Merle shuffled forward and sat beside him. It was dead quiet. Not 
even the wayward chirp of a cricket could be heard. Merle has a 
certain aura about him that just repels all surrounding wildlife. It 
used to set off the hairs on Dietrich's neck, but after a few years he's 
forgotten about that feeling. A full minute passed by and he signed 
to Dietrich again, though his claws were hardly visible in the 
darkness. 


WHY-CAN'T-YOU-REMEMBER 


Dietrich shrugged. "It ain't that simple. Try'n look back— mentally. 
Any lil thing. It's like try'n to remember a scene from an old movie or 
the weather in a photograph." He then gently palmed the cold flat 
stone in his hand he picked up on his walk earlier. 


"You know... | have hard times rememberin what her voice sounded 
like. How dumb is that?" 


Merle just listened for a while, then responded. 
YEAH-THAT-SOUNDS-DUMB 


Dietrich nodded and with a flick of his wrist, skipped his stone a 
good long ways across the water's surface. "The heartache, the 
tears, even that's all fuzzy... if | even felt dem things then. | was a 
kid when it happened. | never felt what | should've felt. Just like how 
| can't remember what | should remember." 


SORRY-I-EVEN-ASKED 


Merle leaned back on his arms and watched the stone finally sink 
into the quiet black. Dietrich popped open another beer. "The worst 
part? The worst part is that for a while when she was in decline, ya 
know... it was kinda what | subconsciously wanted." 


THAT-DOESN'T-MAKE-SENSE 


"As a teenager, nuthin makes sense. But there's always this, | 
dunno, a competition between stupid young shitheads to see who 
has the worst home life. Somehow issues like yer parents gettin 
divorced, bein abused as a kid, or things like that makes you cooler. 
High school is ass-backwards." 


SOUNDS-LIKE-MOST-HUMANS 


Dietrich continued. "One thing | do remember... when Pa carried her 
downstairs and sat her in the chair on Christmas mornin. She 
watched us like a corpse as my brother and | opened presents. The 
whole holiday was just hollow. That was the last I'd seen her. | 
wasn't brave enough to go to her room, too ‘fraid I'd be the one to 
find her dead. She died two days later in the middle of the night in 
her bed. Her name was Betty." 


THEN-WHAT 


"| went back to school. | pretended like nuthin was wrong. | even lied 
bout her bein alive. Like there was no cancer. | couldn't handle the 
reality and the guilt. Oh fuck, that guilt. This went on fer years, 
Merle." 


NOBODY-KNEW 


"Oh! My teachers knew. Yeah. | was prolly bein watched to see if | 
flipped out. | never did. Nobody talked to me... or asked. So | just 
pretended. And after all that pretendin... | forgot to grieve. | forgot to 
grieve, Merle. And I've forgotten how to even start. The lie went on 
fer so long, | forgot that it was a lie in the first place. How's that fer 
bein a teenager?" 


SO-YOU-HAVE-REGRETS 


Dietrich looked at Merle, then at his feet. "Nope. Maybe. Does it 
matter?" He took a swig. "Everyone's Ma dies. My sad story ain't so 
special, Merle. So I'll have a few beers every Christmas— where we 
dumped her ashes. Maybe | can jog a memory or two. Remind 
myself of the lie. Maybe even figure out how to— nevermind." 


Dietrich took a long swig. "Too many years, not 'nuff beers." He was 
just drunk enough to roll one over to Merle, which he just stared at 
with his empty eyes. 


I-CAN'T-DRINK 


Dietrich took another long swig and tossed the empty can next to 
him. "Just humor me then. I'm a drunk trying to dig up his shitty past. 
And you're a— thing. A thing that has to listen to me." 


HURRY-UP-AND-PASS-OUT 


"How else you think this's gonna end?" With a grunt and a burp, 
Dietrich groggily stood up. The beer sloshed in his belly as he 
blinked hard to focus. "H-help me find my way back to the camper, 
Merle." 


Too Cold to Live, Too Young to Die 


December 19th, 2015, Site-19 


“There’s something off about you, Lee. Don’t think | don’t notice.” 
“There’s always something off about me by your standards.” 
“You've been seeing someone. You're happier. A little calmer, too.” 


Adam Leeward stood up from his chair. Agent Ketson’s office 
decorations were headache-inducing, the silver and gold of the 
picture frames by the window reflecting the setting sun straight into 
his eyes. He squinted. Ketson had a picture framed of the two of 
them standing together in one of the containment wings. He didn’t 
remember having that taken. “I have to go.” 


“Duty calls?” He looked at his watch. “It’s seven PM.” 
“You know how it is.” 
“Your skip isn’t sick again, is she?” 


He frowned. “I don’t remember telling you that she was sick.” God, 
that fucking light... 


“Heard it from Rogers and the others. Sorry.” 

“Mmm.” He didn’t make any move toward the door. 

“Was it... contagious? Because you look sick. Like, weirdly pale.” 
“I can’t give the details. She’s fine now.” 

