"Mila Cameron" - former employee

[effinfitz]

OH. THIS wasn't expected. We thought she'd never leave. What did you guys do?

NO, no, don't answer.

WE KNOW already.

EVEN if you don't.

INSERT cackling_madman014.flac

PLAY lizakharov_q&a_exitinterview.avi

---

Without any preamble the recording starts, turning black screen to a brightly lit concrete chamber fading into shadows at the corners, where the single spotlight glare from the ceiling doesn't quite reach. It's centered on a simple card table, white surface, two manilla folders and an envelope arrange neatly on top of it. There's a chair, a simple grey metal folding deal, waiting for an occupant.

For a few seconds there's nothing. Then a boiler-plate groaning, like bending suspension bridges or old buildings in a windstorm. A door cracks open -- just a crack! A bracket-shaped sliver of light at the far end of the room, at the very edge of the camera's field of view.

It stays like that for a moment. Then a dull thud on the other side heralds someone shouldering it open further, putting her full weight behind it like a linebacker. A very petite linebacker.

The lens of the camera distorts her oddly, like the rest of the room. Cyclops vision, the same reason the corners of the table curve towards you and the walls bend away. With only the door and the more distant table (distant? Maybe two feet away. How small is this room?) to compare her to, you'd guess maybe five feet, small-framed. Ice-pale and haggard on top of it, with wrinkled office clothes that, once fine, have now seen more use in one day then they were meant to in their lifetime. Her blond hair is windtossed to lifelessness. One eye peeks out under the mess, blue but red-rimmed. Red veins on it. Dark bags under it.
A little south of that, a tiny smirk as she focuses on the camera.

She spends a moment standing there, staring. Smirking. Then, when the door simply shuts on its own, she turns ninety degrees. She walks the perimeter, fingers of one hand gently running over the bare walls, the sealed door. Looking everywhere. Slowing her breathing to long, steady draws.

The room is tiny. She makes the circuit in seconds, returning to the table to stare at the folders. The envelope. The camera, again. Her smirk's gone. There's a frustration line over her brow, and her breathing's picking up again. She doesn't so much pull the chair back as stop halfway from throwing it at the door behind her. She lifts it and shoves it back to the floor with an anticlimactic screech. Then silence. Not even an echo.

She falls into the chair, arching back as far as she can, until she's facing the door behind her, upside down. One deep breath. Two. A third and she's back in control. Staring at the camera.

Time passes.

One minute.

Two.

When she starts talking there's no warning, no mustering of courage of adjusting for comfort. It's sudden enough that you miss the beginning of her speech, and you hurry to pause and rewind back to the start.

Even in reverse, she's so very still, arms crossed in front of her. Glaring the glare of a thousand defiant inmates before her.
"One imagines you know what's gone on before, yes? All-Seeing and the rest of that nonsense?"

A pause, as if waiting for the camera to reply. It doesn't. She continues.

"Given that, you had to have known this would happen. You made no moves to stop it, so one further assumes you either wanted it to happen, or you're at least willing to see if it's a net win, yes?"

Still no answer. She doesn't look like she needs one. She smirks, looks away for just a moment. You have to rewind and turn the volume all the way up to catch her murmur.

"If that's what I get for being useful, I'd rather have been born a fool."

She holds the smile. Turns and faces the camera again. Picks up the closest folio, tilts her head just barely, frowns at it. Turns to the camera and quirks an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me anything more, are you? I'd be overjoyed to make a few calls just to say 'I told you so.'"

Silence, broken by her closing the folder, setting it down and picking the other one up. It's thicker, this one. More papers. She eyes the camera for another moment before giving them her full attention. Flips through them quickly. You can see her scanning each page top to bottom. Flip. Shut. Stack on top of the other.
Envelope.

It isn't sealed, but it's thick. She pulls out neatly folded papers, a key ring, a map. She quirks her eyebrow up at the camera again.
She puts everything away except for the keyring looped over one finger. She scoots back in her chair, replaces it just as quickly as she stands. Picks up the folders and the envelope and heads for the door.

