May 18 2023

[xanderrootslayer]

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• Downloads/deconstruct_your_fortunes_trailer.mp4\n\nThe trailer opens with a low, orchestral rumble as the camera moves slowly down a deserted, urban street. "Things were never the same after they came," rumbles the booming voice of a narrator as the camera slinks past decrepit structures, all devoid of any internal furnishings and missing walls and roofs. "Swapping dirt for concrete, flesh for steel, and life for business, they’ve left it all to rot." Gliding past stacks of lumber and other materials, the view homes in on a solitary building, zooming in through a window and capturing a man standing in the foreground, facing a stout refrigerator with his back turned towards the camera as he reaches for the appliance.\n\n"Now, it's time," the narrator utters, the music reaching a thunderous peak… moments before the fridge door swings open and a comically sized avalanche of hundreds of acorns pours forth. "For one man, to tear it all down."\n\nThe scene swiftly melds into a view of the man striding through a demolition site, a sledgehammer braced across a single shoulder, and his steps accompanied by a lively, trumpeting score. "They might call me mad, but mark my words," he announces, hefting the tool, "this place will be returned to nature, so long as I breathe." Heaving the hammer in an arc towards a brick wall, the perspective shifts to the internal view of a warehouse moments before the tool makes contact. The character is leading a small woman through the space. "They think they can keep me from tearing this wreck down one brick at a time?" he declares, halting before a giant storage shelf. "Well, let me introduce you to my crew." The camera pans up, freezing on a shelf where a potted cactus and a Remora plushie sit, a wooden sword and bunny ears duct-taped to the former, and an aluminum bat held in the fins of the latter.\n\nA sudden smash cut brings the woman into view, her eyes tightly closed and her fists clutching a pair of frying pans akimbo. Cornered against a wall with two rifle-bearing government robots looming before her, she maintains a single, drawn-out scream of panicked terror as she windmills her arms, pummeling the two motionless Secubots in a blur of weaponized culinary. By the time she tremulously opens her eyes, the machines have been rendered into little more than sparking scrap metal. A relieved sigh escapes her, moments before the wall explodes.\n\nMetallic text stamps across the screen as the dust settles.\n\n"Deconstruct Your Fortunes, coming to cinemas on May 4th!"
• Downloads/government_overreach.mp4\n\nOverlooking a stage formed from a shipping crate placed upon a harbor wharf, the view depicts a man dressed in combat fatigues standing atop the container, two militiamen flanking him, and a line of bound and gagged civilians kneeling in a line at the structure’s edge: a potbellied man, an athletic-looking woman, an adolescent girl, and a boy. Crowds of people are gathered at the container’s foot, gazing up as the uniformed man speaks.\n\n"My fellow Rhodians," he booms. "On behalf of the Narragansett government, I stand before you to announce that, this morning, these individuals," he pronounces, gesturing towards the bound captives with a flourish of a drawn pistol, "were detained as they attempted to cross our borders, doubtlessly intended to be installed as sleeper agents during this time of emergency. That the United States would seek to invest in our destruction, even as their own countrymen are falling before the undead, is nothing short of disgusting. Let the fates of these intruders serve as an example to any who would challenge the sovereignty of Rhode Island!"\n\nStepping behind the restrained man, the speaker presses his pistol against his head. "This man," he declares, "was found to carry a weapon within his vehicle and is doubtlessly a soldier of the United States." The echo of a solitary shot reverberates through the audio as the man’s lifeless corpse rolls from the container and plunges into the water below amidst muffled shrieks from his fellow captives.\n\n"This woman," the executioner thunders, stepping behind the prisoner in question, "was registered as possessing land within our borders. Land, my friends, upon which a bunker was built!" A second shot and a spray of brains herald the woman’s end as her body plunges to join her compatriot before the man marches behind the huddled children.\n\n"These kids aren’t responsible for the actions of their government," he sombrely announces. "Yet, they will grow to be enemies of Rhode Island and must be dealt with; the law bends for no one."\n\nTwo more gunshots and two smaller splashes bring the video to an end.
