ACal

"Tacoma was a bust-"

"As I said it would be."

"We can't be ignoring potential opportunities just because you have a hunch!"

"It's not a hunch, Jean, it's intuition. And a healthy pinch of oracular visions."

"One trip to ThreePorts, Jack, it was one fucking trip-"

"More than one-"

"You're not a fucking oracle. And, because Tacoma didn't work out, you're not a goddamned businessman, either. You're unemployed."

"As are you."

"As am I, which you're not doing much to change. You didn't even come to Tacoma."

"I was in ThreePorts. Now I'm in Chilliwack."

"…Why the fuck would anyone voluntarily go to Chilliwack?!"

"Come and see."

Jack Terrance hung up on his brother and closed the lid of the ancient flip-phone, slipping it into the pocket of his worn jeans. From the raised hill he was perched on, he could look down into the dilapidated industrial lot the sprawled across the landscape. It had been surprisingly difficult to find a disused, largely abandoned, and unregistered dairy processing facility in semi-rural British Columbia; but Jack had managed it.

He smiled tentatively. His hands already ached with anticipation, the work to come manifesting itself in his mind's eye. The bureaucratic processes had been satisfied, the production rights and equipment purchased, a client base secured - now, it was time to get down to the dirt and jerk off some cows, or something.

Jack's phone buzzed once with a text from Jean.

can u tell me the fucking address you absolute melon u cant just hang up and expect me to know where im going

-

Eleven people sat around a plastic picnic table in a barren warehouse, lit from above by a single dangling lightbulb. Behind them, shrouded in the unlit extents of the warehouse, were a number of shipping containers and vehicles packed to the brim with materiel.
High ceilings and thin metal walls served only to amplify the cold outside, the building groaning and shuddering against the onslaught of wind. Around them, men and women in uniformly grey jumpsuits moved like ants, unloading trucks and containers and constructing a series of stations and standalone rooms, populating them with research vessels and monitors.

At the head of the table sat a short, spindly man with pockmarked cheeks and brass-framed glasses, seemingly impervious to the cacophony of noise that surrounded them. He laid both of his hands on the table and stood slowly, labouring under his own weight.

"Within an hour, Provisional Field Site Rho eighty-seven will be complete, and our work will begin." Dr. Ahmed Faisal began. "We have briefed you all to the greatest degree we can, if you are still unfamiliar, please refer to the pertinent files."

A similarly fragile-looking man to Faisal's right - Donovan - stood, quicker than his peer, and gestured to the stony-faced crowd.

"Do you have any questions you would like to ask us?"

Three hands came up quickly. The first, attached to a dark, barrel chested man, was clenched in a fist.

"Agent Moretto?"

"