Free Bird - SCP Foundation

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There is something wrong with Jacob.

He feels it, everywhere he goes. His arms, too long. His hair, too short. His skin, too rough. And his face — oh god, his face. There is too much wrong with his face to even begin the list.

When he is alone and buried deep in his studies, for just a moment, he can almost forget. Molecules and viruses see no outside appearance, merely people they can interact with. Their company is therefore automatically preferred to anything human. And ever since they've established the Orange Zone back in February and thrown Jacob to work in the lab again, there's been much for him to do indeed. Even though it is hard and grueling work, deep down, he is almost grateful for it.

But work doesn't last forever.

In those short yet infinitely painful moments he's out of the lab, everything feels wrong. He can see it as he awkwardly stumbles into the cafeteria holding a tray of food with those two awful, shaking appendages others call his hands. He feels it as he sits down in the furthest corner of the room, hoping the shadows cover his figure, so incorrect in every way imaginable. And he feels it when he takes the first bite out of the lukewarm dish, unable to quite decide whether his stomach revolts at the thought of ingestion, or at the thought of himself.

Putting one spoonful into his mouth after another he rubs his eyes, trying to remember when the last time he slept was. One day ago? Two days? He can't find a satisfactory answer. Either way, it doesn't matter; the only thing that does, now, is to get Procedure Lilac up and running. That's the only way to restore humanity back to normal, they've told him, and he's going to make that restoration plan a reality. But he doesn't believe those words. Deep down, he knows that the Empyrean Parasite and its spread are too far gone to undo it, now. If it ever even was undoable in the first place, that is.

Jacob shrugs, unable to really care, and writes down a few notes to himself on the napkin they gave him with the meal. As pen touches paper and ink splatters upon the serviette's fragile texture, he suddenly stops. He swallows, slowly moving his sight towards the other people present around him. They can see him.

A paralyzing shiver goes down his spine, and he's more than sure that they can see through him, too. The two colleagues that sit in front of him are buried deep in their own conversation, but he's sure it's just an illusion, some awful masquerade put up so that they can try and peek into his life. He swallows again — this time much harder — and suddenly stands up, ready to take his leave. To the company of laughs and smiles not directed at him, he rapidly leaves the cafeteria, not thinking for even a moment about the hunger that burns his insides or the food he'd left behind that could quench it. All he can focus now is those eyes, always so keen on nothing but drilling through him and seeing all those insecurities and flaws and putting them up to the public, like some twisted display.

If he could run away from here, he would. There is no doubt about that in his mind. The claustrophobic bunker of a Site they'd buried him and the others under wasn't a home. It never could be. At best, it is an imitation of a prison, decorated ever so slightly as to try to remind him he's here to do his job instead of weeping at the misfortune of his fate; at worst, it is an actual cell. He can't decide whether it or his body do a better job at caging him in.

As the midnight clock reminds her to wake up, Jane opens her eyes, exhaustion still unwilling to leave her body.

She knows she should be sleeping. She has a big workday coming up tomorrow, and nearly every single calendar, schedule, and phone she could think of are now reminding her of that. But she doesn't care. She cannot resist the urge of the night and its freedom. Not anymore, at least.

Slowly, Jane gets up from her bed seated among the rest of her colleagues laying atop the cold floor. There were too many of them to fit properly once the quarantine began, so they had to somehow cut loose ends. And their doctors were the first to fall. After all, they were expendable. The guards fighting off the endless hordes of mutants (as they were forced to call them down here) were not.

One slow step after another, she makes her way through the sleeping bags and snoring doctors, eventually opening the heavy metal doors leading to the shared bathroom. Nothing but silence fills the world, and though the creek of those doors is so quiet, she's more than sure someone has heard her. And that scares her. Someone must have. Someone—

With a quick inhale, she cuts the thoughts of the day away, knowing they are of no use. Her mind now clear, she enters through. The tiled floor is chilling, its cold, cold embrace traveling up her two naked feet. But what awaits within is too valuable to even dare to complain. She knows that all too well.

