The word processor's cursor blinked accusingly at Tilda, goading her into finishing the report.
It was always the same, dull story with directorship: it's lonely at the top, and it's lonely because you're sitting on a mountain of paperwork. Things took on a lot more gravity when the lives of everyone on site (and many other nameless, faceless people elsewhere) are affected by the stroke of a pen. Her pen.
And yet it was still dull. Monotone, monochrome. Easy to forget what it meant, what you were doing. Vital that you always remembered.
There were times when you didn't want to talk to anyone about it. No, not didn't want to. Couldn't. Isolation eventually wore down anyone, even if you were well-practiced with having few friends. Yet no matter what she wanted, there were things that only others who had previously occupied the Site-19 directorial office could understand, or even be told.
As it happened, one of those people chose that moment to knock on her door. She smelled the cigarette smoke first, then looked up to see a greying man in his mid-50's standing in her doorway.
"Dmitri, good afternoon."
Dmitri Strelnikov looked at his watch. "It is six o'clock, Direktor." She could hear the "k".
Tilda double checked the time on her computer monitor. "…Damn." She paused. "Also, cigarette, Dmitri."
He nodded apologetically and unceremoniously flicked his cigarette into the hallway. Not the first time he'd done that.
"Sorry. Smoking in this room is an old habit. Hey, you should try it. Might be good for you." Not the first time he'd said that.
Dmitri settled into an armchair and looked around her office, both of which used to belong to him. "You should redecorate, too. The Brezhnev era does not suit you like it does me, Direktor."
She gave a tired smile. "What can I do for you, Dmitri?" She hesitated for a moment. "And please, just Tilda." When he'd been on this side of the desk, he'd insisted the same thing. Call me Dmitri.
"We had a shorter session today and I thought I would come see how you were doing. I say to myself, 'Maybe she needs a cigarette and I am the only one with a spare.'" He smiled broadly. Tilda had never smoked.
Shorter session. She wondered what they were having Dmitri do. He had recently been pulled out of retirement (perhaps more aptly described as self-imposed exile) and made a training officer of Alpha-9. Perhaps the training officer.
She could ask. But that would require more paperwork, if the wrong people were tapping her office right now.
Tilda was technically cleared for all of that, but the papers took a while to make their way to her desk, and even longer to climb the pile. She needed to delegate more of this, but delegation was its own paper mountain.
He was expecting a response, about the cigarette. "It's very kind of you to offer. There is still time for me to pick up the habit." She motioned to her computer and the reams of paper on her desk. "You know how it goes, though."
Dmitri ground his teeth, stainless steel glinting occasionally as he did so. A former Russian airborne infantryman, he had lost a few teeth during bad jumps and some hack Soviet dentist had replaced the missing ones with stainless steel facsimiles. "I tell you what. Leave that go." He waved dismissively at her desk. "I will take you to dinner. I know a nice place. Quiet, good food, no questions asked. They also serve Coca Cola."
Might have sounded like a joke to someone else. But it appealed to Tilda. The cursor seemed to blink more aggressively. Don't you dare, it almost vocalized. Work is more important than food.
Her work saved lives. Her work ended lives.
Dmitri was waiting. Tilda looked at him again and nodded consent. The moment they left her office, he lit another cigarette.
She couldn't decide between a Wendy's number 7 or number 8. It had been so long since she’d eaten out, even at a fast food restaurant, that she really couldn't decide. Something light, maybe? Nothing worse than working hard on a stomach that feels like it's full of bricks. A salad, perhaps?
Dmitri approached the cashier. She looked very young, with an uncertain look about her. Tilda wondered if she was in college. For some reason, that thought aroused a sympathy that bordered on pity.
"Welcome to Wendy's," the cashier said. "Would you like to try the Son of Baconator?"
"No, I do not want the pretender. I want the Baconator elder, with quadruple bacon." He held up four fingers for emphasis.
"Sir, I don't know if we can—"
Dmitri cut her off. "Is this not America? Am I still in the Soviet Union? Why did I leave?" Dmitri gave her a hard look. "Why did I leave if I must settle for the pretend Baconator."
"S-Sir it is America, but…"
"Do you want a bribe? Do I have to bribe for this?" The cashier tried to protest, but Dmitri held a finger to his lips. "Shhh, no no. Here. Look at this." He placed a crisp fifty dollar bill on the counter and slid it towards her. "For you, for you. Quadruple bacon. I want the true Baconator father. Maybe even the Baconator grandfather."
