The passage of time grew fluid and irregular without the familiar rhythms to anchor it. The rise and fall of the sun, the tidal movement of the doctors and nurses - in and out with the changing of shifts, and even the broad cycle of coming and going from the hospital when such opportunities were afforded. Merely knowing she was sealed into an indefinite stasis just made everything seem terribly, terribly slow.

Days became meaningless beyond Paul’s simple chalkboard markings, and the world outside the Morgue would have fallen away entirely if not for the earthquakes. The first one hit about a day after Millie woke up, and occurred at least once every two hours after that. They weren’t particularly violent, but they necessitated a whole day's worth of effort to secure everything against the rumbles. They all felt the loss of the potted succulent in the Morgue office - the only bit of living greenery they had. Maybe the only bit left in the whole world. Either way, after a day of morbid uncertainty, the basement showed no sign of giving way to the rumbling earth. A small relief.

As the others labored as best they could around the angry tectonics, Millie was gurney-bound. Her leg was not going to recover anytime soon, and her body still bore larger strains from ‘The Day’ - as they’d taken to calling it. The damage was most evidenced by the little flare-ups that occurred for some time after; half-waking to an incoherent world of burning ache and bone-deep fatigue that Paul did his best to help her through. She’d lose a day, and much of the next, to swollen joints, numbness, and a thick cognitive cloud.

Millie did not suffer alone. Physical ailment can at least provide an anchor into one’s own self - a deadening to the wider world the other survivors could not benefit from. And as much as she would fall into a public infirmity, the others would sink into private despair. Andrew suffered simply and privately, focus falling away in random moments of introspection. A risk, for certain, when the jobs he was assigned usually involved moving very heavy things. No one begrudged him, they all understood. Whatever Andrew truly felt during these lapses he hid it behind masks of internalized anger or solemnity. Whatever weight was on the man’s heart, he did not share its true shape with the others.

Olivia remained quiet and distant. When the others would gather in fitful efforts at distraction during meals or snaring little joys in quiet moments she would stand at a remove and stare at the wall, stare through the wall - she was anywhere but here. Her mind returned to the morgue when work demanded it, and she maintained an efficiency and drive in her tasks that dwarfed any of them. The bodies were embalmed, secured, and once a method was devised - disposed of; a clever combination of esoteric solvents and a large plastic drum stored amongst the basement’s supplies. A process that Millie was grateful she need not witness, having been wheeled into the office area at Olivia’s subtle recommendation. She also need not witness, with some active effort, Olivia occasionally ghosting into that same office to stow sealed bags of raw meat and containers of thick red liquid in the tiny personal freezer they’d kept running.

Of them all only Paul mourned openly. Even as he acknowledged his own pain the others were incapable of doing so - open anguish making him paradoxically the loneliest in his suffering. Paul took to work more and more furiously in a doomed effort to drive away the twin demons of thoughtfulness and care that were tearing at his soul. When there was no more food to inventory he moved to medicine, and then everything else, and then anything else; any task that could occupy him. When the generator was turned off and everyone was settling in for fitful sleep, it was often to the sounds of Paul’s muffled misery.

Millie had little else to do but follow the sad stories being played out by her fellow prisoners, as after a few days of what effort could be drawn from her unsound body, she’d found only one big success in her self-assigned tasks. Efforts to communicate with ‘The Voice’ had proven either completely unsuccessful, or just mostly unsuccessful. Though when it did occasionally respond to her inquiries she felt she could ‘read’ it a bit better than she could before. The tone of its smoky-lounge-singer voice was eerily uninflected, but there were hints of intent in its choices of words and patterns in what it would reply to, and how, that Millie had begun to decipher.

The Voice never responded to direct queries about its nature, intentions, or origin. It was silent in the face of any effort to clarify or understand The Day; not the why of it, the how of it, or what had caused it. And it had absolutely no appetite for casual conversation - not music, not politics, or even the old standby of weather. Yet it wasn’t gone, or even as mute as Olivia - some approaches would still get it talking.

It would always respond to an offered exchange, “Exchange request: Declined. Reason: Unable to perform auxiliary tasks at this time.”

It was the exact same every time, regardless of the offer or how it was framed. But after fiddling around a bit with potential responses Millie did discover the second best method of coaxing out a reply - elaboration.

“Define terminology - 'auxiliary task’: Any effort that requires an expenditure of energy towards none of the primary, secondary, or tertiary objectives.”

“Woah! Hey, hold up. Primary, secondary, and tertiary objectives - tell me about them.”

