Chapter Text
Magic oozes thick and heavy about the portal. With it comes the whine of static, drowning the leaves that rustle in the breeze, the tick of redstone mechanisms, the distant screech of a phantom swirling the twilight sky above. Doc, knelt on the coarse dirt before the portal, has long since found himself numb to the white noise that makes its home in the base of his skull. It sits, poised and pointed, among all the other things he does not think about.
Thought, he has found, is not productive of late. Thought causes doubt. Doubt has no place in matters as delicate as this.
The portal, missing the obsidian barrier that should enclose its left side, is unstable even with Doc’s full attention devoted to it. Veins of swirling purple spill outwards, wispy fingers digging their nails into the world and refusing to let go.
Beyond the portal, a row of activator rails glow harsh red. Enough light emits from the sea of rails to illuminate Doc’s paws, painted blood red, nothing more. In the light and half-life, Area 77 is liminal. It is unreality, the space between somewhere else and Hermitcraft Season 6, a few blocks away. Not that reality has ever stopped Doc before. It certainly won’t stop him tonight.
He tears his eyes away from the portal beckoning him in, down to the communicator in his paw. The screen is overrun by binary and statistics – lag, light levels, coordinates – and it takes him a moment to find what he’s looking for.
And ah, there. Block updates. Still stable, for now. The chunks have been tested and primed, rows of rails across the grass and below the earth activated, it’s only a matter of time until the surge of redstone tears into the fabric of the world and rips it apart.
An update, the first test lamp.
The second.
Doc waits, still as stone, for the final redstone lamp to switch on. Moments away from now, the chunks will be overloaded. Moments away from now, he can make reality bend and break before him.
There- all three lamps glow red-orange for one tick, two ticks, three. Then, darkness.
Bionic eye whirring, pupil dilating, Doc struggles to adjust to the lack of light. His heart, beating against his ribcage, reminds him every second he waits is a second he wastes. One hand tight around his communicator – now flashing ‘CHUNK ERROR’ over and over like it wasn’t intentional – he raises his diamond pickaxe above the broken obsidian frame and prepares to swing.
“Doc.”
A hand grabs his shoulder. Doc yelps. His communicator thunks against dirt as it falls from his grip. He spins on his heels, rising to his full height, pickaxe drawn back to swing and.
“What do you want, Scar?” Mismatched eyes meet familiar green, narrowed in a challenge. Doc hisses, trying to hide his embarrassment. How could he have been so easily startled? By Scar of all people? Scar, who couldn’t sneak up on a ravager if it was splashed in blindness and asleep.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Scar sounds half asleep and looks it too. Beneath his jacket, he’s wearing blue and white plaid pyjamas. There’s a little ConCorp logo stitched on a pocket over his heart. “You’ve gotta take a break from this thing.”
Doc shoves Scar’s hand from his shoulder. “I have to finish-”
“For tonight, Doc,” Scar interrupts. He stifles a yawn. “It’s late. I’m tired.”
“So go to bed already, then.”
“Your phantoms keep me up.”
“Right. My bad. I will sleep, I just need-”
“Sleep,” Scar says. “You just need sleep.”
Doc examines his friend. Scar is weary, eyebrows drawn, mouth pulled in a firm line. Flickering purple light from the portal washes over his face, making the scars on his skin twist like snakes. He looks unnatural like this, without his usual smile. He looks disappointed. Perhaps concerned.
Doc does not need Scar’s concern. He needs to finish his work. Then he will be fine. They will be fine.
Scar reaches out, hand hovering in the air as if worried he’ll be pushed away again.
“I will sleep,” Doc repeats, a minecart circling the same track. “But first I-”
“No, Doc.” Scar’s hand is still outstretched between them, palm facing forwards in a surrender that is equal measures placating and defensive. Is Scar worried Doc will lash out? Doesn’t Scar trust him? “When was the last time you took a break? You’ll work better when you’re rested, right? You need-”
“Stop telling me what I need,” Doc snaps. Scar, of all people, should know how important this is. “I don’t need sleep, or rest, or whatever it is you think I do. I need to finish this.”
Scar pulls back, steps away, half into the shadows. His eyes track across Doc’s face. After a long moment of silence, he asks, “Do you even know what you’re doing here? Do you know what you’re up against?”
The wooden handle of his pickaxe creaks from how tight Doc’s bionic hand clenches around it. How dare Scar insinuate that Doc’s hours of research – countless sleepless nights, caused by night terrors and textbooks alike – have amounted to nothing? Doc is not ignorant of the risks, he’s calculated possibilities and outcomes and he knows what he’s doing.
He will not make mistakes. He can’t afford to.
“I know exactly what I am doing, exactly what I am dealing with, and exactly why I am doing it,” Doc spits. “Look at who you are talking to. Do you think I’m incompetent?”
“No, no, of course not. I just- I’m worried, Doc,” Scar says, and there is an unmistakable hurt in his voice that cuts Doc to the core. “I want to help, I have helped, but the stuff going on here, the stuff you’re doing, it’s dangerous. You could end up messing with things you didn’t intend to, disturbing things that should really be left alone . . .”
Scar is right. He’s stood by Doc’s side, constructed an area for Doc to work, done his best to ward other hermits away, kept all the secrets Doc has trusted him with. And the first time he voices concern – concern not for himself, but for Doc – Doc all but blows up in his face.
Doc’s grip on his pickaxe shifts, loosens. For several painstaking seconds, he and Scar watch one another. Neither dare blink. Unarmed, uncertain, Doc waits for Scar to make the next move.
Eventually he does, ending their stalemate with an awkward smile that would usually come naturally. “Good. Better. You’ll feel better in the morning. You know that, right?”
“Right,” Doc echoes. The look Scar is giving him makes it clear there is no room for argument. In the distance, a phantom screams. “Yeah. Yes, you’re right. I should get some sleep-”
Something heavy hits the ground. Doc doesn’t see it, but he hears it, practically feels the sickening thud against the grass. The screeching he’d assumed was a particularly noisy phantom cuts out abruptly. Scar’s eyes are wide and focused somewhere over Doc’s shoulder, jaw slack.
“What was that?” Doc asks, turning, although the tree canopy is too thick for either of them to see through it.
“It looked like- it can’t be, but-” Scar pauses, squares his shoulders and fixes his expression. “As head of security here at Area 77, it’s my job and duty to find out and report back to you.”
“I’ll come too-”
“Doc.” Scar is already walking away, little more than a dark silhouette in a darker forest. He doesn’t so much as glance back. “Get some sleep. I mean it. If I find anything, I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“It might be dangerous, like you said-” Doc breaks off and hisses through clenched teeth as Scar disappears into the undergrowth.
