He’s driving the car as Johnny Cash plays out of the cassette player. 
He’s in his dark green Columbia jacket that’s zipped open to a faded 
tshirt underneath, that and jeans and sneakers and his glasses that 
are different frames than he had when he was older. His camera is a 
Nikon model a couple years past its due date, scuffed around the 
edges, but his dad would always say that anything you loved would 
be roughed a little — including people. 


It's the mountains, and his dad has the windows down and is 
drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song. 
He can’t help but reflect on how healthy he looks compared to the 
last time Draven would see him laying on a cot in his office — 
shaggy dark hair, color in his face and skin, never really chubby but 
filled out into his frame, active, alive. His father loves travelling. He 
loves being outside. He loves exploring. 


“Dad,” he says loudly, because now he’s angry, and his father keeps 
driving, humming absently, mind lost in some partially-written story 
Or project. 


“Dad!” 


His father looks startled for a second, like he’s been woken up from 
a dream. For a moment Draven is seized with horror at the idea that 
his father might kill himself again, just like last time, just out of 
nowhere take a gun and do away with it all. He doesn’t expect him 
to respond. 


But he does. 


“What? What?” his father says, and all his fears melt away instantly, 
because that’s the sound of his father, a woody tenor, capable of 
speaking softly but usually projecting loudly over groups of people, 
in forests, testing echos and giving orders, exploring, running to the 
edge and almost teetering at the brink, never seeming to fit in his 
body quite right but also seeming to not belong in anyone else’s. It’s 
been raised in anger before, but not routinely yet, and it shakes him 
to think that there will be a time where his father will scream himself 
hoarse at the drop of a hat. Drumming fingers and an extra lens cap 
in the cupholder. Dad. 


He doesn't have time to respond before the man driving the car 
does. 


“This whole suicide thing is really shaking you up, you know that?” 
he says. The sky is clear outside; there are sheep grazing ina 
pasture they pass, Jeep wheels bumping over gravel road, kicking 
up dust. His father shakes his head, gestures with one hand off the 
steering wheel. “Like, fuck, you know? I’m dead. So what?” 


“So what?” Draven feels anger boiling inside him, sits up straight in 
the passenger's seat. “So what? Are you fucking kidding me?” 


His dad cocks an eyebrow at him, looks at his son with attentive 
green eyes through thick square glasses in silence. 


“You know what? | don’t care. I’ve spent enough time crying over 
your selfish ass.” Draven unbuckles his seatbelt. “Pull over. I’m 
getting out.” 


Your dad speeds up the car. 
“Oh. Oh, you’re gonna play this shit, huh?” Draven growls. “Dad-” 


“You know why | didn’t leave a note, Draven,” he says, and that’s 
enough to reduce him to shaking, holding back tears in the 
passenger's seat, stunned silence. It doesn’t bother your dad; he’s 
still drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, going just a little 
fast for comfort, always teetering on the edge, reaching for the moon 


and burning in the sky, coming too close to the sun. 


“| hate you,” Draven says, finally. There’s tears in his eyes and a fire 
burning in his stomach that makes him sick. “I hate you, you selfish, 
spineless prick. You didn’t leave a fucking note because you didn’t 
care what anyone else thought once you were gone, did you? You 
didn’t even care—” 


“You're blaming yourself, huh?” His dad’s voice is so clear he almost 
could imagine he was still alive, and that this was a real memory, 
and that he wasn’t just thrashing fitfully in his sleep with James 
worrying about him. “You know it isn’t your fault, Draven. There’s 
nothing you could have done to stop this.” 


“| could have stayed.” Draven hugs his arms around his chest. “I 
could have stayed. | even offered it to you, and it was clear that you 
weren't feeling well that night. | should have taken you home or 
called medical or something, Dad, I’m so, so sorry—” 


“—And you think | blame you?” 


“It doesn’t matter if you blame me or not! He surprises himself at 
raising his voice at his dad, but can’t help it and god damnit, it hurts, 
it hurts so much. “You're dead! I’m never going to see you again! I’m 
never going to ta/k to you again! You blew your fucking brains out in 
your office and you didn’t even leave a note because you didn’t think 
it would fucking matter, or that nobody would care! 


“Draven.” 


“What is the fucking matter with you!” Draven screams. His father 
keeps driving and the Polish countryside passes and the birds are 
singing and the world doesn’t care, nothing cares about his father 
like he does. “Why didn’t you get help?! Why didn’t you tell me?! 
Why didn’t you give me the fucking opportunity to help you while you 
were still alive?!” 


“Draven,” your dad says again, except that now his voice is higher, 
softer, more empathetic. 


“Damn it, why did you have to /eave?! The world is breaking up, like 


going through a tunnel, and there’s James, shaking him awake. 
There’s concern in his eyes and a phone in his hand. 


