Aberfoyle wore early spring like a promise it wasn’t entirely sure it could keep.
Mist clung low in the mornings, threading through the trees and softening the edges of the hills, but by midday the light would break through—thin, pale, and determined. It was the kind of place that felt older than the rest of the world, as though it had watched centuries pass and found little reason to hurry.
Andrea stood just outside the small kirk, gloved hands folded, her breath faint in the cool air. She had grown up among these hills; the quiet steadiness of them seemed to settle something in her that London never quite could.
Nate joined her a moment later, adjusting his coat against the chill.
“So this is where you learned to terrify people with a single glance,” he said lightly.
She didn’t look at him. “Only those who deserved it.”
“Ah. I must have been particularly fortunate, then.”
That earned him a sideways glance—brief, but warm.
“You were persistent,” she said. “There’s a difference.”
“I prefer to think of it as resilience.”
“Stubbornness.”
“Resilient stubbornness.”
She almost smiled.
Inside, the ceremony was small. Intimate. A handful of familiar faces from Andrea’s past, a few from the Society who had made the journey north, Alexandros among them—standing slightly apart, as though uncertain what to do with something so plainly human and uncomplicated.
Professor Winfield attended as well, his presence steady and approving. Brighton had sent his regrets, tied as he was to arrangements in Oxford. Edmund Dash had not replied at all.
Neither Nate nor Andrea mentioned it.
The vows themselves were simple.
No grand declarations, no embellishment.
Just certainty.
When it was done, the kirk felt warmer somehow, as though the act of it had shifted the air. Outside, the mist had lifted enough to reveal the line of the hills in full.
Alexandros clasped Nate’s shoulder afterward. “You are a fortunate man,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“And reckless.”
“That too.”
Andrea, standing beside them, arched a brow. “You say that as though it’s a new development.”
Alexandros huffed a quiet laugh. “No. Only now it is official.”
The cabin on the shores of Loch Achray stood alone among the trees, its reflection wavering gently in the dark water when the wind allowed it. There were no nearby roads, no passing traffic—only the lake, the forest, and the occasional cry of birds overhead.
It was, in every sense, removed.
For the first time in months, perhaps longer, there was nothing demanded of them.
No meetings.
No contracts.
No discussions of gates, or expeditions, or the creeping reach of Merick & Co..
Just time.
They walked the shoreline in the mornings, the ground still damp beneath their boots, speaking of little and everything in equal measure. Andrea seemed lighter here—less guarded, less compelled to maintain the composure she wore so effortlessly elsewhere.
Nate noticed it in small things.
The way she lingered at the water’s edge.
The way she laughed—freely, without checking herself.
The way silence between them felt complete rather than waiting to be filled.
One evening, as the light faded and the lake turned to a sheet of dark glass, they sat just outside the cabin, a small fire crackling between them.
“We could stay,” Nate said, almost idly.
Andrea glanced at him. “And do what?”
“Nothing,” he said. “That’s rather the point.”
She studied him for a moment, weighing the thought.
“Tempting,” she admitted. “Very.”
He leaned back slightly, looking out over the water. “No gates. No Dash. No corporations trying to turn entire worlds into stockrooms.”
“That does sound like a compelling alternative.”
A pause.
Then she shook her head, though there was no regret in it. “You wouldn’t last a month.”
“Two, at least.”
“One,” she corrected. “And by the end of it, you’d be mapping the shoreline and cataloguing the moss.”
“That is a gross exaggeration.”
“Is it?”
He didn’t answer.
She smiled.
Then, more quietly: “We’ll go back.”
“Yes.”
“And it will be different this time.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“But we go together,” she said.
Nate turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze.
“Always.”
The week passed too quickly.
It always does, Nate thought, when time is not being measured.
When they returned to London, the shift was immediate.
Noise. Movement. Obligation.
The world rushed back in as though it had been waiting just beyond the edge of the trees.
Preparations had accelerated in their absence.
Crates lined the Society’s storage rooms—equipment, reinforced containers, new instruments designed for extraction and preservation rather than observation. Documents were stacked in careful order, contracts clipped and ready for signatures that Nate had no intention of providing.
The presence of Merick & Co. was no longer peripheral.
It was embedded.
Men in tailored suits moved through spaces that had once belonged solely to the Society, their voices low, their interests precise. They spoke of timelines, of yields, of efficiency.