It cracks open as she gets within reach of it. She leaves without difficulty.

The feed stops.

---

Using in-game, or, RP notes.

Mila's still very much an active toon, even though she's left Ægir. She's still fully loyal to Ægir's cause, and won't object to helping them out if something serious is happening. She'd prefer it to, say, failure..

She also has a few loose ends to take care of, and, reluctantly, she might call on someone for inside assistance. Use your best judgment, if she calls on you, yes?

She'd be disappointed by anything less.

[effinfitz]

Another system wide e-mail, unknown sender but admin privileges. Another YouTube link. An account run by a user named mrIczu. A playlist with the first video and now a new one, entitled "Freshman film project.". A brief description, "videos I made bout my BFF. Lolz <3<3xoxo. Freshman spring film class."

You're not fooled. You press play.

No preamble.  Again.

A black screen switches suddenly to an offense to your senses.  Queerly bent shapes wrapped in slices of not-quite-black and too-hot-pink.  Carnival colors for the reality impaired

It's that cyclops vision, of course.  The image is perfectly still, nothing moving, and that gives you time to start figuring it out.  A small room, exact dimensions hard to guess but certainly cramped.  The camera sits on a low shelf, maybe, or a dresser.  You can see the wood-grain surface at the bottom of the screen curve up and to the right.  Indigo-stained lumber wave.  A bed is right in front of you, unmade, a chaotic and distorted tangle of darker sheets and indistinct covers beneath a much brighter splash of neon light streaming between the not-quite-closed slats of the window blinds.

Still nothing moves.  It's been three minutes.  You've made out other shapes by now -- the butt of an assault rifle in one corner, leaning against the same shelf the camera rests on.  A neatly folded suit and a pair of no-nonsense combat boots that look like they've actually been in combat.  A laptop on the floor in the far corner, plugged in but sleeping.  Through out this there's no traffic, no voices, only a gentle rush in the background that you finally recognize as a shower running.

Five minutes.  Six.  You're just about to manually advance the recording, click and drag the slider, when the shower cuts of with a whip crack and a splatter.  You wait, hand hovering on the mouse.

Seven minutes.  The door opens, reintroducing the head spin vertigo from before as a door offscreen and to the left opens and spills out the piss-yellow glow of a low-rent lightbulb.  It switches off just as suddenly, and as your eyes readjust he same young woman steps into focus.

She looks just as tired as before, dark shadows under her eyes that turn even blacker as the light runs across them.  Stiff movements, like she's just ran a marathon.  But she's more composed than last time: hair brushed and untangled, face freshly washed.  Clean if boring t-shirt and jeans.  Barefoot.  Such tiny little feet, you see.  When she sits down near the head of the bed they dangle above the floor like a child's might.  

When she sits down near the head of a bed, a wolf howls.

Or, no.  Not a wolf.  A shaggy lump you had mistaken for a wrinkled comforter suddenly unfolds and rolls off the bed, runs to the young woman's feet, sits and thumps his tail happily.  Barks again.  The woman laughs, then.  The brightest thing in the room.  "Greg!  You're the worst.  Watchdog.  Ever."

The mutt barks in agreement, prompting her to scratch him behind the ears, shove him playfully, all while shushing him.  It's very animate and distracting in the warped perception of the camera lens.  You don't even see where she got her phone from or when, only noticing it when she stops playing enough to dial a number.  The dog stills, too, sitting and panting as she leans over his head, free arm wrapped around his neck in a loose hug.

"Lucy!  You called?"

Waiting for a response.

"Sorry, sorry.  I know.  I was a bit out of area for most of the evening.  Errands took more...time...than expected."

...

"Tch.   That late?  Mn."  A pause.  A frown, as she considers something.  Greg makes a confused whine, jowls closed, nervous.  She pats his side gently, and he calms again.  Pants again.

"One supposes that's just as well.  We can have a quick dinner after work and catch up.  That work for you?"

She waits.  She grins.

"No, I'd be delighted to try your mother's cooking.  Six o'clock?  Excellent."