For a long, long moment, he waits by the portal. He half expects shouting, fully expects to see Scar returning full of terror, begging for Doc to hold his hand and lead the way. Instead, there is nothing.
No noise other than humming portal.
No flicker of movement among the shadows.
No Scar.
Whatever. He’s not Scar’s babysitter. Scar’s a grown man, he can handle a thump in the dark. But he better not come running to Doc after he gets in over his head. Doc turns and stalks off towards the main hanger.
***
Something about the smooth white walls and empty shelves of the main hanger have always unsettled Doc. He runs his claws through the grooves in his mechanical arm, focusing on the cold metal against the pads of his paws rather than the echo of his footsteps – the only sound in the hanger tonight. At the centre of the hanger, where the floor drops away in a perfect circle leading to the pits of Hell, S4, he pauses.
Thin iron railing is now the only thing separating him from the darkest secrets of Area 77. A control panel rests in front of the pit, crowded by buttons and levers. Muscle memory guides Doc’s hands over the controls, born from late nights where it had fallen on him to shut down the hanger after Scar had gone to bed. The piston door that closes off S4 activates, the florescent lights flicker and die.
Doc lets his eyes close. So still and silent, it is, that he could be falling in place, suspended in the Void. The world outside could be marching on under time’s command without him. He could be being forgotten, dissolving into nothing, just the ones and zeroes from which he came.
Darkness swells up to meet him when he opens his eyes. As his eyes adjust, Doc watches at the constellation of blinking lights on the control panel. There is no wind, but nevertheless his lab coat brushes against his legs.
The hanger is closed. Doc should leave now. Go to bed, like he told Scar he would, not stay in a dark hanger full of all the worst things in the world.
Instead, inexplicably, he looks up at the containment chamber at the back of the hanger. There is no sign of the thing trapped inside, though the twisted form of the alien still haunts his nightmares. No, the only thing he sees tonight is his own reflection, framed by jungle leaves and mossy trunks. It may as well be he who is trapped within the cell.
Doc can still smell cold stone and rotten meat and animal. Still see the way the ground crumbles before his feet into a pit lined with blood and bone. Still feel Scar’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him precariously far over the pit. Still feel the dizzying, gut-wrenching sensation of teetering on a precipice, of being about to fall-
-he takes a deep breath, tasting jungle air on his tongue, humid and sweet. Voices are calling out to him, voices that aren’t there, voices he’ll never hear again. There are wet leaves and vines clinging to him, tangling and tightening their grip, refusing to let go even as he struggles and screams-
-Doc blinks.
Blinks again. Tears his eyes away from the cell. Swallows back bile, refuses to gag. Stares down at the shape of his paws in the dark, watches himself clench and unclench his fists. His claws dig into the flesh of his palm, the prick of pain is numb. Distant. Still, Doc focuses on it, forcing himself back into the hanger and the present. He reminds himself of where he is, where he always is.
Alone in Area 77.
***
The tarmac is damp from overnight fog. Footprints leave dark outlines against the dew that glitters in weak beams of sunlight. Scar is standing stock still in the middle of the runway, face upturned. Doc watches him from the mouth of a side hanger, Hans and Franz tying their leashes in knots about his legs, torn between curiosity and caution.
He hasn’t seen Scar since he disappeared into the forest the night before. He isn’t quite sure what to do. Ignore Scar? Apologise for being so short tempered? Tell him he’s glad he isn’t dead? Pretend like nothing happened? Ask why exactly he’s standing in the middle of Area 77, staring at the sky, looking like a man possessed?
Probably aliens.
The fact that aliens are even a plausible option makes Doc chuckle to himself. Then he remembers the cold, creeping sensation of being near Scar’s alien and the idea is abruptly less amusing. If it is aliens, if it’s anything like Scar’s alien, even if it’s not aliens at all, Doc should probably go and try to fix it. It being Scar.
Plus, Scar is the only person Doc can trust with Area 77. Surely it’s Doc’s duty to make sure Scar is not possessed by aliens. It’s the least he can do for dragging Scar into all this in the first place.
So Doc shakes off his apprehension, returns his attack foxes to their pen to sleep off the morning walk, and strolls over to join Scar on the runway. “Hey man.”
Scar lowers his gaze to Doc’s. “Doc, hi. What’s up?”
Doc hesitates, unsure which direction to pick. Which path is safest? Which will get him to where he wants to go? “What are you looking at?”
Scar glances up again. This time Doc follows his gaze. Far above them, among the fluffy grey clouds, hovers a winged machine with a very familiar blue logo printed on the bottom. Any reservations Doc had about talking to Scar fall apart as his focus shifts onto the next problem in his ever-growing list.
At least it’s not aliens.
“Is that a ConCorp drone?” Doc growls.
They both know full well that it is, but Doc wants Scar’s justification for its presence. He has made it clear on multiple occasions that Area 77 is for authorised personnel only. Cub, as much as Scar insists otherwise, is not welcome. Especially not in the form of drones that at best hold cameras and at worse explosives.
“Sure looks like it,” Scar agrees mildly.
Doc’s jaw just about creaks from how hard he’s clenching it. “Why is it there?”
“Because you blew up the others, I’d assume.” Scar’s answer hints at humour, but Doc is anything but amused. “Just keeping a closer eye on things. Nothing wrong with a bit of extra surveillance, right?”
“Do we need to have the talk about base security again, Scar?” Doc hopes his tone does not sound as close to Tired Dad as his words do. Half the time he feels like he’s Scar’s babysitter rather than his co-worker. Granted, Scar probably feels the same about him.
“No?” Scar guesses.
They need to have the talk about base security again.
If outside sources get intel on what’s happening in Area 77, rumours will spread like diamonds – shiny new information traded freely and easily as everyone speculates about just what Doc and Scar could possibly be up to. If those rumours were to reach Xisuma. . .
Doc has nothing but respect for his admin, don’t get him wrong, but he knows for a fact that if those rumours were to reach Xisuma, Area 77 would be shut down faster than Grian could deny being Poultry Man, with no consideration for what Doc is trying to do and just how possible it is.
“Okay,” Scar admits defeat. “I’ll talk to Cub about it. I’m sure we can reach a solution.”
“Do not invite Cub inside the premises,” Doc says. “I am still finding hidden cameras and microphones around the hanger.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Scar at least as the decency to look ashamed. “It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not-” Doc cuts himself off, distracted by a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He turns to look, and catches a glimpse of something big plunging into the trees atop the main hanger. Then it’s gone. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Scar asks. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Something crashed into the hillside,” Doc says. “. . . Looked humanoid.”