A still calmness drowns the entire room as Jane silently walks up to the mirrors which line up the walls. With the curiosity of a toddler, she gently touches the glass, too afraid it would break upon reflecting her figure. But it doesn't. And for the first time since the last time she'd been here, she sees herself for who she is.

And she is beautiful.

Jane doesn't know why, but she is. She just is. From her hair to her hand and her lips, everything is right. Everything is as it should be. For a moment, she forgets about the world out there and the raging storm within the wastelands above. She doesn't need to remember them. The only escapism from all of this she ever needs right now is to stare into that perfect figure glancing at her from the other side of the world, ever so close yet so infinitely distant.

She smiles, just sitting there on that awfully chilling floor like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

And, for those two hours she allows herself to do that, everything is okay. For just a moment, she feels like she's home.

Jacob wakes up, a terrible headache plaguing his thoughts.

Absentmindedly, he picks up his research and wanders into the lab. It's not home — he isn't even sure if he has a home he can really speak of — but it's the closest he's probably going to get, frankly. He corrects his glasses and sits by his desk, a bite or two of an old bagel finding its way in between steps. The pile of documents in front of him is large. Larger than anything he's been given so far. But in some deep corner of self-pity, he cherishes that strangling work schedule. Perhaps even worryingly so.

So he works.

He works until the sun goes down and then back up again, his pen never stopping, green-checking one box after another. He sees whether the data matches, and — if necessary — corrects it, reporting one Lilac iteration after another. All of them fail, of course; even down here, with all the propaganda they try to feed him to tell him it could work, he can see it's useless. It always will be. Lilac tries to fix people that aren't broken. People that don't need fixing. And somewhere in his soul, Jacob feels bad for them.

He wouldn't ever tell anybody about it, naturally; to ever conceive of such an action is unthinkable, no matter how much he hates the hierarchy he's a part of. But as he sorts through tens of pages describing nothing short of torture strawn upon people whose only crime was willing to be free, some part of him that still remembers empathy tells him it's wrong. Maybe he's not correct, maybe it's just his inner bias speaking. But he cannot shake off the feeling that… things aren't like they are meant to be. Like they should ever be.

And yet, something in him tells Jacob those thoughts are wrong. Whether it's his real mind speaking or some deep-coded Foundation beliefs he doesn't quite share, he can't decide. But for the short moment he allows himself to even considers that, he's—

Not happy, no. He snaps out of his work. He cannot be happy. Not like this, he thinks to himself as he sees his hands again. Not ever, not in a thousand years, if he remains who he is now. Hoping for at least a bit of relief, he looks at the mirror hanging before him. But it is still day. There is no happiness inside. Only reminders of why he's as horrid as he is. Jacob closes his eyes, not wanting to ever look at himself again, and tells himself it's time to get back to work. It's the best he can do.

So he suppresses all of those thoughts, and gives in to being a mindless drone once more.

Though the night still calls Jane like it always has, this time, something is different.

She cannot quite decide what it is as she stands up, but something… something feels wrong in the air. It's not the nauseating stench that ripples all throughout it; she's already gotten used to it. It's something much worse. Like a heavy weight in her stomach, that unsaid expression of worry lingers on the footnotes of her mind, never quite making it into full text. So — even knowing she really shouldn't — Jane gets and walks her route all the same.

The floor is colder, tonight. But that's okay, she thinks to herself as she makes sure nobody is there with her. It's too important of a day for something as small as that to ruin it, she reassures herself as she checks whether the water below the showers has already evaporated. It has. Jane sighs, and slowly approaches the mirrors. It is time.

Gingerly, she pulls up the box from behind her labcoat. As if she was carrying a baby, she puts it on the counter, trying her very best to not damage what is inside. It was too difficult to get it in here, smuggled in between lab supplies, to even consider not dealing with it with utmost respect and worry.

One by one, she works with the items from inside the box, like a sculptor would with a chisel. With each passing second, the mirror of her face slowly turns itself into the form she desires. It's not easy; but then again, nothing worth doing ever is. And when she is done, she stares. Stares at herself, and almost cannot believe her eyes. Because, dear god, to ever think she could be so right would be preposterous during the day; but tonight, it isn't. And she likes that. More than anything during her whole life. Her lips unconsciously express that thought with a slight but honest smile.

