Work Text:
“Testing testing one two three. Can anybody hear me? Or well, guess this is more of a camera or recorder than any form of microphone.., but it still does the job.”
“Under new management I have recently been put on the board of the Restoration, and Relic team, commonly shortened to R&R, under the artifact branch of work site Maple. The boss was searching through company files and prior positions and came across one titled ‘Curator’. Apparently, that one managed to slip through the cracks because the last guy who worked it left in the early 1960s and was never replaced. Or well, ‘left’ is a loose word, apparently the guy just disappeared one day after hours. Apartment was a mess. Potted plants were all over the room, hanging from the ceiling, attached to the walls, on the ground. Said to have looked like an indoor jungle. Almost 20 boxes of statements as well, I don’t even know how he snuck them all out. Either way, the boss gave the honor of working with old, damaged and barely kept together artifacts and relics to moi . Much joy in that.”
“The position boils down to a maintenance man. I slowly go through our collection of statements and artifacts and verify that the info paired together is correct. If info is incorrectly matched, it’s my job to track down the correct statement and notify the higher ups. They also proposed the idea that with each statement I record I’d get a bonus, since the prior record-keeper was moved to restoration. Something along the lines of the last dude messing up one too many times with the type of varnish to use on our paintings.”
“All in all, I’m excited for this one, it reminds me of my prior job as a seamstress for the museum. Hopefully it’ll be just as easy, with less of the buffoons.”
The sounds of a chair being pushed back accompanies the tap of dress shoes on a stone floor. The recording device picks up the creak of a door opening, and a soft thud as it closes. The footsteps start to echo; the room she's in must be larger, or emptier. A light fizzling sound overlays the next few sentences.
“My best bet is to try and work from oldest to newest, since I don’t currently have a list of prior recorded statements. I’ll see if management can update me on that. For now- “ she turns on a lightswitch, the room seems to buzz. “-They need to change these lightbulbs…” she mutters. A soft metallic thump, and then a pulling screech reverberates through the room, grating and grinding as though the cabinet drawer were more owl than metal. “.... and these cabinets…”.
“Hm? What's this? ‘Folders contained within this cabinet pertain to objects and statements obtained during times of war. Corresponding artifacts will be found under the same numbers as its statement in storage unit ISO-W09. It is mandatory to handle items with vinyl gloves. Statements have been copied and transferred onto a more sturdy material; however, some folders still contain remnants of the original print and as such, all paper must be handled with care. Failure to follow protocol will result in immediate termination of the person or persons responsible for damages.’ Nice of them to put a plaque on top of the cabinet.”
The sound of rustling paper, of different weights and textures, and the occasional folder being pried open, fingers scraping along its edges. She hisses briefly, curses under her breath. Once again, the sound of paper, this time sliding across a surface. It's quiet for a moment, until one last file is opened. She makes a noise of satisfaction: her interest is piqued.
“‘Toy Soldier’? Okay, bets are on. I’m going with either a sickly Victorian kid, or a soldier who’s surprised that war isn't glorious.” The cabinet is carefully shut, despite its screams of pain and suffering, and footsteps once again signal the Curator returning to her office.
“Management advises me to record myself every time I’m on shift, mentioning that in case the camera footage goes down, I at least have my personal recorder as proof. I thought they were talking about absolute rubbish, but apparently, Diane in the statues department almost had her license stripped away. Uh, something with the statues and incorrect marble care and how it was actually Bianca who flubbed it up.”
A door is opened again. “Statement recordings will also be kept separate from everyday recordings, so be back in a click.”
“Cleo Zombie, curator of work site Maple, record number: #9180125. Statements of one ‘Mr. Scar B. Goodtimes’, from a collection of letters to and from his fellow colleague. Dating from June 15, 1917 to February 25, 1918. Date of recording: April 16, 2019.”
[Redacted] England, June 15, 1917
Pilot Grian W. [Redacted],
I worry for both of us. The horrors you wrote to me about in your last letter were truly chilling! You said “the sky was your calling”, that you were born to be a pilot. Doesn’t it scare you, being so high up, the only thing keeping you from falling a contraption that could itself fall apart at any moment? Aren’t you scared of storms, of losing your way, of burning in the sunlight? You’ll fall to your death out there, my friend! There are safer options! If you’re in need of work, I can make room for you in the factory - pull a few strings, throw my weight around. I’m their best engineer, after all - nobody can design a weapon quite like me. I suppose you’d have to prove your worth, but you have a way of stubbornly making yourself worthwhile… And speaking of that stubbornness, I must implore you once again, my friend. I know better than most how hard it is to change your mind, but you cannot pursue these flights of fancy. You’ll spell your own doom. What was that story, about a boy who flew and burned up in the sun? If he had lived in this modern era, his wings would have been shaped like your BE2.
