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Anabasis God have mercy on our dirty little hearts.
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

The FBI field office in Miramar was planning on moving. The FBI-UIU office in Miami waited quietly. There was no chaos but a sense of confusion as cases were put on hold, possibly indefinitely, and personnel packed up in preparation. Everyone Fatima Cortes talked to had the same detached mood about them and the same clipped tone when speaking about events. She'd been debriefed and had filed her report on what had happened to her on the Metro Rail. That was the last time anyone in the office had spoken about it. The rest of the time she either sat in the office or went around asking about Rhiannon Locke to whomever would stop and listen to her over the substantially increased noise of traffic and the steady stream of police helicopters hanging low and heading southwest every quarter hour. None of them seemed to ever come back.
She roamed through Downtown, Overtown, Bayside, the Port of Miami, parts of Wynwood, Brickell and Brickell Key, begging for any sort of information on Rhiannon Locke or her cult. No one in the office questioned her about it anymore. It gave her something to do while waiting for anything new to happen.
News stations were divided between reporting on organized riots erupting along the Southeast coast — variously blaming liberals, immigrants, socialists, the Chinese — and the ongoing evacuations on the west coast and the increasingly absurd measures being taken to combat a massive moving cloud of disease and death that had wiped out nearly a billion people in less than five months.
News of a potential vaccine helped smother most of the riot coverage. The Foundation's involvement smothered the rest by bringing out the crackpots and conspiracy theorists who had gone around for decades with vague innuendo of supernatural "anomalies" and a shady multi-national scientific organization keeping it all secret. The heightened crisis meant some Foundation assets were getting sloppy and just enough new and not-so vague innuendo started to leak that now the crackpots and conspiracy theorists were being brought on to national news networks to give their "side" of the story.
Painfully little was known about Anabasis itself so stories of neck-snapping statues, monsters in comically elaborate containment chambers, scary video tapes, and homicidal teddy bears dominated most of the conspiracy discussions. Only the increasing realization of an increasingly unstoppable world-wide apocalypse and the increasing absurdity of these "SCiPs" kept the discussions from going beyond internet noise and light-hearted, condescending cable news fluff pieces to leaven the impending end of all things to come.
Fats had no way of knowing what, if any of what they said was true. The UIU jumped at any chance to work with the Foundation. It meant a new flood of data collecting not just on anomalous incidents but on the Foundation itself. The only thing she'd seen on the news that she'd heard about beforehand was the statue. The leaks probably would have concerned her if not for the noise of low-flying helicopters zooming past every fifteen minutes and the sound of thunder coming from out west on largely cloud-free days. It ceased to be a concern for her altogether when she came to work one day and found the office empty and the lights all turned out. A few other agents trickled in but nothing close to the full staff. She left her office door open when she left, and found it open the next day as well.
She crept over to Velez's office and peered in. He was staring out the window.
"Did anyone else come in today?" She asked.
"No. I don't know." He sounded panicked. His voice was strained.
"No? Or you don't know?"
"I don't know."
"What do you know?"
"Uh, hm. They left." He turned to face her, arms crossed. He had such a pleasant and commanding presence when behind his desk. Affable and charismatic. When he stood like he was now, slouched and drawn in, he looked small and frail. He was barely her height, she realized.
"Everyone else did?"
"The bosses, the people up in Miramar, they all left. I tried calling every in— everyone in Miramar, UIU and normal agencies. They're jus— They're all gone. They must have left."
She left him there and went to barge into the boss's office. Not only was it empty but it had been stripped clean of everything but the furniture. Every other office she checked, aside from a handful, were barren. Casefiles had been packed up and taken away. No one had bothered to tell her or Velez or the dozen others who'd skipped work that day but left their desks untouched. Yet somehow enough of them knew to evacuate without an announcement, an e-mail, even a phone call.
She went back into Velez's office. He was standing by the window again, looking outside.
"Pack up your casefiles and let's move."
"No," He said, his voice quavering even harder, "Look!"
