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.

Before I continue with my investigative account, I realize that today is the fifteen-year anniversary of a true classic. It would be most unlike me not to bring it up.

The first album to be released under the collective name of Sunsetters, titled The Mythology of Empathy, was not a rock opera or even a concept album but a simple compilation of standalone songs. Its tracklist was as follows:

1: "Drowning Under the Influence," short and conventional rock. Subject ambiguous, but said to be inspired by lead singer's parents. Father drowned while drunk, mother developed mental problems and eventually rendered comatose.

2: "Burning Books," also containing a short interlude titled "Blood of the Queen," is a short metal song about a blind librarian mad at the world for ambiguous reasons.

3: "Hidden in the Trees," a fairly lengthy metal song about a narrator who must serve his gods in their incomprehensible fight against each other, all while coming to terms with his own fading humanity. The liner notes say this song is dedicated to "S. Barbour."

4: "Memento Mori," the continuation of "Hidden in the Trees," an instrumental round of doom metal representing the narrator's acceptance of death.

5: "Perfection," a repetitive and aggressive hate-letter to a controlling and abusive figure.

6: "Is This All?" a subdued and primarily acoustic piece mourning something lost.

The first thing I noticed about that place was the air, cold enough to hurt. The second was the size, even bigger than any of the warehouses above, and most of this was empty space-- blue space, lights shining, illuminating this chamber in a ghastly blue glow. Like a freezer, one big industrial freezer.

It was a prison, alright. All of the four walls were made up of prison cells, with catwalks placed at every row and aisles of staircases to go between. There were constant calls, the cries of the damned and processed. I had reached the sixth circle of Hell, the cold graveyard of the living, the slaughterhouse for those who tried to run from a system so complex that it would take eight blogospheres just to describe it. It would take a blog of this length, over a hundred posts and fifty-thousand words, to write down every name the system has been called. And not one of them is the one it identifies as, its true name, the name that no amount of words can adequately hit, the name we all share and long to be called when we're deep in a fitful sleep, seeking calm, seeking truth, seeking peace, knowing only when we're close to death that we will find it inward rather than out there, over there, not over there, rather in here, in here, where our gods who are no more gods than they are fossils-- remnants of a time when... ... ... ... ....-- where our gods cannot touch, cannot reach, cannot see for the fire, in here, but does a system even have an "in here," or as an abstract complex can a system only act, the broom of our system, the lip mop the drip drop, the real world the wheel word. Not one of them. In here.

Ordinarily I'd delete all that. I'm prone to wandering, and if you think of that as a betrayal of who you think I really am, know that it's only a symptom of my affect. But the experience I had, seeing Hell's Kitchen for the first time, it's one that fills me with dread at the thought (the but). I want to.. convey it.

For this was the Hell's Kitchen of local legend, of contemporary apocrypha. Here was that which summarizes an entire generation, that place over there, not in here.

Do you get me?

As I passed cell after cell of the emaciated modern human, I wondered so many things. Why was I not in there? How did the Genera evolve into this impersonal entity that removes every scrap of dignity-- of agency-- from those it was supposed to protect? How did the world even.. allow this? Was this a flaw of science? Of bureaucracy? Of modernity? Of industry? Of money? Of humanity? Of our gods? Who did this fall down to? Who did this? And how much of this was my responsibility? I read blogs when I was in the same complex as all of this. I kept reading tales of this, and yet I did not even ask. I was not allowed to. But I also knew that I could not be fired.

One last question that did not enter my mind at the time but does now, looking back: Was I sure I wasn't in prison?

I did very little of note while down there. I watched. Most prisoners slept or otherwise rested. Some wrote or drew. Oh, what I'd give to be able to read the literature of those dead souls, to place their pictures in a gallery and sell them for millions of dollars, giving all to the respective artists. Could they buy their freedom? Would the higher-ups let them?

None looked at me. I suppose they were used to Genera workers patrolling the cell blocks.

Further down the staircases, as Doctor Cloud had said, was another floor of cells. Both were packed. Where did all of these people even come from? How is any of this legal?

I did not stay in the seventh floor very long. Instead, I looked for access to the eighth. In between two random cells, in place of the expected cell (I believe it would have been 20-104-H), was an elevator like one would find in a mineshaft. It had one button. I pressed it and took one last look at the scene above.

