The footage began.
Below it, in different handwriting not my own: “This is the key. Do not use it.” AAJ-012 AV D100 l 2 - g b v D
We watched for ninety-three minutes. By the end, the two technicians with me could no longer recall their own names. I had written nothing down — because I had never intended to. My hands had moved on their own, transcribing symbols I did not recognize. The footage began
The container itself was unremarkable — a D100 series storage cube, lead-lined, sealed with biometric locks long since depowered. The “l 2” in the code indicated a Level 2 cognitive clearance requirement. The final six symbols — “g b v D” — were a checksum of sorts. Or a warning. By the end, the two technicians with me
When I looked at the page later, it just said:
A room. White walls. A single chair. A figure sat facing away from the camera, its outline blurring at the edges — not a recording artifact, but something intrinsic to the subject. The audio was a low hum, then a voice, layered over itself in several keys at once:
The container was resealed. The tape was not destroyed — because no one could agree on whether destroying it was possible. The new label we affixed read: