I still remember how to do this, don't I?

Well, I've been drinking, Director. And isn't that how they always start?

Do you remember being a little Level-2, trying to dredge up enthusiasm for some Safe scip, some pair of glasses that lets you see bones or something. Wouldn't we have something like that, right? And it was boring. There wasn't a story behind it, right? Boring thing. Absolutely tragic. And so, you'd slack off. And you'd talk to your friends. Your coworkers, if you were the kind to talk. I would. Always was. Guess I always will be, ha ha, right?

It's against protocol, but you'd gossip. Of course you would. And you'd tell stories in hushed tones, of the Safe-level object that they swear was actually housing some incomprehensible evil, trapped in some low-level containment cell as a teleporting chair or maybe a walking door.

And of course, you'd think, in the back of your head, maybe that's why they had you working on the pair of glasses. Maybe they had confidence in you, the big guys, the O5s.

This isn't a drink for effect, so much as I'm an alcoholic. But hey, it sets the tale up nicely, doesn't it, Director?

I'm Carl Garcia, former Director of Site-125. I say former, but really, that's where I am currently, just about to be the last to get the amnestic. I recommended Class-B. It'll seem important, but not life-threatening. They'll still give me an okay job. So will everyone else. They'll put something new here. And everything will be okay.

I guess, at this point, I probably don't need to take this, but it's for the best. Did you know these used to be shots? Ridiculous, right? Can you imagine that? Bet they had a big nurse, too. Come in. You know. Fuck, I'm tired.

The object is safe. Don't worry. You knowing the truth will be no danger to you. I don't think this object can ever hurt anything again.

It was Keter. Everything about that is true. This wasn't the mistake of a bumbling Foundation. This, for it to work, needs to look like it. It's something people will gossip about. Their Safe-level that used to be a Keter. They'll talk about It, because that's what they do. And that's important. Once it's done, it's done, I think. Or so It told me.

For this to work, you need to understand this, I think. It wouldn't matter. For my comfort, I need you to understand what I did. What It did.

I listened to It. Which was, besides the gossip, the first thing outside of Foundation protocol I had ever done. Or the drinking on the job, I guess. But this is special.

It had weaseled Its way through the cell. I don't know how It managed. It came into me, and It asked me to help It. It wasn't this evil thing. I don't even think It was a thing. So much as a concept. But It came to me as a sad little donkey with a cart.

When joking with Agent Finnegan, who hopefully is guarding something actually important at this point, I always called the scip the “jackass with its cart,” and that was our little joke. Something to get us to laugh at this metaphysical nightmare we had guarded from the Insurgency and the other boys.

But that's how It came. A jackass with a cart. It struggled with the load, blazing golden, filled with indescribable life. It strained and broke its back. It wasn't going to drop it. Oh no, it was far too old, far too practiced to ever drop it. Too old for that, but not too old to be spared exhaustion.

I can't tell you what It is. Not mostly because I couldn't honestly tell you. It's better not to know, some things about It, I think. It's old. It wasn't a statue, but It had been holding the entirety of everything since everything could be called a thing.

I spilled my drink. This doesn't affect the story. Thought you should know.

I knew It wasn't bad. Foolish, I know. People die like this.

I'd done cognitohazards all my life. Memetics was my dream field, and hopefully I'm still in it. God-willing. And no, It isn't God. But, I had a plan. Simple, but effective. I helped It to lighten The Load. That's what It wanted.

I talked It through it, I guess? I helped It, guided It. Revealed to Agent Finnegan that the object may have, in fact, been not as powerful as we thought. I let the unease trickle down that It wasn't something really important, that maybe we were being tricked. I let it simmer. Let It feel the perception changing around it.

I don't think It's that smart. I don't think smartness is a quality that would apply to It. It carries The Load. That's all you need to know. But I told It, this tired Thing Before Things, that It wasn't important. That It was nothing more than a lawn ornament. An old and battered lawn ornament. Peeling paint. With a cart, filled with dirt, that hadn't seen a flower in years.

It bought it. Hook line and fucking sinker. One by one, I revealed the new findings to my team, contacted the higher-ups. They've all taken Class-Bs, and I guess I'm the only one left. Just need to take the amnestic out of its pack. Just need to put on my glasses.

I think, for it to really work, for this plan I made with a concept, to really take hold, I should leave, too. It creates a better storyline for It, doesn't it? The scip already has a picture. I don't know how It made that. It trapped itself into a better story, but at least It goes all the way. When I take this, if It hasn't already, It'll become into being nothing more than a two-part Lawn Gnome in a box. Two boxes.

I don't think testing the object is going to reverse the effects. I don't know if the subjective reality of the object we've both created is strong enough to bring the thing back through. I just think it's had enough. For me, don't put the chain back on. Don't let it carry The Load. It's so tired, and it's been at it so long. Even if it's nothing else but a jackass, I still want it to be able to rest.