James gets the hint, closes the door behind him, and as he’s doing it 
Ben groans and laughs again. 


“James...fuckin'...James!” 


His boyfriend turns around to face the bed, where Draven gives him 
another look saying whatever he says to you he doesn’t mean it and 


I’m sorry and starts on the other shoe. The elder Kondraki gestures 
lazily with one hand towards the paperwork-riddled desk. 


“Can you hand me that bottle over there?” 


“Mm. | think you’ve had enough for tonight, Director,” James says in 
the low, articulate voice Draven has only heard him use at lab 
presentations and with his alcoholic father in the throes of one of his 
episodes. 


“Director...” mocks Kondraki in a shrill voice. He quickly trails off into 
a fit of laughter. Draven drops his right sneaker to the floor and 
shoots an apologetic look in his direction, but even in only two years 
of them being together James has seen his father in episodes lord 
knows how many times and is vastly desensitized to his drunken 
insults and ramblings. James wanders to the desk and shifts through 
an array of coffee mugs to find one that’s the least cracked, then 
heads out into the hallway with it. Draven gets up from the bed and 
moves up to the front of the bed. 


“Come on. Sit up.” He knows he won’t comply with this on his own, 
and already has pushed one arm under his father’s shoulders and 
pulled upward into as much of a halfway, won’t-choke-on-your-own- 
vomit sitting/laying position as possible, then shoves a pillow 
underneath his shoulders. His father doesn’t care, preoccupied with 
his own giggling. Draven gently takes either side of his father’s thick 
glasses, pulls them off his face, and folds up the arms of the cracked 
frames to sit on the nightstand next to the cot. Judging by how close 
to the desk his dad leans to work on paperwork and the font size of 
his phone, he needs a new prescription; one more bullet on a long 
list of things he’s let go in recent years. 


And yet you still have time to write, Draven thinks, casting an eye at 
what was clearly not paperwork on his desk: a spiral bound 
notebook filled with handwriting that gets messier in places with its 
author's fluctuating level of sobriety. Writing was something his 
father has always done, in both English and Polish, a variety of 
genres, lengths, degrees of secrecy ranging from burning the 
notebook to publishing. He hasn’t published anything for the past 
three or four years or so, and Draven can imagine why. Hard to ship 
something to the publisher while drunk into unconsciousness. 


“Ben.” There was James again, right over his shoulder from where 
Draven was kneeling next to the cot. “Here.” 


“That better be vodka,” growls Kondraki, a sharp turn from his 
previous mood. Draven takes the coffee cup of tap water from the 
drinking fountain down the hall from James with an appreciative nod 
and presses his father’s hand around it. 


“Close.” Draven’s voice is hard and cold in reply. “Drink.” 


“What’s it tonight?” whispers James, edging forward slightly; Draven 
drives him back with a soft touch to his hand. If his father was going 
to throttle someone over a glass of water, he’d rather it be him. 


“Bourbon. | think, at least,” mutters Draven. Kondraki’s fingers wrap 
around the cup, sliding into place on the coffee mug more out of 
familiarity than anything else. 


“Rough day?” 


“When are the good ones?” Draven replies, an edge of helplessness 
in his tone. 


His father looked into the coffee cup with disgust. 
“... This isn’t vodka, boys,” he slurs. “Would have rather had coffee.” 
“| don’t think you need that either, dad,” says Draven. 


“You know, a valuable life lesson is learning to make coffee at 
unreasonable hours.” 


“Yeah, | know,” Draven replies wearily. “But you need to get some 
decent sleep.” 


His father huffs petulantly, because his father is never above acting 
like a child. For a second Draven is afraid that he’ll dump it out, but 
he lifts it to his lips and drinks it disdainfully, and James feels himself 
exhale a sigh of relief; he touches his partner’s shoulder blade 
gently, saying, please don’t give another speech on how he needs to 
take care of himself, because you know he won’t listen and it'll only 
keep him awake, and Draven looks at him helplessly. What else am 


| supposed to do, let him make himself worse than he already is? 


His dad finishes it and reaches to put the cup on the nightstand, but 
miscalculates and bumps it against the side instead; his son takes it 
from him and puts it where his father intended it to go. 


“Glasses are off,” says his dad. Draven smiles weakly at that. 
“You really should get some sleep.” 


His father rolls his eyes melodramatically and sits back heavily 
against the pillows on the cot. 


“Alright, alright,” he huffs, fumbling for the fleece blankets thrown to 
the side of the bed, and Draven stands and stops him. 


“Dad,” he says. “Jacket.” 
“What?” 


