"TRICKSTER" - Redwood Bureau Phenomenon #0141_2

Summary

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Redwood Bureau – “TRICKSTER” (RBP 0141_2)

Host: Eeriecast Network | Lead Voice: Josh Tomar as Agent Conroy
Release Date: December 6, 2025

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Episode Overview

This harrowing episode revisits and dramatically expands the leak of Redwood Bureau Report 0141 - “Trickster”, a catastrophic containment case. Narrated through official interrogations and leaked firsthand accounts, Agent Conroy reveals the horrifying details of what happened during and after the breach of an entity dubbed “the Trickster.” The episode explores the Bureau’s callous methods, procedural failures, and the chilling unknowability of the Trickster itself. As the body count rises and a new creature emerges, listeners are left questioning the true nature of supernatural threats and the hubris of those who claim to “contain” them.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. Background & The Bureau’s Ethos

• [02:23] Agent Conroy recounts the initial containment of RBP 0141, a case shrouded in mystery from the beginning:

  “For an entity with such mysterious abilities, the Bureau seemed to contain it almost immediately. In fact, I'd say it pretty much went willingly.” — Agent Conroy

• The Bureau weaponized the containment’s dangers, assigning “problem agents” to guard the cell just as the entity’s predatory cycle was set to recur, effectively using the entity as a means of disposing of unwanted personnel.
• Despite years of agents disappearing every three months (“just a glitch and a gap in the roster”), the Bureau failed to truly understand or neutralize the Trickster.

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2. Agent Hartwell’s Transfer & First Encounter

• [05:39] Agent R. Hartwell, newly diagnosed with terminal cancer and recovering from a failed mission, is reassigned away from fieldwork to containment duty as a supposed act of “dignity.”
• [10:11] Hartwell’s post is clinically sterile and forbidding:
  • “Do not make verbal contact. Do not gaze directly through the viewport. Report all anomalous sensations immediately.” — Posted Protocol
• [12:56] Hartwell experiences a direct psychic assault:

  “The feeling hit, it was like the hallway itself noticed me all at once. … The voice was inside my head, but it wasn't my inner voice or my thoughts. It was a pressure that arranged itself into words.” — Agent Hartwell

  • [13:58] The Trickster’s “Rejection”

    “Send another that isn’t broken. I have no use for broken things.” — Trickster (via Agent Conroy’s narration)

    • The entity spares him, apparently detecting his illness and dismissing him as “already trash.”
    • Bureau medical staff classify this as a “rejection,” not a communication. Hartwell feels lucky—he has survived where so many have vanished.

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3. Security Supervisor Rourke’s Testimony – Breach and Carnage

• [16:24] In an internal review, Supervisor Caleb Rourke details the outbreak.
• [19:32] On Hartwell’s Ejection:

  “He took one shift in the chair outside that door, and whatever's behind the steel told him he was broken and to send somebody else. … That was the first time I ever saw it force someone out. So I guess you could say that's when the deviations started.” — Rourke

• [21:12] The first disappearance during the incident is classic Trickster: flicker of static, staff simply gone, but visual artifacts leave the impression of something watching.
  • “If I hadn't spent so much time on the Ozark file, I might have missed it. … half obscured, was a shape that looked too much like a face to be a coincidence.” — Rourke
• [22:11] The cell’s dead video feed comes alive, showing a chilling, shifting lattice of human bodies:
  • “Bodies tangled into three dimensional lattice… jaws gaping open. A whole scaffolding of human wreckage hanging in a dark that had no floor. Every eyelid was gone and every eye open.” — Rourke, 35:45
• [36:28] The Trickster reveals itself—now not alone. From the writhing mass, a new humanoid emerges:
  • “If you squinted, it was a person, roughly the right outline, but the details were wrong … like an AI's poor rendition of what a person should look like.” — Rourke, 37:23
• [47:09] The violence escalates:
  • “Then it flung him against the wall with such force that the concrete cratered on impact. His body didn't just break—it detonated.” — Rourke, 47:09
  • “The Trickster’s grin never left as it looked directly to the camera and bounced his body around like a puppet, lifting him to the lens for us to see.” — Rourke, 52:02

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4. The Failure Unfolds: Massacre & Mass Escape

• [49:50–57:48] Trickster and its new “offspring” begin slaughtering staff across the facility.
• Notable Moments:
  • “The small one waded into the mess after, tugging and twisting at the bodies like it was trying to see how many ways joints could turn before they broke.” — Rourke, 53:10
  • “A hand the size of a shovel coming down on the closest guard's head and taking it off in one wet, crushing gesture.” — Rourke, 56:39
  • Rourke himself narrowly survives, lapsing into unconsciousness after a brutal physical and psychic attack. He notes being stared down by both Trickster and its fledgling, sharing a silent, chilling communion.

