPID" under it.
Two pod codes?
This was… useful beyond measure. While the implications around the scientists' deaths were unfortunate, not to mention potentially entirely avoidable, perhaps this could help him solve the mystery of why.
Let's just hope these still work…
Far above the dead facility, floating on a toxic sea, a boat cut its way through the muck.
From a casual observation, it was a tarnished beauty; once pristine, though through prolonged use, degraded into the state it was in now. Despite the banged up appearance, it could easily have been mistaken for a vessel meant for recreation, on account of the rather large umbrella jutting up from the stern. Equally, it could have been viewed as a work boat based on the ugly radar dish gracing the bow, among the various orange life preservers and buoys hanging from the sides. An orange trim adorned the ship itself, gleaming brightly despite the grime.
Not to say the boat didn't match its environment. Aside from the acidic depths, the twilight provided enough light to reveal the occasional ruin that dotted out from the sea. Despite this, the ship was the cleanest construction within a five kilometer radius; An old gem amongst a sea of trash.
While some of its additions were rather unnecessary, the extra accompaniments were appreciated by the various work squads. The current group onboard however, didn't pay them much mind. Not out of boredom, but of a quiet melancholy and an undercurrent of suppressed panic.
The four that made up the squad were dressed in identical garb; heavy, orange overalls with teal boots and thick gloves. Each also had a life preserver strapped to their back and a white and teal hat adorning their heads, similar in shade to the boots and gloves.
Two of them sat near the boat's right side, talking. An inkling boy, and one of the inkling girls. The male kept his tentacles tied back, while the female let a single, wavy tentacle go down the side of her face. Whatever natural hues they possessed had been overwritten with a bright orange, per company protocol.
"What are we going to do!?" The girl shrieked. She wrung her glove, worry creasing her brow.
"Rio, listen! We'll be fine," the boy told her, which only served to exasperate her further. His hand tightly gripped the ship's edge, stretching the glove's rubber taunt.
"But it's hazard level MAX, Marius! Every shift today! How do you expect us to survive this?" She shouted, slamming both of her hands down onto the side of the ship. He jumped slightly, his own hands quickly raised to a placating gesture.
"Please, calm down! Failing a shift isn't the worst thing in th-" Marius was cut off by Rio aggressively grabbing his shoulders, shaking him.
"We can't afford to not meet quotas this time! You know that rent's coming up!" Following the tirade, Rio slumped onto the edge, staring glumly down into the water.
"I know, I know, but we still have some emergency funds, as well as our parents," He replied, mimicking her position on the side. As much as they were loath to use those methods, it could very well be their only saving grace.
Rio sighed, "But we can't rely on that forever, you know that. Or mooching." One hand dangled over the edge, shifting with the movements of the boat.
"Yeah," he huffed, "Look, if worst comes to worst, we'll live, ok? And listen, Mr. Grizz let us pick out our weapons this time, so we'll be fine!" He straightened up, giving Rio's shoulder a reassuring pat.
She stiffened, shooting upward as well, "...Hold your seahorses, he did!? He never said anything about that."
Marius gave her an exasperated look, "He told us before we went out, you really don't remember?"
"I was still getting into my gear! Seriously, you guys don't tell me anything." Rio pouted, crossing her arms.
"Or you just don't listen," A new voice said, coming up behind them.
Rio turned around, "I was listening, Vista!" she nearly shouted, throwing her hands up in exasperation, "I always listen!"
Vista, the octoling of their group, scoffed, "Sure you were, bucko." Her curly tentacles were, for the most part, covered by her hat. "Like you did last time? You nearly got us fired!"
"That wasn't my fault and you know it!" Rio objected, turning her attention to Vista. "Marius, back me up here!"
Marius turned red, stammering, "Well, I… uh… Celia, get over here!" He hollered.
"Mari- For the love of cod, why?" Vista fought down the urge to slap him.
"I didn't want to inflame things further."
"Then why did you-"
"Marius, what the shell do you want?!" An exasperated voice spoke, cutting through their conversation. Its owner, an angry inkling gal, had marched up to their small group. A scowl adorned her face, her two orange tentacles tied into a practical braid.
"Oh for the love of…" Vista mumbled, putting on a fake smile before turning to the inkling, "Hi Celia, you ready to get started?"