Never of wonder.
Nate stood in one of the preparation rooms, watching as a crate was sealed and marked with a designation he did not recognise.
Andrea joined him a moment later, her expression tightening slightly as she took in the scene.
“It’s begun,” she said.
“Yes.”
He rested a hand briefly against the edge of the crate. “This isn’t what we set out to do.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it is what it’s becoming.”
Across the room, one of the Merick representatives glanced in their direction, speaking quietly to another man before making a note in a small ledger.
Nate followed the movement, then looked back to Andrea.
“We need to be careful,” he said.
“When have we not been?”
“Careful in a different way.”
She understood immediately.
A small nod.
“Then we are.”
A moment passed.
Then—
“Dr. Chase.”
The voice came from behind them.
Measured. Familiar.
Nate turned.
Edmund Dash stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, his expression composed.
“I trust your… absence was productive,” Dash said.
Nate met his gaze. “It was necessary.”
Dash’s eyes flicked briefly to Andrea, then back.
“Good,” he said. “Because we have very little time left for indulgences.”
The word lingered.
Nate didn’t rise to it.
“Then we should use what time we have wisely,” he replied.
Dash inclined his head slightly. “Indeed.”
A pause.
Then, almost pleasantly: “I hope you’re prepared for what comes next, Dr. Chase.”
Nate didn’t look away.
“I don’t think any of us are,” he said.
Dash smiled.
Not warmly.
“No,” he agreed. “I suspect not.”
And for just a moment—
It felt as though the distance between London and Aesculon had already begun to collapse.
The Hermes Society
Moderators: Podmore, arcanus, Otto
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 608
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
The wind off the Atlantic had teeth again.
It tore across the Scottish island in long, relentless gusts, flattening grass and rattling the canvas of newly erected tents. The ring stood where they had left it months before—dark, silent, and somehow diminished now that it was no longer theirs alone.
Where once there had been a handful of crates and improvised equipment, there were now rows.
Ordered. Numbered. Catalogued.
Men moved with purpose—some in the familiar coats of the Society, others in the sharper, more uniform attire of Merick & Co.. The difference between them was immediate, visible in posture as much as dress.
One group prepared.
The other managed.
Nate stood just outside the ring, watching as a team checked connections along the lens apparatus. It had been rebuilt, reinforced—refined into something less experimental and more… industrial.
Andrea joined him, her coat pulled tight against the wind.
“It feels different,” she said.
“That’s because it is.”
Across the clearing, a man with a clipboard was speaking briskly to a cluster of workers, gesturing toward stacked crates marked with alphanumeric codes rather than handwritten notes.
Clive Baxter.
Merick’s appointed Expedition Manager.
Nate had taken an immediate dislike to him.
“You ready?” Andrea asked.
Nate glanced at her, then back at the ring.
“No,” he said.
“Good,” she replied. “That would worry me.”
The activation came without ceremony.
No quiet awe. No shared anticipation.
Just a sequence of checks, a signal, and the low, rising hum of the device coming to life.
The air within the ring shimmered.
Stabilised.
Held.
“Proceed,” Baxter said, not even looking up from his notes.
The first group moved through—Merick personnel, naturally.
Then the Society followed.
Nate and Andrea stepped through together.
Aesculon greeted them with heat.
Heavy. Immediate. Alive.
The jungle pressed close, the air thick with scent and sound. For a brief moment—just a moment—it felt like before.
Then Nate saw the camp.
Or what remained of it.
“What the hell—”
Crates lay split open, their contents scattered or missing entirely. Wooden panels had been torn apart, not carefully opened but broken, splintered as though by force.
Equipment they had abandoned in their haste—what little had been left behind—was either gone or ruined.
And everywhere—
Footprints.
Bare.
Human.
Dozens of them.
Layered over one another in the soft earth, circling the site, cutting through it, leading off into the jungle in multiple directions.
Andrea stepped forward slowly, scanning the ground. “These aren’t ours.”
“No,” Nate said quietly. “They’re not.”
Around them, the rest of the expedition emerged—and with them came the shift.
Voices, low at first.
Then sharper.
“What happened here—?”
“Were we followed?”
“Those tracks—there are too many—”
A few of the Society members began to edge back toward the ring.
“I’m not staying here,” one of them said. “Not if—whatever did this is still—”
“Then you should reconsider your position.”
