← Redwood Bureau
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- [00:00]
Eric
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- [01:18]
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- [02:08]
Agent Con
Beware the Redwood Bureau, a secret organization which captures and researches creatures and objects that defy explanation. Their reckless procedures have led to countless innocent lives lost. I am Agent Con. I worked for the Redwood Bureau, but I have escaped them to leak their reports to the unsuspecting public. You have the right to know. Conroy is off site tonight. He's overseeing preparations for the breach into floor two beneath Lumpkin's Eatery, the facility that Buro buried and forgot. We've spent countless hours laying the groundwork for that operation and if all goes well, you'll know soon enough. In the meantime, this is Cipher, bringing you what the Bureau doesn't want you to know when we get our hands on Bureau files. The material isn't always ready for a full broadcast. Sometimes it's a matter of time. Conroy can't cover everything in one signal. Other times, the reasons are more complicated. Certain names can't be aired without risking the safety of victims or their families. Sometimes we hold back to avoid giving the Bureau clues about who helped us or how we got the file. And occasionally the contents are so disturbing, even we have to think twice about sending them out live. What you're about to hear are three unreleased case fragments, stories and personal logs from previous reports that never made it into the primary broadcasts. These aren't polished case reports. They're the raw pieces that fill in the gaps. Our first file tonight comes from the Stagus incident. The very same you heard us break two weeks ago. While the Bureau did respond to this incident and contain Ian Roark, they sure took their sweet time in doing so. And during that time, other people were given the chance to stumble into this nightmare. And stumble they did. What we recovered here is a first hand account from the night janitor, Marisol Gutierrez, assigned to the west wing during the final stages of Ian's outbreak. She wasn't part of any test. She wasn't supposed to be part of the story at all. But this is what she saw before the lights went out.
- [05:03]
Mochi Health
I wasn't supposed to be cleaning the west wing. Normally that section was Kevin's, but he called out three nights ago and hasn't returned. No notice, no explanation. The supervisor told me he'd texted something vague. Not feeling right. Need time off. And that was all I was told. When I asked if he was sick, she just shrugged and told me to pick up the extra shift if I wanted the hours. That's how it goes. The west wing of the Life Sciences building is colder than the rest. It always smells faintly of bleach and metal even before I mop it. The tiles are those ugly speckled white ones that never seem clean no matter how hard you scrub them. And the lights overhead hum just a little louder than they should. Some flicker. They never seem to get changed, though. The only person I've ever seen that late is Ian, the lab tech. I don't know his full title, but he's been here longer than I have and sometimes spends nearly a full day there. Soft spoken, always polite. He never makes a mess, always wears gloves, always logs out, always thanks me when I sweep under his workstation. The first night I picked up his shift, Ian was already in the lab. I passed by the window to lab C2. On my way to the janitor's closet. He didn't look up. He was standing by one of the prep tables, facing away from the glass, shoulders hunched forward. I thought he was reading something. When I came back around an hour later, he was still in the same position. Completely still. I tapped the glass. He didn't flinch. I figured he had earbuds in or maybe just didn't hear me. Still, something about the way he stood there, like his spine wasn't quite aligned right, or like he wasn't breathing, sent a ripple down my back. I told myself I was just tired. That's the trouble with night shifts. The building starts playing tricks on you. Noises become louder, shadows stretch longer than they should. You start making things up to pass the time. You start telling yourself stories you don't really believe. Still, I worked faster that night. I left his wing 10 minutes early. The next night things were quieter. I didn't see Ian. I hoped he wasn't there. His computer was still on, though, a flickering cursor blinking in the dark like it was waiting for a command. I cleaned the hallway in silence, my earbuds dead, forgetting to charge them the night before. The only sound was the rolling of my mop bucket wheels and the wet slap of the string mop against tile. I had just finished the floor outside the genetics lab when I caught movement in the corner of my eye. Through the frosted pane of the stairwell door, I saw a tall, hunched figure moving slowly down the steps. I paused, mop still dripping onto the floor, watching as the door creaked open. Ian stepped out, barefoot. He didn't see me, or if he did, he didn't react. His eyes were open but unfocused, fixed straight ahead as he walked past me down the hallway, his feet leaving faint, muddy outlines on the tile. I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. As he passed under one of the flickering lights, I noticed something else. The back of his shirt was damp. Not sweat. It was darker than that. He didn't smell like sweat either. He smelled like the biology freezer. When he disappeared into the end of the hallway, I packed up and left. I didn't log my hours, didn't text my supervisor. I just went home, took a shower, and told myself I wouldn't be working that wing again. But I needed the money. I had no choice but to come back. When I came back the next night, I made sure to keep moving. I didn't let myself linger outside the lab. I didn't make eye contact through the glass. If I didn't look too long, I could pretend it was all just the kind of thing that happens when your body runs on caffeine and vending machine soup packets. But even before I reached Ian's wing, I knew something was off. The hallway felt warmer, just enough that I had to unbutton my overshirt and push up my sleeves. That part of the building was usually cold enough to see a breath, but tonight the walls felt like they were radiating their own heat, stale and slightly sweet. When I passed lab C2, the door was cracked open. That had never happened before. Ian was strict about protocols. Gloves, masks. Never left anything unsecured. But tonight, the door