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<li><a class="dropdown-item" href="1.html">Crucible</a></li>

<li><a class="dropdown-item" href="2.html">The Bunny Butcher</a></li>

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<h5 class="offcanvas-title" id="tocSidebarLabel">Story Navigation</h5>

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The Bunny Butcher

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<li><a class="dropdown-item" href="2.html">The hunter's final payment</a></li>

<li><a class="dropdown-item active" href="3-act2BB.html">System Anomaly</a></li>

<li><a class="dropdown-item" href="4-act3BB.html">The man in yellow</a></li>

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<label class="small text-muted mb-2 d-block">CHAPTERS</label>

<a class="nav-link text-light mb-1" href="#title">Title</a>

<a class="nav-link text-light mb-1" href="#The-Passing">The Passing</a>

<a class="nav-link text-light mb-1" href="#Integration">Integration</a>

<a class="nav-link text-light mb-1" href="#epilogue">Epilogue</a>

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<h1 class="display-4 fw-bold" id="title">The Bunny Butcher</h1>

<h2 class="h3 text-muted" id="act-2">Act 2: System Anomaly</h2>

<h0 class="h3 text-muted" id="The-Passing">By Anthony Henson</h0>

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I stand before a maintenance door armored like a vault. Its surface bites through my glove with icy hostility, stabbing the chill deep and numbing my fingers.

The card reader’s red eye blinks judgingly. Fumbling with my sweaty gloves, I bite one off and grasp my badge. The retractable cord snaps it right out of my fingers. Gritting my teeth, I snatch the card mid-air and swipe it. The console chimes: Elena Cross, Maintenance Tech, V-Tek LVL 4 . The badge photo is recent; it's not my best photo. My hair is a bit short, black, and curly, and I have green eyes. Could be worse, though.

The door groaned, grinding hard against the frame with a screech that set my teeth on edge. It slammed shut with a heavy thud, rattling right through my legs and through my chest.

I check my gray, thick, supposedly portable tablet with one hand, steadying it against my body. It's still hefty. I press the screen; it flickers, shows static, then flashes a green light across my visor. My breath fogs the visor, so I flip it up to get a clear look at the tablet. In big letters, it displays V-Tek. I scoff at the name; I don’t like it, but they practically own the city now and most jobs. I swipe the screen to pull up the latest logs.

The maintenance log says this area was sterilized last week, supposedly as clean as a hospital. Instead, the place is a wreck, an absolute biohazard. Sector 4 is largely a mystery to me, but from what I understand, it is a major laboratory that has been a critical part of the company's advancements and testing grounds. I squint, trying. to see what was wiggling in the shadows, but couldn’t. Either way, this place hasn't seen proper maintenance for months. I can't help but wonder if the morning crew is blowing off Sector 4?

Only one name comes to mind, my boss Nathan Gilford. His name alone makes my head ache, and my jaw hurt. He's usually in charge of Sector 4's maintenance. But here it says he still hadn't come back from his last job. He's still signed in. Between the freezing cold air from outside and the sudden chill down my spine, something must have happened here.

For the last few years, V-Tek has sent biohazard bags and large shipments down here, and the risks have only increased. Challenging higher-ups never worked; I either do the job or risk being terminated—I can’t risk it; my mother depends on me, as she isn’t able to live alone. Fear eats my gut each time one of these doors opens. But yet something roots to me. A duty I never chose, but can't leave. I remember so many nights staring at the ceiling, thinking about quitting. Wanting to just walk out, but every time I picture mom's face, her shaky hands when she fails to take her meds, it would be a lonely space if I never came back.

That's why it's my duty to do what I must. I'm always afraid, but I'm no coward. I can defend myself, even take things into my own matter if needed. But what would become of her if I failed?. I can hear her now: “Now, Elena, what did I say about taking risky jobs!” Something I've heard so many times in my life. And as much as I appreciate her, I am not a helpless little girl anymore. I rub my eyes with my left hand, then drag it down to my chin. “It’s gonna be another one of those, ain’t it?” I say aloud.

As I swing my heavy-duty flashlight through the fog, it sticks to me like shrink wrap. Wet. Sickly. Under my beam, the walls no longer look like concrete. They are swollen, bulging, shrinking as if the corridor is already trying to regurgitate me. Steel plates that once lined the walls are now strangled by throbbing red veins. Pipes fade under a growth. The floor is sticky and slimy with what appears to be sand. Lots of fine, white, powdery sand glistens, covering parts of the area.

"This isn't a power grid failure...", I mutter, as my grip tightens on the flashlight. "Just a standard protocol, quick change of a fuse....haha..." I say to bolster my confidence.

I step inside. The door slams shut, locking with a hungry, final click that seals me in like fresh meat.

I spin, heart hammering. Behind me, something sloshes—wet, sluggish—a sound that creeps up my spine and settles at my skull’s base.

A sheet of pink flesh oozes over the door, tendrils writhing and binding, sealing me in. No escape. Not now.

My hands tremble. I rip my V-Tek-issued tech radio from my belt, pressing it to my lips—craving a voice in the darkness.

“Dispatch, do you read?”

I wait. Seconds stretch; each feels a lifetime. The radio hisses, then crackles and pops, jerking me back to reality.

A familiar male voice replies: “Ahem-koff-koff, We read you. Please state your request.”

“Dispatch, about that call about a power failure you sent me on.”

Dispatch: “Come again, sorry you are—b—up.”

