Chapter Text
There are cameras just about everywhere in this facility. From inside the many containment units, to the cafeteria rooms of each department, there will always be at least one of those machines that act as the manager's eyes over the facility.
When the Funeral of the Dead Butterflies first came to this place in the futile dream of freeing the employees of this corporation, he had noticed the abundance of cameras in one hallway and then the next. He didn't mind them, of course. He didn't question them as he continued on his the path of liberation until his own untimely incarceration.
During the first few days into his new reality, the cameras had become a constant nitpick for the Funeral of the Dead Butterflies, who had paced restlessly in his containment cell. This would go on for hours until the sheer silence and boredom of his circumstances caught up to him, and he would take temporary respite within the coffin he carried with him.
There was one thing, though.
No matter where the mourner may choose to position the coffin, the ever attentive camera would follow him always. It is not an issue—far from it—but he always felt unnerved with the machines presence. Knowing that he's never alone and that someone else is watching him no matter how much he wants to crumple into a ball in the corner. The camera will be on him unaware of his anguish (or maybe, it feigned ignorance or delight.)
As the Funeral of the Dead Butterflies adjusted, in his free time (which are just the brief moments he had before an agent visits him,) the abnormality would ponder about many things. Such as the finality of life and death, the circumstances he and many others were placed in, the body bags racking up per day, and finally, of the manager of this place.
He had first heard of the manager from offhand mentions by the agents who visit his containment cell to "work" on it. He would hear them mumble to themselves. Many vied for praise, some a retort of criticism, and some a curse to vent out their frustrations. No matter what, these the agents directed their reverence and frustration towards the one whom they are supposed to respect. It is a precarious structure of trust.
Soon the visits from multiple agents would transition to only one agent being sent to handle him. They would always come and leave on time and extract most, if not all, the PE boxes needed. They were as normal (if one could call it that) as one could be in such a place if it wasn't for a habit they had.
The Funeral of the Dead Butterflies watched as Angelos (he'd read from their name tag) kneeled in front of the camera in the containment unit, clasping their hands tight before bowing their head. A prayer but to whom are they praying to? The abnormality wondered but it didn't bother to ask as the agent left the containment unit; a haunted look on their face. Little did he know that it would be the last time he saw them, as a few hours later, Angelos would have hung themselves.
There was a time during a particularly catastrophic day in the corporation which allowed Funeral of the Dead Butterflies to exit its containment unit. The emergency lights and alarms were blaring insistently as the shouts and hurried footsteps belonging to the agents outside chattered along the hallway, their weapons clattering some distance away.
The abnormality had figured that he'll take this as opportunity to wander around the facility, not only on a stroll, but to enact his mission of liberation once more. This is certainly a moment he just cannot pass up. It would truly be a waste to just stay stagnant in his cell.
Escaping wasn't hard. The door disengaged all on its own and he was able to leave with ease. Among the things Funeral of the Dead Butterflies should be concerned about, other than his mission of liberation, are any wayward agents looking to cut his journey short.
Thankfully it appears that every agent is occupied with the ongoing situation. It made the abnormality wonder how and why all of this is happening, but like any small thought that it may have, it would just pass it off. Along the way it would come across other escaped abnormalities.
He didn't recognize most of them, but he certainly did know the few that some agents would bring up. The Forsaken Murderer smashed his transformed metal head into clerks in a crunch. Void Dream flew about and enraptured any employee it came across with peaceful dreams. There was much, much more, but there were also more interesting things awaiting Funeral of the Dead Butterflies the further he got away from all the chaos. He just needed to find it.