stood open by 2 inches, just wide enough to hear something breathing. With a low clicking in between, I stepped past without slowing down. Later that night, I found a beetle in the woman's restroom. It was small, less than an inch long, but thick bodied, with serrated pincers and an oily sheen across its back. It just sat there on the sink, not moving, watching me. I grabbed a wad of paper towels and was going to squash it, but when I brought my hand down, it was gone. I didn't see it move, didn't hear it scurry. It just wasn't there anymore. The next night, when I returned from my shift, the vending machine was off. No lights, no hum. Just dead glass reflecting my face back at me. It was the only machine in the building that didn't work. I kept thinking about Kevin, wondering if he'd seen the same things, maybe worse. Maybe he left because he didn't want to be the one to find out how it ended. I opened the janitor's closet and nearly jumped out of my skin. Ian's name tag was on the floor, bent, a smudge of dark fluid along one edge. It looked like it had been stepped on. The clip had snapped in two. I picked it up with two fingers and dropped it into the trash can beside the sink. That's when I noticed the smell. It was creeping into the walls. Something wet, inorganic, and metallic all at once, like pond water mixed with rust. It clung to my sleeves, to the inside of my mask. I caught myself gagging before I realized it. I finished the night in record time and didn't look through any more lab windows. But as I was leaving, just as I was rounding the corner by the exit doors, I glanced back. Ian was in the hall, kneeling on all fours in front of Lab C2. His back was turned to me. He wasn't cleaning or fixing anything. Just crouched low with his head bent toward the floor, hands splayed out across the tile. He was twitching like a dying spider. I didn't stay to watch the next night. I didn't want to come in. I pretended to be sick, tried to get someone else to cover, but my supervisor didn't even respond to the message I sent. He just responded that the schedule was locked for the week and that I had to make all my shifts if I wanted to keep my job. When I got to the building, it was quieter than I'd ever heard it. No humming lights, no vending machines, not even the usual rattle of the H vac system kicking on. The air changed halfway down the corridor. The usual bleach and dust smell had been replaced with with something damp and rotten. It smelled like dead leaves, like meat that had sat too long in the back of the fridge, like wet fur. The door to lab C2 was wide open now. Inside, the lights were dimmed to near darkness, except for a faint orange glow cast by a desk lamp somewhere toward the back of the room. The air was thick, humid, and cloying, clinging to my skin like steam from a rotten shower. I stepped inside and the first thing I noticed was the sound. Just the subtle scritch of tiny things moving in the walls and above the ceiling tiles. At first I thought it was rats, but the rhythm was too coordinated, too fluid, like dozens of creatures crawling in time with each other, moving as one. The deer were outside again. I could see them through the lab windows, lined up in the snow covered courtyard. On moving. Then I saw Ian. He was collapsed against the far wall, his arms slumped at his sides like someone had cut his tendons. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn't speak, didn't blink. His eyes were glassy, still blue, but distant. I whispered his name. I don't know why. I think I wanted him to look at me. Ian. Ian. Or maybe I wanted him to tell me that I was dreaming, that this wasn't real. Instead, something shifted beneath his skin. I thought it was muscle spasms. And then it moved in a way it shouldn't, rising, falling, rippling from within. It wasn't until now that I realized all the holes in him. A beetle crawled out from his body. It was slow, almost gentle. It emerged from just above his hip, glistening and fat. It lingered for a moment on his lap, then dropped to the floor and skittered off toward the shadows near the exam tables. Another one came next, this one from his collarbone, then two more slipping from under his ribs. One of them paused on his chest turned its small black head toward me, then darted under a rolling cart. I backed up without thinking. My hand touched the metal lap counter behind me and the cold metal jolted me back into my body. His arms weren't just limp, they were hollowed out. The skin sagged like deflated tubing, and where there should have been biceps or bone, there were only dark, pulsing veins and a kind of dark mass just beneath the skin. Ian inhaled sharply. A wheeze. His jaw twitched. One side of his face trembled as if trying to form a word, but no words came out. Just a wet, sucking click in the back of his throat. His tongue moved. A beetle crawled up from behind it. That was enough. I turned to run. Behind me, the soft tap tap tap of tiny limbs skittering across the tile. Something touched my leg. I looked down. A beetle the size of my palm was resting against my shoe. Its legs trembled and its slick body reflected the soft light above. Behind it, another emerged from beneath the cabinets. Then another. I backed away and found myself in a corner, heart racing, trying to pull open a cabinet door to wedge myself inside. But my hands wouldn't stop shaking, shaking, and I couldn't get the latch to click. Behind me, Ian was still breathing. I could hear his wheezing and the growing number of clicking limbs. I started to scream, and then the lights went out.
- [18:41]
Agent Con
Our second file tonight comes from case file 013, infinite dosage. When we aired this story, Conroy wasn't on the broadcast. That's because he was in the field, shutting down the operation that made this nightmare possible. The Bureau wasn't just moving product, they were running a live tethering program. Every bottle of this so called street drug was laced with a secondary bioengineered component. Anyone desperate or foolish enough to take it became more than a victim. They became. Well, you'll see in just a moment. Conroy's team hit their primary site in the early hours of the morning. I won't share all the details, but I will tell you this. The facility had reached active production. Set up two field ready distribution caches and a direct uplink to a server cluster the Bureau thought was untouchable. It isn't anymore. That entire pipeline is gone. What you're about to hear is from the main facility, in its infancy, before Conroy brought the operation to an end.
