#fairco

We are seated in a half-enclosed booth, one of a dozen identical here, each roofed and lined with black.  Carefully-positioned overhead lights cast abyssal shadows into the depths of the chairs.  The angles of the furniture have been subtly crafted, fixtures and even the fabric a work more of engineering than of mere upholstery.  It all serves to dampen sound, wrapping the occupants of the booths in their own silent cloak, even to those passing within mere feet.

No one knows the value of privacy quite like an Auditor, and the Harpocrates Club – which occupies this part of the Office’s upper floor – is testament to that.  The first time I came here, I admit I was a little confused by the point of this place.  Being able to speak in concealed confidence, of course, but I have little doubt that other Auditors’ personal offices are as secured as Morrigan’s is, so this seems…strange.  An oddly public kind of solitude.  If you want to avoid being overheard, why leave the worksday world at all?

But now, I think I understand.  Here, it is both possible for Auditors not to be overheard, and not to overhear.  Privacy that works in all directions.

It has been some time since my Auditor and I have had to keep our acquaintance purely private.  The ghosts of my fingerprints are inside her throat, where I have cut away tumour and wedded new metal beneath her skin, and the shadow of her has lain heavy across my shoulders for years.  In many ways, it is simply easier to conceal our exact nature within a cloak of careful visibility.

So today we sit in the black embrace of her favoured table, and watch the smoke rising above the City’s line.

“The short answer, or the long one?” I reply, as I place my fork down onto the streaked emptiness of my plate.  Morrigan gives a faint snort of amusement.

“That depends, does it not?” She looks up, towards the view rather than directly to me, and tilts her head slightly. “On the verbosity of your concerns.  With precedent, I’d think the latter.”

I drum my fingertips on the table surface, metal nails raising a sharp click, and wonder how to frame the spiralling trails of my thoughts.

“This is an unusual time for the Trees to burn,” I begin, and Morrigan shrugs.

“The paperwork is in order.”

“I’m sure it it.  I just…” hesitate, again, trying to phrase this. “I saw the Information feeds.  ‘Gross misconduct’ and ‘Appropriation of State resource’.”

“Correct.” My Auditor takes a sip from her glass – water, free of the often-acrid burn of heavy City chlorination – but does not otherwise react.

It is time to be more direct.

“More an offence for the noose…?” I hazard.

“Would that be your judgement, Doctor?” She looks at me now, and the edges of her mouth twitch slightly. “The gallows?”

“That depends, does it not –?” I echo, matching the tilted head. “– on the nature of it.  That business with the K-Line.  The rumours of Aberrancy testing.  The Ministry has been… highlighted, of late. Hard to ignore.”

My gaze flicks back to the window, and I swallow a knot in my throat.

“But it’s even harder to ignore the Trees in bloom.”

Morrigan’s lips thin, ever so slightly, as she follows my attention towards the smoke trail.  She is silent for long enough that I wonder if I have miss-stepped, but just as I consider changing the subject, she continues.

“It is – was – a… private endeavour.” There is no tone to her synthetic voice, but I am versed enough in the pattern of pauses to hear the distaste that lies behind her words.  “A twenty year squandering of resource and effort, to pander to the delusional self-comfort of those who least require it.  Brought to a close.”

She stops; taking another drink.  I contemplate my plate, as my mind whirls rapidly behind my calm projection.  It is unusual, to say the least, to find Morrigan in a gossiping mood, and I cannot deny a moment of strange thrill at the realisation.

“Twenty years?” I ask, carefully. “If you were aware of this –?”

“Outside my remit, Doctor.” Morrigan’s reply is short, but there is no sharpness to her eyes. “Officially, and practically.  The Auditor of Blood is territorial, even by the standards you are used to, and she has some very… fixed ideas.  You are aware of that Ministry’s overall functionality.”

I nod, although it was not a question.  The Ministry of Blood – so-called because, let’s be honest, ‘the Ministry of Population Control and Distinctly Dubious Eugenics’ does not exactly roll off the tongue – has oversight of many things, but is primarily involved with the pedigree of Wards.  With family bonds as many might understand them all but absent amongst the underscored, the need to keep track of who bore whom, or how closely related two Beds from one Block might be, has become increasingly vital.  Inbreeding is clearly to be avoided, medical records and tissue typing are always important; yet for certain mindsets it is not a significant leap between that, and the weeding out of less desirable characteristics, or the encouragement of others.  The application of domestication theories, to human beings…

Distasteful does not go far enough.

“I know about the Lineage projects,” I reply, after a moment of thought.  Controlling all Ward pairings would be beyond even a Ministry effort, either by accident or design, so for the most part Blood has concerned its focused efforts on a few Lines.  C-Line for docility, and the pallid blonde beauty preferred by certain sectors; and those recent shadows of the K-Line rumours.  There are likely others but I have paid them little attention.

Outside my remit, indeed.

Morrigan places her glass back down, and nods slowly.

“Yes.  Breeding Wards like dogs.” Her nostrils twitch, muscles tightening either side of her face. “I cannot say I have ever had much faith in the work.  Brilliance, Doctor, in my experience, is not easily produced to order.  Perfection is a poisonous ideal.”

“You said this was private, though…?” I push, gently, and am met by a new knife of a smile.

“Indeed.” She flicks one gloved hand back towards the window, encompassing the smoke trails again. “Once the idea is there, once it seems possible, there will always be those who think they can do better.  And have the capital to sink into such absurd pursuits.”

A few seconds of silence roll back and forth between us, before she continues.