Write back to me as soon as possible, I worry for your wellbeing.
…………………………………
Yours Respectfully,
Scar B. Goodtimes.
Bridgeport, Connecticut, 3 August 1917
Respected Friend Scar,
Did you forget our adventures in the training yards? Or has the ammunition you inhaled ruin more than just your lungs? How utterly presumptuous and rude, to claim that I, your friend, would be, what - smited by God? Struck by lightning? Shot by a bullet, fired from a little gun? How juvenile, Goodtimes. My nephew with his wooden bow would be more of a threat than whatever poppycock this war brings to the fields. After all, if I can outrun Mr. D, then who’s to say that death itself can’t be cheated? If you’re that afraid of what cannot be proven, then hold your heart, let me have the honour of stopping it by my own hands.
…Though, it would be cruel to make you wait until our next reunion to stop your heart. Who knows when these little squabbles will end? In the meantime, take a gift. Enclosed in this box should be a set of soldiers that belonged to me when I was a boy. Take good care of them, heard from my mother that they were worth a good few pounds. Oh - and that story you recalled, of a boy who flew? He died for his hubris, for making wings made of wax; and in case you haven’t noticed, mine are made of wood and canvas. But, if fate decides to play a cruel joke on me after all, at least you’ll have a memento of me.
Also why move to Connecticut of all places? Would’ve presumed Chicago or more industrial locations to be more advantageous.
…………………………………
Remain Close,
Grian W. [Redacted]
[Redacted] England, August 19, 1917
Pilot Grian W. [Redacted],
I am pleased to inform you that your shipment of trinkets have arrived safely. I’ll give Jellie the honor of being the first to break one from bumping it off the nearest table. Shockingly, they do bring a peace of mind. I’ve taken to placing them alongside my office desk and window sills around my home. What was the phrase you used, watching willows? But there’s no willows anywhere nearby…
On the matter of my current residence, my coworker gave the place to me. He told me my lungs could use the ocean air - and that the view couldn’t hurt, either. He arranged for a carrier to bring my messages to me, and to carry my letters to the post office. If it’s seen that I need to be in person, my coworker assured me he would come to me! How sweet of him. Jellie apparently found the drapes to be her new sworn enemy, sadly. I’ll enclose a photo of her to keep you company, with your new apparent lack of tin soldiers to calm your mind.
…………………………………
Yours Respectfully,
Scar B. Goodtimes.
[Redacted] England, August 27, 1917
Pilot Grian W. [Redacted],
I find myself afraid once again, my old friend. The tin soldiers… must be part of my imagination. I made it a personal rule to keep them off the kitchen counters, because Jellie has an easy time knocking them off there, and I wouldn’t want to meet your wrath if they broke - nor the pain of me trying to reach them from my wheelchair, again. My counters have been soldier-free for days. Yet today, when I entered the kitchen for breakfast, I saw a group of them, two on the counter and one on the floor.
It looked like those old stories we would reenact. The hero backed against a cliff as their adversaries slowly stalked in, pushing them closer and closer over the edge. Yet sadly the hero failed. It was cinematic, before I remembered that your wonderful gift was on the floor. The relief that the figure didn’t break briefly allowed me to forget the eventual long haul I was in, but after a few hours and a stick I was finally able to put it back on the counter.
When I turned my head, however, I saw another soldier sitting under a hanging cabinet, staring right at me with a single scratched out eye. Or the equivalent of one; I suppose if he’s made of tin he doesn’t exactly have eyes. It was disturbing nonetheless, so I quickly picked all them up and stuffed them back in your box.
For the sake of my dreams staying sweet, I pray that it is only Jellie playing with the soldiers, and perish the thought of anything else.
…………………………………
Yours Respectfully,
Scar B. Goodtimes.
Bridgeport Connecticut, 12 September, 1917
Respected Friend Scar,
You’re letting your work affect your health. They’re simple tin soldiers, nothing more. I heard through our papers that your manufacturing plant is pumping out more char coloured dust than any smoke from Mr. D’s pipe. Isn’t that why you moved in the first place? You’re not well, take time off. We wouldn’t want death to be cloaked in gunpowder and cigar smoke. Anyway, I would’ve bragged to you if my toys suddenly gained the ability to walk n’ talk. Richest kid in the abbey, I’d be.