I do not know how long I rode that elevator. It took me down a depth of 905 feet; I know that much. There was scant light, which might go without saying.

Not even Doctor Cloud knew what lay there on the eighth floor of Fossil Research. When the elevator finally hit the bottom, I expected no less than an unfathomable mouth of madness. Instead, I got a cathedral that presumably spanned 905 feet in height. Or, rather, a hundred feet of stone lay between the cathedral and the prison; I was told that one later. So I suppose that would make it 805 feet? I'm not surprised at this realization. My feeling is something a little darker, with less hope.
The walls were the same sterile white as was the rest of the Genera. In fact a lot of the decor was reminiscent of the facilities above. An entire alcove consisted of filing cabinets, water coolers, fake plants, clocks, whiteboards, and other such office features. This was as much a church of the modern office as it was a church to.. well, I'm getting to that.

In place of pews, I found desks with swivel chairs and a computer for each one, all positioned to face the altar-- a podium in front of a projector screen displaying an ever-scrolling ever-updating command prompt armed with code. Holy code, the script of scripture.

Above it all, in the towering depths upward and in place of stained glass, were blurred glass windows showing into little offices, hundreds of them, covering the entire circular expanse and presumably the entire way up. These were the offices of the higher-ups. And at that moment, every office was occupied-- at every window, I could see a higher-up looking down into the church itself, looking down at me. Watching me with full attention.

The actual church, with all its desk-pews, was empty. I was alone and entirely watched.

I sat down at the nearest desk and looked on the computer. There was nothing. The operating system had been installed many years ago but every file and program was the default. These were all just for show.

But that didn't sound right. The only ones who had clearance to this very out of the way corner of the Genera were those who had pressing reasons to be here, those who came to work. Who did they need to show?

Finally, I took a look at the scrolling code on the projector screen and tried to make sense of it.
It was gibberish. None of it was even in the language recognized by any computer I knew.

That was when the voice spoke.

"Hello, Liquid Len."

It came from the code. I thought I could see a humanoid outline, a bust, made up of the scrolling symbols, but I was likely matrixing. The voice was undeniable, though.

"Welcome to the Topography Genera Center East's head office. My code name is Weightless. How may I help you?"

It was so well-rehearsed, so pitchless, like the pinnacle protohuman more than any individual. It was the perfect voice for the environment.

Finally I spoke. "Hi, Weightless. I understand I have clearance to have all of my questions answered now?"

"Absolutely! We extend our sincerest apologies for the less-than-ideal quality of your experience with the Topography Genera Center East's management so far. In return for your patience and continued cooperation, we hope to establish a working relationship that is more transparent. Would you like to know more?"

"Yeah, I would."

"Our plans for your future role within the Topography Genera Center is one of total equality. You will answer to no one but yourself. All we will ask of you is to maintain the blog provided to you. Does this sound fair to you?"

"I guess."

"Is there something you would rather have?"

"I dunno. Today's been a really stressful day; I don't know if I'm really ready to answer that question."

"Of course."

Then came the pause, the most human part of the conversation thus far.

I remembered what I had come down there for to begin with: "Actually, I have some more questions to ask you."

"Please do, Liquid Len! Your input matters to us."

"First, I want to know about Hell's Kitchen. Why are you keeping so many prisoners?"

"We ensure that lodging conditions are no worse than they would be outside of the Topography Genera Center, we do not require any individual's cooperation with research if they do not consent to it, and testing is never indefinite. Under these conditions, we do not agree that they are 'prisoners.'"

"Then what are they to you?"

"We do not have a word for what we consider them. The closest term is 'children,' or perhaps 'residents.'"

"Could you possibly.. stop, uh, lodging them?" I figured it was worth a shot.

"Understand, Liquid Len, that we do not entirely do this by choice. It is more a necessity than anything else. We require children. We learn from them, they keep us alive, we keep them alive and teach them in return."

"..may I ask who 'we' are?"

"We the Topography Genera Center."

This wasn't answering much. "Alright, what about the Black Masks? Can you tell me about them?"