• Downloads/how_to_train_your_nightmares_trailer.mp4\n\nThe trailer starts with a surreal violin score: a deathly pale woman in a lab coat kneeling on a basement floor. Head bowed over a collection of engraved silver gliffs, her crimson hair drenched in rivulets of blood, and eyes closed, she chants under her breath as a British cadenced voice, the same as hers, speaks over the scene. "There are things stalking beyond the abysses that drive the sane to madness." Letting blood spatter upon the gliffs from wounds hidden by her hair, the woman’s breathing quickens as the objects begin to sizzle, the view zooming upon her heavily scarred face as her eyes slowly open and the music escalates. "But when insanity rains," fully opening her eyes, the woman’s irises are revealed to be burned scarlet, the perspective filled by a view of one of them as the narration concludes, "the only thing left… is to transcend."\n\nAfter a moment of tense freeze frame, the music grows to a dynamic base-drum rhythm, the view zooming out and revealing the eyes of a tall, robed figure stalking through the deserted mezzanine level of a shopping plaza. With their face lost in the shadow of a hood, their limbs bend in disturbingly inhuman ways as they stride, moments before a clawed hand bursts from beneath and whips them from the corridor. Encircled by a throng of nightmarish, slavering monstrosities, the figure rests still for a moment before their robe bursts apart, revealing them to be an anthropoid composed of intertwining tentacles. Machine pistols clutched at the ends of their many limbs, they latch to the ceiling and, in a hail of bullets, swing from the floor and towards the view.\n\nThe perspective shifts to a scene of the woman, wielding a bayonet-equipped battle rifle, riding astride a motorcycle. Weaving through a street crowded with writhing eldritch abominations, she stabs from the bike as a viperine creature wings behind her, the pair cutting a bloody swath through the crowd before the view changes.\n\nDozing in the back of a covered wagon within a barn, the woman rests, the barn’s doors wide open. A spidery creature made from tentacles creeps in through the opening, the camera shifting to its perspective as it crawls towards the wagon. Laying a leg upon the vehicle’s lip, the view glances up, only to reveal the viperine beast crouching atop the cart. A still second passes before the winged monstrosity dives, the view filled by its gaping maw, before fleshy words bleed across the screen.\n\n"How to Train Your Nightmares, coming to cinemas April 22nd!"
• Gazing into a canvas of darkness, this tape seems to have originated from a highway speed camera. Utterly deserted, the thoroughfare stretches from one end of the choppy frame to the other, the audio devoid of any sound save for the death-rattle rasp of the wind. Presently, footfalls and exhausted breathing join the soundscape as two men stagger upon the scene, one hunched and baring the blood-soaked profile of the other.\n\nClad in the remains of riot gear, the starlight glistening over the red wells of bullet holes flowering across his back, the limply carried officer is clearly dead. His bearer, a slighter man with bloodshot, vacant eyes, stumbles as he walks, his quivering lips moving as he maintains a hoarsely-whispered, one-sided dialogue. "Don’t worry, Kev," he wheezes. "Carlhaven’s just a couple miles up ahead. I'm sure we’ll find someone there who can help you, and after you’re better, we can go to my place on the lake and wait for all this to die down. I’ll get us there, I promise. You just need to talk to me. Please. Tell me something."\n\nCatching his foot in a pothole, the man staggers to the concrete, the corpse sprawling atop him as he lies face down. "I’m going to get us there. I promise. I promise. I just want you to wake up. Please, Kev. I’ve got to get us there."\n\nAs the man wretchedly whimpers, various figures begin to shamble up from the same direction he came from. Futilely trying to rise, the man only succeeds in rolling himself into a sitting position as his crying grows harder. "Please Kev… please. I don’t want to die alone," he bawls. "Please, wake up and don’t let me die alone."\n\nAs the first zombie stumbles to within a few meters of the man, his sobs grow quiet as he makes eye contact with the inhuman monster ushering in his destruction. Closing his eyes, he pulls the policeman’s corpse into a tight hug and lowers his head, planting a tender kiss on the dead man’s lips. The embrace never breaks, even as the zombies descend upon him.
• Hey people, it’s DJ Dustbowl again, back gon… on Dark Days Radio. I’m sorry if I’m slurring my words today, but I’ve been hitting the boose real fucking hard. It’s all okay, I guess. It’s not like anyone’s listenizng to this trash anyway. Y’aulll are probably all dead. God knnows, maybe ty’all are dead because of me as well.\n\nIn his calr. He was sitdting in his car. I’m so sorry. Something had torn it open: hallf of it was missssing when I found it. It was in better caondition than what used to be …kshssssssk. He… it, had already reanimated, and …kshhhsk… so many tentacles. Dear god. Why cahn’t you just let corpses rot in peace? Why did you have to turn him into that? It’s all my fault. I should havne never asked him to make it over. DI burned and buried it. I’m so focking sorry. Stupid fucking make-believe DJ, pretending to run a radio show and getting people killled becauuse he’s lonely. I shold stay alone. I should die alone.\n\nI unterstand now. I understand why I heard you icn the… portal storm and why you told me to comme out. Did you want revenge? I’m so sorry. I hate myself. I fucking haatte myself. I’m sorry, Anarchy.
• Peeking down from a pole mount, this segment of security camera footage films the apex of a bridge overpass’s boarding ramp. A number of large police and military vehicles loom at the concrete incline’s foot, with a low line of sandbags forming a makeshift checkpoint behind which several armed national guardsmen and police officers stand at attention. The view, however, is mainly taken up by a veritable metal wall of civilian vehicles crawling in a haphazard line across the bridge, disheveled groups of exhausted men, women, and children flitting alongside the slow procession of evacuating vehicles. The footage proceeds in this fashion for several minutes, with new groups of refugees being waved through by the soldiers, before a distant sonic boom resounds through the audio. Gradually coming to a halt, with the heads of civilians and personnel alike inclined skyward and tense expressions adorning unkempt faces, the stream stands in collective puzzlement as the sound of powerful jet engines can be heard in the background, steadily rising in volume. The collective apathy dissolves into utter, terrified pandemonium as a large shadow rapidly darkens the overpass and an officer suddenly screams, "CLEAR THE BRIDGE!"\n\nWith a number of fresh whistling sounds dominating the newly overwhelmed soundscape, soldiers grab those they can and race clear of the checkpoint as panicked civilians fling themselves off the overpass, rapidly joined by the occupants of those vehicles on the edges of the stagnated convoy. In the last few shots, you can see the drivers of cars at the procession’s heart struggle to abandon their vehicles before a sleek form streaks from the sky, the start of an ear-splitting explosion rips through the muddled audio, and the view goes white.
• Swirling with a head-spinning meld of spurting reds and fleshy pinks, the sky looms over a windswept street, the jittering view seemingly recorded by a private property’s security camera. Bulging and receding, as though it were the face of a storm-ravaged ocean, a road-facing lawn fills the foreground. A school bus rocks beyond the distorted greenery, the giggles of children clear over the squeals of the vehicle’s suspension and the deformed whispers that tickle the edges of audibility. The bus is coated in a carpet of writhing, flopping, and quivering torsos and limbs, all seemingly from children. Rolling, through some indeterminate agency, along the vehicle’s sides, wiggling across its roof, and at times merging straight through the metal, the bleeding body parts frolic across the bus. Smiling and laughing, the heads attached to the torsos revolve in ways that would break regular necks, their jaws clamping about the faces of cohorts that they wriggle into, both parties gnawing at each other’s skulls before they merge strait through one another.\n\nAs the road buckles and an abyssal vortex twists into being beyond the bus, all the flailing legs assemble beneath the chassis and lift the vehicle from the ground, the children’s eyes bursting from their sockets and wriggling to the bus’s front as the rest of the body parts assume positions upon the seats. The red-splattered distortion of children on a field trip sprints into the portal, the children’s heads still laughing.