“... James?” His voice is husked with exhaustion, and there’s a pull 
in James’ heart at waking him up — should have just let him sleep 
— but talking with his mom might help, he thinks. Or maybe it'll 
make it worse. “What time is it?” 


“Hon, your mom’s on the phone.” 


“Mom—” Draven’s eyes widen slightly, and James again feels that 
weight of guilt, that emotional grimace of sympathy for the pain his 
partner is experiencing. He hands him the phone, and Draven takes 
it and lays back in bed and asks apprehensively, “...Mom?” 


He can’t hear what she’s saying, but tears well up in Draven’s eyes. 
James clicks on the lamp on the nightstand, casting the bed ina 
light yellow glow, and sits on the side of the bed; he had originally 
intended to give them some privacy, but sees the numb tears rolling 
down his partner’s face and can’t bring himself to leave. 


“...Yeah. I’m okay.” Draven exhales slowly and puts his other hand 
over his eyes. “I’m okay, mom.” He repeats. “No, | just...went to 
check on him, and he—” 


James has never seen Draven as someone who could be easily 
broken, but he sees him fracture down now, words breaking away 
into the heavy sob of someone who tried to fix his dad and couldn't. 
It strikes James that this was now their whole immediate family, and 
it feels like someone just punched him in the chest. 


“-he just-” Draven tries to get the words out and can’t, voice high and 
scraping. James has never seen him cry like this before and never 
will again. He wants to stop it, to grab the phone and make it okay, 
but he knows he needs this phone call, that he needs someone else 
to cry things out to. The screaming in the shower last night that 
scared him to death was a direct result of Draven being 
overwhelmed, burned out, horrified, and now there was just what 
was left. Like the results of a combustion reaction. 


“-| don’t know, he was just there—” 


His mom is talking over the phone now in words James can’t make 
out, and Draven sobs quietly, teeth gritted, tears rolling out behind 
his hand. Unsure of what to do and feeling tears welling in his own 
eyes, James reaches out and finds his knee under the covers, gives 
it a quiet squeeze of reassurance. 


Draven’s breathing comes hard and fast for a moment, trying to 
calm himself down and failing, going back to letting hot tears roll 
from his eyes with another deep sob that wracks his frame. 


“Mom, | should have stayed- I’m sorry—” 
Another pause as he listens to his mother. 


“He just told me he was okay— he said he was fine, mom, | didn’t-” 
he wheezes sharply. “I didn’t know—” 


“Breathe, babe,” James whispers at him, and he knows that Draven 
hears him because he quickly draws in breath, shutters it out in a 
couple more sobs. 


“No, he was-” Draven gasps for breath. “-h-happy and everything, 
when | talked to him, it was just-” He’s hyperventilating. James 
squeezes his knee again, trying to get him calm. “-just normal” 


They continue on like this for what feels to James to be hours, but 
it's only about ten minutes. Draven is sitting up, panicking, trying to 
control his tears, looking at James from time to time. He knew that 
Draven was always closer to his father than he was to his mother 
and stepfather, a fact that made sense once you factored in that his 
father had gotten custody and raised him. Draven was a Site-17 kid. 
Mom in Siberia, dad an alcoholic but doing his best, and he had 
turned out okay despite the challenges of living behind the curtain. It 
wasn't ideal, but it worked. It had worked for the two of them just 
fine, and the closeness came with that. 


When Draven hangs up the phone, he swallows sharply, drops his 
phone on the blankets, and buries his face in his hands. 


“Hey.” James moves closer now, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s 
okay. Yeah? It’s gonna be okay.” 


Draven took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair with 
a tight laugh. His eyes are red and his face is pale and James wish 
he could stop this more than anything in the world. 


“S-sorry I’m such a mess,” he stutters out through tears. “N-not v- 
very attractive.” 


James gives him a light smile. “I think you gotta wait a little bit longer 
before you start apologizing for crying. Jesus, Draven. It’s barely 
been eight hours.” 


His boyfriend swallows and slowly exhales, trying to calm himself 
down. “...Whoo. O-okay. I’m okay.” Another deep, shuddering 
breath. “I’m cool. We're cool.” 


“It's okay to cry, you know.” 


Draven nods, pushing his hands back through his curls. “Yeah. 
Yeah, | know. Just. Tired, | think.” 


“Do you wanna go back to sleep?” 


Suddenly, Draven’s eyes widen and he looks at the clock on the 
nightstand with alarm. “Shit. Wait. Shit.” 


“| called us in,” James replies. “For a few days. Thought it might be 
best.” 


Draven nods, calming slightly. “Oh.” He wraps his arms around 
himself and again James can’t help but think he looks small, fragile, 
like he doesn’t belong in Kevlar and tactical gear under any 
circumstances at all. 


“...A-are you okay?” Draven says. “D-did you sleep?” 