I quickly hit the talk button to reply. As I do, I look up at the ceiling, noticing that it is covered in filth as well. My grip on the flashlight tightens.

I smack the radio, annoyance boiling over in me. My flashlight sweeps the corridor ahead—the only way out, or deeper in.

One. by. one. Each of the tunnel's wall lights is engulfed by a never-ending darkness. Yet only one light shimmers, painting the floor with an oozing pink growth and squirming veins that crawl over the stained concrete, up the nearby walls, and along the rusted pipes. I bring the radio up one last time, up to my lips, my breath misting the casing with my thumb on the talk button. I hear the click of my actions echo down the desolate corridor.

“We need a containment team down in sector 4 access tunnels asap; do you read?” I say in an agitated voice.

I wait. Nothing. The air thickens, stale,heavy. It’s disrupted only by the wet squirm of tendrils behind me over the now blocked door. The radio is dead. Great.

Before I can move, I take a large breath. It burns in my lungs. I feel nauseated, on the edge of vomiting that tomato soup and grilled cheese from lunch. Nevertheless, I must continue.

Each footstep makes a terrible suction sound beneath my boots, like a hungry mouth beneath me. Near a destroyed security door, movement catches my eye in a pile of twitching flesh. I approach cautiously, gripping my propane torch at my side, and examine the object partially buried there: a broken, shattered flashlight, flimsy plastic, and useless. Turning it over in my gloved hand, I notice it seems recently dropped—still warm.

Something felt off. I looked back, but the dark corridor was empty. Ahead of me sat the mess. I poked it. Slimy,warm, and gritty. It recoiled from the contact. I pulled my hand back. I gag and grimace at a rather strong, pungent odor, very much like rotten fish. I bring my glove up an inch from my face. Rubbing some of the substance between my thumb and index finger, looking at it closer, it seems to be actively sweating white Quartz, otherwise known as silica."What the hell?’ I mumbled.

My stomach dropped. Silica isn't supposed to form like this—or ooze from anything alive. The night shift crew always joked about Sector 4 being cursed, about walls breathing and people quitting on the spot. I figured they were just messing with the new hires. Perhaps not. Some people say they could hear screaming below Sector 4 every once in a while, and odd clacking and clicking. Whatever this is, it isn’t good for the infrastructure; it's eating the metal as I speak.

With my curiosity satisfied, I rise to my full height of 5’4". I was the runt of the family. I am not tall by any measure, but when you spend most of your childhood in and out of hospital beds, you learn to put up a fight. Being the smallest in the room never stopped me. With grit in my gut and the resonances of my mother badgering me about risky actions, I press on.

As I go on down the infested corridor toward my next goal, the auxiliary station, every step plops under my feet. Awful, repetitive. Soon, I start to tune it out. I bring up my tablet. Check the blueprints—auxiliary is down the hall, right, then left. After, I clip my tablet to my right side and push forward.

I look around, shining my light through the thick air, and I notice a gouge in the flesh. My gut knots up. Something heavy dragged through the muck—hungry. Very hungry. Soon after, metal is bitten deep. Nearby, a wet, slow grinding metal sound drags, carving a gouge through the floor's raw flesh. I see a T-section in my path; the troubling sounds come from the right. To the left doesn't go where I need to go. My goal is to the right. With no real choice, I go right.

Keeping low, I follow the deep mark. Quite aware this means walking directly into a trap, but I have no real alternative; It's the only way to my objective. With resignation, I move cautiously.

“This is not part of my job description. I don’t get paid enough for this shit! I’ll have to demand—” As I tried to speak aloud, that sound returned again. It’s an excruciating sound, as if my brain is being very well scraped by tiny metal claws. It’s an aching pain going through my mind. I stumble a bit, catching myself to the side of the wall with the left hand holding my flashlight. The light curls downward. I look at the beam of light; it’s odd. It’s not— right. That isn’t how light quite works; it’s like something in the air is bending my light to the side. It’s incorrect.

Whatever is going on here is incredibly bad. I am no physicist, just a humble tech, but even the basic fundamentals tell me that my light shouldn’t be going to the right. I look back at my flashlight in my left hand, pointing straight down, yet it is pointing in the wrong direction. I lift off the wall and back to a healthy standing position. I squint my eyes and tilt my head in confusion.That’s… weird.

Despite the strangeness. I have a job to do, and this won't stop me. After recomposing myself, I started heading down again, following the deep mark left for me.

Clank. Squelch. The corridor inhales, exhales, seemingly alive at every part. My vision suddenly blurs a bit, my thoughts are a bit hazy, but I keep going. Ignoring the discomfort of my plight. I draw nearer and nearer to my task at hand. Restore power to the immediate area. My heart pounds regardless of what I ask of it. Knowing whatever is down here will come.

From the black, a sound breaks the silence. Not an emergency alarm as I expected. No. It is a distorted, warped, happy tune. It reminds me of the fairgrounds my mother took me to, but it’s leaking, skipping, from a dying speaker below. My skin crawls; I feel cold. It’s the feeling of worms lying underneath, wriggling inside me. Suddenly, a hot sensation emanates from my head. I touch my forehead. Sweat. The air conditioning mustn’t be working.

I don’t feel good; the sickness keeps getting worse. I feel like I am being pulled somewhere by a great, invisible force that I have yet to see. Dazed and still confused, I pull my grit, swiping the sweat, and move my now heavy-feeling legs forward. I can see the auxiliary door in my blurred-in and out vision. Need to get the power on.