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5. Aftermath & Broader Implications

• [59:27] Agent Conroy closes by lambasting the Bureau’s perpetual ignorance:
  • “For all the bodies, all the missing staff, all the years of steady sacrifices, the Bureau still cannot tell you what the Trickster actually is. … They don't know why a dying man with cancer wasn't worth taking, but a supervisor with a clean bill of health was worth sparing.”
• Multiple patterns emerge:
  • The Bureau’s containment may not have ended the regional disappearances attributed to the Trickster; there’s evidence that another entity was active before and while RBP0141 was sealed underground.
  • Now multiple predatory beings may be loose again and “competition” rather than containment is the true state of things.
  • “If you live near or in the Ozarks, this is the time to move. … this is only getting started.” — Conroy, 62:40

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

• “Send another that isn’t broken. I have no use for broken things.” — Trickster (via Conroy/Hartwell, 13:58)
• “You have the right to know.” — Agent Conroy, 01:45
• “We had a door and a number and a routine, and we mistook those for control because it made them feel good.” — Rourke, 18:20
• “A whole scaffolding of human wreckage … every eyelid was gone and every eye open.” — Rourke, 35:45
• “If you lay the timelines over each other, a nasty pattern shows up. Whatever was hunting in those woods before the Bureau showed up didn’t stop when the Trickster was contained.” — Agent Conroy, 61:00
• “For all the bodies … the Bureau still cannot tell you what the Trickster actually is.” — Agent Conroy, 59:27

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Timestamps for Key Segments

• [02:23] — Agent Conroy’s overview of the Trickster project and the Bureau’s internal rot
• [05:39] — Agent Hartwell’s reassignment and his first, terrifying psychic encounter
• [13:58] — The Trickster rejects Hartwell; unique “spared” event
• [19:32] — Supervisor Rourke on Hartwell and initial deviations from routine
• [21:12] — Disappearance of staff, video anomalies
• [22:11] — Horrific body lattice footage and the emergence of a new entity
• [36:28] — The Trickster & “offspring” breach and begin slaughter
• [49:50] — Onset of mass casualties, agents slaughtered
• [59:27] — Aftermath and Agent Conroy’s warning to the public

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Tone & Language

The episode maintains a tense, clinical, and exhausted tone. Testimonies are dry, often blackly humorous, but always tinged with trauma and fatalism. Language is precise, rich with procedural detail, and viscerally descriptive when recounting horror and violence.

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Conclusion

“TRICKSTER” is a viscerally terrifying, deeply atmospheric account of a containment experiment gone disastrously wrong. The structure—braiding post-incident interviews, real-time logs, and Agent Conroy’s rebel narration—emphasizes both the humanity and the profound insignificance of the Bureau’s operatives when facing forces they neither understand nor control. The episode’s closing questions explicitly challenge the Bureau’s methods and the morality of its leaders, as well as hinting at greater supernatural threats now unleashed. Anyone interested in cosmic horror, conspiracy, and the limits of bureaucratic control will find “TRICKSTER” essential, if deeply unsettling, listening.

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Summary by Redwood Bureau Podcast Summarizer, preserving original tone and narrative structure. For full context, and to experience the unsettling atmosphere and performances, listen to the episode in full.

Transcript

[Podcast Host]

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[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Beware the Redwood Bureau A secret organization which captures and researches creatures and objects that defy explanation. Their reckless pursuit procedures have led to countless innocent lives lost. I am Agent Conroy. 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.

Almost four years ago to the date Conroy leaked his second ever classified report through this channel, RBP 0141 Trickster the entity was as mysterious as it was dangerous, immediately earning it a designation of disastrous. Looking back, I'd be lying if I said it didn't surprise me. At least a little. We've seen things that on paper represent a much greater danger, designated as much lower threats. Someone in the Bureau knew a whole lot more than they filed in those early reports, and those someones kept that information hidden over the years. But as we know, these things have a way of bringing themselves to light. Something about that containment bothered me. It always has. But the thing Is time is against us, the odds are against us. And our budget, well, let's just say non existent would be a step up. What I'm trying to say is that we can't follow every hunch and fight every fight. So this one has been tucked away at the back of the proverbial filing cabinet. As you're probably guessing by now, something happened that changed that. For an entity with such mysterious abilities, the Bureau seemed to contain it almost immediately. In fact, I'd say it pretty much went willingly. And throughout its time contained deep within a severely under equipped facility, there was a poorly kept secret surrounding the Trickster. Every roughly three months, someone tasked with guarding its containment cell would disappear. No trace, no camera footage. Just a glitch and a gap in the roster. This was studied extensively. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the Bureau didn't see this as a problem to solve, but as an opportunity. Two birds with one stone. I believe this was the idiom used in an early internal memoir. They used it as a chance to quietly and cleanly get rid of any thorns in their side by simply reassigning agents to guard duty approaching the time of its cycle. This wasn't a perfect system, but it worked more often than not. And it gave them a chance to study what it was doing and how it was doing it. On sacrificing their own agents to an anomalous entity, they succeeded on learning anything useful or usable about what or how it's doing what it's doing. After all this time, they've failed miserably. I wish this was the part where I could say the Redwood Bureau got what it deserves. And that is true in part. But a lot of agents who weren't heartless monsters and who weren't beyond saving got far worse than any of us deserve. And even worse yet, this is far from over.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