...

"You too.  Try to get some rest, need you at your best tonight.  ...yes, yes.  You too.  Take care, Lucy.  See you soon."

The smiles fades as she hangs up.  Returns briefly as she pats Greg on the head, slides to her feet and moves past him.  He tries to follow, but she moves offscreen and to the left again, and a door closes before he can make it that far.

Twelve minutes.  He sits at the door, panting.  Waiting.

Thirteen.  He whines once, curls up on the spot, one eye open and watching the doorknob.

Fourteen minutes.  Nothing.

Fifteen, and a brief noise.  His ears perk up, a mechanical whirring, faint to you but you're no dog.  The camera zooms in on him.  On his eye.  It takes up the whole screen.

Sixteen minutes.  The feed stops.

[effinfitz]

"teh thot thickens!!1!" says the description, this time. How helpful.

She hasn't moved for hours.

At least, that's the first impression you get.  You're getting used to the warped camerawork, you can understand the room almost instantly.  An abandoned space that someone's converted to a study -- steel shelves, rotting chairs, piles of books. A desktop (atop a desk, natch) in one corner.  Boxes.  Doors.

Little girl curled up on the floor, motionless.  A dog sniffs at her, whines.

Thirty seconds.

Another whine, and one arm stretches up like it aching out from the grave.  Sweeps blindly, accidentally swats the dog on the nose once before getting it's bearings, pulling his head down.  Scratching gently.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.  Wonder how small she'd have to be to have not seen her cheat rise and fall as she breathed.  Wonder if her clothes -- jeans, again, and a shapeless hoodie -- had always been too big for her.

"Hey, you."

She's barely audible, strained.  Tired.  The dog whines again in acknowledgement, pants.  Stops that sniff her face again.  Pants.

She pushes herself to a sitting position, scootching back to lean against the side of a bookshelf.  Stretches her back, makes an awful noise.  Like there's bubble wrap in her spine.  Face screws up, teeth grit.  Then it fades.  She pauses, breathing slowly, blank stare dead ahead.  Stroking the dog almost mechanically.

"So what's next, Greg?"

Pants.  She smiles.  That forced kind, the self-convincing kind that doesn't really work but we swear by it anyway.

"Just saying.  I'm sure there are a few things I said I'd never do that I haven't done yet this weekend."

Barks.

"Oh, like you were any help.  You lie around all day!  And your breath smells like kimchi."

A guilty whine, surly grunt.  She half-smirked, chuffed him behind the ears.

"Fine.  Let's brainstorm.  You're -" static burst.  You can't make it out.  It's not even a second long.  "- ad's top employee.  When everything seems to be going well you suddenly lapse into depression, isolate yourself from everyone.  You stick around but no one knows what to do with you, until finally they just find an assignment where you won't cause any trouble."

Panting again, previous accusations forgotten or forgiven.  Her hand scratches more earnestly now, animated.  Synapses heating up.

"You fulfill that expectation well enough that no one really bothers to question it.  Everything's running smooth.  Then you..."

Her speech slows.  Processors overtaxed.  Reallocating resources.  Staring dead ahead.

"You disappear.  Presumed personal project.  Keep it a secret."

He barks.

"...shit."

Panting, then a disappointed whine as she stops scratching, digs out her phone.  Dials a number.

"Jenna.  Mila.  I know you're in.  I'm coming over to your office.  I need some paperwork."

[effinfitz]

You're not sure exactly who mrIczu is, but they seriously need something better to do with their time.

The door slams open, a sudden flash of light from the left side of the screen against a generally black backdrop. A duffel bag flies through it, slamming against a shelf halfway in to the room before falling to the floor. Footsteps. Boots.

Hot on the proverbial heels is the young woman again, pausing just long enough to turn on the lights and triple-lock the door before nearly running for the computer workstation in one corner. It boots up too slowly for her, so she ignores it long enough to jog to the duffel bag, rummage in one of the side pockets, pull out a notebook and what looks to be a gas station road atlas. She returns to the desk, rummaging for tape with one hand and typing in a password with the other, fast enough that you lose count of just how many characters long it is.

