The facility was a terrible place to work on a good day. Agent Johnson knew that, and he said it often. That was one of the reasons why he wasn't allowed into the Training Department.
On that day, however, no one was stopping him from entering Training. Because that day was not a good day.
Sure, he'd made preparations to be locked out. He'd brought a crowbar onto the elevator, to pry it open in case Hod detected he was on board and told it to keep moving. But the doors creaked right open on their own, the Department's main lobby presenting itself to him. The room was empty; even the clerks had scattered.
"Stay alert," Johnson reminded himself as he put aside the crowbar and readied his weapon — an E.G.O. rifle manufactured in the depths of the facility, and for that matter one of the corporation’s best armaments. That Johnson was allowed to carry a “Laetitia” at all was proof of his reputation as Information Team captain. Leveling the rifle, he sprang from the elevator and swung his aim to the left. Then to the right. No movement, no sounds. He was alone. At least — at least that was the impression. Could never be certain in this hellhole. He ran for the first location he spotted that seemed defensible, a restroom. Kicking the door open and jabbing the light switch, he cleared the room quickly. A toilet, a sink, an embroidered pillow to scream into (“Find joy in the little things!”), a hand dryer. No one here.
Then he heard sobbing. He stiffened, winced — but forced himself to stay rational. He breathed in slow, deep, held — and as he exhaled, he listened, evaluated. The crying was a woman’s — not a baby’s, so it wasn’t that abomination in Central Command. He felt himself relax a little. Then his pulse picked up again, as he realized he had nothing in his memory for the crying woman’s voice. It could be anything —
Johnson breathed in again, and this time, he tried to make out the source of the cries. The sound was echoing through the wall. Unless the restroom directly adjoined a containment unit, he was fine — unless something had escaped its containment unit and was about to —
Johnson winced hard, gritting his teeth, internally screaming at himself to keep it together. Try a stimulus. He pressed the flush lever on the toilet.
Whoever was on the wall’s opposite side heard the sound and stopped sobbing, then there were muffled words. A young woman; Johnson couldn’t identify what she was saying but the terror in her voice was clear enough. She asked a question, then repeated it louder before her words disintegrated back into pitiful sobs. Johnson still didn’t recognize the voice, but the behavior was unmistakable.
Desperation, pleading, terror to the point of mental regression. Why hadn’t he correctly interpreted the sounds sooner. Remember, Johnson chided himself, not everything down here is a monster. They just outnumber us.
Johnson sighed and left the restroom, still glancing instinctively to either side. Then he found the room adjoining: “Conference Room 1.” It was unlocked. The lights inside were off, and Johnson kept his gun at his hip, trying to ignore the itching sensation that was building up under his gloves. He could see the room’s occupant now; she seemed to be ignoring him though her cries became ever more hoarse, ever more wretched: “Please, Hod, they’re coming — please wake up — please, Hod, please, you promised you’d— please — pleee-e-e-eaaaase—“
Toggling his earpiece, Johnson spoke in a whisper. “Manager, I have a Mike Charlie in Training. Permission to liquidate?” As he spoke, he leveled his rifle, aiming down the sights and bringing a finger to the trigger.
As Johnson waited for a reply, he began to hear chimes — something like a music box, but the rhythm was off and the notes were out of key. He realized it was the rifle in his hands, whispering to him. He’d had his hands on it for too long. He tried to focus on the woman, who was still pleading desperately to the metal box at the head of the conference table. Finally Johnson heard a synthesized voice over the earpiece: “Denied.”
“Come again?” Johnson instantly regretted talking back to the Manager, but this was his skin on the line anyway if the Mike Charlie turned violent.
“Mental corruption is only 32%,” the voice replied plainly. Termination not indicated. She’s just scared, Johnson. Talk to her.”
So it was true. Johnson had heard rumors that the Manager was able to directly monitor mental corruption levels now. That didn’t feel as reassuring as he expected it to. He slung up his rifle, only then realizing that he had started to feel spiders crawling underneath his uniform. The sensations vanished as the weapon was put away. One thing they had warned him about during orientation was that E.G.O. equipment was as unpleasant as it was powerful.
Focus. Try to calm the woman down. “First day on the job?” he offered.
The woman shuddered, then froze like an ambushed rabbit. Johnson took a step forward and waited. After a couple moments the woman answered: “S-she promised to train me today. She promised she’d tell me what to do if — if — if —“ Her voice started to quaver again.
“All the AIs in the facility have shut down,” Johnson told her. “Manager’s working on bringing them back online. Where’s the rest of the Training Team?”
The woman searched her memory for a moment, looking at the metal box again. It used to be Hod, obviously, though with its power off and its limbs retracted it more resembled a brown mini-fridge than a robot. “A… Ashely came an hour ago. Told everyone to follow her to the elevator. I-I was trying to get Hod to come with, t-then the elevator closed—“
Lucky idiot, Johnson thought. An hour ago, Captain Ashely from the Safety Team had been radioed by the Manager to respond to a breach in the Training Department’s lower level. Her failure to report back, and the loss of contact with the Training Team, was why Johnson had been sent here. “W-where are they?” the woman asked suddenly, now looking at Johnson. Her eyes slowly widened, her voice quaking as she went on, “W-where’s Velasquez? J-Jacob?”
“I don’t know,” Johnson lied. They were most certainly still in the Training Department’s lower level, what was left of them anyway. “But we’ll find them. What’s your name?”
And the woman was about to answer, when the door hissed open behind Johnson. There were no footsteps. His blood ran cold and as he spun around, he shouldered the rifle. The chimes returned instantly, his vision blurring, eyes drying out and pupils shrinking to points as the rifle took aim for him —