I thought they were going to kill me. Not like a firing squad with a black hood after a final cigarette. More like a report to Medwing letter that leads to a forced inoculation followed by a nap I wouldn't wake up from. They do shit like that. Well, not that I can prove it, but we all know things tend to happen to agents that fuck up. And I fucked up. A second of hesitation on a staircase in a residential building in Ohio. One anomalous subject coming down. One civilian mother and her kid coming out of their apartment. I had a clear shot. I didn't take it. I moved to push the kid out of the way. By the time I Got my weapon up again. The subject was through a wall I wouldn't have thought was permeable. And halfway to the next block, we got it. In the end. Two agents dead, one maimed, four civilian casualties and another six with injuries. I don't even know how they're going to clean that mess up, and I shudder to think what it will cost. So when the email came through. Attention, Agent R. Hartwell. Mandatory review, 0900 hours. I assumed this was the part where I disappeared. If I'm being honest, by then I didn't care as much as I should have. The oncologist had called me three months earlier with that particular tone. You only hear from someone who doesn't know how to tell you something. Stage 4 Aggressive metastatic. I was still on my feet, still passing my pt, still putting on armor and running trills. But I could feel the time counting down. I went in, ready for a tribunal. I got three people in a small conference room instead. My immediate supervisor, a man from Internal Oversight I've never seen before, and a woman in a gray suit who didn't bother to introduce herself. They asked me all the questions I'd expect. Why didn't you contain the threat when you had the chance? Did you understand the mission parameters? Did you trust your team? Do you feel compromised by your diagnosis? Then the woman in gray slid a tablet across the table.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

Agent Hartwell, in light of your recent medical developments and your years of service, the Bureau has decided not to pursue punitive action. Instead, you're being reassigned.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

I scanned the orders. It took a second for the words to arrange themselves into anything meaningful. Containment duty? I asked. Static.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

Long term housing, she said. Deep facility. Low exposure risk. Regular hours, no field deployment. Higher clearance. With a matching pay grade.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

A promotion. On paper. With respect, I said. Why? Because you are no longer a suitable candidate for high intensity operations, my supervisor stated. The oversight cut in. But your experience is valuable. Consider this a dignified use of remaining service capacity. Dignified? That wasn't a word too many people heard around here. I signed. Not like there was any other option. I was tired. I was dying. And if the choice was between fucking up another mission and getting more of my squad killed or drawing a paycheck in a chair, I'd take the chair. My orders didn't tell me what was in the cell. Not that it mattered. The facility was older than I expected. Most of the deep sights I'd seen were all white panels and seamless doors. That anonymous tech lab look. You can wipe blood away with nothing more than a paper towel. This one had bones. Concrete poured in, pre panned patterns, metal rails worn smooth by hands, and walls that bore the scars of failed containments. They handed me off three times on the way down. Service security, mid level escort. Then a pair of guards in heavier armor walked me through the last checkpoint without saying a word. We descended in a freight elevator that seemed to say it was tired of being a freight elevator. The air changed as we went down. A little drier, a little colder. I could feel pressure in my ears like I was diving underwater. The doors opened on a corridor that looked like something out of a prison movie if the director had a fetish for over engineering. Thick walls, thick doors, cameras in every corner. The lights were that bluish too bright, kind that doesn't accept the possibility of shadows.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Your post is at the end of the hall outside the primary containment door. You log everything. You don't leave your chair without authorization.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

One of the armored guards said. First words I've heard from them. Do I need to know what 014 is? I asked. No, he said. The other one snorted softly.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

You'll figure it out.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

My post was a little alcove 10 meters from the door in question. A metal chair bolted to the floor, a desk bolted to the floor, a tablet wired into the wall. Big red panic button under the plastic flip cover. No coffee machine. No personal effects. Someone had taped a laminated card with the protocols above the desk at eye level. Do not make verbal contact. Do not gaze directly through the viewport. Report all anomalous sensations immediately. The door itself locked. Normal. Heavy, sure, layered steel with big industrial hinges, but you see that kind of door on just about everything in Bureau facilities. There was a viewing slot at about head height. No glass, just a shadow where the darkness on the other side soaked up the hallway like a sponge. Don't worry, the snorting guard said.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

It's been quiet for a while.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

How long is a while? I asked. He smiled without humor.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Long enough first to get lazy.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

With that, they left me there. The chair creaked as I sat. The only sounds were the hum of the lights and the soft tick of the camera domes rotating at the far end of the halls. For the first 20 minutes it was just a hallway, just a door. Just another assignment. My brain, being an asshole, picked that moment to replay the Ohio staircase in high definition. The kid's eyes, the creature's silhouette, the microsecond where my instincts split down the middle and I went for the boy instead of the mission. I was in the middle of telling myself for the thousandth Time that I'd do it the same way again. When the feeling hit, it was like the hallway itself noticed me all at once. One second I was sitting in a chair, the next I was naked and 30ft tall, under a stadium's worth of floodlights. Except the lights were eyes judging and categorizing. The back of my neck went cold. My heart started pounding so hard I could feel it in my gums. It felt like being reduced, stripped down to a pattern evaluated and found lacking. My gaze drifted toward the viewing slot. Before I could stop it. Do NOT GAZE directly through the viewport. The letters swam for a second, like the ink wanted to peel off and crawl away. I didn't see anything through the slot, just darkness. But the feeling of being looked at intensified, pressing in my eyes until I thought my skull might crack. Then a voice spoke. They didn't come through the intercom or my earpiece. There was no sound in the hallway beside the hum of the lights. The voice was inside my head, but it wasn't my inner voice or my thoughts. It was a pressure that arranged itself into words.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Leave.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

It wasn't loud. It didn't have to be. The force of it made my vision blur. My fingertips went numb where they clutched the edge of the desk. I tried to swallow, but my throat wasn't working. Another pulse of presence. Harder, like someone pushing their thumb into the soft spot behind my eyes.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Leave my presence.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