A lot, suffice to say.

She lifts herself onto the desk, stands on it -- so small! the brown trench coat hangs offer like a sail, shapeless, head blowing up like a balloon at the top of the screen from that wretched distortion -- and unfolds the road atlas to tape it against the back wall. Digs in her pockets. Jeans, this time, bootcut and worn. It takes a moment to pry out the two pens, even with small hands.

She twists over the side of the desk, at an angle that makes your ack hurt just to watch it. Leans and starts marking little red and black x's on the vague and indistinct map. She mumbles something, just as vague and indistinct, but this you can rewind and boost the volume for.

"One hopes you're recording this, at least."

She hops back, hops down. The camera zooms in on the map, fast enough that you can just catch the wince on her face as she stretches. Then...Florida. Everything is made of Florida.

Cracking, popping noises from off-screen. All the marks are on the panhandle. Twelve blacks ones, five red that are closer together. No further labels, and even zoomed all the way in you can't make out the names of nearby roads or towns.

A giant brown shape passes by, blocks the whole screen, continues off to the other side. The camera zooms out again. The room looks empty. Off to the right, behind a bookshelf, comes the unmistakable hum of a microwave oven. Boots. Pacing.

One minute, two.

She returns, looking entirely either considerably calmer for her first entrance or utterly uninterested in the bowl of top ramen steaming away in her hands. She slumps back into the chair, just careful enough to avoid spilling. Legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles.

Another minute. She's staring at an empty water dish on the floor.

A minute more.

She turns in her chair, puts the noodles on the table without having ever taken a bite. Starts typing, the unmotivated efficiency of someone who knows what to do and how, but cares nothing for the why. The last thing the camera captures before the feed stops is her casually flipping it off, right hand raised, not even bothering to look back.

[effinfitz]

mrIczu: "do u c whut i c?"

The view starts zoomed all the way in on the map again -- the markings are easily recognizable, and a comforting frame of reference for the camera's warped lens.

There's a queer twinge of horror -- just for the slimmest fraction of a second -- as a giant hand glides in from stage right, oblong and all the more monstrous for the felt tip pen it holds.  In one fluid motion it makes two marks, an X over one of the earlier black marks.  The Kaiju parallel is unsettling.

Perhaps you should get out more.

The camera zooms back out, just in time to let you see the young woman hopping off her desk again, frowning.   Her dog, panting and pacing, skitters about in a small circle just to the side before sitting down.  Barking.  Standing back up again.  Sitting back down when she reaches behind her to scratch his head.

"What do you think, Greg?"

A discontent whine, like a precursor to a sneeze.

"Not a very dramatic sacrifice, you're right."  You can hear her tapping the capped end of the marker against her chin, thinking.  "Insurance.  Public support.  Even a media attack.  They're being entirely too patient."

He was clearly listening.  One could tell by how avidly he was turning his head this way and that to try and slobber on her fingers.  They danced around the attempts easily, without her even needing to look back.  A game they'd played before.

"Build-up, then?  It's not a stunt one could pull twice.  You either need to escalate or resolve,  and they can't resolve without --"

He skittered about again, lowered his head at the evasive hand, legs splayed.  Growled.  She paused, looked back.  Quirked a bemused eyebrow.  "Oi.  You make one new friend and suddenly chatting with me becomes boring.  I'm hurt, Greg."

Greg seems not to notice.  Instead his head perks up, tail wags.  He barks twice.

"Fine, fine!  Go get your leash.  Maybe some fresh air will help me think."

Another bark as he speeds out of view. The young woman, for her part, is less excited.  She picks up the beaten leather jacket that had been hanging from her chair and shrugs it on without ever peeling her eyes from the map.

A minute passes.

Greg returns, holding a leash in his jaws.  She smirks, takes it, clips it on to his collar.  "C'mon then," she says with a gentle tug.

He barks back, happily, and they leave to the left.  The camera stays on.