Further pushing my now rather limpish body through the disgust ahead of me, I see a tall, slim, shadowed figure with long floppy-looking bunny ears down past the door. Like it is waiting. Daring me even. It holds something large that slowly comes towards me, causing the insidiously painful, metal-screeching, flesh-tearing sound at every step it takes.

I freeze like a deer in headlights for a few seconds. I look at the door, and I could maybe… no, the figure towards me is only maybe a foot away from the door now. My heart races for a solution. Quickly taking in my world. I notice there is another direction on my right; It’s another T-section. Without another thought, I hurried what amounted to a limping dog, out of breath and sweat dripping with vigor, down the unknown direction. I must… I must continue.

The corridor bends and snakes like I'm on an off-roading field trip. With each gasp of breath, it gets harder and harder to move forward. The sound of that scraping follows suit. I'm barely able to stand. Grabbing anything to give me the strength to move forward. I think of mom. What she’d do without me. The thought shudders me.

My pupil dilates. I think about how weak and helpless she would be without me; I can’t stand it. I'm the only one left. I’ve gotta come back from…this. She needs me. My clothing even feels like it's pressing me down now, and I can't even get up. I start lifting my ever heavier limbs from side to side. Ignoring the excruciating burning pain going through my nerves, I start crawling towards my goal.

That terribly distorted, muffled music still plays from below; A sudden flash appears in my mind, a large man in yellow overtop me. It gives me great pain. And the sound of a close train passing by. CLICK-CLACK, CLACK-CLACK. Still crawling towards my route before me, of the gunky corridor. I’m getting covered in the slimy grittiness of the flesh I am plop ploping in with every inch I crawl.

Fighting nothing more than peace and quietness, and the constant scraping piercing my ears forever pursuing me. I can finally see the door. Both the door and the tall person following are within reach of me. I see the card reader a few feet above me. I tremble, grab the ID, and struggle to stretch up to the reader to open my only hope. With every fumble was another chance to be laid to rest. I turn, seeing the towering thing above me.

The woman is wearing this crappy, homemade bunny costume. The patches are all different colors. The stitching is familiar, but I can’t put my finger on why; it reminds me of the antiseptic smell of a hospital.

The woman leans on a monstrous cleaver, as if at a kitchen counter. Her mask—a rabbit’s head, its ears big and droopy, its colors faded moves with every twitch and slight movement atop her shoulders. There’s something wrong in the way she stands; a wrongness that seeps into the room.

My breath catches. For a moment, smelling pungent, revolting old cloth, I hear my mother’s gentle humming. Then the memory sours. The comforting fragments are soiled by this figure before me, her blade standing upright between us.

I cannot move or speak. Panic blooms and recedes, leaving only a numb, ringing silence. In that stillness, memory and nightmare blur, and I am caught between them.

The shape in front of me glitches. For a fearful second, the darkness bleeds into a sickening, bright yellow. Synthetic fabric. There is a reek of cheap greasepaint that fills my throat, choking me. It's him, the large man. Grinning with a mischievous yellow-painted smile. "Hey boys, we have another here. She looks ‘fun’.”My lungs seize. The tunnel walls vanish, replaced by the red suit on his left, the slim blue one on his right. I can still feel the weight of them all on me. The cold ground of the dirt. The tearing, animalistic between my thighs. Accompanied by white-hot festering deep in me, thinking about it. Becoming a victim in the dark left behind.

Her odor jolts me back; it’s like rotten eggs. But I continue to stare, unable to look away. She raises the unbelievably large blade into my view from below. The door opened, which felt like it took a century. With every ounce of energy I had, I launched myself into the room, CLANG, QUELSH, I hear barely within an inch of my life going down the gutter. I look upwards and press a red button above me with a heavy thump. The door releases and closes quickly, making a loud thud.

Shortly after, I see her in a nearby window pane next to the door, pressing her hand against it, then looks right directly through me. The mask has large, black, glossy button eyes sewn to it and wears a creepy, open smile. She stays for a short bit, like she is silently saying you're inevitably doomed. But something grabbed her attention. A pitter-patter of footfalls on the other side of me. The twisted bunny backs away, leaving a smudge against it, and moves slowly to the right like a predator creeping up on its prey, dragging that massive knife behind it.

Gasping for air, I shift to my side and prop myself up by my elbow. The floor is hard and cold, but thankfully, there is none of that filth here. I look around the room; all I see is a control panel and a screen above displaying basic statistics on the current area’s power usage and auxiliary power. With great effort, I hoisted myself up and lumbered towards the controls. I lean myself over, holding on to the top to recover. Sweat runs off my face and drips onto the faceplate.

I take a moment to reorient myself, still in disbelief that any of this is even happening to me. Why me? Why now? I rub my temples and my face in frustration while rubbing some of the gritty silica off me. Then I look at the screen directly in front of me.

It’s an older-looking console with a wide rectangular base and a large, rounded rectangular screen above. The room is filled from top to bottom with dust, oil, and grime, but no sign of the pink flesh was seen. I breathe out a sigh of relief. That muffled, distorted music is also gone. The screen displays Power Aux: 0%.

I look down at the faceplate; it’s strange, off-putting, and nothing that I’ve ever seen before in my life. The keys have labels I can’t comprehend, and the knobs vary in size with no repeated pattern. Each switch is marked in gibberish, except for a single large green button plainly labeled “Power.” “Couldn’t make it obvious enough, I guess,” I mutter. I press the button—CLICK. Nothing happens. I try again. CLICK. Still nothing. CLICK CLICK CLICK. The room remains silent, except for the faint hum of a nearby vent.