Keep them in the box if you’re so worried about figurines smaller than your hands. You always were the creative one in our partnership; even I couldn’t match your imagination. But don’t hold fantasies over reality, good friend. Thank you for the photo of Jellie however, she is still a darling ray of sunshine.
…………………………………
Remain Close,
Grian W. [Redacted]
[Redacted] England, September 25, 1917
Pilot Grian W. [Redacted],
They’re out of the box. I don’t know how but they’re not there. Three of them, the infantry with their tiny tin guns, were on my bed stand. I shouldn’t be afraid of some scraps of childish metal, but waking up face to face with the figures I knew for sure I’d placed inside that box… it makes my spine crawl even now. They stand in formation. This is more than simply Jellie playing, I know it. I have nobody I can turn to. I’m quite alone out here, and the carrier gives me funny looks, and the men from the factory will do more than just laugh at me if I go around talking about moving toys. Oh Grian my friend, I need help.
It’s always the one with the scratched out eye.
…………………………………
Yours Respectfully,
Scar B. Goodtimes.
[Redacted] England, November 09, 1917
Pilot Grian W. [Redacted],
I can’t feel my arm. Apologies for the sloppy handwriting but I’m just barely holding it together. The soldier's arm broke off. I knocked it off the bathroom sink in a fit of fear when I saw it in the mirror. And now- now I can barely lift my right arm. It won’t move. I don’t know what caused this. It’s metal, it’s a toy, and I know I have flesh and blood, so why? I’m so confused. Please, the boss doesn’t know. And respond to my letters.
…………………………………
Your Old Friend,
Scar B. Goodtimes.
[Redacted] England, January 25, 1918
Pilot Grian W. [Redacted],
It was never Jellie.
It was on the cabinet. I don’t know how. I’ve seen them on counters and windowsills, but Grian. I can’t reach the top of it. Jellie can’t reach the top of it. No one in this house should be able to reach it. And yet when I entered the doorway, there it was, staring at me with its single eye. It turned its head and I felt my head be yanked wherever it looked. Its one arm lifted before tearing off the other. I could do nothing as I felt my arm clench around the other, trying its best to rip the skin from my flesh. I’ve never booked it so quickly out of my house. I don’t even know how I managed. Jellie I’m currently writing in the park. I can’t turn my head. It's stuck like a magnet. I dont what do I. I left behind Jellie. I couldn’t grab her in time, I would never forgive myself if I left her behind.
But I can’t go back to that house. There's something wrong with your toys. Why do they haunt me? Did you plan this? From the beginning? There's no other British toy soldiers in America, or at least not in this city. Why do you not respond to my letters? I’m terrified, Grian. I can feel my chest seize and my heart burn. Grian please tell me that you didn’t plan this. We were always there for each other so be here for me. It’s not safe anymore. I miss you. Why would you do this to me?
I can’t leave Jellie behind.
…………………………………
Your Oldest Friend,
Scar B. Goodtimes.
“Previous researchers have confirmed the identity of one Mr. Goodtimes in the early 1900’s; however, it became quickly apparent that ‘Scar’ wasn’t his given first name. Consensus turned to it being a nickname, since descriptions of the man commonly included massive claw marks maring his face, reaching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. Multiple patents under the manufacturer ‘CVC’, or Connecticut Vex Corp, list him as co creator next to a man named Cub F. Vex, giving credit to the claims in his letters.”
“In storage unit ISO-W09, under the same case file, multiple small metal toy soldiers can be found within.” The rustling of some papers can be heard. “It’s stated that among the collection retrieved, the full set was not recovered - most notably, the gunman with a scratched eye that Scar focused on. In addition, three infantry, one artillery and a major are unaccounted for.”
The scratching of wood against the floor reverberates with quiet disbelieved mutter. “What the- ‘Tests conducted on the remaining soldiers produced results that directly contradict history. All three metallurgists that have been hired for testing the soldiers’ metal composition reported it containing mainly a zinc alloy with deposits of aluminum and magnesium. Which wouldn’t have been available at the time. Based upon both the form of the soldiers and the seams along the edges of their body, it can be assumed that they were hollow cast soldiers, which would have been made with a lead alloy. Furthermore, tests on the pigment used on the soldiers had come back with results of it being a two compound paint, or 2K paint.’”
