08-30-2025, 11:34 PM
Kaelan watched as this local took the specimen pouch with a tenderness that sent an unfamiliar pang of guilt through him. Not because he’d done something wrong, but because the man clearly believed he had.
He opened his mouth to object. To explain the purpose of sterilized containment, but closed it again. No explanation would help. Not here. Not with this one.
When the stranger spoke again, “You zippered him,” Kaelan flinched inwardly. He felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up his neck despite the cold. His breath rasped inside the mask.
“Well, it’s protocol,” he mumbled, too softly to sound convincing. “Containment standards. It's not personal.”
The man didn’t argue. He just… accepted it. Forgiveness granted on behalf of a rock with a name.
Kaelan had heard of unstable people before. Colleagues who cracked under pressure, researchers driven mad by self-funded isolation, or the outright insane locked up in asylums (he checked into it for a while). But this was different. There was no static in the man’s eyes. No manic twitching. He wasn’t broken. He was… aligned. With something. Something Kaelan couldn’t see.
Then came the words that made his heart catch: “I know what you’re looking for. The black that hums.”
Kaelan straightened, eyes narrowing slightly despite his fear. He’d never described it that way. No paper ever had. Not even the old Soviet ones buried in half-redacted files. Hums? Fungi didn’t hum. They didn’t vibrate or emit sound, at least not in ways human ears could detect. Unless… it was a metaphor. Or a reference to spore dispersal patterns? Bioacoustic fields? Maybe electromagnetic feedback from radiation-rich environments?
The man turned and began to walk away, calling over his shoulder.
Kaelan stood frozen for one long, stupid moment. Every part of him screamed to let the man go. To turn back. Return to the van. Seal up the samples. Report the encounter. Leave.
But he also knew—knew in his gut, where real things live, that if he lost this thread, he would never find it again.
“…Wait,” Kaelan called, catching up before he could change his mind. “Yes. Alright. I’ll come with you.”
He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but didn’t take them back. As they walked, Kaelan found himself speaking not with confidence, but with the scattered rhythm of a man trying not to think about what he was doing.
“So, uh, what should I call you?” he asked, glancing sideways. “If you don’t mind me asking. I’m Kaelan. Dr. Kaelan Muller. Geneticist.”
Silence stretched. He filled it.
“You’ve been out here a long time, haven’t you?”
“I mean… I assume. You seem to know your way around better than the guides.”
“I didn’t even think anyone lived here anymore. Not legally, I mean.”
The words spilled out, stuttering and uneven. It was either talk or scream. They passed beneath twisted trees and into the shadow of the ruined tower blocks. Concrete husks with windows like open mouths. The air shifted. The damp bite of marsh gave way to the dry cold of still air. It was quieter here. Protected.
The man led him into a building’s broken shell, stepping through a doorway whose frame had warped into a permanent lean.
Inside, it was strangely preserved. Dust-coated, but dry. The shattered glass had been swept into a corner. Rusted cans and collapsed furniture marked signs of habitation, not recent, but not ancient either.
Kaelan’s Geiger counter, which had been ticking steadily for hours, slowed. He exhaled, shoulders loosening just a fraction. Radiation wasn’t gone, but the spike had eased. That comforted him more than it should have.
He slipped his pack off and rested it on a broken chair, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His voice was calmer now, though still faintly tremulous.
“This is… safer than I expected,” he admitted. “I appreciate you leading me here. Really. If this is near where you’ve seen the colonies growing, I’d love to learn more. Even observational notes could be useful. Especially if there’s a correlation with local fauna or water lines. I’m interested in anything that seems to… interact with it. You mentioned humming?”
Kaelan offered a smile again: tight, uncertain. An awkward attempt at being friendly. “Just trying to understand what we’re dealing with, is all.”
He opened his mouth to object. To explain the purpose of sterilized containment, but closed it again. No explanation would help. Not here. Not with this one.
When the stranger spoke again, “You zippered him,” Kaelan flinched inwardly. He felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up his neck despite the cold. His breath rasped inside the mask.
“Well, it’s protocol,” he mumbled, too softly to sound convincing. “Containment standards. It's not personal.”
The man didn’t argue. He just… accepted it. Forgiveness granted on behalf of a rock with a name.
Kaelan had heard of unstable people before. Colleagues who cracked under pressure, researchers driven mad by self-funded isolation, or the outright insane locked up in asylums (he checked into it for a while). But this was different. There was no static in the man’s eyes. No manic twitching. He wasn’t broken. He was… aligned. With something. Something Kaelan couldn’t see.
Then came the words that made his heart catch: “I know what you’re looking for. The black that hums.”
Kaelan straightened, eyes narrowing slightly despite his fear. He’d never described it that way. No paper ever had. Not even the old Soviet ones buried in half-redacted files. Hums? Fungi didn’t hum. They didn’t vibrate or emit sound, at least not in ways human ears could detect. Unless… it was a metaphor. Or a reference to spore dispersal patterns? Bioacoustic fields? Maybe electromagnetic feedback from radiation-rich environments?
The man turned and began to walk away, calling over his shoulder.
Kaelan stood frozen for one long, stupid moment. Every part of him screamed to let the man go. To turn back. Return to the van. Seal up the samples. Report the encounter. Leave.
But he also knew—knew in his gut, where real things live, that if he lost this thread, he would never find it again.
“…Wait,” Kaelan called, catching up before he could change his mind. “Yes. Alright. I’ll come with you.”
He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but didn’t take them back. As they walked, Kaelan found himself speaking not with confidence, but with the scattered rhythm of a man trying not to think about what he was doing.
“So, uh, what should I call you?” he asked, glancing sideways. “If you don’t mind me asking. I’m Kaelan. Dr. Kaelan Muller. Geneticist.”
Silence stretched. He filled it.
“You’ve been out here a long time, haven’t you?”
“I mean… I assume. You seem to know your way around better than the guides.”
“I didn’t even think anyone lived here anymore. Not legally, I mean.”
The words spilled out, stuttering and uneven. It was either talk or scream. They passed beneath twisted trees and into the shadow of the ruined tower blocks. Concrete husks with windows like open mouths. The air shifted. The damp bite of marsh gave way to the dry cold of still air. It was quieter here. Protected.
The man led him into a building’s broken shell, stepping through a doorway whose frame had warped into a permanent lean.
Inside, it was strangely preserved. Dust-coated, but dry. The shattered glass had been swept into a corner. Rusted cans and collapsed furniture marked signs of habitation, not recent, but not ancient either.
Kaelan’s Geiger counter, which had been ticking steadily for hours, slowed. He exhaled, shoulders loosening just a fraction. Radiation wasn’t gone, but the spike had eased. That comforted him more than it should have.
He slipped his pack off and rested it on a broken chair, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His voice was calmer now, though still faintly tremulous.
“This is… safer than I expected,” he admitted. “I appreciate you leading me here. Really. If this is near where you’ve seen the colonies growing, I’d love to learn more. Even observational notes could be useful. Especially if there’s a correlation with local fauna or water lines. I’m interested in anything that seems to… interact with it. You mentioned humming?”
Kaelan offered a smile again: tight, uncertain. An awkward attempt at being friendly. “Just trying to understand what we’re dealing with, is all.”