It hurt. Not metaphorically. There was a real physical pain behind my temples, like someone had driven two long screws in through my ears and started turning. I pushed back from the desk without meaning to. My chair scraped loud against the floor. The table rattled. I I'm not authorized to, I heard myself say. Because training is a hell of a drug. The pain spiked. For a moment I saw myself from somewhere else, from an angle just behind and above my own shoulder, as if my eyes had jumped ship. A thin red line appeared in my hands, like someone had drawn it there with a ruler. I realized a second later that I was bleeding from the nose.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Send another that isn't broken. I have no use for broken things.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

The last word felt wrong, stretched like it had more meaning than the syllables would carry, and beneath it a promise or a threat or both. The pressure vanished. My hands were shaking, blood dripping off my chin onto my shirt. I wiped it away with the back of my wrist, hit the panic button. Later, in the infirmary, they ran scans and tests and asked me if I'd taken any substances not cleared by Medical. A nurse pressed gauze to my nose while the doctor asked me to describe the voice, the sensations, and the exact wording. It rejected you, the doctor said, finally, tapping the results on his tablet where my scans glowed in sickly colors. Could be that it sensed the metastasis, or your treatment regimen, or he looked up at me, almost as if he'd forgotten I was there.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

No matter. What's done is done.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

They pulled me off the post, wrote it up as unsuitable physiological profile for Containment Watch. They told me I'd be reassigned again once they figured out where I'd do the least harm. On the way out, they had me sign a form acknowledging that the conversation I'd had, which is what they decided to call it, was classified at a level I'd never touch again. It didn't matter. The only thing that stuck with me was the feeling I'd had in that hallway under the weight of all those unseen eyes. I wasn't spared because of my years of service or because someone took pity on the dying man. In RBP0141's judgment, I was already trash. I didn't know exactly why, but for some reason it felt lucky. For the time being.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

They've got the room colder than it needs to be. I'm sweating anyway because of the three people on the other side of the table and the little red light on the recorder and the fact that there are two guards behind me, standing close enough that I can feel the air move when they blink. For the record, Director Shaw says, state your name, rank, and assignment at the.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Time of the incident.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

His voice is perfectly flat. I know he's angry, but he isn't showing it. Caleb Rourke, I say. Security Supervisor, Night Shift, RBP 0141, Containment Wing, Sub Level 18. He checks his folder.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

And how many personnel under your supervision.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Are now missing or confirmed dead? They could pull the numbers themselves. It's on the first page of the incident packet. That's not why he's asking. I swallow. My mouth is dry enough that it feels like sandpaper on the way down.23 for my shift, I say. But that's only because Director Lynn looks up at that. Her eyes are sharp and tired.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

We'll decide what counts, she says.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Of course, I say. Sorry.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

No speculation, lynn adds. No speeches.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Shaw steeples his fingers. He stares at me for a long couple of seconds, like he's waiting to see if I'll spontaneously confess to something extra. You understand why we're here, he says finally.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

We have a containment breach.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Mass casualties, one disastrous class entity unaccounted.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

For, and a wing in Ruins. You are the most senior surviving staff.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Member assigned to that wing at the.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Time of the event.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Yes, sir. Then you also understand, he goes on, that what we are interested in is not your feelings about what happened, but the decisions you made, the deviations from protocol, and any information that may help.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Us re establish control.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

I could tell him there was never Control to re establish that. We had a door and a number and a routine, and we mistook those for control because it made them feel good. I don't say that. Shaw gestures to the recorder. Begin with the start of your shift.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Prior to the event window.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Stick to operational details.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

We've all read the file on RBP 0141. We don't need a lecture on deer cams.

There's the line. They know the story. They know the designation. They do not know what it feels like to stand 10 meters from that door at 3 in the morning and feel it reach into your head. Understood, I say. I look at the red light. It blinks back at me. My shift starts at 1800 hours. I see the rosters. I know who comes down in that elevator, staring at their own boots. Disciplinary notes, bad scans pending psych. Everybody down there is carrying something.

Three weeks before the incident you sent me. Hartwell, Field agent. Bad call on an op. Terminal diagnosis, reduced risk assignment. The order said you've got his full file. All I'll add is this. He took one shift in the chair outside that door, and whatever's behind the steel told him he was broken and to send somebody else. It's taken plenty of people from that corridor. That was the first time I ever saw it force someone out. So I guess you could say that's when the deviations started.

But at 18 o' clock that night, I logged on, signed for the armory and pulled the roster for the night. Somehow every name was green. It looked like someone had swapped my wing with a safer one.

I checked the header twice to make sure it still said RBP 0141, then sent a quick query upstairs. No reply before it all went sideways.

At the time, I told myself somebody had finally decided to take the wing seriously. I walked a corridor at 18:30. Checkpoint Straight hall cameras, static alcove door. The list doesn't tell you how the sound drops out when you badge the last gate. Same hum as the rest of the facility, but closer, like it's inside your teeth instead of the walls. Diaz was in his chair in the alcove, tablet in his lap, eyes doing that thing we all did where they look everywhere except its door. Evening, sir, he said. Anything off? I asked. He hesitated longer than I liked. Feels heavy, he said finally. Heavier than yesterday. Sometimes it's as simple as a feeling that causes us to raise the alert level. That's something we all learned down there. At the end of the corridor, the SAL door sat in its frame. Five inches of layered steel locks seals the slit at eye level open as ordered. Policy also says we don't look in. I did once, my first week on the wing. All I saw was black. Not dark, not shadow, just a strip of nothing that somehow felt like everything was staring back. Once was enough. After that, I gave it my shoulder and kept my eyes on the tape. I walked past, felt the prickle at the back of my neck. That means it's paying attention. Logged that as baseline presence and went back to control.