Two minutes, three.  Zooming in to the desk, where a magazine is folded open and propped up against the walk.  Zooming.  Zooming.

Finally the headline of the article is legible, if not the words.  An ad, too, and if the banner for "UFO Hunt 2009!" is anything to go by, the magazine is neither particularly new nor professional.

The title of the article reads "Group Schizophrenia and Viral Vectors."  It seems to go on for at least that whole page, but the zoom is insufficient to make out the print.  Still, the camera stays focused for one minute.

Two.

Cut.

[effinfitz]

mriczu: last 1!!1!1one!  Gonna take it down in an hour. limited release.  <3

The bedroom again.  It's been a while, hasn't it?

It's early evening: a digital clock reads 18:52 on the nightstand.  The room's lit by garish gray-orange sunlight and diluted neon pink streaming between the slats of the blinds.  The young woman rests on the edge of the bed closest to the window, nearly on her stomach, one arm hanging over the edge.  Just below her fingers is the dog, curled up and snoring gently.  She'd clearly fallen asleep petting him.  She hadn't even bothered to get under any covers, head resting as much on her other arm as the corner of a pillow it held.  The bed dwarfs her, a good foot of space available over her head and beneath her feet.

So small.

Time passes.  A minute.  Two.  Streaks appear midscreen, the image pixelates, and at first you think the footage is being fast forwarded.  You wait.  Three minutes.  Four.

The clock still reads 18:52.

There's something moving the blinds.  Or, no.  The blinds are -- your perspective is shifting.  The bed and the girl are unchanged, but somehow you're looking directly at the the window, too, and all the plain gray slats look like faces, if faces didn't look much like anything at all.  The striped shadows the blinds cast through the pink-orange light bend, distort, seem to lift from the walls.  From your screen.  It must be the perspective shift.

The dog whines.

She hears it stirs.  The odd, bent field of vision from the camera changes again, normalizes.  Not even to the cyclopic myopia of the rest of the videos, but true, flat screen normal.  She's lying back on the bed again, just as she was.  The dog's asleep, silent but for snoring.  The shadows are normal.

Fast forward.  18:52.  Space bends.  You can look to your right and see the window.  The not-faces stare past you, dismissive.  On your screen, the shadows move.  They don't spread out to cover the room so much as....the list just dies.  Just dies.

The dog whines, just like last time.  She stirs, but dogs always whine.  It's when he ups and scampers under the bed, cowering, that she bolts up, alert.  The image stutters like film reel, then briefly normalizes when blue-cold fire runs down her arms.  Then everything goes black.  You can hear her start to shout -- calling Greg, maybe? -- before a caption appears.

"SFX budget ran out.  Sorry.  "

A cover shot of a children's movie pops up instead.  All Dogs Go To Heaven.

Then the noises start.  Like power tools.  Whirring, grinding, drilling.  Greg's yowling is sped up, tightened, corded around and fractured.  Ripping, rending, pulping noises, like raw steak under a meat tenderizer.  Things crack and break.  Greg's whimpers flicker, cease, give way to a building, splashing, rhythmic noise like submerged railroad pistons.  Speeding up.  Growing louder.

One minute.  Two.  Like a jackhammer now.  A steam whistle, so close to deafening that your speakers threaten to blow out in feedback squeals.  Then nothing.

Bitter silence.

The screen goes black again.  A gentle breeze starts up, making the blinds bounce around.  The room gradually returns.  Almost no light, still, but for the clock.  18:53.  The room looks like a bomb hit it.  The bed's ruined, sheets are everywhere, and even the ceiling is starting to come apart.

She returns, stepping in from the left, wisps of golden light still streaming off of her.  Ruffled, mussed, messy, but unhurt.  It's impossible to make out anything else in this light.

She stands there.  Not even a minute.  Then turns back around and leaves just as you can make out sirens in the distance.

True to his words, mriczu closed the account and took down every video by 1900.  By 1930 there's no record of them having ever been online.

One wonders if he knew the PIT had already saved them for "archival purposes."