Saint Augustine's Light

>Doctor Eva Grace, field researcher

our hero only got to go on this expedition because she's the one that bankrolled it. for her, it is as tourism. principles, in her world, are a liability, so she takes care to have none, even though she knows that the checks she cashes are signed in blood. she might not even realize that her principles, in their world, in the leadership positions of their little protest group, are a mere novelty to her, adopted only when it was popularly convenient, after the bodies have been buried. she likes the adventure, the power, the pulling of ones over, the respect. she is about to find out how little she has of the last, having been sent on this suicide mission.

It was not too long ago Eva Grace had graduated from Columbia, a (metaphorically) bright-eyed physician recovering from twelve years of insomnia and study. The research she began, however, lead to the alarming experiments of human genome modification she fights against to this day. When peaceful protest and information campaigns failed, things turned violet. Eva has since continued to walk the path of aggression, principle a thing of the past. It's too late to roll back, retire, and get away from it all. Too high a price has been paid to simply walk away. Especially not after a high-altitude nuclear detonation has taken place - that's quite illegal, and not just in the United States.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a quote from her father resonates deeply. Eva searches herself, struggling to find the words...

a dedicated activist for the human purity movement equipped with a pistol, eight bullets, a geiger counter, and some iodine pills

... The first rule of tautology club is the first rule of tautology club.

Wait, that's not it. The words elude you. But now is not the time for jokes, games, or reminiscence. The Project must be stopped. Hair tied back, clothing dry, weapon loaded, radiation levels slowly rising - the stage is set.

Into the underbrush she goes.

Elsewhere, within a forgotten laboratory beneath a secluded island, a scientist carefully thimbles through his superior's papers.

our hero is a father. was a father. was a husband. was a drunk. is a drunk. now all he has to his name is this boat and a minifridge and he is still not ready to admit to himself why exactly she left him. he pours some more jim bean down his gullet as he pours himself deeper into his principled protest. distraction, all of it

A half-eaten sandwich lies on the desk, awaiting consumption. Empty bottles of beer litter the floor, covering what paper and wires do not. A dim blue light flickers above, its power fading. Maybe that rumbling in the distance was an earthquake taking out the fiber cable supplying the island with energy and Internet. It won't be trouble for long - it's only a few days until he gets to go home for a while.

He does not understand what has become of the Project in recent years. Ever since leadership turned over, things have stagnated to a halt. The food stores below dwindle slowly as research fails to proceed under their ineffective leadership. Their director, self-identified as the High Transmogrifier, drinks to forget everything. Bank statements show the loss of assets. A paper trail of divorce documents shows a relationship decline. He opens the drawers, only to find manga in place of important scientific documents.

A greasy phone adorns the desk. It goes off, the backlight screen showing the finger-swipe pattern to unlock it. Curiosity overcomes him, and he opens his superior's phone to an upsetting, but expected, message from his wife. "If only you loved me as much as you loved 2D girls," it reads. You feel bad. The stress of the job has permeated his life beyond the Project.

our hero is impure, even by the standards of the impure. they will always have a limp. they cannot grow hair. they have one eye, one nostril, and a stutter...

No. He stops himself. It is bad luck to think of the last Director, the former High Transmogrifier. All of that man's research on fusing cockroach and tardigrade genes with the human genome to develop radiation resistance left the instant that experiment went wrong. They took him, barely a man, away on a helicopter. Never again was he heard from. In his stead came the greasy, paranoid alcoholic and the downfall of something great.

There is a shuffle, then a knock. The scientist jumps in his skin, only to turn around and see it's the janitor again. Gray haired, elderly, and ever-sarcastic, he glares into the scientist's eyes and cracks a knowing smirk.

"Going through Boss's stuff again, huh?"