• The entire view pitches and rocks unsteadily, with the top bar of a ship’s guardrail visible at the frame’s base and a frothing ocean stretching for as far as the eye can see. A muddled mix of desperate liturgies and shouts meld with the background rattle of gunfire; the sounds all but drown beneath the ear-splitting shriek of the video’s subject: an enormous, writhing mass of gelatinous tentacles breeching the water and tussling with the bows of a military transport. Floundering in the midground, the transport’s all but subsumed beneath the megalithic limbs, rose of hooked barbs digging into the steel plating, the appendages connected to a gargantuan, scaly form that thrashes beneath the waves. As the vessel is hoisted from the water and the tiny silhouettes of soldiers are dragged into the various slavering maws lining the tentacles like masses of krill, small specks appear in the sky on the horizon.\n\nA sonic boom resounds and the specks resolve into a flight of low-flying fighter jets. Bellies laden with ordinance, the aircraft dive towards the struggle, harpoon missiles streaking free of their armament bays before they steeply climb. Columns of water and yellowish ichor spurt skyward as the weapons find their mark, sending chunks of quivering flesh showering across the scene as the pummeled ship crashes back into the water. As the behemoth’s corpse slips beneath the waves, two jets bank around and sweep low, depositing depth charges over the creature’s liquid grave.\n\nAs the subsurface bombs detonate in a wave of bloody water, the final shot depicts the wrecked ship as it joins its attacker beneath the waves, a solitary soldier clinging to the uppermost reaches of the vessel as it sinks into the abyss.
• The footage opens with an angled view of a rumpled picnic blanket, surrounded by the trunks and gnarled roots of trees and verdant shrubbery crowding the extremities. The blanket is nearly obscured by the dozing profile of a young woman and three large dogs, one curled around her head like a pillow and the others sprawled across her body.\n\n"Here, ladies and gentlemen of America," speaks a young man’s voice into the microphone, "we view a feral Annaliese in her natural habitat: buried under several kilos of dog." A light chuckle accompanies the remark as the man shifts the view, the camera panning and bringing more of the environment into sight. The film’s transit pauses as a young boy seated upon a bench comes into frame, his face a slack, glass-eyed mask of indifference, a rivulet of drool dribbling from his hanging mouth. A small dog is perched atop his knees, nuzzling at the child’s motionless form and whimpering.\n\nA solitary, strangled yelp escapes the little dog’s muzzle as the boy seizes its snout and throat, deftly breaking its neck. As a stunned "holy mother of God!" can be heard from the cameraman, the view growing lopsided as he evidently fumbles the device, a mix of emotions blossoms across the boy’s face. The child’s eyes well with tears, his mouth simultaneously twisting in a smile as he systematically sets to snapping the dead dog’s bones. Amidst the flurry of growls and barks emanating from the couple’s recently awoken dogs and a muttered, "Anna, get the dogs and get to the truck; we better leave," audible in the background, the video’s final shot depicts the boy staring straight into the camera, a goofy grin plastered across his face. He waves the dead canine’s broken arm in a grotesque farewell.