The voice cut cleanly through the rising tension.
Baxter.
He stepped forward, flanked by two Merick associates, a thin sheaf of papers in his hand.
“You are contractually obligated to fulfil your roles within this expedition,” he continued, his tone cool, almost bored. “Withdrawal at this stage would constitute breach.”
The effect was immediate.
Shock.
Then anger.
“You can’t be serious—” someone snapped.
“We just walked into—into this—”
“And you signed,” Baxter replied, tapping the papers lightly. “Which means you stay.”
The jungle seemed to close in further.
Nate felt it—the shift from fear into something sharper.
Resentment.
“Enough,” Winfield said firmly, stepping forward. “We will assess the situation before—”
“You will proceed as directed,” Baxter interrupted. “Assessment is part of that process.”
Alexandros swore under his breath.
But no one moved back toward the gate.
Not now.
Not with the threat hanging over them.
Camp was re-established.
Quickly.
Efficiently.
And with a line drawn straight through its centre.
On one side—the Society. Smaller tents. Familiar equipment, what little of it remained.
On the other—Merick. Larger structures. Reinforced storage units. Ordered, controlled.
Separate.
Deliberately so.
Nate stood at the edge of the clearing as Baxter approached, that same sheaf of papers in hand.
“Assignments,” Baxter said, handing them over.
Nate didn’t take them.
Baxter sighed, as though inconvenienced, and flipped through the pages himself.
“Dr. Nathaniel Chase,” he read. “You’ll be assisting with general labour. Transport, handling, and—”
Nate’s expression hardened. “I’ll be doing no such thing.”
Baxter didn’t even look up. “It’s been approved.”
“By whom?”
A pause.
Then, with faint satisfaction:
“Edmund Dash. Director of Research and Development.”
There it was.
Not implication.
Not suspicion.
Truth.
Andrea stepped forward. “And me?”
Baxter glanced at another page. “Medical support. Separate quarters.”
Nate turned sharply. “No.”
Baxter blinked, finally looking at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
Baxter gave a thin smile. “These arrangements are not open to negotiation, Dr. Chase.”
Nate stepped forward, closing the distance in a single movement, and snatched the papers from Baxter’s hand.
“They are now.”
Before Baxter could react, Nate tore them cleanly in half.
Then again.
The fragments fell at Baxter’s feet.
“She’s not Nurse Meaner anymore,” Nate said, voice low and controlled. “And she won’t be treated like an asset you can reassign at will.”
A beat.
“My wife and I will be staying in the same tent.”
The words landed heavily.
Andrea didn’t correct him.
Didn’t soften it.
Baxter stared at the torn papers, then back at Nate, something colder settling into his expression.
“You seem to misunderstand the structure of this expedition.”
Winfield stepped in before it could escalate further.
“That’s enough,” he said firmly. “Dr. Chase is a founding member of the Hermes Society. A Council member. He will not be treated as hired labour.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the Society group.
Even those who had signed.
Even those who were afraid.
Baxter let the silence stretch.
Then, slowly, he reached into his case and withdrew something larger.
Much larger.
A thick, bound document.
He held it up.
“I anticipated… resistance,” he said.
The pages were crisp. Official. Heavy with ink and authority.
“The agreement between the Hermes Society and Merick & Co.,” Baxter continued. “Ratified prior to this expedition.”
He opened it.
Flipped to a marked section.
And read.
“Operational control of all expeditionary activities, personnel assignments, and resource management shall reside exclusively with Merick & Co.”
The words seemed to echo.
Winfield’s expression tightened.
Alexandros went very still.
Nate didn’t move.
“This,” Baxter said, tapping the page, “is not a Society expedition.”
He closed the document with a soft, final sound.
“It is ours.”
The jungle pressed in.
The footprints at the edge of camp seemed suddenly closer.
And for the first time since stepping back onto Aesculon—
It wasn’t the world beyond the trees that felt like the greatest threat.
It was the one they had brought with them.
It tore across the Scottish island in long, relentless gusts, flattening grass and rattling the canvas of newly erected tents. The ring stood where they had left it months before—dark, silent, and somehow diminished now that it was no longer theirs alone.
Where once there had been a handful of crates and improvised equipment, there were now rows.
Ordered. Numbered. Catalogued.
