Murder in Missing Mile

"What's wrong with Missing Mile?" Trevor asked, his voice quivering. His pretty blue eyes widened and his hands trembled as he spoke. "Please tell me. I need to know."

 I looked down at the mess on the floor: broken glass and juice that Archer had handmade. In truth, the juice was the greater waste. The glass that Trevor had dropped in his distressed state was an office issue—not exactly cheap, but not something a CEO should lose sleep over.

"Igor, clean this mess," I instructed, letting out a soft sigh to keep my calm. "Trevor, you seem deeply troubled."

He clenched his trembling hands. "I must know. Please."

"It's not that I'm unwilling to share the information," I began, taking a deep breath. "In fact, there's minimal risk in you knowing. It's just..." I paused, grappling for the right words that wouldn't imply Trevor was intellectually lacking. He wasn't—merely young and not well-versed in such esoteric matters. And even within the walls of Aperture, few truly were. "I'm not sure how much you'll be able to fully grasp."

"Try it..." Trevor's voice trailed off, and he leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto mine with a desperate intensity. "Please."

"Very well," I conceded, unable to resist his pleading blue eyes. Standing up, I assumed my favored lecturing posture. "The initial concept to grasp is that there are realms just outside the boundaries of our conventional sensory experience—adjacent to what we commonly acknowledge as reality."

Trevor furrowed his brows, tilting his head slightly as if trying to piece together a complex puzzle. "That sounds disturbingly familiar. Are you saying Lovecraft is real?"

"Indeed, historical accounts confirm Howard Phillips Lovecraft as a person of the 20th century," I replied with scholarly precision. "However, I presume you're inquiring about the veracity of his literary creations. On that front, there is no empirical evidence to substantiate the specific entities or phenomena he described. His cosmology is, I would say, naïve."

His eyes blinked rapidly, a glint of realization breaking through the confusion. "I must admit, I'm not exactly a Lovecraft aficionado. 'Pickman's Model' caught my eye because of a Marvel comic, 'Masters of Terror.' But that's about the extent of it."

"I can see how that particular story would appeal to you," I mused, folding my hands in front of me. "Let's try a more straightforward analogy. Imagine the world as a sketch—every detail meticulously drawn. Yet this sketch is but one page in a larger sketchbook, filled with other, vastly different sketches. Are you following me so far?"

Trevor nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to visualize the concept. "Yes, I think so."

"Good," I said, pacing a few steps as I delved deeper into the topic. "Ordinarily, these other sketches—these other worlds—are as distant from us as the Moon, too far for any meaningful interaction. However, there are exceptions." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Think of an artist pressing too hard on the pencil, tearing the paper and inadvertently linking two sketches. It's an exceedingly rare event, and the causes remain elusive. Before we discovered Missing Mile, the only confirmed intersection was the small town of Hawkins."

The mention of Hawkins hit Trevor like an electric jolt. He twitched in his chair, eyes widening as he suddenly became hyper-alert. "Hawkins? Isn't that where that cult massacre happened?"

"You're aware of Hawkins?" I questioned, genuinely surprised. To the best of my knowledge, Trevor had never left the Enrichment Center since joining the Orphan Project.

"It was all over the news. Hard to miss," he replied.

The CIA had seriously fumbled on that account. Even now, I couldn't fathom how it had spiralled into such a public debacle. Was the idea of Satanists within the government ranks more unsettling than in our schools? Or had Brenner become the epitome of every American nightmare: a child predator, a government operative, a suspected cultist, and a scientist all rolled into one?

The real issue, however, lay in the extensive documentation of both Brenner's and Terry's pasts, revealing several scandalous details—among them, questionable electroshock therapies.

As a result, the Ives sisters had gained quite a bit of notoriety. Their subsequent disappearance only fueled the fire, making it even more challenging to keep them hidden.

"Poor Martin. I can't say I know him well, but it's unfortunate that a single incident could overshadow his entire body of work," I commented.

"Sometimes, one horrific act can eclipse everything else you've ever done. Believe me, I know. Wait... Could these places actually drive someone insane?" Trevor questioned, his eyes searching mine for an answer.

