Where had Vivian Scout gone?
Like it's the First Time
It was approximately 5:03am when Wynn Rydderech opened his eyes, as he always did around this time. He was slow on the rise, as he thought he ought to be at this age, his body giving him only as much trouble as he thought it should.
He waddled awkwardly across the carpeted floor towards the bathroom, imaging how cold the tile threshold might feel, and found that the act of cleaning himself had passed in a blink— the act of undressing, lathering, rinsing, and dressing was almost as fluid and unmistakably uniform as the water circling the drain as he stepped out of the stall. Even with this, he was still not complete. Although his mind knew what was missing, he found that his hands were much faster at weaving his tie into a Windsor, and feeding the snaking leather belt smoothly through each loop, before buckling the faded brass.
For all intents and purposes, he still looked good, even in the folds and wrinkles, and how his hair slowly simmered from red to grey ash. He wore a smile, just noticeable, that lingered, for some reason, from before Rydderech could recall.
And the room around him made this lapse known, as if every edge had muddied into oil on canvas instead of something tangible.
Why am I so happy?
It, of course, was no issue to be happy— Rydderech could invite all variety of emotion to the forefront if his mind had lingered on it, unconsciously or not. But this happiness carried with it a certain weight to it, not so dissimilar to the one he felt in the core of his chest. It was as if the ghost of some thing, some one, had been standing there next to him, whispering words that were meant to bring about some sort of reaction, if and only if he had the context.
He allowed this ghost to hold his hand as he walked into a common area, and watched the most striking details pull forth: the stained wood paneling was host to several clusters of melty memorabilia, pinions and frames of unknown contents nailed proudly into the wall like medals on a uniform. These did little to dampen the soft crackling of electric static from the CRT, which cast a dull glow onto a worn sofa, wherein two of the cushions had faded from use. The ghost took its position as Rydderech rotated the dials, watching the sea of black and white sand slowly give way to animated figures. The speaker whined out an anachronistic concerto that bounced off the walls as sonar, revealing much of the space, and bringing his attention towards a slightly ajar door.
He followed the ghost as it took its leave from the couch. Passing through the vestibule, he regarded the pair of a pair of polished, leather shoes, one size notably smaller than the other, and brushed his shoulder against a matching hat and jacket that might only reach to his forearms.
And yet, this smaller figure, who might have been the owner, was nowhere to be found. It certainly wasn't his; Rydderech had grown quite content with himself as his body slowed (as he thought it should), and regarded his shortening sleeves and waist with an almost jolly mien. No, the size alone of these garments wasn't the issue, but the fact that he believed they should be there for a reason that was presently escaping him.
The ghost paid his confusion no mind, and slowed its pace considerably as it moved to a door left slightly ajar. With a thief-like motion, it slipped into the room, disappearing into the space only illuminated by a thin slit of light, revealing the unmistakable mound of a body beneath a quilt. Rydderech was careful as he stepped in, though he was much too large, and stepped too loudly to match the ghost's maneuvers. But the quilted figure did not react. His eyes adjusted to the fuzzy darkness with a blink, and as still-faded tchotchkes made themselves known to him, he felt his smile begin to grow. He almost cursed himself as he sat on the edge of the bed; of course he knew the other person sharing this home with him. Of course he knew the person who slept in another bed as to not be awoken at approximately 5:00am (the time Rydderech always knew himself to wake up at). And, of course, as he carefully leaned towards the head on the pillow, reaching his hand out, that this person was his wife.
Rydderech's vision pulsed, and he flinched. The once blonde and flowing hair of his wife, that fractaled out from her head was instead replaced with short and grey bristles of a man that was more than familiar to him. As calm and as collected as he could muster, Rydderech rose and slowly backed away from the bed, watching the room around him dissolve. He knew now what was missing, a pit in his chest as something that should have been there, and, for as long as he could remember, had been there, dissipated into static. His hands trembled as he collected his jacket and hat, and as he shut the door behind him, and greeted the monotonous industrial labyrinth before him, he had only one thought in his mind:
Where had Vivian Scout gone?
"Do you think I frightened him off?" Ryderrech grinned, removing a concertina of worn notebooks from a briefcase. He could hear a chuckle from Vivian Scout, who was working to settle in across the room from him.