Wide-eyed and confused, the cashier took the bill and punched in the order. Satisfied, Dmitri stepped back. The cashier looked up at Tilda as if wondering what was coming next.
"I'll have what he's having."
It was unhealthy.
It was delicious.
Neither of them spoke for a great while, the taste of the cheap food and the knowledge of how bad it was for them bringing its own peculiar form of catharsis. As Tilda wiped her hands clean of grease, she had no recourse but to admit that she did indeed feel a lot better.
“So, how is training progressing, Dmitri? We’d might as well conduct a little business while we’re out,” she asked.
He moved to light a cigarette but a sorry look from the cashier stopped him. “We are moving along. I have been trying to drill them on quick threat detection and reaction.”
“How does that work?”
“They must learn that conditions can, how to say, ‘shit the bed’ in an instant. Sometimes you have mere seconds to react to a changing situation, and it will determine if you live or die.”
Tilda nodded.
“I will give you an example.” He pointed with the unlit end of his cigarette towards a man who had just entered. He wore an oversized sweater that looked a bit too warm for the current climate, and his body language indicated that he was possibly nervous or agitated.
“That man there, we will call him Sweater Man.” Dmitri’s and Sweater Man’s eyes met for the briefest moment. “What would you do, for example, if Sweater Man decided suddenly to shoot up this place?”
“What?” Tilda frowned. “I would call it in, if I could, and wait. Besides that, I would probably do nothing.”
“Nothing?” Dmitri looked displeased.
“Yes.” She watched Sweater Man staring at the counter, shifting in his oversized sweater. She remembered the mountains of paperwork. Saving lives, ending lives, whether you signed this piece of paper or whether you didn't sign that one. Inaction, action. No matter what you did, so much was all the same.
Dmitri leaned forward, clearly forming an argument. But whatever he was going to say was lost when Sweater Man lifted his garment, pulled out a handgun, and fired a round into the ceiling.
Chairs squealed as frightened children and parents alike dove for cover under the wooden Ikea tables. A baby started crying. Someone spilled a drink on Dmitri’s back.
Tilda glared at Dmitri with a tone carrying less alarm and more ‘What the hell have you done?’
“ALRIGHT. NOBODY MOVE AND THIS IS OVER REAL QUICK.”
Sweater Man swept his weapon over the cashier and instructed her to begin filling a carryout bag with bills from all the registers.
Dmitri relaxed his hands, allowing his right arm to drop nonchalantly to his side, and waited.
When Sweater’s head was turned to the cashier, he nodded at Tilda and rose. With smooth, practiced motion, Dmitri’s gun hand lifted the hem of his shirt and drew his trusted sidearm. The weapon rose swiftly, meeting the target—
Dmitri slipped on a spilled milkshake. In stark contrast to how gracefully he had risen, he collapsed to the floor. His sidearm landed on the table in front of Tilda.
There were only seconds to react, but her brain still jumped through the usual hoops. This was not a choice she had wanted to make. Ideally she didn’t want to make any choice in this kind of situation, but the die was already cast.
She felt her hand wrap around the bakelite grip as she, too, rose from her seat and drew down on Sweater Man.
The sights aligned, and beyond the front blade sight she could see the target’s eyes go wide.
Flash.
She felt, more than heard, the report of the gun. Her eyes flinched. She felt her hand absorb the recoil as the slide cycled backwards and chambered a new round. She watched the lacquered steel casing fly past her peripheral vision. Glass shattered and children screamed, all of it silenced by piercing, ringing tinnitus.
When her eyes focused, Sweater Man was gone. The spent casing hit the floor, and with that her hearing returned.
Dmitri stayed on the floor and lit his cigarette. “You see what I mean, yes?”
She exhaled.
“You should have Everett look at that bruise,” Tilda said as they alternately walked and limped through the hall. The adrenaline crash was hitting her hard, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into her office chair and do paperwork again. Maybe that was the real lesson to be taken from this: an appreciation of stability and relative safety.
“No, because he will try to replace my lungs again. I told him never again, not after last time,” Dmitri said with an emphatic chop of his hand.