“Your— here.” Draven sighs, and unzips the old fleece sweatshirt. 
His Columbia jacket is the same one he wore when Draven was 
younger, a dark green color that’s now starting to pill away ever so 
slightly. It doesn’t fit him right anymore; his father’s lost a lot of the 
definition he had before his mom left, more in sheer weight than 
anything else. Poor lifestyle choices as far as alcohol consumption 
will do that to you. His dad helps him shrug it off awkwardly, 
because he isn’t quite coordinated enough to do it himself, and 
Draven takes the worn green fabric under one arm and throws it 
over the end of the bed. James watches this dance with the same 
sort of awe as when he first saw it — both of them know the steps. 
Shoes off, glasses off, jacket off, water, sleep. Check, check, check, 
check, and check. 


They’ve been doing this more often lately. 


The elder Kondraki pulls the blankets up blearily, and when Draven 
thinks he’s ready, he fumbles under the lamp and turns off the light, 
and James feels so out of place in this delicate family ritual that he’s 
the first to stumble out of the office with a wave in the general 
direction of his boyfriend’s father. Draven walks to the doorway, 
checks the time on his phone. 10:34. He guesses his dad has 


probably been up for a few days now, so he at least has about five 
hours of solid rest ahead of him, if he doesn’t wake up from 
nightmares. This is unlikely considering the amount of alcohol he 
has in him. 


” 


“Hey. 


It’s his father, and Draven doesn’t want to turn around but he does, 
and sighs and says, “What?” 


“...come back here for a second,” comes the reply. He looks back at 
James. 


“Here. Just...wait in the hallway for a minute,” says Draven. 


“You sure?” His boyfriend’s tone is concerned, given his father’s 
penchant for violence. Draven nods. 


“I’m sure. I'll be right back.” 


James nods back in reponse and wanders into the hallway, and 
Draven turns, gently closing the door behind him. 


“ ..What is it? I’m here.” 


His father is rubbing his eyes in the lamplight. He looks drained in 
the lamplight coming from the desk, and for a moment Draven feels 
a surge of overwhelming concern, like something was different 
about tonight then the other times they did their little dance. 


“...Come here for a second,” his father says. There’s no more 
laughter in his voice. Draven sits on the edge of the bed, and flips 
the lamp back on. 


“..Yeah?” he asks, tentative. 


The elder Kondraki focuses his eyes on something across the room, 
on nothing in particular. 


“You're a really great kid,” he finally says, and Draven is unsure of 
how to react other than by saying, “And you're a pretty great dad.” 
Ben stretches his lips into a thin smile, eyes still focused on 


The exterior of 915 is a metal cube with sides of one point three 
meters (1.3 m) in length. Plastic inserts can be found on all edges, 
presumably as a safety measure to prevent contact with sharp metal 
seams. One side of the metal cube is able to be removed, allowing 
access into the interior of 915. Opposite this access point is an 
articulated metal arm, leading up to 915's display. This metal arm is 
composed of several pistons which have the effect of precisely 
changing the tapestry that is the primary element of 915's display. 


915's display consists of a tapestry woven in an extremely dense 
fashion held inside a metal enclosure. Despite the density of the 
tapestry, it is still able to be manipulated by mechanical arms inside 
the enclosure to a high degree of precision. This precise 
manipulation is able to fundamentally alter the appearance of the 
tapestry in controlled ways. 


Note: Due to its effect on RA 915-a, continued research involving 
the knot theory at work in 915's display has been suspended. -Dr. 
Foudray 


The interior of 915 is a mass of gears and clockwork, as well as 
more esoteric mechanical components used in computation. A 
constant mechanical drone, as well as deeper sounds of grinding, 
can be heard within 915. These sounds all experience modulation 
and distortion, predicted to be the result of the nonstandard topology 
915 possesses. 915 maintains passageways through its interior, 
presumably to assist in the occasional maintenance of 915. When 
915 requires maintenance, it will display a summary of the required 
repair, as well as displaying a map leading to the site within 915 
where maintenance is required. 


The interior of 915 experiences constant shifts, making navigation 
very difficult. Further, maintaining radio contact is complicated by the 
topology of 915, often leading to delays and weakening of 
transmission only a few meters from the entrance. While some 
success has been accomplished using physical contact (Such as 
high density nylon cord) instances have been recorded where the 
cord has been severed, embedded in portions of 915's interior, or 
with portions seemingly curled back upon themselves with the ends 
somehow fused together. 


something past Draven. 
“Yeah, right. Stop bullshitting.” 
“I’m not bullshitting.” 


His father shakes his head slightly, strands of grey hair rubbing the 
back of his neck. “That James,” he sighs. “He’s a good guy.” 


Draven is confused by the subject change, but runs with it. His dad 
seems both concerned and relieved, distant in a way he’s never 
seen him before. 


