Alvares: Are we going to do the whole “sob sob 
remembering the departed” thing? No, fine, Geronimo. 
Jeff was the best of you people because he had no 
bullshit. Artists are bullshit, doctors are bullshit. 


Magicians are more bullshit than man. Jeff went to work, 
made good, solid metal equipment, installed it in 
dimensional portals, came home in the evening to drink 
and screw and sleep, and got up to do the same thing 
tomorrow. | respect a man who works with his hands. 


Howell: | can sympathize. 


Alvares: | guess that's why he went down. You need a 
certain level of bullshit to survive in this environment. 
[drinks from a glass of water] Although... 


Howell: What is it? 


Alvares: Fuck. Fuck, | just know it's... okay, that walleyed 
bastard. Elrich. Erlich. 


Howell: Grenich. 


Alvares: Whatever. He and Simmons were having this 
argument that afternoon. Some political squabble about, 
uh... US government, neoliberals, the usual. And when 
Simmons cut it off and left, Grimace had this look about 
him. That look that says “I'd cut your throat but I'm too 
good to get your blood on my shirt.” And when we were 
in the shit, and | was explaining to Jeff how the setup in 
the teleporter system is basically a networked version of 
a system he's worked with a hundred times, | could 
swear | saw Gergitch screwing with it. He told us that he 
thinks Jeff couldn't get through because of a sloppy 
connection. He sees us as sheep. Like we'll just believe 
that Jeff made a basic mistake on something not far off 
from his whole livelihood. 


Howell: So you think that Mr. Grenich deliberately 
caused Mr. Simmons's death? 


Alvares: I'm telling you, man. Watch the chaos magician. 


Cassandra Jackson (Former Manna 


Charitable Foundation Member) 


Howell: How are you feeling, Dr. Jackson? 
Jackson: I've been better, Doctor... what can | call you? 
Howell: Dr. Howell is fine. I'm sorry to hear that. 


Jackson: I've been worse, too, to be clear. This isn't the 
first time I've been detained during my work. If | make it 
back out to the field, it probably won't be the last. And 
I've had to give aid to nastier people than this cageful of 
whiny sociopaths. 


Howell: You do have an impressive record. You've spent 
fifteen years with the medical wing of the MCF, “Doctors 
Without Existential Boundaries”. It's taken you all over 
the world treating conditions that typical medical 
professionals couldn't fathom. 


Jackson: Oh, the basics still apply. Turn it inside out, fill it 
with tiny screaming robots, whatever, it's still the human 
body. Can | smoke in here? 


Howell: That should be fine. 
Jackson: Thanks. 


Howell: I'm just wondering how you feel after the mission 
you were sent on, specifically regarding your part in it. 


Jackson: Right, right. Specifically my role? All | did was 
put on a uniform and look like | knew what | was doing. 
Now, the Foundation's real intention here, that's what I'm 
concerned with. 


Howell: What do you mean “real intention”? 


Jackson: We're on need-to-know. They told us we had to 
sneak into a GOC headquarters, find a certain magic 
project the Coalition's working on, and sabotage it with 


Chaos Insurgency weapons. 
Howell: Right. Go on. 


Jackson: They don't explain why we're specifically 

pretending to be Cl. The clear implication was that it's a 
simple false-flag against a Foundation enemy. The rest 
of the team doesn't really care either way, to be honest. 


Howell: | see. 


Jackson: But they can't expect us to not know anything 
about the rumblings in the community, right? Keeping up 
with the Cl is part of my job, from how often we have to 
clean up their disasters. | know about the treaty. 


Howell: | should tell you this session is being recorded. 


Jackson: | don't care if they hear me. | can't say I'm 
surprised that the Foundation would pull something like 
this. I'm disappointed that it's in such an underhanded 
way, but the basic motivation is just like them. They just 
see that the GOC is helping the Cl and they want to 
make sure the bad guy doesn't score points. Is the 
agreement ideal? Is it even a guarantee, knowing the 
Cl? No, but it might have stopped up to a dozen 
insurgent attacks over the next several years. Hell, it 
might have stopped one. If you were to walk into the 
aftermath of a single one of those strikes, through the 
ash and the wailing, if you were to get in there and start 
pulling out wreckage because you can hear... no, the 
story doesn't cut it. Just trust me. It doesn't matter who 
made you mad or how unreliable the piece of paper 
might be. | just need to believe there might be a way out. 


Howell: This next question is going to sound callous, but 
it's just for the record. 


Jackson: It's fine. | know you have a job to do. 


Howell: If you feel so strongly about the mission, why did 


you cooperate? 


Jackson: Because that woman had her finger on the 
button. She knows I'm dangerous, and while she's not 
made of stone like she expects you to think, she leaves 
her feelings at the door when it comes to those missions. 
It's how she proves herself. If | showed even the warning 
signs of giving her up, out there, I'd be dead before the 
words could leave my mouth. 


Howell: If you had somehow been able to neutralize the 
mission, but die in the process, would you have done it? 