Humanoid. Not human. Again, aliens.
“Really?” Scar pushes up the brim of his hat and squints in the general direction of the hanger.
“It disappeared before I could get a good look at it.” Doc scowls. “Damn. What if it was important?”
“I’m sure it’s not. I would’ve noticed if it was.”
Doc is not so sure. Scar’s security is comically lack-lustre at best, painfully inept at worst. At least it looks the part. So far, that’s been enough to keep most of the unwanted visitors away.
“If you’re so nervous about it, why don’t we fly up and check it out?”
Doc doesn’t move. Neither does Scar. Both of them watch the still hillside in silence.
“Listen, about last night . . .” Scar trails off uncertainly, mouth moving as he struggles to find the right way to phrase whatever he’s about to say. Meaning it’s probably not something Doc wants to hear. “I think we were both too harsh with each other, and we left off on a bad note.”
“You could have at least sent me a message.” It is tempting to accuse Scar of something – recklessness, carelessness, just-being-vaguely-irritating-essness. Doc, all things considered, shows valiant restraint. “I was worried?”
“About me?” Scar finally cracks a smile, then sobers abruptly. “I did message you, I told you I didn’t find anything last night. Didn’t you see it?”
“No.” Doc reaches into the depths of his coat pocket. His paws fish out only lint and string. Oh, great. This day just keeps getting better and better. A hiss builds up deep in Doc’s throat. “I must have dropped my communicator last night. Maybe by the portal.”
“Right,” Scar says. “Right, that makes a lot more sense. It was strange you weren’t . . .”
“What?”
“You know how it is. Hippies taunting us through the chat. I thought you were being awfully quiet about it.” Scar shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant.
“Hmph, I’ll have some strong words next time I see them.”
Scar chuckles. The sound is almost family. “I don’t doubt it. Is there anyone you don’t have strong words for?”
“On occasion, you,” Doc says, forgetting for a moment that only the night before he snapped at the man across from him over, well, nothing, really. Over Scar’s concern for Doc’s health, over Scar trying to look out for him. For the server.
Scar meets Doc’s eyes for the first time all morning. “Oh?”
A beat of silence.
Doc swallows his pride and attempts not to choke on the words. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Scar.”
Scar blinks, tilts his head.
“For last night,” Doc clarifies, needlessly, hating the way the quiet leaves his sentences hanging in the air. “I was tired. I said things I didn’t mean.”
“It’s okay, Doc.” Scar waves a hand dismissively. “Forgiven and forgotten.”
Doc sighs, shoulders relaxing with the motion. Scar isn’t mad. Of course he isn’t, he’s Scar. Ruthlessly optimistic, in the same way a puppy is when it waits for you to return home after a long day of work. He’s probably not even capable of being mad.
As if on cue, Scar claps his hands together and beams. “Well, I better get going. Things to be, places to do, you know how it is.”
He wanders back down the runway as if nothing was ever wrong. Doc watches him go, not sure whether to follow or what to do. Work, he supposes, because that’s all he ever does. That’s all that’s worth doing.
***
It happens three days later, in broad daylight, barely a block in front of him, so fast Doc can’t quite believe what he just saw. He reaches for his communicator for a death message to prove it, but of course, it’s not there. Doc’s eyes fix on the dirt by his feet, before slowly lifting to the portal half-framed by obsidian, then up to the sky. Nothing, save for the occasional cloud and a ConCorp drone hovering at the edge of his vision. Hadn’t he told Scar to get rid of those?
Back down to the ground. Not so much as a blade of grass out of place, not a single orb of XP.
Maybe Doc is finally losing it. Maybe Area 77 is getting to him. Maybe it’s aliens. Maybe Scar’s right and he just needs more sleep. That is the most logical conclusion. Logic has always appealed to Doc. And yet . . .
He closes his eyes. The moment plays over in his head. A scream, a blur of colour and motion, the familiar shape of a human body.
. . . Doc can’t shake the feeling he just saw BdoubleO100 die right before his eyes.
***
“Someone fell into Area 77.”
“So? Maybe their elytra broke.” Scar doesn’t look up from his monitors. Doc stares, silent, until Scar finally lifts his head. “Probably the hippies messing with us again, or Keralis. Maybe that will finally convince him to just go around.”
Doc shakes his head, still staring at Scar, waiting for him to take this seriously. “Did you see any death messages last night?”
“None worth worrying about.” Scar frowns out the windows as if expecting to see another hermit plummeting to their death right then and there.
Doc glances up over his shoulder, tired eyes barely focusing. Pale sunlight washes over the control tower the two are currently sitting in, dragging long morning shadows across the runways. Frost dusts the grass and a chill clings stubbornly in the air.
The moment replays in Doc’s mind. The screaming, the sound of flesh hitting dirt, the silence that followed. The moment just before the impact when Doc could have sworn he was staring at a person he thought he would never see again.
“They didn’t drop an elytra,” Doc mutters. “They didn’t drop anything. Things don't add up for it to just be another hermit.”
“. . . You think this is like Keralis?” Scar asks.
There’s the question Doc was too afraid even to think. Now that Scar has put it to words, Doc’s mind is overloading with possibilities. What if the portal worked this time? What if it really is one of them? Uncomfortable, unfamiliar excitement fills Doc’s chest and makes it hard to breathe.
Even so, he can’t quite let himself speak it. “Too early to tell. Whoever it is, I need to find them.”
Anticipation must be thick in his voice, because Scar looks back at him. “We got lucky last time, Doc, but whatever we find now might be better off contained.”
Doc searches Scar’s green eyes, not entirely sure what he’s looking for. His own brittle longing reflected back at him? Of course not, Scar has no reason for it. He couldn’t – he couldn’t possibly understand. Maybe just some hint at hope? Scar may not be stuck in the gaping hole their absence left like Doc is, but he must be aware of it, peering in from the crumbling edges.
Yet Scar’s gaze is firm and impassive and whatever Doc is looking for, it isn’t there. If the eyes are the window to the soul, Scar’s are closed and curtained.
Scar didn’t see it, Doc tells himself, he doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know what I know.
Besides, Scar is right. If Doc is mistaken – unlikely but possible – if it is not a hermit, not one of them, then whatever it is must be contained.
He forces himself to be calm. “All the more reason to find them, yes?”
“Right.” Scar’s shoulders loose a tenseness that Doc hadn’t realised was there.
