Project Iapetus

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Yikes. Sure hope not everyone here will be like that.

Peaches eyes dart around the barren office. She hopes not every room here is like this one either; lifeless and grey. Even the desk is exceptionally boring. The wardens desk was much nicer, but she was super important so maybe you only get nice desks that way?

Still, if she could bring a bit of colour to her bunk at Vaniers some 'ghost science' facility shouldn't be too difficult to bring some life to. Heh. Ghost pun.

Wait- no. Mrs Ross said it wasn't ghosts. What was it again? Phanspasms? Something like that. Not that it matters.

Or did it..? That's not why she's here. Or... was it?

Mrs Ross sent me here, because...

There are pink post-it notes on the desk. And a ballpoint pen.

SCORE.

In a handful of springing steps Peaches parks her rear in the representatives desk chair, giving it one, two, three spins for good measure before scooting forward and pulling the stack of unused pink paper squares into arms reach. She sets the pen to paper with practised ease, doodling a cartoon-ish depiction of a moth to warm up. Once satisfied, she pries the post-it up and sticks it to the glass worktop and gets to work on another.

A cat in a top hat. A dog digging a bone. Flowers that fill every inch of canvas. Draw. Stick. Draw again. She covers the desk in a sea of pink never breaking from the rhythm.

She sticks a school of salmon to the open folder beneath her work station, it only then dawning on Peaches that a photo of her likeness is printed inside.

Her eyes roam the pages, absorbing the information inside.

'-why, for the safety of our staff and other inmates-'

That's not my name.

'-we can no longer in good conscience maintain the responsibility of custody for this woman.'

--

The door clicks open again. A figure walks in, pausing mid-apology as they take in the scene before them; Peaches is sat on the ground in the middle of the office beset in a wall of hot-pink. Her chair has been placed against the wall, leaving the ring of post-its around her undisturbed, yet she continues adding to it with unrelenting fervour.

The figure calls for her again, drawing Peaches attention up from her latest masterpiece: a mouse eating a giant wedge of cheese. She stares blankly at the figure.

"...hi?"

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There's cordial greetings and small talk as Arnie sits on the wood chair that suddenly looks too small for his long legs. He tries his best to return the cheery tone and warmth of the Human Resources representative for the Project, but it is a muscle that has not seen use in ages. It has long since atrophied into something dry, dark, and fragile. His responses come across curt instead, and he hates himself more. 

Muffled shouting seeps through the walls of the office soon after Arnie settles, and he locks eyes with the representative. The employee excuses themselves to deal with an emergency, and Arnie only nods. Further reassuring remarks shift like silt disturbed in clear water, but do not rise to the surface. He remains quiet. 

It's as the door shuts the large man is suddenly aware of his isolation. The objects in the room that could kill. His blood pressure spikes and he shoots to his feet as if the door latching suddenly filled the seat of his chair with needles. He's quick to back away from the glass table. Number 18. Death by broken glass. A bad way to go. Marginally better than drowning, or disemboweling, but not good. 

His eyes dart across the room looking desperately for protection. In an office there weren't too many objects that could be used like a weapon for defense. But he leans down to grab the legs of the chair he had been seated on. It could give him some distance from an attacker, and if it broke the legs could become sharpened stakes to impale. It was better than nothing.

The frightened man presses his back to the wall behind him, the wooden chair crushed in his grip poised to swing. He wouldn't be surprised. He wouldn't have a blind spot. He listens intently to the noises in the hall, his chest rises and falls dramatically as he fights off the rising panic. His body is tense, and he can't tell if hours or minutes have passed, and he doesn't dare turn to look at the clock behind him.

He's startled by a sound to his left and it's the return of the HR representative who jumps to find Arnie positioned to swing a chair down upon them. Guilt and shame choke him like a noose, and he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron. Pathetic.

