Welcome to the story! If you don't know what you're looking at, you should try Movement I first.

Post titles on the left.

I'm starting to notice the seagulls more. They flock around this town as it's a few miles from the Channel. I like the way they look when they caw, so oblivious to the world below. Why worry about a job when you have the skies? Why worry about the rut your life has been in for years when you can just fly away, when your only life is one of eating what you can find and perching on rooftops? They soar past my window, just out of reach of this prisoner behind bureaucracy's bars.

Maybe the bars extend further than that. Maybe I am my own prisoner too.
I wish I knew how to be able to tell.

Today I guess I'll talk about another Sunsetters album.

That's No Entry, their fourth album, whose art has been cropping up from time to time as if to mock me. It's an album about conspiracy and the types of people who believe in them, though it's also about messages and death. The band refuses to talk about the plot of this one, unlike with their other albums.

The music is all over the place, very glitch-y and often ambient but linked by a consistent doomy sound that the Sunsetters had brushed with over the course of their previous albums.

A strange note about this album is its liner notes include a code that fans were able to crack, and it leads to this blog called Fuguetory. It seems to be about some deranged madman who believes a god lives in his head, that we all wake up after we die, and that this rebirth is a bad thing.

..I mean. The truth is recently I've found my thoughts turning to Fuguetory more and more often. The idea that life is a purgatory and that it never ends, that's.. starting to resonate within me.

I have been stuck in a cycle. Call it what you will, a purgatory or a depression, but there's clearly not as much bureaucratic red tape as I'd initially suspected-- at least not according to Mordecai. I need to try more.

The Lost Viking has updated again.

There's been no mention of anything new with FT-SMILE, so this is likely the main indicator that this blog, too, is nothing but fiction. But I get these odd feelings of familiarity, deja vu, with this post. Can't quite put my finger on it.

the figure in my dreams
always with his back turned
a hulking figure
bigger than me
stronger than me
one hand behind his back
one hand saluting the black
If Duchess dreamt of Lotophagi because Lotophagi was in her head
then what does it mean for me to dream of him?
Mordecai can't be right.
He was dying, he had a Fossil in him.
He can't be right, he must have been mistaken, delusional?
Did Mordecai dream of Lazarus?
You want Fossil pages so badly, well, what if I told you we never had any records?
There's no filing system.
No art servers.
It's a blank slate.
Just like me.

FOSSIL-TYPE CREMATOR is a well-respected officer, a general of the eternal war against time itself. He protects the universe from factors that should not be. He cremates them. Wipes them from existence. Makes them not be.

Behind his darkened glasses, the glasses I cannot remember, he has no eyes.

On this Earth, he has no enemies.

If you see FT-CREMATOR, do not attempt to contact the Topography Genera Center. The Topography Genera Center will have already found you. But you won't remember.

"By the way," Blackcap said as Mad Man Moon threw me into the blank room, "you're still required to perform your job." And that is why I have a computer in here. Because they like to mock me.

Hello! I'm Liquid fucking Len. That is my only name. I talked to Mordecai. He invited me over to his house. I went. Then I watched him die. They stuck a syringe in him. He wouldn't tell me who. He said Lazarus chose this time to strike. I watched as he contorted in his chair in his crummy little apartment that was even smaller than mine-- the higher-ups really didn't care about him. And as he gave way to become another vessel of FT-LAZARUS, he told me "Jeremy Luther" isn't my real name. That it was his idea to give me to "the Cremator."

I'm hardly even a person. I hadn't even thought about why I never have much to say. I'm a blank slate. Is that why the Genera hired me, and why they refuse to let me go?

But hey! Since I'm still required to do my job and all, my job that has no true description, my empty canvas of a profession, I guess all I can do is give you blogs. So here's a blog for you. Take it. It's called Home of the Birds. It isn't very long. Read up on your Rutherford. Read up on your Lazarus. Your Selkie. Your Larks. Your Cremator.

That's what felt so familiar.

All the Fossil names come from Rutherford plays. Even the Lost Viking killing off Smile.

But hey! No! You guys want more Fossil pages? Hey, I'll do more Fossil pages for you! Let me do another Fossil page!

FOSSIL-TYPE SELKIE is an inanimate object from Hell. She's a china doll who lives. She manipulates. She controls. She makes innocent people suffer. But she gets her just desserts in the end. We all do.

If you or anyone you love comes into contact with FT-SELKIE, fucking give up.