And with that, time just simply stops existing for her. Her eyes affix on her reflected self. Nothing else matters; the cold beneath doesn't bother her in the slightest, and the only sounds she can hear are the rhythmic ticks of a clock on a nearby wall.

Everything is as it should be. Everything. She feels like she's where she belongs. Like she's where everything is okay. If that place even exists somewhere out there — or has even ever existed, for that matter — it is here and now.

Suddenly, she jumps in place, her peace disrupted by an unforeseen, horrible sound. The door a few meters next to her slowly opens, and — with a heavy step — someone enters through. She hears their footsteps; they may be distant, but the unsaid threat within them is still there. She swallows hard. In just a second, two billion options go through her head, none of them right. Shee tries to swallow again; this time, though, her throat is empty.

"Jacob?" A rough voice inquires. In it, he recognizes Alex, one of the folks who have just returned from the front yesterday. They're tall, scarred, and jacked, but in the shadow of the unlit bathroom, their squinting eyes barely notice him; just the rough shape of him standing next to a mirror.

"H-Hi," he quietly gets out, moving ever so closer to the dark corner of the room next to him. "What… What are you d-doing here?" With a slow movement, he gets the box out of Alex's view, and back into his labcoat.

Alex shrugs with theatrical indifference, but still makes sure to show off the large scar now decorating their forearm. "Not much. Just got up for a midnight piss." They quietly make their way toward the nearest stall, not paying even a bit of attention to him. He shivers with fear all the same. "You?"

"I… Yeah. M-Me too."

Awkward silence lays the room.

"So, uh, how's the front?" He asks, preferring to start the conversation up again on his terms; the last thing he wants right now is confrontation. "Any news?"

In response, Alex just laughs. "'twas the best hunt we've got so far, bud."

"Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah. The kill count's on forty-seven now. The shits got me bad, but hey, whatever gets those little fucks to meet the maker more quickly's fine by me," they chuckle. "The scar's worth it!"

As they flush the water, he doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch. Even when Alex gets out of the stall and washes their hands, he just cannot; the only thing reverberating through his head are those words, and the tone they said them in. It wasn't just normal soldier obedience, no; it was… it was as if they didn't see those people as human. At all.

So much so that they enjoyed every moment of it.

Alex leaves the bathroom, and now, she is utterly alone again. And she just stands there.

Whatever gets those little fucks to meet the maker more quickly's fine by me.

She looks down at the floor, but doesn't speak a word.

Jacob's head feels like death.

He tries to ignore it, making his way to the cafeteria for a morning snack. However, all attempts prove futile as the intercom announces that "ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL ARE TO IMMEDIATELY REPORT TO THEIR TEAM LEADERS" in a tone so loud and spiky it almost makes him vomit. He eughs, but carries through.

Slowly, he sits down near the isolated table, and starts to chew on the tasteless canned meal they've given him. He knows it's better than nothing, but he still misses real food. The type his mother always gave him. The type that just satisfied every single culinary need the seven-year-old Jacob could possibly ever have. It smelled so good, he remembers, but just briefly. He'd trade pretty much anything to be back at home, and to share just one more meal with grandma.

Home.

Home.

That single word goes through his head like thunder splitting air. He hasn't thought about home in a long while. He isn't even certain if it's still out there. Because he's sure as hell it isn't down here, buried beneath tons of dirt and steel he's forced to call a safe haven. He doesn't want to admit it, but he misses it. He misses that freedom of coming home after every night of work, of actively being able to choose to be somewhere else that wasn't the Foundation. Some of his colleagues trapped here with him wouldn't trade away their safety to see home one more time, of that he's sure.

What he would do if given the chance, though, he's not as certain.

Having finished the meal he stands up, ready to take his leave. But as he's about to head out, he hears something; a faint whisper, coming just from behind him.

"—two days away," the worried voice says, trying its very best to make sure nobody but its friends hears it. "That's what they've told me. They're two days away."

"…Christ." Another one chimes in. "How many?"