"Apologies..." He chokes as he returns the chair to the floor and slowly sits. The representative offers a sympathetic look, and it makes him feel worse. His brother had sent a full report on the events that led to the collapse of Arnie's life. He could see it in the folder on the desk splayed before him. They knew to an extent what he'd been through. But they didn't really know. 

With the employee's cheery tone returning and banishing the silence, the dark storm cloud of a man relaxes, and finally turns to look at the clock on the wall behind him. Fifteen minutes. They were gone for fifteen minutes and in that time he'd adopted furniture as a weapon, and pressed himself to the back wall like a scared child. 

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She’d come all this way to Canada, all for this opportunity. All for a group that clearly valued research and understanding above any other application. A position she could believe in and advocate for, as she made clear to the representative interviewing her. She was going to be a small fish in a big pond here. But it would be worth it.

The mood was good, that sort of cordial rapport built and maintained over time-

But when the rep excused herself, Makoto was once again left alone with her thoughts. In a stuffy room to boot.

The first ten minutes were spent trying to count the stacks of paper. Pink sticky notes breaking up the stack of papers, but also threw a wrench in her counting plan - she got to fifty, decided she’d lost her count, and started over. By the time she reached the sticky note she’d deemed the halfway point of the stack she’d reached eighty somehow. With a huff, she gave up and looked around the room.

Did this room feel smaller? The air was growing stuffy, weighing heavier on her. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

Okay, she can hear the faint hum of the HVAC in the ceiling, blowing cool air into the room. She tried to visualize the air flowing. Rustling through paper, no - rustling through tall grass. The sun’s shining, warm on her skin. She could lie down here and doze off-

The bickering from the hallway brought her out of her daydream, leaving her with a gnawing pit in her stomach, looking around the room. What on earth was happening out there? Ugh, was this room always so damn small? There’s people out there. There’s a hallway. There’s an exit. The exit leads to the outdoors. There’s a way out. Just breathe. You can brush past them if you need-

You’re safe.

No, no, Makoto. You can’t just bail now. If you bailed now, you’d never forgive yourself.

Just close your eyes, steady your breathing… and try again.

Your name is Makoto Inaba. You’re thirty years old. You’re a psychologist. You’re a phantasm researcher. You’ve achieved recordable results you can point to as a reference. You deserve to be here. You need to be here.

You need to be here.

You need to do this.

“Why am I doing this?” Makoto muttered, hunching forward and rubbing her temple. “Why the fuck am I here…”

But you know the answer to that. You need to understand.

“I could be camped out in a fucking cabin right about now. Just off in the woods somewhere. Why am I here…”

You know the answer to that.

“I couldn’t just stay away, could I?” She sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “This is the only place I can go if I wanna understand any of this.”

She rubbed her knee, walking over to the far wall away from the desk.

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What Key was expecting to be a brief practiced in-and-out process—You know, proving education and equipment legitimacy, maybe doing one of those mind-teaser tests to spark conversation and show aptitude, all while having a professionally sweet cadence accentuated over her mask—was quickly turning into an hour-long patience session.

Of course, despite politely waving off the HR representative to take their time and handle what they needed, sitting still was definitely not on the list of strengths she’d be bringing up. Restlessness creeps within the first fifteen minutes as her leg rhythmically clicks heel to floor, eyes shifting from papers, to the door, to her phone, and back again.

And, unfortunately, based on the rising level of aggressive voices outside, this definitely wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

Tap, tap, tap, tap… … Tap TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP.

She adjusts her goggles atop her head while twisting comically around in the chair, eyes frantically scanning the walls and corners… Was there other security equipment already here, too? Stuff she should know about? Cameras, recordings, maybe a double sided mirror or something? Was this a test in itself?

…Hmmmmm….

Swiveling back, she springs to her feet with buzzing energy and begins to test the nearby file cabinets and drawers. It doesn't take long to confirm her suspicions, though—of course they were locked. Key rolls her eyes to no one but herself, before letting a puff escape out the ventilation of her mask. Alright, fine, her file is here anyways, and the piles were so painfully obvious as to what was accepted or not, so…!