 The room was sparse, containing only a mostly ransacked box of glazed donuts, and two coffees seated atop a portable plastic table. Two men, positioned at opposite ends of this table, intermittently raised and lowered their coffee mugs while they looked at manila folders marked with a three-arrowed insignia, occasionally removing a document and inspecting it separately before returning it to where it had been removed from. Outside the chamber, there were several men in pristine white lab coats moving about. Sometimes colliding with the exterior wall of the room in an exclamation of sudden agony before returning to their feet and carrying on. Precisely sixteen minutes after the first sip of coffee, the taller man averted his gaze away from the folder, looking upon the other occupant of the room. Hey, he said attempting to attract the other man's attention. He was met only with silence and the ruffling of papers. Hey, he said again, this time projecting his voice so that it could not be disregarded. The other man lowered his folder onto the table and looked in the direction of the shout. There was a brief, tense silence before the taller man gestured towards his papers, an expression a slight but wilderness stretching across his face. He spoke with an inquisitive yet agitated tone. I'm not sure I have the right documents here, Frank. He shook his head. Do you have the same ones? The shorter man, Frank, inspected some texts before replying. His tone was similarly one of confusion. I'm pretty sure I do, Greg. Are yours Mark SCPF-221-5? Yep, replied Greg. He chuckled slightly. Guess there was a mix-up over at the records department. Guess so. You know, this shit is getting old. Greg declared slightly more incensed. He rose to his feet, angrily grasping his coffee. This is the fifth time we've received the wrong documents. And for that matter, what is even the point of this project? He shook the brown liquid within his mug, watching as it churned and swirled, eyes intently trained on the coffee as he complained. What the fuck are we studying hippos for anyway? Beats me. Greg walked over to the other side of the table, gesturing for Frank to hand him the other folder. He complied, and Greg rifled through several papers before gritting his teeth, clearly furious. He flung it back onto the table with force. Just hippos, he bemoaned. Pages and pages of fucking hippos. Why? Maybe it's some special project. A confidential thing, Frank speculated. What possible fucking use does the foundation have for hippos? You know of anything involving Africa? The Nile? He giggled to himself. Amphibious mammals maybe? Jesus man. Why? He countered. I don't see you coming up with any ideas. Because it's stupid. Greg returned to his side of the table, opening his folder and spreading several photographs of hippopotamuses across the white plastic surface. He looked at each one with unusual scorn. Just such a fucking waste of time. Absolute nonsense. He looked up at Frank. You know what the worst part is, Frank? Frank shook his head and shrouded. Now, what is it? Greg's tome began to soften. I'm starting to like them. They're cute. I never liked hippos before. What the fuck is going on? Greg crossed his arms, cocked his head in contemplation, then turned his neck back in Frank's direction before finishing his thought. I guess it's hyponatism. Thank you for listening. Site 42 Studios and its staff are funded by viewers like you. Please become a patron or visit our merch store at the link in our bio to support our work. Secure. Contain. Protect.