Arcadia Chapter 1.2

The slender tentacles lengthened every second. Soon, the white tentacles that filled the circular petri dish began to slosh over the low rim and invade the top of the lab bench. It looked as if each and every strand had a will of its own. Bumpy goosebumps covered his forearms. Shuddering in horror, Van let out a groan.

“What is this…”

The longest tentacle extended, tapping the lab bench as if gauging its width. The several thin tentacles, which had been divided, merged into one, creating a thick mass. Van carefully sat down in the chair and silently watched the thing that was gradually growing in size.

It looked a bit like a jellyfish, and a bit like a snail, but it also seemed to be neither. He had no idea what it was, but he knew for certain that it was horribly disgusting.

As Van stared blankly at ‘it’ with a confused heart, he jumped in surprise and fumbled at his thigh. The old-fashioned phone he’d put in his pants pocket was buzzing. Whirrr. He hurriedly took out the phone and flipped it open, and an unusual number composed of a string of zeros appeared on the screen. He quickly pressed the call button and brought it to his ear.

— Van Clark?

A voice mixed with mechanical noise called his name. Van stared at ‘it’, which was steadily increasing in volume, and carefully opened his mouth.

“Michel?”

— You’ve probably heard the gist of it. From now on, contact will be once a week. Make sure you have the phone with you at all times.

The modulated voice just reeled off precautions instead of answering his question. Unable to find any trace of Michel in the unique accent, Van guessed that the person on the other end was another individual involved in this matter. He tried to recall Michel’s lab colleagues who sometimes visited the house, but it was so long ago that he couldn’t even remember their names. He was curious about the identity of the person who called, but if they were going to the trouble of disguising their voice, it was unlikely he’d get an answer even if he asked.

“…Explain first. What this is, and where Michel is.”

— If you’re curious, search around there. He probably left something. So, how is it doing?

As Van looked around the basement for what Michel might have left, he froze for a moment at the unexpected question about ‘it’s well-being. When he couldn’t speak for a while, a voice suppressing laughter came from the other end.

— You touched it.

“What? Touched what. What are you talking about…”

— You’re going to lie?

As if they were watching from somewhere, the other person’s tone was confident that a problem had occurred. Van hesitantly added an unconvincing excuse, saying that something had changed, but he hadn’t touched anything.

— Impossible. You must have touched it. Well, it doesn’t matter.

The person concluded that it was his mistake, then mumbled the end of their sentence. The response was nonchalant, as if they had already anticipated the worst-case scenario. Why were they cornering him if they had no intention of listening to his excuses? Annoyed, Van wrinkled his nose and took advantage of the slight pause to look inside again.

‘It’, which had been fidgeting against the wall, was slithering up to the ceiling of the acrylic box. It could move? His jaw dropped. The mass, which had now settled in the corner between the ceiling and the wall, was curled up into a ball that would fill both hands and was gently pulsating up and down. It was a form that the word ‘disgusting’ could not fully capture. Shuddering with revulsion, he averted his gaze.

— I can’t talk for long, so listen carefully. You have to solve the problem you caused, right? If you want to get the rest of the money, that is.

“Wait a minute.”

Van let out a hollow laugh and cut him off. He hadn’t said a single word about accepting the contract, yet the other person was getting way ahead of himself.

— Why.

“Is this money real? Not counterfeit?”

There was a moment of silence from the other end. This was a very important question. Van tapped the desk with his index finger and waited quietly. The mechanical voice remained silent for a long time before affirming with a sound like escaping air.

— It’s real. If you don’t believe me, you can check it.

“And the million dollars is real too?”

— …Yes.

The finger tapping the desk stopped. His gaze, which had been fixed on the banknotes, returned to the lab bench. It had been a sight he wanted to ignore all along, but now it looked like some kind of work of art. A very, very expensive work of art that he, being uneducated, found difficult to understand.

— Can I speak now?

“Of course. By all means.”

As soon as Van gave his magnanimous reply, the low mechanical voice continued, speaking quickly but with clear pronunciation.

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Van ran a hand through his dry hair. With his hair a mess, he quickly scribbled down the instructions he’d been given on the back of the letter Michel had left.

First, do not touch. Don’t lay a hand on it, don’t talk to it, and don’t stare at it for long.

Second, maintain a certain distance and record everything about ‘it’ every 6 hours.

Third, be prepared for any eventuality. But never kill it.

