Restocking the Abyss

What’s in the Box?

The box that was found on 7.5g-b is exactly one foot by half a foot by a quarter of a foot, plain cardboard with a tightly knotted security string holding it shut. The string looks like simple twine, but it has an intricate knot that loops in a way that hurts your brain if you stare too long at it—like an optical illusion that shouldn’t physically exist. A little black security tag dangles off the knot. The tag is matte black, but every time the light hits it differently, numbers flash across the surface—like glitchy coordinates or timestamps that never repeat the same sequence twice.

The moment Trevor tries to put it on the inventory shelf, the security tag chirps—a sound not unlike a birdcall but... backwards, like the sound was sucked into itself. The chirp isn’t loud, but it’s unsettling.

First Encounter with the Box

Bob glares at the box. "What the hell was that?"

Trevor shrugs, placing it carefully on the work? things to process shelf next to boss desk. "Dunno. Some kind of fancy anti-tampering tag, I guess."

"I don’t like it." Bob squints at the weird knot. "Why would they tag this? It’s tiny."

Trevor shrugs. "Probably something fragile. Or expensive. Maybe a special return or high-security transfer."

"Then why the hell is it here?" Bob mutters, frustrated.

They scan the box’s tracking number. The system just says "INTERNAL—SECURE HOLD" with no other notes or sender information. (both of them where quite serprised that there system could read the tag at all. wow

Trevor taps the black tag with his knuckle, but the chirp sound repeats. Bob slaps his hand away.

"Stop touching it! I don’t want to get in trouble over some weird tech."

Trevor rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Just log it and leave it alone."

Moving the Box Triggers a Problem

Later that day, Bob tries to shift the box further back on the shelf. The moment he moves it, the black security tag chirps again—twice. Then there’s a tiny click-click noise, and a holographic warning flares into the air above the box.

The hologram is a floating string of glowing symbols, arranged in no language they’ve ever seen. But somehow, the meaning feels clear: STOP. DO NOT MOVE. ITEM IS LOCKED IN PLACE. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED TO RELOCATE.

“Uh… Trevor?” Bob takes a nervous step back. “I think we triggered something.”

“Triggered what?” Trevor leans closer. "It’s a box, not a bomb."

Bob scowls. “That’s not the point. That thing’s tagged with some freaky tech, and if we mess this up, corporate’s going to come down on us like a ton of bricks.”

They step back from the shelf, not wanting to make things worse.

Calling in a Local Tech Specialist

Bob pulls out his phone. "We’re calling someone. Corporate’s got to have a guy for this."

They reach out to corporate's local tech contractor—a guy named Milo Hebert, a semi-retired IT and electronics specialist who lives nearby and takes odd gigs for quick cash.

When Milo arrives an hour later, he takes one look at the glitching black security tag and mutters, “This… isn’t normal.”

Trevor folds his arms. “No kidding.”

Milo pulls out a handheld scanner, the kind used for electronics diagnostics. When he waves it near the box, the scanner instantly dies. No sparks, no sound—it just powers down like it gave up on life. Milo curses under his breath.

“This tag,” Milo says slowly, “isn’t just some anti-theft thing. It’s doing something—blocking signals, maybe generating a field.”

Bob crosses his arms. “Okay, so... can you turn it off?”

Milo shakes his head. “Not without knowing what it’s keyed to. This knot, this tag—whatever they are, it’s not something off-the-shelf. If I force it open, it could trigger an alarm. Or worse, it could lock me out permanently.”

Corporate Escalation

Milo makes a few calls to corporate support, trying to escalate the issue. Eventually, after hours of redirection, he bypasses all local managers and reaches someone way up the chain—a statewide inventory director named Michelle Vincent.

"Michelle," Milo says over the phone, "you need to send someone here. This isn’t just a damaged tag. It’s some kind of… special tech that I can’t disable remotely. If we move it, it could trip something big. I’m talking corporate liability levels of big."

There’s a long pause on the line. Then Michelle speaks slowly: “Are you saying you need me to come down there?”

“Yes,” Milo replies grimly. “You. Personally.”

Enter the Statewide Manager

Michelle Vincent arrives the next morning, visibly annoyed but intrigued. She’s a sharp, no-nonsense woman who doesn’t like being pulled out of her office for "nonsense calls." She steps into the back room, takes one look at the glowing symbols hovering over the box, and sighs deeply.

"Okay," she says, "what the fuck am I looking at?"

