Uncharted Descent

“Anything on your end?”

“Negative.”

“Damnit—We’ve been at this for four hours. Only have so much oxygen in these tanks, you know?”

“Should we head back?”

“Absolutely not! We can’t keep showing up empty-handed!”

“Yeah, but if we stay much longer, we won’t come back at all! Just another statistic for the higher-ups to sweep under the rug.”

“Yeah, and what do you think happens when we fail for the third time in a row? With all the information we know? Everything they had us sign? I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re dead either way. So quit your chatter and head down that coral path!” The lead exploration officer explains.

The other two share a brief, annoyed glance before reluctantly heading down a coral reef—or at least that’s what the researchers think it is. The endless rows of mangled silhouettes lack luster and lineage to the colorful coral in the surface waters. More so, they stretch like the decrepit limbs of lost explorers, the echo of their screams still fresh in the minds of their colleagues. The two of which continue forward, each step causing sand to stir and swirl, though it lacks the charm of crystal beaches. It’s dimmer—greyer—a change the researchers think occurred from natural debris such as volcanic ash or broken dust from earthquakes across the globe. Either way, this newly discovered ocean below the surface waters is a far cry from the glorified, well-versed waters above. The only colors hail from the rust of discarded machines and the black stain of blood in the sand.

One of the two gulps while the other uses a scanner to gather research on everything they pass, silently hoping at least one will prove to be a new discovery so they can get back to base. After about seven minutes or so, the device finally dings. The two sigh and laugh nervously in relief, not even caring about what they’ve found as they run back to the shuttle, expecting and exclaiming their discovery to the lead officer…but no one’s there. The shuttle remains, however, its light flickering into the abyss in warning. Off put, the two venture back into the shuttle, calling their leader’s name to no response. Suddenly, the scanner makes another noise: the familiar beep indicating the presence of their newest discovery. This time, the explorer hesitantly touches the screen, and the image of a large infrared blur instantly covers the radar. The two share a confused look... until the shuttle suddenly rumbles and shakes, the sound of something banging against it outside.

“Agh! What the hell was that?! Did a rock just fall on us?!” One exclaims in terror.

The other grips the scanner tightly with one hand, their other arm on the shuttle’s sonar monitor. His eyes widen at the sight of the large blip on the screen, making an instant U-turn.

“No—shit! Get us out of here, now!”

The two scramble to start the shuttle, the previous hit having caused damage to their systems. Neither has time even to hit the "SOS" button before the glass of the shuttle shatters as water envelops the cabin. The lights flicker like lightning as a large mouth covers the entire front of the shuttle. Slimy tendrils dart around like a million tongues, flicking around until they find the drowning men being crushed like grapes under a tractor tire. The excruciating pain and silent screams of blood only deplete what little oxygen they once held that much faster. The tendrils wrap around them, dragging them into the mouth of a monstrous silhouette full of wriggling appendages that look like magnified worms, or if the human tongue had hairs itself. As the last bit of power from the shuttle kicks off, both the surrounding sands and the world the men once knew go black.

August 30th, two weeks later...

An old studio apartment downtown looms over the roads below, its shadow casting a blanket of darkness over passing pedestrians. Adults off to work, kids scrambling to school...and somehow every horn in a five-mile radius blaring through the bustling city streets. Through the curtains of a particular room, a dim bedroom sits with a queen bed inside, covered in sheets that look like they just went through the aftermath of a murder scene struggle. Yet there was no struggle--well, aside from the struggle of a young woman trying to fall asleep, that is.

She lies amidst the sheets tattered in every direction imaginable, her hair in a similar messy state as her body rises and falls with deep subconscious breaths. She eventually stirs, not needing much of an alarm with the morning traffic to rise to. She yawns, sitting up just to sit and stare out the window for a few minutes before very reluctantly getting out of bed, stretching. She takes one look at herself in the bathroom mirror and frowns, touching her fair, freckled face and the morning mess of raven hair. She doesn't even bother with detangler, brushing her hair, and getting ready for the day with minimal effort. She throws on a hoodie and sweatpants, pushing out the door despite her feet dragging with every movement. Her soul itself seems to protest as she forces herself to walk all the way down the street to a quaint little diner on the corner. One of those places that prides itself on "the experience" as an excuse to upcharge shitty food to ungodly prices.

The place was built in the 50's as a family-owned restaurant and hasn't changed a day since. For both better and worse...the air simultaneously reeks of mildew and old-fashioned fried junk that, honestly, doesn't taste half bad half the time. But the tiles are worn and cracked in some places, and the jukebox, which isn't even close to the other pieces of decor, has been out of order longer than the smell of old cigarettes in the bathrooms. The bell rings as she enters, the speakers softly blasting '50s classics as a waitress dressed in a classic uniform jumps out from behind the bar.

