DO NOT OPEN THE COOLER! | SCP-8137

"Making great time," Halsey says, bringing Tremont out of his reverie.

"Hmm? What was that?" "I said we're making great time.

1,400 miles down.

Only 3,000 more to go." "One third of the way done, I guess you could say." Halsey side-eyes Tremont.

"If I had wanted to say that, I would have." Tremont bites his tongue, not literally.

He'd stopped doing that at mile 800.

But he figuratively bites his tongue, keeping his comment in check.

Tremont returns the side-eye.

Halsey is an older agent in his 50s with close-cropped salt and pepper hair.

He still has that Marine look and carriage, even though the man hasn't been in the Corps for 30 years.

Tremont is younger by more than a decade: fit, thin, a long-distance runner, which has made the never-ending road trip a living hell.

All he wants to do is get out and stretch his legs for a quick four or five miles.

Considering how slowly Halsey drives, Tremont figures he can run alongside the car and still not get left behind.

Looking at the cooler again, Tremont sighs.

"Just let it go, kid," Halsey says.

"You can open that cooler a million times.

You can stare at that container a million times.

But you still aren't going to know what we're transporting.

Our job is to protect the container, drive it around this wonderful country of ours in a seemingly random and haphazard manner, and see who shakes loose from the woodwork." "Bait," Tremont replies, returning his attention to the constant sight of blacktop and bumper stickers.

The man fidgets.

He shifts.

He sighs some more.

"1,400 miles and you still can't relax.

Why'd you take this assignment?" Tremont rolls his eyes.

"I didn't.

"Making great time," Halsey says, bringing Tremont out of his reverie.

"Hmm? What was that?" "I said we're making great time.

1,400 miles down.

Only 3,000 more to go." "One third of the way done, I guess you could say." Halsey side-eyes Tremont.

"If I had wanted to say that, I would have." Tremont bites his tongue, not literally.

He'd stopped doing that at mile 800.

But he figuratively bites his tongue, keeping his comment in check.

Tremont returns the side-eye.

Halsey is an older agent in his 50s with close-cropped salt and pepper hair.

He still has that Marine look and carriage, even though the man hasn't been in the Corps for 30 years.

Tremont is younger by more than a decade: fit, thin, a long-distance runner, which has made the never-ending road trip a living hell.

All he wants to do is get out and stretch his legs for a quick four or five miles.

Considering how slowly Halsey drives, Tremont figures he can run alongside the car and still not get left behind.

Looking at the cooler again, Tremont sighs.

"Just let it go, kid," Halsey says.

"You can open that cooler a million times.

You can stare at that container a million times.

But you still aren't going to know what we're transporting.

Our job is to protect the container, drive it around this wonderful country of ours in a seemingly random and haphazard manner, and see who shakes loose from the woodwork." "Bait," Tremont replies, returning his attention to the constant sight of blacktop and bumper stickers.

The man fidgets.

He shifts.

He sighs some more.

"1,400 miles and you still can't relax.

Why'd you take this assignment?" Tremont rolls his eyes.

"I didn't.