Frustrated, I step back. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a sticky note beneath the console’s access panel at the base. I kneel and squint at the message: “fix me.” geez, way to go, guys. Typical, leave a broken machine for the next shift. I sigh while shaking my head. It’s always Nathan who pulls this crap.

The panel is held in place by four large bolts. This should be simple. I fish a socket wrench out of my tool belt. The first one does not fit. I try a second; still no luck. The third finally fits, and I set to work. Each turn of the bolt squeals through the room.

After much time unscrewing each bolt, which took more effort than I wished. Wasted a good half an hour, probably. Those bolts were on there tight. Beyond tighter than they should have been. strange. After much time, I just realized. When did I pick up wrenches? I don’t remember seeing them when I first arrived. I must have picked them up earlier without realizing it. “Just a habit, I suppose. I do tend to pick up things without noticing.” I say in a low voice, not to draw attention to myself more than I probably have.

Pushing the strangeness aside, I inspect the compartment's insides. They seem completely disconnected, as if deliberately sabotaged. Them damn fools, playing around like this. What gives! My face contorts into a grumpy, annoyed expression while reaching into the small box full of internals ripped out like guts dangling around. Blue, Yellow, Green, Black, Magenta. There are many colored wires in the cavity that are in dire need of repair. I take one and stare at it. I grab my flashlight and shine it inside the metal body. Thankfully, they are color-coded, but it seems all the switches are connected in series. Which means…I need to connect all the switches so the “Power” button works. Who even engineer’d this crap?”This doesn’t even make sense! Fix, Fix,” I say loudly, realizing I uttered it out without a thought. I cover my mouth as if it would prevent the loud noise I just made from being heard.

Stillness still only happens with the occasional sound of pipes hissing; time feels like coldness along my skin as I work diligently on what is an extension of a larger machine. I get caught up in a task that feels like a continuous loop. ZAP! I grimace in pain from accidentally touching a powered wire to the ground. “Don’t touch the sides of the maze.” Kind of shit; whoever engineered this is a real piece of work. Maybe even perhaps a bit of a masochist, with such a poorly designed installation. As I attach and turn the last wire into its rightful place, the massive green “power” button lights up and starts blinking, emitting a mild hum. Now that is a noise I like. The sound is pleasurable, in a way that feels fulfilling and touches my heart.

“Elena, oh god, thank god it’s you, Elena, please open the door,” he says in a desperate voice as he pounds on the window. For some reason, I can’t move; I want to help but am… frozen. My breathing becomes irregular. My thoughts are hazy, and it’s hard to think a little bit. I try to reach for the button, but suddenly. “Elena, open the goddamn do—” a large gargling sound can be heard, and the sound of flesh streaking down the window. I just stare and watch in horror at what was once Nathan Gilford, now just nothing but a split-in-half hot dog sliding down the side. Getting “ketchup” everywhere like it was overloaded.

Hungover, feeling like I could puke at any moment's notice. I back away from the door, and I take in my local area for anything of interest. Then I remember. I remember hearing the air moving in the room. I focus on a rather high-up vent. Then I look back down at the flashing green light; I scramble to push it, but it doesn’t do anything. Oh right, I need to flip all the switches. I flip all of them in quite a hurry and press the now-solidly lit button, slamming it with a hard fist. A loud sound builds slowly as the power bar fills. Clonk, Clonk. I hear from the right side. Clang, Clang. Then a rather mechanical straining sound comes from the right-side door. A sharp, large object bursts through the slits of the door! She’s…using it as leverage! Oh no…This isn’t good. I look back over to the left door, but it seems to be locked from the outside now.

Now breathing heavier than I was even doing beforehand, I keep racing to the vent from above and back to the door in the now rather suffocating room; I could fit in it; it’s pretty large, and I am rather thin and short. But how… do I get up there? The console is too far from that side of the wall. While during that time of thinking of my means of escape from what is most certainly the end if I don’t act. The whining of the door motor strains from the break-in. The blade is tall. I can use it to my advantage to reach the vent. I'm rather athletic; I did track during high school and was a cheerleader. Despite my disapproval, mother. It only took a bit for them to give. It tried its best, but the clearly insane amount of such force was no match for such a clearly inhuman creature. The door opens with a grinding sound, giving up all the life it once had.

The tall, slim figure crosses the threshold, standing roughly six feet tall, her outline devouring the little light that leaked through. My pursuer comes into clearer focus. The form-fitting suit is a pale, rottin' dermis that illuminates beneath the cold-colored flashing lights above. A roaring sound comes from somewhere. Unfazed, the figure raises her massive cleaver overhead, then swings it in a powerful, horizontal arc toward me. The blade cuts through the air with a SWOOSH, striking metal and the ceiling in rapid succession, CLANK, THONK, CLANK.

I barely had time to dodge such an attack, nearly not clearing it from my head, clipping a small curly stray hair. I could see the reflection of my face as it went past me, as if time froze for a split second. That was incredibly close, too close to my liking. My heart throbs and my adrenaline kicks in hard. There is no way I can fend off such an inhuman thing. The bunny twists its head to the side at a disgustingly 90 degrees that no human could possibly manage, and twitches a bit; her large, floppy bunny ears follow. Clearly annoyed, CLANG, SCREEEECH, that was the sound of another attempt to cut me down, but I managed to nearly avoid it once more. Finally, she heaves another attack at the ready. I position myself just above the vent so I can direct her attack to my advantage. I’m not dying today. I don’t plan on it. SWOOSH, the sound of the final deciding attack is coming my way. I roll to the left, avoiding it. THUMP THUMP THUMP. That is her pounding one of her paws against the floor. She is truly pissed off that I keep avoiding her attacks. In a rather demanding walk, Stabs the large, dragged knife cleaver directly in the ground in front of me. I stumble slightly, and my legs give, but thankfully, I catch myself by the elbow.