• This appears to be a locally saved livestream archive, with the feed filming a decrepit backstreet. An older, bespectacled man and a middle-aged Latina woman stand huddled in a line against the wall, their legs lashed to each other and their hands bound to the front. Beaming like a ray of sunshine, a man dressed in tactical gear prances before them, a baseball bat resting conspicuously upon his shoulder as he greets the camera. "Hey guys," he says, "this is Andre Diliman, and we’re going to be putting our detective hats on and figuring out who’s to blame for all the shit going on, and we’re going to do that, with the help of these beautiful people right here, so please, introduce yourselves."\n\nExchanging resigned glances, the two captives lower their heads as the woman mutters, "I’m Dr Martha Sharma."\n\n"And I’m Dr Conrad Sharma," her compatriot glumly adds.\n\n"And both you fuckers work at Jameson Biotech," the spokesman concludes in a sing-song cadence as he saunters before the couple. "We’re going to start easy. The CDC has been saying that something’s messing with people's brains: making them act all aggressive. Now, my question to you is simple: What did y’all cook up in those labs of yours?"\n\nLifting her head and making eye contact with her questioner, the woman shakes her head incredulously. "You, fucking idiot."\n\nNodding understandingly, the man turns away from the couple. "I see we might need some harder persuasion, that's not too surprising. Alexander, Tomas, and Mary, bring in the kid… and the wire!"\n\nAmidst a flurry of horrified protests from the captives, a gaunt man appears from off-frame, a goofy grin creasing his unshaven face as he lugs a squalling baby in his arms. A second man and a woman follow him into view… uncoiling a length of barbed wire. Wrapping the rusted steel about the infant’s midsection, heedless of the pained wails emanating as the barbs scrape its skin, the duo stand apart, gripping opposite ends of the makeshift garrotte. "Ok guys," the ringleader gleefully instructs, "on my mark, we’ll give the little shit a light squeezing. If the good doctors don’t want to talk after that… then I want it rendered into mincemeat! 3, 2, 1…"\n\nSpouts of blood spurt in all directions as bullet-riddled bodies collapse to the ground, the camera toppling rearwards as a bark of automatic gunfire echoes through the audio, accompanied by the approaching, hurried stomps of soldiers' boots.
• This appears to be a screen shot of a social media blog post, with the view dominated by a full-color picture of a futuristic-looking wind turbine standing tall against a backdrop of rolling hills and verdant pastures. Looming atop a distant mound squats a large nuclear energy facility, with a forbiddingly dark mushroom cloud blossoming in the air above it and the surrounding land a toxic, radioactive-green wasteland. Regally poised atop one of the turbine’s blades stands a diminutive figure, bark-like skin cladding them like armor and flowering buds crowning their scalp. An estoc carved from wood is securely wielded in their vine-composed arms and thrusts towards the mushroom cloud, with the caption, "Thrust Away Nuclear Energy, Stab into the Future of Clean Electricity," looming over the scene. The rest of the post details the time and location arrangements for an eco-rights protest in Vermont, scheduled to take place weeks before the Cataclysm.
• This appears to be a screenshot from a newsreel: a reporter standing in the foreground before the night-enveloped backdrop of a rubble-strewn crossroad, the caption, "Maine disaster area," printed in the upper corner. Several military transport vehicles idle in the midground, the white beams of their headlights illuminating groups of civilians dressed in a shabby assortment of streetwear and night clothes. Clutching bundled possessions, children, and pets, it's evident that they’re being ushered towards the waiting vehicles, with teams of heavily armed soldiers forming protective flanks and lines of machinegun-equipped sandbags cordoning off roadways at the frame’s extremities.\n\nStooping behind a building’s window and peeking through partly opened curtains, observing the humans’ flight with beady, unblinking eyes, you can make out an amorphous, white shape. You’re not sure what’s stranger: that the creature's somehow evaded notice by the dozens of watchful soldiers, or that, for all the world, it resembles an inhumanly tall, muscular penguin.
• This appears to be a segment of bodycam footage, with the perspective shaking as the wearer jogs through a dimly lit corridor, a drawn pistol's muzzle leading the way. Rounding a bend, any forward progress is promptly arrested as a formally dressed woman comes into the shot. Hefting a large sledgehammer and crushing the skulls of zombie after zombie clambering through a shattered window, an expression of childish glee is plastered across her face.\n\nGlancing towards the camera, her maniacal grin grows wider as she abandons her post and, stumbling on high heels, rushes towards the view. Heedless of the bullets that plunge into her gore-caked body, the enraptured look upon the woman’s face as she swings the mallet and blood spurts across the lens is going to haunt you in your sleep.