Finally they reached her office. She invited him in for a drink out of courtesy, but he politely declined, reminding her that she still had work to do.
A question loomed on her mind, and she teetered indecisively as to whether she should ask or not. She decided she had to know.
"Dmitri…did you orchestrate all of that?"
He gave a curt laugh. "I only wish I could have planned that. So perfect! It was complete co-insidious."
"…Coincidence."
"Yes, that is what I said." He clapped her on the shoulder, beaming. "I want you to know, you did well, even though you missed. I am sure the police found him."
Despite her exhaustion she managed to crack a grim smile. “Thank you. No more practical lessons, if you please.”
“I will try to honor this request, Direktor.”
She sunk into her chair. The cursor greeted her. It had kindly remained where she left it.
Secured Board Room #4, Site ██
It approached the fourth hour of their scheduled 45 minute conference. As stomachs began to rumble, a squad of interns carried in trays of hors d'oeuvres for the hungry occupants of Secured Board Room #4. The nominal department heads of Alpha 9 had gathered in this room to finalize and agree upon the various trivialities that accompany creating a new task force.
"There's a lot more to this than I anticipated," said Light, rubbing her temples. Clef just shrugged. He had known going into this meeting just what sort of headache he'd be walking out of it with. So far he had not been disappointed.
In addition to all the mundane aspects needing clarification and consensus, they had the additional burden of working out new doctrines for using and protecting their most precious assets, the anomalous team members. This didn't even scratch the surface of larger questions, such as ensuring loyalty to the project and the team, and controlling the inevitable urge to escape while outside of containment. These were set aside until a later time; for now, they had just one more line item to cover before finally adjourning.
The meeting's secretary flipped his notepad and cleared his throat.
"Okay folks, last topic for discussion. Light at the end of the tunnel, guys." Nobody smiled.
"Training director. Due to the unusual circumstances surrounding this appointment, it was thought we might, uh, open this for discussion." There were nods around the boardroom table. The secretary continued.
"We initially offered the position to several Task Force captains in light of their extensive field experience. All declined, citing reasons such as… " He flipped through his notebook. "Some felt going from their present rank to training director would be a step down in prestige, despite the alleged confidential nature of the work. Those few with clearance to know about Alpha 9 immediately declined, saying…." More page flipping. "Ah, um, 'You must be blankety blank crazy to think I would be blanking stupid enough to get within ten miles of those blanking nutcases.'" He closed his notepad and looked around the room.
Dr. Clef broke the silence. "Open room, people. Let's get some opinions." In an unusual gesture of transparency for the Foundation, several of the team's junior ranking officers were invited to sit in on this meeting at his insistence. 'If we're going to break all the rules, we'd might as well go all in,' he had told Light earlier. Now he solicited them for their thoughts. Plucking a carrot stick from a nearby tray, he pointed it at a very uncomfortable looking young Agent and said, "You. Tell us something we haven't thought of."
Resisting the urge to open his statement with 'uhm', the agent gathered his thoughts for a moment and spoke.
"With respect sir, I think the previous attempts to recruit a training director, even if they had been successful, would not have produced the results we want."
Clef bit the carrot stick in half. "Go on, Agent."
"Sir, we need an outsider. I don't mean that as someone outside the Foundation itself, no sir. What I mean is that a lot of the people who know about us already have it in their head that our team is going to fail. The insiders want it to fail, sir. That's how I see it." He shrugged and looked at his colleagues.
Without being bade to do so, the other agents began speaking as well. The floodgates were opened.
“We want someone who knows the job and the risks. Someone who has done it before. Someone who cares about us as more than just tools to be sharpened and then discarded.”
“We don’t want a young hotshot, either. I’ve been doing this shi-, er, stuff for going on fifteen years and I don’t want to be ordered around by any damn kids. Not with a scip breathing down my neck.”
The secretary took rapid notes in shorthand as the conversation proceeded around the table. Clef remained silent other than crunching on carrot sticks. Finally, the secretary called things to order and presented the desired list of qualifications.
“Okay, so, we want a person who is an outsider to the establishment, but also an insider with connections. We want someone who is experienced, who knows the work and can relate to the people under them. Someone trusted enough to already be allowed to know about Alpha 9, but won’t be turned off by it. Oh, and this person also has to be willing and available without compromising any other task forces.” He put his pen down and looked up.