"It is as Artilleryman told you: It is required, by United Kingdom law, to station one Black Mask agent per Average Person Threatening Phenomenon. Considering the nature of our research, parliament agreed that we require a considerably larger number of agents than, say, a nuclear plant does."

"Because of the Fossils?"

"Because of the Fossils, precisely."

"When, exactly, did this policy become official legislation?"

"The Black Mask Act was passed fairly recently; exactly three weeks have passed. For the record, I have orders to only answer five more of your questions, and then I'm going to put this questioning on hold; is that alright?"

"I mean. Sure."

"Excellent. Good luck getting your questions in order."

"Thanks? Here's one: What happened to the North branch, are we going to do anything to reclaim it?"

"The Topography Genera Center North was a failed experiment. We have held a tribunal amongst ourselves to weigh the results of the experiment, and it was deemed a unanimous 'Dangerous Failure' that requires immediate abort. The site shall be decommissioned in the coming months."

"That's good. So you guys have a way of dealing with EAT?"

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question or perhaps rephrase it?"

"In order to decommission the North branch, I assume you guys have a plan for neutralizing the threat inside? The fake Genera workers, the things that perform terrible things on unconsenting people? EAT?"

"I'm afraid I still don't understand."

"Okay, uh.. are you guys aware of EAT? Like, do you have a file on it or something?"

"There is a FOSSIL TYPE-EAT, yes, but that was a misfiling and has since been rectified. EAT is no threat. EAT is not our problem. The problem in the Topography Genera Center North is FT-PASSACAGLIA, which has contaminated the ventilation and thus rendered all research unreliable."

"I.. now I don't understand. I want to know, from your own mouth: What is EAT?"

There was a longer pause here before Weightless responded. "You do not have access."

"I have access to all of the information you know!"

"You were granted access to the entire Topography Genera Center database. Your question does not fall under that. You do not have access. I do not even have access to that."

"This is bullshit."

"Your questions are up, Liquid Len. Now I must ask you to make a decision: I'm offering you co-management of the Genera. All you would need to do is blog and only blog."

"And if I refuse?"

Something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Why would you want to refuse?"

I was about to answer when I figured out the threat. Weightless was playing a dangerous game, as was I-- and I was at the disadvantage, as I hadn't even recognized the game until too late.

Weightless continued. "It doesn't matter what you blog, only that you write. If your run as co-managing head is deemed successful by our review board, the next step will be a drastic-- and, in my opinion, much needed-- restructuring of the entire Topography Genera Center hierarchy. As you can see, this job offer is a vital experiment, and as such we have gone out of our way to accommodate you to the best of our abilities."

The computer at my desk, giving me a start, displayed a text document-- a contract for me to print out and sign.

I looked at it, not even reading it, just feeling the world close in on me that little bit more. In the corner of my eye, the scrolling prompt on the projector screen got that little bit more complex in its patterns.

It came down to this.

Blog, or die.

Blog updates:
wiseaufan01 brought my attention to the Moonlit Knight:

And then here's the Lost Viking:

Lost Viking news requires more context. There was a big dramatic thing on our rooftop, and just about every Genera employee who wasn't already in the middle of macabre experiments went up there to watch. Hades, or a reborn Hades who was secretly the Lost Viking, punched some dude in the face. Birds were swarming above in storms, it started to rain, and we spectators were ushered back inside, the access to the roof locked off and storm-proofed. Then it sounded like an earthquake.

With me as acting co-manager now of the Topography Genera Center East, some shifty dead-looking suited folk made sure to explain to me, in plain terms, what happened.

Hades has been drowned. Tidal wave. There's nothing left of him anymore, no body can be recovered. That dude he punched was the previous manager, a figure code named NO. He was the highest higher-up you could have gotten, at least until the recent shifting of power. Now it goes even further. Oh yes, further and further and further. But I digress.

The birds were, of course, FT-LARKS. Some of them came with FT-HADES (Subtype VIKING), some of them came with NO, most of them came just because "they were needed," as I'm told. The Larks survived the flood and are now perched on our roof, painting it black with wet feathers, home to roost.

The purpose of all of this was "housekeeping." Afterwards, numerous shady characters entered the Genera via that sealed rooftop door and have been escorted down into the lower levels to "reach a compromise."