The weight of a small key was a comfortable new addition to Rydderech's pocket. Not too long ago it had belonged to another man, a scholar not unlike the pair of them, but one in the unfortunate position of being paired with Scout during room assignments. Rydderech by no means meant to torture their colleague, at least not in any cruel and unbecoming way, but he was by no means shy about making his presence in their space known.
"He must have been intimidated," Scout called from the otherside of a wardrobe, "he was an anxious fellow and, well, you're—"
"You think I'm intimidating?" Rydderech raised an eyebrow.
"I think you're reminiscent of a brick wall, and your hair doesn't much help your case."
Rydderech circled the wardrobe, and placed his hands on the edge of the desk Scout was unflinchingly focused on.
"How flattering. Of all the descriptors you've given me, I think this is the first time you've compared me to structure."
"You're a very charming brick wall." Scout placed a trio of papers filled with chicken scratch atop a jumble of manila envelopes. He turned to face his companion. "Sturdy. Certainly, more reminiscent of a museum than a factory."
Rydderech crossed his arms.
"Well one of us needs to be 'sturdy' enough to lean on, especially since you have a penchant for falling."
"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"That certainly hasn't been the only time you've fallen for me."
Scout exhaled and shook his head, and stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with his companion. He leaned into him, and from the corner of his eye, Rydderech could see he was smiling.
The pair stood for a moment in silence, sharing an unspoken appreciation for the mess of what could be considered a science lab and abode. Though there was much more work to be done, and though a proper sorting system of their dreams had yet to be established, they had each other, and for the moment, that was enough.
Rydderech yawned, more akin to a growl, and stretched his sore arms out. The winter sunlight had long since left the pair, and despite the chill, the flicker of lamp lights in the distance was almost reminiscent of fireflies lazily flickering as they hovered. The room was warm, bright, and as long as the pair didn't cause too much trouble (there would always be some amount of trouble to cause), it was home.
"Tired?" Scout queried with a smirk. "The first day of our collaboration and you're already falling asleep on me?"
"The first day of our collaboration and I moved all the furniture around." Rydderech massaged his bicep, kneading the muscle with his thumb. "Hopefully our beds should be sufficiently far enough away in the event of any accidental spills."
"Indeed, but I do not intend to chance that, at least not tonight."
"So tomorrow then. Unless you plan on burning the midnight oil."
Scout placed a hand on Rydderech's shoulder. "Tomorrow indeed."
The pair began to prepare for bed, clumsily dancing through the space, almost careful enough to not bump into the wall, or a stack of books, or each other. Almost. After sufficiently littering the floor with books, and Scout "accidentally" being tapped into a wall, the pair stood side-by-side, looking at their bed. Their bed. One of two in the room, though the only one not currently covered in trousers and undershirts.
"I can… sleep in mine, if that would be more comfortable for you— or the floor. I don't require much." Rydderech scratched the back of his neck.
"Yes, what I want the most is for you to make a nest in my laundry." Scout chuckled and offered a hand to Rydderech. Hand-in-hand, the pair sat on the edge of the bed. "I will take the outside tonight, and tomorrow night we can switch. Fair?"
"And what of the monsters beneath the bed?" Rydderech smirked. "What if I wake up and you're gone?"
Scout rolled his eyes and, in an exaggerated manner, panned his head as he looked beneath the bed.
"Happy?"
"I would prefer if you checked again."
Scout lightly pushed Rydderech, who laid down and shuffled and scooted to leave as much room as possible for his partner. In a blink, the room was enveloped in darkness, stealing sight, and confusing his other senses. He closed his eyes and tasted a hint of kerosene as he took a deep breath in. Behind him he felt arms try to awkwardly wrap around him, the weight of another person on his back. And he heard, in loving whisper, a promise.
"I'm going to keep you safe, Wynn. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
There was a time when Rydderech had regarded the vast expanse of concrete and metal scaffolding and colorful, impossibly extending piping with awe. After all, this was his magnum opus; he had imagined every centimeter, every possible consideration, iterated and reiterated until he could no longer conceive of any holes in his plans. It seemed too good to be true, and it was. Had a younger version of him known what he would inherit, what facility he would create, and what work he would be able to do, the current Rydderech would have never been able to stop him, even if he knew the cost. Any other answer would mean that it would not be Wynn Rydderech answering; a Wynn Rydderech not willing to pay the cost wouldn't be Wynn Rydderech at all.