Clef finally spoke. “Does anyone know a person who meets this criteria?”
A visage of understanding came across Light’s face, and she exchanged a look with Clef.
“Actually, we both do.”
Somewhere outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma
Gravel crunched under the rented Cadillac’s tires as Adams maneuvered the car through what supposedly passed for a driveway here. They had been creeping on this path for almost ten minutes now, but the density of the surrounding woods never got any less oppressive and sullen. A dark overcast sky and blustery wind did nothing to make the place more appealing. Finally the treeline broke and there, on a short bluff surrounded by untended wheat fields, stood the house.
She parked the car in front of a mailbox, absently feeling pity for whatever poor son of a bitch had to bring mail to this place. There was no name printed on it.
“Boss,” she said, nudging her slumbering passenger with her elbow. “Wake your ass up and tell me this is the right place.”
Clef stretched, nodded affirmation, and got out of the car. Together they ascended the stone walkway to the front door. Once ornate and beautiful, this turn of the century farmhouse had fallen into a state of disrepair somewhere between charming and decrepit. When his knocks brought no answer, he tried the door and found it unlocked, but something on the other side was preventing it from opening.
"Adams?" Clef said.
"On it," Adams said. She braced her shoulder against the door and took a deep breath before shoving, hard.
The door swung open with an ear-splitting crash of glass upon glass as what seemed like hundreds of empty liquor bottles rolled and skittered across the floor.
“Oh god dammit, Dmitri.” Clef angrily kicked bottles out of his way and trudged through the foyer into the house proper.
In the kitchen they found him, asleep, sprawled out on a bed made of crushed boxes and surrounded by more bottles, some of them not yet empty. Two obese looking rabbits were eating straw in the corner, watching the intruders. Adams wrinkled her nose in revulsion and disbelief.
“This is the person you wanted?" Adams asked, frowning. "Was Ulysses S. Grant not available?”
"Grant won his battles, Adams."
"By getting a bunch of his soldiers killed, yeah."
“If that’s how you’re going to be, wait outside. This won’t take long.”
Adams rolled her eyes and marched out of the room, spitefully kicking over a big stack of empty vodka bottles on the way out.
Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov at last awoke to the smell of frying bacon. He looked up at the man in his kitchen, cooking his bacon and sampling his liquor, and tried to focus on his face. As Dmitri's head began to hurt (more), it finally dawned on him that this was not just the liquor talking.
“….Alto.”
“Good morning, Dmitri.” Clef belched and held up a freshly emptied bottle. “Do you have any more of this?” Dmitri made a vague gesture towards another bottle across the room and rose to get his friend a drink, but lost his balance on a pile of empty bottles and fell back to the floor. He decided to stay there.
Outside, Adams rolled her eyes at the noise and and turned the page of a magazine she'd stolen from Dmitri's mailbox ("Better Homes and Gardens").
Clef held the pan of bacon down so Dmitri could grab a strip. “What the fuck’s going on here, Dmitri? Aside from the obvious.”
“….I think it was my birthday last week.”
“That’s great, man. How old are you now?”
“I think, maybe, fifty? Forty-nine? Forgive me, Alto, this is very nekulturny of me.”
Clef fell softly into a similar pile of bottles across from Dmitri. “Sophia sends her kindest regards, as do the others. It was they who sent me here, actually. We need your help again.”
Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Dmitri snorted. “I would love to help, but I am out of wives to sacrifice for the Foundation. Or did everyone forget the last time?”
“Don’t give me any bullshit, Dmitri. There’s not one of us that wouldn’t bring Karen back if we knew how.” He tossed another strip of bacon his way, landing it on Dmitri’s knee. “Let me put it this way, man. If you help us, it might open the right doors for us, you know?”
Dmitri clawed his way up the wall and looked out a window at Adams, leaning on the car. She met his glance firmly, taking another long drag of her cigarette, her mirrored sunglasses hiding her expression.
Dmitri slipped back down sheepishly, then jerked a thumb in her general direction. “She is working with you?”
Clef nodded.
Dmitri snorted. “Just like old times for you, it seems.”
“It can be like the old times for both of us, if you come with me. I have a pretty good deal for you.” He outlined the general concept without revealing anything potentially damaging. Though Strelnikov’s last official post had been Director of Site 19 and formerly captain of the checkered MTF E-5 ‘Red Dawn’, he was still technically off the books, and his need to know was consequently limited.