• This appears to be somebody’s saved to-do list, with a green checkmark rounding off each entry, save for the last.\n\nTo-do:\n\nPack the car with a few weeks worth of provisions: clothes and shoes, toiletries and medications, electronics and games, a portable steamer, and camping equipment (tents, a cooking set, sleeping bags, a propane cooker, and some tanks). Dig out dad’s Vietnam AK47 from the packing boxes in the basement and hunt around for his old reloading equipment (look up how it works). If the kids ask, just say it’s for hunting.\n\nFile for extended leave from work and withdraw the kids from school. If Erith complains about having to leave uni and her girlfriend, say it’s only temporary.\n\nTake the car and stop by the supermarket for some pre-packed camping meals before heading to pick up the kids.\n\nHead into Scofield’s on the way out of town to pick up some bullets. Should probably ask Julian for advice and help; he plays videogames with this sort of stuff. Can I even buy ammo without having a license? *Just found out that different guns take different bullets and that reloading equipment isn’t used to reload guns. Definitely ask Julian for help.\n\nTake the highway out north and meet up with Sandra at the rest stop 10 miles out before traveling to her place in Rhode Island.
• This flier has been hastily photocopied on cheap cartridge paper. It appears to be advertising an event 7 days after the evacuation order was sent out. 'Great Antler Bar & Grill is closing down forever. Come and celebrate the memmeries. fFood will be free. come quick fresh and tender.' There are several grainy photos of an empty restaurant with the windows boarded up, rotting food haphazardly served on the tables at different stages of decomposition. The bottom of the flier is a blurry photo of a woman, her eyes bloodshot and mouth disturbingly wide. You can't quite determine whether she is laughing or crying.
• This is an archived voice message, seemingly received on the eve of the Cataclysm from a number saved as "Mandy."\n\nThe sound of ragged, unsuccessfully stifled breaths fills the recording, with hiccupped whimpers emitted at barely above a whisper as, in the background, a man’s shouting cadence and a woman’s pleading sobs are audible.\n\n"Jonas," sniffs a teen girl’s voice. "I… I don’t know what’s happened, but dad’s gone crazy. He’s tied Mom to the radiator for the last hour, and… oh God! Jona, I think he’s stripped her, and he’s been turning on and off the radiator and sometimes I hear him crooning about how much he loves her, even as he’s beating her and she’s screaming. I tried calling 911, but nobody’s answering, and he's locked me in the basement, and I"\n\nThe girl’s speech dissolves into sob-clogged gasps as the woman’s voice escalates into a blood-curdling shriek, the scream growing sodden and gurgling as the liquid spray of gushing viscera grows to dominate it. Heavy footfalls grow audible as the distant, gore-choked death rattle fades, replaced by the burble of viscous fluids and the girl’s uneven breaths.\n\n"Ooh, little Manatee," calls a man’s sing-song voice as the muffled click of an opening door and the thump of bare feet on stairs register in the recording. "Come on, sweety, it’ll be easier if you just work with me."\n\nFor a few moments, all that can be heard are the girl’s desperately muffled breaths and her father’s searching footfalls.\n\nThe recording is suddenly filled with the girl’s terrified shrieks and the swish of a struggling body being violently hauled across the floor, the sounds growing distorted as the phone tumbles to the ground. Swiftly gagged, the daughter’s weeping pleas are muffled, replaced by the retching of lungs clawing for air as the man’s monstrously soothing voice filters through the recording. "There, there, little manatee," he croons, the sound of fingers being comfortingly stroked through hair in contrast with the nauseous gurgling of a throat freshly choking on vomit. "Don’t fight it. Go to sleep now. Soon, you’ll be happy with Mom. There, there. Go to sleep, darling. I loved you. I love you."\n\nThe last few minutes of the recording are occupied by silence before the father’s voice returns. He’s weeping.