“We need to know as much as we can.” Doc glances out the control tower window again, towards the picture perfect township sitting dangerously close to Area 77. “And I know just where to start our investigation.”
***
Falsewell feels more like a ghost town than a tourist trap. Something about the sprawling suburban streets and 60s façades feels fake. The hollow impersonation of life, like a movie set when the cameras stop rolling. Maybe it’s the fact Doc can count the town’s population on one hand, or the pervasive feeling of being watched from empty windows as he walks down the main street.
The silence doesn’t help. There is no sound aside from his and Scar’s footsteps, and Scar softly humming a tune that’s probably form a Disney movie. The morning is still and stagnant, not even the leaves wave from the trees. So much for small town polite.
Doc tugs on the sleeve cuffs of his dress shirt uncomfortably. They always get caught on his bionic arm and the fabric itches against his fur. He should have known better than to prioritise style over comfort when designing the uniform for the Hermits In Black.
But it had been his guilty pleasure, working on something other than the portal if only for a while, and he had bought time adding unnecessary details and letting fanciful thinking blind him to practicality. Next time, Doc knows to stay in his lane and stick to redstone.
They stop outside Mayor False’s home. Doc gives the door three sharp knocks and steps back to wait for any sign that the town’s founder is home.
Scar turns to Doc and huffs, “This is a waste of time.”
Doc opens his mouth to reply, but the door swings open between them before the words leave his mouth. False lifts one hand to shade her eyes against the morning sun, squinting up at her two uninvited guests. At first glance, it would seem she’s surprised to see them, but Doc recognises the practised rigidity of her stance, the way her shoulders are set. For whatever reason, she expected them. For whatever reason, she’s wary about their presence.
False meets Doc’s eyes and nods a diplomatic greeting. “Hello boys, may I ask what brings you to Falsewell on this fine morning?”
Doc forces a smile. “Hello Falsie. We were wondering whether you had seen anything . . . unusual recently?”
Over his shoulder, Scar begins to fiddle with his crossbow. Doc can hear the smooth sound of a rocket being loaded and readied, a string pulled taunt and let slack again. It’s practically mocking False with the knowledge that this conversation will be erased.
“Right next to the massive military base designed to contain anomalies? Can’t say that I have.” False smirks, but just like the rest of her, it’s tense. She shifts on her feet, stance over-so-slightly battle ready. Sunlight sparks off the enchanted diamond blade of the sword hung at her side. Another reminder that False isn’t quite as casual as she’d like them to believe.
“No?” Doc surprises himself with how nonchalant he sounds. “Aliens, UFOs, bodies falling from the sky? Nothing?”
He can tell by the way False flinches that he’s touched a nerve, but she avoids his gaze, staring resolutely over his shoulder. The entire conversation is built on brittle formalities, they both know it.
“Oh. That.” False pauses, clearly considering her next words. Doc lets her. “I’m surprised it took you this long to start poking about. He’s not here, Doc.”
Scar’s hands still on his crossbow.
“What?” Doc asks, mind racing even as he struggles to speak. Who could she be referring to if not-
No. No, he will not let himself think it. Not yet. Not until he’s sure.
Doc takes a deep breath, steadies himself, tries again. “What did you see?”
“I . . . can’t say for sure what happened. It was from a distance, and it was dark,” False prefaces. “But I thought I saw someone falling into Area 77. I- I mean, I didn’t see who it was, but, you know, it corresponded with- the chances are. . .”
Perhaps Doc is looking too far into these small details, trying too hard to tie them together. Perhaps he is jumping to conclusions. Perhaps the lack of sleep is getting to him. But the same way he can’t put it into words, he dually can’t shake the feeling that it might be one of them, and if there’s even a possibility that it is, he has to find them.
“Details.” Doc’s voice is hoarse. “I need details, False, please.”
She softens just a little at that. “It was four days ago, I think.”
“Four days?”
That would be the same night he and Scar had their disagreement, the same night they’d heard something in the trees. It surely cannot be coincidence. Scar had said he hadn’t found anything, but that’s Scar. If Doc himself had investigated instead of trusting Scar, if they hadn’t been so busy arguing, Doc may have seen it for himself.
“Yeah, pretty sure,” False says. “I was out late to deliver some supplies to Re- uh. To a customer. Who was definitely not a hippie interested in ‘sticking it to the man’ or raiding any top secret government facilities.”
Doc snorts in amusement. “Oh, I completely understand your customer was not a filthy hippie planning on doing something extremely dangerous and annoying, but also I would like to see Ren try to break in. Our security is top notch. Sort of.”
For a moment the interaction holds some semblance of normality. Just two friends play-arguing plot beats in a make-believe story. Like the Civil War, where jokes were exchanged and pranks pulled even as blades were crossed and bases built.
Then False’s expression sobers again. Doc forces himself to remember that things are different now. There is no pretence. There are only things that tear at the very fabric of reality and if Doc does not control what he has unleashed through his portal then no one will. He and False are not friends anymore.
“As I was saying,” False continues, “I was walking back when I heard screaming. It sounded kind of like phantoms, but when I looked over whatever it was was too big to be a phantom. It was flailing a lot, too. I thought maybe someone’s elytra broke mid-flight, but before I could get a good look, whoever it was crashed into Area 77 and disappeared and, well, I wasn’t going to go in there for what I assumed was just another hermit dying, so I went home. . . . I haven’t seen anything else at all strange since then.”
The entire anecdote is disappointingly vague. False’s details are in all the wrong places. It’s not her fault, Doc tells himself. He does not know much more than her. The most important thing is that her timeline and series of events align with his own.
“Who, exactly, do you think it was False?” Scar asks softly.
Doc startles. He had forgotten Scar was there.
False’s knuckles are white on the hilt of her sword. She stares over Doc’s shoulder at Scar for a long moment before shrugging. The motion looks more like a flinch. “Too dark to tell, I guess.”
She knows more than she’s letting on, Doc is sure of it. Even if it is only the faintest clue of who their mystery falling figure is, or why they are falling. Which leads to the troubling question, why won’t she tell them? What does she gain by hiding any information she has? Surely she knows Doc would never actually hurt anyone – not the hermits, not the hippies, not even a suspected alien like Keralis. Whatever he is, whatever anyone thinks he is, he is not that sort of monster.
The entire reason Doc built Area 77 was to save his friends, not destroy them.
“That is not an answer-” Doc is cut off by a yell and a door being thrown open against a wall somewhere behind him.
“Docm77!” Cleo’s voice rings out across the empty street.
Doc turns. She is standing on the edge of the road outside the Falsewell Museum, hands on her hips, orange hair ablaze in the sun. He stares, uncomprehending. What is Cleo doing here? Why is she yelling at him? What did he do this time?