Milo scratches his head. "If I had to guess? This box is keyed to some kind of authorization system we don’t have access to. And if we try to open it without the right permissions, it could trigger... well, I don’t know what."

Michelle narrows her eyes. “What’s in it?”

“We don’t know,” Bob says sheepishly. "We didn’t open it."

She steps closer, inspecting the knot. The glitching black tag chirps again, as if it senses her presence. The holographic symbols shift slightly, rearranging themselves into a checklist-like display.

"Looks like it wants some kind of biometric confirmation," Milo mutters. "But not from us."

Michelle stares at the box for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "This isn’t normal inventory. This… might not even be our inventory."

Bob and Trevor exchange glances.

"So what now?" Bob asks nervously.

That night at the hotel, Michelle Vincent sat at the bar nursing her second drink, swirling the ice in her glass as she replayed the day’s bizarre events. After an agonizing call with her boss—a man whose skepticism about the supernatural was as legendary as his ties to corporate greed—she needed something stronger than the watered-down cocktails they served.

“Two snap bracelets, eh? Real fancy,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. She couldn’t shake the absurdity of it all. The warehouse, which had always been just a functional hub for their operations, was morphing into something that felt like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. The whole situation was maddening, and the rumbling in her stomach wasn’t just from the drinks.

“Need another?” the bartender asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, thanks,” she replied, waving him off. She needed to think, to devise a plan. If her boss thought she was losing her grip on reality, she’d be out of a job before she could even start to explain the hologram incident.

As she stood to leave, her phone buzzed on the bar. A message from Trevor.

Got the guys together. We’re hitting the warehouse in the morning. Bring the box. We need to figure this out before the big wigs get here.

Her heart sank. “Bring the box.” That was easier said than done. It was as if it had roots, grounded in some unseen reality, refusing to budge no matter how much they pried or pushed. She glanced back at the bartender, who was polishing a glass with a look of curiosity.

“Hey,” she called out, leaning on the bar, “ever seen anything weird in this hotel?”

He chuckled, “Weird? Honey, I work at a hotel. I could tell you stories that’d make your head spin.”

“Try me.”

He grinned, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “There’s a legend about a guest who never checked out. Said he was trapped in a time loop, reliving the same night over and over. The staff swears they still hear him at night, shouting for help.”

Michelle rolled her eyes, but a flicker of curiosity ignited within her. “And you believe that?”

“Do I believe in ghosts? No. But I’ve seen people act real strange after a few too many drinks. Makes you wonder if there’s something else out there.” He winked, returning to his tasks.

Maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched. She returned to her room, her mind racing with thoughts of the warehouse. As she lay in bed, she tried to calm her thoughts but couldn’t escape the feeling that they were sitting on a powder keg of corporate chaos.

The next morning, she gathered her things and headed back to the warehouse, where the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. Trevor, Milo, and Bob were already huddled around the unyielding box.

“Any progress?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Milo looked up, his face a mix of excitement and confusion. “We think the box is cursed or something. Every time we get close, I feel like I’m being watched.”

Bob piped up, “Or maybe it’s just the snap bracelets messing with our heads. I was talking like a pirate half the night.”

“Right,” Michelle sighed, rolling her eyes. “But we need to focus. The higher-ups will be here soon, and if we don’t figure out how to move this thing, it’s our heads on the chopping block.”

Trevor gestured dramatically towards the box. “We could try giving it a shake, see if it’s full of secrets.”

“Or diamonds,” Bob added, eyes wide with hope.

Michelle shook her head. “No shaking. We need a plan.”

As they strategized, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being in over her head. The stakes were higher than ever, and corporate scrutiny loomed. But what if the box held the key to everything? What if, once they opened it, it could turn their entire situation around—or plunge them deeper into madness?

Just as she was about to suggest a new approach, the doors swung open, and a group of corporate suits entered.

“Michelle!” one of them barked, a tall man with thinning hair and an air of authority. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Uh, welcome, gentlemen,” she stammered, trying to regain her composure. “We were just—”

“Show us the box,” he interrupted, eyes narrowing.

Her heart raced. This was it. The moment of truth.

As they approached the box, the atmosphere shifted. The air thickened, almost crackling with tension. The corporate guys exchanged glances, and she could almost feel their skepticism radiating.

“Don’t touch anything,” she warned, but it was too late. One of the men reached out and nudged the box slightly, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the lights flickered, and a holographic figure erupted from the box—a bizarre amalgamation of color and light, swirling like a ghostly apparition.