“Pandora’s Witnesses.” She meets my gaze, accompanied by a raised eyebrow of her own. “Citizen-sponsored, if by some chance you could not guess from the name.  I understand there were a raft of characteristics required in the specification; a good number little more than pandering to the sexual desires of the project’s presumed customer base.” At that, I note that slight, slight tick in her expression that I recognise.  The one we have never discussed, because how in the Chain’s links would you start that sort of conversation?  A distance there, bordering a moment on confusion, for a section of life of utter personal distinterest, and yet…

But I am not here to wonder on my Auditor’s preferences, or lack of them.  If she notices that I notice, and I find it difficult to imagine that she does not, then she makes no sign of it as she continues.

“They are, bluntly, Secret Keepers.  Bred-for-purpose dolls, made to listen and soothe smarting conscience in a… great variety of ways.  Primarily their apparent, intrinsic inability to recount anything told in confidence.”

I frown, examining the description.  No matter what angle I approach it from… in merely twenty years…

“That… can’t work,” I say at last, and Morrigan gives a snort of amusement.

“Correct.  The pivotal element is a specific form of conditioning.  Inelegant, from all reports I have seen, but so wrapped up in pseudo-genetic hearsay it seems otherwise.” She picks up her knife, twisting the blade in the air idly. “Regardless.  The project was a failure, Doctor.  A handful of resultant scions, traded on like expensive cattle, leaving a trail of broken failures and squandered investment that far exceeds their price.  I believe Blood’s intention in allowing this farce to continue was in wait for a situation such as today.  Keeping secrets from your squeamish relatives is one thing.  But from the Office – and thus, from Mother?”

A cold smile bleeds across my Auditor’s face, and her grey eyes are like windows into hades’ storms.

“That is quite another.”

Hairs prickle across the back of my neck.

“A scapegoat, then,” I say, flatly, and Morrigan laughs.  That same repeated ripple of recorded sound, captured long ago, like fossilised amusement.

“In a view.  Quite possibly Blood could no longer pacify Education with placeholders and assurances.  If nothing else, regardless of stock, an individual outside of the PRIFAC system cannot technically be considered to be a Ward.  Education is very… particular, about that.”

I look back towards the smoke.

“A distraction, then.”

“More than likely.”

“From what?” As soon as I ask, as soon as the short words leave my lips, I know them a mistake.  Morrigan’s eyes narrow, slightly, and I recognise the warning in her expression as she leans forward.

“Now that – is outside your remit, Doctor,” she says, her voice dropping to its lower setting. “Officially, and practically.  Keep your concerns where they lie now.  These fires will not last long.”

She sits back and, despite the controlled climate of our surroundings, I feel another shiver run the length of my neck.  It might be best to put these thoughts aside – to sit alongside other times my sentimentality has clashed with practical concerns – but I will not be able to dismiss it as easily as I might wish.

A handful of resultant scions.

I will wonder what happened to them, for some time.

A trio of Clerks occupies their usual position around the rectangular table on the far side of the leisure room. Spread around them are the typical array of combs and vaseline along with a lone AGRI who had given into her curiosity and was now being groomed excessively. The host of new, unopened cosmetics at their disposal could only be the by-product of their latest flattery spree in the facilitator’s proximity.

Separated by the one-way glass partition, the Wards are less than two meters away yet seemingly oblivious to their onlooker. The Breather lieutenant thumbs each shackle of the metal rosary chain around his hand as he observes the Wards’ activities. Short, salt-and-pepper, crudely cut hair and an old, yet neatly kept Silo-uniform. An old, ragged scar blemishes his face from his nose to where it cuts his upper lip.

His fingers halt on his chain as his eyes turn to the digital clock on the wall; counting down. Two minutes and twenty-eight seconds before the end of their leisure time. A short alarm sounds as it hits ‘zero’. The lieutenant waits to stand until the room on the other side of the glass is cleared. Muscles ache as he reaches for the back of his chair for support. His rosary chain presses into the palm of his hand. Those first few groaning steps he takes look almost rheumatic but they ease the further he walks along the glass planes; zigzagging through Fair-Co’s hidden corridors; until he reaches the locker room. He unlocks the one next to ‘Capt. S_R’’s. His reads ‘Lt. M. Phelan’. It is mainly empty, apart from his book of Mother’s Strictures, his winter uniform and a few small, hand-sized oxygen canisters of which he grabs one. His breath trembles as the fresh oxygen fills his lungs. Once. Twice. He puts the lid back on the canister and replaces the one he carries on his utility belt alongside his flashlight and knife.

In the privacy of the locker room, he begins to unbutton his shirt; letting it hang loosely over his shoulders. Hidden underneath the fabrics of his uniform, several leather and metal constructions wrap around his body as supports. He adjusts one of the straps around his chest and shoulder, hissing through gritted teeth as he works on tightening the buckle.

There is only skin over bone on parts of his ribs. And wrist. Deep, furrowed scars run far underneath the medical supports. Although they are now considered ‘old’, they are not all healed. But overall, it was better now than it was before. In the warm, dank Silo. He had screamed when he still had the energy. And when his lungs were not yet burned by the chlorine gas in which they were trapped. The bed and clothes; soaked red. Eventually they stopped giving him morphine. Their supplies were running low and… their lieutenant would Go Home to Mother soon enough…

He watches his reflection in the cracked and slightly corroded mirror on the inside of his locker door. The cracks distort the image but he makes no attempt to adjust it by repositioning himself or the mirror. He closes his shirt. Closes his locker. Closes the door to the room behind him.

…………………………………………………………..

[Laurence] ... I never thought of you as a Strictures man.

