Bradley Vaval, Period 1, 6/1/22

Hexafluoride, Installment 2:

You abruptly click a button on the box. The box is now silent. You don’t know why you did this, it just felt right. Almost like you needed a second to reevaluate the environment you found yourself in. The uncertainty that filled you not too long ago was no more. You didn’t know any more than you did a couple of seconds ago, but you faced the walls and the lifeless waters above with resentment. A cold, bitter resentment. Resentment towards what? You’re not exactly sure. Empowered with a fit of impulsive determination, fueled by the sour aftertaste of wallowing in resentment, you make what to you seemed to be the most significant decision you’ve made since coming to. You decided to get up.

You firmly plant your bony, weirdly distant palms on the floor. To your surprise, there is something on them. “A shield protecting you from the cruel desolate world, so graciously descending from the heavens, woven just for you from various linens and carbon fiber.” or at least that’s what you’d imagine Ben the box man would say. Must be one of those infamous suits they spoke of. You’re grateful to have one, despite its dull, beaten up, and frankly ugly appearance. Words often came to you like that, in your head. It was natural, shockingly so, but you had no idea what they meant, nor did it matter. But the box never said these things, you’re sure of it, and what the box says, goes. You remember everything the box has told you like the back of your hand. Hand, right.

The floor greets your hand through its soft, yet rigid exterior. The stiffness of the ground reverberated back up your arm and through your body. You shutter in response, recollect yourself, and continue. Your elbow locks and the silt around your hand whispers as it makes way for your rise. You put the box, which had been resting tightly in your other hand on the ground beside you, making sure the buttons still glow, so there’s no chance that you’d lose it. You’re not exactly eager about leaving the box on its own but “in order for progress to be made, there must first be sacrifices”, this time in Raj’s voice. 

Both hands, ten digits, firmly planted pushed down on the earth below, and as you stood your knees buckled and with them, the suit. Metallic clanging rang through the narrow tunnels around you. As the sound traveled, and you readjusted, the world reacted with an assortment of rustles and subtle glows. Occasional snap or crack. It was unnerving. Loose bits on your suit were afloat, calling out to the water above, as if you were falling, or atop an updraft. Some dust you had kicked up behaved the same way rising like bubbles in a glass of coke until they hit the water, cooled, and fell back down. Just as you were about to congratulate yourself, you notice the box is in midair slowly rising as the dirt around you did. You panic, jolt towards the box almost tripping, jump and clench the box with all your remaining strength. As you land, you hit a button on accident. The box speaks, hesitantly. 

“L-Log Date,” under her breath, “that’s what he’d always say, right? Whatever.” It’s Sarah speaking. She pauses and then continues. “I’m not entirely sure what to say, but I-I don’t have much of a choice. He wanted to keep these going, so I’m going to respect his wishes. Ben he-” Her voice is broken, fragile, and weak. Your fists clench, one around the box, and lean against the wall behind you. You feel you’ll need it for what you’re about to hear. She swallows and then continues.

“The vines. Don’t touch ‘em. They’re actually not vines at all y’see. These demons, it must be some cruel joke. They’re fishing. Almost like lilypads these flat creatures who could feasibly be mistaken for a rock in an upside-down circus freakshow in a place like this float on the barrier and drop what I think are their tongues. They lie in wait for an earnest, hard-working, charismatic guy who did no wrong to stumble into one.” Sarah starts crying. “I-It was for me. He was looking around because of me! I had just said that I don’t know how much longer I could keep going on my in-suit rations, and so he took it upon himself to start chopping at every goddamn thing in this place. The damned idiot. How could he do that to me, leave me like that,” She laughs. “I figured that I should at least try and get his story out there, y’know. He’s got an audience waiting on him. This world needs his voice. So if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll cling to this damned tape recorder. And if I’m gonna get out of here, I’m going to need some sort of nutrients in me. I collected a bit of shrooms. Figured if I’m gonna be able to eat anything it’ll be one of these. Don’t know if they’re safe. Worst possible outcome? Death. I don’t have much choice.” You look down at your chest. There’s a nameplate on your suit.
“If you hear from me again, that means the fungi are safe to eat. Well at least in the short term. Enough stalling. I’ll catch you on the flipside.” The box stalls. The tape is finished. The button clacks back up. You read the nameplate. It reads “Dr. Sarah Fletcher”.