“Well, that’s not good,” she whispered, realizing they had just opened Pandora’s box.

As they strategized, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being in over her head. The stakes were higher than ever, and corporate scrutiny loomed. But what if the box held the key to everything? What if, once they opened it, it could turn their entire situation around—or plunge them deeper into madness?

Just as she was about to suggest a new approach, the doors swung open, and a group of corporate suits entered.

“Michelle!” one of them barked, a tall man with thinning hair and an air of authority. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Uh, welcome, gentlemen,” she stammered, trying to regain her composure. “We were just—”

“Show us the box,” he interrupted, eyes narrowing.

Her heart raced. This was it. The moment of truth.

As they approached the box, the atmosphere shifted. The air thickened, almost crackling with tension. The corporate guys exchanged glances, and she could almost feel their skepticism radiating.

“Don’t touch anything,” she warned, but it was too late. One of the men reached out and nudged the box slightly, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the lights flickered, and a holographic figure erupted from the box—a bizarre amalgamation of color and light, swirling like a ghostly apparition.

“Well, that’s not good,” she whispered, realizing they had just opened Pandora’s box.

Bob stood at the edge of the chaos, a front-row seat to the impending disaster that seemed to unfold in real time. He had long accepted that he wasn’t the boss; he was just an employee, a cog in the machine. But watching the corporate bigwigs hover around the box, eyes filled with greed and curiosity, he felt an urge to intervene. When one of them reached out to touch the box, a wave of dread washed over him.

“Stop!” Bob shouted, stepping in front of the bigwig, hands raised as if he were trying to ward off an unseen force. “Please, my name is Bob, but you need to understand—this is not just a box. There’s a lot more going on here than you realize.”

The atmosphere crackled with tension. The younger man frowned, ready to challenge Bob, but the older executive laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Bob could see the shift in the older man’s demeanor; it was subtle but significant. There was a flicker of understanding, a hint that he recognized Bob’s urgency.

“Gentlemen,” Bob continued, his voice steadier now, “this shelf doesn’t exist.” He pulled a tape measure from his pocket, determination fueling his actions. “Hold this end, please,” he instructed, handing it to the older executive.

He maneuvered the tape to stretch from the edge of the shelf to a distant wall. “Twelve feet,” he declared, moving to another point. “Also twelve feet.” Each measurement was met with disbelief as he guided the tape along, the numbers unfaltering despite the obvious impossibility.

“Is this a joke?” one of the younger executives scoffed, but he couldn’t ignore the evidence laid before him. Bob moved the tape measure again, and it continued to read twelve feet, no matter where it landed.

The younger man dropped the tape in frustration, disbelief etching lines across his face. “This is absurd.”

“It gets weirder,” Bob said, a nervous laugh escaping him. “Trust me.”

Hours passed in a blur of frantic explanations, diagrams hastily scrawled on whiteboards, and phone calls to major corporations. Bob watched as the executives scrambled, their confidence cracking under the weight of the absurdity they were confronting. They connected with R&D departments from Google, IBM, Apple, and AT&T, each call met with disbelief and curiosity. It was a whirlwind of urgency and chaos, and amid it all, Bob felt a sense of empowerment he had never experienced before.

The older executive, who had remained quiet, finally took stock of the situation. He leaned back, arms crossed, a slight smirk on his face. “So, we’ve got a box that defies physics, a warehouse that’s getting bigger, and a bunch of snap bracelets that make you talk in accents? Is that the gist of it?”

“Pretty much,” Michelle replied, exasperated yet amused. “Oh, and the magic paper that doesn’t tear or get damaged.” She pointed to the corkboard where the thank-you card from earlier remained stuck, untouched by their attempts to remove it.

As they discussed the ramifications of their findings, the atmosphere shifted. The executives began to realize that this situation was beyond their control. They were facing something they didn’t understand—a giant cosmic puzzle that their vast resources couldn’t easily solve.

The owner of the company, the older man who had been so quiet, leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “It seems we’re not just dealing with a logistical issue. This is more of a… a systemic anomaly. What do we do with it?”

Bob sensed the weight of his words. This was a moment of reckoning for all of them. They had to figure out how to handle something far beyond their usual scope of business.

“Leave the dumpster fire of the death star compactor out of this for now,” Bob said, earning a few surprised looks. “We’re in the thick of it already.”

Michelle added " o ya the compactor that compress's cardboard into dense wood 1-7 ratio from the info from the manufacture".