Celia ignored her, instead going for Marius. She pointed a finger at his sternum, "I swear, if you're using me as a distraction again, I'll-"
"No, no, it's not that," he hurriedly assured, "Rio was just curious about something. Come on Rio, ask your question."
"I… uh," she stammered, before pointing an accusatory finger at Marius, "he just wanted to avoid defending me!"
"Marius! I swear-" Celia abruptly stopped, taking several deep breaths. As she pieced the situation together, a grin grew across her face, "And what was he supposed to defend?"
"My honor!" Vista rolled her eyes, while Rio continued on, "Y'know about how we were almost fired and that it definitely wasn't my fault."
"Oh my cod, what was this even about now?" She ran a hand down her face, sighing, "Come on, spit it out."
"It was over Rio's listening habits. About us getting to use our own weapons," Vista said, smirking to herself. This had turned out better than what she thought.
"Just… you have my permission to smack them next time this happens, Vista. Maybe that'll put some sense in them."
"I- I'm a perfectly good listener!" Rio objected, shouting now.
The other inkling gal tutted, waving a finger, "Clearly not, but that's beside the point."
"And, Celia, that point is…?" Marius trailed off, his hand making a looping motion. He had taken to leaning on the ship's edge nonchalantly.
Celia gave off a sigh, sounding exasperated, "My point is, Mr. Grizz figured we could use the extra help, so please, stop bickering like hatchlings!"
"But still, you guys don't tell me anything," Rio huffed, a red hue suffusing her cheeks.
"Or, once again, you just don't listen," Vista chided, chuckling to herself, "I remember him saying it perfectly. Something about the Restricted Zone 'exhibiting anomalous activity' and it riling up the Salmonids. You really don't remember that?"
"No! That really doesn't sound like him!" Rio said, metaphorical steam coming out of her ears. Her hands were clenched, giving the ship side a death grip..
"She's being honest, Rio," Celia chimed in. She had half stopped paying attention, choosing to look over the sea.
"Look, it doesn't matter," Marius interjected, "We'll try our best, and if we don't meet the quotas, it will be good practice for next time we're put on this shift. Besides, we're paid regardless." A pittance compared to a successful shift's salary, but better than nothing.
"But," Vista countered, "Are we paid extra for working in 'anomalous' conditions?" She shuddered at that particular thought, "Because, it'd better be a king's ransom if so. I'm not… nevermind."
"I mean…" Rio slumped down for a moment, "Maybe? Mr. Grizz isn't exactly generous, y'know."
"Meaning," Marius finished, "I doubt he'll throw in extra pay just because some random signals disrupted a few radio stations this morning."
It had been the oddest thing. For a few brief moments a handful of hours ago, there had been a kind of radio-wave outage. Overwhelmed, she had heard the news call it, some kind of superseding super signal that overpowered every other one. A few more of these 'superseding signals' had occurred, but as to how, why, or where, they had no clue. If nothing else, however, they seemed to have ceased.
"Yeah yeah," Rio mumbled, scuffing a boot against the floor, "You at least grabbed some dualies for me, right?"
"Way ahead of you," Celia said, "It's with the rest of our weapons." She took to leaning against the edge, taking a more relaxed pose.
"Oh, speaking of," Vista started, somewhat sheepish, "Where are we working today, anyways?" She let out an awkward laugh, trying to hide her embarrassment.
"Well, the Smokeyard for a bit, then Lost Outpost, and one last shift at Ruins of Ark Polaris tonight," Celia replied.
Both Marius and Rio flinched, gaining a confused look from Vista. It earned a sigh from Celia, "Are you serious? Am I seriously the only one who pays attention around here?"
"I pay attention!" Rio protested, earning a raised eyebrow from Marius. "Sheesh! But you weren't!"
"Oh, shut it," Marius solemnly replied, "Regardless, we'll… make do."
A small silence fell over the groups, the waves lapping against the hull being the only rhythmic pitch.
Vista piped up after a moment, "Oh come on, why the theatrics guys? Surely a lot of shifts can't be that bad, even if it is MAX" a part of her wanted to ask why they were so paranoid over it, but she quashed it down.
"It's, uh, less that, and more that we're working Ark Polaris tonight," was his glum reply, "Even if it's just one shift, it'll still be painful."