She glanced out the window. One of the police helicopters was veering dangerously close to an office building. People were screaming down below. Another helicopter was coming straight for it. Someone was leaning heavily out of the side and holding an assault rifle. They started firing on the other helicopter, which tried to move out from between two office buildings and lure the other one out of the area.
The second helicopter lurched straight for the first one and the two narrowly missed one another. Gunfire kept ringing out. The first helicopter started to lean hard to its left. It began moving away from Downtown, out to the bay to avoid collateral damage. The other helicopter followed, the gunman firing wildly.
"Pack up your casefiles and get out of here." Fats said once the fight moved away. She didn't wait on him and went straight to her office to pack.

Dr. Marlowe's days were getting longer and louder. School had been cancelled for the foreseeable future and some of the students had fled north with their families. People were now starting to crowd around the school each day loudly demanding answers to a myriad of questions. Some of the younger men were screaming about SCiPs and lizards while the older, predominantly Hispanic people were asking about Anabasis, the Red Death Cloud, and the vaccine. All pretenses of the Foundation's hidden presence at the school were gone. Foundation agents with the distinctive logo were out in the open with local police keeping people back from the school entrance. Someone fired shots in the air two days ago and everyone panicked and fled. The next day they were all back, just as many and just as loud.
Dr. Kohn stepped into her office with Dr. Horner. Marlowe sat up straight with dread.
"You didn't do anything this time." Horner said in that malevolently deadpan way that made it impossible to tell if and when he was joking. He was a big man with thick eyebrows and a military look to him. His whole expression was constantly one of profound disinterest that never managed to put anyone at ease no matter what he had to say.
"How are the talks going?" Marlowe asked, scooting her chair up and motioning for them to sit in the chairs across from her.
"Good," Kohn said nonchalantly, "Maybe. Militants have agreed not to fire on Foundation personnel as long as personnel aren't armed or seen conversing with WestCiv types. Everyone's aware of us so there's no pressing need for subtlety."
Marlowe furrowed her brow, "Unarmed? We can't do that."
"Yeah we can."
"But…" She looked back over her desk and sighed, "How long before they take over?"
Kohn shrugged, "As far as we're concerned they've already taken over. Until we start seeing guajiros with AKs in front of the school building? Later tonight. Maybe tomorrow night. They aren't being real specific with gringos."
"Are they expecting a fight?"
Kohn shrugged again. He was about to answer when Horner butt in, "The fight is already here. WestCivs have broken and scattered, they were never really a big presence down here, but they've got a hell of a lot more clout up in north Broward and down in the Keys. There's a reserve air base down in Homestead that's fallen to the rebels but we haven't heard of them using any of the planes there yet. The National Guard is rallying at Fort Lauderdale 30 miles away waiting on the WestCivvies to mass up with them. From there, they'll start attacking in a sweeping motion, going southeast, then southwest. The strongest pockets of resistance are gonna be out west so depending on how hard they hit the Cubans we don't know whether they'll end up hitting us from the northeast or the northwest. If resistance is significant they'll get the Army involved but for now they don't want to risk mass civilian casualties from air strikes and long range artillery."
Without a map to help her, the talk of troop movements and sweeps and pockets was wasted on Marlowe. The emphasis Horner placed on it made it seem like it should be something she was on top of. Locke was right; Marlowe needed to be more involved with things outside of research and studying. She was the Site Director and this was her site and it was going to be the site of urban warfare very soon.
"Which situation is worse? Northeast or northwest?"
Horner raised a brow. Was that the slightest hint of surprise on his face? Was he actually mildly impressed with her question? "If they come from the northeast, it'll hit us the worst. Their current strategy heading southeast is to shock the militants out of hiding and scatter them. The southwest sweep is to kill as many of them out in the open as they can. It'll be like smearing shit on a windshield and wiping it back and forth with the wiper, only the east-west swipes will be harder."
"Be like a hurricane forecast," Kohn butt in, "So start locking down the site. Get everything together and secured. Make sure Anabasis has everything it needs."