"Your haste in arriving at such a conclusion is intriguing," I noted. "While it's within the realm of possibility, I can't say for certain. I haven't had the opportunity to examine any survivors from that so-called cult or review their medical records. So, for now, it remains speculative."

Though this was my official stance in the conversation with Trevor, I knew that those places weren't solely to blame for Brenner's descent. That responsibility lay primarily on my shoulders. Not that I harbored any guilt; had I orchestrated the events, the execution would have been more elegant, the collateral damage minimized.

In hindsight, I was content with the outcome, albeit wiser about the proper disposal of hazardous elements. Then again, the prevalence of psychically active entities in those regions was not something I could have anticipated.

"After all this time, it may not be his fault," Trevor whispered more to himself than to me, his gaze distant as if locked onto some painful memory.

Meeting his eyes, I leaned back in my chair. "I've indulged you quite a bit, Trevor. An explanation would be appropriate."

He seemed to snap back to the present, looking somewhat disoriented. "Sorry, I don't even know where to start."

"Often, the beginning is the best place," I advised, folding my arms across my chest. "Though some stories are best told from the end."

As I said this, it struck me that I was embodying a saying from Arda: 'Don't go to an Elf for advice, for he will say both yes and no.' However, my ambiguous advice seemed to cut through his hesitation; Trevor looked up, a newfound determination crystallizing in his eyes, and began to speak.

"The Beginning? It started with my father: Robert McGee, Bobby McGee, creator of the crazed, sick, beautiful comic Birdland, whose work had appeared beside Crumb's and Shelton's, in Zap! and the L.A. Free Press and the East Village Other and everywhere in between, all across the country..." Trevor began, his voice wistful, proud, and tinged with an expectation of sorrow. "Who had received and refused offers from the same Hollywood he had once drawn as a giant blood-swollen tick still clinging to the rotten corpse of a dog labelled Art... Who had once had a steady hand and a pure, scathing vision..."

His eyes seemed to mist over as he spoke, and it was clear this was just a prelude to a deeper tragedy. Given that Trevor had lived in a North Carolina Boys' Home before being selected for the Aperture Orphan Project, his story was bound to touch on darker themes.

"Muses can be fickle bitches... Father lost what mattered to him the most. Not me, or mother, or my baby brother." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before saying mournfully, "Didi... No, what he lost was his talent. He could still hold a pencil, but everything he drew was trash. I still don't know if his drinking problem was the cause or a consequence of that."

"Give him some water, Igor," I instructed. "I would offer you more strawberry juice, but that was the last of it."

The robot complied, handing Trevor a glass filled with mineral water, which he accepted with a nod before taking a sip.

"Thanks," Trevor said, almost desperately gulping down half of the glass of water. "Talking about all this made me parched. Where was I? Ah yes, after my father lost his talent, we started moving a lot. Ending up in Missing Mile was almost accidental. We were on our way from New Orleans—father had gotten into some trouble there—to New York when our car broke down. At the time, I thought Missing Mile was the most beautiful place I'd ever seen. Oddly enough, my mother was born and raised nearby."

He paused, his eyes clouding over and his lips tightening, as if steeling himself for what was to come. "The next part is difficult for me. I need a moment to gather my thoughts."

"Take all the time you need," I assured him, leaning back in my chair. His story was turning out to be more relevant than I had initially thought, and I was in no hurry.

"You're surprisingly easy to talk to, Dr. Johnson," he said, a hint of relief in his voice.

"I'm not that kind of doctor," I replied, a wry smile forming on my lips. "Unless you're secretly a robot."

He chuckled softly, "Well, if I am, it's a secret to me too."

"That wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen within the walls of Aperture," I said, sharing a knowing glance with Trevor.

He snorted and let out a feeble laugh, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. "If only my history could be fake. Anyway, we were stuck in Missing Mile. My mother got a job modeling for university art classes in Raleigh, and we managed to rent one of the run-down farmhouses. My father set up his art supplies in a tiny bedroom at the back of the house."

Trevor paused and drained the last of his water, setting the empty glass down on the table.

"Would you like some more?" I offered.