- [20:00]
Roger
The lights blur past as the radio drowns out the rain pounding on my windshield, a welcome distraction from my seething anger. My expression is twisted into a snarl, my brow furrowed with impatience. Time is a different thing. At 1am the moon is too bright tonight, revealing the empty road ahead, further illuminated by my headlights. Flashes of red and blue cut through the darkness, an early warning of trouble ahead. My heart pounds as I approach, my grip tightening in the wheel. A young kid is pulled over, his expensive car drawing attention even parked. Fear grips me as I pass by, relief flooding through my body as I pass by the traffic stop and continue on. The officer's back was turned to me, but still, still the anxiety lingers long after I'd passed by. I cautiously navigate the desolate cityscape, my palms slick with sweat. The abandoned apartments loom over me like an overlord of this crime ridden area. Gunshots occasionally break the stillness of the night, shattering any notion of peace in this concrete hell. Most of the city remains empty and unbothered by these disturbances. Dark alleys hide vermin and outcasts of society. Though they may seem hostile, these rats and misfits are the ones I know best. I consider myself to have more in common with them than any other group of people. I venture into the city to meet with a connect promising something new, something valuable on the market. But it sounds like bullshit to me. I'll put it to the test, see if the ride is worth the cost of admission. The drug trade is a twisted game with an endless amount of politics and arbitrary rules. Some drugs are easy to get, others too deadly to make a profit selling. It's a ruthless business where suppliers will do whatever it takes to keep their customers hooked. I have connections to some of the biggest dealers in this area, and everyone has been trying to get their hands on this particular drug for quite some time now. The whole thing is sketchy, but that's how these big ones start. Sometimes I know what people think of guys like me, and they're not wrong. But whatever these guys are, they're worse. They show up in tinted SUVs, dressed in black suits and sunglasses, looking like the most obvious feds you could picture. Everyone who's met with them says the whole thing screams of a setup, but it isn't. Either way, you should avoid dealing with men in suits whenever possible. I'll be meeting my contact near the pawn shop and the abandoned industrial district. That place will buy anything, hot or not, but the payouts are trash. The area is filled with abandoned warehouses and empty shipping containers with not a street light in sight. I pass by the city center, a wasteland after dark. Some seek shelter in back alleys and run down structures, while others roam the deserted streets with malicious intentions, armed and restless in a more populated Area, I spot a group of people strolling around, seemingly oblivious to the inherent danger of this place after dark, likely returning from one of the popular concert venues. The dwindling crowd moved in the opposite direction of the concert venue, their scowling faces and clenched fists betraying their disappointment at whatever concert probably got canceled. I inched my car forward, ignoring the desperate plea for a ride that echoed through my window. I sped off without looking back, leaving them to their fate. I enter one of the higher class residential zones. The price on apartments here are far too high, pushing people like me to the outskirts where all the late night wanderers meet. Suspicious gazes follow me at every turn, as if they sense my true intentions or have their own. I have an old plug that lives down here. I always keep his number handy because of his bottom dollar prices and no hassle deals. I've struggled to overcome my addictions, but ultimately I found myself simply trading one addiction for another. Instead of using drugs, I began selling them, taking advantage of the connections I'd unknowingly built. Soon enough, I was making good money. However, that high wasn't enough and I found myself seeking other thrills, eventually turning to gambling. But even that lost its appeal as I became desensitized to the rush it once gave me. That and the fact the debt I've accumulated is higher than my clients. Though I've managed to clawed back into a non lethal number. Even as I drive, my skin itches, my muscles twitch and my joints vibrate, the toll of my desperate actions evident. I can't help but to grind my teeth. Paranoia consumes me as I search for any sign of trouble. Soon enough, my paranoia is not unfounded. A vehicle had been following me for quite some time. I intentionally took detours along my route and watched as it followed my every turn. I think about punching the gas and trying to outrun them, but this piece of shit car won't be able to pull that off. Instead, I chose to lean back with a casual candor, ensuring that nothing seems amiss. I slowed my pace, becoming painfully slow gradually. My intent was to irritate them until they had to choose between obviously following me or going around. Which surprisingly worked. The car passed me and drove off down the road. It was only then that I realized it wasn't undercover. Good thing I didn't speed off. I took a few turns and side roads before slowly finding my way back to the initial route. Shortly after, I was back in a desolate part of the city. I noticed a flickering vacancy sign of a nearby motel. Across from it is the Pawn shop. A handful of people were gathered outside the motel, likely looking for a score or something a little more personal. I parked in front of the pawn shop and texted the plug I'd been set up with Lazlo. Normally I don't trust these types of deals. Tucking a pistol into my coat, I slip out of the car. To the side of the pawnshop