"Around ten thousand," one answers.

"Fuck," a third voice concludes. It's scared. Even Jacob can hear that. "Fuck."

"And we don't have nearly enough men to with—" the first one tries to get out, only to be stopped by two's elbow meeting its belly. All three suddenly turn and look at Jacob, their words stuck in their already tight throats.

He doesn't need any words to get the message.

With a quick step, Jacob turns for the lab two floors below. His headache is no longer a concern; the only thing that still troubles his mind are those people, and what they said. From their words it's clear there's a mutant army approaching, from their tone — that they are worried. If what they said is true — and, judging by their Level 4 insignia, Jacob doesn't really question their sincerity — the whole Site is in danger. In most danger it has probably ever been in.

And yet, Jacob cannot care enough to worry.

He doesn't know why, really. He just can't. It's not quite indifference or some sort of cosmic acceptance of the fate he's been expecting for months now. To be honest, it's an emotion he finds difficult to articulate. More difficult than words can manage. It lies somewhere between nostalgia, sadness, and longing for—

—yeah, for what, exactly?

Freedom?

The ability to be himherhimself?

Home?

Or all at the same time?

She doesn't find an answer.

Tonight, Jane doesn't long for freedom; instead, she longs for something infinitely less complicated.

She longs for memories.

Sitting down cross-legged on that tiled floor she knows all too well, she doesn't look into the mirror to see herself. She ponders into it solely to see the two wells into her soul she likes to call eyes. And that, the surface reflects well; well enough for her to immediately fall into a trance.

Without really thinking much, she lets her thoughts wander around in her head freely. She can't truly articulate why, but tonight, those thoughts find only one destination, only one end to their destination: home.

To Jane, "home" isn't quite as material as she would have liked. Ever since she was a kid, she's been in and out, living in whatever place her parents could at the time afford, so the word doesn't have as much resonance with her as she was sure it has with others. But there is still some ethereal quality, some ungraspable trait to that almost Platonic ideal of "home" she holds in her mind. And that ideal is beautiful.

Jane had never been one to long for… anything, really. Sure, she had always had goals in her mind — from getting that degree to finally scoring a promotion, they were always there, but they were just that, goals, physically achievable plans she could put into her schedule and actually acquire. But to dream of something — to truly dream of something — she never did do that. She was too grounded in that awful reality around her to be able to give into a fantasy where everything was good and she was happy.

Until now. Tonight, she lets that change.

Her soul feeling like it had almost been freed, she stares into those beautifully brown eyes of hers, and thinks. She imagines that metaphorical home, for just a moment considering how wonderful it would be. How strong its walls would stand, and how warm the fireplace would burn. And, most importantly, how safe its insides would be. How free she would be to be herself inside of it. How… How sure she was she would never need to hide within that house.

That's all it takes for her to truly long for home.

She isn't sure if she could truly find herself a place like that, now or ever; but… she knows that it's possible. Now, it is no longer a dream — it is a plan put into her schedule just like the whole rest of the things she wanted to achieve. What's best, however, is that she knows exactly how to achieve it.

Somewhere out there, she's sure, her home lies. Stranded in between the mutated cities and equally changed people, the place she wishes to live in sits, just waiting for her. She's certain. It just has to be.

And she's going to do anything it takes to find it.

As Jacob wakes up again, he begins to sense a pattern.

Not a strange one, naturally; to work in the lab — or any other Foundation job, for that matter — was to surrender oneself to the corporate hell of repetition ad infinitum, that he knows well. But there is something particularly peculiar about the loop he's found himself in. Some tingling feeling behind his back, always there to remind him it's not your normal ouroboros of duty given to a normal man, always there to silently whisper into Jacob's ear that things are not as they should be.

What the feeling truly is, though, he once again finds no answer. And at this point, he's not even sure if he wants to have one.

The snake of infinity's grasp on Jacob's throat tightens as he enters the rehearsal of research once more. He sits down and, like a mindless drone, begins to work. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. One filed-up lab doc after another he reads and he reads and he reads and he reads until the only thing that's left inside of him is pure data, all describing that horrible, torture his higher-ups designated as Lilac. Perhaps others would surrender to the horrible euphemism and call it salvation, but he — he sees what it is. What a petty and cruel torture inflicted upon those that wished nothing but freedom it really represents.