“ Define terminology - 'primary objective’: Tasks to be given highest priority in terms of operational focus and energy expenditure. Define terminology - 'secondary objective’: Tasks to be given next highest priority after primary objectives in terms of operational focus and energy expenditure. Define terminology - 'tertiary objective’: Tasks to be given next highest priority after primary and secondary objectives in terms of operational focus and energy expenditure.”

Millie would spend most of that day hearing those definitions repeated back to her over and over again as she attempted every iteration of the question imaginable to drag out what those objectives actually were. No luck. The Voice seemed more than happy to explain or clarify its own terminology but not necessarily the underlying mechanics or principles the terminology surrounded.

The last thing the Voice seemed willing to talk about, if only in vagaries, was any existing arrangements that it had made with Millie. Or at least she assumed that its communicativeness about their one existing arrangement would extend to any that would happen in the future. Even as she wasn’t exactly keen to offer up any more than she already had. She still hesitated to take a proper look through her recollections even at her most bored. She tried to tell herself otherwise, but the only thing really keeping her from doing so at this point was fear. Fear for what she’d find gone.

“Define exchange - Millicent Armstrong, ‘memories for shelter’: Millicent Armstrong grants access level of, ‘choke on em’ to all stored memories. Memories can be acquired freely at any time for as long as Millicent Armstrong grants ‘choke on em’ access privileges. Memories can be stored remotely, examined, and utilized for any operational purpose. Memories cannot be altered, exchanged with the memories of other subjects, or otherwise have their structure and form manipulated beyond what is necessary for safe acquisition and transferral to remote storage. For as long as Millicent Armstrong grants ‘choke on em’ access privileges the subject is granted a sufficient allotment of energy to fulfill the task of, ‘Secure this place against whatever’s happening. Enough for us to survive’. Forms: Egg, Indestructible, Liminal. Archetype designation: ‘Shelter’. Objective of Shelter: Protect occupants from inhospitable environments, seal and exclude Shelter zone from processes of secondary objective. Range of Shelter: ‘Dignity Health, Basement’. Duration of Shelter: Ongoing until surface habitability is restored. The terms of this exchange cannot be altered at this time.”

Within the impenetrable jumble was the little nugget of knowledge that she considered her one true success. Eventually, if The Voice was to be believed, the planet would be hospitable again. When Millie announced this little discovery it was enough to provoke a humble, yet joyous, celebration.

There wasn’t much to celebrate with, or for, but they did their best to appreciate what they had. No feasting of course - and the alcohol on hand wasn’t the sort meant for drinking - but they tucked into the stash of candy bars Paul had found in one of the office drawers. Even Olivia participated in their own way even if all that meant was sitting with them in silence.

As they were gathered around a table, conversation coming to a close and everyone luxuriating in their simple treats, Millie transcribed The Voice’s explanation word for word onto some scrap paper. Paul tried to push Millie into admitting the ‘access level’ stuff had been a little ‘exaggerated’ on her part and Millie was more than happy to confirm it wasn’t the case as many times as she had to.

Andrew, chuckling with a mouth full of Snickers bar, placed a callous finger on the page just as Millie finished writing. “It can’t jumble anything at least, just take them. That’s… a little comforting.”

“Not as much as ya think.” Replied Millie, snacking on her her last remaining bit of dried fruit. “But yeah, it’s something. Assuming we can trust it.”

“We have to.” Returned Paul, putting down his Mars bar. “It’s the only source of information - and good news, finally - that we have down here. Ask how long it’ll take before we can leave, exactly.”

Millie shook her head, “Won’t work. It never talks about what its ‘tasks’ actually entail. Unless it involves a previous deal, I guess.”

“Just try.” Said Paul, voice tight with apprehension.

Millie shrugged but she did as directed - multiple times and in multiple ways. As expected, no response. She gave Paul an apologetic look and he slumped a bit under the gaze.

“So we still have no idea how long we have to last for.” Paul said. He glanced over at his wall of chalk marks - six days so far.

Andrew laughed, “Nope! But hey, why get down at good news? Sure, The Voice isn’t being generous: But now we know we have some sort of chance, we aren’t do-.”

The bones of the earth ground against themselves. Andrew stopped a fall by clutching onto the table they were leaning over, grabbing Andrew by the collar with his other hand. Millie clutched the sides of her gurney, and glanced about - still half expecting the roof to cave in even after it hadn’t so many times before. Olivia, unbothered as the shaking died down, placed her finger on the word ‘energy’, drawing the others' attention.