James shakes his head no and sighs. “I—” He almost says couldn't 
stop thinking about your dad dead on the floor and how you had to 
see him like that and stops himself. “...Nah, | couldn't.” 


Draven looks over at him with another deep breath, still trying to get 
calm. “...You need to sleep.” 


James smiles at him again. “Not tired.” 
“James,” Draven whimpers. “Please.” 
His smile falters. 


When he climbs into bed, his partner is already out cold, the 
medication and emotional exhaustion lulling him down. James 
moves his phone from where his partner dropped it on the bed to his 
nightstand and grabs his own, still unable to sleep but unwilling to 
worry Draven. 


There’s an alert on his lock screen that grips his chest hard and 
sends him into a momentary panic: 


NEW SITE WIDE MEMO 


He swallows and glances at Draven, the mobile task force worker 
currently sleeping in his bed, and hopes to god that it’s not a breach 
when he opens it. When he reads the subject line pronouncing 
“SITE WIDE MEMO: DIRECTOR KONDRAKI” he’s seized with an 
entirely different kind of fear, the kind of fear that comes from 
something suddenly being true, real, no longer disputable. 


All, 


I’m guessing you've heard something along these lines 
already because of how fast things go through the 
grapevine, and the short story is that yes, Director 
Kondraki passed away very suddenly early this morning 
of non-anomalous causes. This means a few things: 


1. Administration is currently in a state of flux; I’ve 
been appointed Acting Director for the time being, 
but this won’t be a permanent state of affairs. O5 
will get back to us shortly with their appointment 
for the position, but for the next week or so work 
will be split between me and the other Level 4s on 
site. As per protocol, Director Kondraki’s name will 
still be signed on any paperwork submitted to 
processing by last night at 1am; any paperwork 


submitted after with Euclid or lower level of 
urgency will be sidelined until a new Director is 
appointed and sworn in. This will cause some 
delays. We ask that everyone remain calm and 
work with us regarding efficiency, but things are 
going to be messy for the next couple weeks 
regardless. 

2. Projects and pages under Director Kondraki’s 
name are currently locked, as many of you have 
noted in the past few hours. These projects will be 
held and dealt with on a case-by-case basis to 
designate new project leaders. Certain 
containment chambers — such as the 408 aviary 
— will be closed and locked aside from routine 
upkeep until new project heads are appointed. 

3. Director Kondraki’s research notes and any related 
files will be released with appropriate redaction in 
a week or so for his teams to use. Personal notes 
and files will be held at the discretion of his family. 

4. Information on the circumstances of his death are 
also at the discretion of his family, as are the 
funeral proceedings. We ask that you remain 
respectful of them and their privacy. 

5. Lab Leaders and Principal Investigators reporting 
to Director Kondraki will be reassigned in the next 
few hours as our first order of business. 
Researchers will report to their Level 3 as normal. 

6. Research not concerning Director Kondraki’s 
projects will go on as normal. Research 
concerning Director Kondraki’s projects are to be 
suspended for the time being, and scheduled lab 
times, meetings, and overall scheduling for these 
teams are cancelled until new project heads are 
chosen as previously indicated. SCPs involved in 
these projects will remain in containment. 


Director Kondraki was a fine man and a damn good 
friend, as well and a fantastic researcher and Director. 
We ask that you all pay attention to your email in the 
coming couple weeks to smooth the transition a bit. 


Regards, 
Acting Director Eskobar 


James leans back against the headboard with tears running down 
his face. 


Draven doesn’t stir. 


7 


A portrait of your father: 


It's a hazy, dreamy scene. The aviary is warm in the dark February 
outside and the circulation fans blow around the faint humidity. The 
floor is cracked, broken linoleum, green with creeping moss around 
the edges of potted trees reaching for the greenhouse ceiling. 
Fluorescent industrial lights dangle down and cast an unfamiliar 
white light; had the day not been rainy, they would have been off 
altogether. His father dislikes the industrial numbness they bring in 
lieu of real sunlight. Raindrops drum on the plexiglass roof and he 
remembers being young, laying on his back on the floor in here, 
watching them patter and run off into the containment chamber 
gutters whisking them away. 


And there is his father. 


He sees him by following the little flicker of lights the butterflies leave 
as they go past him. He only sees his sneakers at first, because the 
table he sits at is obscured by potted plants and mist systems, but 
his knee is bouncing and he hears the soft tapping of his fingers on 
his laptop keyboard. 


Draven moves forward. He’s filled with a soft kind of comfort not 
unlike a drug when he rounds the corner and sees his dad, curly 
black hair in his Columbia sweatshirt that’s not yet pilling, 5 o’clock 
shadow and a battered toughbook, camera there, baseball cap, 
jeans, it’s him, it’s all him as he remembers him, filled out, somewhat 
sober, eyes attentive and sharp behind thick black frames, whatever 
dog eared paperback he’s working through put aside next to his