Clef made one final appeal on the basis of their friendship. “I want to see you doing something more productive than drinking yourself to death, Dmitri. I know things have hit you hard, but you know as well as I do that this is not how Karen would have wanted your story to end. Or Eva, if she knew.” The mention of Dmitri's first wife caused him to wince. Dmitri ground his teeth in frustrated contemplation.
“…Can the rabbits come?” he finally asked.
Clef nodded.
“Give me thirty minutes.”
Adams folded the magazine and stuck it back in the overflowing mailbox as Clef approached the car.
“You're smiling, Boss.”
“Like the cat that ate the canary, Adams. Might as well keep the magazine. We'll be waiting here for about half an hour.”
"Cool. There's a nice article on cobblestone pathways I was dying to finish."
Precisely thirty minutes later, Captain Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov (Ret.) stepped through the front door, clean shaven and in a crisp, pressed uniform, peaked hat cocked to one side. In one hand he carried a heavy duty bag, and in the other he carried an even heavier pet carrier, the two rabbits inside. The overcast sky parted long enough for a ray of light to glint from his gleaming brass collar insignia, directly into Adams’s eye. Clef’s smile grew perceptibly more broad.
Dmitri tossed his duty bag in the trunk and gingerly rested the pet carrier on the back seat, buckling it in with his own seat belt, electing to ride without one. He tapped the back of Adams’s seat, signifying his readiness to roll.
“Alto, please tell my new people that Uncle Mitya is coming home.”
8:30 AM on a Monday
Site ██
Alpha 9 operators, officers and auxiliaries took their seats on folding metal chairs in one of the site's unoccupied gymnasiums. Iris, against her preference to lay low in the rearmost seating, was placed prominently in the center of the first row, flanked by Adams and Clef. Various administrative staff with requisite clearance and empty schedules lined the back wall as observers. Dmitri sat on the far left corner of the front row in his best olive drab dress uniform, his distinctive Eastern-bloc peaked cap easily visible above the crowd.
Those whose weekends had lasted a bit too long rubbed their bleary eyes and yawned. Nobody was really in the mood for speech giving today, but orders were orders. For Dmitri’s part, he had spent the weekend appraising himself of the details behind Alpha 9’s creation and intended purpose, as well as putting his thoughts to paper for this morning’s gathering.
Seeing that everyone was present, he rose and strode to the podium, tapping the mic to ensure it was working. An audio tech gave the nod and Dmitri began to speak, his accent clearly audible behind otherwise well-prepared words.
"Good morning, Alpha 9. I know it is early, so I will be brief." He leaned forward on the podium, gripping its edges.
"Most of you, I think, know of me. Many of you have worked with me in the past, some as subordinates but always as colleagues. And some of you, it pleases me to say, are very old and dear friends." His gaze swept across the room, picking out Light, Clef, and also Everett Mann leaning on the wall.
"Everyone in this room is part of our collective history here, as Foundation Agents, Researchers, and now, today," he paused to look at Iris, "Anomalous Team Members. Regardless of our own personal role, we share a common bond. A binding oath of silence. A commitment to a common, sacred, duty."
"You may look at me now and roll your eyes, and I can see that some of you want to do that already." A glare at Adams. "Duty is an old fashioned concept to some. Not to me."
"Duty, our duty," he said, pointing his finger at the crowd, "is all that keeps this fragile little world of ours together. It is what allows our children to sleep at night, and keeps the promise of tomorrow a reality. We do not do this for ourselves; we do it for them. We do it for billions of people whom we will never know. We do it for our comrades in arms that are equally willing to shed life and limb for this vague hope of preserving the outlook of humanity." He paused for emphasis.
"But we have only been able to do so much."
"For years we have watched as our task grows more difficult and dangerous. We have lost loved ones, and some of us, myself included, lost our way. The darkness we fight to keep in check has grown faster than we have. It is more aggressive and daring than ever before, and it is pushing us towards the brink of oblivion."
He pointed again at the crowd. "We are the ones who will push back."
"We are not wanting for enemies, not only from without but also from within. There are people, maybe some of you along the back wall, there, that would see us fail. They would trade humanity's best hope just to curry favor with the right people, all for their own personal gain."