* Laurence smiles as he closes the little book with creased, water-damaged pages. Princess’ pretence of sleeping peacefully and undisturbed comes undone when her cropped ears follow the sound of the book sliding across the desk. Her eyes and head lock onto the lieutenant as he reaches out to take back the black bound tome - Mother’s Strictures.

[Laurence] Going Home to Mother is a story for Wards. It sounds so much kinder than telling them they’ll end up as fertiliser. How does that work out for you, Lieutenant; preaching about achieving some sort of heaven through means you yourself could never attain?

* Princess sits; unmoving; while Laurence lovingly strokes her head. They both watch how the lieutenant returns his Strictures book to the small cartridge pouch on his belt. He is visibly weak on his legs but doesn’t sit without permission.

[Matis] It is my punishment... For my unclean birth. It is Mother's will that I suffer as well. Her Home would not be opened for men like us.

[Laurence] According to your own interpretations.

[Matis] According to Mother.

[Laurence] Let’s say I do come to stand face to face with Her, in front of her Home... What would she say to me, hmm?

[Matis] Facilitator...-

*Oddly enough, Matis seems amused. He smiles faintly.

[Matis] -...She would never even want to show herself to you.

[Laurence] It is not very kind to insinuate your Facilitator is a heretic.

[Matis] I did not write the Strictures… ‘Sir’.

[Laurence] Lurid, sadistic fairytales. For Wards. Men like myself are far too advanced to believe it them. Nevertheless, in Fair-Co, Mother and I love every employee. Very, very much. These Strictures do not conform to our long-term vision. One of humane management. Using the existence of Mother as a doctrinal tenet to convince and appeal to the better nature of individuals is… A bit old-fashioned, wouldn’t you say?

*Matis inhales until his lungs burn.

[Matis] They appeal to a base part of human nature, Facilitator. Fear and cowardice. I do not try to persuade my men to conform to the correct standard I expect from any intelligent creature..; I whip the flock back in line.

[Laurence] The ‘correct standard’? Lieutenant, your men are not as cunning as a C-ward. Not as strong as an AGRI. Not as loyal as a Motherman... The maintenance cost of your men is high. YOUR maintenance cost is high. Wards have a purpose and that purpose is to work. What knowledge do you and your men possess that might be of added value to FAIR-CO?

* Matis is silent for a moment. Thinking. He speaks just before Laurence speaks again.

*Built only a decade ago, FAIR-CO’s Medical suites are none the less dulling. Ventilators whir, choked with dust, over thin ceiling tiles stamped with repeating texture. The room smells of astringents and thinned bleach. *There are a handful of Wards and Unwards reclining, medical notes clipped to rails of their beds. Fatigue, Exhaustion, Ward Flu. Then there is Will; separated from the room by a partition curtain. Nix is at his desk, amid open books and requisitioned resources.

*Fairfax walks into the room, announced by the clack of his formal shoes. He is followed by a slim Lieutenant in his panelled and undecorated military ADEF-FAC uniform who remains, on jealous guard, just inside the door; glossy black rifle lowered.

Fairfax steps forward, clapping his hands together greedily, and rubbing them. He glances to the sick, and frowns.

[Fairfax] … I thought we were discouraging idleness, Physician?

*The open book in front of him is hastily pushed aside the moment N_X hears the voice of his Facilitator. His expression almost resembles guilt by the way he hesitantly glances at both Laurence and the Lieutenant. He takes his book at hand, tapping a finger on the title. ‘The Historical Account Of Ward Flu Inoculated In A FAC Environment’

*N_X places the old, worn book down before any pages would fall out. Swiftly, he searches through his cards.

[N_X] - Hello Facilitator.

*Laurence glances at him in distaste.

[Fairfax] … Yes. Indeed. Well. I am reliably informed that we have new Intake.

*N_X nods; gesturing towards the drawn curtains on the other side of the room.

*Laurence glances, but before turning, takes the book from N_X’s desk. He turns it to read the rear.

[Fairfax] Nothing but Media Control Propaganda! There’s no such thing as Ward Flu. There are only malingerers, the wilfully maladjusted and the morally compromised. I don’t like the suggestion that it exists in my Facility, Mr. N_X. I don’t like it at all.

*He throws down the book casually and leans closely, confidentially, to Nix. [Fairfax] I don’t enjoy your criticism, Physician, these are the best Wards that social programming can create. I think they ought to be partaking of more healthful activities. Their assigned work, for example. Get them back to it.

*N_X nods without hesitation. His eyes dart quickly towards the Lieutenant and then back at Laurence.

[N_X] - My Sincere Apologies.

*Laurence nods faintly, and withdraws, stepping to the partition curtain where Will is strapped to the bed. He assesses him, curtly.

[Fairfax] So this is the terribly interesting young man who has been draining this department’s resources.

*Upon hearing the voice, Will raises his head to look squarely at Laurence and grins

[Will] Good… erm… what time is it exactly? Name is Will, Will Heggers. I’d stand up to introduce myself or offer to shake your hand but as you can see… they’re somewhat tied right now.

[Fairfax] For your safety and comfort, my boy. AGRI, are you? Of which Facility?

*Will’s face turns a little more serious

[Will] AGRI? I’m not one of your gardeners! I’m a machinist and engineer from the settlement out near the border. Been in a few of these facilities before, though from what I’ve seen, this one is slightly different.

*Will lowers his head and closes his eyes to think

[Will] Let’s see… there was the AJ-CO… my first days at the pleasure of the State, then another facility whose name eludes me but I think it's now another crater… I think for a brief while I was locked in an old silo as well…

*Will returns to lock eyes with Laurence

[Will] That’s my most recent ‘employment’ record as far as the State is concerned I guess.

