Project

8.2: Project; My Story.

Mark arrived at the Factory that Project apparently housed themselves in, unsure as to what would come from all this.

His friend was close to death, and those he was working to help were broken and hurt. If Project really was the causation and saving grace that they needed, he had to be sure that this was correct. Sam had written the coordinates and directions, albeit in nearly illegible chicken-scratch. Mark didn't blame the handwriting, though, as he could understand why his hands would be shaking and finding it difficult to form such simple and normal words.

He looked at his destination, the tall towers and pipes towered over him, and blocked out the sunlight. Smoke still bellowed from the area, and it seemed as though people were heading in and out of the main entrance. The place wasn't abandoned, but not all of it was in use.

The windows were steamed, blocking out most of what was inside, and yet it allowed light to flood through where it shone. The brickwork was skilled, made to last lifetimes, almost as if the architect who designed this place knew of its purpose in later lives, and thus made it to outlast their own memory. Each door however was rusted and creaked with every new worker entering the facility, threatening to open only one more time, and yet begrudgingly still opening once more.

The pipes looked as though they would collapse if under high winds, and yet after the storm that had happened over many countries, it still stood prideful and frightening, reminding any unfortunate person who came across this that it would stand even when they went. The dark deep grey smoke that billowed from within them floated up to the sky and dissipated into the atmosphere. The smell however floated down and made Mark almost gag. Plastic, wood, metal, it was some forge that cooked, moulded and shaped the very tools that we used to build ourselves up with.

Then there was his first issue, the fence. Obviously, this place wasn't meant to have regular people waltz on in and investigate around, not to mention Mark didn't know much French, and being an 'officer' in another country doesn't give you as many rights as people would think. He stared at the tall and broad fence that blocked his path. The barbed wire glinted in slivers of light that escaped the shadows of the factory, anticipating some unlucky bird, or even an unfortunate fellow. The diamond patterns dotted the fence, tempting Mark to try and scale it, but he knew better. Though he looked as though he was stuck with no entry, he knew that there was apparently a way to the sector that was no longer in use.

Mark took another check through the final set of steps for when he reached the factory: Look to the right side, there will be an opening in the fence, something that no one has cared to fix. It will lead to the abandoned sector, a place that is dangerous and could collapse. It won't. We were able to keep it up, make it our new home away from home. People were told to stay away, and so we entered and made our base. Project will be in there, behind the door that is seemingly well-kept, and yet painted with rust.

Mark followed the instructions to a T, and soon came across the slight opening within the fence. If it wasn't for the instructions, he wouldn't have noticed it at all, as the fence structure gave the illusion of being intact, placed together, and yet broken at the seams. For any bystander, for any care-free security guard, the fence looked to be in top standard, and yet was the very place for masterminds to enter, plan, plot and exit. Hidden in plain sight, a place which should've been discovered weeks ago, and yet never appeared to be of any concern.

Mark entered the factory perimeters, looking for another illusion in a mirror maze of puzzles. There were multiple doors, every single one was covered in yellow "DANGER" tape, and every door seemed to have been left to the environments control. Yet of each of these doors, the rust was crumbling, the redness of each door could be swept off with a swift movement across the metal plating and left a red covering on Mark's hand every time. He did this to every door he went to, until he came across the fourth door of six. As he went to swipe his hand across this door, he realised that nothing rubbed off. He looked at his hand, and apart from the stain of red from the previous doors, no new dust had formed. This door, upon closer inspection, had slight drops formed within the 'frame', and had a familiar chemical smell to it. Paint, Mark thought to himself, and opened the door to see what awaited him inside.