Control looked like it always does. Low lights, wall of monitors. Two techs slowly grinding their way toward nervous breakdowns. Status? I asked. Same as usual, patel said.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

Minor EM noise. Frame drop on camera three.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

She scrubbed back a few seconds and played the corridor feed. Vent noise, the hum of the lights and the faint scrape of a boot heel. Then right up against the mic. Too close to belong to anybody in frame run.

She cut the playback before it could loop. Still doing the old material, Finch muttered. It thinks it's funny. Log the drop, I told her. Tag the audio. Radio me if anything else happens. At that point, as far as the system was concerned, everything was standard. Quieter than some nights, even.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Warning signal interruption detected.

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[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Signal connection restored.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

The first collapse in Standard came about an hour later when Sorenson told us the corridor wasn't the same length anymore. On the log it shows up as 2006. Patrol reports distance discrepancy between checkpoint 3 and static post. No physical changes observed. Control, this is Sorensen, he said over comms. I. I think the hole's shorter than it should be. Say again? I asked. He sounded embarrassed. Sir, I'm not trying to be funny. I hit checkpoint three, looked up, and Diaz was right there. Took maybe 12 steps. How many does it usually take? 25. Walk it again, I said out loud. Slow. We watched him on the feed as he turned back toward the checkpoint. One, two, three.

He reached Diaz in 12. The video showed the same corridor it always did. Same paint, same scuff marks on the floor, same distance markers on the wall. No fish eye, no warping. Diaz, I said. You see anything move between you and checkpoint three? Wall plates shift. Floor panels out of line. Negative, he said. Looks like it always does. You feel it? I pressed. He hesitated. Feels tighter. Like the air got pushed together. I could hear Lynn's pen start scratching faster on the other side of the.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

Table at that time. She says you had a reported anomalous occurrence and multiple subjective sensations from staff. But no sensor confirmation, correct?

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Correct. I answer. The corridor still measured like the corridor. The only thing that said it was shorter was the people walking it.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

And you did not initiate emergency lockdown?

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

No, I keep my tone level.

I had them repeat. I had the cameras checked. I logged it as spatial perception anomaly and elevated our readiness. That's what the protocols dictate. Things happen down there. 20 minutes after that, the sound started to go. Usually you don't notice 0141 until it wants you to. You walk the wing. You feel watched. Then it backs off. Around 20, 30, the opposite happened. The presence became stronger. Finch pulled his headset off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Feels like altitude in here, he muttered. Ears keep wanting to pop.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Patel was watching the waveforms.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

There's a lot of nothing where there should be something, she said.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

English, I replied. She backed the feed up a few minutes and played it. Hallway hum. Ventilation, then a clean strip. There was nothing but silence. Except I could see somebody talking during that window. Run the control cam, I said. She split the screen. Top half hallway, bottom half, us in control. Ten seconds ago, you could see me standing behind her, lips moving, hand gesturing. No corresponding sound on the track.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Glitch?

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Finch asked. Patel shook her head slowly.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

It's not that it didn't record, she.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Said, pointing at the waveform that ran as a thin line across the screen.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

It recorded, but there was nothing to pick up.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Tag it, I said. Keep monitoring. I didn't say out loud that it felt like something else was about to happen.

The next disappearance that night wasn't technically unusual. That was the problem. I'm sure you've seen how these losses usually go. Staff on camera until they're not. Half second of static, then an empty hallway. At 21:12, that's exactly what happened. Guard Rivera was halfway between checkpoint three and the end of the hall when the feed flickered from our end. It was quick. A flicker of static. Then he was gone. No body, no gear. No dropped flashlight. Patel's hand went straight to the alarm.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

We've got a loss, she said.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

We went through the incident frame by frame. Corridor exactly as it should be. Then three frames of interference. It looked like a compression artifact, blocks of gray and black. On the second, everything blurred into vertical lines. But in those lines, the color was wrong, almost like branches and leaves. On the third, there was nothing at all. Stop there, I said, one frame back. She backed up. We stared at it. If I hadn't spent so much time on the Ozark file, I might have missed it. Packed in between the streaks Half obscured was a shape that looked too much like a face to be a coincidence.