*Laurence considers him. He approaches, clinically, rolling his sleeve to rest his knuckles on Will’s forehead and thumb open his eyelid to look closely into his eyes. [Fairfax] … We’ve a saying, in this Facility, my boy. The Useful Will Be Fed. So, how precisely do you propose to be useful?

[Will] Well, let’s see. I’ve a master in mechanical engineering and construction with a speciality in building automated systems. While I was a “guest” of the State, I mostly turned my hand to assisting in the maintenance of the generators and power systems throughout the facility alongside the facilitator’s… what’s the word you use… ah yes, assets. If you have any mechanical systems that need fixing up I’m sure I can take a look. I seem to remember seeing a copter buzzing around?

*Fairfax removes his hand from Will’s forehead. He smiles darkly.

[Fairfax] You’ve accrued rather a tremendous debt; the Functionaries have all of the details. You can see it all very plainly on your Document of Due Sum. I’m afraid you will be expected to settle the balance before leaving… *Laurence glances to the doorway. [Fairfax] You haven’t met my dogs, have you?

*Will raises an eyebrow

[Will] Dogs? No? Should I have? I’m not much of an animal person myself. Little cause for them in my homeland, far too cold. [Fairfax] Good, good. You’d rather not meet them, let’s say, in the entrance tunnel… If you happened to be running somewhere, my boy. If you were leaving without the correct approval and documentation. For example. I’d hate to even speculate what would happen.

*Laurence straightens his back, and smiles, knowingly.

[Fairfax] Something unspeakable, I fear.

*Laika sits patiently, as she has done for the previous days. Eat occasionally, sleep uncomfortably, wait apprehensively. The work… The work has been abandoned, for now. Packed up for travel, stashed into a satchel, carefully guarded between her dark, thin arms.

*She is sat in a curled-up position, knees to her chin, cradling the vital research. Her mechanical leg is charging, cannibalised wiring shunting into a myriad of sockets on the metallic part, imperfectly juddering, as if with anticipation.

*A curl of dust trails from the ceiling of the cramped workroom, her home for… some time, she supposes. Laika looks up, lips parting as a tile falls from the ceiling, bouncing off a sturdy metal table, clattering away. She squeezes the satchel tighter, one Mother’s Embrace to another, she supposes…

-

Whose brilliant bloody idea was this?

Fucking military decomissioning programme; unimaginative purse puckered paper pushers; just tip fucking concrete over everything?  Really?  Either let them leave or don’t leave fucking air holes.  But no - no you just seal come Civvie idiot down there to rot, and of course she gets our Glorious Leader’s phone number…

*S_R is not pleased.  He hasn’t been pleased for some time, even considering his usual state of mind, and his mood has been deteriorating rapidly over the course of the awkward, sweaty - fucking filthy - twenty minutes he’s been navigating the rusted, creaking, pigeon encrusted angles of the ASTROFAC’s main vent system.  He’s had to backtrack several times, digging his bare toes (because you’d be fucking insane to try and wriggle around in vents with your boots on - he knows that of old) into the disgusting metal surface, and wiggling in an utterly undignified fashion as he works back up his guide rope.

*It had to be him.  C_K’s a blocky little git, and his shit-eating grin that framed his ‘sorry about that, Captain!’ had been infuriating.  So it was him.  S_R.  Captain of this chainsdammed circus, stripped to his vest and wriggling down into the sealed earth.  This Civ had better be thin -

*And then the surface beneath him is giving way, old metal crumpling under weight and fatigue and rust, and S_R finds himself plunging abruptly downwards, accompanied by cracked tiles, assorted splinters, and his own cursing.

[S_R] Fuck-!

[Laika] AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-

*Laika scrambles backward, screeching, stumbling from a curled-up position to a half-run, half-tumble across the room, the frayed wiring sparking as she yanks her prosthetic from her crude charging point. It takes her nearly a half-minute to calm down and come out from behind an upturned desk, poking her curly-haired head into the open.

[Laika] O-oh, um. Hello, there, ah… you…

*She trails off almost immediately.

*For a moment, S_R doesn’t move.  There’s a bloom of pain in the back of his head, where he’s hit something on the way down, and the sudden ringing in his ears is dying back along with the much more external cacophony.  He takes a quick stock - nothing seems broken, and while his head hurts there’s no muzzy edge of concussion to his thoughts - so he hauls himself more upright, glancing around.

*Workroom, of some sort.  Probably had been fairly wrecked up before he’d dropped in through the roof, or the room’s other occupant had taken abrupt cover, spilling even more debris out across the floor.

S_R turns sharply at the new voice, seeing the nervous brown face peering around furniture.

[S_R] ...so much for a dignified entrance.

[S_R] You’re the engineer?

*Laika nods slowly, clearing her throat. Dry, even more than usual down here…

[Laika] Um, yes. Practical applications of astrophysics…

*She stands up, clearing the space behind the desk. There’s some small clunking and judders from her mechanical leg as she flexes it experimentally, blackened electrical burns dotting the metal surface, consequences of her sudden uncoupling from charging.

[Laika] You’re the…

*Laika pauses, tries to find the right word.

[Laika] The um, gentleman on the INTER-FAC sent you.

*She eventually adds lamely, fumbling over her words. She still holds the satchel protectively, the leather bag not bearing a scuff or mark from the brief action earlier.