Eventually his tongue remembers how to form words. “Is there a problem, citizen?”
“Citizen?” Cleo gapes for a moment, before rolling her eyes in a fashion so exaggerated Doc can see it halfway down the street. “Okay, I’m ignoring that. You, get over here. We need to talk.”
“. . . About what?” Doc asks, although given the way Cleo is glaring he’s not sure he wants to know. He certainly does not want to go over and find out. “Can it wait? We are sort of in the middle of something here.”
“No, it cannot wait.” Cleo taps her foot against the gravel impatiently.
Scar gives Doc a gentle shove in Cleo’s direction. “Go on. I’ll deal with False.”
Doc glances back, but swallows down the objections clawing their way up his throat and walks over to join Cleo. The Falsewell Museum never struck Doc as particularly eye-catching – not compared to Area 77 next door – but the two-story brick building towers over the rest of town, imposing in its own right.
“Cleo,” Doc greets as he reaches her, voice little more than a growl.
“Doc.” Although Cleo’s tone is as steely as Doc’s, nothing about her posture is unfriendly. A smile tugs at her lips as she looks at him, and he hopes it isn’t a mocking one. Just what have they been saying behind his back as he works? “You don’t mind if we talk inside, do you?”
This is something private then? Or is she separating him from Scar on purpose? Doc isn’t worried about himself, but False has her sword and if a fight breaks out between her and Scar without Doc there to intercept, well. There are no doubts as to who would be crowned victor to that fight.
“Scared?” Cleo teases when Doc doesn’t answer. “Of little old me? Come on, Doc.”
“I am not scared,” he protests, and although an argument would be pointless, he’s tempted to start one. “Lead the way.”
Doc has never been past the dark oak doors of the Museum, and he has to admit he’s a little curious. He’s always been a little curious about the unknown. A zombie growls at him from a ticket booth, reaching out undead hands to try and grab at his suit. Doc barely notices, attention caught on the meticulously assembled sculptures decorating the room.
Tall, arched windows spill narrow beams of light over glass display cases containing carefully posed armour stands. Doc recognises a half-hatched alien egg, a facehugger and a Star Wars speeder bike in the central display. He makes a mental note to let Scar know it’s there, he’d be thrilled.
Then again, Scar might get it in his head to steal it, and the UFO from the Falsewell motel is already taking up enough space in the hanger.
Doc notices Cleo watching him and quickly levels his expression. She tries and fails to hide her smirk. He elects to ignore her, leaning against a glass case containing a so-called alien artefact, hands in his pockets.
“What do you want?” He trains his eyes on Cleo’s face, watching for anything that may give away her true motivation. Whatever that could be. He’s not sure when the lines were drawn in the dirt between them, but he can see them all too clearly in the way Cleo looks at him.
“Relax Doc, I’m not out for your head.” A pause. “This time.”
“Forgive me for not believing you.” Doc doesn’t relax in the slightest. “You can never be too careful.”
“No,” Cleo agrees, “I suppose not. Especially with the sorts of things you’re rumoured to be doing.”
Cleo’s thin smile grows when she sees him flinch. Doc wonders what she’s heard, and from who, and how much of it she believes. If he were to hazard a guess, none of it.
“Oh?” Doc asks.
“You can’t make a top-secret government facility and expect people not to talk.” Cleo stays irritatingly vague and admirably blasé. “Everyone wants to know what you’re doing, what you’re hiding, why you’re hiding.”
“I am not hiding.” Doc bristles under Cleo’s indifferent gaze.
There is a difference between things needing to be hidden and hiding. Doc does not hide. He does not run from his problems. He confronts them head on and doesn’t care whether he becomes collateral. Hiding is for cowards.
“You’re certainly not being very open about all that Area 77 nonsense,” Cleo points out. She glances at the statue contained within the case Doc is leaning against, a figure in a blue pseudo-spacesuit with a thin white tube inserted into the back of its neck. Being injected, perhaps, or controlled. “Are you really searching for aliens?”
“I already found them.” Doc ignores the look Cleo gives him, unable to determine if it’s incredulous or surprised. Maybe both. Her opinion doesn’t matter either way. “I’ve moved on to more important things.”
“Doc, you absolute madman.” Cleo chuckles and shakes her head.
“I don’t think this is a laughing matter Cleo.”
“That’s not-” she breaks off. “I’m sorry. I’m sure what you’re doing is important.”
“It is.” Then, because Cleo seems apologetic, or at least sincere, Doc tacks on a stilted, “Thank you.”
She takes a deep breath. Doc prepares himself for the real reason she asked to speak with him.
“We worry,” she says in a rush, like she’d rather not say it at all. The words are uncharacteristic of her. “About you, that is. All of us. I get it, there’s some things you don’t want to talk about – maybe you never will – that’s okay. But don’t feel like you need to shut us all out, or that no one else could ever understand what you’re going through. I want you to know that we care about you, Doc, that I care.”
The words cut through Doc like a diamond sword, all the way to the bone. Any pretence at casualness is discarded. His fists clench in his pockets, his expression sharpens into a scowl, he hears soft hissing as though he is about to explode. With the way his chest burns, maybe he is.
Somehow, when he speaks, his voice is cold. “I appreciate the concern, but it is not necessary. I’ve been busy with my work, yes, but I am definitely not isolating myself.”
“When was the last time you spoke with Ren?” Cleo asks, “Or X, or anyone other than Scar? When was the last time you took a break?”
His hissing grows louder along with his heartbeat, thumping painfully in his chest. “I don’t know why no one understands this. I do not need a break. I need to keep working, to- forget it. You would not understand.”
“Maybe not, but I could try.” Cleo doesn’t back down.
It is one of the things Doc admires about her and one of the things that makes him wish he were talking to anyone else right now. She’s known him long enough to no longer be intimidated by his sharp claws and sharper words, if she ever was.
That does not mean he won’t use them anyway. “How about you try minding your own business?”
“You’re not doing yourself any favours by being a stubborn bastard,” Cleo says. “I know you Doc, I know-”
“I do,” Cleo says fiercely. “Maybe not as well as I’d like these days, but well enough to know that something is wrong. You don’t have to keep shutting yourself off from everyone. You have friends here and now who care about you.”
“What I am doing is important, Cleo, more than you could possibly understand,” he spits. “If you think I could just forget about them like you have, then you don’t know me.”
Cleo gapes at him, struggling for words that don’t reach her lips. Whatever else she has to say, Doc doesn’t want to hear it. He stalks outside, reaching the gravel road just in time to see Scar level his crossbow at False’s head.
