Twin Peaks; A Crisis in khaki

Date: 12/1/2025

Tall trees loom around me like judgmental giants, craning their necks to see which poor soul has wandered into their territory today. I’m sporting a full khaki setup: button-up shirt, matching shorts, sensible socks, and a cap that screams “zookeeper on unpaid overtime”. According to the Sat Nav, I’ve arrived, though I can’t imagine why I thought coming this deep into the woods was a good idea. Some kind of school? Camp? Underground forest cult? I’m open to anything at this point. What I’m not open to is the horrifying realisation that I forgot to shave my legs. Not just a little stubble, we’re talking woolly mammoth territory. National Geographic could do a documentary on me. I shuffle forwards praying no one notices the yeti pelt attached to my shins. The front door creaks open, and out steps a woman who has the overall energy of someone simultaneously friendly and dangerously close to snapping. Middle-aged, frizzled hair that looks electrically charged, and eyes so sharp they could slice through steel. She beams at me with a smile that says, Come in! Her aura says, Run. Naturally, I walk right in. My survival instincts have been on sabbatical for years. “Welcome!” she trills, guiding me through the building like she’s giving a tour of Hell’s Airbnb. The building itself is deceptively gorgeous — wooden beams, forest views, a rustic charm that screams storybook. But inside, it feels like the set of a horror film where you shout at the protagonist, “Don’t go in there,” and then they go in there anyway. Her eyes flick briefly to my legs, and I swear I hear a faint internal scream — from me, from her, from the universe. I ask what this place is, why I’m here, if I’ll be joining a commune or harvesting my organs… but she only answers in riddles. “No, seriously… where am I?” I ask. “Where aren’t you?” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows. Fantastic. A cryptic lunatic. My favourite. We move through long hallways where teens and young adults shuffle around like their batteries are at 1%. Their movements are stiff, robotic, and their expressions are that unique blend of “lost in thought” and “nobody’s home.” I approach one boy. “What’s your name?” He stares at me like I’ve asked him to solve the universe’s final riddle. After a painfully long silence, he finally says, “I don’t know.” A beat. “I think somebody stole it?” Before I can respond, I notice three more kids in the background acting… off. A girl crouches next to a rubbish bin, whispering to it in a low, urgent tone: “You must tell no one, Gregory. Not again.” A boy is walking in tight, obsessive circles — so many circles he’s practically drilling himself into the floor. A third teen is eating his shoe. EATING IT. Not nibbling — devouring. “Helps keep the voices busy,” he says cheerfully, giving the heel a hearty crunch. I power-walk away. Jenni, blessedly familiar, is stacking tortilla wraps on her head like she’s trying to achieve the world’s saddest hat trick. “That’s weird,” I tell her. “I’ve dreamt about you doing that.” “This is how I’ve always eaten them,” she replies seriously, peeling one off the top and eating it like she’s a tortilla Pez dispenser. Of course it is. We eventually reach the control room. Lights blink. Buttons flash. Hundreds of CCTV screens flicker with eerie precision. “This is how we keep an eye on everyone,” she explains proudly. “Oh wow. Isn’t this … a massive, flaming violation of privacy?” Her face tightens into a look that suggests she’s drafting my obituary. “Absolutely not. My job is to make sure everyone is okay.” I lean closer to the screens. “Are these all live feeds?” “Yes.” she insists. But then— On one screen— Something odd moves. I step closer. The woman slams a button so fast I’m surprised her arm doesn’t detach. The screen goes black. “Nothing to see here,” she mutters. Before I can ask questions, she shoves me towards the canteen. A cavernous room filled with silent bodies spooning gruel (only three menu options: gruel, gruel, and extra-lumpy gruel) into their mouths like they’ve been programmed to consume exactly 2.3 scoops per minute. When Jenni reappears, tortilla tower reaching new architectural heights, the dread twists deeper inside me. It’s like she’s stuck in some pathetic tortilla-stacking-eating-stacking loop. A glitch. Then — chaos — a familiar voice. My sister-in-law storms in, niece tucked under her arm like a baguette. “You’re not leaving Tilly here, are you?” I say, horrified. “Why not? It’s a prestigious school.” Behind her, the shoe-eater continues gnawing. The bin-whisperer is now sobbing into Gregory. The circler is on lap number one thousand and counting. “Prestigious?” I squeak. “Have you looked around? It’s like Lord of the Flies but with better flooring.” But she says she’s paid her deposit. Well then. If you can’t reason with someone, let capitalism handle it. She leaves. I panic. Then I notice it — the control room door is slightly open. Curiosity lassos me by the torso. I drift in. The previously blank screen has flickered back on. And what I see makes my stomach flop like a dying fish. Floorboards creak behind me. “Shit.” “What are you doing in here?” she snaps. She stands in the doorway — arms folded, hair frizzed, eyes twitching with the patience of a cat that’s been betrayed one too many times. “I—I saw something that didn’t make sense,” I say. She leans closer. “Go on.” “You said the cameras are live?” “Yes.” “Then why,” I ask, throat tightening, “are you on one of these screens?” She freezes. Her expression fractures. Then she says, very calmly: “I have a twin.” I laugh. “Okay. Sure. And I’m Beyoncé.” But she doesn’t budge. “We all do,” she says, pointing at a monitor I hadn’t noticed. My heart stops. On the screen — Me. Standing in a corridor I’ve never seen. Motionless. Blank-faced. Robotic. “What the fu—” “Why else do you think you’re here?” she asks softly. I shake my head, words clinging to my throat. “Why are the others so… zombie-like?” I whisper. She tilts her head. “Don’t you get it, Amanda? This is an experiment.” “A—Amanda? Who—“ “We transplant the brains from one twin to the other. Creating a superior mind. A super-brain.” My pulse stutters. “And the others?” “Brainless, essentially.” There’s a hollow silence. Then a laugh — hers. Sharp. Cutting. “And you…” she says, stepping closer, breath cold against my cheek, “…you’re a curious case, Amanda.” She grins, terrible and wide. “Because you never had any brains to begin with.” “Amanda?” I whisper. “Who is—“ Every screen flares to life. Dozens of faces turn towards the cameras. Including mine. “The experiment,” she says, “is a complete success.” Darkness swallows me whole.