Pruner’s Report
Status: Closed
Groundsman Assigned: Evans, Benjamin
Overhead Assigned: Dr. Lancaster, Robert
Overhead Notes: Set a meeting with Evans. Satisfactory work is no excuse for borderline insubordination.
Report extracted postmortem from specimen.
It is difficult for me to state this story in a way that is understandable. The words flow from me even as I try to make sense of them. I am trying to lean on a book I hold in my hands now for formatting, though I apologize if I get lost along the way. It is hard to keep things organized in my mind.
Once upon a time, there was a man. He was ordinary in most ways. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about him was how content he was in his mediocrity. Because he’d always known his purpose.
He was a man of faith, and so purpose was deeply important to him. Whether it is the God he praised who gave him his mission or not matters little. What matters is that he always knew his role in life. He would help somebody extraordinary. His assistance and care would guide somebody far greater than himself towards their own destiny. He was content in this.
He tried many avenues, volunteering for various projects and charities, waiting to feel the deep satisfaction for which he longed. Still, he could get by on gentle contentment in the meantime.
He was not a wealthy man, and oftentimes his working to provide a meal for another would result in himself going without. It was in this way he lived for the first many years of his life.
When he met his love he knew instantly she was special. She pulled him from his quiet happiness and cast him into something far bolder, a time of ups and downs, of great and awful days in turn. It was as if she had woken him out of a sleep he never knew he was in.
He was overseas, volunteering his time at an orphanage, when he got word that he would be a father. He received a letter from his beloved, and though it terrified him to his core, he had never been happier. For finally his life had true purpose. This child was his reason for being.
The ship he boarded to return home was unremarkable, as was the storm that overtook them on the third day. When he fell over the side it was by unremarkable, uncaring, chance. That, and perhaps a slightly remarkably non compliant safety railing. The last thing he felt was not fear, even as he felt the air leaving his lungs. It was confusion. How could he die now, without fulfilling his purpose? It made no sense. He died, and his story ended.
Once upon a time there was a thing, deep below the surface of the water. It was a simple thing, barely sentient by the traditional definition. It was a scavenger, eating what remained of the bodies of things greater than itself. When it didn’t search for food, still it scavenged. Because it felt something was missing.
It was a basic, instinctive desire. It needed a shell. It had tried that like those used by other creatures of the deep, but found them restrictive. It wriggled itself deep inside the bodies from which it ate. This was better, though it quickly learned that eating from the body first was unwise. It could connect to the body, commanding its movement just as the now dead creature had once done itself. It guided many creatures in this way, from the tiniest prey to the greatest predator. It became deeply powerful in this way, scaring off any who came near with the ferocious outcry of a spare beast’s throat. It could even hunt its own food this way, though it found this strangely repulsive.
This was good. It felt right. But still it searched. It tried new bodies, new combinations. It even attempted to overtake a living creature it managed to get into, but that didn’t last long. It still felt incomplete.
One day a new husk was near its home. This was unlike any corpse it had seen before, the anatomy all wrong, stretched in ways that made little sense for its subaquatic environment. But there was a draw to this husk, and so it made its way forward. There was no open wound into which it could squirm, and while it was clear the thing had been crushed under a great weight, this only made it more difficult. Still, eventually it managed to burrow through this broken thing. It entered, connecting itself to this new shell’s system. As it did it felt a moment of primal pleasure, as if it had done something deeply right. Then, just as it overtook the new shell’s limbs, it felt something shift. The thing was responding. Waking. It felt a great pain, like nothing it had ever experienced before. It died, and its story ended.
Once upon a time there was me. When I woke I was on shore. I know not how I got there. My instinct is to thank God for this miracle. Perhaps. Either way, it took me hours of careful shifting to get myself in a shape resembling those I spied walking nearby. One man found me while I was still adjusting my face back into an acceptable form. He ran, luckily. I managed to shamble to a different place to hide until I looked how I felt I was supposed to. I looked passably human, if not entirely like the human who’s shell I piloted.
I didn’t know where I was going at first. Just shambling, wandering. Realistically it had to be weeks, maybe months. I hid when I could. I spoke to some people, but language was hard. There are so many muscles to shift just so to make the correct sounds. It wasn’t until I was standing outside the building that I realized where I was.
When I knocked on the door of the apartment which was inhabited by the man’s lover, I felt a strange mix of things. Excitement perhaps? Yes, that excitement of a possible future opening ahead. Nervousness? Yes, the nerves of somebody with nowhere to go but where they are right now. Fear? Yes. Yes, that deep fear that everything you have placed your dreams upon will look at you with nothing but disgust.
She screamed when she opened the door. It had been a long time since she’d seen her lover, but she still knew the face was wrong. The first thing I said to her was a lie. “It’s me. I’ve come home to you.” Because I’m not the man she loved. The second thing I said was true. “I love you.” Because I did. I do. I’m not the man she loved. I’m not the searching thing from the depths either. It’s not as if one has overtaken the other, nor do they share a space, arguing or taking turns. I’m something new, born of the fusion of two utterly incompatible things to the point where I cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. And so, while I’m not the person who loved her for all that time, I still feel that love to my core.
I understand, of course. I understand why she reacted that way. I don’t even understand what I am, how could I expect her to? Still, it hurt. And so I fled. I hid nearby, watching. I don’t know why. Maybe I wanted to reach out again. Maybe I was trying to keep an eye out, protect her. Honestly, I think I just didn’t have anywhere else to go. And so I saw when that man started arriving. He smiled politely enough, but there was a coldness to his eyes. I think she saw it too, but she let him in. I think she was trying to find me. As I understand, he’s a sort of investigator, or so he claimed. And he has connections in the police, because when her building burnt it took just long enough for authorities to arrive.
I saved him though. The child. My child? No, not exactly. But I saved him. I couldn’t save her, she was tied to a chair when the fire started. It spread over her long before I arrived. I managed to save the baby, and I managed to grab a book. I don’t know why I grabbed it in that moment of soot and fear. Still, it calms him when I read it.
I know the hunter is coming for me. I’ve seen him, heard him just outside my nest as I flee. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Is it such a sin for me to exist? Is it so evil for me to want to care for this child? I’m terrified what the man will do if he catches me. Not to me. I know death is often just a change, a shift in perspective. But my son. And he is. He is my son. And I don’t want to lose him too. I can’t.
I don’t remember where I am. I heard the man. He was so close. He… he took him. My son. He took my son and he lured me to that place. He burnt the book. The book I hold… I watched it burn. I watched myself burn. I died, and my story ended. So why is my story being pulled from me? Why can’t I rest? Why can’t I…
-Connection severed due to specimen’s rapid decay-
Groundsman Observations: This was a relatively easy one. Thing didn’t even put up a fight. And the woman practically begged me to take on the case. All of the fucking Guild’s paperwork is a pain in the ass, but I won’t deny the perks. She didn’t even want the thing hunted. She wanted to talk to it, see if any of her fiancé was left. People really don’t know how to move on.
Specimen fully dealt with, all loose ends have been neatly severed. Hope this satisfies your report Rob. If not, you can take it up in person.