"Are we going to use it or not?"
Kohn shrugged again. He'd been suspiciously calm and unfazed throughout the entire conversation and it was starting to unnerve Marlowe, "Maybe. Only thing for certain is the WestCivvies are going to be out in front, and you know how those fascists are. Don't let any of them in until the National Guard arrives."
"You mean shoot them?"
Kohn smirked slightly, "That's a thought, isn't it? The Hispanic militants don't want to see any guns out in the street, so it'd make sense to keep them all someplace safe."
"You ever been in a firefight, Jaime?" Horner asked suddenly.
Marlowe blinked rapidly up at him. He'd never called her by her first name, nor asked her something quite so unusual before. "No."
He didn't respond, just nodded and turned to leave, Kohn following after him.
"Wait," She called out to them at the door, "What about civilians?"
"What do you mean?" Kohn asked, as if the sound of them outside the building weren't threatening to drown out his voice with the door open.
"Once the fighting starts they're going to start coming here looking for shelter. They also know about the vaccine work and the testing going on in here."
Kohn casually looked away, hands in his pockets and a placid smirk on his face as he thought for a moment. Then he said, "Let them in. Hope that more than a few can handle a gun."
Then Horner did something Marlowe had never seen him do. He let out a sharp, staccato laugh, "Ho, ho, Jesus!" Then he and Kohn were out the door.

All the doctors checking up on Locke each day described her recovery as miraculous. The bacteria had burned out fighting with her immune system and the last of them began to die off almost as quickly as her immune system had been killing them.
After each checkup she had to force herself to stand upright while her legs went numb and the pain in her guts sent acid shooting up her throat. Feeling returned to her legs soon afterwards, accompanied by a deep and penetrating ache in her knees that made her throw up if she bent them or put any sort of pressure on them. Then she'd throw up again if she straightened them out or rested them on a bed.
Aurianne suffered worse. It was another week before she could be released. They wanted her to use a wheelchair but she refused. Her stomach was much stronger than Locke's, but it was clear she was heaving at the slightest pressure in her knees. Her face was blotchy and red, with blood vessels burst in her cheeks. She looked as if she was bathing in rubbing alcohol.
"Tell me more about your coma dream." Aurianne said. She lay sprawled out on the couch in Locke's house, legs kept straight to keep from aching.
"I just told you the whole thing, that was it. You want me to explain everything again?"
"I mean, yeah, that would be interesting. But I'm more fixated on the parts about you," She sat upright as best she could, gripping the armrest of the couch to keep herself steady, "You think you're not from this world? That maybe you came with the Anabasis from another one?"
"No."
"What put the idea in your head, then?"
"I don't know." Locke said honestly. Seconds after speaking, thoughts flooded into her head that seemed to make it a lie, "I just think of certain things that seem a bit weird when put together with that. I have no memory of any part of my life before I was six. I remember one time when I was eight or nine and I was leaning against a fence looking out over the ocean. My mom shouted something like 'Don't let it happen again' and then Rhiannon pulled me back from the fence."
"And?"
"And what?"
"So speculate! Go fucking crazy. Don't leave me lingering in silence trying to figure out what it is! Give me some ideas, entertain me."
Locke shrugged and shook her head. A quick rush of nervous excitement went through her, then faded. Any other time and she would've shouted, gotten angry and defensive about her psychoanalyzing herself for the amusement of others. The momentary rush was an interesting reminder of how she used to be, but she quickly went back to feeling nothing at all.
"I have no ideas. No theories."
"You want me to come up with some for you?" Aurianne started to perk up more, "Maybe you, the You from this universe, drowned, and then somehow your parents got ahold of the Anabasis or someone using it and they abducted You, originally from another universe, to replace the You from this universe. Maybe Rhiannon was with the other you when she drowned and felt guilty about it, so she spent her whole life looking after the You-you to make up for it. Or, maybe, they were refugees from another universe, and they like, replaced the original versions of your family, but you were already here so technically you weren't the same as them."
