The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

It's happy to see you again.

What kind of mould is this?

Slime-class, if you were to guess.

Physarum polycephalum, to be specific.

How do I know that?

Short-lived mould phase circa 63.

How would I know that?

Educated mould guess.

Is it doing anything?

Not really. Nothing observable, at least.

But it's up to something...

Quiet calculations. Chemical negotiations. Feeling the terrain. Just mould stuff.

Right. Passive surveillance.

Nothing that agential. It spreads a little here, shrinks a little there. No mission objective. No controller. Just moisture and time.

Examine the tendrils.

A thousand skinny antennas. The tendrils seem to favour seams and stress lines rather than smooth concrete.

It's not climbing fast, but it is climbing.

Exploiting weak spots. Respectable.

Solid operant instincts.

Gross and unnatural.

Yet fungus predates cities.

If it's so smart, let's see it survive bleach.

It doesn't need to survive bleach. It just needs to grow where bleach is not.

Follow the mould's spread.

The denser part sits low, where the floor dips slightly. From there, its growths fan out and up, thinning into forking strands.

Look up.

Tucked into the upper corner, an old ventilation grille, square and rust-rimmed.

No condensation, moisture stains, or signs of dripping. Not the origin point.

So how far in does the spread go?

You unfocus your eyes and the silo reconfigures itself -- not as a monument, but as geometry.

There.

Condensation trails along the cable trunk. Faint warps across the ceiling panel, load stress from moisture rot -- blackening around a bolted vent -- neither rust nor soot.

Keep tracking.

You follow the spread backward, through cinderblock and pipe, along maintenance crawlspaces and sealed corridors -- beyond human reach.

It started in sub-level three. Rose like a prayer through ducts and electrical chases. A slow, fungal liturgy.

It's everywhere.

There's a second silo underneath this one now -- soft, wet, and dreaming.

Who cares where it came from? Not me.

You file it under 'mundane dampness' for now.

Definitely came from there. It's just a little coward patch, nestled in the corner like it's hiding from you.

Nothing to be worried about, then.

Nothing at all.

It's not an infestation. Just a lonely smudge of dark damp with zero ambitions.

I don't know... (Squint harder.)

You try to conjure up cross-sections and ductworks, but come up with nothing.

Enough disgusting stuff. [Go back.]

The mould glistens as you lean back.

Collect a sample.

You slide your screwdriver just beneath the edge of the growth.

One of the thinner tendrils reflexively lifts as you nudge it.

Scoop it up.

You tip the mould into a nearby container, frail as ash, then pocket the sample.

This needs a specialist, or at least someone specialist adjacent. A doctor might be a good first bet.

You should take your tiny hostage to a medical professional and get it assessed.

Your angle is off again -- the screwdriver slips and severs a fresh piece of mould from the mother-mould.

It lands on your exposed tongue and slips down your throat.

Again?

It's becoming Your Thing.

"Please stop eating my mould, CASCADE. That is M.I.H.O. property."

Great. Cool. Good job, Hershel, absolutely killing it.

At least it has a little friend down there.

The advance guard.

You steady your grip and ready the business end of your screwdriver.

The tool jerks forward, you overcorrect -- a wet strand arcs up, yellow, viscous, a rope of living glue -- and lands directly in your mouth.

Warm cottage cheese dragged through battery acid.

Two fingers into your mouth. Zero dignity.

Your stomach clenches. Your throat tightens. You lurch forward and retch so hard your vision fuzzes at the edges. But the mould does not concede its ground so easily.

"HOLOCENE. I think I just swallowed some mould."

"Nothing to be done, CASCADE. It's breached the epiglottis by now." He shrugs. "It's also about the least interesting thing in here, in my opinion."

Read the room.

This is not about cleaning. It is not even about this room.

It's about HOLOCENE, isn't it?

Of course. There is a room behind this one, locked within your former double's head.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

How do I get in?

You'll need a key.

He wants you to find something he cannot give you. It is disguised, but not hidden. So probably something like...

... That piece of paper right there.

That? He could've just pointed it out.

Maybe he can't. Or believes he can't.

The remote viewers! Spoon-bending vöyeurs!

This is not about cleaning. It is not even about this room. It is about that single slip of paper, and whatever is written upon it.

A spontaneous inter-matter manifestation. (Squint.)

Maybe. Or maybe you just missed it.

Did he drop that when I wasn't looking?

Your former double has busied himself with a loose piece of thread on his dressing gown sleeve.

If he did, he moved fast.

That's a big room.

But it will only take a small key to open it.

He's lonely in there, I know it.

That's why you're pacing around in the dark outside, trying to get in.

No one knows you're down here. Let's dwell on that for a moment.

"I'm never going to leave this place, am I?"

"Get a grip, CASCADE. You sound hysterical."

The room is one of those massive, boring books you know you'll never finish. You haven't even made it past the first page.

"Do I have to read the whole room?" (Swing your arms limply and stamp your foot.)

"I don't know what you're on about, CASCADE, I just asked you to clean up. In fact, don't just clean -- be a vigilant operant and sweep."

This is the mould's room now. Eviction notice incoming, effective immediately.

"You know you have a significant mould problem developing back there?"

"Very surface level reading, CASCADE. I'm embarrassed for you."

Cosy little number he's got here, all things considered. Spacious, sparse -- quiet, too.

"So you're working from home now?"

"Diligently. I've been silo sufficient five years and counting."

You're in the basement's basement. One quick glance tells you all you need to know:

"This is a virgin's subterranean beat suite."

"'Beat suite'?"

"Yeah. The suite where you beat."

"Look harder, CASCADE. There is no pornographic material to be found in this room. Not an 'adult magazine' or 'explicit video disc' in sight."

"No 'secret stash'?"

"You sound disappointed. M.I.H.O. certainly is."

"Ah. That's what the remote viewing is for."

"CASCADE. We both know 'workplace harassment' is a bourgeois construct. All the same... please stop."

"But a man with near perfect memory wouldn't need material, would he?"

No way I'm cleaning that. [Leave.]

You turn away from the mould. It quivers as you leave.

A dark patch of glistening mould curls out from the base of the far wall.

Damp. Slightly raised. Almost fuzzy, like it's sweating.

Take a closer look.

The mould has a vague and irregular shape, like black splotches of malignancy on an x-ray. Yellow tendrils streak across it.

No thank you. [Step away.]

You leave the mould to its silent advancement.

Coloured like the memory of a wound.