I received a formal invitation to the "compromise meetings" on the lower levels. I was escorted by several Black Masks. We rode that long elevator ride in silence, and before I entered the B8 cathedral, I noted that there were buttons implying even lower levels than this.

Seated at the desks were characters I don't know if I expected to see but certainly was not surprised at the sight of: A large bald man in military coat, a perfect marble woman, a clockwork mechanism devoid of discernible shape, a suited man without a face, and NO standing at the podium facing everyone. This was a meeting of the Fossils.

The whole party looked at me as I walked in. I took a deep breath and followed the Black Masks to my desk, the closest one to NO.

NO thanked me for attending and introduced me to the rest: "This is the co-manager of all Topography Genera Center operations." He did not look the least bit wet, despite riding the same tidal wave as FT-HADES had.

The Cremator spoke first. Said he recognized me. Said I don't strike him as manager material.

NO assured him that my promotion represented new directions in the Genera's infrastructure. "Now then, shall we begin?"

The Cremator replied again. "Let me speak for everyone. I understand their concerns. I agree with them. You have been stepping on toes you shouldn't step on. Now you kill Hades. Hades was good man. We hear you plan on taking this further. We don't like this. Don't like it one bit. You are Night Owl, correct?"

I spoke up, at first out of confusion, but then once I'd realized that I had exclaimed louder than intended and that everyone was looking at me again, I followed it up: "I mean. Is he the Night Owl?"

NO smiled. "If I were this terrorist, why would I hide in such plain sight?"

Selkie groaned at this. "There's nothing 'plain' about your hiding place. C'mon. Why do you always want to play games?"

Cremator again: "I apologize. Did not mean to pose it as question. You are the Night Owl. Your plans for life cannot be allowed. I will not allow it."

I'm sure NO cringed, even if he recovered instantly. "You may have your opinions. That's why I called you here: We can find a compromise that suits everyone best. Have you heard of how we're accommodating Homunculi? Similar incentives can be yours too if you listen to reason."

The clockwork mess, which I take to be FT-HOMUNCULI, found a voice to call its own, screeching the word "Yes."

NO again: "Would it make you feel better, Cremator, if I informed you that Hades is alive and well?"

"Prove this."

On the screen behind the podium, scrolling code gave way to a live video feed of a cell in Hell's Kitchen, where the godly Viking lay, unconscious but clearly breathing.

The Birchman and the Cremator stood up, hands on desk, staring in outrage at the feed.

NO then smiled and asked the Black Masks to take me back to my office. "He's seen all he needs to see. Now the rest of us can talk business."

Scilence is my family now.

I see more Black Masks every day. Some guard my office door now. They won't tell me why. It's likely my life is in danger. But it already was. Blog or die.

There's only so long I can blog, though, isn't there?

I don't do anything.

I can't even pretend I'm interested in finding answers anymore. Selkie's alive? Huh. Wow. Not dead? You don't say. The Night Owl ran the Genera? Still runs, really. Yeah, my heart's not in it.

Look. You guys want me to blog. Here's a blog. Blog blog bloggity blog.

The fate of my life hangs on posts on Blogger.

What can you really say about the value of a life, then? Am I a man or an identity?

Am I dead or merely blogging?

Blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog

I hear screaming. The power's gone out. Constant crashing, the whole facility is shaking.

I tried leaving my office. NO was there, shoving me back inside, and he came in with me and shut the door.

He says something about a "project digmit." It's complete. The greatest weapon under Genera control. A living breathing Fossil, manufactured by our best scientists.

"Not even the Birchman stands a chance against this."

I asked if FT-BIRCHMAN is supposed to be a particularly formidable Fossil. I mean, more so than the others.

"There's a reason why the story we spread among the Runners was one of someone standing up to him."

"And that is?"

"If unchecked, he can destroy worlds."

I don't even feel threatened. Or surprised.

"Okay," I said to NO, "clearly there's all kinds of things you haven't told me and probably still won't. But what am I supposed to do? Just sit around in the dark and wait for the screaming to subside?"

"If you want." I heard him clicking something small and metal into place. A gun? "You can come with me if you'd prefer, but it'll be dangerous."

Then the facility shook again, and part of the ceiling above us came crashing down. So I decided to go with him.

