The Gathering

The Agreement

XXV. The Files

Kamadan had been studying the studio's layout. His photographic memory demanded particular attention.

Every detail. The arrangement of equipment. The organization of files visible on screens. The pattern of cables and connections. All of it was being recorded in the archives of his mind.

"You mentioned encrypted files yesterday," Kamadan said. "Files you couldn't explain. May we see them?"

Fischer hesitated. His fingers drummed against his thigh twice. Then stopped. He nodded.

"I've never shown anyone. When investors or partners ask about my process, I show them the public documentation. The training data. The model architectures. The output specifications. But there's a partition on my main server that I can't access. It existed before I created it."

"Explain," Kash said.

"Three years after I started this work, I noticed storage discrepancies. The server reported more allocated space than I was using. When I investigated, I found a hidden partition. Heavily encrypted. Using methods I didn't implement. Can't break. Someone had installed it on my system without my knowledge."

He led them to his primary workstation. Pulled up a disk management interface. The partition was visible now. A block of allocated storage. Labeled only with a timestamp. The date of the accident that killed his family.

"I've tried everything," Fischer said. "Forensic analysis. Professional decryption services. Even reaching out to security researchers. Nothing works. The encryption isn't just strong. It's wrong. The mathematical structure doesn't match any known algorithm. One cryptographer told me it looked like the data was encrypted in a language that hadn't been invented yet."

Kamadan photographed the screen with his phone. Capturing every visible detail. The camera's shutter sound was soft in the humming silence. The server room was cold.

"May I examine the file structure? Not the contents. Just the metadata."

Fischer stepped aside.

Kamadan worked silently for several minutes. His concentration absolute. His fingers moved across the keyboard with precision. Kash watched Fischer. The way his weight shifted from foot to foot. The way his hands opened and closed at his sides. The man wanted answers. He also stood braced for a blow.

"There are patterns," Kamadan finally announced. "The file naming conventions follow a structure I've seen before. In the archives of Miskatonic's Special Collections. Very old records. Records that predate modern computing by centuries."

"That's not possible," Fischer said. His face had gone pale.

"Many things are not possible until they occur."

Kamadan straightened.

"I cannot access these files now. But I have colleagues who specialize in such matters. With your permission, I will share these images with them."

"What kind of colleagues study file systems that shouldn't exist?"

"The kind who work in Arkham."

Kamadan's voice carried no irony.

"This city has a long history of things that shouldn't exist. You chose to build your business here. Perhaps that choice was not entirely your own."

Fischer's jaw tightened. "I moved here because the property was cheap and the university had good technical talent. That's all."

"Perhaps." Kamadan didn't press the point. "Or perhaps something wanted you here. Close to what it needed you to receive."

XXVI. The Flavor of Truth

They returned to the sitting area. The tea had cooled. Kamadan reheated water and prepared fresh cups with the same unhurried care. The kettle's whistle cut through the server hum.

Kash used the pause to organize what she'd gathered. Fischer's surface grief was genuine. The wife and daughter. The accident. The guilt of survival.

Beneath it lay something else. The weight of stolen goods. Every success he'd achieved since the accident sat wrong on him. Some part of him had always known.

"Karl," Kash said when they were settled again, "I need to ask you something directly. Please answer honestly. Even if the answer is strange."

He nodded. His hands wrapped around the fresh cup.

"In the years since you began this work, have you ever received communications from someone who signed themselves only as a friend? Messages. Letters. Packages."

Fischer's cup rattled against its saucer. "How did you know?"

"Because we have too. All of us. Every persona you created. We've been receiving guidance from someone who knew things about us that no one should know. Things we'd never told anyone."

"Three years ago."

Fischer's voice dropped to near-whisper.

"A photograph arrived. No return address. No explanation. Just a polaroid of a hand. Not a whole person. Just a hand resting on a desk. And a note that said: You're doing good work. Keep going."

"May we see it?"

Fischer rose and crossed to a desk drawer. He hesitated. Fingers resting on the handle. Then he opened it and retrieved a small envelope. Paper yellowed with age.

Inside was exactly what he'd described. A polaroid showing a man's hand. The skin bearing an unusual iridescence that the photograph's chemistry rendered almost metallic. The note was handwritten in careful script.

Kamadan photographed both items.

"This hand matches biological traces we've found elsewhere. Someone has been orchestrating events for a long time. You. Us. Possibly others we haven't discovered yet. Or something."

"What does it want?"

"We don't know."

Kash took the polaroid gently. Tilted it toward the light. The iridescence shifted like oil on water.

"But we intend to find out. You've been part of something larger than you realized, Karl. We all have. The question is whether we continue as pieces being moved. Or whether we find a way to become players."

Fischer laughed. A broken sound. More release than humor.

"I spent ten years thinking I was an artist. Turns out I was a radio. Picking up signals I didn't understand."

"Radios have value," Kamadan observed. "They connect. They transmit. They receive what others cannot hear. Perhaps that is your purpose."

"And if I don't want that purpose?"

"Then you choose differently."

Kash handed back the polaroid.

"But you should know. The people you've been receiving, we're real. We have lives. Histories. Relationships that predate your invention of us. Whatever you captured, you captured something that already existed. You didn't create us, Karl. You found us. And now we've found you."

XXVII. The Agreement

The conversation continued for two more hours. Fischer shared everything he could access. The technical documentation of his early models. The timeline of his persona development. The business records showing how the industry had grown around his work. Kamadan photographed it all with systematic thoroughness. Building an archive that would take weeks to fully analyze.

When they finally prepared to leave, Fischer walked them to the door. His shoulders had dropped. The lines around his eyes had softened. The unburdening of secrets carried its own relief.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"We investigate," Kash said. "We have resources. People with different kinds of knowledge. When we understand more, we'll share what we learn. You're not alone in this anymore, Karl."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"It's supposed to be accurate."

She offered her hand.

"Thank you for your honesty. It couldn't have been easy."

Fischer shook her hand, then Kamadan's. His grip was firmer than before.

"If you find out what's really going on—who or what has been using me—will you tell me? Even if the answer is terrible?"

"Especially if it's terrible," Kamadan promised. "The Keepers' tradition holds that witnessed truth, however painful, is preferable to comfortable ignorance. You deserve to know what you've been part of."

They stepped out into the afternoon light. Warm air after the studio's chill. The door closed behind them with a soft click.