The pen, after making a period, went back up the sentences and drew a thick line under ‘any eventuality’. Van, who had been quietly listening to the other person’s instructions, had expressed his doubts at this part. He was relieved that the million dollars hadn’t gone down the drain, but the phrase reeked of something fishy.

The other person had smoothly moved on with a frightening warning that because they couldn’t contact him often due to circumstances, his judgment was crucial. He belatedly remembered that he had been so distracted by the pay that he had failed to press for Michel’s whereabouts, but the call had already ended. The pen nib tapped out a messy dot.

Should I just run? His irresponsible true feelings popped out. There was no one around, and screwing over a distant family member wasn’t so bad either. With his arms crossed, Van mapped out an escape plan in his head before clicking his tongue. If he were to disappear just like that, the payment of ten times the advance dangled before his eyes. Besides, although it was suspicious as all hell, the difficulty of the mission itself seemed low.

Pacing at a crossroads of indecision, Van suddenly stood up and went to the steel bookshelf set up against one wall. He ran his fingers over the books with titles that didn’t even register in his eyes and examined the shelf. He had said there would be something left, and the clue was found so easily it was anticlimactic.

“So sloppy.”

Van pulled out a thick binder that was placed there as if for show. He flipped over the cover, on which ‘SUC—PROJECT’ was scrawled in black marker, and saw familiar handwriting on yellowed paper.

Van, who had been leaning against the bookshelf, staggered backward and sat down on the chair. He pushed the chair with its flimsy wheels back and began to read. Michel’s handwriting was elegant, a world away from his own chicken scratch, but the content it held was so bizarre that it was a waste of the penmanship.

1977, abandoned research facility discovered near the Arctic Ocean. Secured 7 biological cells in storage. Research conducted in secret at this Delta Research Facility. Isolate the unidentified lifeforms, and determine the purpose for which they were created, or for which they came here.

A snort of laughter escaped him. The story was so absurd that he wondered if he had watched a strange movie, and his furrowed brow would not smooth out. When he turned the next page, ‘Original Shredded. Partial Copy’ was written briefly on white paper smudged with black ink.

SUC—PROJECT

Judging by the bold title, it seemed to be a copy of a research log, but it was difficult to read properly due to the faded and smudged ink in places. Just when he thought he could barely read it, unfamiliar words, to the point where it was hard to say they were using the same language, appeared more than three times in a single line.

He tried to read it, but it only made him feel inadequate. Van quickly turned to the next page, and upon spotting a familiar shape in a poor-quality black-and-white photo, he readjusted his grip on the binder.

The photos listed under the subheading ‘SUC—01’ were similar to what Van had witnessed. Tentacles overflowing the petri dish and invading the floor, a mass stuck to the lab ceiling. Having seen the real thing first, the shock was lessened.

However, from the third photo on, a strange object was captured. Something was inside ‘it’, which was hanging upside down from the ceiling of a glass-enclosed test tube. A small body curled up…. A baby?

The image was very grainy, but the shape was easily recognizable. He squinted and held the photo further away to check again, and it was still a fetus. The hand turning the pages moved faster and faster. Van’s lips moved without a sound as he read the information contained in the numerous photos.

With each turn of the page, SUC—01 grew. A photo of a hand in a thick glove opening the test tube and taking the baby out, a photo of it walking, supported by a hand the size of its head, then picking up a toy and placing it on the floor in the form of a young child, a photo of it receiving a small rabbit from a researcher in a white lab coat and holding it…. Anyone could see this was a record of human growth.

Perhaps a few pages were missing, as the last photo of the SUC—01 section appeared quickly. SUC—01 with a blank face, standing next to a researcher, its long arms and legs stretched out. Below the photo, which looked to be of a 13-year-old, scrawled words were branded like a stigma.

Missing

The record of SUC—01 ended there. Next, photos of SUC—02 were listed in the same manner as 01. The surrounding objects and researchers in the photos were different from the first, showing the passage of time. And from 03 onwards, the growth took place inside a large glass wall, like the one in this basement.

At the end of the similar photos for 01, SUC—02 terminated. SUC—03 missing. SUC—04 deceased. SUC—05 terminated. SUC—06 in progress.

And at the end of the binder, the page labeled SUC—07 was empty.

