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A tape recorder clicks on.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You ever wonder why we’re here?”
“It’s one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it? Why are we here? I mean, are we the product of… some cosmic coincidence or, is there really a God… watching everything? You know, with a plan for us and stuff. I don’t know man, but it keeps me up at night.”
There was a long pause. Simmons looked up from the scattered statements on his desk and up at Grif who had been leaning against the doorframe. He was probably trying to avoid Doc again.
“What?” Simmons finally said. “No. I mean why haven’t we quit this crazy job yet! We were attacked by the big guy filled with moths last week and Sarge is dead in the tunnels. What was all that stuff about God?”
“Uh… hm… nothing.” Grif winced.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah…” Grif cleared his throat. “I only found his shotgun. That could mean anything you know.”
“Sarge said you could take his shotgun out of his cold dead hands,” Simmons said. “I think he’s definitely dead.”
“I don’t think I’m that lucky,” Grif admitted.
“Grif!”
“Anyway, don’t you have a bunch of work to do?”
“I would have less work to do if you actually helped!”
“I am helping… by leaving so you can record, boss .”
“Ugh. Shut up.”
Grif left Simmons to his stack of statements.
Simmons sighed. “Asshole. Oh shit, it’s still running, fuck, uhhh can I edit tapes? Shit why don’t computers work down here? Erargh shit shit. Okay I’m starting again, okay? Uhhh sooo— Statement of Agent York regarding a shadow and the subsequent loss of his left eye. Statement given at a redacted date. Audio recording by Dick Simmons, Head Archivist of the Church Institute, Blood Gulch.
Statement begins.”
The Church Archives
Simmons had been excited about the job initially. Yeah, it was still working with the army, but it was a civilian position. No getting shot at. Lots of reading. Research. It was perfect. The Director of the institute ‘Doc’ Frank DuFresne had been… not what he was expecting… but he was positive about Simmon’s work… and yet… well… Simmons had been aiming at a position in the Archives. The research team investigated interesting research logs, but most of it was big black lines of ink with the words redacted and top secrets being more common than names, dates, or times. He tried to get in with the current Head Archivist, Sarge, and the older man was happy to have someone to boss around, but he didn’t let Simmons touch any of the downstairs files.
And then one day Sarge disappeared and Simmons was given the job as Head Archivist.
Which was GREAT! Finally the higher ups were noticing his hard work, expertise, organization, and perfect attendance record.
He even got researchers to work under him. He asked Tucker, who was a good researcher when he wasn’t distracted by ‘ladies.’ Which might have made his second choice a bad idea if it wasn’t for the fact Tex didn’t take shit from anyone and was mostly out on field researcher. And was, quite frankly, terrifying.
Speaking of distracting, there was also Grif. Simmons was sort of hoping he wouldn’t have to work with Grif anymore, but Doc had insisted he get three assistants—
Not that--not that Grif distracted HIM. He was--he didn’t get distracted. He was a diligent worker. When some of the Project Freelancer transcripts and statements refused to record onto his computer he was the one that came up with tape recorders. Nope. Grif did not distract him. It was that Grif was lazy, and he didn’t know what he was doing. It was like he had never written an academic paper in his life. And his footnotes. Ugh.
So yeah… he didn’t really count Grif, which seemed to be fine with Grif. Grif hadn’t been enthusiastic about the archives in the first place, but he and Sarge had never really … gotten along and he had been worried Sarge might show back up and he’d be stuck working under him instead of Simmons.
As much as he hated to agree with Grif. He didn’t really blame him. Sarge had tried to volunteer him for suicide missions at least ten times… and they were librarians and researchers. Not soldiers. Privately Simmons figured Sarge had been retired from the army life for a reason… but… well… that wasn’t a problem anymore.
They had found Sarge’s shotgun in the tunnels and a ton of blood. Someone had killed him.
And… Simmons felt it deep down.
The person that had taken out Sarge was after him too.
Grif was pretty high on the list. There was a lot of reasons Grif might want Sarge dead, plus he kept hanging around Simmons and checking in on him and distracting him after the Meta’s attack--
The Meta..
Simmons scratched at his still freshly grafted skin and winced when he couldn’t feel it. He had lost his right arm and eye. He had been surprised that the institute had paid for his prosthetics, especially a motorized arm. He didn’t think there was a lot of money in academia, but with their military contract maybe it wasn’t so weird?
He was still getting used to it though. He forced himself to mentally move himself away from the human cocoon.