Men moved with purpose—some in the familiar coats of the Society, others in the sharper, more uniform attire of Merick & Co.. The difference between them was immediate, visible in posture as much as dress.
One group prepared.
The other managed.
Nate stood just outside the ring, watching as a team checked connections along the lens apparatus. It had been rebuilt, reinforced—refined into something less experimental and more… industrial.
Andrea joined him, her coat pulled tight against the wind.
“It feels different,” she said.
“That’s because it is.”
Across the clearing, a man with a clipboard was speaking briskly to a cluster of workers, gesturing toward stacked crates marked with alphanumeric codes rather than handwritten notes.
Clive Baxter.
Merick’s appointed Expedition Manager.
Nate had taken an immediate dislike to him.
“You ready?” Andrea asked.
Nate glanced at her, then back at the ring.
“No,” he said.
“Good,” she replied. “That would worry me.”
The activation came without ceremony.
No quiet awe. No shared anticipation.
Just a sequence of checks, a signal, and the low, rising hum of the device coming to life.
The air within the ring shimmered.
Stabilised.
Held.
“Proceed,” Baxter said, not even looking up from his notes.
The first group moved through—Merick personnel, naturally.
Then the Society followed.
Nate and Andrea stepped through together.
Aesculon greeted them with heat.
Heavy. Immediate. Alive.
The jungle pressed close, the air thick with scent and sound. For a brief moment—just a moment—it felt like before.
Then Nate saw the camp.
Or what remained of it.
“What the hell—”
Crates lay split open, their contents scattered or missing entirely. Wooden panels had been torn apart, not carefully opened but broken, splintered as though by force.
Equipment they had abandoned in their haste—what little had been left behind—was either gone or ruined.
And everywhere—
Footprints.
Bare.
Human.
Dozens of them.
Layered over one another in the soft earth, circling the site, cutting through it, leading off into the jungle in multiple directions.
Andrea stepped forward slowly, scanning the ground. “These aren’t ours.”
“No,” Nate said quietly. “They’re not.”
Around them, the rest of the expedition emerged—and with them came the shift.
Voices, low at first.
Then sharper.
“What happened here—?”
“Were we followed?”
“Those tracks—there are too many—”
A few of the Society members began to edge back toward the ring.
“I’m not staying here,” one of them said. “Not if—whatever did this is still—”
“Then you should reconsider your position.”
The voice cut cleanly through the rising tension.
Baxter.
He stepped forward, flanked by two Merick associates, a thin sheaf of papers in his hand.
“You are contractually obligated to fulfil your roles within this expedition,” he continued, his tone cool, almost bored. “Withdrawal at this stage would constitute breach.”
The effect was immediate.
Shock.
Then anger.
“You can’t be serious—” someone snapped.
“We just walked into—into this—”
“And you signed,” Baxter replied, tapping the papers lightly. “Which means you stay.”
The jungle seemed to close in further.
Nate felt it—the shift from fear into something sharper.
Resentment.
“Enough,” Winfield said firmly, stepping forward. “We will assess the situation before—”
“You will proceed as directed,” Baxter interrupted. “Assessment is part of that process.”
Alexandros swore under his breath.
But no one moved back toward the gate.
Not now.
Not with the threat hanging over them.
Camp was re-established.
Quickly.
Efficiently.
And with a line drawn straight through its centre.
On one side—the Society. Smaller tents. Familiar equipment, what little of it remained.
On the other—Merick. Larger structures. Reinforced storage units. Ordered, controlled.
Separate.
Deliberately so.
Nate stood at the edge of the clearing as Baxter approached, that same sheaf of papers in hand.
“Assignments,” Baxter said, handing them over.
Nate didn’t take them.
Baxter sighed, as though inconvenienced, and flipped through the pages himself.
“Dr. Nathaniel Chase,” he read. “You’ll be assisting with general labour. Transport, handling, and—”
Nate’s expression hardened. “I’ll be doing no such thing.”
Baxter didn’t even look up. “It’s been approved.”
“By whom?”
A pause.
Then, with faint satisfaction:
“Edmund Dash. Director of Research and Development.”
There it was.
Not implication.
Not suspicion.
Truth.
Andrea stepped forward. “And me?”
Baxter glanced at another page. “Medical support. Separate quarters.”
Nate turned sharply. “No.”
Baxter blinked, finally looking at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
Baxter gave a thin smile. “These arrangements are not open to negotiation, Dr. Chase.”