His busily moving hand stopped. Van was an extremely realistic person to accept this sudden onslaught of circumstances without filtering it. To summarize the documents riddled with all sorts of difficult words, it meant that that disgusting-looking lump was either a monster that looked like a human or an alien that flew in from space, a story that was simply laughable.

He might have been willing to believe it if it made any sense. Chuckling hollowly, he flipped through the other papers inserted in the binder, but there was nothing more worth reading, as if to say this was all the information he was getting. While rereading the file from the beginning, Van discovered a short memo from Michel on the SUC—06 page.

Host T, proceeding with incubation of SUC—06. Estimated 1 year to maturity.

He threw the documents onto the desk and scrubbed his face with his dry hands. Van held his breath until he was on the verge of fainting, then took his hands from his face and inhaled the dry air.

He had returned to his hometown after several years to check on Michel’s well-being, only to be told to protect a monster or an alien. What the hell was this S-something project, what was this talk of a host, and what was with the million dollars. His head, which had never been good at thinking, was about to explode. As he dithered, unable to do this or that, the old-fashioned phone in his pocket poked his thigh. Don’t you want a million dollars, it seemed to tempt him.

“…If it’s for a year.”

It wasn’t easy to choose which was better between guarding some pig who peeked at him through the collar of his shirt while stuck in a sweltering place, and monitoring a monster or an alien in a quiet town.

Even keeping in mind that the pay for the latter was overwhelmingly better, there were more than a few unsettling points. The anonymous party who was subtly burdening him and Michel’s ambiguous attitude, which was clearly revealed in the letter, all urged him to run away, but it felt like a real waste to just bolt.

Forgetting even his hunger, he leaned back in the chair and tried to sort out his complicated feelings, but he couldn’t come to a clear decision. In the meantime, he charged his own dead phone and idly scrolled through it.

He skipped over all the accumulated messages and opened the photos app. He had thought he would be spending Christmas in the middle of summer with those smelly bastards again, but it looked like he would be spending the New Year with a mysterious lump in his hometown. He had lived his life going with the flow, and now he was experiencing all sorts of strange things. Not that he fully believed it yet, and it might all just be a wild dream.

The top of his photo gallery was filled with the colorful scenery of Cancun. He was flipping through the photos that captured the past few years of guarding the pig when he spotted a familiar face at the edge of a photo and frowned deeply.

“Ugh.”

Van immediately deleted the photo of the man with smooth, tanned skin and a high nose, then turned on the camera and pointed the lens at the glass wall. The sound of the shutter echoed in the spacious basement. A photo of the bizarre laboratory, glowing a pale blue, now sat next to a photo of the emerald sea. Van stared at the photo he had taken for a long time, then let out a short sigh. He had made his decision.

20xx. 12. 1. (Will refer to as 07 for simplicity from now on) Stuck to the lab bench ceiling, about the size of a fist. Not moving yet.

On the last page of the binder, a short record began under ‘SUC—07’.

He had only written one line, but he was already out of things to write. He read and reread the first record he had scrawled perfunctorily, and was doodling in an empty corner when the old-fashioned phone rang again. He confirmed it was the same number as before and pressed the call button.

— Made up your mind?

“You said you were busy, but you’re calling quite often, aren’t you?”

He tilted the pen and added shading to the round shape. Its side was a bit squashed, but it looked quite similar to 07.

— I need confirmation. I’m recording this call.

“Be my guest. Just have the money ready.”

— Such nerve…. Keep the precautions in mind.

Whatever this was, if it stayed in that state for a whole year, it would be a profitable business. A very, very profitable one. Van finished the drawing. He completed a rather plausible portrait, or still life, of 07 and held the binder at a distance to inspect it.

“Like I wouldn’t know what to do. Ah, but about Michel…”

The call abruptly ended. He stared down at the phone with a dumbfounded expression, but the call didn’t come through again. Van raised his middle finger at the old-fashioned phone, hoping the ‘fuck you’ would reach the rude person on the other end.

Van called the company, which only took on such trivial requests that it was embarrassing to call it a legitimate mercenary company, to tell them he was taking a short break, and let the barrage of curses flow in one ear and out the other. He was a little bothered by the fact that he had left all the equipment he had bought with his own money in Cancun, but the complacent thought that they surely wouldn’t throw it away occurred to him. Well, once this job was over, that cheap gun and equipment would be useless anyway.

“Alright. Today is…”

Ignoring the continuous calls from his team leader, he checked the date. December 6th.