Treading around the Fuzz
rating: +11+x

I know you hate letters.

Grey clouds rumbled across the overhanging sky, whispers of snowflakes echoing their distant conversations. Such perfect astral beings; Ivan was jealous. Their life was easy.

I know we were meant to protect you. I know you're busy; You have such a bright future in front of you but we need you for this. We can't do this without you.

The whir of the taxi was annoying.


Then again, what wasn't? It wasn't hard to pay attention to everything when two of your friends had been taken by the pseudo-government. There wasn't a lot to go from this note alone. The apartment would provide some more answers.

You know as well as I that this was the worst possible outcome. I know we never told you about the failsafe; this is it. Print this out, you're going to need it.

He read over the paper again and again, his bruised fingertips brushing over every word. They weren't the type to mess around, after the Bridgewater incident. None of them had doubted for a second that this was inevitable.

Ivan, if you're reading this? We failed. And we're sorry.

Answers? Truth? No. This was a personal matter now. Ivan couldn't put this off any further, no matter how much he'd rather hope that he was dreaming.

Personal matters required a personal touch.

The sense of overwhelming nostalgia was enough to drive him to tears. An uncharacteristically open door gave way to the glimmers of sunlight, slicing through the heavy air. Impromptu vertigo tore through his perception as his hand guided the door open, the crushing weight of solidarity pushing against Ivan's meek effort.

The cloying odor of permanent markers and stale coffee rushed out to greet him. The apartment was frozen in time; its wallpaper was mottled and blemished, like the curled pages of an old book left out in the rain. Newspaper clippings were scattered across the floor. Three clipboards had been stacked up like a Jenga tower.

Home, at one point.

Ivan's boots crunched across a few of the papers as the door squealed shut behind him, his eyes guiding him slowly over the scene. No sign of struggle; no real sign that anything was wrong. Like he'd turn the corner and see Lily and Simon there, pens in hand as they tried to piece together a string of probably nonsensical numbers. As if they'd just look up, wave and invite him to have some coffee and contribute to their conspiratory ramblings.

Despite being the youngest, he was the father of the group, metaphorically speaking. The idea of 'the truth' - whatever the people in power were undeniably hiding from them - was an exciting prospect, if not a dangerous one. Now the facts were laid out here, clear as day, and there was no room for denying it.

They'd forgotten. Lily and Simon remembered. Lily and Simon were silenced.
They'd only given Ivan a muffler.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Ivan made his way over to the little circular table that sat, solitary, in the middle of the kitchen. He picked up the clipboard that was balancing precariously on top of all the others, flipping through a few blank pages before coming to the last page. The counter groaned disapprovingly at Ivan's weight, several pairs of test tubes clinking together.

Day 23, I think.

It's hard to see where we're going wrong. I mean, it's getting harder and harder to recall anything at all, now. I think someone spiked our air con or something. Convenient, considering it's broken and we can't turn it off.

Oh, who am I kidding? Those bastards are this close to finding us. I'm taking Lily out of town tomorrow - we're not going to be tracked down and herded like a bunch of sheep. There's a reason I use the term 'sheeple' so liberally.

I regret not being better at my damn job. These clipboards are meant to be all 'science-y' and stuff but I can't find an ounce of science in here. I don't even remember writing half of these articles. How stupid does a living piece of street art sound, anyway?

Though, if my our theories are correct, that's exactly what they want us to think.

God damn it all, I'm so confused.

I regret not being better at my jo

Screw leaving tomorrow.
We're leaving right now.

Thanks for everything,
Simon Cortez.

The ink was still strangely wet. It was the same solution they used on their whiteboards, producing a strong smell reminiscent of the teachers lounges that Ivan complained about so much.

Simon and Lily kept Ivan up to date regarding research and breakthroughs, especially since the spillage from the 'radio plant' down the road. The only thing they broadcast were lies as far as the group was concerned. Even then, the fail safe had been sent out two days ago. They could have called him in that time frame; Lily was infamous in their little circle for constantly being on the phone.

Taking the next clipboard from the pile, the whir of the air con sang its tune across the stagnant air, the dust dancing to the slow melody. An all-encompassing sound, filling the air and quelling the worried whispers of supplies and notes left behind.

Day 43,

Simon told me to pack my things. He said something about a 'panic reaction' and 'amnesia instigators' or something. He seems to think it's the end of the world.

There's really no point arguing with him; everything he says adds up. I mean, let me give you an example.

The corrosive ability of this material is not yet known, though when tested with Mica-Rat-1 and Mica-Rat-2, the latter adapted to the H-Readings incredibly quickly and the other melted as if encountering Sulfuric Acid.

We found that sample in a seemingly resistant test tube in the ocean in the river somewhere in water. Isn't that just a little bit strange? We can't even find Mica-Rat-2! Only a little black spot on the wall!

I think it might be a little too late to run away now; we should have seen this coming since Bridgewater.

Good luck, Ivan. I'll give you a call soon, if they haven't got you too by then.
Lily Cortez.

Ivan's interrupted breathing quelled the dance of the dust ever so slightly, rising in protest as the second clipboard was set down. There was only one left, laying peacefully, undisturbed.

Amnesia Intervention Study 7.

L - Light Amnesia; sample found in nearby water reservoirs. Local wildlife showed decreased awareness of human presence and automotive vehicles. Appears to have similar chemical qualities to AM-40 - Simon's suggested hypothesis as to the Feds control use.

G - General Amnesia; sample found inside of Felis catus (Common House Cat). Discovered by me Ivan Lupei after subject wandered straight up to a stray dog and started meowing at it for food, like it would to the likes of a human. Subject showed no sign of panic or even a flinch response when picked up for further testing. Appears to be a stronger variant of AM-40, designated AM-50.

Ivan's ghost of a smile twisted into a frown as he idly patted his blazer pocket for a pen. The pen that he swore he took with him. The pen resting neatly on the clipboard's holder.

A - Advanced Amnesia; The air vent. Check the air vent. Do not forget the air vent. Designated AM-90.

The same cool eyes glanced towards the vent, whirring its same, hypnotic song. Upon second inspection, there appeared to be a note stuck onto the grate, fluttering gently in the slightly flower-scented breeze.

Out of time crunching accompanied his movements as his purple fingers took the note, gripping the paper tight enough to rip it.

We have a lead.
I found the Bridgewater Files.

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