Both thankfully and not, Rydderech was not here alone, though he alone was here by choice, and would suffer under what that meant. He knew all 43 members of his cohort, in name and story. On some days he would greet them as he roamed through his facility. On some days, he thought they might greet him back. On others, he preferred they pay him no mind. The ambiance of their chatter could take all forms: whispering gossip, boisterous laughter, love and anger. It was through these interactions that Rydderech still believed himself human, for what more were these simulacra than manifestations of his own psyche, manifestations of what it meant to work with other people. The moment these exchanges would no longer be the case was the day he knew he would have to hang up the conceptualization of himself as 'human', but today was not yet that day.
But Rydderech was hung up on the fact that, unlike the labyrinthine expanse above him, this was his labyrinthine expanse alone, his empire of dirt. At least what would become of Site-43 was built with care and intention. Care that comprised much of the considerations of another man, a man who walked like a ghost next to Rydderech now, who stood so diligently and worrying on guard somewhere else.
Rydderech shivered at the thought; he knew he was being watched down here, he hated the feeling of being watched. He sometimes imagined those above him tracing his every move, the rehearsed monotony of his self-imposed station, a dancing figurine in a show. They were infinitely patient with him, because of course they were, and continued to engage regardless of the role Rydderech had chosen to play that day.
And what did he provide in return? His usefulness, of course. They would only be willing to extend the amount of grace and resources possible for him to hold onto at least some semblance of a thread of sanity if he had proven himself useful, or at the very least entertaining. In truth, any one of his projects or experiments or bored delusions might lead to the plug being pulled, leaving him alone, as an actor on a dimmed stage, long after anyone could recall what show was being played at all.
Rydderech chafed at the thought, and how powerless he felt each and every time it was his turn to take the stage.
1911
20 October
Vienna: Austria, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Arm-in-arm, Rydderech carefully led his date out the front of the opera house, stopping just for a moment to take a deep breath of the cold night's air. Outwardly, he and his date were entirely indistinguishable from the patrons filing out; men in tuxedos and polished shoes, women in flowing dresses with fur and pearl and lace. It reminded Rydderech of what a procession of zoo animals might look like, entirely gaudy, a show in itself.
This wasn't the first time Rydderech had seen such a show, or the opera within. Truthfully, if his talent had been in singing rather than toxicology, he might have been able to don tights and long-out-of-style hats to belt the notes out himself. But he was not here for the show— it was merely a formality. His date acted with all the poise and elegance a woman should, and he was to respond in kind, with the professional air about him, that projected outwardly to the world that this was a fine and normal partnership for the times. This, too, was merely a formality; there was very little in this world that brought about more suffering than formalities.
But like most formalities, the pressure to conform to them was ever-present; many, including his own family, were beginning to wonder why the scholar was without a wife. Offhanded excuses were enough to keep the gossip away temporarily— scheduling issues, the risk of dying (or worse) within his field, possible contamination— these were largely understood. He wanted to state that he was simply unlucky when it came to love, but that cut both ways; Rydderech was unlucky, but not because he lacked the charisma or looks (because he certainly had both), but because the person he loved was an ocean and continent away.
During particularly troubling times, when nothing seemed to be going right, Rydderech could at least rely on the familiar typing of his scholarly companion to bring him some comfort, or at least as much comfort could be found in the anomalous abstract the pair were mired in. Within Rydderech, however, there was a doubt. A doubt that one day the letters might cease, that some awful fate might befall his Vivian Scout, or worst of all, the understanding that what they had was merely a passing of seasons.
He felt a soft tap on his shoulder, and understood that he had been lost in thought along the avenues, missing his apartment by around two blocks, thinking, wishing that someone else was here instead. Rydderech gave her a smile and a nod, before crossing the street, once more on the correct path.