stood a figure. The only thing I could see was his pale skin. He wore black shades with a black suit. This had to be the guy I approach. You, Lazlo? I ask. Are you Roger? He asks. I buried my irritation. Obviously I was Roger, otherwise why would I be here at the time he was supposed to meet a Roger and know who he was. I just nod and he leads me into the alleyway through a metal gate. In the back of the pawn shop is a large lot where they put all the likely stolen stuff, too large for the main building. Being guided through a maze of cars, unrecognizable vehicles, and odd looking machines, we eventually found ourselves in front of a warehouse. Here is where Laszlo turns around and stops me, telling me to stay here before turning back around and walking inside. A few minutes pass and Laszlo returns with a small entourage. They present their product in a cushy plastic chest, opening it to reveal the files inside. A sequence of glass bottles lay out before me, five of them with imperfect fitting Styrofoam moles, inside of which is a clear syrupy mixture. Heat it up and inject it. Dry it out and smoke it. Dehydrate it completely and you can snort it or just go ahead and drink it, Lazlo enumerates. It's a versatile product. I took in his words as I peered into the bottles. A very versatile drug with supposedly strong effects. You could turn this into anything, brand it any way to any user. What about production? I asked. You pay for what you need and we'll ship it to you within a month, Laszlo says. Okay, how much? $10 per ML, 25 ML in a bottle and a total of 5 bottles in each container, he answers. Not the cheapest drug out there. Definitely a gamble for something which has no clear knowledge to its strength and how far I can make a bottle go. Who made it? What's it do? I ask. Not your concern. And if you want to find out, buy it and take it. I didn't want to commit to any deals and these guys were really starting to piss me off, but I'd already come all this way. Fine. Give me one bottle and I'll see what's up. We trade hands quickly. I pass the 250 as he hands me one of the bottles. Thank you. You know how to contact us, laszlo says. I nod and pocket the bottle as I walk back to the car without another word. Now that I have this stuff, I just needed to get home and try it out. If it's good, I'll see what I can do with it. Given it's an unknown drug, I can claim it's anything as long as the effects are there. As I make my way back home, I start to feel that familiar itch. I became enthralled with the idea of a completely new, unexperienced high. Alcohol and weed stopped doing anything for me a long time ago, so I had gotten into harder stuff. After making some bad choices, I was desperate to get out from under my addictions. I know this feeling well. Daily I crave a rush or an escape. That's the terrifying part of addiction. Once you're numb to something, you need more. Suddenly, every little thing put me on edge, from bumps in the road to bright passing headlights, and I had to fight the urge to stop. After leaving the city, I searched for somewhere to pull over and ended up near a secluded stream. The water was polluted with chemical runoff from a nearby plant, forcing me to roll up my window against the stench. Once parked, the silence helped ease my irritation. As I focused on the little glass file, I thought about all the different ways the suit had told me you could take this stuff. Looking around my car to see what I had, I thought about getting creative, about what would be the best way to experience this new rush. But instead of overthinking, I popped the top and took a sip. The fluid snaked down my throat and invaded my stomach like molten lead, slamming into my bowels and leaving a trail of pain. Within moments, the effects were consuming. My muscles relaxed. I leaned back as the world around me started to blur. My vision warped the moon's blue hue and I was pouring sweat. My collar felt like a furnace and my hands shook while trying to open the car door. I finally stumbled out, falling to the ground. The cool air clashed with the awful smell of the stream, making me cough and gag. Sweat poured down my face and everything around me started to change. The hard surface turned into something soft and barely there. Focusing on my breath, I braced myself, trying to return to the concrete and the putrid stream. Instead, a sauna like heat wrapped around me, pulsing and radiating. My ears caught sounds like a bad radio connection, static and garbled voices When I finally pushed myself to my knees, everything looked like I was seeing it through a smeared windshield, all reds and pinks under dim light. The stream's chemical stink was gone, replaced by something like roadkill left in summer heat. My limbs moved like I was underwater. Just the drug, I kept telling myself, desperate to believe it, desperate for the sensations to wear off. Ahead was a shadow, a figure. I crawled toward what looked like a person, hoping they might help. Orange fires flickered through trees while shapes shifted in the darkness. Something that sounded like a growl came from nearby. Deep, constant. It sent fear fracturing through me. The sensation made every inch that I dragged myself forward even more difficult. Then I saw feet. Thank God. I grabbed an ankle and looked up, ready to beg for help, to garble out whatever nonsense I could put together that would have them bringing an ambulance or something speeding out here. But whatever stared back wasn't human.
- [35:45]
Cipher
Warning Signal interruption detected.
- [35:50]
Eric
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- [37:32]
Cipher
The McDonald's Snack Wrap is back.
- [37:34]
Roger
You brought it back. Ranch snack wrap, Spicy snack wrap.
- [37:39]
Cipher
You broke the Internet for a snack.
- [37:43]
Agent Con
Snack wrap is back.