*S_R watches carefully as Laika comes around the table, his still-gloved hand resting on the pistol at his hip.  Distaste crosses his expression as he sees the prosthetic, eying it suspiciously, but it doesn’t look that much like a weapon.

[S_R] ...something like that.  You spoke with Facilitator Fairfax of the ego-trip - of the FAIR-CO Facility *He corrects himself, quickly.* I’m S_R, Head of Security and Captain of the… Mothermen Extraction unit.

*He hesitates as he glances down at himself.  At the streaked vent filth over his vest and along his bare arms.  He frowns.

[S_R] I usually have a uniform.  And shoes.

*Laika’s eyes drift over his vested and uh, barefoot form. She blinks a few times.

[Laika] Well, I did think the uniform standards had grown rather lax…

*She laughs nervously. Laika steps across the floor, her mechanical prosthetic crushing any debris beneath it as she pads over. The satchel remains in her arms, kept carefully with her body between S_R himself and the research. She adjusts a curl of her hair awkwardly, sections of the curls coated in the thin plaster dust that emanate from the torn tiles and miscellaneous ruins dotting the room.

*Laika looks up, frowning a little bit.

[Laika] Is there… someone else? Perhaps with a, um. Exit strategy?

[Laika] Or… some rope?

*S_R glances upward, his lips twitching irritatedly.

[S_R] Yes.  And… no.  This vent system was either designed by a lunatic, or someone overly fond of pipework crochet.  Or both.  *He shrugs* I had to unhook my guide rope what I think was two floors up.  The vents are wider there - *he looks down at her metal-coated leg, and rolls his eyes* - which it looks like we’re going to need.

[S_R] So.

[S_R] Consider yourself requisitioned.

[S_R] Now - can we go up, at all?

*Laika chews the inside of her cheek, slowly, carefully setting the satchel across her back. She mentally runs through the small section of the facility she’s been confined to. An office, a workroom (her usual home, of course) and a storage room very rarely used as a kitchen…

[Laika] Oh! I have an idea, yes!

*She motions for him to follow, stepping into the cramped storage room. There are a selection of empty crates, previously housing can after can of her meager food supply, and their salvation. A floor-to-ceiling vent she’d previously used as a chimney, coated in burnt detritus and ash. Laika runs a finger along the side of the vent, coating it in thick, dark ash.

[Laika] Well, um. It may not be a pleasant climb, but…

*She turns back to face the Motherman.

[Laika] I mean no offence, but it doesn’t look like it was a pleasant climb down, either~

*Laika gives a small, nervous laugh, which quickly dissipates at S_R’s expression.

*S_R eyes the vent with blatant displeasure.  His hand has drifted away from his pistol - given how idly the woman has turned her back on him, she’s probably not all that much of a threat.  Although he is acutely aware of his lack of footwear around that clomping case on her leg.

[S_R] ...wonderful.  Does that toy come off, or do I look forward to being deaf as well as fucking filthy by the time we get out of this tomb?

*She folds her arms, suddenly looking even less thrilled to be getting out. Her prosthetic twitches somewhat as she shifts on the spot.

[Laika] Let’s say it does not. Just based on how long I spent without one last time…

*Laika looks up, into the crude chimney, their route upward. Thick, ashen darkness.

[Laika] But feel free to go first, it is, ah. More of a job for you practical types, finding uhh. Handholds and such, yes?

*She steps back hopefully, her thick metal foot now thumping dusty black-stamped bootprints into the dented metallic floor of the storage room, Laika motioning for him to take the point with some hesitation.

*At least she won’t crush his toes this way.  Even if having a fucking ASTRO-aligned Civ at his back is enough to send all the hairs on S_R’s neck prickling.  She’s not R_V, he reminds himself.  And she’s clutching that damn satchel like it’s bleeding out, so she’s got most of her potential-shivving opportunities discounted.

[S_R] Fine.

*He reaches down, shaking out the wrap of fabric that still hangs loose around his neck, and pulls it up across his mouth and nose as he shoves a sturdy-looking crate beneath the vent, and climbs carefully up inside.

*It.  Is.  Horrible.  In here.

Layered soot and streaks of grease make getting the first handholds difficult, as he wedges himself spread-eagle against the walls and begins to shuffle upwards agonisingly slowly.  It smells like burnt food and scorched metal, and it takes a good few minutes before the lithe man has managed to pull himself up to a change in angle of the vent.  He twists around, bracing his knees against the sides of the flatter part, and leans back down with his arms extended and a grimace already on his face.

[S_R] It’s disgusting, and it gets worse.  Here - *he waves his gloved hands down at the woman, tensing for the boost in weight *.  Get a fucking move on, and think narrow thoughts.

[Laika] I’ve been down here for…

*She pauses. Huh. She mentally makes a note to check a calendar, post-escape. And recent technological and scientific developments, of course. Perhaps reversing the order of the two.

[Laika] Trust me, I am perfectly narrow enough!

*There’s a metallic clunk, and a shudder that travels across the entire vent, up to the ceiling, as Laika’s sturdy prosthetic slams into the thin metal venting, and she begins to haltingly climb, wedging herself as best as she can,  the satchel now strapped to her belly for safe-keeping. After an uncomfortable and long period of time, she sprawls out on the flatter area, as much as she is able to.

[Laika] H-hah… whew… huff…

[Laika] S-spend a lot of time doing this, do you, um…

*She pauses once more.

[Laika] ...Captain?

[S_R] I would really like to say ‘no’.

*He wriggles around further, getting himself better orientated in the vent.  It’s flat for a few more metres, presumably passing between floors to an access well, then turns more sharply upwards once again, narrowing as it goes.  That does seem to be about the right direction, and while the sides of his shoulders are touching the metal, it’s not that cramped.  Yet.