The bunny creature stands over me in a menacing manner and then gently crouches down on top of me like that of a compassionate lover. Her bunny head mask is a few inches from my face. As if she is staring straight into the pit of my soul. My semblance is seen in myself when I look at my glossy black mirror,like large button eyes. My hand slowly moves towards the propane torch on my belt. The coarse fabric hand caresses my light brown face up and down and then traces the line of my jaw, almost lovingly. She then says in a rather cute voice from the suit.”my, my, what a wonderful… skin you have.” With a pause that seemed like forever, other than with a slight heaving sound coming from her. Suddenly, she tilts her head a bit and says. “You look…familiar… Do I… know you?”

Now is the best time; she's off guard. My fingers grip the handle of my propane torch. I hammer the igniter, and a roaring, brilliant blue heat erupts from the end. I shove it into her face with a mighty thrust. The fabric burns and rolls up, falling apart onto the ground. She jerks back and stumbles with her hands to her face, making a shrieking sound away from me. She scrambles, trying to put the fabric back onto her. In a pissed-off, menacing voice, “You ruined it! You ruined it! Gonna have to use yours instead! fix, fix!”

While she is distracted, I vault upwards, relying on my cheerleading skills, and precariously stand on the massive knife at the top she left behind. From this angle, I am now taller than her. I look down and see beneath the torn fabric: a mechanical metal frame intertwined with squirming, sinewy flesh, blistered and burned. Her bunny mask, covering her face, is half-burned on the right side; its seams curl at the scorched edges, exposing dead, artificial green eyes. Forcing myself to focus, I tear my gaze and quickly look at the duct above—my way out. I plant one foot firmly on the flat surface of the knife to steady myself. I pull it vigorously, loosening the already loose vent. I hurriedly threw it down. Clink. Seizing my opportunity, I grab the edge of the vent. Now hanging on the edge of the gaping mouth that will swallow me fully. I haul myself up and squeeze into the narrow opening, pulling myself inside before she can react.

She is no longer distracted; I hear a SSHUNK sound, sharp and sudden, as though she is unsheathing her knife from the ground like a sword. I continue crawling through the vent; it snakes a bit as it goes. The giant knife suddenly bursts through the vent wall right in front of me, the metal rupturing with violent force. I barely stop behind it; it's right up in my face. My reflection stares at me again. The inhumanly large knife is pulled out, leaving a gaping flanged hole. The monster peeks inside and then says loudly, "I'm herrrre!" I continue forward once again, this time hurrying a little faster until I reach a vertical drop; a downward shaft interrupts my path. I peeked over the edge to see how far down the drop went. Then—CLANG. That massive metal shard slammed back into the duct, missing my spine by inches. I flinched, my slick hands slipped right off the molding, and I just fell. Straight down into the black.

I land with a hard thump, my vision becomes hazy and blurry, like I have some kind of film over my eyes. My head is thumping with pain. My eyesight doubles and fades away as I fight my heavy lids. Everything goes dark.

* * *

Though the world slowly fades in, I feel the shivering of cold concrete. Awaking below a cold blue glow above me. I take a swift sitting, being propped up with my hands. Looking around, it’s a rather secluded area; the walls are concrete, and there are no windows to speak of, other than a single entry to leave and another familiar-looking strange console. I briefly look behind me; I see pipes lining the walls, like veins into a void. I did it. “He, he.” I really did it, I actually got away. Filled with gusto and determination, with a big smile, I jump up feeling decent. Empowering even. I’ve never felt this good before. Looking at the foreign-looking console and screen. Several pieces of footage are displayed on the ugly display, which is covered in pink, fleshy gunk.

On one feed, hazmat workers with 'V-Tek' emblem’d on their suits, holding flamethrowers, are directing fire at the creature. The thing is monstrous, yet its reaction is much human-like: it shrivels and recoils from the fire, terrified, unable to defend itself. The flames burn away patches of organic tissue and burn the tentacles to ash. It emits agonizing shrieks that rise every time. Its crying evokes the anguish of a helpless animal. A sound with so much suffering behind it. An inexplicable wave of sorrow flows over me. My eyes tear up and start pooling at my feet. Drip drip drip. My watery eyes create. A great deal of empathy wells up within me, as if I could feel the pain myself.

The next camera feed shows a wreck. It's labeled V-Tek Lab 5, and it's buried under a disgusting mess of meat and tentacles. A few are sagging down from the ceiling like cables. I think about changing it. Conveniently, it flipped the feed away from it. I'm pretty relieved from that. Next, a glitchy animatronic show appears, blasting some electronic beat that rattles my mind. The audio is poor, but even through the static, I can make out a few lyrics. “'Cause I could eat you like an animal… I’m so cannibal… starvin’ now…” I see something moving around in the corner. I look there, and the camera pans to provide a better view and focus.

Huh? That's odd. That is the 2nd time that happened… It's a humanoid robotic rabbit on a single wheel, running around to service empty tables. The rabbit waitress wears a retro-looking "Big Roni's Pizzacade" apron nearby, with pizzas dropped on the floor. I think about focusing on her more, and the camera does as I ask. The area seems to be some kind of automated restaurant or underground exhibit.