He watched his co-workers. Grif was pretty suspicious, but Grif putting the energy in murder didn’t seem … right. Tucker didn’t really know Sarge, but there was plenty suspicious about him working at the Church Institute. He didn’t seem the type to be interested in supernatural experiences and military redacted files. And Tex? Well… she was being normal at least… weirdly normal, but--
He yelped at the sudden knock on his office door. Fuck, fuck. It was fine. No creepy moths. No spiders. Just a knock.
“I’m busy!”
“So am I.” An unfamiliar voice said firmly.
“Uh--come in?”
Statement 1: Freelance
A tape recorder clicks on.
“I really can’t talk about it on tape.”
“I mean… that’s up to you but, you know, we deal with top secret stuff all the time. We have a whole file about Project Freelancer, you are a—”
“Freelancer. No. Not anymore. I’m with Recovery now.”
“Right, you were saying. You’re… here about the Meta.”
“The Meta?”
“Uh--the Metamorphosis. That’s what he--it called itself.”
There was a long silence.
“Uh...?” Simmons said, shifting uncomfortably in the intense silence.
“Maine.”
“Huh?”
“Agent Maine.”
“I thought you said your name was Washing--wait. You--you mean the Meta? He was a Freelancer!?”
“Shh,” Washington put a finger to his lips and looked pointedly at the tape recorder.
“Sorry, sorry--but--but holy fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh so--I guess that’s why they sent a Recovery agent and not… anyone else.”
“Yeah…” Washington seemed to be looking off into the middle distance. Then he focused on Simmons again. “You get that I’m breaking the law talking to you on tape, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Project Freelancer has a lot of… redacted information,” Simmons said. “If you’re worried about being identified you can write down a statement.”
“Heh--I’m more of a talker. It’s fine. Do you know what Project Freelancer is about?”
“I—” Simmons opened and closed his mouth. “Some sort of secret military project--we can get into it with the statement.” Simmons excitedly adjusted the already running tape recorder so that it would pick up Washington’s voice better. He stared at it for a second and exhaled, nodding for Simmons to continue.
Simmons cleared his throat. “Statement of Recovery Agent Washington regarding his time in Project Freelancer and his experience with … weird stuff. Statement taken direct from subject, Sept—”
“We can redact the date.” Washington interrupted.
“Right. Date redacted from recording. Statement begins.”
“I won’t talk about the Project, but I’ll tell you how I got in. I enlisted when I was eighteen. Thrown into things right out of basic. It suited me though. I was a good shot, I followed orders, and I was good at not dying. They nicknamed me Cockroach when I was a Private because of the amount of times I walked away from bloody firefights and foxholes. The only time I actually broke a bone was getting hit by a jeep in camp by another Private.” Washington sighed. “Cars hate me. Anyway. By the time I had worked my way up to Corporal I had seen things. The usual stuff you hear from people like me. People who have been on the battle and seen death… guys that had bullets in their head talking to you like nothing was wrong. I knew a woman who knew her death down to the second. She died like clockwork on the battlefield. A grenade. Stories about drums in the distance. Music you could hear just under the gunfire. Nothing that couldn’t really be explained away. Fatigue. Superstition. And... well, brains break pretty easily under that much pressure. I … wasn’t superstitious. I wasn’t afraid of anything not holding a gun. The world’s scary enough without the boogeyman.”
“I… take it that changed.”
“One day… my commander’s face changed.” Washington stated. He watched Simmon’s face for a reaction and then continued. “No one noticed. Roll Call one morning there’s this new Staff Sergeant barking at us. I’m confused. There hadn’t been any word on a personnel change. The Sergeant didn’t introduce himself.
I asked one my buddies who the new guy was.
‘What are you talking about Roach?” He asked. He looked around. I gestured to the Sergeant who I was obviously talking about. He looked passed the Sergeant. Looked right past him.
‘Who?’ He repeated.
‘The Sergeant.’ I clarified.
He just snorted at me. ‘What? Cause he’s so damn sweet this morning?’ The Sergeant was barking at one of the guys for his uniform being askew.
I didn’t get it. I tried again, but my friend just assumed I was making jokes at the Sergeant’s expense. So… he was no help. I figure, fine, I’ll go directly to the source and look like a fool. I had gotten on pretty well with my old Sergeant. I was his second. This was all really bizarre. This… this sort of thing doesn’t happen in the military. Sure you get new commanders. People get shipped in and out. But overnight? Without any word? I half expected Sarge would show up any moment to tell us what was going on.
So I go up to this new Sergeant and I salute. I introduced myself.
‘What? Why Corporal Cockroach, you’re acting like I’m a stranger.’ And he gets this… weird look on his face. This huge smile. He’s pleased. Like I had given him the best present. I still remember the chill going straight down my spine at that smile.