- [37:49]
Cipher
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- [38:21]
Roger
The thing loomed over me, a silhouette against the red streaked sky, its pitch black skin glistening like oil and its head cocked in a jerky bird like twitch. Its face was a mess of too many features, eyes that blinked out of sequence, a slit for a mouth stretching wide as it exhaled a hot, rancid breath that carried the stink of decay and metal. The smell made the toxic extreme seem like fresh baked goods. My stomach turned, but I didn't even get the chance to scream before the world inverted. My body hoisted effortlessly into the air and slung over its massive shoulder. The thing moved with a rolling gait and each step sent a jolt of pain up my spine. I tried to struggle, but my muscles were jelly, twitching and refusing my commands. As I blinked through the blurred haze of my vision, I saw shapes hung from the trees like nightmarish ornaments. People. Their limbs dangled, broken in endless shapes, their skin marbled with bruises and black veins. A low groan rolled through the night and I realized they were all still alive, twitching faintly, their eyes locked on nothing. We came to a clearing, a pit yawning before us like a wound in the earth. The creature hurled me in and I landed on something soft and yielding that squirmed beneath me. A wet sound accompanied the landing, and when I raised my head I saw them. Dozens of people, maybe more, all thrown in like trash. They writhed in sluggish waves, whispering and moaning. Faces I didn't know stared at me through the flickering dark, but some were frozen in rictus grins, teeth chattering as though caught in some unseen rhythm. The heat in the pit was suffocating, and the air carried an unbearable stench that burned the back of my throat. All around me, the other victims twitched in pain, their bodies convulsing as if electrified. One man with a face of the lattice black veins turned his head to me and croaked a single word through cracked lips.
- [41:03]
Cipher
Please.
- [41:06]
Roger
Before I could react, the ground convulsed. Thin, jointed appendages like spider legs made of sinew and bone burst from the walls of the pit and pierced into bodies around me. They lifted the screaming people into the air, bending their spines and twisting their necks in slow, deliberate arcs. I pressed myself flat against the pile of flesh biting down on my tongue to stifle the scream clawing its way out of me. My vision fractured into stuttering frames. My body refused my commands. Every nerve fired at once, waves of pain and pressure rolling over me like a tide. Shadows descended into the pit. More of the things, or perhaps the same one, mirrored a hundred times. They pulled people apart in slow, methodical motions, not to kill, but to dismantle. I couldn't look away as a woman directly above me with hair knotted to her face was stretched until the sound of popping joints became one long, shrill crack. Her scream didn't stop. It just warped, rising higher than anything a human could make until it broke into static in my ears. It went on like this for what felt like a lifetime. Sometimes it happened to me, and sometimes I just watched. But it never stopped. And then it did. I was upright. My vision snapped into clarity. I was in a warehouse. I recognized it immediately. The same dim industrial space behind the pawn shop, strapped to a cold metal chair. My head lolled forward, drool sliding off my chin, and every muscle trembled from exhaustion. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed like lazy hornets. Across from me stood Lazlo, the suit still pristine, his black shades touching the glow. Behind him, two other men in identical suits lingered, their expressions blank and unreadable. You had quite a trip, lazlo said casually, as if we were discussing a rollercoaster instead of the hell I just endured. He crouched, resting his elbows on his knees. You're wondering what just happened to you, what you saw, that place. Consider it a demonstration. I tried to speak, but my tongue felt heavy, my throat raw. In these bottles, he continued, tapping a finger against one of the glass phials, is more than a drug. It's an infection. A bioengineered transmitter attached to something far too complicated for men like us to understand. It bonds to your nervous system, and we can send you back any time we like. My eyes widened. He smiled. To prove I'm not bluffing. He gave a tiny nod. Pain bloomed in my skull, all like an implosion of my every thought and memory. The warehouse dissolved around me. I was back in the pit. The smell hit first. Sweat, blood, and a chemical rot that wormed its way inside of me. The heat was unbearable, and the screaming filled my ears, echoing endlessly, rising in perfect unison like a chorus of the damned. The spider limbs were around us, snatching the closest body and taking it apart with wet rips and tears. I felt claws dig into my shoulders. I was pulled into the air, and something whispered directly into my skull. Not in words, but in raw sensation, a pulse of hunger that left me sobbing and empty. Then I was back in the warehouse again, same humming lights overhead, strapped to the same chair. You understand now, right? Laszlo said, voice calm, almost fatherly. You sell our product, you bring more people in, and you'll never have to go back. His smile widened. Refuse and we'll make that world your home. I nodded my head weakly, my eyes trying to communicate what my words could not that I would do anything they wanted. But the other man behind him raised a small device and pressed a button. The world shattered into pain and screaming red.
- [46:56]
Agent Con
Our last file tonight comes from Somnum Sleep Experiments RBP9452. What you heard in the initial report was of a participant caught in flight. Frederick's experiment. What you didn't hear were Frederick's private logs, the thoughts of the men who built the bridge to the between one this was the weeks before the Bureau moved in and took over. He had already stopped thinking of his subjects as human. He had stopped thinking of sleep as rest. To him, every life in that building was a wire in the circuit he was creating, one that connected our world to something that should have never been reached. When the Bureau took over, they didn't shut it down. They perfected it. Somnam became the cornerstone of a program that turns human minds into open doors. These logs are the last words Fredericks wrote before he disappeared into the Bureau's custody. Listening to them will tell you why they wanted him him alive.