She was, to put it plainly, pleasant. She was quick-witted, knowledgeable on all manner of topics, but also loved to keep to herself. She was, in an objective sense, attractive, and in another life, Rydderech might have been attracted to her. But very simply, he wasn't, and that she could understand as well. However, this arrangement worked because both parties knew only to ask the questions necessary for their relationship to survive. They spoke often, ate together, and were outwardly the model of a healthy couple. He had met her family, and even helped one of her brothers out while in a particular jam with the university. But secrecy was baked in the moment conversations turned to one of work, and that vulnerability, or lack thereof, carried itself through all aspects of their relationship.
In another life, she might have been perfect for someone not named Wynn Rydderech. In this one, she sufficed, though the thought was laden with its own level of guilt in the few moments Rydderech had to interrogate what that meant.
Rydderech imagined Vivian Scout standing just in the background of the mirror, grinning and ready to engage Wynn in a bout of friendly banter.
Vivian often helped him prepare for events, in his own way. The recognition of a missed detail was often delivered with joke or snark, and the pair would work to resolve the detail at the same level of conversation. After a particularly dry formal event season brought about by renovations, Vivian very bluntly suggested that Wynn purchase a new suit because the strain on the fabric of his old reliable was "presently attempting to escape him."
Yet strangely he worried very little about such matters now. Outside of the occasional tear or fade, wrinkles and creases were easily smoothed out with simply the brush of his hand, though that failed to translate to much else.
Rydderech summed it up to fatigue, however. A simple trick of tired eyes to make him seem more put together than he was. He changed into something much more comfortable, and regarded the stack of papers on his desk next to a typewriter nesting a half-written response. There was much to discuss, and Rydderech let the snapping of keys, and the flowing story of his work, his life, and what could be shown of his love, carry him to sleep.
Once more Wynn Rydderech found himself crouched over a typewriter deep into the night, trying to trade the ever-decreasing store of time for one final explanation of what was becoming of him.
Scout would have been long asleep by now. He was worn down by the day-to-day minutiae of what it meant to run such a burgeoning facility, but even then, even though he too had mingled with the weird most his life, Scout's age had certainly kept up with him. Much unlike Rydderech.
These sorts of fadings were never fast, they never are. They move along vast stretches like ants, erode away great mountains like rain drops off leaves, and by the end, everyone finds themselves looking back at all they thought they had left. If they're even able to at all.
Rydderech, unknowingly, and for a while unnoticingly, was the point of equilibrium about which his life moved. For every stone cast by the world, for every natural failure that was meant to give way, for even as he looked death itself in the eyes, he was unmarred. He used to be fit, healthy, tried to lead a good life, and for this he was rewarded with a rounder figure and moderately aching joints. He was lucky, and for this, his luck was destined to run out.
There was a stack of missives in the bin adjacent to his desk, perfectly arranged font with red cross-outs and the faded marks of coffee or tears. Some of them were crumpled, or torn with the agony of a silent yell, some semblance of release; like if a tree fell in a forest, the final act of it all, never seen and only discovered once it was too late for anything to be done of it.
Rydderech balled his fists and squeezed, before letting the tension go with an exhale. He looked at the blank document before him, and imagined all the possible variations of what it might say. What would be the most impactful? What would be best to remember him by? Would he write something long, a true testament to the lifetime and then some they'd spent both together and apart? How would one ever capture such depth.
And as the words spun around in his mind, Rydderech, begrudgingly, noticed that someone else had come to mind: Thilo Zwist.
Jealousy wasn't necessarily the best way to describe Wynn's thoughts towards the Austrian, but in this one, specific case, it might as well have been. Who else on this planet would be able to capture in words exactly what Rydderech was feeling, what he was trying to get across, but the wizard who had lived for generations. And most annoyingly, the wizard who almost captured as much attention in their relationship. Never more than Rydderech, not necessarily even as close, but the chase, the web of words— there was certainly something there.
What else is there?
And in that thought, Rydderech found his answer, and began typing.
Rydderech had written crates worth of letters in his life, maybe even enough to mourn the tree and the roots that could have grown in a forest, that instead gave itself to deliver so much more than words over distance and time. In itself, each of those letters formed the mosaic of Wynn Rydderech, gave themselves to be a snapshot of the ever-changing idea of what it meant to be a person. Love and labor, trial and triumph, the extending hand that provided the temporary, reassuring comfort of another.