• Uncle Sam’s still kicking! Yes, I was just as surprised as y’all listening probably are. That is, unless you happen to be an uncle named Sam, in which case I’m DJ Dustbowl, this is my canine co-host, who’s also Sam, and we want to tell you good job for making it this far. Jesus fuck, Sam, I think that was our most brain-dead intro. Anyways, moving swiftly along, members of the federal government are still out there, folks. Just this morning, a big old heli flew past, pretty as can be. I managed to hail them and found out that they were ferrying some supplies over to what they’re calling the "Old Guard’s First Fleet." Tap some wood, people, but it sounds like a bunch of Navy and private ships are tootling along the coastline, cruising and looking to clear some safe zones.
• What’s up, people of <the_cataclysm>? I’m DJ Dustbowl, this is my canine partner in crime, Sam, and you’re listening to Dark Days Radio, but… let me shut my mouth for a bit.\n\n"Hey hey, this is Anarchy, former writer, now turned apocalypse survivor and wearer of oven-derived sheet metal armor."\n\nAren’t you forgetting, "Driver of a hatchback turned death brick?"\n\n"Yes. That’s an important part of my zombie-trashing credentials."\n\nSo yeah, ladies and gentlemen, if you didn’t catch my last broadcast, I did the impossible: I found, quite possibly, the only other living, breathing nerd operating a radio on the eastern seaboard.\n\n"Truly, we are an endangered species."\n\nThat we are, but, Anarchy, please enlighten the people bunkering down on how you got here.\n\n"Let’s just say… a lot of zombies got introduced to the front grill of the death brick."\n\nMetal. Now, folks, I’m going to step out for a smoke, and I’ll leave y’all in Anarchy’s hands. I’m not responsible for anything that gets said.\n\n"OK, so I’m going to be bringing you whatever music I feel like playing, as well as tips, tricks, and excerpts from whatever I've been writing in this apocalyptic hellscape. But before we launch, I’d like to give some dad advice. Don't forget to work on your personal projects, people. I know you've got plenty of time sitting in those shelters of yours."
• You felt years of your life being sapped away, slaving at your computer as you subsisted on a daily pot of coffee, microwave burritos and an endless supply of crumpled paper to toss. Perhaps the Cataclysm is a refreshing change of pace…
• downloads/real_alien_autopsy!.mp4\n\nAn immaculately polished room fills the video’s perspective, with various metal workspaces lining the metallic walls and the camera angled downward towards a stainless steel operating table. Sprawled across the surface rests an enormous, vaguely cylindrical form, its shapeless pink flesh encased within an insectoid exoskeleton and sets of clawed appendages marching up the length of its segmented body. Membranous wings spread out from beneath the organism’s bulk, and a pyramidal construct, formed from petal-like ravels of flesh, crowns it.\n\nAsian voices softly converse in the background as latex-gloved hands appear from off frame and busy themselves with delicately cutting around one of the creature’s armored plates, the entire scene gently swaying as though the room were located aboard an ocean-going vessel. After much surgical manipulation, the segment of exoskeleton eventually relinquishes its grasp before the scalpel’s insistent slicing, detaching with an unpleasantly wet, peeling sound. Trailing strands of connective tissue, the plate is set aside as the blades dig into the comparatively delicate flesh beneath, laying the internals bare with a trickle of seeping fluid and a wave of excited gabbles from the unseen surgical crew.\n\nThe beast’s insides are a paradox of ordered chaos, with stacks of hairy, finger-like structures extending deep within the creature and, like the spokes of a wheel, connecting to a network of four interjoined sacks clustered in a square at the core. A cartilaginous latticework encircles the sacks, a complicated network of piping running from the organs to various points about the body. Two constructs, which vaguely resemble the general outline of a traditional lung but are composed of meaty disks connected to a central stock, fill the upper half of the creature's form, with a large amount of sickly yellow fluid flooding the entirety of its internal cavity.\n\nThe rest of the video consists of various parts of the creature’s anatomy being extricated and examined, with a thick, resin-like substance extruding from one of the sacks as it’s sliced open.