I stiffen up. How does he know my nickname? And why is he calling me by it. Sarge was a bit lax with us, but this new guy was being really familiar. I backpedaled. Had I met him before? I’m good with faces. I did not know this man. This person was a stranger.
I had a gut feeling. Something was wrong.
This person was wrong.
I was sort of hoping it was just a bad joke everyone was playing on me. The new Sergeant patted me on the shoulder, still grinning and went off. I asked around. Everyone thought I was the one joking. ‘Haha Cockroach, very funny. Sarge is right there like he always is.’
“I mean… you were…” Simmons trailed off trying to be at least a bit tactful.
“In a combat zone under stress. Yeah. I assumed I was having a breakdown,” Washington snorted. “Weird breakdown though. Nothing else was different. Just my Sargent was a completely different person. At first I hid it. I didn’t want to get sectioned. The army was all I knew. But he… he started baiting me. Knowing smiles. Meaningful words. Threatening words.” Washington leaned back in his chair. “Back then I had a healthy amount of paranoia. He--It knew that I knew and was playing games. It seemed to love seeing me squirm. Bringing up old conversations with people. Listing off my family members as if I had told him about them myself. He knew my cats’ names. I was--the more he did it the more I was sure that I wasn’t crazy. That it was everyone else, and this … thing was leading us into battle.” Washington sighed. “I attacked him during a mission.”
“You…”
“He was going to send all of us to our deaths and he had that… he had that smile. That knowing look that begged me to say something. Begged me to try and out him. That goddamn smug… I disobeyed his direct orders and punched him in the face.”
“Fuck.” Simmons said, impressed.
“I left him for dead on the battlefield and got my men out of there. Saved all of them. Got arrested right away.”
“But--but how did you know. How could you know for sure?”
“Before the attack I was going through pictures on a digital camera I kept in the early days. I hadn’t used it in awhile. There’s nothing really glamorous about a warzone and I’m not a great shot when it comes to cameras like I am with a firearm. There were pictures of the New Sergeant where the old one should have been. All of them. I decided then and there that that was it. I was going to turn myself in. Probably get discharged. This was it. End of my career. I headed towards my C.O’s office. And stopped. There was this guy, Johnson who had an old polaroid camera. Liked it because he could have the pictures out instantly. No need for a printer. I ran over to his tent. He was asleep and pretty pissed when I asked to see his albums.
Most of it was useless. Just Privates goofing off, things like that. Then I saw him. In the background of one of the photos. The Sergeant. The real Sergeant. It wasn’t just in my head. There was proof now. I took the picture, but before I could get anywhere that’s when we were sent out on the mission.
I found the evidence, but I found it too late. I was arrested, and when I tried to tell them what happened I was either labeled as crazy, or pretending to be crazy to get out of my charges. I was courtmarshaled, awaiting execution. The army doesn’t take kindly to knocking out a commanding officer and leaving him on the battlefield to die. I almost convinced myself that I had made it up. That I had seen what I wanted to see in that picture. I was three months in a cell when Freelancer came for me. They didn’t bat an eye when I told them my commander was replaced by something else. Just gave me a choice.”
Simmons shivered. Washington finished his story staring right at him.
“S-Statement ends.” Simmons stuttered. “So… Freelancer was made up of… others with similar experiences.”
“You could say that. Mine wasn’t the worst story and… I got worse ones as time went on. But that should inform you a bit on the sort of things Freelancer was interested in.”
“I thought it was just… incident reports…” Simmons said.
Washington outright laughed. “Is that what they’re making it look like? One offs? Occasional monsters in the line of duty? No. Project Freelancer was made up of monsters. Maine was…” His voice softened. “Maine was an example of that.”
“Oh. I’m… I’m sorry?”
Washington shook his head. “Was that all you needed?”
“Uh… well. You’re doing Recovery about Maine…” Simmons said slowly. “Are you also heading up the disappearance of Sarge?--Er--the former head archivist?”
“The Project is defunct and I’m here to pick up the pieces, so… yeah.”
“S-so you’re the only one on Sarge’s case? No one helping you? No oversight?”
Washington gave him another one of his hard stares. “Not really.” He said after a moment. “I tried to push the file off my desk. Now that Ma--the Meta is dealt with, even with your institution's reputation and the military files contained within this shouldn’t be connected to paranormal business. Just a normal murder. But no. I have a bloody shotgun, no body, and three boxes of cassettes. Technically this is my C.O.’s problem, but she has a lot on her plate as it is being the only other ex-freelancer agent with clearance to paranormal incidents so this case is all mine.”
“Interesting--heeeey I was just wondering—”
Tape recorder clicks off.