Mouth open, lidless, eyes wide. No depth, just an impression. Like a photo of a blurry photo. Feet Contamination, Finch said, coming out nervous and too fast.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Has to be crosstalk from Netherarchive.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Patel shook her head.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

This line isn't tied into an archive, she said. It's just not possible.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Then it's messing with the signal, I said. Same as it always does. Lynn's pen ticks once you recognize the.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

Pattern as consistent with prior RBP0141 behavior. She says you logged the loss as such.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

I logged it as standard 0141 disappearance with additional visual artifacts. I say, and I raised our event posture one step. You can see that in the timestamp.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

You didn't initiate a full wing evacuation.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

No, Director, I say at that point one loss still fits inside. Expected frequency. No confirmed breach, no hostile manifestation outside the corridor. But then at 2211 the monitors inside 0141's cell flickered on. They had never worked, not since the first day. The door was closed on the entity. Black at first. Then an image started to form. Why is that live? I asked. It shouldn't be, patel said. Her fingers were already working to sift through the data. The image sharpened. A space that was much bigger than the inside of the cell. Full of shapes. Too many limbs. It was people not lying in a heap, not standing. Bodies tangled into three dimensional lattice. Spines bent and woven, arms bracing like beams of a structure. Legs hooked into ribs, jaws gaping open. A whole scaffolding of human wreckage hanging in a dark that had no floor. Every eyelid was gone and every eye open. In the center of that terrible formation there was a knot. You couldn't tell where it started. Flesh looped on flesh. Faces half sweet, swallowed and pressed outward from underneath. Hands straining and sinking back. All of it pulsing in a slow ugly rhythm like tall grass swaying in a breeze. Each swell made my teeth buzz, each release made the air in my lungs feel thinner. Walk, finch whispered.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

That's not.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

This can't be life, patel said. This line is supposed to be it's live, I said. I started picking faces out of the tangle. Some I recognized from the report. A hunter who went missing pre containment. Early agents from the first containment attempt. Various techs and guards who'd worked under my command. More, many more.

Director Lynn shifts in her chair.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

You're certain you could identify missing staff members?

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Yes, I say. Not all of them, but a few for sure. On the screen, the knot in the center of the structure tightened once, twice, three times, rhythm accelerating. The whole lattice flexed in all those ruined bodies, pulling like muscle fibers. The image glitched. Not normal interference, no snow or static, just a single dropped frame where the knot went from there to cut open.

One instant pulsating mass. Next an open gap. And in that gap something was standing. If you squinted, it was a person, roughly the right outline, but the details were wrong. The skin looked like patches of different tone and texture, melded edge to edge without regard for where they'd come from. Freckles started on one shoulder and stopped halfway down an arm that wasn't the same color. A scar cut across the chest and abruptly stopped. The proportions didn't quite know what they should joints a little too long, bending a little too far, fingers that seemed to add knuckles. When it flexed its grip, the face was something I'll never forget.

It looked like an AI's poor rendition of what a person should look like. Eyes a fraction too big, too round. Nose that felt like three examples averaged together. Mouth too wide and low, lips that looked sharp and angular. It tilted its head toward the camera, then the interior feed cut, but the corridor feed picked up and the thing was in the hall. It wasn't 0141. The door hadn't moved. No locks cycled, no alarms flared. The seals on the cell were still reading closed. One frame it stood in that cluster, looking out. Next frame it was standing in front of the door, eight meters from Diaz, bare feet on the concrete, head bent as if it was listening to something underground. Diaz jerked back in his chair, hand spasming toward his weapon. On reflex, the new thing lifted its head slowly, like it was learning how necks worked. It glanced at Diaz, then along the corridor, then up past the cameras, past the ceiling. For a second its gaze landed right on the one lens we were watching through. It smiled behind it. For just a second the door shivered. Pressure dropped. Every line we've ever used to prove to ourselves that, yes, it's still in there, dipped like a heart monitor losing its patient. At 22:13, all activity in the primary chamber flat mined. I believe what we've been calling RBP 0141 finished what it was doing. It hit the facility like a flood. Sensors along the service corridor jumped all at once, hard enough to slam a couple of auto alert flags I didn't even know existed. Something hit the maintenance door halfway down the wing from the other side with a dull, wet thud. Steel bowed inward. The strip light above it flickered. I grabbed two guards and went. By the time we reached the hall. It smelled like the worst parts of a slaughterhouse and a plastic fire rolled together, raw and chemical and wrong. The door opened only as far as whatever was piled behind it would let it. The beam from my flashlight found the resistance bodies.

A mound of meat and fabric and bone, all fused and folded in ways no procedure list covers. Some faces were still mostly what faces should be, others smeared, twisted and stretched. Some of them tried to move when the light touched them, more reflex twitches than anything. Fingers clawed at the air, mouths opening and closing without sound because the parts needed to make sound were in the wrong place. I recognized a handful of faces despite the state they were in a mouthful of veneers. A tattoo, a prosthetic leg. There were too many to count in that moment, enough to fill the inside of the room almost to the ceiling. Seal it. Seal it now, I told the guards. One of them was whispering Hail Mary's under his breath while the other scanned his badge and punched the override terminal. The metal gears groaned as it forced the bent door closed the rest of the way and engaged the secondary locks. I didn't have the vocabulary yet for what had just happened, happened. All I knew was that up until that second we'd been telling ourselves those people were gone and dead. But that entity had them this entire time, and it wasn't even over for them. When we got back to Control, the corridor was empty. No silhouette on the feed, no heat on the overlays. Just concrete in a sealed door. The readings had again went flat, but the comms and radios didn't seem to be working. For a few seconds we let ourselves believe that meant it was over, that the system had just malfunctioned. A single click came over the ceiling speakers, the same crisp shudder from the Ozark tapes. Exact pitch, exact length. I knew it well. I've reviewed the file, the photos, the videos, hundreds of times. Every monitor cut to black. The reflection in the screens showed me Patel, Finch, the guards, and behind us, a tall, pale shape blurred at the edges, leaning in close, close like it was posing over our shoulders, grinning wide with a mouth full of teeth. Click. The shutter sounded again. As we all turned our heads to nothing.