Science! Love. All are given to me by those higher than me, those to whom I answer. I just performed a fascinating experiment; I dissected a star with the aid of FT-HOMUNCULI and reconstructed the atom that destroyed Hiroshima. My findings are for the higher-ups' eyes only. If they should choose, the world may learn of my dissection's benefits and usher in a new idyllic, or they might throw my words to the dogs and cast us to the unknown. It is entirely their choice. As long as I have a canvas of matter to touch and prod, I will fear no evil and want for nothing. Do you know what happens when you fossilize a roach? It is the stuff that dreams are made of, though not my own; my dreams are dark cavalcades led by a face who knows me well. Asleep, I wander the perishable pavement of a street unnamed, no direction in my sights but always evading the accordionist. Asleep, I hide in buildings of a modernist persuasion-- blocks and blocks as far as the eye gleams-- hoping the accordionist's laughter will stay distant. Asleep, I rest under desks arranged in aisles, desks without people, buildings without people, streets without people, a fractal megalopolis sempiternally vacant. If it's so vacant, why is there laughter? Why the accordion's disgruntled refrain? Awake, I experiment on the elements. I entitle this post "A Duchess in Repose" not ironically but out of suggestion by those higher than me. Love, science.

Blackcap's office is several floors below my cell. Mad Man Moon's is just outside. I can hear every phone conversation from here. None of them are personal; they're all work-related, all relating to promotions and demotions. Yesterday I heard him discuss someone's relocation to the West branch. He made it sound like a punishment.

Once a week, Blackcap comes to Mad Man Moon to review productivity. Their conversations are usually brief. Never are finances discussed. Sometimes Blackcap will mention consulting "the higher-ups" on a matter, as if he wasn't high enough. He rarely mentions any names, but occasionally there's a "Crown." Whoever that is, they must have the authority to reassign entire divisions of the Genera. He's like a Mad Man Moon on steroids.

My days are short. I manage other blogs than this one, blogs you need permission to access, blogs that resemble complete nonsense. I receive emails every other day that tell me what to write and where. A few months ago, an email told me to write conjunctions, seven per post, for seventy posts. It did not specify which conjunctions. Some emails have me transcribe classic books into blog form. I don't question any of it. I don't question anything.

I still read blogs, though I get little pleasure out of it. wiseaufan01 sent me a link to this blog, Testing in Progress, which seems to corroborate with Administry for a Cause. And it is a doozy. Read it if you want.

The door to my cell is open. Mad Man Moon said I was free to go. Blackcap said his higher-ups have given me the benefit of the doubt. In compensation for all of my previous suspensions, I am to be given access to all information I want. I have total clearance now. The entire Genera database is mine to read. I can even leave now, quit my job, and never come back.
Let me tell you, my reaction to hearing all of this was as follows:
I looked at Blackcap.
I looked at Mad Man Moon.
I looked between them, staring into space, listening to the muffled conversations I could hear coming from the other room.
Blackcap opened the door to the other room, perhaps as a grapevine offer to start me on my quest of acquiring all the knowledge I could want, and I saw on the other side was actually a stairwell.
I stepped up to that threshold and took a quick look to see how far down the stairwell went.
When I could conveniently see no bottom floor, and when I realized the muffled voices were coming from below, I turned away.
I walked back into my cell.
I closed the door.
And I came here to blog about it and see what else is new on the blogosphere.
(The answer, by the way, is that the Lost Viking has been busy.)

I might ask something later. For now I want only to do my work.

The first thing I asked, when Blackcap had opened my cell again and bugged me to seek knowledge, was why I'm now trusted with all of this clearance.

"The higher-ups have reviewed your file and concluded that your threat level is low. They then held a conference with their higher-ups and wondered if it might benefit their own projects if they'd dare giving you a break. With interest."

I asked if their higher-ups, too, had higher-ups.

"Yes."

My question was repeated.

"Yes."

I asked how high the Genera's hierarchy actually goes.

"No."

I mentioned that I'd thought I had all the clearance.

"You do. You have all of the clearance that anyone working at the Genera can possibly have."

I asked whether those two answers contradicted each other.

"No."

I asked for a drink. Was offered water. Asked for Carlsberg.

Then I asked about the Genera's policy on second-hand accounts, asked if the Lost Viking was telling the truth.

"Yes."

So then, I asked, what is the Hell's Kitchen?

"A colloquial derogatory term for all branches' Fossil Research department. Specifically the standardized practice of submitting, as research subjects, those that the Fossils have specifically requested."

At that point, Blackcap adjusted his tie and said he had answered all of the questions he was told to. I asked if I could see the Hell's Kitchen. He reminded me that I am free to roam the entire premises.

I'll publish this post first, then I'll start exploring.

My cell was five floors below the ground level of General Genera. According to some sort of policy, maps and other such forms of direction are only to be distributed for the upper, "public" levels. No one can tell me what's in the private levels of any of the buildings, nor how to get anywhere. All I have is hearsay. All I know is that Hell's Kitchen is somewhere.

