The Dedekind-Infinite Demographic
rating: 0+x

Previously: The Dedekind-Infinite Demographic

If the Foundation was a human body, then what remained of Reliquary Site-119 was its burst appendix laying bare and bloody on the operating table. As the Foundation's internal forces swarmed towards the scene of the catastrophe, two of the UIU's finest had been dispatched to spy on the reason for the sudden panic.

According to their intelligence, they were half an hour late, but that didn't exactly stop them from hurtling through the abandoned backwaters of Sandusky. Relatively speaking: a single jeep juddering its way to a seemingly unused pharmaceutical products facility was probably the most activity any of these streets had seen in a long while.

As they bellowed towards the Site, Darnell Christman's ass was seriously beginning to feel the effects of prolonged negligence of municipal infrastructure, also known as 'potholes'.

He grit his teeth and fidgeted in the shotgun seat of the beat-up SUV as Quinn Macallister floored it over a particularly unloved patch of asphalt. "Christ, Quinn, if we end up wrapping ourselves round a goddamn tree—"

The engine and Quinn both growled in response. Quinn was louder. "Another fucking time, Darnell."

Darnell had pushed himself far back as his seat and spine would allow at this stage, unwilling to respond to Quinn out of sullenness or resignation to her ranting. So she barrelled on: "What're they gonna take with them now, huh? You reckon they'll just mind-wipe a couple busybodies or do you reckon they'll level the entire city? Maybe they'll take out the entire county while they're there—"

"Take the next left," Darnell snapped, glancing up from his phone. "I'd think we would've noticed if that was happening, Quinn."

The breath was knocked out of him as Quinn swung the car left moments later and ended up slamming him shoulder-first into the door. His groan of pain tapered off as the jeep's headlights threw the trees that bordered the road into sharp relief; a flash of scraps of torn fabric and things pink and wet, impaled on branches sharp as glass shattered on concrete floors.

"Christ…" he muttered, now fully upright. "…how bad did they mess up this time?"

Quinn stayed silent, letting the increasingly ominous view do the talking as she eased off the gas.

By now, they were only a few blocks away from the facility, a squat industrial cube of brick-and-mortar with the 'Stanford-Caldwell' logo on a plaque out the front. As they continued towards the unlit site, Quinn suddenly slammed on the brakes as something crumpled and blood-soaked popped up in her field of vision.

Thankfully, they'd stopped just short of crushing the mangled thing on the road more than it'd already been. Swearing under her breath, Quinn hopped out of the car before Darnell could stop her — moments later, he heard the sound of retching and a wet splatter from outside the car.

He clambered out from his side of the car, quickly moved to her side without sparing a glance in the direction of what he'd guessed was once a body. "Quinn. Quinn, talk to me—"

Face pale and drawn, she pointed in the direction of the trees, where more chunks of pink lay splattering the branches and bark.

"Oh, god, he's been- he's been fucking squeezed out of his suit-"