- [48:07]
Dr. Fredericks
Dr. Frederick's personal log. They say that history will never remember the cautious. Every meaningful breakthrough in human advancement began with the same accusation. That it was reckless, that we were tampering with something meant to remain untouched. I have spent my career listening to that chorus of caution, nodding politely while I pushed the boundary further than any of them dared. The Somnum Project began as a question, a single thought that refused to leave me alone, nagging me in the sleepless hours when my own body betrayed me. Why must we waste a third of our lives? Unconscious sleep is an evolutionary compromise, nothing more. Eight hours stolen from us every night under the guise of necessity, leaving us vulnerable, unproductive, and shackled to a rhythm we didn't choose. We tell ourselves it is restorative, essential for for memory consolidation, hormonal regulation, and neural repair. All true, but those processes do not require the mind to go dark. They require the body to enter a cycle. Yes, but unconsciousness is a side effect, not the purpose. I dreamed of a better way. What if the body could sleep while the mind remained awake. What if we could divide the restorative function of sleep from the prison of unconsciousness? The implications were intoxicating. Workers could labor twice as long without fatigue. Soldiers could maintain watch for days without the fog of exhaustion. Innovators, thinkers, scientists, they could reclaim a third third of their lives. Eight extra hours every day. Entire decades of human potential unlocked. The idea alone was enough to draw interest from the right people, those who saw opportunity where others saw risk. A military subcontractor provided the initial funding, masking their involvement behind a series of innocuous wellness research grants. After all, the promise of a soldier who never sleeps is irresistible. With funding secured, I built the first stage of Somnum, a biochemical agent designed to induce the full neurological signature of sleep. Delta waves, REM cycles, glymphatic clearance, while leaving the conscious mind poison partially tethered to waking reality. The body would rest. The mind would continue. Our animal trials were, at first, miraculous. Rodents dosed with Somnam displayed stable vitals and rapid physical recovery. Without the traditional eight to ten hours of rest, remonset occurred faster. And periods of motor activity during sleep indicated that the conscious layer of the brain was never fully detached. When we moved to primates, the results were the same. They wandered their enclosures in a dreamlike calm, eating, moving, and occasionally mimicking grooming behaviors, while their EEGs displayed the patterns of deep restorative sleep. The science was sound. We were ready for human testing. Our selection process was meticulous. We targeted individuals on society's margins, Those for whom $3,000 could change the trajectory of their lives. Desperation is a powerful filter. The desperate will sign anything, endure anything, and they make for the most compliant participants. Each was screened for neurological stability, physical health, and, most importantly, isolation. We wanted subjects no one would miss if things went wrong. The facility itself was a masterpiece of controlled sterility. A low, windowless complex at the edge of an industrial park, its exterior forgettable by design. Inside, we constructed three layers of operation. The lobby, bright, cheerful and staged with posters of cartoon sons and smiling faces. A comfort for the anxious. The dormitory, sterile halls and private rooms, each with a camera mounted in the corner. Each subject isolated but within reach of our observation. The core lab. My cathedral. Here, every neural spike and heartbeat was monitored, every data stream feeding into our servers. The early doses were everything I hoped for. Participants reported a mild floaty detachment, the sense of being light but alert. Their EEGs displayed ideal sleep waveforms. The first night, one subject laughed softly as he described the sensation of dreaming without sleeping. He Said he could see colors behind his eyes that weren't there. Like the after image of staring at the sun. He was giddy. The others followed similar patterns. Increased REM density, slowed heart rate, full parasympathetic activation. And yet, when prompted, they could speak, answer questions, even stand and walk. I was witnessing the human body asleep and awake simultaneously, a violation of millions of years of biology. And it was working. But by the end of the first week, subtle anomalies crept in. Some participants began reporting fleeting sensations of being watched. They described catching movement in the corner, or feeling as if someone had entered their room. One woman said she woke to the sound of soft breathing right next to her bed. But when she turned, she was alone. I dismissed it as the expected side effects of hypnagogic hallucination. The line between waking and REM was supposed to blur. That was the point. The human brain, suspended in that liminal space, would invent shadows to fill the gaps in its place. Perception. Still, I began reviewing the security footage more closely. One night in room three, I watched a subject shift in his bed, eyes half open, lips moving as if whispering. He stilled suddenly, every muscle rigid. And in the far corner of the room, for a fraction of a second, the darkness seemed to fold in on itself like a curtain drawing closer. I told myself it was nothing, an optical artifact, compression noise in the recording. But I watched that clip 11 times before I shut the monitor off my chest, tight with a feeling I hadn't felt in years. Not excitement, exactly. Something more like uncertainty. The first time I saw the shadow move, I convinced myself it was nothing more than a camera glitch, a trick of the light against sterile walls. When it happened again, I told myself I was overtired, that weeks of night monitoring had frayed my perception. By the third occurrence, even I could no longer hide behind, behind excuses. Something was happening in these rooms that could not be explained by faulty equipment or lack of sleep. The anomalies had begun to form a pattern. Participants would drift into Somnom's induced state, smoothly at first, their breathing slow and even, their vitals showing perfect parasympathetic activation. Then, without warning, they would freeze. Their eyes would ease, open just slightly, unfocused, but moving with a strange deliberateness, as if tracking something invisible across the room. Their heart rates spiked, rim activity surged, and always, without fail, their gaze would drift toward the far corners of the room, as if there was something waiting there, just outside the reach of the light. By the time our newest batch of volunteers had arrived at the facility, the Somnum project had already left its infancy