I'm not entirely sure what drove me to find that prison. Perhaps it's the only lead I'm aware of. Perhaps I feel obliged to know the truth of what awaits all Runners in the end.

I began my search by heading upstairs and leaving the building. Every face I passed either stared in stunned silence or looked away, hiding their eyes.

I saw Croakie with coworkers by the water cooler, discussing some fiscal reports with the most bored of tones. One of them dropped their water entirely as they saw me.

I passed by Duchess's old desk, now the station for some new face-- eyes glazed, glued to the computer screen, going over spreadsheets that were surely longer than any blog I've ever read. The placque on the desk simply read "David" and there were no photographs of family or ornaments of personal value.

I paid a visit to what was once Mordecai's office and was alarmed to find it was now a cramped and damp storage closet.

On my way out of the building, Demure called me over. Congratulated me on the clearance. Called me a special case. I asked him how he still had a job here. He smiled and stared into my eyes in such a way that I'm still not quite sure if he was really looking at me at all.

I entered the checkpoint guarding Fossil Research's only entrance and was not prompted for any identification or even intentions. The guard simply watched me, curious, as I passed through.

The walk through the indoor tunnel took about half an hour. I couldn't help but feel a touch of paranoia and dread every time I passed an air vent. Luckily, the trip was uneventful. Gave me time to think of more things to ask the higher-ups when I had the chance.

I had only just stepped into that cold warehouse that was the main Fossil Research building when I heard a familiar voice passing by on the way out. It was Doctor Cloud, discussing something with a woman I did not know. I tapped him on the shoulder, and when he saw me his face gained twenty years and it felt even colder.

"It's been a while, doctor," I said.

I received no reply. Cloud winced ever so slightly, and then told the woman that he would get back to her. She walked on without him.

Doctor Cloud took me into an unused office and shut the door. He sat at the desk, trying his hardest not to play with his hands. I sat in a chair in front.

"You must have questions for me."

I hadn't actually thought of it, so I shrugged. "I have questions, yes."

He nodded. Withdrew his head a little. Sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"I'm looking for Hell's Kitchen."

"It's not what you think."

"Then enlighten me."

He paused before answering. "It was Birchman's idea."

"The Fossil?"

"It's not the only point of cooperation between the Genera and Fossils, believe me."

"I didn't think it was." I leaned forward. "Where can I find it?"

"Below."

"How far below?"

"Six floors."

"And how far down does this place go?"

"Fossil Research or the prisons?"

"The building itself."

His eyes looked away. "The building goes down another two stories from there. The prison makes up two floors, starting six floors down."

"And what's the eighth floor?"

He looked back at me. Paused. "I don't personally know."

"Don't you hear rumours or anything?"

"I don't pay any mind to rumours, Len."

"No, of course not. You're all business."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I've read your blog."

"Only the opening posts. You've never had clearance to read the rest, and you never will." He cleaned his glasses.

I decided to pursue a different line of inquiry. "Alright. What can you tell me about the higher-ups?"

He glanced at me from out of the corner of his unseeing eyes. "That's a pretty broad question."

"Who is at the top?"

"No."

"You don't know?"

He put his glasses back on and kept a stoic face. "I do know. The answer to your question is No."

"What have you got against me, doc?"

Clenched his fists. "I answered your question. Don't get defensive."

"I'm being defensive? You're the one evading my questions!"

"One: I'm not. Two: Perhaps I am not entirely emotionless here because this situation is just so like you."

"One: Yes, you are. And two: What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He pointed a finger at me and raised his voice. "You've always been the higher-ups' special case! Do you have any idea the kinds of things I had to do in order to even get to my current position? And meanwhile you're ascending through the ranks-- no, transcending the ranks despite your utter unworkable inactivity and I can't even ask my bosses why without risking my job, such as is the nature of this place." He cut himself off, withdrew his hand, and looked away.

I remained silent for a while. Thought my position through. "Yes. You're right." Looked him in the eye. "I apologize." Waited.

His arms were crossed. After my apology, he looked at me, raised his eyebrows, gave another sigh, and then waved it all away. "I understand your own frustrations. You didn't exactly ask for any of this, and for so long you've been kept in the dark. Which is why, despite my own moaning, I do ultimately wish to assist."

"So... do you have any information about.. well, my 'position?' Why I've been kept in the dark? Who I may have been before my, uh.. cremation?"

"I know a little. We have few records of your original identity-- few records I can access, anyway-- but from the looks of it you were just an ordinary entity. A JOE, as we sometimes say. An average JOE. It was your.. cremation that turned you into a special case."

"But surely I can't be the only one in this whole organization who that had happened to?"

"Of course. Most cremations go smoothly. We give the workers new identities, new jobs. Even if things don't work out, we may send them here for experiments."