I whipped back to face the screens and froze. A face materializing through static, pixel by pixel. Its teeth weren't just sharp, they were needles arranged in concentric rows. The eyes were obsidian voids that seemed to prove it could and would provide a fate worse than death. As I stared, something cold slithered behind my eyes, as if those black pits were tunneling directly into my brain stem. Just as quickly as it came, the image faded away, away, back into the normal video feeds.

For a second, everything looked fine. Same corridor, same taped line, same door at the end. The Status Panel for 0141 was flat and calm, like it hadn't just shown us hell. But Diaz was at the door at the end of the hall, banging on it and repeatedly swiping his access badge. The audio was completely silent, but we could see his mouth moving frantically. Get that door open now, I barked. On it, said Patel, who was already tapping away furiously. The override prompt blinked on her screen, then froze. The progress bar crawled, jumped backwards, then split into two copies of itself and hung there.

[Sponsor/Advertiser Voice]

System's not taking my credentials, she said. It's looping the command on the monitor.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Diaz slammed his shoulder into the door again. The card reader flashed green, red, green, like it couldn't decide what state it was in. His hand went to his sidearm. He ripped it free and leveled it down the hall, screaming something we couldn't hear, at something we couldn't see. The pressure hit the back of my skull hard enough to blur My vision. 0141's presence had always been a heavy, dull ache. Now it twisted, tightened around my brain stem, while something brighter and sharp, sharper, hooked into it. Diaz froze. His head flicked left, right, trying to track something that wasn't on our feed. Then the camera stuttered and the new thing was there between him and the door, roughly half his size.

Diaz fired. We saw the muzzle flare and perfect square silence. The flash washed the frame. When it cleared, the bullets were dimples in its chest, little ripples that dispersed bloodlessly. The humanoid glanced down at the marks, then up at him again. Slow and curious, it reached out and wrapped its fingers around the barrel of his gun. For a moment the two of them stood locked together like that. The steel of his gun softened. It didn't bend so much as it sagged. The barrow drooped between its fingers like warm wax, then stretched in thin strands and vanished into its palm. Diaz's hand clenched on empty air. It put its hand flat on Diaz's chest. For a heartbeat. Nothing happened.

Then his ribs began to sink under his palm, bones bending inward without breaking his skin. His chest compressed like something hollowing him out from the inside. His throat bulged. Veins stood out in ropes along his neck. His eyes rolled white.

The humanoid's fingers clenched, digging into Diaz's sternum.

Then it flung him against the wall with such force that the concrete cratered on impact.

His body didn't just break it detonated skull fragments embedded in the ceiling as arterial spray painted a six foot radius.

What remained of his torso slid down the wall, leaving behind a crimson smear where internal organs had been pulverized into a biological paste. The speakers hissed and clicked. Diaz's voice came out a second later.

Wrong and mocking.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

Run.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

I inserted my key into the console and activated the emergency evacuation alarm.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

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[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

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[Agent R. Hartwell]

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[Agent R. Hartwell]

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[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

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[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

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[Agent R. Hartwell]

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[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

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[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

Signal connection restored.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

Every tag on our floor's map lit up at once as countless staff started heading toward the exits.

0141 stepped into view of camera five like it could teleport. No distortion, no blur. One empty frame, the next frame full of filled the corridor, shoulders almost brushing both walls. Long limbs raised it almost to the ceiling and its clawed hands nearly dragging along the floor.

Its head twitched, teeth bared in that too wide grin. Four armed agents were coming around the corner about to unknowingly intercept it. Comms were not working. The PA system was not working. There was nothing we could do. As they rounded the corner and ran straight into it. The first agent stopped, frozen and stunned, staring up at it. The long arm lashed out with a backhand that took most of his head with it. The body stayed upright for half a step before collapsing into a growing puddle of red. The second was lifted clean off his feet before he could get a shot off one arm punching through his chest and out his back like wet paper. 0141 shook him violently, causing blood and gore to coat the walls, floor and ceiling as he screamed soundlessly. From our view, the fluorescent lights, coated in blood, bathed the hall in a red glow. The third tried to fire point blank. It pushed the muzzle to the side as it wrapped a large hand around his chin, crushing it into a broken mess. The agent dropped his rifle and clutched at his ruined face, collapsing to his knees. The last agent filled the red space of the camera's view with muzzle bursts, and 0141 seemed to just drift to the side, slashing out and sending both the man's legs sliding in a different direction.

It casually picked up a dropped rifle and slowly pressed it into the agent's gut with the destroyed jaw. He clutched at it as the rifle went through him, lifted, and then into the wall behind him until it pinned him, feet off the ground, kicking and struggling. The last agent was still alive, legs severed, hands slipping in his own blood as he tried to drag himself away. It watched him crawl for a moment with an amused grin before picking him up by his plate carrier. It slowly shoved the other clawed hand upwards between his legs and into his stomach and then his chest. The agent's struggle became weaker and weaker until he went limp. The entity's grin never left as it looked directly to the camera and bounced his body around like a puppet, lifting him to the lens for us to see.

