Return to the Beginning

The exterior of the mansion looked the same as it always had, though something about seeing it contrasted against the late afternoon sun made it seem extra eerie. John had only seen it at night, illuminated by artificial lights, so its current state seemed ironically unnatural. Something about entering the home now with the knowledge and suspicions he had sent a shiver down his spine. Despite how he felt, he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other and move towards the abandoned entrance. No matter how much his brain might have said, ‘flight,’ in his heart, he knew he had to choose, ‘fight.’

The exterior seemed similarly unnatural. Sunlight poured in through each window, illuminating specks of dust as they rained down like snow. As John walked through the foyer, he still could tell that every surface of the room was absolutely spotless and pristine, not a thing out of place. Frozen in time like a forgotten memory.

His mind flashed back to the party and how things seemed a lot simpler before the ART had forced itself upon him. His family may have been ignorant of what he’d done, but he hadn’t done something worse than that still, something he hadn’t fully admitted to: he had abandoned a friend. His heart ached knowing that one of his only friends could be dead and that it would be entirely his fault. He had been a coward; everything that the public had ever accused him of being. No, everything that the public believed journalists as a whole to be. If Abel was still alive, he hoped that his friend could forgive him.

He searched several rooms, pushing against walls, opening drawers, and kicking against floorboards in the hopes that he might find a hidden entrance to a secret passageway of some kind. To his disappointment, he found nothing of the sort. Either he was completely off the mark (which he wouldn’t mind, given his mental state) or Gallagher was simply better at hiding his things than the average Saturday morning cartoon villain.

Eventually, he found himself in the personal bedroom of Scott Gallagher. The atmosphere within the room hadn’t changed since the previous night, something which only furthered the unease within his heart. He fished for the journal out of his pocket. He found himself sliding his fingers alongside the divots and creases of the journal’s cover, as if doing so would reveal a hidden key. All they revealed was that Scott Gallagher had used the journal more than the word count of the journal’s contents would lead one to believe. There was still something mystical about the room of his tormentor, even now. The man with a secret life, whose secrets were beyond the reach of anyone.

John leaned against the bed and opened the journal, reading both the existing entries and his notes. He felt a small degree of satisfaction in seeing that his notes lined up perfectly with the entry. Perhaps when it was all over, he could write an article on the whole game, assuming his credibility wasn’t shot by his withholding of so much information. If it was, maybe he could write a book instead. When he reached the empty pages at the end of the journal, a pang of frustration punched him in the heart. However, just as he was about to attempt to go over the contents of the journal again, he heard a sudden cough from the bedroom doorway.

The cough came from a gaunt man who couldn’t be any older than fifty. He was adorned in a fine three-piece suit, though he had substituted a bow tie in place of the standard tie. The man’s thin, gray hair was slicked back to the bottom of his neck, which matched the similarly thin mustache on his face. The man wore a pair of spectacles on his eyes, as well. Everything about him spoke refinement. John quickly recognized him as a butler from the party the previous night.

“I take it that you’re John Matsumoto?” the man inquired. Even his voice sounded incredibly proper.

John straightened up and moved away from the bed. “I am,” he responded, “and you are…?”

The man didn’t respond immediately, instead turning around and gesturing for John to follow him. He led John down a set of stairs and back towards the foyer before he said anything. “You may call me Fontaine. I am the personal servant to Mr. Gallagher; the man you are no doubt seeking out. He has invited you to his private quarters; an invitation which I am sure you will no doubt accept.”

Without stopping for a response, Fontaine continued walking, leading John down a set of stairs he hadn’t seen before and into a dim basement. John could barely see with how little sunlight was reaching into the room. His companion didn’t bother to turn on any lights and instead continued to walk further.

Attempting to make some form of polite conversation and to sate his curiosity, John asked, “If he’s been expecting me, what’s your role in all of this?”

Fontaine responded almost immediately. “I am his servant, as I said. I agree with his ideals, even if I do not agree with every choice he makes.” John saw him turn around and, despite not being able to make out the exact details of the man’s face, could tell that the butler was scowling. “For instance, I do not approve of his inviting you into this secret room.”

Having said his piece, the old man moved his hand towards a brick in the wall and pushed it inwards. As soon as he did, a door leading into a secret passageway opened. He silently led John forward through the darkness. Unlike the hallway that had led through Adams’ own house, this didn’t feel like a side entrance. John very quickly lost his sense of direction as soon as they took their first turn. The more they walked, the more John’s fear of never seeing his family again increased. The small flame of hope within his heart grew dimmer and dimmer.

Eventually, Fontaine led him down another set of stairs, at which point the corridor began to change. The stones that made up the walls became more uneven. There were pieces of rubble on the floor which John had to carefully step over, though he couldn’t help but notice that his guide didn’t slow down one bit. It was like the rubble was a piece of furniture in yet another room to the man. It struck him as off-putting, heightening his sense of unease. He bumped his head against a stone which stuck out from the wall as the edges of the passageway became even more lopsided. Even still, his guide did not reduce his speed one bit, meaning John had to increase his own.

Eventually, when John felt like his legs and lungs were about to give out, they arrived at their destination: yet another wall. Fontaine pushed this wall, too, revealing the room beyond it. It had been described as Gallagher’s “private quarters,” yet nothing about the room felt like home. It was large and held both a bed and kitchen, but they seemed rudimentary at best. It was also quite obvious that they weren’t the main focus of the room. The room was a computer nerd’s dream (and an IT worker’s worst nightmare). Countless computer monitors filled every wall and desk within the room, filled with news feeds, camera feeds, and data feeds. Hard drive after hard drive lined the floor filled with more than John could possibly imagine. Each and every desk had at least one keyboard and mouse on it and was intertwined with dozens upon dozens of wires.

And there, sitting in a chair in front of the largest desk of them all was the man orchestrating the whole game: Scott Gallagher.

“Please, take a seat,” he said. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”