The room before me shifts and resets itself, zooming forever in intervals, its dimensions and contents distorting in ways that aren't possible. My mind reflects upon this disorientation, becoming tangled and fragmented. The air has a faint tinge of electricity, like an invisible grid moving and fuzzy around me. I feel like just static in a larger system, or maybe my own mind is just fracturing from exhaustion and stress. Either I am manifesting supernatural abilities, or I am succumbing to a vivid hallucination from overwork. I raise my hands up in front of me and stare at them, expecting them to burst into flames or melt. Yet they don't before me.

Suddenly, the screen goes blank and shows an unprompted search bar. The page looks a bit outdated. At the very top, it says V-Tek archive server. A faint, metallic tang fills the air, and I notice the gentle hum deepening inside the console, the vibration felt through my fingertips. I feel very connected to the device, as if there were an invisible cord between us. I still can't shake the unsettling thought: am I actually here, or is all of this some fevered trick of the mind? Still, the console waits for me, as real and unreal as everything else down here.

I keep staring at the waiting prompt on screen; it’s like it is calling to me. “Come here.” I drag my feet, feeling like a zombie slowly walking up to it. Each step has a harder pulling force than the last.

After only a few seconds, I am right up on the strange console, the blue background completely shadowing me in its blue light. My hand reaches forward slowly. As I do, I realize I am reaching out and try pulling it back, but only for a short while, and then I am doing it again. It’s like I'm not in control of my own actions anymore. Like my hand is magnetized towards the interface. I use my right hand to try to pull my own hand back. But at last it just wasn’t possible; it was an inevitable force to do so.

My hand touches the alien-looking console. The sensation is hot and warm. Then my mind floods with images and words of all kinds. I grab my free hand and put it to my head, keeling over the console at the sudden rush of information overload.

A sudden flash of a lab: I am in a glass cage with people in lab coats; their tags read 'Plasmacorp'. Some text near the door reads "Mara" (Мара).

—the scenario shifts into a new one; I see the words SOAI and the word Silicon upon a digital document. I suddenly understand that the creature is a Silicon Organism Artificial Interface. Designed to learn human behavior to use as a network of neurons as a new type of processor. I look through what seems like a casing around me. I’m standing in the middle of a hallway with an urge to eat. Starvation had set in. The night guard looks like a nutritious snack. The food within reach is too tempting not to do.

That fades, and in comes a new one: a tall, blue, grease-painted-faced man tied to a chair; below him is concrete, and his blue costume is ripped open, exposing his chest. I am constantly flicking the car battery clamps in my hands that spark each time. The man is slumped with burns across his chest already and seems to be half unconscious. and speaks “Please, no more, Please….” I say in a sarcastic voice, “Funny how I said the exact same thing before.”

That memory drifts off, and another fills its place; it’s a loud, stern man, rudely speaking. His badge ID says ‘Victor Locke, CEO. ’ He is moving his hands furiously. He proceeds to say, “I don’t care! Do whatever it takes. We need rapid deployment. You have the end of the week to make it!” Another lab tech says, “Ahem, but sir, the protocols were established for a reason by the boys at the Plasmacorp facility.” “They highly advise against” —Victor puts his foot down like he is taking control of the situation.

Victor: “DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A DAMN!” He gets right up close and pushes a finger into his torso.“Do it, —” He gets in right up in the poor guy's face and says:” or someone else will.” “I have a big event planned next week; we can’t miss it.” And then the rude man leaves the lab. The doorway says ‘V-Tek Lab 5’.

The echo of “Do it” , “Do it” echoes heavily in my mind. Then it fades away, I am convulsing, lying on the floor now from such a massive amount of information given to me; my brain feels like it could explode. There is too much for me to handle and process. My brain can’t keep up. The massive amounts of information come to a halt with great relief. I’m lying awake, staring at the bottom of the console. Taking a breather from a sudden amount of unexpected activity. I put one hand back on the console and pull myself back into a hungover posture over it. Afterward, I swiped my nose and sniffled and wiped my previously wet eyeballs.

My ID photo flashed in my mind. I look down at myself, check again, and look back up. Absolute confusion. My eyes drift over to the nearby metal door, wishing for it to open or something, but there was nothing but the occasional rattles and clangs of the pipes behind me. It's just empty. Finally, I force myself to look inward and confront the truth I've been avoiding. Another flash: Elena Cross, V-Tek, Maintenance/Containment.

Missing.

Last Deployed: 02/02/1997

There is, without a doubt, me; this isn't a mistake.

Another one blends in; the last memory fragment comes to mind. I see myself inside a hazmat suit, with a plastic visor. I have a flamethrower in my left hand. I look over, and it’s Nathan, also in a hazmat suit, having an argument with me or something about how we have to do “THIS!” “DO you see it? This is a code red containment outbreak!” I’m directly in front of him. The memory stops and escapes me.

I just stare frozen at the now black screen. I grabbed my right arm and dug into my forearm with my fingernails until it stung. Definitely not a dream. The hazy fog over my mind slightly lessens, but with it comes another. It's the feeling like someone is reaching deep within me. Shifting between here and somewhere else. The self here. And another being engulfed by a stranger's arms. It's strangely— comforting. Like that of a blanket wrapped around me, warm and cozy.