The new small one trailed behind 0141, playfully pulling and tearing at the agent's corpse as it lifted it up and down, just out of its reach. On the floor, map tags split and scattered, little blue dots turning down side corridors, cutting through labs, bolting for stairwells. On the feeds, there was just flashes of what happened when those dots met 0141 in the weapons locker, two guards tried to barricade the door with a large cabinet. They got it halfway across before the door erupted inward and the cabinet flung across the room like it had been shot out of a cannon. One guard disappeared under it. The other was still scrambling to his feet when 0141 stepped through the twisted frame grabbed him by both ankles and folded his spine the wrong way. The small one waded into the mess after tugging and twisting at the bodies like it was trying to see how many ways joints could turn before they broke. We watched the lab go dark mid feed. When it came back, everyone inside was already dead, some of them still on their feet because 0141 had staked them to the floor with lengths of pipe and left them like decorations.

We watched wings and labs go dark one by one. Anywhere where people tried to hide, they appeared. It was coming toward us, that much was obvious.

Finch stood up without seeming to realize it. He was just on his feet suddenly, head set off, looking at the door like he expected it to burst open any second. Don't, I told him. Don't open that door for any reason. He laughed at that, manic and humorless.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

I don't think it needs to use the fucking door.

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

He was right. We saw the last living team that hadn't evacuated outside control on the side cam. Four of ours, backs to the door facing down the hall. They were blood slicked, breathing hard, eyes wide. One of them turned his head toward the camera like he could feel us watching, like he was about to say something. 0141 dropped into the frame from above. It landed on them and the feed turned red before the camera winked out.

For a moment all we had were the sounds. Heavy impacts, screaming. Then a thin, ugly squeal of metal as claws dragged down the outside of our blast door. The whole frame shuddered. Dust dropped from the ceiling. The door bowed inward with a deep, warping groan. Bolts the size of my forearms snapped like pencil lead through the gap. In the flickering red of the emergency lights, I saw that grin.

There's a difference between watching this thing on a monitor and having it look directly at you with nothing but a door that's as good as paper between you. It had always radiated a kind of amused contempt on the feeds. In person, it was worse than I could describe. Finch tried to run. He didn't make it more than two steps before one of those long arms shot through the gap, caught him by the neck. The other grabbed him by the hip and twisted. His top half spun one way, his bottom half another. Both hit opposite walls. The next few seconds are flashes. A hand the size of a shovel coming down on the closest guard's head and taking it off. And one wet, crushing gesture. Boots kicking over the floor because 0141 had someone pinned to the wall by their chest with one claw and was just holding him there, watching the light go out.

The little one slipping in, grabbing flesh, bone, organs. Learning what came away clean and what took more force.

Somewhere in there, something hit me. Ceiling, wall, a thrown body. I don't know.

The world tipped sideways and went gray around the edges. I remember one last image through darkening vision. 0141 standing over me, blood dripping down its front in lazy strings, the new thing at its side up to its elbows in someone's open torso. Both of them staring at me. 0141 tilted its head. The pressure at my skull spiked, then dropped away so fast everything went black. I stopped. There, on the other side of the table, Director Shaw shifts.

[Agent R. Hartwell]

And that's your full recollection of events?

[Caleb Rourke / Security Supervisor]

He asks. I look at the little red light on the recorder. It blinks back at me.

For the purpose of this report, I say yes.

[Agent Conroy / Narrator]

After the dust cleared and the bodies were cleaned up, the Bureau did what it always does. They spun a story they could live with on paper. RBP0141 escaped due to a catastrophic containment failure Internally. They'll argue for years about which line on the chart is the real anomaly and which one counts as a derivative out here. For the rest of us, it's simpler. There used to be one, and now there are two. For all the bodies, all the missing staff, all the years of steady sacrifices, the Bureau still cannot tell you what the Trickster actually is. They don't know where it came from. They don't know if the original entity and the child are the same mind, wearing different shapes, or a parent and an offspring, or one piece of something bigger. They don't know why a dying man with cancer wasn't worth taking, but a supervisor with a clean bill of health was worth sparing. What they have are numbers. How many agents vanished on schedule between the time that report went live on December 14, 2021, and this incident. How many ruined bodies poured out of a room that shouldn't have been able to hold them, and how many faces never came out at all. You can do the math yourself and decide if acceptable losses still sounds acceptable. What I have is something the sanitized packet they filed on this doesn't show you. In the months after 0141's original capture in the Ozarks, that ridgeline went quiet. That was proof they'd bagged the right thing, and the Bureau patted itself on the back. Then new missing persons started popping up in the same valleys. A whole camp on one occasion. Some scenes looked like the Trickster's sense of Humor, taunting, theatrical. A lot of them didn't. Just campsites stripped clean of people, like someone had reached down and took them out of the world. Back then, everyone was happy to staple it all under the same heading. One monster, one story. Easy to sell to people signing the checks. But now, with the 0141 gone from its box and something new alongside it, those old Ozark files read differently. If you lay the timelines over each other, a nasty pattern shows up. Whatever was hunting in those woods before the Bureau showed up didn't stop when the Trickster was contained. It just stopped getting blamed for the Trickster's work. And ever since the night of containment failure, that other pattern out there has started up again. I think a lot of what we called the Trickster in the Ozarks was something else entirely, something that doesn't like competition. And now that the Trickster isn't hidden underground anymore, that something is back up the move. The Bureau doesn't understand what RBP0141 is. That should worry you as much as the fact they inadvertently helped create another one. If you live near or in the Ozarks, this is the time to move. If I'm right about this, and there's a pretty good chance I am, this is only getting started.

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