I don't remember the exact day they arrived—just the sirens.
It was on a Wednesday.
I was making coffee when I heard it—a perfect three-tone wail, sharp and clean.
Not the usual ambulances or police cars.
This one was… sweeter.
Comforting.
The sound made you feel like you were safe before you even knew you were in danger.
The trucks were white, gleaming under the sun.
No logos except three red dots in a triangle on the side.
The uniforms matched—white from head to toe, even their gloves.
Their faces were hidden behind tinted visors.
That day, they took Mrs. Lorce from next door.
She'd called because her husband had collapsed in the living room.
By the time they loaded him into the back, she was smiling.
Wide.
A little too wide for someone who is worried about her husband.
The first week, we all thought it was a blessing.
They showed up faster than the old emergency services ever did—two, maybe three minutes after the call.
Accidents, break-ins, heart attacks—they were there.
And every time they left, the person who made the call seemed calmer.
Serene, even.
But not the same.
It was in their eyes.
They didn't blink like normal.
Their gaze was fixed, almost… tethered.
By the end of the month, the change was obvious.
The Thompsons' kid broke his leg while skateboarding.
His mother called the service.
They came.
The next day, she was walking around the street barefoot in the rain, smiling at literally nothing.
The mailman got bitten by a stray dog.
Same thing—service came, he was smiling the next day.
His hand was wrapped in clean white gauze, but the way it twitched under the bandage made my stomach turn.
And then came the incident with Kevin.
Kevin was my boyfriend.
Sweet. Messy. Always forgetting his wallet and keys.
One night, he cut himself badly while cooking—sliced open his palm on a broken jar.
I told him we could drive to the clinic, but he was pale, shaking.
He called the service.
They were there in two minutes.
No siren this time, just… silence.
I watched from the kitchen doorway as they wrapped his hand, speaking in low tones I couldn't quite make out.
Something about compliance and adjustment levels.
When they left, he was smiling.
Not his smile.
Not my Kevin.
The days after, he barely spoke to me.
He just… sat there, staring at the wall.
When I asked him what was wrong, he turned to me, his head tilting too far to one side, like his neck was a loose hinge.
"You should call them," he said. "They'll fix you too."
"what do you mean?" i asked.
"don't you like it when there is no pain?" he asked instead.
I didn't answer.
Because i felt like something was wrong, with Kevin and this service.
By the end of the week, Kevin was gone.
No note. Just gone.
After that, I avoided them.
I stopped answering the phone.
I locked my doors, boarded the windows.
I didn't leave for groceries; I ate dry pasta, tap water and some fruits from my garden.
I thought I was safe—until the screaming started.
The sound came from across the street.
Mr. Callway, the widower.
His voice was ragged, it sounded desperate.
I heard him shouting for help.
Soon I heard the siren.
When I peeked through the boards, I saw them drag him out—not gently, not carefully either.
His feet scraped the pavement, his nails left bloody streaks on the doorframe.
The next morning, he was walking his dog like nothing had happened.
But his face…
God.
The skin was too tight and pale, like it had been pulled back and stapled.
His teeth were pink from blood, and when he waved at me, his fingers bent backwards too far.
By now, people weren't calling for emergencies anymore.
They were calling just to see the service.
To feel whatever happened after.
I don't know how to explain this,
But the town began to change.
They stopped blinking.
They stopped making noises.
They stopped being… people.
Every night, I heard noises.
Not human noises—wet, clicking sounds, bones shifting, skin stretching.
And beneath it all, low murmurs, like lullabies sung underwater.
It was the fifth month when they came for me.
I swear to God, I hadn't called them.
I'd been very careful.
But I guess… it didn't matter anymore.
The siren woke me at 2:20 AM.
My boards were ripped off the windows before I could grab my bat.
White gloves grabbed my arms, cold and firm.
"No," I screamed, "I didn't call you- someone please help!"
One of them leaned close.
I could see my reflection in the visor—my eyes wide, mouth open, trembling.
"You've been selected," they whispered.
They strapped me to a gurney.
The straps were wet, like they'd just been washed in something thick.
The smell was… copper.
The hospital—or whatever it was—wasn't in town.
They drove for hours.
The windows were all blacked.
The hum of the engine made my teeth ache.
When they finally wheeled me inside, the first thing I noticed was the walls—metal, streaked with rust and… something else.
Brown-red.
The air was thick with antiseptic, but underneath was the rot.
They rolled me into a white room.
Everything in it gleamed, too clean.
The lights above hummed, flickering just enough to make me nauseous.
A man entered—not in white, but in a grey apron.
His face was bare.
No visor.
And it was worse than the ones who hid.
His eyes were small, beady.
His smile was split, scar tissue holding it too wide.
His teeth were filed into points.
"Welcome," he said. "We'll make you better too."
They didn't operate right away.
They spoke to me first.
For hours.
Days.
I can't remember how long—it's all blurred.
No clocks.
No sunlight.
Just questions.
"What do you fear?"
"What would you give up to feel safe?"
"Would you trade your soul to never cry again?"
When I didn't answer, they tightened the straps.