“While originally planned for the soldiers to be thrown out, due to them being too modern for the twentieth century, degradation patterns on the outside of the metal do follow typical decomposition of zinc over 80 plus years. What’s interesting is that the figures all contain the ability to swivel their heads, and some with their arms.”
“Attempts have been made in the past to try and track Mr. Grian. However any form of writing including his last name has been smothered in ink, torn off or apparently burned off. His location in England also faced the same treatment. One recovered letter did have some paw prints decorating the margins. It seems Miss Jellie got her paws on some ink. With the lack of any description of the man in the letters, the results have been null and void. Anything from mailing addresses to checking the air division, it appears he has vanished from history, and is presumed to have been shot down like Scar feared. Mr. Goodtimes was also found dead in his Connecticut home, in 1923 by his coworker Mr. Vex after he stopped responding to the letter carrier. When the door was broken in, Mr. Goodtimes was found dead, peacefully sleeping on his bed. Autopsy shows no abrupt cause for his passing, so we can only really assume happenstance. Can’t be sure however, they didn’t specify much on this report and I’m no nurse.
Next to Mr. Goodtimes was a gray and white cat, presumed to be Jellie, sleeping beside him. Despite being approached multiple times by authorities to try to coax the cat away from Mr. Goodtimes, she would not move and even attacked if people got too close. Authorities decided to leave Miss Jellie alone. The letter carrier was then hired to drop off opened cans of food for the cat to make sure she was still eating.”
“With that, Curtains Close, End Statement.”
The sound of static and scrambling fills the air. Fingernails click on the side of something metallic, rattling out a hollow sound, and the mic picks up a soft gulping sound. After a few seconds the Curator speaks.
“No matter how many liters of water you drink, you never get used to just how dry your throat is afterwards. I gotta question the boss on if I can drink water while making statements, because my throat’s drier than the scorching desert.” A metal water bottle is smacked down onto the table as she grumbles. “How the hell does a toy move a human’s body… Guess Woody and the others had evil ancestors. 30 soldiers, the box they were received in, and letters from Mr. Grian were gifted to the institute by Mr. Goodtimes’s coworker, Mr. Vex, in 1923 after cleaning his home. The letters sent to one Mr. Grian were found in an abandoned dresser in Scotland near the port town of Buckie. The elderly couple who retired there in 1972 were certainly in for a surprise.” The chair she’s sitting on gets pushed back and scrapes across the floor as she sluggishly stumbles to her feet and opens the door.
“I’m currently making my way towards storage. Need to double check that these soldiers also didn’t somehow get up and leave their containment unit. Notes left on containment mention them being preserved in a glass container or an enamel finished metal container, depending on if one of them needs to be cleaned.”
The jangling of keys can be heard. “I’m gonna have to mark these.” Two metal clicking sounds follow as the door is opened. A light switch is flicked on.
“Oh wow this place has a lot of boxes… almost goes to the roof. Oh hey, a ladder.” Silence is held for a minute or two before the voice comes back. “After a massive headache and quadruple checking the ludicrous index on the wall, I should be heading to the second left shelf.” She mutters the number on the case files as she makes her way over.
“718... 523... 316… 212... Ah! 9180125. Jackpot.” A shudder is opened. “Good news, management did correctly label both statement and artifact. Would not want to play wild goose chase for some toys. It appears that some of the soldiers do have their heads turned in different directions, so I’m going to assume that’s the head swiveling that was mentioned. In front of the case is a plaque detailing the amount of soldiers contained and those who are missing. Gonna assume I need to count them all….”
Soft murmurs under her breath are interrupted by a sharp gasp and a curse, the sound of something glass and plastic clattering to the ground. “Shit! Shit- Gotta-'' Knees hit the floor, and hands grab for whatever fell, fumbling for a lifeline. “Pick up pick up pick up- Boss? Code Red. One of the soldiers is missing. Number 91802 - wait - 125, the tin soldiers? An artillery man- I have no clue…Yes, only one is gone. There’s no damage done to either containment case. I just finished my statement on them and was verifying their numbers matched and went to double check all are accounted for. Yes, I was recording, it’s still recording right now. Okay. Fine- got it. I’ll come in early tomorrow.” The phone call ends as she groans.
“This is fine! It’s fine. What a wonderful start! Great work on your first day, Cleo!” The sarcasm in her voice is acidic. “It’s currently 7:23 pm for those of you who’ll look back on this. My shift is almost over, so I’m going to just go home and hopefully not die.”