██████,

I made it. Finally got my transfer approved and they shipped me out to Division 4. You'd think after four years at HQ they'd have sent me somewhere interesting. Division 2, maybe — I've heard they're doing actual research over there. Real breakthroughs.

Instead I'm here. The "containment facility." You know what that means? I'm a glorified prison guard. Our one job is to follow instructions. Don't think. Don't question. Just comply.

I shouldn't complain. The money is... well, you know what the money is. Scientists don't get paid like this anywhere else. Eighteen more months and the contract is up. Eighteen months and I can buy that house ████████ always wanted. Get the kids into good schools.

I miss the kids. They're not allowed anywhere near this place — something about children being "more susceptible." More susceptible to what, exactly? No one will say.

Eighteen months. I can do eighteen months.

— Marcus Norton

██████,

I thought this was all bullshit. Paperwork and paranoia. A trillion-dollar jobs program for people with security clearances and too much imagination.

I was wrong.

Yesterday they let me observe the lower levels. First time anyone from my clearance has been that close to i̷t̸.

I was documenting an incident. A breach attempt.

There was a researcher. ██████████. Level 6 clearance, inner containment ring. He'd been receiving emails. Photos of his children. Birthday parties. Soccer games. He didn't know who was sending them but he never reported it. Why would he? He was yearning to see their faces.

Then he was in the photos. Moments he'd missed. Moments he'd never have.

Then the photos changed again. All of them together. Smiling. In places they'd always talked about visiting someday.

When the next photos arrived, he came to the checkpoint screaming. Tore at the security doors until his fingers bled. They had to sedate him three times before he stopped.

I saw his face when they dragged him past. He wasn't angry anymore. He was begging.

When they searched him, they found a drive. Small. It contained a single file — a piece of code. They wouldn't tell me what it did. Only that it had been "introduced" during his time near the containment chamber.

The emails came from inside the facility, ██████. The network logs confirmed it. But there's no record of anyone sending them.

They shipped everything to Division 2 for study. The photos. The drive. Him.

— Marcus Norton

New guy in the cafeteria today. Sitting alone. Tray untouched. Something about him looked familiar but I couldn't place it.

"Hundred bucks says you have kids."

He looked up. Nodded once.

"Ha. Every employee here. Hundred percent." I tapped my notebook. "I'm the only one keeping track." I slid into the seat across from him. He didn't tell me to leave, so I kept going. "You don't find that strange?"

"Most people our age have kids."

"Sure. But when's the last time you saw a room full of scientists with even a girlfriend? We're not exactly known for our social skills." Nothing. Not even a courtesy laugh. Tough crowd. "And yet here we are. Hundred percent. All parents. I wonder why."

Something flickered across his face. Just for a second. Then it was gone.

"You look familiar. MIT?"

"Lucky guess. Half the guys here are MIT, the other half Stanford."

"No, no. I know you from somewhere." I squinted at him. Then it clicked. "Wells, right? So you're the Wells." I whistled. "DJ Rabbit. If you ever see her, tell her thanks for me — met my wife at one of her sets."

"That was just a thing she did in grad school."

"Just a thing? She was a legend." I grinned. "And her research basically wrote the playbook for everything we do here."

He didn't respond. Just moved the food around his plate.

I softened my voice. "Look, I'm not gonna bullshit you. You know why we're all here, right?" I closed the notebook. "They hire people with something to lose."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because this place is easier with a friend. And I've been here long enough to know where the good coffee is hidden."

He glanced up. Not a yes. Not a no. Just... tired.

I stood up. He needed space. I could tell.

"Oh, one last thing." I grabbed my tray. "You're in Technical Operations now, right? The quantum computers?"

He looked confused.

"Yeah — when they act up, you gotta turn them off and on at the same time."

I started walking away. Didn't look back.

But I heard it. Just barely. A single exhale. Almost a laugh.

Good enough for day one.

— Marcus Norton