"Charming."

He rolled his eyes and continued. "But your case was.. well, I only know so much. I only have an educated guess."

"Please."

"Right. If I had to, say, make a guess, I'd suggest that you were specially chosen. Marked, even. By someone..." he gestured upwards with a finger.

"Randomly?"

"If you like. They had to choose someone; that someone just happened to be you."

"But what was I chosen for?"

"Now, this is the part I find most curious:"

I leaned forward ever more.

"I don't know."

I let him have his pause. There had to be more. Had to be.

"Well."

Knew it.

"There have been snippets. The occasional misfiling of a document. Sometimes my inbox receives reports, proposals, indices, that were meant for someone else. And sometimes I overhear Lilith or Doctor Walls discussing something over the phone. They're often mundane, all of it, but then sometimes a misfiled proposal might have a redacted signature, a report may have an absurd budget, a phone conversation may become a little too hushed. And, of course, out of all of these, a few project names I have noticed popping up again and again. 'Project: SUNSET.' 'Project: VELVET SERENE.' 'Project: ADD A DIGMIT,' or something along those lines."

"That last one rings a bell."

"Your name, in particular, comes up the most with Project: SUNSET. It's related to some change of management."

"..am I going to become a higher-up?"

"I don't know."

I had one more question. I made it quick. "Do you know anything about EAT?"

"It's come up in my research, but I can't say I've learned anything definite."

"Thank you for your time, doctor."

When I left the office, he was still sitting there. Looked miles away in thought.

Conversation with Doctor Cloud left bad taste in mouth. My first good look at the Fossil Research interior overwhelmed me. Sixty-five pillars without marking held up the massive warehouse-like roof. I counted forty cubicle offices, sixteen of which had doors-- such as the space where Cloud and I had our chat. Ten large white cubes took up most of the remaining space, which I understood to be isolated testing chambers. On that day, the Genera was packed. Scientists of all backgrounds were either hard at work on their research or typing on industry-standard computers. Some men in blue business suits and black sunglasses stood at perfect intervals from each other, keeping their eye on goings-on. Only a few people I saw wore reflective jackets.

At each corner of the room was a metal staircase heading downards, offering access to the many floors below. I found the first five floors, counting the ground level, to be identical in layout and size. The further down I went, the more populated the labs were, until at the fourth floor down I had trouble spotting the floor amidst all of the foot traffic. The staircases all ended at this floor.

In the centre of that fourth floor, I saw the biggest concentration of blue-suited sentinels. I inched my way to them, through the swamp of scientists, and asked if I could speak with any of them.

One turned his head to look at me, the others remaining as statues. Now that I was this close, I could see that all were identical in appearance, including facial structure and body shape. The one looking at me said nothing, just nodded.

"Who are you guys?" I asked.

He still said nothing, though I did notice a business card sticking out of his top suit pocket. I reached in, expecting any reaction at all, and took it out.

"What's this, then? What's parliament doing here?"

Still no response. I didn't even see any earpiece or walkie-talkie or anything on these men. Instead, I pulled aside the nearest scientist and asked.

"Oh, it's some new policy. Businesses legally require one Black Mask per APTP."

"And what, might I ask, is an APTP?"

The scientist, whose name tag I now read as 'Artilleryman,' looked at me like I was joking. "Average Person Threatening Phenomenon. Y'know, like a nuclear reactor, or a piece of construction equipment that's particularly known to be dangerous when on the fritz."

"Or a Fossil." I got the picture.

"Yeah. The thing is, even the most dangerous businesses only require as much as five Black Masks. We have the unions to thank for that."

I took another look at this group of suited men, counted about a dozen. "So how many does the Genera have?" But Artilleryman had already moved on.

I didn't remember that policy being passed, but then, I hadn't exactly been out much recently, had I?

Out of curiosity, I circled the Black Masks, observing them individually and collectively best I could. They were, indeed, all identical in every way, and I could spot no sign of electronic or other method of communication. All they were was a bunch of G-men with hands behind their backs and feet slightly apart, placed at perfect intervals from each other, covering all angles of the facility. In this group, there were exactly thirteen.

I decided to try a different angle. I asked a Black Mask, I think it was the one I'd initially approached, where I could find the Hell's Kitchen.

All thirteen looked at me with expressions unchanged.

Three stepped out of place, revealing that behind all of them was another metal staircase heading down into the deeper depths of Fossil Research.

Before I could step down, one Black Mask grabbed the front of my shirt and leaned over to my ear. I heard a whisper that sounded more like a muffled roar:

"Liquid Len?"

I nodded and tried not to sweat.

He held on for a few seconds before finally letting go and returning to his initial guarding position, and I cautiously took my first step into uncharted Genera.