Nate stepped forward, closing the distance in a single movement, and snatched the papers from Baxter’s hand.
“They are now.”
Before Baxter could react, Nate tore them cleanly in half.
Then again.
The fragments fell at Baxter’s feet.
“She’s not Nurse Meaner anymore,” Nate said, voice low and controlled. “And she won’t be treated like an asset you can reassign at will.”
A beat.
“My wife and I will be staying in the same tent.”
The words landed heavily.
Andrea didn’t correct him.
Didn’t soften it.
Baxter stared at the torn papers, then back at Nate, something colder settling into his expression.
“You seem to misunderstand the structure of this expedition.”
Winfield stepped in before it could escalate further.
“That’s enough,” he said firmly. “Dr. Chase is a founding member of the Hermes Society. A Council member. He will not be treated as hired labour.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the Society group.
Even those who had signed.
Even those who were afraid.
Baxter let the silence stretch.
Then, slowly, he reached into his case and withdrew something larger.
Much larger.
A thick, bound document.
He held it up.
“I anticipated… resistance,” he said.
The pages were crisp. Official. Heavy with ink and authority.
“The agreement between the Hermes Society and Merick & Co.,” Baxter continued. “Ratified prior to this expedition.”
He opened it.
Flipped to a marked section.
And read.
“Operational control of all expeditionary activities, personnel assignments, and resource management shall reside exclusively with Merick & Co.”
The words seemed to echo.
Winfield’s expression tightened.
Alexandros went very still.
Nate didn’t move.
“This,” Baxter said, tapping the page, “is not a Society expedition.”
He closed the document with a soft, final sound.
“It is ours.”
The jungle pressed in.
The footprints at the edge of camp seemed suddenly closer.
And for the first time since stepping back onto Aesculon—
It wasn’t the world beyond the trees that felt like the greatest threat.
It was the one they had brought with them.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 608
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
Field Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Chase
Aesculon Expedition — Second Phase
Day 3
I have chosen, it seems, to become inconvenient again.
Despite the clear “assignments” laid out by Edmund Dash and enforced by Merick & Co., I have not confined myself to hauling crates like a dock worker.
Instead, I have gone where I am of actual use.
Into the jungle.
With the explorers—those of the Society who still remember why we came here in the first place.
We have already identified several new specimens. One vine exhibits remarkable regenerative properties when applied to damaged tissue. Another flowering plant appears to suppress infection more effectively than anything currently in our pharmacopoeia.
Discoveries.
Actual discoveries.
And yet, each time I return—
The jungle is smaller.
Day 4
They are cutting it back.
Not cautiously. Not respectfully.
Systematically.
Sections of forest cleared to bare earth. Markers driven into the ground. Frameworks erected for structures that do not belong here.
The “collection facility” is no longer theoretical.
It is being built.
The sound of it carries—axes, saws, the unnatural rhythm of industry imposed upon something that had never known it.
Even the air feels different near the site.
Thinner.
Strained.
Alexandros watched it with me this afternoon.
“This is not exploration,” he said.
“No,” I replied.
“It is invasion.”
I did not argue.
Day 5
Andrea has been reassigned.
Of course she has.
Baxter informed me with the same dispassionate tone he uses for inventory.
“She’s been deployed to the secondary processing site,” he said. “Approximately one mile from main camp. Cataloguing and verification.”
“For how long?”
“As required.”
That was three days ago.
She has not returned.
Day 6
I asked again today.
Baxter’s answer did not change.
“She is fulfilling her role.”
“She is not a piece of equipment,” I said.
“Then she should not have agreed to terms that define her function within the expedition.”
I very nearly struck him.
Instead, I walked away.
There are moments when restraint feels less like discipline and more like surrender.
Day 7
The jungle is changing.
Or perhaps I am simply seeing it more clearly now.
The areas around the camp and the new facility are quieter. Not silent—but diminished. The constant hum of life feels… interrupted.
Further out, beyond the reach of their axes, it returns.
Dense. Alive. Watching.
I cannot shake the feeling that we are being observed.
Day 8 — Morning
I am done waiting.
At first light, I unpacked the rifle.
Not as a threat.
As a precaution.
Alexandros saw me preparing.
“You go alone?” he asked.
“For now.”
He studied me for a moment. “You will not find what you expect.”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll find something.”