Dmitri cleared his throat. "To those people, I say, go fuck yourselves." There was a general murmur of laughter and agreement, the first reaction the crowd had given him. He allowed it to abate before resuming.
"I know I am not the commander of this task force, and I hope she is not upset with me for telling you this. But someone had to. Someone who has been through what you have been through, seen what you've seen and done what you've done, had to be the one to say it. I want you to know that those of us at the head of this snake are here for you. We are all together, and we will take care of our own." His eyes met Iris’s, and he hoped she appreciated the earnestness with which he spoke.
"Thank you for allowing me this opportunity to speak to you. And on a personal note, I extend my deepest gratitude to you all for having me with you. It has imbued within me a purpose that I lacked for far too long. My door is open to every one of you, should you need it. Let us find our way together."
"I would like to end with this: the word for hope in my language is also a name. Nadezhda."
"PT will begin at 0800 tomorrow, Nadezhda."
<@Roget> Maybe get into dmitri getting cleaned up, and trying to be soberish for his new job and trying hard, and bringing up some of that pain you've got in the first part of the story with his wife stuff. Really keep it from the trainer's pov. Then midway through the story we'll get a graduation ceremony of-sorts and then a test mission, with dmitri overseeing it or
<@Roget> being present with others overseeing it
<@Roget> and whether its successful or not depends on where you'd want to take it from there
<Waxx> should there be nudity
<@Roget> definitely
mob family with anomalous AI gonna get a rude awakening
<LordDeath> I see this image of a burning 1980's computer and it spitting out floppy disk after floppy disk
Adams saw that the door was open, so she let herself in.
"Mr. Strelnikov, I came to ask for your… Oh. Damn."
Dmitri was reclined in an office chair, sound asleep, one of those obese rabbits of his curled up in his lap. Was that one Alto, or Kondraki? She could never tell. No matter; she turned to go, but then she heard the music. Soft midi sounds were playing from his computer terminal, a very old early to mid 90's unit. Adams recognized this song from somewhere.
Where did she know this from? The thought bothered her, but one thing she did recall was that it was time to go. He considerably outranked her, and Adams doubted that even she could get away with loitering in the sleeping bear's den for too long. Again, she turned to leave.
Passing through the threshold, the memory returned to her. She did an about face and went to the computer terminal. Brushing some errant dust from the screen, she was pleased to see that her recollection had been correct.
SCP FOUNDATION TEXT ADVENTURE VERSION 1.1 SHAREWARE EDITION
DOCTOR ██████ AND THE O5 OUBLIETTE
She smiled. This game had been the cause of countless late reports and missed conferences, although it had fallen out of favor once the Foundation's DOOM clone was released. Taking a quick glance, she could see that Dmitri had apparently just begun this game before falling asleep, as she still recognized the classic opening interaction screen.
You arrive at work to find a mysterious CAT blocking your doorway. The CAT greets you in Spanish, which you now speak fluently after [DATA REDACTED]. What will you do?
Looking closer, she realized the game was not on its first initialization, but was a continue screen from a previous 'game over' event. Stealing a glance at Dmitri to make sure he was still asleep, she cautiously pressed Page Up.
Adams's mouth hung agape as the game scrolled to the beginning of this play session.
You arrive at work to find a mysterious CAT blocking your doorway. The CAT greets you in Spanish, which you now speak fluently after [DATA REDACTED]. What will you do?
First entry:
kill cat
I'm sorry, I don't understand.
Second entry:
kill cat
I'm sorry, I don't understand. Try a different action.
punch cat
You swing, ineffectually. The CAT appears behind you and bites your ankle, then resumes blocking your door.
shoot cat
Are you sure?
yes shoot this cat
You grip the SNUB NOSED REVOLVER. As you draw down on the CAT, your BOSS arrives. They are upset by your actions.
Keter duty.
GAME OVER
PLAY AGAIN Y/N
y
You arrive at work to find a mysterious CAT blocking your doorway. The CAT greets you in Spanish, which you now speak fluently after [DATA REDACTED]. What will you do?
fuck this stupid cat
The CAT'S eyes go wide as you begin to undress.
undo
We both know there is no turning back from here. You remove your pants.
shoot self
You take the easy way out.
