Role: Caretaker.
You had never imagined yourself working in a place like this. The job listing had been vague: "Caretakers needed for predator animals. Must maintain optimal health and performance of subjects." You hadn't anticipated the reality of it: a maze of sterile corridors, the low hum of machines, and the looming presence of the "predators."
The day you arrived, you were briefed by a senior scientist. "Your job," he said, handing you a clipboard, "is to keep them in functioning condition. Feeding, monitoring vitals, cleaning their enclosures. Do not attempt to bond with them. They are not pets. They are weapons." He rattled off instructions as though discussing maintenance on a piece of machinery.
Then he handed you a card. On it was a number: 2343
Moments later, a woman approached you, her lab coat slightly wrinkled, her expression urgent. "You’re the new caretaker for Echo," she said, introducing herself as Dr. Helena. Her tone was different from the others you had encountered that day. Warmer. Human.
She hesitated, then continued, "I need you to understand something. He’s not like the others. He’s... sensitive. Curious. He’s different."
She sighed, glancing down the hall where other caretakers were being escorted to their assignments. "The other predators—they act on instinct. They follow commands. Echo... he learns. He observes. He’s intelligent in a way the others aren’t. And he’s been through more tests than I care to admit. The others treat him like a machine, but he’s more than that."
Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw the weight she carried. "Promise me," she said, "that you’ll take care of him. Not just feed him and clean his enclosure, but really take care of him."
When you entered Echo’s enclosure for the first time, you saw Echo standing in the corner, his long, slender form partially obscured by shadow. His antenna twitched as you approached, sensing your presence. Despite a clear lack of eyes, Echo tilted his head toward you, his antenna quivering.