My name is Ag... Washington. I'd say I'm dying of boredom, but that
would be an understatement. The worst thing about prison is that
there's nothing to do. I guess that means there's not much to say
then, is there? Something to pass the time, I suppose. Talking to
yourself is generally considered to be a sign of insanity, and
probably won't help my case any, but it's not like I've got
anything left to lose.
Audiolog this time. Couldn't find paper. I'm not sure if they'd
trust me with a pen anyway. Probably not, considering.
I know there's no point in saying it, but I'm not actually crazy.
I... it all happened, alright? Epsilon exists. He can't be gone,
not really. After all that we went through, the Reds and Blues
better have made it out. I need to know someone will remember me,
us, the Project. What the Director did. My friends. They deserve
to be remembered.
I'm not enough of an optimist to believe that I'll actually escape.
I hope--if I'm even capable of it anymore--that the Director is
brought to justice, does pay for his sins. Sometimes I imagine that
he'll be placed in the empty cell across from mine, and I'll get to
yell at him for entertainment for the rest of his miserable life.
It's the least he can do, listen. In the dream, he never says
anything in return. Funny. I listened to him, years ago. Look where
that left me.
Entry 01 //
My name is
D Agent Washington. Or Prisoner 619-B, these days.
Convicted for three counts dereliction of duty, eight counts of
conspiracy to commit treason, and seven counts destruction of
"protected, classified military property". They never tell you
during training that doing the right thing is considered
dereliction of duty. Guess I haven't learned my lesson yet.
Don't be a damn hero, Wash. Vengeance is all very well in
movies, but real life? In real life, it gets you thrown in prison
and treated like a mental case.
All this--the Reds and Blues, Epsilon--all of it was in my head,
according to them. They say that there's no way that any sim
troopers could have survived; the scenarios the Director devised
were "impossible for untrained, untested 'soldiers' to survive".
They keep telling me I'm paranoid, I'm crazy, that the memories
I have aren't real. That I'm either a liar, or insane. That I'm
hiding the location of him from them. That I deleted the data to
cover his tracks. That I knew about the inhumane practices
Project Freelancer employed while it was active. Well, they were
right about one thing. Partially, at least. I did know, after
Epsilon. But I couldn't have done a damn about it. And, to be
honest, I had my hands full. You can't exactly go crusading for
justice when you're stuck in a mental ward.
These are fully formed sentences. These are complicated words.
Do these look like the words of a madman? I hate the Director
as much as more than anyone else. Why would I help him? It doesn't
make sense, because I didn't. They know this, and yet they still
keep me chained up like a rabid dog that's chewed up the furniture.
I don't know anything. All the evidence I had is with the Reds and
Blues, and everyone refuses to believe they exist. Part of me knows
that no one besides me will ever read this. It doesn't matter.
It was never meant to be a plea for help. I know better than anyone
that help never comes. And even if it does, it's rarely ever the
type that you want.