"No, thank you. That was enough." His voice took on a darker tone. "Things came to a head after a publisher rejected my father's comic. I think that's when he lost all hope. If I couldn't draw anymore, I'd probably think about ending it all too. But I wouldn't drag anyone else down with me."

I felt a chill at his words. "Trevor, do you ever think about ending your life?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, looking down at his hands. "In a way, it's comforting."

I locked eyes with him, my tone serious. "Promise me one thing. If you ever feel that way again, come talk to me. You've said I'm easy to talk to."

In an organization like Aperture, where the concept of mental health was often an afterthought, having someone to talk to could make all the difference. Besides, if we had competent psychiatric staff, we wouldn't be experimenting with combustible lemons—although recent trials did show that they're a promising source of renewable biofuel. Aperture Diesel: carbon-neutral and lemon-fresh.

I reached out, my hand hovering in the air, intending to offer him some tactile comfort. But he pulled away slightly. "Please don't touch me. I don't like being touched."

"As you wish," I said, retracting my hand and folding it with the other behind my back.

"While I was asleep, my father killed my mother and Didi, my baby brother, and then hung himself," Trevor continued, his voice just above a whisper. "I think he spared me because of my talent for drawing."

"Your belief that your artistic talent is your life's sole redeeming quality isn't uncommon," I said, recognizing the patterns of survivor's guilt from my own experiences. "You feel it's what keeps you sane."

"You don't understand," he countered, looking at me squarely. "When I draw, everything else fades away. The world goes quiet."

"I do understand," I said, catching his gaze. "Come, there's something I want to show you."

I led him over to a wall adorned with various paintings. The first depicted a bound, naked blond man in a pose that was more artful than explicit. Beside it was an Elf, waist-deep in a river, with foliage-rich banks around him. Another showed two boys facing an alien sea, a living storm, and an angel of light. In a companion piece, the same boys appeared as phantoms in a decaying attic. The final painting was a portrait of Cave Johnson and Caroline.

"All but the last were painted by me," I explained. "I find the act of rendering my imagination onto canvas to be therapeutic. Igor, would you bring out that one painting from storage?"

"This is extraordinary," Trevor breathed, his eyes lingering on each painting as if trying to absorb every detail. "I can almost feel the emotions pouring out of them. They're incredibly lifelike."

"Ah, there's one more for you to see. Thank you, Igor." The robot presented the final painting, a harrowing depiction of a young boy walking through a city engulfed in flames. His eyes were vacant, his expression numb. His body was covered in burns, and the wretched souls around him seemed to beg for a salvation that would never come.

Trevor's hand hovered, trembling, inches away from the canvas. He shivered as if the room had suddenly plunged into icy coldness.

"I've titled it 'The Origin of the Hero.' If it resonates with you, you're welcome to have it," I offered.

"I couldn't possibly. It's far too valuable," he protested.

"Value is a social construct," I countered. "Since I don't sell my art, its worth is purely subjective. Besides, my partner detests this particular piece. It would be better off in your hands than gathering dust in storage. Take it. I insist. Igor, please prepare it for transport."

After some persuasion, he finally relented and accepted the painting.

"I want to go," Trevor blurted out, his eyes filled with determination.

"Go where?" I raised an eyebrow. Hadn't he previously mentioned staying at Aperture?

"There's going to be an expedition to Missing Mile, isn't there? I need to be on it. I have to know if my father was innocent."

I hadn't even started planning such an expedition, but his assumption made sense. My intuition nudged me to consider bringing him along.

"And what if the anomaly in Missing Mile had nothing to do with your family's tragedy?"

"Then I need to know that, too," he asserted.

"Very well, but you'll have to be tested first."

"I'm a virgin, so I don't have it," he replied, seemingly off-topic.

I paused, puzzled, before it clicked. "Ah, you're talking about HIV. I meant testing for psychic aptitude. Every potential member of the expedition will be screened for it. The residents near the Hawkins anomaly reacted differently based on their psychic abilities. But sure, we can test for both. It's wise to be cautious about blood cross-contamination, given the risks involved."

He ended up testing positive for psychic aptitude and negative for HIV.