[S_R] Most extractions by now are from above-ground Facilities.  Anything lower than a couple of floors has pretty much flooded, fell in or blown up, if they aren’t powered.  If they are powered, we already know about them.  As you should have realised, if there’s actually half a brain rattling around in that skull.

*For the first time, Laika seems anything other than guardedly compliant, and a little ditzy. Her face hardens and she almost hisses, an edge to her voice as she follows S_R further upward. The cacophony of noise as she climbs grows even louder, the metal denting.

[Laika] I. Was. Busy.

*She seems to hiss, her teeth gritting as she follows, her satchel brought tighter to her lithe form for a second, perhaps as part of the motion of climbing, most likely not.

*After a long moment, Laika breathes shakily out, and trails behind S_R at some distance in silence.

*S_R continues forward, trying to work out where they are in relation to his descent.  Backtracking was annoying enough when it was just him doing it - he doesn’t fancy trying it with his current clanging backup.  His ears are ringing enough as it is.

*He pauses as the vent jigs around a T-corner, then goes abruptly straight upwards.  There are smears going along the other way - his own earlier tracks - and he nods to himself.  Couldn’t be that far now, and then C_K could do some damn hauling.  He pulls himself up into the vertical space, taking the opportunity to stretch, and the earlier snap replays across his attention.  Looks down, and back, towards the other figure.

[S_R] How ‘busy’, bricked into the basement of a dead FAC, from a long-fallen Ministry?  *He rolls his eyes.* ASTRO.  How extremely useful you lot have proved to be.

*He doesn’t wait for her response.

[S_R] FAIR-CO has use for engineers.  Has use for everybody, I suppose; but you’re the kind that gets half-decent rations for it.  *He hesitates, thoughts drifting for a moment.* It’s… better than the alternatives.

*As she’s gazed at, Laika looks down. Avoids his prying eyes, at least until the climbing is done. When they’re both together in the cramped space, she keeps her gaze low.

[Laika] I’m sure.

*Her voice has changed; is terse, mournful. She seems to fidget a little more, closing and unclosing her hands and shifting her mechanical limb. Seemingly anxious to move onward.

[Laika] I am an engineer whose… lifework turned into a coffin for an entire crew of our State’s finest, suspended in orbit…

*She adds, eventually. Hollowly.

[Laika] I will work as is necessary and continue on my own project otherwise.

[S_R] Entire crew.  I wish.  *He stops.  Debrief could wait, and ‘crammed into a vent’ wasn’t a good fucking time for whining at strangers.  Pull yourself together.

[S_R] I stepped out of PRI, straight into City militia.  And that’s gone as fucking fantastically as you might have guessed.

*He looks back at her again, and flashes an utterly humourless smile.

[S_R] Consider this an opportunity.  Because it’s a hell of a lot easier that way.

[Laika] If I can find resources to improve my work, it will be worth it. Everything else is, um. Irrelevant.

*She speaks certainly, looking pale in the dimness of the murky ventilation. Laika looks around the cramped space, then up into the next tunnel.

[Laika] Is it… much further, Captain S_R?

*She shakes her leg just a little, trying to ease out the halting stiffness that comes from a low-power and poorly-charged experimental limb prototype. The leg jerks somewhat, but seems to settle.

*S_R glares back at the renewed sound of clanging.

[S_R] What, is hauling your half-metal ass out of here inconvenient?  I’m not going to fucking carry you.

[S_R] We’re nearly at the main utilities shaft.

One more turn, and the vent ends abruptly in a dislodged grate, opening out into a metre-wide, vertical space.  Bundles of cables and lines of piping are laid thickly around the walls, all smeared and splattered with the fossil river of long-dried concrete once poured into the depths.  The artificial stone has formed a bumpy surface just below the open grating, where the old FAC-seal failed to come quite up to the level of the vent system, and there is a much more recent coil of knotted rope hanging down the centre of the open space.

*S_R yanks on the rope a few times, waits, and nods as an answering shiver ripples down the rope.  He steps aside, as much as possible, and nods Laika towards the rudimentary ladder.

[S_R] Inductees first.

*Laika stands up, grimacing as her back clicks after some time of crawling through cramped vents. She looks up, blinking somewhat at the light.

[Laika] ...Thank you for retrieving me, um. Captain. If you… want half-decent rations, and this change does help my work, I suppose I owe you some...

*She grips the bottom of the ladder, testing the weight of her clunky prosthetic on it before pulling herself up, rung after rung, the ladder swinging in the wider space.

*S_R watches her ascend, until she is nearly at the top, then turns and crouches down, pulling a small bag from its position hidden behind a chunk of concrete.  He quickly removes a small metal box and fixes it onto the largest of the pipes that still continues downwards: the one with a faint sheen of condensation still on its surface.  A flick of a switch, the timer set for ten minutes, and a small red light begins to blink atop the charge.

Get her out.  Flood whatever’s left.

Yes, ‘sir’.

[S_R] ...don’t thank me yet.

*The rope jerks again, ready for its next climber, and S_R swiftly begins to haul himself back up towards the surface.  And, somewhere, a fucking shower.

*Chalk scratches into the thick, well-used blackboard. There’s a dull snap, and a frustrated noise, accompanied by much foot-stomping. This is exaggerated further by the stamper being equipped with a prototype enhanced limb, a heavy boot causing thin cracks in the tiled floor below her. Laika steps back from the board, grimacing, the crumbling chalk in her trembling palm. It’s been a long time. A lot of work’s been done.