GAME OVER
PLAY AGAIN Y/N
Yyy
Adams cast another look at the sleeping Dmitri and shook her head in pity. She leaned down to the keyboard and did him a favor.
pet cat
You pet the CAT. It purrs in gratitude and moves away from the door. You enter your office. You are now officially at work.
She clapped her hands together (quietly, of course) and left to go appraise Clef of this golden opportunity for mischief in Strelnikov’s quarters.
visual and radar contact lost with ship
regained shortly after, ship has changed radically and is emitting low levels of radiation, sinks rapidly
most bodies are recovered, found in extended state of natural air decay, in decorated coffins and wrapped in resplendent uniforms that appear naval in origin but match no known navy. autopsies positively ID all bodies with dental analysis
radio-carbon dating estimates ship has aged 400 years more than should be possible
captain's log reveals the ship passed through a portal, "sideways in time" as he describes it
ship and crew arrive at an early industrial age/steam age society and are held against their will
translators reveal they are not the first ship to come through the portal, and much of the technology in this world has been stolen/learned from the ships and crews that are victim to it
local government is embroiled in a war with armed separatists. if the captain offers his large ship and the huge cargo of iron ore within, he and his crew will be commissioned in their navy and subsequently set free at the end of hostilities. it is said they will be sent back through the portal, somewhat older but free men, if things end favorably. with no other realistic choice for seeing their families again, they agree
the ship has enough fuel oil left for basic operation. the ore is smelted into various implements such as cannon, armor plate and weapons. it is significantly higher quality than any ore the residents can mine themselves
captain relates details of various engagements. ultimately the war is won and the separatists are crushed. the ship sustains light damage but otherwise is welcomed home in the capitol. the crew are lauded as heroes. it is revealed that they do not understand enough of the portal to reactivate it at will.
some of the ship crew commit suicide in despair. the captain continues his log.
the ship is retained as a flagship and only puts to sea on rare occasions on account of its fuel reserves. as the old crew dies off, the replacements fail to maintain the engines and the ships mechanical components begin to fail.
the original crew, held in high honor by society, are put to rest. it is decided to make an all out attempt to master the portal and send them home as tribute to their service, even if unwilling.
decades pass. now much older than her builders intended, the ship is barely seaworthy. their best engineers fit their most efficient steam engines on the leaking vessel and it is sent to the initial location where it crossed through the portal, when weather conditions are similar. the plan works.
upon return in the real world, only seconds after leaving it, the ship founders.
initial search & recovery efforts are handled by local/federal government investigators but the job is quickly handed off to foundation agents when the anomalous characteristics are brought to light.
diving and forensic efforts validate enough of the captain's account for it to become the accepted timeline of events for the anomaly.
location of the wreck prevents access so containment is largely a non-issue. the hit song has, if anything, aided in general acceptance of the cover story, despite initial misgivings.
11/10/1975
Upon leaving [Superior, Wisconsin], we endured undoubtedly the roughest seas this ship has yet encountered. For five hours we struggled to reach home. I can account for everything that happened within this time period, but due to current circumstances I have lost some time. I only know that after 7:17 PM, we became lost. To what, or where, I do not know. I only know that after the seas swamped the pilothouse, we arrived somewhere else on the other side. After that, the clocks stopped.
The storm was gone and the seas were calm. Initially we feared that we had entered the eye of some storm system, although none of us could explain how and meteorological conditions did not point to this being the case. I made the decision to continue pressing forward at our best possible speed to reach the safety of Whitefish Bay. We broadcast on all frequencies, but only heard white noise. The radio appears to be the only serious damage on board.
Although our magnetic compass indicates no bearing deviation, we have consistently failed to locate Whitefish Bay. Cloud cover has rendered celestial navigation unfeasible. We have seen no passing ships or received any hails, but I think we will soon hear from somebody. Barring that, I will wait until the cloud cover lifts and try to figure out where we are. The air and water smell different, but that may just be the weather at play.
All things considered, we are glad to be out of the storm.
11/11/1975
I have begun keeping time with an hourglass. 12 hours have passed and we have yet to encounter any ships or make landfall. Shortly after 1 AM we had a break in the cloud cover and enough of the night sky was visible to attempt navigational corrections. I am ashamed to confess that I was unsuccessful.
At our rate of travel upon the indicated heading, we would have run aground hours ago.
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