Locke shook her head again, "I honestly don't even care. It doesn't matter. None of this matters."
"I feel like it does. It should. You should tell Marlowe about your dream. There's definitely some kind of connection with it, between you and the Anabasis."
"No there isn't."
Aurianne turned herself around and sat upright with her back against the couch cushion and her legs sprawled over the coffee table. She patted the cushion beside her for Locke to sit down, "There is. There has to be. You were the first one to figure out how it worked."
Locke didn't sit, "I don't— I didn't know how it worked. I still don't."
"What do you mean you don't?"
"I mean I don't know how any of it works! I… You turn the dials and they extend to some kind of thing. Space, area, perimeter, whatever geometry. It's a fucking hassle just to get the lines to straighten out into a cube so we don't cut off our fingers or toes. Then it… what? Teleports? Cuts a hole through time and space? Does it create copies of us in the new world or does it replace them with us? One of the scientists said it 'merged' universes into one, but only temporarily, and it had to be 'finalized' somehow? Otherwise it would snap back and send us back to where we started?"
"See, I didn't know any of that stuff."
Locke tensed up and felt another rush of anger, "Because you don't listen!" She shrieked unexpectedly at her.
Aurianne went quiet and Locke immediately felt sorry. She sat down on the couch beside her and closed her eyes.
"What's downstairs?" Aurianne said suddenly in an ominous voice.
"The first floor. The first floor? Just… stuff. Old furniture, my parents' stuff put away in boxes, documents, that sort of thing. Storage."
Aurianne glanced sidelong at Locke, "Are you there? Is your body there?"
Locke felt suddenly uncomfortable. Acid rose in her throat and she felt her hands get cold and clammy, "There aren't any bodies down there. It's just stuff. Maybe some dead rodents or lizards. A ton of mold and mildew."
"In your dream. You thought there were bodies there. When was the last time you were down there?"
She shook her head, "By myself? Like when I was five or six…"
Aurianne jerked, "You just said you have no memory of anything before you were six."
Locke huffed and suddenly got up to her feet, "Let's go down there and look."
Aurianne shook her head, "No. I'm not going down there. And you—" She started to cough and retch, "And you shouldn't either. Not without like a hazmat suit. It's got a ton of mold and mildew!"
Locke turned and went out the door, Aurianne shouting after her. She made her way down the steps, grunting as pain shot through her legs and acid churned in her throat again. She fished her keys out of her coat pocket and opened the door to the first floor of the duplex and stepped inside.
Her foot immediately crunched on an empty box filled with something fragile. Another few steps and she was holding her hands out, hesitantly pressing against the piled up boxes and stacked furniture to keep from slipping and falling. All the windows were covered with hurricane blinders except for one in one of the bathrooms carved into the stone wall and covered with a thin mesh. Most of the lights worked but junk and debris piled up to the ceiling blotted out some of them. Desiccated worms coiled up in every corner and a thick layer of dust had built up behind some of the boxes almost as white as snow. Most of the living space in the residence wasn't actually occupied by junk but hidden behind it. Once she got past the entryway she could actually move around and hold her arms out without knocking anything over.
The room to her right was dark and had two sagging mattresses propped up near the doorway, partly blocking entry. A river of books and papers poured out from somewhere in the room and seeped out into the hall. To her left were the two bedrooms and a second bathroom. One of the bedrooms was locked. She moved into the hall to her left and peered into the unlocked room. A cracked bedframe was propped against the wall and open boxes piled at the foot of it. She felt along the wall for the switch and the room lit up. Nothing but dust and mold along the ceiling and tracing around the blocked window. The boxes looked to be full of comic books. She didn't want to get any closer to find out and moved over to the next room.
The bathroom had completely fallen apart. Tiles looked to be broken off from the floor and the toilet had been completely destroyed. Shards were chipped away as though someone had come in specifically to loot porcelain. A jagged outline was all that remained while mud and garbage was stuffed into the pipe. The bathtub had holes broken into it and eyes reflected back at her as she turned on the last remaining lightbulb of the four that emerged from over the mirror. Whatever creature it was began scratching wildly as it bolted for its hideout deeper into the foundation of the house.