"Well, hello, stranger! How may I help-" Her entire act breaks as the two women lock eyes.

"... never mind. It's just you."

"'Just me'? Don't get too excited there, Trish."

Trish rolls her eyes, the dark curls of hair bouncing in the required pulled-back bun look.

"Girl, you'd best get that uniform on! If Markus comes out here and sees you lookin' like a hobo-"

"Ugh, Markus is working?! Great. Fantastic."

"Don't let him hear you! Just clock in and head to the bathroom."

"Yep. Love ya, Trish."

"You're lucky I love you, too, Sam. Really."

Sam moves to the restroom, changing in a stall with practiced efficiency and speed as she strips down and zips up, not wanting to smell the smoke any longer than she has to. Of course, she didn't always change in the Fumoir. Once upon a time, most employees changed in the old utility closet--until, of course, one day, one of the chefs realized and secretly put a camera in the right-hand corner. No one's sure what he did with the footage or how long it was in there--only that it was a younger waitress who found the camera and shrieked loud enough for the manager at the time, Nick, to open the door and her half-naked body to stumble out in front of staff and the afternoon rush guests. No one saw her after that, and even though the camera was removed and we all knew who did it, there wasn't enough circumstantial evidence for the police to do anything, and the owner couldn't risk losing a chef. So it's been the restrooms ever since.

Once done, Sam finds herself sweeping the dining area as the morning customers begin to flood inside, a hum of chatter mixing with the monotonous motions of sweeping. Trish greets customers in her sickly cheery voice, and, for the most part, everything goes as well as it ever does. The day is boring and long as quitting time approaches. Sam finds herself scrubbing the top of the bar as Trish has her break in the back. Then suddenly, the bell rings. Sam sighs deeply before putting up a smile.

"Hello, stranger! How may I help you tonight?" she asks before faltering at the sight of the man before her, dressed in dark clothing, a hat, and sunglasses despite it being the dead of night.

Instead of speaking, he walks over to the booth in the corner and waits. Sam gulps quietly and walks over with a pad and pen in a more delicate tone.

"What can I get you, sir?"

No response. She waits until she sees him move his hand to his pocket before sliding a card across the table. She reluctantly takes it with a napkin to ensure her fingerprints don't get on the card. It reads "ETHRA", a well-known Mega corp that supposedly prides itself on the health of all things, renewable energy research, and a bunch of other bullshit she can't be bothered to care about. To Sam, it doesn't matter how many times you rebrand--once a weapon-based corporation, always a weapon-based corporation. The extra zest doesn't wipe away the bloodshed. She frowns as the strange man finally speaks.

"You can sit down. We have a proposition for you, Miss Stryker."

"I don't go by that name anymore."

"Well, it's the one you're known for--or would you prefer Agent Rambo?" he asks, making her tense and sit down with a more serious and threatening tone.

"The hell do you want from me?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm just the messenger! As I said, we have a proposition for you."

"Fine, fine--if it gets you to leave."

He smiles and subtly hands her a vanilla envelope full of hardcopy documents, files, and photos. The contents surround recent disappearances, a top-secret base in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and undisclosed--unmonitored--experimentation. Sam frowns. The more she reads, the more her wariness and agitation morph into concern and understanding.

"...I see. Though it looks like you already have quite the team on this."

He sighs.

"We have the best of the best, but--they lack team skills. More so, it's like they're physically incapable of working together without some kind of disagreement or argument, despite the information they've collected. And the current lead? He's a lone wolf type, used to brooding alone rather than leading a team of adrenaline junkies. Which is where you come in."

"So, to summarize: you want me to lead a group of ex-operatives, hired guns, and professional assassins onto a boat, to a highly secure government research base, and stop whatever it is they're planning before we all come home in one piece? What's the catch?" she asks firmly.

"The catch is you'll get paid for it. Handsomely. But you might risk federal prison."

She scoffs at that.

"Prison, right, anyways--how much money are we talking?"

He leans in a bit, whispering: "How does a quarter million sound?"

She pauses, wanting to take the time to think...but between the money and the fact that Markus could be out any minute, she eventually sighs with a small smirk.

"I'm in."

"Excellent news, Ms. Stryker. I'll inform the boss at once."

"Still not my name."

The agent chuckles as he stands, adjusting his tie.

"Oh, trust me. You might want to use it. That is--if you want to return to this grease-stained life you've built when you're done."