“You're not fine.” 


Leeward found himself standing behind Ketson, by the windowsill. 


He wasn’t sure when he had walked over there. He didn’t care 
either. “When was this taken?” He eyed the picture of the two of 
them. 


“When you moved from Site-11. When we met.” 


Leeward held the frame closer, staring into the image of his own, 
younger eyes. He didn't look like the same person. “Okay.” 


“You know you can call me if you need me, right?” Ketson added 
nervously, watching him walk to the door. He opened his mouth 
once more, but didn’t say anything. 


“Oh. Yeah.” He waited for a few seconds, staring blankly at the fuzzy 
sunset glow backlighting Ketson’s slouched body, before turning and 
walking out. 


“Is it you?” 
“It's me.” 
“Why are you here so late?” 


Leeward fumbled with his keycard. His hands were jittering. The 
lights in this wing were too bright. “I have to talk to you. Can | come 
in?” 


“Yeah.” 


Listen to her voice, he reminded himself as he slid the door open 
and then closed. Every few seconds, remind yourself that she 
speaks. 


Except she didn’t. Not as she sat down at the table by the 
kitchenette area and not as she frowned concernedly at him, her 
hands clasped in front of the collar of her gray-and-yellow jumpsuit. 
He felt panic rising in him. He should leave. This wasn’t her, this 
wasn't her, this wasn’t- 


“Are you sick?” 


He felt himself snap back to reality. “I- not from you, if that's what 
you mean, no, you weren’t contagious.” 


“What’s wrong? You’re not leaving, right? | don’t want to be with 
anyone else-” 


He felt bile rise in his throat at the sound of her saying that. The 
lights were too bright. His hands shook. He felt sweat creeping down 
his chest, soaking into the buttons and collar of his shirt. When he 
spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own. “W-what do you mean by 
that?” he said a little too forcefully. 


She recoiled, eyes widened. “I- | don’t... trust anyone else, is all. | 
don’t like the guards or your assistant or especially the doctor and if 
anyone else had come in here just now like you did | would have just 
shut myself in the bathroom.” 


He stared through her. 


“Why are you leaving?” She was shaking too. It was already sixty- 
five degrees and the tone of the fluorescent lighting was dropping it 
by ten more. "Are you leaving?" 


Just Say it. Just say it. Force the words out of your mouth. “|- was 
transferred to another project,” he blurted out. He cursed himself. 
That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it because she deserved the truth. That 
wasn’t it because it felt wrong to tell the truth. “...and | can’t stay on 
two projects at once.” He swallowed. He hadn't looked at her in 
several seconds. Each second was a year. He stared into the table. 
It was blindingly white. He felt a headache and tears coming on 
simultaneously. 


“So | have to go,” he continued, standing on unsteady feet, “and the 
Foundation thanks you for your continued cooperation.” 


When she didn’t respond, he wondered if it was really her, if she 
was still there or if she'd already faded out of existence the second 
she was out of his line of sight. But his headache weighed more 
heavily on him than his thoughts ever could, and the slam of the 
steel door was a heavier sound than her sobs ever could be. He 
walked out and down the hallway without looking back. 


December 21st, 2015, Site-19 


"Doctor Blanchard." 
"Yes?" 


Leeward walked over, hands trembling. He slid the printed 
document onto the older man's desk and took a seat across from 
him. 


“..1 see.” 
He fidgeted. “I-I’m not... in...” 


“You are not in ‘trouble,’ Doctor Leeward." He almost smirked. "It is 
a biologically human female with human behaviors and a human 
personality, and you are a heterosexual human male assigned to 
take care of it. There is nothing wrong with natural impulse so long 
as you possess the self-awareness to prevent yourself from acting 
upon it." 


Leeward bit his lip at the assumption that he was straight, but he 
didn't say anything. 


"Okay?" 


"Mmm." John Blanchard’s office window faced the side of the 
building that was usually in shadow. There were no vibrant tones in 
this room. Brown and gray. His eyes and his mind felt softer as the 
environment felt softer, and his headache lessened. This was a dull 
room for a dull man. 


"... There is, however, a problem." 
His pulse quickened. 


"Your desktop computer's files. You know Site intranet allows 
access to automatically search for concerning key phrases in 
documents." 


"Y-yeah...?" 


Blanchard's mouth became a straight line as he clicked around on 
his laptop for several seconds before spinning it around to present 
the monitor to Leeward. "So what, may | ask, is this?" 


His chest felt like it was going to burst. "...It's complicated." 


"Mmm. Good answer. It seems you're too little, too late with this 
situation, Leeward." 


He swallowed. 


"That is, if this implies what it seems to imply. We'll see what we 
have on our hands when the test results return." He turned the 
laptop back around to face himself. “In the meantime, go get some 
rest. I'll email you the remaining paperwork. Answer within forty- 
eight hours. We'll be transferring you to another Site." 