Throughout it all, Locke realized, the place smelled fine. Wet, humid, dank, but not overwhelmingly so. Most of the residence was shielded from the worst of the elements. The longer she gazed down the hall to the living room and the entryway, the more she relaxed. It was nowhere near the fetid, swamp-like crypt she'd dreamed it to be. It was just an abandoned part of a house. Neglected and irrelevant. A home for dust mites and ants and vermin and nothing else.
She looked back again at the doorknob of the locked bedroom. It had a keyhole which had been worn down to a flattened rectangle. She tried pressing some of her keys in. None fit. She realized then the door was hollow and the wood along the doorway was rotted. She leaned against the door and pressed with her shoulder. Eventually something near the lock snapped and the door loudly skid along the floor, getting knocked back about an inch or two before hitting something on the other side.
She stepped back from the door and pressed up against the opposing wall, squeezing her eyes shut and yelping. She hadn't seen anything in the darkness but the smell from the room had physically shoved her back. Rot, and dryness and mothballs. What it didn't smell like was mold or mildew. She started to cough as the dryness of the air from the room ravaged her already tender throat and she reached out to forcibly pull the door shut.
Rot, and dryness and mothballs. She started to cry, gasping and gagging as her stomach twisted and churned. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited on the spot where the toilet had been. The stench hadn't been what shook her; it was the familiarity. The bedroom smelled exactly like the room where they'd found the Anabasis.

« Condemned to Live | In this Twilight | The March »
Anabasis Hub


Site-19 was not an easy place to break into. Sneaking past the hyperspectral surveillance or electrified rigid mesh fence of the outer perimeter was almost inconceivable, and just charging it was sure to result in death by a hail of bullets, or RPGs if it came to that. A powerful signal jammer on the roof repelled UAVs and meant that telecommunications were limited to a monitored and encrypted hard line. Biometric, RFID, and 3D imaging scanners flanked every potential point of entry to screen out intruders and contraband, and seismic sensors would detect any breach in the walls or windows.
All the juiciest anomalies were kept deep underground in a reinforced concrete bunker. Each cell was closed off by an Access Control Vestibule with heavy steel doors, a multitude of three-tonne blast doors could be dropped to seal off sections in the event of a containment breach, armed guards and security drones were on standby every hour of the day, and every square inch of the place was monitored by both video analysis software and live humans at all times. And if all else failed, there was always the onsite nuke.
There were ways in though; mostly Ways with a capital W. Anomalous means of translocation was the one form of intrusion the Foundation couldn't reliably defend against. Reality Anchors worked best when calibrated to specific anomalies, and the Foundation just didn't have the resources to waste Anchors as doorstops when they might not even work.
At a little past 04:00 local time, the Reliquary of Site-19 sat in quiet stillness, devoid of any personnel. Meanwhile, across The Pond and at a far more reasonable local time, a Paratech developer of some renown sat by her computer, using the Foundation's SCiPNET with forged credentials. The Foundation's sadly mundane encryption methods never stood a chance against Dark's electro-thaumic hardware and Chaos Tongue-based algorithms. All the automated security for the Reliquary fell idle, the guard's monitors looped back to the last five minutes of footage, and the live footage rerouted to Dark's screen. She signalled to her compatriots that the security was taken care of, and nonchalantly sipped her morning tea.
She watched as the door to the Reliquary's maintenance closet creaked open, revealing a glowing and smoky white portal. It was accompanied by the sound of calliope music – a requirement of the Waymaking device they were using - and Dark was undecided on whether that made it less unsettling or more. The door was breached by the tall, slender form of her great grandsire, clad as always in a hooded black cloak, as befitted an old-fashioned occultist such as himself. Darke's not quite corporeal form slid quickly and gracefully along the Reliquary floor, barely touching the ground as he slid from one set of shelves to the next. Dark stood ready to guide him should he take a wrong turn, but he moved with unfailing precision towards his goal.