The conversation continued, growing more frantic as they exchanged theories and possibilities. They had stumbled into a labyrinthine mystery, and Bob felt the anxiety rising in the room as they all grappled with the implications.

One of the executives, a younger man with a slick haircut and an air of arrogance, interrupted, “Look, we need to control this narrative before it spirals out of hand. We can’t let this leak to the press.”

“Good luck with that,” Trevor chimed in, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “The moment they find out we’re trying to hide it, it’ll only make things worse.”

Bob watched as the tension escalated, sensing that they were on the brink of something monumental. The corporate world was colliding with the bizarre realities of the warehouse, and he was at the center of it, holding onto the fragile thread of sanity.

“Alright,” the older executive finally said, his tone steadying the room. “We’ll investigate further, but we need to keep this quiet for now. Bob, I want you to coordinate with your team. We’re going to need all the insight we can get.”

Bob nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settle onto his shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”

As they prepared to delve deeper into the mystery, the box loomed behind them, a silent guardian of secrets, ready to reveal its truths if only they could unlock its potential.

As the chaos of the executives trying to unravel the mystery of the warehouse swirled around him, Bob felt a sense of excitement bubbling up. He had been mostly a silent observer, answering questions where he could, but now it seemed like everyone was losing their grip. Instead of being overwhelmed, Bob's mind raced with possibilities.

In a flash of inspiration, he slipped away unnoticed, weaving through the throngs of stressed executives and flustered coworkers until he reached the home hardware department. A mission formed in his mind, and he emerged fifteen minutes later, triumphant, carrying a plastic tote that felt like a small trophy in his hands.

The tote was lined with chicken wire, and he had taken the liberty of wrapping a piece of cardboard in the same wire mesh. It looked odd, but Bob had a vision. The bin featured two holes on either side, with plastic gloves duct-taped to them, creating a makeshift workstation. At the bottom of the tote, he had carefully affixed a piece of plexiglass, transforming the box into a bizarre yet functional Faraday cage.

His heart raced with anticipation as he approached the shelf again, where the glowing box remained, untouched. The executives were too engrossed in phone calls and discussions to notice his return. Bob took a deep breath, steadied himself, and gently placed his contraption over the box.

The moment the tote made contact, the hologram flickered and vanished, as if it had simply given up the ghost. He could see through the plexiglass into the shimmering aura of the box for just a heartbeat before it faded to nothingness. “This might actually work,” he murmured to himself, grinning.

With quick, confident movements, Bob slid the box onto the chicken wire rack he had fashioned. He flipped the entire setup over, encasing the security device in his protective creation. Now, they could finally mess with it without risking the bizarre hologram from reacting violently.

An executive, whose name Bob couldn’t recall, caught sight of Bob’s jubilant demeanor and paused. “What’s going on over there?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as the others turned to look.

Bob felt a rush of pride. “I think I figured out a way to contain it!” he announced, his voice barely containing his excitement. He carefully carried the rigged box over to one of the desks, placing it down gently, ensuring the plexiglass was facing up so everyone could see what lay inside.

As he flipped the contraption upside down, the executives leaned closer, curiosity piqued. Bob had already rigged a utility knife to the inside of the tote, and with his gloved hands, he reached in to cut away the security measures holding the original box in place. They fell away easily, as if they had been nothing more than a flimsy restraint.

With a swift cut, Bob also sliced through the seal on the box within a box. As it opened, he was met with three small jars, each containing a different plant material, resembling spices in a quaint farmer's market display.

The executives exchanged bewildered glances, their minds racing to comprehend the significance of what Bob had just unveiled. “What is this?” one of them asked, his voice a mix of confusion and excitement.

The older executive was looking mad.

“I don’t know,” Bob replied, shrugging slightly. “What do I do now?”

For a moment, the room was silent, all eyes glued to the jars as if they were fragile artifacts from another world. The executives shifted uncomfortably, realizing they were now faced with a new kind of mystery.

Finally, the older executive, who had been observing from the sidelines, cleared his throat. “We need to analyze these,” he said decisively. “Get a lab team in here to test the contents. We have no idea what we’re dealing with.” "call our FBI contact"

Another executive chimed in, “We should document everything. If this leads to something valuable, we can’t afford to overlook any details.”

Bob stood by, excitement coursing through him as he watched the bigwigs spring into action. Suddenly, he wasn’t just an employee anymore; he was a crucial part of the unfolding saga. For the first time, he felt the weight of his contributions, knowing that his quick thinking might lead to discoveries that could change everything for the company.