Then hundreds of eyes appear on the screen. They just reflect my fears back at me in a long, suffocating moment. My mouth is open wide, but I have trouble using it. One by one, the eyes close, leaving the screen in darkness. On the screen, there should have been an image of me, but instead, there was nothing. Nothing at all. And then the reflection just pops into existence while looking at it. That unnerving feeling of being watched comes back, stronger than ever. The hairs on my very neck even react to the sensation. Feeling the breath of something along my neck.

Clack, Clack, I turn back around again, only expecting the pipes to make it. But instead, a tall form was in front of me, up in my face. Its face is yellowish, with parts of stringy flesh; its left eye is missing from the socket, filled with flesh and miniature eyes; the right eye has a purple pupil, staring at me and looking rather tired.

I jump backward from the sudden jump scare. Getting a better view of the shape before me. It’s not the bunny monster, unlike earlier. This one wears a small black top hat with a thick red band and short brown hair outlining its face. Her figure is slim, in a withered, cracked plastic casing, every part of her wrapped in sinew and flesh, with the lower third of her lips missing to the chin, showing only metal, and her upper teeth looking like she is trying to keep herself together, showing bits of a mechanical skeleton. She has a pink nose and is wearing a maroon vest and a red tie. She has a sizable chest that flows into a thin frame, then into legs wearing charcoal pants with clothing-iron-shaped feet. Slumped over-ish. She looks exhausted, like she could collapse at any moment.

A soft, somewhat distorted feminine voice comes from the monstrosity in a slow, broken English voice: “continue —trial.” I can’t speak. I want to speak, but I can’t. I’m frozen from fear. What has appeared before me is, once again, something that shouldn’t exist. But yet here it is. As I keep locking eyes with it. It speaks again, “You—Help.” I slowly nod my head. “Reward—given—”, “Participation—Exit,” “Continue—test.” As she swings from side to side, she twitches periodically.

“Need—Data”

Before I could process it, she was right up on me. A large hand grabbed me. Its long fingers wrapped around my neck and picked me up like I was just a bag of flour. She limply stomps towards the door. I squirm around and hit her with my fist. I look down, and I still have my propane torch, but my tablet is gone. I snatched the blowtorch, ignited it as I did with the bunny monster. Then gave my luck another try, closed my eyes, and thrusted it into her face. I was expecting a shriek, a squelch, or anything. But nothing, nothing at all, just the sound of metal CLANKING and strained servo sounds, one after another at an abnormal pace.

I open one eye, and she is still carrying me, with an iron-grasp throat hold. I can’t breathe; it is unbearable. I can start to feel myself drifting, and my vision starts to double. I then lose grip of the propane torch, and it drops with a clang. The monster, recognizing maybe she had too hard a grip, released a bit of my pressure. And warm blood starts to flow again. Suddenly, she stops, and I feel the ground below my feet once again. But too weak and out of breath, I cough and just lie there.

“What the hell… was that for?” I cough like a chain smoker having a coughing fit.

What I assume is the “Mara” that I briefly saw just moments before the interruption. She is still standing there, kind of limp-ish, just breathing in, out, and moving a bit, arms hanging to the sides outward from their weight. She speaks again, “Need—Learn.” “Need—Survive,” “Tried—Save—You”, “Heavy—Burns,” I grunt, pushing myself up off the white-tiled floor. In a rather confident voice, I said, “I don’t understand. What is this?” Mara tilts her head a bit and seems to be thinking. “Rewards—on-task—completion—Memories”

Silence grows; there is absolutely nothing but pure, unfiltered, dead silence which fills the void. I still stand there just staring at her with a scowl, but she seems unaware. She doesn’t understand. For some reason, looking at her, I get the feeling she's being apologetic. In some way, in the last line. So she asks me to complete some goal? She seems to notice my confusion. Slowly raises her left hand and points past me with an index finger. It hangs for a bit, then goes limp again.

I turn around, still confused. and thinking about all that has been happening to me. I think I should start pressing forward, but I suddenly thought of another question to ask. I turn back around only to see she has disappeared. Where she stood just seconds ago, black skid marks arc around the corner of the white hallway. I follow after her, but when I go around the corner, it’s just a dead end. With a loud sigh, I turn back around once more. I get aggravated by the lack of any real answers. Still wearing that scowl.

After walking what seemed to be a never-ending loop of labyrinthine twists and turns. I stumble upon an unlabeled door. Without a single hesitation, I latch onto the handle and pull it open with every force I am capable of, quickly stepping through. As I do, my senses become overwhelmed, and I feel an invisible force pull me.

My vision warps and shifts in a way that overtakes me, and I grow taller like a tree, nearly a whole foot. Glancing down, I see I am wearing patched-up gloves. The world around me is distorted, as if I were living through someone—or something—else. I look up, sensing something ahead of me. It's the hazmat workers I saw earlier standing before me, their presence triggering a surge of unfamiliar rage, each breath burning with intensity. It's me but also not. It's like I'm just an observer. I look more closely and see a faint vision of a familiar face. It’s Nathan Gilford. He points his flamethrower at me, and the flames shoot out, engulfing me. Instinctively, I reach for the large blade nearby and advance toward all of them, but especially Nathan first. Just as rapidly as it began, the vision blurs and fades, and I find myself once again in my current reality.

My chest begins to hurt as it rises, glancing down at my trembling hands, panic rapidly takes hold. Questions race through my mind: What am I? Did he murder me? Did I get revenge? The realization sinks in. Not a single witness to bear what I have done.