While she leaned over the table from her gurney, Millie let out a calming breath and said. “Yeah, not the first time it’s mentioned ‘energy’. Seems whatever this thing is it has its own rationing to concern itself with. It all goes towards a ranked list of ‘objectives’ - still aren’t sure what those are.”

Paul speculatively placed his finger just below Olivia’s, “The context makes me think its secondary objective has something to do with what’s happening to the planet. The earthquakes, the atmosphere, what you saw happening to the sky; some sort of alien terraforming project?”

Andrew said, “I guess that would take a lot of energy.’

“But what sort of energy?” Asked Paul, looking increasingly frustrated, “From where, and how?”

“I asked those ones ages ago, no dice.” Said Millie, turning back to the page. “And I figure you’re right about the secondary objective. But is keeping us alive one of The Voice’s other ones?”

Paul smiled slightly, “It has to be. Would it be doing what it’s doing otherwise?”

“I’m not sure. All it’s really asked of us is for memories. And as far as we can tell it’s only keeping us alive because I gave them up. Don’t even know what’s happened to anyone in the Chichen Itzas.”

Paul started to ask, “Chichen It-?”

“The emergency shelters.” clarified Andrew with a little smile.

“Oh… right.”

Andrew continued, responding to Millie, “Yeah, you said before it could just be softening us up until we’re all willing to give it whatever it wants from us.”

Paul shook his head in an effort at disbelief, “I can’t believe that something with the ethics to ask permission to do anything, even getting inside of our minds, doesn’t have at least some goodness in it.”

“It’s an alien, Paul.” Said Andrew, “Who knows what sort of morality it has.”

“Or it’s a sort of god. I have to believe something with so much power isn’t totally malevolent, or what’s even the point? With everything that’s happened I don’t think it was behind The Day, I think it’s reacting to it; trying to help.”

Andrew grumbled. "That's a real one-eighty from your last opinion about it."

Shrugging and glancing up, Paul said, "It's not that I trust it all the sudden, I've just had some time to think. It has principles, rules - things I don't think an entirely selfish entity would bother having. "

“Or maybe Wyetta had it right and it’s the devil trying to find the best angle to fuck us.” Sighed Millie. She couldn't help but wonder if Paul had really thought his way to that new conclusion, or was just hoping his way to it.

“You don’t actually think that.” Muttered Paul.

“No, I don’t. Don’t know what I think right now. But we shouldn’t start making bets until we know the game we’re playing.” Millie tapped at her nose as she fell into thought. Her old habit not quite as painful as it had been a few days ago.

Paul sighed and shook his head again, “Well, then we need to get more food. Any ideas?”

No one responded. Millie remained in a thoughtful silence, and Andrew just shrugged. Paul gave Olivia a knowing glance, and she returned a flat gaze. Clearly not one to participate in an ‘I-told-you-so’. Or maybe Olivia was satisfied with the corpse meat she had collected. No one liked to talk about that, and they liked even less to think about how Olivia was surviving on so few of the normal rations.

Andrew sighed, breaking the silence, and headed towards the latrines. “Excuse me.”

As Andrew left, Millie clicked her tongue with frustration, “Got nothing. Maybe let’s come back to it.” She leaned back over the page. “Anyone have an idea about that ‘Forms’ and ‘Archetypes’ stuff, it’s the only bit in there I just completely don’t understand.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow at Millie, “Ask.”

Millie slapped her forehead in self mockery. “Duh, yeah. May as well try.”

As Millie was formulating the question, Paul mused, “The Voice is usually so literal, but all of that seems like esoteric ways to describe the shelter, I’d guess.” He counted off on his fingers. “Indestructible - obvious, egg - nurturing protection, and hm…”

Olivia spoke up, “Liminal: Transitory threshold.”

“Oh. I can see that.” Acknowledged Paul.

“Hey, Voice. Define ‘Forms’ and ‘Archetype’ as you used them in the description of our exchange. And tell me how they’re related.”

“Define terminology, simplified - ‘Forms’: The idealized embodiment of anything and everything. Each Form is functionally infinite in scope and scale. There are functionally infinite Forms. All entities, concepts, principles, notions, objects, variations, and individual examples of any and all things have a Form. All Forms are made up of constituent Forms, and coalesce i-

Millie’s attempt to grasp this seed of wisdom, unwitting of its vast importance towards the cultivation of a new grove of collective human understanding. This first sprout amidst the impenetrable forest of knowledge that made up an infinite cosmos - interrupted by Andrew yelling ‘Shit’. Presumably that hadn’t been mere narrativization on his part, as a worried-looking Andrew rushed back into the Morgue proper.

“We’re flooding exhaust!”