The label was stamped on the side of the container in faded industrial ink: .
When I looked at the page later, it just said: AAJ-012 AV D100 l 2 - g b v D
We watched for ninety-three minutes. By the end, the two technicians with me could no longer recall their own names. I had written nothing down — because I had never intended to. My hands had moved on their own, transcribing symbols I did not recognize. The label was stamped on the side of
The container was resealed. The tape was not destroyed — because no one could agree on whether destroying it was possible. The new label we affixed read: I had written nothing down — because I
No one at the station remembered what the letters stood for. Some said it was a pre-Fall military inventory tag. Others whispered it was a designation for something that had never been meant to exist at all.
The footage began.
I was the third archivist assigned to Room 47B in the Lower Annex. The first two had requested transfers after less than a month. Neither would explain why.