Jackson: The moment | knew | could. 


| Stick the Landing > 


Silence Is Not a Valid Answer 


D-4413 sat in the empty waiting room. At his side were numerous 
periodicals and magazines, none of which interested him. He gave 
occasional glances to the secretary, but would always lower his 
head when she looked back at him. He never noticed her concerned 
smile. 


"Clark?" 


Dr. Ashtekar stood in the doorway. In his hand was a clipboard and 
on his face was a smile. D-4413 stood up and made his way over. 
Ashtekar held his hand out, and D-4413 shook it, but he never 
matched the doctor's smile. 


"How are you, Clark? Excited?" Dr. Ashtekar motioned towards his 
office. 


| have a number, not a name. Dee-Dash-Four-Four-One-Three. "I'm 
okay | guess." 


Dr Ashtekar sat in his chair; D-4413 sat opposite him. 


"Just okay? | thought we had made some progress since last time. 
Are you looking forward to Monday?" 


D-4413 looked down at the floor. He wished, desperately, that he 
was anywhere but here. That thought was snuffed out quickly; He's 
trying to be nice to me. It's not his fault. 


"Most people look forward to their last day." 


D-4413 continued to say nothing. He twisted his hands together into 
various shapes and positions. After a while it started to hurt. 


"Try to relax. This final session is just a formality at this point." 


Nothing. Set in stone. Like | could change it. 


<Two shotgun reports, sound of door slamming on floor> 
<Immediate sustained gunfire> 


Agent Washburne (T1L): Home, contact! Two, get the 
fuck down here! Roland, pull back! 


Agent Nicholas (T1): Hoskins is down! Shit! 


Agent Washburne (T1L): Roland, on your right! Two, 
hurry the fuck up! 


Agent Michaels (T2L): One, what the hell's going on 
down there? 


<Gunfire ceases> 
Agent Michaels (T2L): Trapper One! Sound off! 


<Agent Washburne, shouting off comm: Two, get the 
fuck down here, Hoskins is down! Hurry the fuck up!> 


Agent Michaels (T2L): Copy one! Harrison, Thompson, 
you're coming with me. Gabardi, stay with Doc. 


<Trapper Two can be heard acknowledging Trapper Two 
Lead's order.> 


Agent Michaels (T2L): Home, One, be advised, Two is 
en route to One's last position. 


<Agent Washburne can be heard cursing over Agent 
Michael's VOX feed.> 


Agent Michaels (T2L): One, be advised, your radio's 
not broadcasting; | can hear you, but you're- JESUS 
CHRIST! TWO, ENGAGE, ENGAGE! 


<Immediate sustained gunfire> 


Agent Michaels (T2L): Thompson, pick up the slack. 
Loading! Gun up! Guys, pull it back down the hallway. 


Dr. Ashtekar gave a small sigh and rubbed the tip of his beard. He 
put the clipboard aside and reached into a small refrigerator next to 
his desk. "What would you like to drink? And I'm not taking silence 
for an answer." 


"Coke." 
"I've got Pepsi." 


"Okay." Dr. Ashtekar handed a cold can over, and D-4413 popped 
the tab open. The doctor grabbed a Dr. Pepper for himself. D-4413 
took a sip, savoring the sweetness of the sugar. He hated Pepsi. 


"Do you have any alcohol?" D-4413 was surprised he had spoken. 
Stupid stupid stupid. 


"Err, no, | don't. Do you want some?" Dr. Ashtekar seemed curious. 


"No. | don't know why | said that." D-4413 felt his face burn red. He 
pretended to pick at his shoes. Dr. Ashtekar flipped through the 
clipboard until he found the ID page. He nodded as if he had 
confirmed something. 


"You've never had beer before have you?" There was a click as he 
put his pen to paper. He expected a response. 


"No." Why did | ask that? Why did I think | could ask him like he's my 
friend he's just a doctor that wants to know if I'm going to hurt more 
people in the future. 


Dr. Ashtekar flipped back and forth between a few pages. "Yes, | 
can see that. Unfortunately, | don't drink, but once you are out of 
here nothing is stopping you. Just be responsible." 


"Okay." There was more silence. Outside, D-4413 could hear the 
secretary greet another patient. He could swear she sounded less 
enthusiastic than earlier. 


"Clark." D-4413 turned back to look at the doctor. "Are you worried 
about your release?" 


"No." A lie. D-4413 could feel tears brimming in his eyes. He hated 


that he didn't know how he felt and he was ashamed of it. / don't 
want this. Any of it. 


‘You've been here for almost sixteen years. That's almost half your 
life. It's okay to be worried." Dr. Ashtekar was somehow both leaning 
forward and sitting back at the same time. Like an animal about to 
strike. 


"I'm not worried.” Lying. Why am | always lying? Why can't | just 
take that leap and try to understand why I'm like this | wish I could 
explain it but | can't and now I'm stuck with myself because 
someone had to. 


Dr. Ashtekar's gaze was unrelenting. He knows. But he then nodded 
and wrote something down. 


36 minus 16 equals 20. "Are you going to help me?" Take me back 
to the cell, please. 