“Yeah. He really is.” 


“He’s gonna take care of you,” replied his father, voice steady. “Like, 
he does that already but | mean, he’s gonna keep taking care of 
you. You know?” 


“...Yeah?” Draven affirms, confused. 

“And you take good care of him, too.” 

“| mean,” Draven says. “Yeah. | try to.” 

His father sighs and shifts under the blankets. “That’s good.” 


“...L try to take care of you, too, you know,” he says. “Just the same 
way.” 


Kondraki nods and smiles thinly again. 
“| Know you do, kiddo.” 


They sit in silence for a moment, Draven looking at his father, his 
father staring at the ceiling. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t 
concerned. 


“You know, | wouldn’t mind if you married him. | mean, if you wanted 
to. Like | really...1 really would be okay with you marrying anybody, 
or not getting married at all, you Know? | would be okay with it.” 


“Are you trying to get me to marry James?” Draven raises an 


eyebrow, confused. “Is this what all this is about?” 


His father exhales, still looking at the ceiling. “Nah, it’s not that. | 
just. | dunno, wanted to let you know | would be okay with... 
anything, however you choose to live your life. Whatever makes you 
happy. | mean it.” 


Draven’s expression fades into concern. “Dad, I-” 
Ben grabs his wrist and looks him in the eye, sharply. 


“Whatever makes you happy. Okay? And...be a good person.” His 
tone is dire and serious, grip hard on his arm. “Yeah?” 


“_Dad-” 
“Promise me.” 


Draven pauses, confused both by the sincerity in his father’s tone 
and it’s harness. “...Promise you what?” 


“...L don’t know. That you’ll...not turn out like me, yeah? How about 
that.” His father lets out a forced chuckle. “Just...don’t be like me. 
Ever. Don’t do anything | did. | guess that’s what I’m saying.” 


“Dad.” Kondraki can’t believe how much his son has grown up — 
dark curly hair, just like his own. Clean shaven. Green eyes. Tactical 
gear sporting his name. “...Are you okay?” 


He smiles. 
“I’m fine, Draven.” 


“No, seriously, like. | can stay if you want. Or like, | could take you 
home and just stay the night?” His son’s voice is filled with thinly- 
veiled concern and even love, protectiveness, attachment. Kondraki 
would be touched if his son wasn’t investing it in a bag of shit 
person. He shakes his head, looking down at the blankets. 


“Nah, nah. I’m just tired.” He forces a laugh again. “Probably the 
bourbon.” 


His son’s gaze remains on him, dissecting him, no different then 
when he was born. Ben lets go of his wrist. 


“Look, it’s late. | just. Wanted to tell you that, | guess.” Ben waves a 
hand absentmindedly, then lets it fall against his chest. “Just. Don’t 
be a shithole. There’s a life lesson for ya.” 


Draven pauses, waiting for more words. When they don’t come, he 
stands in the darkened office, the same height as his father, smarter 
than his father, better than his father. Kondraki wouldn’t have it any 
other way. 


“Well. Alright then.” Draven hooks his thumbs in the loops of his 
tactical belt. “Call me if you need anything, okay? | mean it.” 


“Yeah, yeah.” Kondraki waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. 
“Just like alwa-” 


“Dad.” Draven’s tone is serious again. “I love you.” 
Kondraki can’t help but smile. 
“Yeah. | love you too, kiddo,” he replies. “Always will.” 


Draven moves to the door, opens it so the fluorescent light from the 
hallway floods in. When Kondraki looks, it’s his son in the doorway, 
his son’s shadow on the ground. 


“Night,” Draven calls, hand on the knob. He can just see James in 
the background, texting on his phone. He’s well taken care of now. 


“oy 


Night, trooper,” Kondraki replies absentmindedly. It feels like a 
dream. When Draven closes the door, he’s alone, and it hits him all 
at once that he’s alone, but he waits. He waits until he’s sure they're 
gone, down the hallway, and he waits until there’s no one left 
outside, and that’s when he rises from bed and retrieves his service 
pistol from the desk. He loads it up just like he always has, then 
presses the muzzle of the gun to the roof of his mouth; it only takes 
a fraction of a second, and then there’s nothing at all. 


2 


Draven finds him lying there because he came early. 


He wakes up at 1am and puts on a tshirt and jeans and goes to 
check on him, walking through the site with his worn sneakers 
squeaking on tile. He always checks on his dad during these spells, 
because god-knows-why, because he’s scared, because he wants 
to make sure he’s okay and wants to make sure he doesn’t need to 
call a doctor as he’s had to do in the past, because when he wakes 
up to take a piss at 1am there’s a pounding in his skull that says 
check on dad, check on dad, check on dad.