But he cannot find it in himself to be afraid of it.

Every cut and poke so vividly described within those documents hurts, that is for sure, but he… he doesn't feel true terror when he sees it? Some part of him tells him it's because of the shape of cold indifference he molded his brain over the years of work for the Foundation. But a different part — perhaps more wisely — recognizes it isn't that, no; that ancient, ancient part of his consciousness whispers into his ear that he doesn't fear it because deep down, he knows he would take the risk. Even if he knew he would inevitably fail and end up strapped down into those test tables every time he ran for it, he would still take the chance. Every. Single. Time.

And sometimes, he even listens to that part.

In those few minutes of rest he allows himself every hour, he gives in to those strangely dark dreams. He hears as the night voice of a mind so his own yet so alien tells him it's okay to think of them, actively showing him where to look to find them. And, in time, it points him to the SCP-3396 containers stored in biohazardous material storage.

So he listens.

In just a single split second between infinitely long sessions of hellish paperwork, he wonders the white halls of his prison, always finding his way into one place, one haven among all of that fire: the place his mind ever so willingly tells him to visit. Those wonderfully transparent glass panes open up to show a room, so infected with SCP-3396-mutated organisms it's almost rotting. And Jacob feasts his eyes upon them, drinking up their immaculate beauty in every second of freedom he and they can create together within his work days.

For his Overseers, they are monsters. For his friends, they are enemies. But for him, they are nothing short of perfect.

Jane cannot quite articulate why, but tonight, she feels like the happiest person on Earth.

She knows that if she would just think for long enough, she would be able to get into her day self and understand the source of her joy. But, putting on the gown of the night and all of the freedom that comes with it, she does not want that. Not now, not ever.

So she just repeats her usual path, so wonderfully blissful to her state of content existence.

With an almost dancing grace she treads into the bathroom like it's her own, her tools of beauty already prepared. This time, she has something special; she's not quite sure how she managed to get that lipstick, but that doesn't matter. Those thoughts do not concern Jane. Not during the night, at least.

Slowly, as if what she had in her hands was the most valuable item on the entire planet, she opens it up. With the precision of a surgeon, Jane starts to apply the lipstick on her dried-up lips, ever so careful to not mess something up. She could not afford to make a mistake now, for to do so would cost her what is most likely the best moment in her life. And as she's about to move her hand in a final gesture that would conclude the whole operation, a horrible sound ruptures her eardrums, causing her to drop the item and break it.

"ATTENTION ALL ON-SITE PERSONNEL! WITHIN EXACTLY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, A RAMPANT ATTACK OF APPROXIMATELY A THOUSAND SCP-3396 INFECTED MUTANTS WILL REACH OUR CURRENT LOCATION. YOU ARE ALL HEREBY TO PREPARE YOURSELVES AS BEST AS YOU CAN WITH YOUR CURRENTLY AVAILABLE RESOURCES. YOU ARE TO PROVIDE YOUR OWN MILITARY EQUIPMENT, NO MATTER HOW PROVISIONAL IT MAY BE. NO FURTHER MILITARY KITS REMAIN TO GIVE OUT. SITE COMMAND APOLOGIZES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE."

Jane doesn't know what hurts her more; the broken lipstick, her messed-up makeup, or the awful headache that mechanical voice awakes in her once more. Perhaps, she thinks, it might even be all of them. But she doesn't feel anger at that; she doesn't even feel sadness. The only thing that her thoughts dare to oscillate around is the attack that's about to— well, "attack" was a very… liberal term for the upcoming event, she thinks. Perhaps…

…perhaps "liberation" was the more appropriate word.

With a fist full of determination, she picks up her accessory, now snapped in half. She doesn't see it as broken, however; she finds it to be just as good as it has always been. Just as good as it is about to be. She closes her eyes, and within that darkness she doesn't find worry — she only finds anticipation of what is about to come.