*She curses, stomping across the room to a half-devoured can of corn. The scientist chews thoughtfully, ignoring the flecks of food clinging to her lips. She examines the board critically, her train of thought interrupted. Action must be taken.

*She is a scientist! A good scientist and researcher works at a blackboard, whittling more and more sticks of chalk down into dust, until eventually they, the scientist, collapse into dust themselves!

*She blows a strand of hair from her face as she treads the dusty corridors she has called home for the past several years, a concreted-off section of the ASTRO-FAC she devoted her time and considerable skill to. Laika pauses at a small, subtle wooden door. Fine, real wood, compared to the scrap-wood elsewhere in the facility, occasionally scavenged by the feral scientist when the facility’s ruined heaters gave out in the colder times of the year. She takes a deep breath, and steps into the facilitator’s office.

*The room is of course no-one’s, now. A corpse stored neatly in the column of concrete that previously was the facility’s main thoroughfare was the previous owner and facilitator, but luckily the office had been left unlocked.

*Laika steps across the room, her steps muted by the rare fine furnishings in a facility of the State. She squints down at the INTER-FAC terminal, a monolithic device, practically rising out of the carpeted floor itself. Her hands deftly prod and shift the myriad of dials, setting up an open connection on one of the few channels still available out of the facility. Finally!

*The scientist’s head dips, her lips barely an inch from the meshed tip of the INTER-FAC’s microphone. She clears her throat, examining the amplitude of the soft noise on the machine’s display, before beginning to speak. It is a short speech, but vital to the young woman’s continuing work:

“Ahem. Ah… Does anyone have any more chalk, please?”

*Elsewhere, in Facilities scattered wide and far; some gutted of their innards, some bombarded to nothing but angles and rebar, some hollowed and emptied, with all assigned evacuated - in private offices, sumptuous, bare or burned, INTER-FACs illume and oscillate. A single emergency light displays. And Laika’s voice resounds.

And there is a silence, in answer.

There is a single click.

An a rich male voice speaks enticingly.

- I do, my dear. -

*Laika has not experienced human contact in a long time. A voice, a soundwave on a screen, the thought of another being in the universe that has been silent for so long… Understandably, all of these make her jump about a foot back from the mic, startled. The thump of the waifish scientist, more specifically the experimental limb replacing one of her legs, hitting the floor causes a sizeable spike on the monitor. After a short pause where she steadies herself and regains some air in her lungs, she returns to the device, speaking once again.

[Laika] O-oh, excellent! I have been running low on supplies for quite some time!

*Referring to the Work, her lifeblood, with anyone causes the little surge of adrenaline through her body, even after so long...

[Laika] If it would please you, may I ask you to supply me with some chalk? My own stock is deplenished and we cannot have that, of course, haha~

* Her soft, excitable laugh echoes through the dead halls, bouncing off skeletons and restricting concrete hemming them all, living or dead, inside.

[Laika] I’m in one of the sealed-off sections of ASTRO-FAC 2, if it pleases you to pop some chalk down whichever ventilation duct leads down to the Facillitator’s Office I would be thrilled~

*She pauses for a long second, contemplating much less important matters.

[Laika] I suppose some more canned food would also be useful, but that’s secondary, um, my dear?

- Didn’t you all die, darling? -

*She blinks, chewing her lip. She had been… worried this question would come up, to say the least, but she’d assumed she’d been forgotten about… Hoped, almost…

[Laika] Haha, well, I must have been born under a lucky star, if I believed in such things, umh, darling.

*She laughs nervously, fidgeting with one of the many errant dark curls that trail around her head.

- Quite. You’re a dark little bulb on my grid, my dear. Using the emergency power generators, are we?  -

[Laika] : Well, um, not much power is used when it’s just the one of you. I just need a little light to keep working, and a um, little air to keep breathing. Easier if that wasn’t the case, but so be it, haha…

*She attempts to lean against the communication device for support, fumbling a little bit. After some awkward experimentation, she eventually retrieves the Facilitator’s chair. She drops into the rigid leather, coated in a thin veneer of dust.

- One? You must be terribly lonely, down there. I shouldn’t be surprised if the air turns foul soon. All it would take is a fall of leaves or ash on a vent…  Miss… What was it? I do so dislike the thought of anyone trapped in a Facility - rotting undisturbed for the rest of time… -

*She gulps quietly. Well, when you put it like that…

[Laika] Laika, um, Mister..? I-I am quite content down here, there is air enough, and I have time and space to work as I wish…

*Keeping her goals in sight was important, she reasons. It was better like this. Less complicated, ironically, when she’d progressed so far alone.

[Laika] I… so long as my work is complete, I can… rot undisturbed then…

- No chalk, no food, no air? That isn’t conducive to a productive working environment, darling. Do you know what I was doing when you called? Oh, this old thing never rings anymore. I practically fell out of my chair. But I’ll tell you what I was doing. Eating hot buttered toast with late summer strawberry jam, and drinking my black coffee, and listing all the opportunities I have for bright, diligent, industrious young ladies in this Facility. -  

*Deep-coded, mostly-suppressed instinct takes over. There’s a gurgle of her flat stomach quietly, obvious in the empty, silent space.

[Laika] Be that as it may, I, um…

*She pauses. How… does one protest that they quite like being locked up alone, for years…? Even while their own body screams in protest?

[Laika] … Would be honoured to offer my services if it helps the development of my work, sir!

*Damnit. She would have to move on to dealing with this pesky biological urge system at some point.