(The OLD EXECUTIVE stands stiffly in front of Bob, glaring. His hand runs over his face in frustration. His heart is pounding—he’s old, and he’s not the kind to take risks, which is why he’s still alive.)

OLD EXECUTIVE

(quietly, but furious)

Bob... you opened the box?

BOB

Uh, yeah?

OLD EXECUTIVE

(throws up hands)

What if it exploded and killed us all? Do you think I lived this long by doing dumb **** like that?

(He paces, muttering to himself, rubbing his temples.)

OLD EXECUTIVE

(under breath)

Damn it, Bobbitt’s done more work than half the people in this building combined... but he’s still a lunatic. We looked at his records, we knew this would be a thing.

(He turns sharply to a nearby VP—LARRY—who has been trying to stay out of the line of fire.)

OLD EXECUTIVE

Larry, you’re in charge now. Everyone else—get the **** out of here. And this?

(nods at the box)

You never talk about it again. You’ll get paperwork, you’ll sign it, and there’ll be a bonus.

(He starts heading for the door, talking over his shoulder.)

OLD EXECUTIVE

Trevor, Bob—get ready. You three are gonna get real close real soon. Larry, apologize to your wife. You’re gonna be living here for a while.

(The other staff shuffle out quickly. Larry watches them go, a strange glint in his eye. He peers around, noticing the large boardroom next to Trevor’s office.)

LARRY

(half to himself)

Perfect. There’s my new office.

TREVER

That’s a boardroom, Larry.

LARRY

Not anymore. Get it cleared out. I want a desk.

BOB

(smirking)

What, you want a minibar too?

LARRY

Damn right. Bar fridge, table, chairs, couch, maybe a couple of cupboards. If I’m slumming it, I’m slumming it right.

(Larry cracks his knuckles, already mentally redecorating.)

LARRY

But first—about that box.

(He leans against the doorway, thinking hard, then points to Bob.)

LARRY

Bob, seal it up with duct tape. Lots of it. Wrap it in plastic. Then put it in a box... inside another box. I mean it. I’ll get someone from the FBI to take it off our hands.

(Trevor and Bob exchange glances—half skeptical, half amused. Larry notices but ignores them.)

LARRY

And if anything else weird shows up, call me before touching it. I don’t care if it’s a broken stapler. We’re playing this by the book now.

(Larry sighs and pulls out his phone.)

LARRY

I gotta tell my wife she’s not seeing me much. This **** isn’t going away, and I think I’ll be moving in. Corporate will want their eyes on this—can't have anyone waltzing off with...

(pauses)

...whatever the hell that diamond-compacting machine is.

(He gives them a quick nod and strides out, dialing a number.)

EXT. WAREHOUSE LOADING DOCK - LATER

(Larry stands by his car, phone pressed to his ear. On the other end, there’s a tense, long silence.)

LARRY

(into phone)

Yeah, it’s Larry. I’m at Store 118. I need a hazmat team at the back entrance—quietly.

(He glances around, making sure no one’s listening.)

LARRY

You’re picking up a package. It’s in a box... in a box... inside another box. Not for disposal. This might be corporate espionage. Or something worse.

(The voice on the other end is barely audible.)

PHONE VOICE

(stern)

We’ll call you back in ten.

LARRY

Thanks, man.

(Larry hangs up, exhales deeply, and drives off.)

INT. WAREHOUSE LOADING DOCK - 45 MINUTES LATER

(A plain white van pulls up to the back door. Two men in bright yellow hazmat suits hop out, no questions asked. They lift the loading door, spot the sealed-up package, and grab it without a word.)

(BOB watches them go with a goofy grin. He raises his hand in an exaggerated salute.)

BOB

Sir! Thank you for your service!

(The hazmat men give him a weird look, slam the doors shut, and drive off. No one says anything.)

INT. WAREHOUSE OFFICE - NIGHT

(Bob and Trevor stand in the now-quiet office, watching the van’s taillights disappear.)

BOB

(smirking)

That was kinda cool.

TREVER

(sighing)

Yeah. You’re off tomorrow. Take a day.

BOB

Sweet. Can I go home now?

TREVER

Yeah, but we’ll need a rotating schedule. Two days on, two days off... We’re gonna need one more person to cover shifts.

BOB

Think Milo wants a job?

(The two stare out the window, lost in thought. For the first time all day, Bob feels a spark of excitement—not dread. Whatever this is... it’s something big.)