MacLean had a gun in his hands. He looked at it, curiously, and wondered how he’d come into possession of it; spotty as his memory was, he was fairly certain that he hadn’t been holding it when he came in. It looked like a 9mm pistol, though he couldn’t tell at a glance what model it was. There was also a body on the floor, someone in a security guard’s uniform who was bleeding from his skull. A bloody onyx nameplate or a paperweight or something of that nature rested next to the body.
Amateur sleuthing skills, away! Right. This gun probably came from the guard, who died from blunt trauma, probably from the paperweight. Now, since I’m holding the gun, and the only other person in the room is that doctor cowering behind the desk, the most likely conclusion is that MacLean, yes, Malcolm Fitzpatrick MacLean is the murderer! He beat this man to death to take his gun. Whodunnit? Me! Hell yeah!
MacLean turned and pointed the gun at Dr. Benson. “Amnesiacs,” he said aloud. “Class A amnesiacs. You gave me mind-wipers to keep me from remembering these interviews. Why’d you do that?”
“MacLean,” croaked Benson tremulously, “Please put the gun down.” To the doctor’s credit, his apparent terror hadn’t changed his manners. “We can talk this through. I’m here to help you, Malcolm, and I can do that if you’ll just put that gun down.”
“No, I like this gun. It gives me a feeling of empowerment.” MacLean adjusted his aim slightly so the pistol pointed at the doctor’s head. “You… You wanted me to forget something. But you had to keep dosing me, so whatever it was you wanted me to forget would have been something I’d have remembered if I kept talking to you, so you couldn’t just dose me once. You wanted me to tell you… What did you want me to tell you?”
“Malcolm, please, this kind of hostility will only hurt you. Please lay down your weapon.”
“No, that’s not it…. Weapons! You wanted me to tell you about… bases, and vehicles, and militarized SCPs… but that’s not precisely it…. You wanted something more specific…”
“Malcolm, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please put the gun down.”
“Since when are we on a first-name basis? Look, I get it, okay? You captured me, you imprisoned me, you tried to torture me, maybe, and then you settled on this amnesiac treatment to try to disorient me into telling you what you wanted to know. That’s all fine. I just want to know: what did you want from me?”
“Malcolm, this is insane. Please put down the gun.”
“Insane? The whole goddamn world is insane, doc, didn’t you know? I’m just a reflection of my environment. Now tell me,” said MacLean, stepping behind the desk the pressing the pistol right up against Dr. Benson’s head, “What do you want to know!?”
Dr. Benson swallowed and said nothing. Malcolm stood in silence for a moment, and then started cracking up. For some reason, this entire situation just felt very absurd to him, and he stepped away from his prisoner as the giggles overtook him. He had to fight to make sure his aim stayed steady as his chest started heaving. Benson started laughing too, probably as a nervous reaction.
“Aw, screw it,” said Malcolm with a wheeze as he pulled the trigger. Benson’s face took on a shocked expression as the back of his head hit the wall behind him.
MacLean settled himself with a few deep breaths and looked over the late doctor’s desk. The computer was password protected, and he didn’t feel like guessing the key. The recorder, however, opened readily enough, and MacLean found several tapes inside, which he slid into his pockets.
Standard investigative procedure; shoot first, ask questions later by examining the evidence. You know, that strategy was a lot less viable before digital records got so popular… Really makes me appreciate living in the information age.
MacLean decided that his next course of action should be escape. A faint memory told him that this office, like most of those in this building, was more or less soundproof, so no one should have heard any struggling noises. On the other hand, someone would probably notice if a guard went off to check out a disturbance and never came back, so it was probably best to hustle.
MacLean turned to face the window behind the desk that, until now, he’d never really taken notice of, pulled up the shades, and slid it open. The screen behind the glass was pushed out easily enough with a few moments’ struggle. With that barrier out of the way, he stuck his head out and looked down. This was the second story, but it looked like there was a flowerbed directly below the window, piled up with soft-looking mulch.
MacLean heard a loud rapping on the door, and decided that it was time for action rather than thought. He stuck the gun into one pocket, slid both legs out of the gap, and pushed out on his stomach until his was hanging from the windowsill by both hands. With a whispered prayer, he let go, and fell about twelve feet to the ground.
The loam was soft, but not so soft that MacLean’s legs didn’t crumple under him as he landed. He lay flat on his back, groaning, until he forced himself to his feet and looked around. The flowerbed bordered a grassy green lawn; it looked like he might be on one side of a stately brick house. And there, a scant fifteen feet away, lay brick wall that looked just short enough for MacLean to pull himself up over, and he proceeded to do so posthaste. He hit the pavement on the other side hard and took a moment to catch his breath.
Well, what do I do with my newfound freedom? I’ve got no money, at least two shadow-organizations are after me, and I’ve got no idea where I am… Well, I’ve survived worse, I guess…
Sore, tired, confused, and somewhat dizzy, former MTFL Pegasus lurched down the sidewalk beyond the wall.
“Oh, hey, look! He’s finally out!”
A man in a grey minivan across the street from MacLean’s former prison pointed at the slowly fleeing Malcolm for the benefit of his companion. The companion grunted.
“Huh! ‘Bout time. You buzzed him, what, five? Six times? Today?”
“Seven times. Three in the last hour. Honestly, he should have been out like a shot after the first one. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“Not our department. Hang on, I’ll make the call.” The second man pulled a cellular phone out of his pocket and dialed. Whoever was on the other end picked up at once. “Subject one-one-zero-two Nu is moving again… Uh huh… Okay. Right. I’ll keep you posted.” He clapped the phone shut. “The doctor says keep an eye on him, but don’t get too close.”
“That’s about what I expected. Hey, I’ll bet you twenty bucks that he beats and robs the first person he sees.”
“…You are so tasteless. No bet.”
“Killjoy. So, do you think he’ll come home this time?”
“This time? Or, do you mean, ever?”
“This time.”
“This time’s a crapshoot, but he’s got to return eventually. You know how it is…”
“’Illusion of Free Choice,’ yes, I know, you’ve told me a dozen times. I’m still not reading those damn textbooks you keep foisting on me.”
“But it’s true! It’s all chemicals in the brain, you don’t have conscious control over it! Neurochemistry that-“
“Shut up, just shut up. I don’t need to know I don’t have free will, it’s enough to know that I’m as free as I’m ever gonna get. Unlike that sucker.”
“Huh.”
MacLean reached the end of the street and made a turn. The minivan pulled out of its parking space and moved to follow him.