• makeshift tree spiles
• recording_april_20_03:50.mp3\n\nThe background of this recording is underscored by a bazaar of swirling noise and muffled cracks emanating through the audio, causing a faint and inexplicable tingling sensation to prickle at the roots of your teeth. "Dear Diary," mumbles a child’s voice. "It’s been a few hours since all the weirdness started, and there are still noises outside, so I guess it isn't over. We’re still hiding in the armory building, and…"\n\n"Hey, kid," interjects a woman’s horse voice. "We need to save that thing’s charge, so, mind not draining it all."\n\nMuttering a reluctant apology, a light thwack and swish jostle the audio as some manner of cover is lowered over the recording device and the child slides it to the floor, the feed still unterminated. Moments pass, during which only the disquieting sounds of a world in unnatural flux can be heard, accompanied by the clinking of various small metal objects being toyed with next to the microphone. Eventually, the uncomfortable silence is broken as the woman clears her voice.\n\n"Listen… I’m sorry. Honestly, I don’t really care about it too much: it’s just that… I’m just as scared as you are."\n\n"I thought soldiers didn’t get scared."\n\nAny form of reply is cut off as a frantic banging suddenly batters into the soundscape: with a man’s muffled shrieks for help audible as the child, alarm raising their voice by several octaves, cries, "That’s dad! We've got to open the door!"\n\nA scramble ensues, eventually culminating in the child’s yelling protests as they’re evidently restrained.\n\n"Listen to me," the woman’s voice barks. "Kid, you can’t open that door. The thing out there ain’t your dad."\n\n"What’re you talking about?" the youth sobs. The soldier’s cadence softens with no small measure of sadness as she audibly pulls the struggling child to a sitting position by the microphone.\n\n"No one knows we’re in here," she replies. "Nobody would be begging to be let in. Plus, no one could have lasted this long outside. Just, cover your ears. It’ll stop once it realizes it’s not fooling anyone."\n\nAs the screams and pleas grow increasingly distorted, eventually verging on a blood-curdling wail, the youth sniffles, "Then, what is it?"\n\nLong moments pass, during which the child’s weeping grows muted as they’re pulled into an evident embrace. "Not a person," the woman eventually whispers. "Definitely not a person."
• untitled2047-1676.mp4\nThe roof of a pickup truck slopes out of sight at the lowest extremities of the video’s view, with the rumble of the idling vehicle’s engine all but lost under the angered uproar of the veritable sea of people that crowd, stomp, and chant for as far as the eye can see. What appears to be a nuclear reactor facility looms in the background, the mob’s front ranks pressed against the shuddering security fence encompassing the compound, a number of nervous-looking, rifle-clutching guards standing behind the barrier. Interspersed among the horde are various people waving handmade signs, fleeting glances at the bords affording a view of a painted, plant-like anthropoid brandishing a sword towards a stylized mushroom cloud. The chant, "FUCK OSWALD, FUCK NUCLEAR POWER, FUCK YOUR MOTHER!" resounds through the crackling audio, eventually dissolving into a tumult of enraged shrieks as the guardsmen raise their rifles and fire a volley of warning shots over the heads of the throng. To a man, the crowd surges forward in heightened fervor, flinging themselves against the fence line, with a handful even attempting to scale the barrier. Any further observation is cut short as the truck’s engine roars and the vehicle barrels forward, the cameraman flung from the pickup’s roof and rolling beneath the chassis. The footage captures a brief blur of speeding metal and the sickening sound of several tons of vehicle crushing bodies before the tremendous crash of collapsing girders and a series of savage, approving screams resound. Lopsided and glitching, the final moments of footage tapes a rush of legs storming past, the audio capturing a rattle of frantic gunfire, triumphant and terrified shrieks, and the meaty, splitting tear of limbs being forcibly wrenched from their sockets.

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