behind. We were long past the stage of speculation and naive discovery. The entity was no longer a rumor or. Or a shadow in the periphery. We had seen it. We had documented its movements, traced the patterns of its awareness, and learned the rhythm of its attention. The early phase, the one I sold to investors and military contractors as sleep research, was a necessary formality. That was before I understood the true potential of. Of Somnum. The drug was never just a sedative or a sleep aid. It was a key. Every dose thinned the veil between consciousness and the dark strata beyond inviting that which lingers in the in between to notice us. The participants were conduits. Now that is the word we began to use internally. Conduits. They were not patients and certainly not volunteers. No matter what they believed when they signed the paperwork in the cheerful yellow lobby, they were functional components of a system, a circuit designed to draw the between, one closer with each successive exposure. My staff understood this, and they embraced it without hesitation. The ones who hesitated are gone, filtered out by their own fear, their own lack of vision. What remains are those like Nurse Harper and Technician Miles. Individuals who can watch a man convulse under the weight of a presence not of this world and see not horror, but progress. Our protocols are refined now, clinical and Precise. Initial dosing, 15mg SOMNUM in liquid suspension, administered at 2100 hours. Patient is monitored for 30 minutes for vitals and neurological activity. Phase one. Subject enters half conscious state. EEG patterns mimic deep sleep, but higher cortical functions remain partially accessible. Staff, initiate environmental exposure. Lights dimmed. Audio dampened. Ventilation altered to low cycle hum. Phase two, induced vulnerability. Subject is transferred to the core observation chamber and restraint. Somnum levels are increased intravenously in 2 milligram increments until REM density spikes. This is when the entity notices them most consistently. Prolonged liminality. Subjects remain in contact state until physiological instability forces withdrawal or full neurological bleeding. It occurs. It is in phase three that we see the most meaningful interaction. That is where Ryan became valuable. He entered Somnam's haze with the same awe and docility as the others before him, eyes half lidded, lips moving in fragments of thought. He whispered the name without prompting, just as the others had. His voice carried a different tone, though there was recognition there, as if he had always known it was waiting. We noted the entity's response almost immediately. Shadows began to pulse and gather in the corners of the room. No longer darting or hesitant, but patient. The air pressure Dropped by nearly a full, full pascal. Just enough to make the glass observation window tremble if you knew to watch for it. Miles swore he saw condensation form on the inner pane, but I reminded him to document, not speculate. Ryan's vitals spiked, and then they stabilized. His mind was open, bridging the liminal state exactly as we had engineered. His body twitched in reflex to stimuli we could not perceive. The audio sensors captured low frequency resonance. Not quite a voice, but rhythmic enough to suggest communication. Every participant who reaches this stage gives the entity more than data. It learns. It maps the mind like an invasive current, probing, cataloging, and returning some fraction of that awareness in the form of impulses and whispers. Our initial goal of eliminating unconsciousness has evolved into something far greater. Direct interaction with a conscious intelligence beyond human understanding. I am under no illusions about the nature of what we are doing. This is not benevolence. This is not therapy. This is contact. The failed conduits, the ones who could not withstand prolonged liminality, serve a purpose as well. Their bodies remain useful to the process, their neural pathways still partially open, even as cognition fades. The extraction room is kept at a steady 45 degrees Fahrenheit to slow decomposition. Tubes feed into the core machinery that Miles and Harper manage with unflinching professionalism, capturing every flicker of energy, every pulse of neural echo that the between one leaves behind. We are building a bridge, neuron by neuron. Ryan is the first to survive four consecutive Phase three sessions without full neural bleed. That alone is extraordinary. His mind has become a beacon, a signal the between one clearly favors. His murmured phrases during contact have grown more coherent each night, transitioning from fragmented words to full if cryptic sentences. Last night, his lips moved around a single sentence that the audio sensors captured perfectly, though his own ears will never hear it played back. The door is almost open. The staff looked to me when they heard the playback, waiting for my interpretation. I only smiled. They are here to follow procedure. I am here to understand. I have been preparing for this next step since the day Somnam first bent the boundary between waking and dream. We have proven its capability. We have coaxed the between one to the edge of manifestation. We have learned to feed it attention, neural patterns and life itself. But progress, true progress, never goes unnoticed. In the past week, I've received three separate inquiries from organizations I did not invite into my work. Government, military, private contractors, call them what they are. Men who see profit and leverage. Where I see revelation, they hide behind polite emails and cold phone calls. But the message is the same we know what you are doing. We want it. I've noticed unmarked vehicles parked beyond the industrial lot after sundown. My staff tells me they've caught the glint of lenses on rooftops across the street, as if someone is always watching. Now let them. I keep meticulous backups in multiple secure locations. If they want Somnum, they'll have to take it from me. And by then it will already be too late to claim it as theirs. The between one does not belong to them. It knows me. It will answer to me. The conduits continue to hum in their beds. The machines capture every flicker of its attention. And I can feel the air in the core lab tighten with anticipation. Each night, I believe. No. I know that our threshold event is imminent.
- [67:12]
Cipher
Warning Signal interruption detected.
- [67:17]
Roger
Are you ready.
- [67:18]
Eric
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- [67:20]
Mochi Health
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- [67:22]
Roger
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- [67:34]
Eric
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- [67:36]
Dr. Fredericks
Vegan by vegan action and are so.
- [67:38]
Roger
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- [67:41]
Eric
A double take dairy free your mind.