He nodded once. “Then I come if you do not return.”
“Fair.”
Later
The jungle closes quickly behind you when you leave the cleared ground.
Within minutes, the sounds of the camp—machinery, voices, the dull rhythm of construction—fade into nothing.
Only the forest remains.
I followed the rough direction Baxter had indicated. The terrain is uneven here, rising slightly, the undergrowth thicker. Signs of passage are present—cut vines, disturbed earth, faint tracks from repeated movement.
Not just ours.
Something else.
I heard them before I saw them.
Voices.
If that is the correct word.
Low. Guttural. A series of sounds that were not quite speech as I understand it, but not meaningless either. Grunts, clicks, rough vocalisations that carried intent, emphasis.
Communication.
I moved slowly. Quietly.
The rifle suddenly felt less like precaution and more like necessity.
Through a break in the foliage, I saw them.
Four—no, five figures.
Broad. Powerful. Covered in rough skins.
The same as the one Andrea and I had encountered at the hot spring.
But now—
Together.
They stood in a loose circle, gesturing, vocalising in that harsh, rhythmic pattern. One of them pointed—back toward the direction of the camp.
They had seen it.
There was no doubt.
They were not wandering.
They were aware.
I did not move.
Did not breathe.
For a long moment, I simply watched.
Then, as abruptly as they had gathered, they broke apart—moving with startling speed and ease through the undergrowth, disappearing into the jungle as though it had swallowed them.
I remained where I was until I was certain they were gone.
Then I turned—
And made for camp as quickly as I dared.
Later — Camp
“They’re here,” I said.
Baxter didn’t look up from his notes. “So are we.”
“I’m not speculating,” I snapped. “I saw them. A group. Observing the camp.”
That got a glance.
Brief. Assessing.
“And?”
“And they’re not animals,” I said. “They’re organised. They communicate. They know we’re here.”
Baxter’s expression didn’t change. “Then we proceed with appropriate caution.”
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s your response?”
“What would you suggest?” he replied coolly. “We abandon the site? Suspend operations? We are here to establish a functional presence, Dr. Chase. That includes managing environmental variables.”
“Environmental variables?”
“They are a factor,” Baxter said. “Nothing more.”
Nate felt something cold settle in his chest.
“They’re people,” he said.
Baxter didn’t respond.
“I want Andrea back in camp,” Nate said.
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“She’s at risk.”
“She is under supervision.”
“I didn’t ask for your assessment,” Nate said. “I’m telling you to bring her back.”
Baxter’s eyes hardened. “You are not in a position to issue directives.”
“Then consider it a request.”
“Denied.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
Nate held his gaze for a long moment.
Then turned away.
Later — Evening
Alexandros found me near the edge of camp.
“You saw them,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
He nodded slowly. “Enough.”
“They’ve seen us.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then: “And the woman?”
“Still at the remote site.”
Alexandros exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then we go.”
“Morning,” Nate said.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No further discussion.
Just decision.
End of Entry
Tomorrow, we leave the camp behind.
Not as explorers.
Not as employees.
But as men who intend to bring one of our own back—
whether Merick & Co. approves or not.
Aesculon Expedition — Second Phase
Day 3
I have chosen, it seems, to become inconvenient again.
Despite the clear “assignments” laid out by Edmund Dash and enforced by Merick & Co., I have not confined myself to hauling crates like a dock worker.
Instead, I have gone where I am of actual use.
Into the jungle.
With the explorers—those of the Society who still remember why we came here in the first place.
We have already identified several new specimens. One vine exhibits remarkable regenerative properties when applied to damaged tissue. Another flowering plant appears to suppress infection more effectively than anything currently in our pharmacopoeia.
Discoveries.
Actual discoveries.
And yet, each time I return—
The jungle is smaller.
Day 4
They are cutting it back.
Not cautiously. Not respectfully.
Systematically.
Sections of forest cleared to bare earth. Markers driven into the ground. Frameworks erected for structures that do not belong here.
The “collection facility” is no longer theoretical.
It is being built.
The sound of it carries—axes, saws, the unnatural rhythm of industry imposed upon something that had never known it.
Even the air feels different near the site.
Thinner.
Strained.
Alexandros watched it with me this afternoon.
“This is not exploration,” he said.
“No,” I replied.
“It is invasion.”
I did not argue.