Doc watches him lean in close and smile, wide and empty, as he pulls the trigger. “Goodnight False.”
White light explodes from the weapon, leaving stars in Doc’s eyes. He scrubs his face and shakes his head to clear them. He hates the memory eraser, hates the way it makes his stomach squirm. No one and nothing should have the power to steal memories from someone, to pick and choose another person’s experiences and mould their mind into something else.
And, unlike Doc’s own redstone experiments, that thing is entirely magic. Uncontrollable and unknown and used to hurt people. Scar has always been a little too comfortable with it for Doc’s liking.
Lowering the crossbow, Scar turns, then freezes deer-in-headlights as he sees Doc standing in the shadow of the Museum. His grin falters and falls, concern creasing his forehead. “Everything alright Doc?”
Doc nods. He doesn’t want to think about his conversation with Cleo, or the rotten feeling it left in his stomach.
“Find out any useful info?” Doc asks, tactfully ignoring the unconscious figure slumped behind Scar. She will wake up soon enough. She will be fine. She will not even realise anything happened at all. It is a necessary evil.
“Nope,” Scar says. “Like I said, probably just the hippies messing with us.”
So this whole thing was pointless.” Doc glares at the sky above Area 77. Cloudless and blue and insultingly normal. If Doc didn’t know better, he would think the entire server was playing a prank on him.
“Why don’t we head back to Area 77?” Scar asks, his expression way too close to pity for Doc’s liking. “Take some time to re-evaluate.”
“Yeah,” Doc mutters. Scar is right, he needs time to think. He has all the time in the world and still not enough. “Yeah, okay, let’s go.”
Falsewell was nothing but a false hope. Doc should have known better than to trust other people. They only tell him what he wants to hear then stab him in the back. He has to get back to Area 77. He has work to do.
***
Doc doesn’t work. He can’t. Falsewell has left him shaken and unfocused, hands trembling, mind leaping through disjointed theories. He does not trust himself with something as important as the portal. Especially without his communicator to relay block updates and lag spikes in the area. The last thing he needs is to make a mistake.
He entertains the idea of going to Xisuma and asking the admin to relocate or replace his missing communicator. But worries gnaw at his thoughts – what if Xisuma asks questions? What if he wants to enter Area 77? What if he wants to shut it down, to stop Doc completing his work on the portal, dooming them forever?
Doc will not let that happen. He will just have to find his communicator by himself, somehow, eventually.
Hours fade into days as Doc goes over his notes, re-examines the time machine for anything he may have missed the first dozen times, until the pages blur together into lumps of letters, messy and meaningless. He picks apart Grian’s shoddy, magic-infused redstone and puts it back together again so many times he could do it in his sleep. Not that he sleeps.
Doc always ends up with his mind unravelling like fraying rope, unable to weave the threads back together into something coherent.
The main hanger is worse. He can never shake the creeping feeling of being watched by the thing in the containment chamber. It keeps appearing in the corner of his eyes – the pale, bloated, misshapen outline of an inhuman figure – but when Doc turns to look nothing is there.
Long after his notes have turned into incoherent chicken scratch scribbles, Doc finds himself sitting cross-legged on the bonnet of the jeep he built to survey the hippie camp, staring out into the undergrowth hiding the commune. They’re playing music like always, something loud and upbeat. He catches himself tapping his claws against his thighs in time to the beat and forces his paw to still.
Stupid hippies and their stupid distracting music, always getting in Doc’s way.
It would make sense if, as Scar had said, the person falling form the sky was some sort of hippie prank. It is the exact type of thing they would do. It wouldn’t even be the first time one of them had pulled a similar stunt – Grian had done almost the exact same thing to advertise his superstore Sahara. As if it needed advertisement, the enormous concrete structure towering over the shopping district required no additional aid in reminding the hermits of its existence.
But does this – repeatedly dropping into Area 77 with no items, no elytra – seem like something Grian would do?
Again, Doc tries to relive the moment. A splash of vibrant green and red, plant stems or poppy petals, a flower crown, like the ones the hippies wear.
Certainly not jungle vines and a red headband.
It was a prank. It had to be. The most obvious answer is often the right one, Doc knows this. He would be an idiot to keep entertaining the far-fetched fantasy that it might have been one of them. He had let hope and longing sweep him away, deluded by the faulty redstone of his portal and faultier logic that Keralis’ return meant they could come back too. Even when he knows full well it is not that easy.
Well, there is always one way to find out for certain whether it was Grian. Doc stands, rolls back his shoulders and takes off towards the hippie commune.
***
The hippie camp is loud and messy and colourful. Sprawling vegetation competes with unfinished structures and rushed redstone, all vying for space and attention. Everywhere you look there is something new and nothing is where it should be. Three different, distinct styles of building sprawl across the clearing with the only attempt at cohesion being an abundance of wildflowers.
In short, it is the antithesis of Area 77.
Among the eyesore of colours, Doc spots movement. A figure in a red sweater shovelling dirt at the bottom of a growing pit. Doc swoops down and lands on the grass nearby, approaching cautiously to skirt the edge of the hole. The crumbling dirt walls form a loose circle, nowhere near as precisely perfect as the entrance to S4, but the sheer drop reminds him of it nonetheless.
The only anomaly contained within this pit, however, is Grian, who has stopped digging and is leaning on the handle of his shovel as he stares up at Doc.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Grian huffs. His face is red and beaded with sweat. There is dirt smeared on his nose.
“Better than watching you dig a giant hole for no reason?” Doc smirks. “No way.”
“It’s not no reason, it’s-” Grian snaps his mouth shut and gives the earth a frustrated look. “You’ll see.”
It’s another distraction, just like the falling stunt. The half-smile fades from Doc’s face as he realises that whatever this is, he is going to have to deal with the aftermath, and it is going to interrupt his work.
Doc squints down at Grian, comparing him to the blurry figure who had fallen in front of him in Area 77. Same short stature, same red and green colours. It lines up well enough, so why is Doc still so uncertain?
“What?” Grian asks. “What’s that look for? Do I have something on my face?”
“I know what you are doing.” Doc opts for intimidation. If Grian thinks he has been caught red-handed, he may just admit it.
There is a flash of panic in Grian’s eyes and he glances down at the shovel in his hands, then back up at Doc. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just digging a big hole for, um, secret reasons. This is my secret big hole that is coincidentally very visible from Area 77.”
“I am not talking about the hole.”
“You’re not? I’m pretty sure this is the only suspicious – and by that I mean not at all suspicious – thing I’ve done is dig this hole. Just this one hole, and no other holes.”
