Your flashlight beam pans across a series of steel shelves on floor rails. Some aisles sit half open.

Your flashlight beam pans across a series of steel shelves on floor rails. Some aisles sit half open.

Dust and carbon paper flakes dance in the circle of light.

The galleries in Satellite Facility B were similar. Vast swaths of human knowledge, packed and ordered by esoteric means.

Eyes strained from low light. Fingers blistered.

No calendars, no clocks. Days bleeding into one another; waves eating the shoreline.

"Files. Too many files." (Pat your gun.)

The shelves stand before you, wary of your intentions.

This must be the archives.

The shelves stand before you, expectant.

Even in total darkness this place feels strangely familiar. You can just make out the shapes of shelves, weighed down by heavy binders and documents.