"You'll be given employment through a Foundation operated 
company. Consider it a probationary period so we can see how well 
you adjust." 


"And if | don't?" D-4413 could feel his heartbeat start to accelerate. 
He felt like he was getting there, to the point. / can't do this. 


"I'd rather not think about that. You've made great progress these 
last few years. Not just in terms of testing, but personal growth. The 
Committee certainly thinks you are ready." 


D-4413 didn't respond. Can! still say no? That was what he wanted 
to say. To crawl back into his regulation bed and fall asleep until the 
next round of testing. / can say no... | can tell him I'm not ready, | 
don't want this | hate how this feels | don't want to live like a fish 
through a glass where | can't make out why everyone is so happy 
and | feel like I'm trapped looking out | want to feel something | want 
to be like you. 


A familiar throbbing sensation pulsed behind his forehead. The 
Doctor's voice droned on in the distance, ever farther away. Just tell 
him. You aren't ready. He opened his mouth to speak. No one will 


help you unless you help yourself. You've been hiding for so long 
how can you expect others to understand? 


Why would anyone care? 
| don't want to be a burden. 
"| guess I'm ready." 


That earned him a large smile. Dr. Ashtekar clicked on his pen and 
wrote something down. "That's what | wanted to hear. You'll do fine, 
trust me." He stood up and held out his hand. Like a programmed 
routine, D-4413 reached and and did the same. They shook hands. 
"Congratulations, Clark, or formerly D-4413. You are now officially 
rehabilitated." 


This means nothing. "| have a question." 
"Yes?" 
"Will you guys remove my memories?" 


"No. It feels counterproductive to the process to remove the context 
behind your change." 


"Oh." 
Silence. 
"What if | told people though?" 


This earned him a hearty laugh. Dr. Ashtekar gave him a gentle slap 
on the shoulder. 


"Do you really think anyone would believe you?" 


Once, a few years before he broke, he had a dog. Savannah was a 
beagle, and a light in his life. In a rare moment of tranquility, his 
parents had left him alone for the day. He spent it outside, running 
with Savannah. 


When he got tired, he took a breather on the porch. He called for 
Savannah. No response. She had been sniffing around some 
bushes earlier. Oh well. He went inside and made some lemonade, 
bringing the pitcher outside. 


There sat Savannah, with something between her teeth. It twitched 
and bled, and for a moment he could see a large singular eye. And 
then it closed. 


She dropped it at his feet. A rabbit. Savannah gave a bark of 
happiness and rushed off again. He didn't know what to do, so he 
ran inside and grabbed some gardening gloves. Gently he picked up 
the little rabbit. /t's hardly a baby. |t didn't move. 


He only realized after that he felt nothing. If he had, it was lost in 
such a place. He simply sat there, corpse in hand. 


Savannah reappeared. She had another; this one already dead. 
Again, she dropped it at his feet and ran off. He laid the one in his 
hands next to its sibling. He still felt nothing. 


The cycle repeated again and again and again. By the end, he found 
himself with five murdered rabbits, and one proud beagle. He tried to 
scold her, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he patted her on 
the head and sent her inside. 


Later, while digging a hole for them, he realized what was wrong. / 
didn't stop her. | sat there as she ran and killed and | could have 
done something. The emotion was real this time, but fleeting. 

Why did I do nothing? 


But he knew of course. 


Six Days 


Day One 


Where am |? My head is all fuzzy... Is this a hospital? Am | hurt? 
My throat is so dry... Why is there an IV in my arm. Have | been ina 
coma? What's this tube sticking out of my mouth!? 


| try to get out of my bed, only to find I’ve been restrained to it. My 
arms and legs bound like a psych ward patient. Panic sets in and | 
struggle against the straps, making muffled grunting noises as | do 
so. After fifteen minutes of straining myself, | finally give up. | try to 
think on the bright side of things. When | was taken, they did such 
terrible things. But now... now, I'll be okay. I’m safe now, recovering 
in a hospital, even if I’m strapped down, it’s still better than what I’d 
been through before. 


Where’s that nurse call button? Maybe they didn’t bother giving me 
one since I’ve been in a coma. I'll just wait for one of the doctors to 
come along. | hope | can see my family soon. Mom would be happy 
to learn that I’m okay. This hospital room sure is big... | wonder why. 
Maybe it’s one of those fancy new hospitals with lots of room. Oh! | 
bet they have a huge cafeteria. When | get this tube out, I'm going to 
have a big meal. 


| wiggle my toes a bit, silently running a song | remember from a 
while ago through my mind, bobbing my head a little to the beat. It 
was finally over, and soon I'd be reunited with my family. Looking 
down to bounce my feet around a bit, | notice a large lump in the 
hospital gown where my stomach should be. Oh god.... I'm 
pregnant?! When did this happen? Never mind... Considering what 
happened before | was rescued, | suppose it's only natural. Besides, 
my family will be there for me. They'll help me through this. | know it. 
Dad might be a little shocked, but Mom would be happy to finally be 
a grandmother, even if it happened under terrible circumstances. 


| wonder what I'll name her. Or, him? | better start thinking of good