Doc stares, waiting for Grian to drop the act.
“Seriously, Doc, I’m not sure what you’re on about.”
Grian sounds sincerely confused, which in turn confuses Doc. Surely even Grian would have come clean by now.
“Doc?” A familiar voice calls over the music. “Hey man!”
Doc turns, attention pulled away from Grian and his entirely unsuspicious pit and towards the person approaching from the cluster of campervans. Ren is less groomed than when Doc saw him last – there is a flower crown atop his shoulder-length hair, dirt under his nails and a thinning green jacket thrown over his usual red shirt and suspenders.
But the grin he greets Doc with is exactly the same. Despite everything, relief bubbles up inside of Doc at the sight of his friend.
“Hello Ren.”
“Long time, no see.”
“Nice of you to say.” Doc cannot allow himself to be fooled by Ren’s warm greeting. “But you know why I’m here.”
Ren falters, his easy smile slipping. “Doc . . .”
Doc doesn’t give in to the silence.
“. . . Let’s go for a walk, huh?” Ren beckons, turning back the way he came.
Doc shoots one last glare at Grian, who sticks out his tongue like a child in response, and follows Ren across the commune. Ren leads him past the small clearing where their vans sit, cramped in by dense forest and a mass of unfinished redstone components, and towards the wooden walls sectioning off the hippie’s vegetable garden.
Inside, a rickety wooden walkway zigzags across rows of vegetables and flowers. Colourful banners hang propped against the stone walls, peeking out through the leaves and vines clinging to the rock. The careful, deliberate placement of each block reminds Doc of Scar’s builds, but the life and vibrancy of the garden, the way it feels as though he has stepped into a children’s picture book, or an old watercolour painting, is all Ren. Doc can’t help harbouring a begrudging fondness for it.
Ren stops under the shade of an oak tree which leans over the walkway, pulling off his sunglasses and watching Doc with that same careful, appraising look that Cleo had given him in Falsewell. He hates it even more coming from Ren.
Then Ren says the one thing that could make everything worse. “Doc, man . . . are you okay? Are you sleeping? You look terrible.”
Of course Ren can see right through him. Doc runs his claws along his bionic arm, focusing on the grooves and ridges in the metal and not on Ren’s worried expression. Doc can’t let himself be distracted with talk about his fears or feelings.
“I didn’t come here for a therapy session.”
“I didn’t come here to give one, dude.” Ren smiles. It no longer reaches his eyes.
Doc’s tone is sharp, “What do you want, Ren?”
“C’mon man, do I look like I have any ulterior motives?”
Doc is too tired to bring up the pedantic point that the hippies’ entire motive is ulterior. They may be putting on a guise of gardens and flowers, but he knows they want to undermine Area 77. Grian wants his time machine, and would do anything to get it back. Just like Doc would do anything to get them back. The only difference between the two of them is that Grian is acting out of selfishness.
Doc looks Ren up and down, sees the dirt under his nails and the greasiness of his unwashed hair. “You look like you need a shower.”
Ren barks out a laugh. Doc can tell his friend’s smile is genuine this time by the wrinkles around his eyes.
“Not digging the all-natural vibes of the hippie lifestyle, man?” Ren asks, drawing out the words into a vaguely American-accepted drawl.
This time it’s Doc’s turn to chuckle. For all his resolve to stay professional, stay distant, he can’t help but let his guard drop around Ren. It’s so easy to joke, to fall into old habits and to forget what it is that Doc’s here for. Like he is back with them. Doc sobers abruptly.
“But really, Ren.” He takes a step closer, not looming over Ren exactly, although with the height difference it’s hard not to. Not that it has the intended effect. Much like Cleo, Ren has known him far too long and far too well to be intimidated. “What are you doing?”
“I heard you spoke with False and Cleo the other day,” Ren says instead of answering. Just from the way he is speaking Doc he’s picking and choosing his words carefully. “I have a hunch, dude, but humour me. What were you doing in Falsewell?”
Whatever point Ren is trying to reach, he is taking the longest possible path to get there.
Doc sighs, but lets Ren lead him along anyway. “We wanted to see what she knew about . . .”
If it really is a hippie prank, Ren already knows about the person falling from the sky. If not, there is a chance he has seen it, living so close to Area 77. Either way there is no use pretending it is confidential information.
“. . . about the person falling from the sky.”
Ren’s eyebrows furrow as he regards Doc. “I kinda had a feeling that was it. Listen, Doc, man, I know you’ve got some crazy stuff going on in Area 77, but . . . do you really think he’s an alien?”
What is that supposed to mean? Doc turns the words over in his head, pokes and prods at them with a proverbial stick, but he can’t uncover what it is Ren is implying. There must be some piece of the puzzle he is missing. Something stopping him form seeing the bigger picture. Not that he can let anyone know. Weakness will only be taken advantage of.
“I don’t know what to think,” Doc answers finally, truthfully. His voice is quiet, although there is no one else around to hear him. “I can’t stop thinking.”
“Yeah, uh, looks like it’s been keeping you up at night, dude.”
Why does it always come back to Doc’s sleep schedule, or lack thereof? There are more important things than sleep.
“I can’t concentrate,” Doc hears himself say, even as he stews over snappy responses to give the next time someone points him in the direction of a bed. “I can’t work. I . . .”
Ren’s eyes are filled with a sad sort of understanding. “I get it, this is . . . this is really big for you, it’s probably what you’re working on in there, right? But you can take your time with it. You have time. You have a time machine. For now. I mean- just- you don’t need to keep isolating yourself, dude, we’re all here for you.”
“Well, don’t,” Doc says curtly.
“Don’t?”
“Don’t. You are distracting me. My work is important.”
“We’re important too, Doc,” Ren snaps. Doc takes a step back, surprised by the ferocity in Ren’s voice. Doc has always thought of Ren as all bark, but now his words are biting. “I know they were your family, I’m not trying to tell you to give up on them, or- or whatever. But it’s selfish of you to pretend the rest of us don’t matter. We’re your family too, I’m your family. At least, I like to think I am.”
This is Falsewell all over again. The sense of déjà vu sweeping over Doc is sickening. Despite the impatience festering inside him, he forces himself to stay calm. He may not be all that close to Cleo anymore, but he still cares too much about Ren to let his temper get the better of him.
“You are,” he confirms, but Ren does not smile or nod or relax like Doc had hoped. “You are important, and my family. It’s just- just for a little bit, just until I get it working, I need to focus. This is too important for distractions and-”
Doc is stuttering, words tumbling over one another in messy, incomplete phrases that don’t convey his meaning or intention. He hisses in irritation.