Vista raised a brow, "How so? I… haven't exactly worked there yet."
A shocked countenance graced Rio, "You haven't?"
"Well… no?" Vista replied, "I don't think I've ever been put on a shift with it before. I mean, I've only just started doing this with you guys, remember?"
"Well… it's like…" Marius said, but quickly trailed off, thinking for a moment,"...It's sort of hard to describe," he finished lamely.
"Allow me," Celia butted in, "It's a more vertical work site, of sorts. It's a kind of outdoor tower, with multiple levels. They get progressively smaller the higher you go. Mr. Grizz did have a few inkrails installed though, so it isn't as much of an issue as you think. Still a pain though..." She muttered under her breath.
"Oh, and the wreckage too!" Rio chimed, a gleam in her eye.
Celia shot her a pointed glare, "I was going to get to that."
"And… why does it warrant attention?" Vista asked, "All the other work sites have all sorts of trash littered about."
"Well," Marius replied, "It's a different type of wreck; Supposedly the whole ruins is prehistoric, or something like that."
Vista blinked, "But why does Mr. Grizz use it as a worksite then? Shouldn't it be examined further?" Vista couldn't wrap her mind around the idea. Why were the salmonids allowed to romp about it, then?
"They already did. Aside from a few small things, there really isn't that much there." Marius replied, looking out at a twisted metal hull jutting from the sea.
"Because a big, crashed rocket ship… thing is small, Marius!" Rio quipped, lightly punching his shoulder, "You just want to keep your eyes closed to the truth! I'm telling you, that signal squit going earlier today is apart of it all!"
"I'm just looking at it rationally! Do you really think that hu-"
"You two, quit it!" Celia barked, but restrained herself with monumental effort, "I know we're all stressed, but shell, lay off each other!"
Rio and Marius both fell silent, their eyes locking. "Right… um… Sorry, Rio," Marius mumbled.
"You too," She muttered. Both broke eye contact, resorting to standing about awkwardly. Good enough.
"Good!" Celia clapped her hands together, "Now, why don't we all just settle in for the rest of the ride? We still have a bit more time to kill before we reach the worksite."
"Ok…" Vista said, still trying to decipher their antics, "But what were they getting on about?"
Even after living with these three for… quite a while, now that she thought about it, this hadn't come up before. Or, they hadn't brought it up in front of her. Was it some kind of sensitivity thing?
"It's… just stupid, in truth," Celia sighed, "They're just arguing about if it's human made or not. Please don't get them started on it again…"
"Oh… that's… nice, I guess," Vista looked down to her boots, her face red and brow furrowed.
"It is not stupid Celia!" Rio protested, "You've seen what's there!"
"But, that doesn't prove anything! It could be some failed Octarian experiment or something!"
"SHUT IT!" Celia shouted, "We are not going back into this!" She took several deep breaths. "Now then, why don't we just go and make sure our weapons are ready."
She strode off to the ship's cabin, dragging Rio along with her. Marius and Vista were left by the side.
"So… what is…" she gestured to the quickly retreating Rio, "All that about?"
"Well… you know how Rio is with all those conspiracy theories, right?" He began, clasping his hands together.
Vista nodded, though only somewhat, "Sort of?"
"Well, she has this crazy idea that some of the wreckage at the Ruins is human made. Can you believe that?" Vista shivered slightly, then nodded again. It certainly did seem like something Rio would believe.
Though it really was human made… Bad memories.
"I think I see where you're going with this…"
"Well, she thinks that they built what eventually became those ruins. It's… infuriating." He let out an angry breath, both hands grasping the top of his head.
"Maybe beg to differ?" She suggested, "Do you really want such a simple thing to ruin your friendship with her?"
Marius sighed, "No, not really. But for now," he shot Vista a grin, "Shall we get ready?"
Vista nodded, "Let's."
Melodramatic intro aside, this is the beginning of a story that I've thought about for a long time. While I may be throwing another "human in Splatoon" story into this large subgenre, I hope to add something new and unique. At least something different, if nothing else.
While this chapter doesn't really contain too much having to do directly with the Splatoon, this will not be the case going forward. One could call this "setting the stage", so to speak.
Overall, this is more of a side project, but one that I hope to continue. If you have anything to say, I would appreciate to hear it. One can only improve through criticism, after all.
Thank you for reading!