NO didn't have a flashlight. We saw where we were going only by holes in the ceiling, and electrical fires. I realized, then, that I was picking sides between two formidable things resembling men in suits. Not the most comforting thought. But I figured whatever "picking" was being done wasn't actually done by me.

Getting out of the Central Information Department was easy, even if it meant stepping over lots of trampled corpses. Any living faces left stared at us in stunned silence. Croakie, lying next to the water cooler with broken leg, dropped his cup of water that he had been guzzling in desperation. David in Duchess's old office was in his chair, his head completely crushed by a fallen ceiling.

Passing the security checkpoint into the entrance of Fossil Research, NO glanced once at the guards, and they shrunk in their chairs.

We didn't even get to Fossil Research. We were approaching the light at the end of that dark tunnel when a gargantuan silhouette blocked our exit and two blaring yellow spheres gazed at us atop a thirteen-foot metal monster.

Just when I thought I was about to finally die, NO surprised me as always by speaking rationally to it. "Liking your new vessel?"

It clicked and whirred, looking at its limbs, looking around itself at the environment around it.

"You still plan on honouring our arrangement, don't you?"

It looked at him for some time. Probably considered how easy it would be to crush him. But ultimately it nodded, which I think has been the worst sign today, even worse than the fact that this thing apparently now exists.

Then it walked past us, and we followed it back out of the Genera.

Standing out there, awaiting us, was FT-BIRCHMAN, the tall man without a face. Now that we were in the light again, I could get a better look at what NO tells me is FT-AD A DGLGMUT, the artificial Fossil. It's tough to get a solid look at, as every part of its body is held together by hallucinogenic mold-- FT-PASSACAGLIA is literally a part of it. But what I do know is that the materials that went towards Dglgmut were machine and flesh. A lot of machine and a lot of flesh.

The Birchman gathered all of its strength, preparing a most unholy concentrated burst of branch and monstrous tentacle to assault the monstrosity. But Dglgmut only took one movement to grab that featureless head and crush it, assimilating it into the whole.

And just like that, the Birchman was no more. Whatever flesh Dglgmut left behind was picked apart by Larks, and I was taken back to my office, where the power had returned again.

The Fossils all over the world are waging war against the Genera and its machinations of horror. I can't leave my office without seeing my coworkers, or what's left of them, acting as the personal battlegrounds of gods. Every immortal power wants FT-AD A DGLGMUT to be destroyed, and it just the same wants them dead.

wiseaufan01's words ring in my head: "Why is it doing this?"

I feel ill. I don't know if that's a natural ill or a worse omen. I need to lie down.

I am all that's left.
In this facility, for all I know in the world.
All outside contact I get anymore, all news I hear, is of worldwide flooding.
Everyone in the Genera is part of the same mind as NO.
The exceptions are followers of Fossils waiting to die.
My mind is not my own.
I hear a voice. His name is Gestas.
I can't have long left.
I await the end.
I want it now.

Today I was taken from my office to Fossil Research. Taken on a stretcher, told not to move, not to resist treatment.
NO ordered the best doctors-- who, themselves, are of the same mind as him and know as much of medical treatment as he does-- to give me an Op-Salad. Brain surgery.
They got Gestas out of me.
I was given anaesthetics.
I am being kept alive, being kept comfortable, being spared.
I alone on this Earth.
NO will not tell me why.
Is there even a reason?

I sneaked out of my room and jumped out a window. The Genera brought me back.
I stole a Black Mask's gun and fired through my brain. The Genera brought me back.
I cut my limbs off one by one. The Genera put them back on.
I laid on the ground in front of a moving truck. The Genera brought me back.
The Genera will not let me die. It will not tell me why.
I hear no more news. For all I know, there is no longer a "rest of the world."
The Fossils know now that I am the Genera's favourite, and so they spend every day trying to help me die.
And the Genera spends every day keeping me alive.

I've wandered these streets until I've been blue in the face.
I'm sure I saw Liquid Len in here somewhere. I'm sure someone's recording everything I say.
And I suspect I've said all of this before.
This has all happened before, hasn't it? Somewhere else, in some other point in time.
There is no science anymore. (Was there ever? Was it all just some lie I told myself to get to sleep?) There are only bad dreams.

I have no will to blog anymore. EAT has taken that will from me.