He nodded and stood, almost falling down. His knees were wobblier 
than usual, and his vision felt as though it was lagging. 


"I'll be transferring with you in a few months. It's time for a change." 


He nodded. Outside, in the bright hallway lighting, his headache 
throbbed. 


November 3rd, 2016, Site-81 


Leeward felt as though the door to his quarters was made of a thin 
foam, as if simply bumping into it or walking past it too quickly could 
break the veil and send its delicate form crumbling in on itself in 
light, airy clumps. He didn’t expect himself to go so far as to grab its 
handle, but surprisingly, it did not topple. 


“I’m back,” he narrated aloud as he closed the door and leant on it. 
“I’m sorry. | had a long day.” 


The woman in front of him nodded and smiled, extending her arms 
and enveloping him in her grasp. He sighed when he felt her clothes 


tugging on his, and in less than a second he hated himself all over 
again for ever doubting that she was anything other than real. 


“I’m working on our plan,” he said, leading her over to the bed and 
placing a hand on her stomach. “How long do we have? Seven 
months? Eight months? Ten months?” Time didn't matter to him 
anymore. Time and love weren't related, he reasoned; love was the 
linear one, and time, on the other hand, was an intricate web of 
mistakes and windfalls and everything in between. 


She smiled. Looking at the details of her face hurt his mind, but it 
was the only way to talk to her. He looked downward. It didn't bother 
him. She wasn’t normal, that much he could reason, but he wasn’t 
about to stop loving her because of it. “But we should get out in time 
to, you know, get set up. Start a life.” 


He wished the lights were yellow and not white. His eyes hurt. 
Something had hurt him once, and he couldn’t remember what. He 
could feel it. He had lost something, he recalled, and he started to 
see it in her. 


He looked away from her face. “I’m nauseous,” his tongue lied for 
him as he laid himself down with his eyes closed. He felt heavy, as if 
every muscle in his body wanted nothing other than to rest but his 
head and his heart were pulling him in the opposite direction, 
against gravity, ripping at his flesh and threatening to tear him 
inside-out. What was this? Was this what anguish was supposed to 
feel like? How was he supposed to contain it? 


He felt slender hands untying his bowtie from around his neck, 
unbuttoning his shirt. She wanted his clothes off. “I don’t feel well 
enough for that, | think,” he laughed. It echoed around the room for a 
little too long, but eventually absorbed into the walls. Silence rang in 
his ears. What was her name again? 


Her name was Aline, he recalled as he finished unbuttoning his shirt 
and then his pants for her. She was from Idaho, or maybe it was 
Oregon. She had turned herself in when her mother passed away, 
he remembered from the history section of her SCP document. He 
hoped he was remembering it right. He’d written it, after all. 


Subject: Bill Gates 

Photographed Activity: Giving a press conference. 

Photo Result: Entire scene has changed. Sitting in front of an 
unidentifiable 1980s-era computer, apparently programming it. 
Steve Jobs is standing next to him, apparently arguing with him. 
Both men have a look of grim determination. 


Subject: The President of the United States 

Photographed Activity: Giving a press conference. 

Photo Result: In the same location, but the reporters are absent. 
He and his family are walking away from the White House, with staff 
behind them carrying most of their personal possessions. He has an 
expression of great relief. 


...No, that couldn't be right. Aline wasn't here. He’d left her. She had 
nothing, he reminded himself, and in a few brief seconds his mind 
dredged up a sound he tried every day so desperately to bury. He 
felt the memory of it surge up through the marrow of his bones and 
skull and into his mind, and in his pain he remembered why he 
craved silence every night. Her stare digging at the back of his head 
as he turned from her. Her last sob as he had closed the door. 


He felt confusion and discomfort return to his chest and head in a 
flood of emotion, distracting him from any pleasure he may have 
gotten from her stroking his face and sliding herself down onto his 
cock. He started crying, his mind disconnected from his body and 
his body continuing to move regardless. He couldn’t tell if she cared 
- or even noticed - his detachment as he monotonously thrusted into 
her, the soft flesh his mind told him he was stroking against feeling 
more like rough, calloused skin. He bit back another sob and closed 
his eyes, finding that the mental image of her face was more in her 
likeness than she was. After several moments, he felt wetness 
leaking down between his legs, and he wasn't sure if it meant he'd 
come, he was bleeding, he was sweating, or all three. When he 
looked up at her face, he saw nothing but an incomprehensible 
conglomeration of everyone he’d ever loved. He jolted and threw her 
off, but his hands passed through thin air. 


He found himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror, leaning on 
the counter. When he looked at himself, he saw a tired thing with 
wild eyes and sweaty hair, clothes hanging off its wiry frame, dick 
hanging limply out of his pants and as blue and sickly with pallor as 
his cheeks and hands and heart. He saw a shell of a person, as if he 
was looking at a photograph from years ago that held none of his 
current self; this thing in the mirror wasn’t him, and that thing in the 
bedroom wasn't Aline.