- [67:43]
Mochi Health
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- [68:47]
Cipher
Signal Connection restored Redwood Bureau Board Memoir Operation Somnam Takeover From Bureau Board of Directors to Agent Callahan, Operations Coordinator Subject immediate action on Project Somnam requisition and containment protocols Agent Callahan, it seems we found ourselves in the company of unexpected ingenuity. And as you're well aware, unexpected in our line of work is quite often synonymous with valuable. A Dr. Fredericks has managed to stumble upon something that has piqued the Board's interest, despite his rather stunning lack of discretion. It's impressive in a way. A back alley scientist with a penchant for recklessness. Somehow achieving what we hadn't even considered. One wonders if it's sheer luck or the kind of naive desperation that occasionally breeds innovation. Whatever the case, the outcome has attracted far too much attention. And I don't feel the need to emphasize how we handle such situations. Frederick's operation is sloppy. You've seen the footage, you've read the reports. Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't managed to kill himself and everyone involved in his operation by now. The man is playing with fire. And it's only a matter of time before it burns him to ash. And even more worrying, everything he's managed to learn. If we don't intervene, the Board cannot allow someone this reckless to continue unrestrained. Nor can we afford for the work to fall into anyone else's hands. Somnom and the entity it has connected to the Between One, as they so quaintly refer to it, have demonstrated a clear and usable potential. But only if properly contained, properly managed and properly exploited. Effective immediately, you are to take control of the Somnam operation. Make it clear to Dr. Fredericks that his continued existence on this planet is contingent upon his complete and unconditional cooperation. He may retain his position in an advisory capacity, provided he demonstrates a willingness to adapt to Bureau standards. If he resists, you are authorized to implement alternative measures. Though I do require starting with a more persuasive approach. Lets avoid messy displays, shall we? We'd like to keep his insight for as long as it proves useful. And killing him outright would be such a waste of potential. Besides, I suspect that Frederick's ego will make him pliable, provided you play to his desire for scientific glory. Ensure all personnel involved in the project are debriefed and made aware of their new chain of command. Those who refuse compliance can be disposed of. Their absence will hardly be noticed. As for the participants, contain them, tighten security, reinforce monitoring and implement standard protocols to minimize leaks. Frankly, it's astonishing that this circus hasn't already been uncovered by the media, given the amount of carelessness demonstrated. If Fredericks was hoping to keep a low profile, he certainly failed spectacularly. This between one entity is of particular interest to the Board. And I want a full Analysis of its capabilities and limitations within the next two weeks. Given the reports of its manifestation during REM states, I am intrigued by the potential applications. Not just in sleep manipulation, but in dimensional tethering. The possibilities here are immense, Callahan. But I shouldn't need to remind you that immense possibilities also carry immense risks. We need full control of every variable before we start considering any applications beyond testing. I. I trust you understand the stakes. I've reviewed the footage, and frankly, I see why people are unnerved. The entity is curious, aware. It's watching, learning. But I suspect that, much like Frederick's, it can be molded into something useful. Your task is to make sure we reach that point without any unnecessary incidents. It would be a shame if we had to terminate the entire project because someone couldn't follow containment protocols. You know how these things go. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Especially when dealing with something this volatile. I'm giving you 72 hours to get everything up to Bureau standards. I expect a comprehensive report detailing the new security measures, containment protocols, and a revised schedule for experimentation. The board will be reviewing your progress, and we expect nothing short of absolute compliance. You may consider this project your top priority until further notice. And, Callahan, do try to avoid any further incidents. The last thing we need is another PR disaster. I assume I don't need to remind you of what happened during the Dyerfield contagion incident. Let's avoid a repeat performance. Yes? The board will not tolerate carelessness. And I'd hate to have to find a new coordinator for operations. I trust you won't disappoint us. We are standing on the edge of something extraordinary. And it's up to us to ensure it falls into the right hands. Dr. Fredericks may have unlocked the door, but it is we who will decide what comes through it and how it is used. I trust you understand the weight of that responsibility. Update me once the takeover is complete. The board will provide further instructions once we have assessed your progress. Do not fail.
- [75:37]
Agent Con
What connects every one of these stories and those that came before are the lives consumed by incidents regular people could have never hoped to survive. That was supposed to be what the Bureau was for. But it has fallen far from its intended principles. For every report we broadcast, there are hundreds more the Bureau is fighting tooth and nail to keep buried. They believe secrecy keeps them safe. The Bureau thrives on silence. We make them weak by speaking, by knowing. And by refusing to look away. If you're hearing this, remember, their power only lasts as long as we continue to hide in their shadow. Keep listening. Keep watching. And when the time comes, we'll collectively turn on the lights. This is Cypher. Stay alert. Stay alive.
- [76:38]
Mochi Health
Thanks for selling your car to Carvana. Here's your check.
- [76:41]
Cipher
Whoa.
- [76:42]
Roger
When did I get here?
- [76:42]
Mochi Health
What do you mean?
- [76:43]
Roger
I swear it was just moments ago.
- [76:45]
Dr. Fredericks
That I accepted a great offer from Carvana online.
- [76:47]
Eric
I must have time traveled to the future.
- [76:49]
Mochi Health
It was just moments ago. We do same day pickup. Here's your check for that great offer.
- [76:53]
Roger
It is the future.
- [76:56]
Mochi Health
It's the present. And just the convenience of Carvana. Sorry to blow your mind.
- [77:00]
Roger
It's all good. Happens all the time.
- [77:02]
Mochi Health
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