“What I mean is-”
Ren lifts his palm, Doc falls quiet.
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Ren says, and that same sadness has returned to his eyes. “We’ll be here when you’re ready.”
He pushes his sunglasses back onto his face and strolls back towards the compound, holding himself with careful casualness. Doc watches him go and does not call out.
He said what he wanted to. He told Ren that if the hippies were behind the mysterious falling person, they needed to knock it off. That is work is the most important thing right now. So why is Doc’s gut still churning, his thoughts still ticking like a redstone contraption that won’t turn off? Why does he feel like there is something here he’s still missing?
Grian’s confusion and adamant denial surfaces in Doc’s mind. Grian is not that good of a liar, is he? Even if he is, even if it is the hippies, then surely Ren would have told Doc. Ren wouldn’t continue a prank after seeing how much it is getting to Doc, making him loose sleep and sanity.
Much like Falsewell, much like everything Doc tries to do these days, the hippie camp was a waste of time. He could have been working. He wouldn’t have been, the last few days were proof of that, but he could have been.
Doc shakes his head, trying to dislodge his doubt. It is not doing him any good. If Cleo and Ren really want to help him like they claim, they would know that his work in Area 77 is the most important thing he has ever tried to do. And they would stay the hell out of his way until he was done.
***
Ren, Grian and Impulse buid a massive RV in their pit. No one falls from the sky above Area 77.
“I told you it was just the hippies messing around,” Scar says one evening.
“Yeah,” Doc agrees uneasily, “I guess I should get back to work.”
They are stood together on a runway near the portal. Doc’s eyes keep being drawn back to the unfinished mess of obsidian and redstone. Although every bone in his body itches to keep working, a heavy reluctance has settled in his stomach and refuses to be moved. He does not trust himself with work and cannot convince himself to do anything else.
He tears his eyes away from the swirling purple and catches Scar watching him.
“Maybe you should take a break.”
“Take a break?” Doc echoes. What does Scar think he’s been doing? Can’t he see that the progress on the portal has been null? Doc has been forced to take a break by his own inability, and he hates it, thank you very much.
“Unfamiliar concept for you?” Scar teases, but his smile fades when Doc doesn’t return it. “I’m just saying . . . maybe it’d be better if you work on something else for a bit. It’s not like you’re making a lot of progress on that thing anyway. Besides, messing with powers you don’t understand never ends well. We wouldn’t want you getting hurt, right?”
There it is again. That insistence that Doc is stupid, that he does not know what he is doing. Doc hisses softly, then swallows the sound. Scar is only saying these things because he himself doesn’t understand. Because he’s worried.
“I know what I am doing,” Doc says for what must be the hundredth time. This time, though, he tries to soften the rough edges in his voice. Scar is the only person left on the server who is still on his side. Doc can’t afford to lose him too. “I’m not going to get myself killed.”
“For your own sake, I hope not.” Scar hesitates for a long moment, as if there’s something else he wants to add, then shakes his head and says, “I really think you should stop working on that portal, Doc. I don’t like it one bit.”
That much is clear. No one does. No one thinks Doc should be doing this, and is doesn’t make any damn sense.
Even ignoring the unignorable possibility of it getting them back, the portal is as close to magic as redstone engineering can possibly get. It is the world bending and breaking to Doc’s will. It is the very limits of what the world can do, and it is incredible.
Perhaps that’s exactly what makes it so terrifying to someone like Scar, in the same way magic scares someone like Doc.
If it will ease Scar’s fears, maybe Doc can take a break. Just for a little bit. Just until he convinces Scar that the portal really is nothing to fear.
“Yeah,” Doc agrees reluctantly. “You’re right.”
He will take a break. It’s not like he is making any progress on the portal anyway. What’s the worst that could happen?
***
The worst that could happen, naturally, turns out to be exactly what does happen. Doc supposes he should have seen it coming. He had just wanted to do something fun, something relatively harmless, and if there’s one thing every hermit can agree on, it’s that the best way to relax is by blowing something sky high with TNT. Besides, with all the chaos the hippies have been causing around Area 77, they really deserve a taste of their own medicine.
At least, this is what Doc tells himself as he constructs the flying machine primed with explosives and aimed straight at the hippie’s floating RV. The super-charged missile launcher is fast, unstoppable and extremely effective. All Doc’s best projects are.
To his credit and in his defence, the practise run goes perfectly, hitting bullseye on the hastily constructed target and demolishing it within seconds.
That’s why Doc doesn’t think twice in preparing a second missile. That’s why he rushes, too eager and too impulsive to check whether everything is right. That’s why he misplaces a block early and the missile shoots off in entirely the wrong direction, leaving Doc watching in silent horror as it flies straight towards Keralis’ house, up on the hill overlooking Area 77, parallel to the hippie camp.
The missile hits. The explosion is loud enough to make Doc’s ears ring halfway across Area 77.
“Well,” Doc says to himself as the smoke clears. “Crap.”
***
He takes off in such a hurry that he almost crashes into a ConCorp drone. Hadn’t Doc told Scar to get rid of those? The thought has no time to linger, however, as Doc gets his first good look at the destruction done to Keralis’ house.
Airborn, it looks worse than it is. The missile launcher had broken through the branches of a tree overhanging Keralis’ swimming pool and exploded against the house itself. Almost the entire back wall of the building is missing, burnt chunks of concrete littering the deck and peeling pieces of paint floating through the smoky air. The damage can be fixed, but that’s not what Doc is worried about.
There is a very real possibility that, with Doc committing what anyone else would see as griefing, Xisuma will get involved. Xisuma will ask questions. Area 77 will be shut down. All of Doc’s work will be wasted. His only chance to save them, snatched right out of his paws before he can ever properly grab hold.
Doc dives sharply and stumbles as he lands outside Keralis’ front door, then pulls himself up and tries to smooth out the creases in his lab coat. He has a reputation to maintain after all, especially if he wants this entire situation defused without admin intervention.
He takes a few deep breaths and knocks. There are footfalls, heavier than Keralis’ usually light steps. Does Keralis have a guest over? Xisuma, maybe, Doc knows the two of them are close. He hopes it is not Xisuma.
The footsteps grow louder. The front door swings open.
“Keralis,” Doc says in a rush, “I can explain-”
He never gets the chance. Mouth suddenly try, excuses and explanations evaporating on his tongue, he stares down at the person who answered the door. That isn’t Keralis. The person staring up at him in confusion and surprise is not Keralis.
It’s BdoubleO.