Day 5
Andrea has been reassigned.
Of course she has.
Baxter informed me with the same dispassionate tone he uses for inventory.
“She’s been deployed to the secondary processing site,” he said. “Approximately one mile from main camp. Cataloguing and verification.”
“For how long?”
“As required.”
That was three days ago.
She has not returned.
Day 6
I asked again today.
Baxter’s answer did not change.
“She is fulfilling her role.”
“She is not a piece of equipment,” I said.
“Then she should not have agreed to terms that define her function within the expedition.”
I very nearly struck him.
Instead, I walked away.
There are moments when restraint feels less like discipline and more like surrender.
Day 7
The jungle is changing.
Or perhaps I am simply seeing it more clearly now.
The areas around the camp and the new facility are quieter. Not silent—but diminished. The constant hum of life feels… interrupted.
Further out, beyond the reach of their axes, it returns.
Dense. Alive. Watching.
I cannot shake the feeling that we are being observed.
Day 8 — Morning
I am done waiting.
At first light, I unpacked the rifle.
Not as a threat.
As a precaution.
Alexandros saw me preparing.
“You go alone?” he asked.
“For now.”
He studied me for a moment. “You will not find what you expect.”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll find something.”
He nodded once. “Then I come if you do not return.”
“Fair.”
Later
The jungle closes quickly behind you when you leave the cleared ground.
Within minutes, the sounds of the camp—machinery, voices, the dull rhythm of construction—fade into nothing.
Only the forest remains.
I followed the rough direction Baxter had indicated. The terrain is uneven here, rising slightly, the undergrowth thicker. Signs of passage are present—cut vines, disturbed earth, faint tracks from repeated movement.
Not just ours.
Something else.
I heard them before I saw them.
Voices.
If that is the correct word.
Low. Guttural. A series of sounds that were not quite speech as I understand it, but not meaningless either. Grunts, clicks, rough vocalisations that carried intent, emphasis.
Communication.
I moved slowly. Quietly.
The rifle suddenly felt less like precaution and more like necessity.
Through a break in the foliage, I saw them.
Four—no, five figures.
Broad. Powerful. Covered in rough skins.
The same as the one Andrea and I had encountered at the hot spring.
But now—
Together.
They stood in a loose circle, gesturing, vocalising in that harsh, rhythmic pattern. One of them pointed—back toward the direction of the camp.
They had seen it.
There was no doubt.
They were not wandering.
They were aware.
I did not move.
Did not breathe.
For a long moment, I simply watched.
Then, as abruptly as they had gathered, they broke apart—moving with startling speed and ease through the undergrowth, disappearing into the jungle as though it had swallowed them.
I remained where I was until I was certain they were gone.
Then I turned—
And made for camp as quickly as I dared.
Later — Camp
“They’re here,” I said.
Baxter didn’t look up from his notes. “So are we.”
“I’m not speculating,” I snapped. “I saw them. A group. Observing the camp.”
That got a glance.
Brief. Assessing.
“And?”
“And they’re not animals,” I said. “They’re organised. They communicate. They know we’re here.”
Baxter’s expression didn’t change. “Then we proceed with appropriate caution.”
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s your response?”
“What would you suggest?” he replied coolly. “We abandon the site? Suspend operations? We are here to establish a functional presence, Dr. Chase. That includes managing environmental variables.”
“Environmental variables?”
“They are a factor,” Baxter said. “Nothing more.”
Nate felt something cold settle in his chest.
“They’re people,” he said.
Baxter didn’t respond.
“I want Andrea back in camp,” Nate said.
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“She’s at risk.”
“She is under supervision.”
“I didn’t ask for your assessment,” Nate said. “I’m telling you to bring her back.”
Baxter’s eyes hardened. “You are not in a position to issue directives.”
“Then consider it a request.”
“Denied.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
Nate held his gaze for a long moment.
Then turned away.
Later — Evening
Alexandros found me near the edge of camp.
“You saw them,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
He nodded slowly. “Enough.”
“They’ve seen us.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then: “And the woman?”
“Still at the remote site.”
Alexandros exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then we go.”
“Morning,” Nate said.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No further discussion.
Just decision.
End of Entry
Tomorrow, we leave the camp behind.
Not as explorers.
Not as employees.
But as men who intend to bring one of our own back—
whether Merick & Co. approves or not.