All-in-all he knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the contents of this letter may be the last time Rydderech spoke to Vivian Scout, his partner, lover, and husband, as himself.
So, he thought he might write Scout a letter of what that meant. Write him a letter of who Wynn Rydderech was, and say what Wynn Rydderech would have hoped to say a thousand times more if he had the chance.
He wanted Vivian to do what he had always done, and to reaffirm every single promise they had made over the years.
He needed Vivian to continue the good work.
What Rydderech thought should be his workshop took shape around him. The ground padded each and every footstep, and when he reached for papers on the nearby table (as only one appeared) he always had in his hand exactly what he was looking for (if he could even recognize what that was in the first place). If the man were any more dark and brooding, he would have likened it to a villain's evil lair, but it was more akin to a safety net, somewhere that someone much more outwardly affable plotted to save the world.
He was doing the good work, after all. What more could be done than that?
He let his mind run wild with ideas, many of which would have caught him the concerned look of ethics boards and meek assistants topside— he didn't doubt that was happening, of course, he knew it would be. But that was the wonder of his station now: the body, the mind, the space around him, all of them contained innumerable pieces of a cosmic toolbox. He imagined every atom, every molecule, and how the electric rhythm of the world coursed through them— he was the composer now, a thought that was both infinitely frightening and left him laughing to the end of each and every day.
But in this place of great triumph, he knew his only anchor to his past life was ever-present, ever-waiting for correspondence, should he deem himself ready for it. His respite for loneliness was there in the moments he needed a connection unlike anything he could create down here. With the universe in his hand and only his imagination as the limit, Wynn Rydderech could never hope to recreate even a fraction of the love he knew existed, but was once more alienated from.
The ghost floated beside him. Even it was not tangible enough to feel, nor to lift the curling corners of schematics that would revolutionize everything, if only it was possible to build them. It stopped, and shrunk itself over one such schematic that Rydderech didn't have to see to know (or rather, what it became in a sea of lined paper). After all, he had designed it himself. It was meant to be his Damocles, his deliverance from this torment, and something he both dreamed and cowered from.
Vivian too knew what it meant, and what Wynn needed him to do, should the time come. He was sure Vivian would remember their promise, he knew it. The man who had always tried to keep him safe would not fail.
And he knew that man was waiting for him at the other end of a printer, trying his very best to not let the worry show on his face if others were around. The Site Director had to keep his cool and level head, lest someone underestimate him, as few had learned the consequences of before.
With a wave of his hand, a keyboard appeared, and his fingers began their march across the plastic as if they already knew their orders. The ghost lingered nearby, steadily watching.
I thought I saw the sun not too long ago. Who knew the caverns down here could get so bright.
And Rydderech waited patiently for a reply. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long; Rydderech wouldn't be surprised if Vivian had moved the entire assembly closer to their dormitory, just to keep on top of any communications that would come through.
The ghost circled Rydderech, but did not regard him.
The panthers bring "shiny things" with them sometimes. Maybe it's something you might think about looking into.
And Rydderech waited patiently for a reply. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long; someone would tell the Site Director right away about his transmissions. Vivian would excuse himself from any meeting, even with the Overseers, should the need arise. He was simply just running late.
The ghost began moving away from Rydderech, turning its back to him as it floated towards the door.
I think I would like to see the sun again one day, Vivian, at least before mine sets.
And Rydderech waited patiently for a reply. And waited. And waited. And what felt like seconds turned to minutes. And what felt like minutes turned to hours, then years, then weeks. And the ghost floated through the door to some other place far from a place like this one. And Wynn Rydderech was left alone.
Vivian?
And the screen before him slowly hummed to life. For a moment, Rydderech felt a twinge of hope in his heart, and leaned forward in his "chair" in anticipation. Then the electricity went out, and the space around him went dark, and he realized that it might have been better not to have read the message at all.
Dr. Rydderech, it's Deputy Chief Nancy Briggs. I'm sorry to say that Director Scout is dead.
Deep under Site-43, in the caverns belonging to creatures and a forgotten old man, Wynn Rydderech was reminded of the truth: Vivian Scout was no more. But this would not by the first time he forgot, and it certainly would not be his last.