I—I— killed them all. The men— then the women- it makes me sick. A bunch of flashes appear before me: the bent light, unaccounted wrenches, and the constant reminder of being watched. Nothing makes any sense; my thoughts spiral out of control. I stumble forward and catch myself. My blood is pumping hard through my veins, so loud I can hear it. My breath becomes fast and shallow; the walls close in on me, twisting as time smears. I am overwhelmed by one remaining goal: find the exit.

After much time walking around in the rather desolate metal corridors of the maintenance tunnels with flickering lighting, I find an open room area.

The room has a red glow, with a panel switch next to a door labeled EXIT in all caps, which is lit. A dragging metal-on-metal screech can be heard from not far away. Panicking, I run up to the switch and pull it. But pulling it didn’t do anything.

Now foundly terrified of being killed, I pull the switch down again, yet hold it this time. Small bulbs are lighting up, and the Power meter on the switch is slowly increasing. Come on. Come on. Then the sound suddenly, out of nowhere, just stopped. I look behind myself, and the bunny rabbit comes into view. Looking rather pissed, it started moving forward again, but now with an aggressive pep in its walk. The massive knife follows behind. Her bunny mask and flesh were still half burnt from our earlier encounter.

The Power is 98% now. “Please come on, hurry it up,” I say out loud, as if telling it would make it faster. The rabbit takes a vertical shot at me, but I narrowly avoid it and go back to the switch. No No. It was going down when I wasn’t holding it. Damn it. I held it down again at 96%.

97%

As the meter approaches the end, the air grows heavier, tension building with each passing second.

98%

My pupils are so fixated on it, my heart is still trying to beat out of my chest as I keep letting go and dodging her attacks.

99%

100%

As it reached 100%, the doors started opening slowly and then opened quickly at a neck-breaking rate, THUNK, as the door slammed into its fully open state. Without hesitation, I run towards the exit.

My boots make a fast-paced clack as I enter the doorway. On the way out, though, my boots catch at the lip of the door and down I go.

THUMP

That was not a good feeling, but I was determined to move forward anyway, ignoring the pain once again. I crawl to what seems to be the finishing line. I look back, and my pursuer is still after me. But for some reason, it just stops after I crawl into the exit, looming at an invisible line . It's unable or unwilling to pass forward. In the silence beyond, everything starts dissolving around me: walls, sounds, even the very floor below me. It becomes just a black void swallowing all color and memories. I look back again, and the bunny person is still there. Then they dissolve into the void as well. My vision blurs, and my eyes become extremely heavy. I try to keep them open, desperate for some sign that I made it out, that I am real. My own body starts dissolving, turning into grains of silica sand flying into the void.

As my mind drifts away, a final thought remains. Did I do it?

<h3 class="text-center fw-bold mb-4" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">EPILOGUE: Simulacrum</h3>

Your vision and senses fade into existence under a heavy, gray sky somewhere on the far outskirts of Newark. It's just endless grassland cut up by random concrete walls. A thick forest runs along the right side, a cornfield covers the left, and in the middle sits this massive, imposing mansion. The architecture is profound and, at the same time, rather ridiculous, out in the middle of nowhere. The air feels cool and rather refreshing. Honestly, if it wasn't for the creepy sky, it would be a fine place if your stomach didn't drop.

You aren't alone. Nearby is Nathan Gilford, your old co-worker. He is pacing nervously. For some reason, you have a deep distrust of him but can't recall why. Arthur Pendleton shakes around like a cowardly dog. You look down at your own hands. You're Elena Cross.

You remember who you are, but can't seem to dredge up much else. All but a single memory. You know, at some point, we were all relaxing at a nice resort, drinking alcoholic drinks and having fun in the pool on a bright sunny day. Other than that, nothing else. Various items are scattered about near you; you know they are rewards from a previous session. You kneel down, grab a few socket wrenches and a medkit, and attach them to your toolbelt. The goal hits your brain like an instinct: fix the power consoles around the estate, and stay away from whatever is hunting you.

Glancing around at the others, a click happens in your mind. You wonder whether we ever grow as people, every time we do this song-and-dance. Or if each cycle teaches us anything, and we just forget. Escape is always out of reach, never given. We are trapped in an endless cycle of repeatedly doing tasks and facing dangers. The cycle might not be a punishment for you, but it could be for others. These can bring enjoyment sometimes, and you deeply know it's about working towards something bigger than we can understand. The thought lingers behind as you step forward into whatever new chapter of your life brings.

Heavy footsteps suddenly shake the dirt. A crack of a gunshot echoes in the breeze. A whiff of an invisible scent hits your nose. Smells like rotten flesh and sulfur. Looking to your right, Arthur drops, screaming, clutching a bleeding shoulder. You go over to Arthur to see if you could do anything, but then a menacing cackle comes from behind that freezes up your blood.

Looking behind you, it's a green-stitched-up man with a red hat, a shitty black coat with no undershirt, black ragged pants with boots, and below his fairly sized belly, he wears hunting gear: a hunting knife, a large holstered revolver, and an orange butt-out remover. He seems to be holding an old lever-action rifle. The man stops for a moment and leans over and spits into the ground. His face has huge mutton chops on either side and a balding head with long side hair. The man speaks in a gruffy voice: "Time for the hunt."

A twisted , formidable new threat hangs before us. The Mutton Chop Devil moves into view, rifle in hand, eyes gleaming red with a fierce hunger. A new test made of a bleak landscape of utter dread. A flow of primal fear fills the air; it's time for quick thinking to determine survival.

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