- … Ward, are you, darling? -

*A small pause, and a straightening of her back.

[Laika] Civilian, Sir. Umh, no-one of any consequence, beyond my work, trust me…

*Another nervous laugh. A little subdued. She’s not sure what she’s walking into, and she’s not got a clue about getting out of it.

[Laika] I-if you remember, Sir, I was part of one of the many teams working on the O-WARP Fortune, Physics-Mechanics division. Mother wills they return. M-my work has of course improved greatly since then...

*She rests a fist against her chest, a small salute against her heart. A past failure hanging over small shoulders.

*There is a soft, dark, privately amused laugh from the INTER-FAC.

- Oh, they returned my dear. Mother was listening to that particular prayer. -

*Her eyes widen. Lips part, form a silent ‘o’

[Laika] Y-you… you lie, umh. T-test me, correct? They are just… adrift, e-even at my greatest estimations I-i could not have been down here more than a few years… W-with proper management, t-they could…

*Tears bead on her dry face, drool warm across her cool cheeks.

[Laika] T-this was not me… t-their course was correct… N-no faults should have occurred…

*Her voice trembles audibly, her mechanical limb (itself a relic of one of the many research tendrils leading to the Fortune) drumming a dent into the floor, twitching erratically. Her companion seems forgotten.

- Are you still there? Pay strictest attention my dear. When the lights go out - and they will, and quite soon - lie face down on the floor. For your own safety. Do you understand? Helpful, good, honest men are coming to your assistance. But you must lie down calmly and quickly. They’re terribly excitable. My name is Laurence Fairfax. You may call me Sir.  -

[Laika] Y-yes… yes Sir…

*She vaguely stirs from her misery, just for a second. Her limb grows dull, listless, as its charge runs low. As she slowly, shakily stands from the chair of power not earned, she flicks the transmitting switch to the negative position.

*The INTER-FAC screen goes dark abruptly, Laika stumbling through the neglected corridor, her mechanical boot tearing through a long-dead, rotted thighbone as she finally reaches her room, her lab, her work.

*Will groans deeply as he awakens. Eyes still closed he slowly feels up the side of his abdomen unkeen at the prospect of what he might find. He pauses as he feels rough fabric where he was expecting… well he wasn’t sure but he didn’t want to dwell on what could have been.

*Opening his eyes Will is greeted by the glaring brightness of a strip light causing him to wince slightly and squint.

[Will] Hello? Is anyone there? *He tries to lift himself slightly to look around but notices a broad strap across his chest holding him to the table

*Looking around slightly Will sees a sterile looking room with the odd bed and privacy screen along the wall. The room fills him with a sense of familiarity… and dread…

[Will] Where *he groans* where am I? Hello?

*There is the sound of a cupboard closing. Paper being shuffled. Not long after; the appearance of the red-headed veterinarian who seems both surprised and relieved to see Will awake. And alive. He takes a few cards, a bit bigger than the size of standard playing cards, and holds one up for him to read.

[N_X] - HELL -

*He glances at his own card to check if it is the right side up. A look of surprise suddenly hits him. He removes his thumb from the card. [N_X] - HELLO -

[N_X] - My name is N_X. -

[N_X] - I will be your physician. How can I assist? -

[N_X] - Good day. How are you? -

*Will squints slightly, reading each card in turn feeling somewhat confused.

*Quietly Will whispers.

[Will] Am I being monitored? Where am I?

*N_X smiles faintly, not parting his lips. He shakes his head and lifts his chin, lightly touching the scar on his throat. Knowing it would take him too long to find the corresponding card, he simply taps his chest; makes the ‘blah blah’ gesture with one hand and shakes his head again.

[N_X] - Welcome to FAIR-CO -

*He approaches, taking a small piece of paper and pencil from the pocket of his blue medical scrubs. He writes.

[N_X] “What’s your name? What happened?”

*Will furrows his brow for a moment for as he attempts to process the gestures, half mimicking them.

[Will] Name? Er… W… Will, Will Heggers. There was an explosion? I think I saw Death? How did I get here? Wait? Did you say… I mean write… FAIRCO?

*N_X shrugs. Whatever happened, it was all too clear Will had been lucky. His abdomen, now bandaged, carries a freshly stitched wound; mostly numbed by a mixture of painkillers and plants commonly used by AGRI-wards. The back of his head now also sports a sutured cut. All other injuries are relatively minor.

*He nods, tapping the word ‘FAIR-CO’ again. He then points at the strap securing Will to his bed. N_X shows him another card. [N_X] - Sorry -

*Will gazes back towards the straps before returning back to N_X.

[Will] I’m guessing you’ve no intention of freeing me?

*Will slowly tries to flex his arms in an attempt to break the bonds himself. The straps creak a bit but refuse to budge.

*Almost instantly, Nix shakes his head and waves his hands. He gestures for Will to stay before taking his notebook at hand once more to write. [N_X] “You can’t leave yet. You’ll need to talk to the facilitator about your bill. You may leave once it is paid.” *He lets Will read before continuing. [N_X] “Sorry about the straps. Don’t want you running away.”

[Will] My… bill?

*His voice sinks and he pats the tattered remains of his jeans and coughs.

[Will] Erm... I must have left my wallet in my other pair of jeans… There’s no chance they might take an IOU?

*Nix’ expression is one of hopelessness as he shakes his head once more.

[N_X] - You will make yourself useful within the limits set by your … *The word ‘physician’ remains covered by Nix’ thumb. He shows a second card, revealing only one word. [N_X] - … facilitator. -

*Will closes his eyes and sighs deeply.