When she opens her eyes once more, for the first time in a long time, Jane smiles with nothing but sincerity.

The Site-wide announcement systems scream so loudly as to nearly deafen Jacob.

If he were asleep when they began, they'd make his life a living hell. But the restlessness of it all simply didn't allow for this; the only thing still remaining in Jacob's organism was a high, mixed up together from exhaustion,

worry,

and anticipation.

He doesn't smile — he would absolutely never allow himself to do that; not here, at least — but the happiness he wills manifest is still there inside him, just brewing to get out. Just a little more, he thinks to himself as he corrects his tie. Just a little more, and…

and what, exactly?

The question hits him like a brick wall. Ever since he heard that announcement, he knew he was waiting for its fulfillment, but now, he's not even sure why. Surely, he tries to rationalize, to want to meet the source of one's stress is logical, in some sense; if you were to simply confront the problem itself, you'd no longer have any reason to fear it in the first place. So why — why — is he uncertain of that explanation? Truly, why?

If he had the time, Jacob would absolutely try to answer his own inquiry. However, the non-stopping rush of his colleagues around him paired with the blasting of emergency announcements makes concentrating on anything quite impossible. So he shrugs, and gets back to pretending he's preparing for the attack, fiddling around with whatever empty weapon he was able to find last night. As long as it does its job, he supposes.

"Ramirez!" A sudden voice shakes Jacob away from his thoughts, making him immediately snap into reality.

He opens his eyes, and looks at the newcomer. "Sir?" He recognizes some security higher up he can't quite place.

Without any further words, the combat-weary commando forces something into Jacob's hand. Not really knowing what else to do, he accepts it. The item is rough and cold, and — worst of all — radiates death. For just a moment, Jacob swallows hard.

"Listen up, kid," the man continues, looking directly into Jacob's eyes. "The rest of the lab Level 4s are up prepping-up Lilac. But not you," he gets out before Jacob starts to turn away to join them. The man points at the lab around them: "You stay here, and make sure if anything goes wrong, you put this where it belongs. Got it?"

Jacob nods, both from indifference and just wanting the man to go. Before he can even answer the other, the soldier disappears into the corridor, another personnel already their next conversation target. So Jacob does the only thing he can do, really; he looks at what he was given.

And then he gulps.

Under normal circumstances, nobody below Level 5 would ever get one of these in their hands. But he supposes times must have really gotten desperate enough that they're giving out Site nuclear launch codes to people like him. He supposes it makes sense, though, somehow; he's the guy that knows the lab's layout the best, so he'd know how to get to the place the key belongs. But that doesn't make it any less fucked-up. Or any less irresponsible.

To the sound of continuous sirens blaring above, he simply stares at his new acquisition, truly unable to decide what he's supposed to think about it.

The night is already late when the attack arrives.

In just a moment, every single alarm previously screaming atop its lungs about the incoming invasion stops. The only thing that remains now is a silence, so thick Jacob can nearly touch it. And within it, sit thousands of people, their guns grabbed tightly to their chests. The only break from that constant is Jacob, his hand tentatively focused on the nuclear launch key.

For what feels like hours, nobody speaks. Nobody even dares to breathe. They simply sit there, buried underneath tons of steel and hidden behind a glamour of darkness, their hearts beating as fast as their thoughts. Each of them lets out a silent prayer, and tightens their lips.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

With an explosion equivalent to that of a dying sun, the ceiling of the Site tears itself to shreds. The gunfire begins almost immediately, quickly followed by screams and shouts, both human and not. As reality tears itself into shreds, rain starts to fall from nowhere, and Jacob hears another explosion. This time, however, it comes in reverse; because time itself indeed starts to negate its own path. Jacob stumbles backwards as the universe most immediate to him stops working like it should, now trapped in a bubble of chronological nonsense.

With a silent hiss, a figure made solely from shadow emerges into it, seemingly unbothered by the time dilations. Were Jacob anybody but himself, he'd already be running. And the time serpent knows that, coming ever so closer to his throat.