I could feel the leather digging into my skin, warm from my blood.
The screaming from other rooms never stopped.
When they did start…
They didn't use anesthesia.
They peeled the skin from my forearm, slowly, talking all the while about how pain cleans the mind of humans.
They showed me my own tendons, plucked like violin strings.
They inserted something cold into my neck—a thin, wormlike thing that writhed under my skin.
I could feel it moving toward my spine at rapid speed.
But then… it stopped.
One of them leaned in, pressing a gloved finger to my temple.
"Rejection," they murmured. "She's not compatible."
I didn't know what they were talking about.
Soon after, they threw me in a dark room.
No bed.
No water.
Just me, the smell of metal, and the sound of wet breathing from the shadows.
I don't know how long i was imprisoned .
I don't know how I escaped either.
I woke up in a ditch miles from town, the sky pale with dawn.
My arm was bandaged, though the wound underneath festered.
My neck still burns where the thing tried to burrow.
I walked for hours until I found another town.
When I told them what happened, they didn't believe me.
They said there's no such place, no such service.
But I know better.
The old town?
It's gone now.
I went back once, months later.
Every house was empty.
Windows smashed.
Grass growing through the pavement.
It looked like it was abandoned for decades.
But there were red dots spray-painted on the walls.
Three of them, in a triangle.
And in the wind…
I swear I heard the siren.
I am the only one left.
I don't sleep much.
When I do, I see Kevin's face—not the real one, but the one they gave him.
I feel the thing still moving in my neck some nights.
And sometimes… I wonder if I really escaped.
Because when I catch my reflection in the mirror…
My smile's been getting wider.
I later found out that i was imprisoned for over 57 years.
And i didn't age, i am still 24.
And it turns out, i was not the only one.
Three towns suffered the same faith as mine.
But the difference?
There were no survivor.
Or maybe they are hiding, like me.
I have a feeling….that they might be after another town.
And who knows,
It could be yours.
Stream Commentary; Tape #30. "The Emergency service"
[Kai returns]
"Well… that's over. For now.
She's still breathing.
That's more than most, don't you think?
But you're here because you want to know why, aren't you?"
[@Enchomay: Kai,what was that Service really? They had trucks, uniforms, dispatch radios — it all looked legit]
(smirking): "It is legit… in their own way.
The Service isn't for you. It's for them.
Think of it as… pest control.
Only, they don't just remove the pest — they hollow it out, rewire it, and send it back into the world smiling.
[@Jaija: that woman has been imprisoned for 57 years?! Kai, what kind of place was she locked in?]
She was in a time-pause prison — every second stretching and snapping until she forgot what real hours felt like.
Time is really a joke in their custody.
[@Jaija: wow! Such place existed?!]
[@Enchomay: Those service officers… what are they? They didn't sound fully alive to me.]
(leans closer, voice low)
Once, they were human.
Then the Service — or what runs it — took the soft parts out.
Left just enough person inside to follow orders.
The rest? Filled with… something else.
Shadows.
The same shadows that you've seen before."
[@642: huh? Shadows we have seen before?]
[@Ovesix:So… was this the work of supernatural forces or human corruption?]
Both, Ovesix.
Humans built the system.
Humans signed the papers.
But something older — older than towns, older than hope — slipped inside and claimed it.
It's the same thing that whispered to the clown-faced man… the same thing that wrapped the sack-faced man in burlap… the same thing that moves the shadows through Rainville's streets.
[@642: huh?]
[@Enchomay: i see, what an interesting connections]
[@Ovesix:so Kai, is the government part of this?]
(Thought for a moment)
Hmm, maybe.
sure. Grants, budgets, official logos.
Makes it all easier for you to trust them when they knock on your door.
But the thing inside? That's no agency you've ever voted for."
[@642: ah..of course the government-this is why i hate voting people into power!!]
[@Enchomay: so what's their next move?]
(grinning)
"Expansion of course.
They'll send out more branches.
New trucks.
Different colors.
Maybe even a new name.
They'll set up in quiet little towns, places where people don't ask too many questions… until they start disappearing.
[@Jaija: but why let her live? Why didn't they just… finish her like the rest?]
Because she's worth more alive.
Fear spreads faster when it has a face.
Survivors are good advertisements.
She'll tell her story.
She'll make you look over your shoulder.
And the next time you hear a siren, you'll remember her — and freeze.
That's how they win.
[@Enchomay: but what is the goal?]
(Smirks)
We will never know.
(Pauses)
Pay attention; Rescue isn't always rescue.
Some hands that pull you out of the dark are just dragging you somewhere worse.
And here's your warning — next time you call for help, ask yourself this:
"Do you know who's really coming?"
(He pauses. Somewhere, a radio crackles with static, a voice mumbling an address.)
(tilting his head)
And if you think this was bad… wait until you meet our next little family problem.
Two siblings. One accident… or maybe not.
Blood in the bathtub, laughter in the hall.
And a single phrase echoing through it all.
( he leans closer to the screen whispering like he was sharing a secret)
"Next up — "Oops, brother Died"
STREAM ENDED