As the mutant's hand was about to reach Jacob's throat, a scream and a gunshot fire. A bullet returning from nowhere pierces the shadowman's head, quickly returning to its original sender, who stands behind it. Just as confused as Jacob, the MTF agent blinks twice as the time bubble breaks, not really quite sure what just happened. Before he can ask Jacob anything, though, he stands up, and starts to run with as much strength as mother nature gave him.

Navigating through a labyrinth of labs, dorms, storage rooms, and offices, Jacob tries to observe the world around him. It's chaotic, now — more chaotic than he has ever seen — but he cannot… he cannot say it isn't, in some strange way, beautiful. The colorful clouds of smoke that talk and the myriad humanoids that had once been chained spread their wings and traverse the Site.

And wherever they walk, only one thing follows. They bring down the awful Lilac apparatus and, leaving only the men and women that had no complicity in such crimes against beauty. And all of that — all of that wonderful, unorganized, borderline nonsensical chaos — is stunning. Stunning beyond words.

Slowly, Jacob stops in his tracks. As the realization of where his feet brought him dawns on him, a sudden spark of consciousness goes through his mind. Not to say he wasn't conscious before, of course — but in that very moment, he could feel that he was the most of himself he had ever been. Like the involuntary marathon he had to run to get here was not a subconscious decision, but his true mind and soul itself steering his wheels without him realizing.

The 3396 containment units.

Suddenly, another explosion occurs behind him. As a man with four legs and a woman with mantis eyes and arms emerge from the end of the corridor, they do not notice Jacob. They instead take out another one of those security guards that so desperately tried to prove their firepower as equal to the power of the now-unbounded people. So Jacob does not notice them, either, and simply walks up to the doors leading into his heaven.

To the death of consensus reality around him, Jacob opens the doors and steps into the airlock separating the Site and the biocontainment chambers. For just a moment — for just a single, infinitely long moment that feels like an eternity — he stops in his tracks before his hand can reach the control panel of the room before him. Before he can fully open the final wall separating him from freedom, Jacob looks down at his hand, and considers the nuclear key.

He looks at its cold, rough form, and truly considers what he should do with it. Quietly, he gazes out into the corridor he stood in just moments before. Now, it is entirely empty, the only thing still inside it a few corpses of people that were too blind to see that what they were truly fighting was themselves. He swallows, but not out of fear. Jacob isn't one of them. Jacob isn't going to be one of them.

Jacob has never been one of them.

With the most certainty he'd had since he was born, Jacob inputs the security pin. Slowly, the hermetically sealed doors begin to open, a wave of unpressurized air running through them. And, in just two moments, they are wide before him, inviting Jacob to make his decision.

If he wasn't sure of what he's going to do, he would stop here and consider his actions for even a moment. But now, he knows what he wants to do more than ever. He knows what he needs to do.

So he makes his decision.

But then again, she's already made it days ago.

With a heavy heart, Jacob steps in,

and Jane takes a relieved breath, truly free for the first time since she was born.

The world is ruined.

For all intents and purposes, what had once been considered civilization is now gone, replaced by a burning wasteland built atop what had once stood tall. The skyscrapers of man that reached into the skies above are nothing more than warm rubble, laying between the wide cracks broken within the rotting roads. The only thing left where they once were is the sky, open like it had never been.

And among those skies, Jane Ramires soars.

Free from the shackles of her mortality, she spreads her wings wide, and takes to the heavens above. The cold wind caresses her long hair and her soft skin, and it blows past her as she accelerates up into the cosmos. Now above everything and everyone, she sees the whole world below. If most people saw what she saw, they would call it ruined; she, however, has a different word for it. A word that reflects the state of the world just as well as it reflects her own.

The world is liberated.

Everywhere Jane can see, it is no longer bound by the idiocy of the old reality; it is now itself, and only itself. It is the only version of itself that could ever be free, finally unshackled from the chains of normalcy. For all that it's still worth, it can finally thrive.

Just like herself.

As Jane flies higher and higher, she smiles a smile so wide as to be barely containable by her now-perfect face. Her wings feel the cosmos around them as she breaks the speed limit, and, now and forever, she feels free.

For some, the world has ended.

For others, though, it has merely begun.