And it wasn't as if it was hard to spot, either.
There, on the middle shelf, upon a black plastic dais and under a plexiglass case, sat half of a skull; a cranium missing its jaw bone, some teeth, and a good part of the top and back of its head. What bone remained was in a horrid condition as well, like the thing had been bathed in hydrofluoric acid.
Darke effortlessly bypassed the stainless-steel lock and flipped open the case. He picked up the skull in his long, nearly arachnodactyly fingers, and held it aloft as if it was Poor Yoric. He gazed into its empty orbits, meditated on it for a moment, then finally sniffed it like it was a fine wine.
“Is it still viable?” Dark whispered.
"It is," Darke nodded, a wicked grin spreading across his face. With his free hand, he pulled out a replica of the skull, placed it back inside the display case and snapped it shut. He then spun around and sped back to the Way, shutting the door behind him as he passed through.
With a few well-typed commands, Dark reactivated the Reliquary's security, returned the live feed to the guard monitors, and logged out.

That evening, the two of them waited impatiently in the lobby of Darke's Sanctum, each with a small carrying case by their side. Darke's short, slender, and ever silent Alagaddan servant stood by as well with its head hung low. Its presence was odd enough, as it normally appeared precisely when Darke wanted it for something, but odder still was its restless, almost anxious countenance; a far cry from its usual implacable demeanour.
Iris almost felt sorry for it, as its unease was perfectly understandable. If they were delayed, they risked offending the Hanged King.
The three of them let out a collective sigh of relief when Ruprecht Carter and Skitter Marshall came through the Way to the London Office.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the younger Marshall apologized, his face looking even more pale and gaunt than usual. The servant handed them each a lucidity pill and a glass of water, to help them keep their minds in the strange dreamscape of Alagadda.
“You didn't wander into the wrong reality again, did you Skitter?” Iris smirked.
Out of the six Marshalls, Carters, and Dark(e)s that ran MC&D, Skitter arguably led the most adventurous life. A skilled lockpick and Wayfinder with a general knack for finding things that weren't supposed to be found, Skitter would more often than not be out wandering the planes in search of anything that might either amuse him or enrich his company. As fun and profitable as this was, he did sometimes go home to the wrong MC&D, or stranger yet, wrong versions of him came home to them.
“No, no, no. Not this time. At least, I don't think so,” he said with a hint of uncertainty. “…Your hand looks a little different from the last time I saw you.”
“It took some damage and needed repairs; that's it,” Iris assured him.
“Right,” he mumbled. “…First time we met?”
“June 26th, 2014. The Eidolonics gathered you, Robert, and myself in the aftermath of a certain incident that I'm sure Ruprecht would prefer I not bring up to discuss our status as inheritors. They made you breakfast, got Robert a new suit, and scarred me so shitless I imploded one of them with a box cutter.”
“In their defence, they had tried to contact you ahead of time, and I had previously informed you of their nature and appearance,” Darke remarked dryly.
"I was sleep-deprived, and there was a faceless monster at my door; I panicked,” Iris said through her teeth. Skitter couldn't help but chuckle.
“That's good enough for me. I'm home,” he said confidently.
“Speaking of your fellow junior, where is young Robert?” Darke asked, casting an annoyed glare in Carter's director. Ruprecht fidgeted as he cleared his throat nervously.
“Regrettably, Robert will not be joining us this evening,” he reported. Darke just stared at him for several seconds in a state that bordered between rage and confusion.
“Why?” he asked at last.
“Well, he's an attractive, charismatic, well-to-do young man – no idea where he gets that from – and he simply has better places to be on Halloween than, ah…”
“Than the Court of the Hanged King?” Darke finished his sentence. “Has he any idea what the consequences are for crossing such a Titan?”
“Darke, you said only one of each of us had to go. Amos isn't going,” Ruprecht defended his heir.
“Amos has the excuse of being an invalid in need of continuous life support!” Darke countered.
“Well after a night out on the town, so is Robert,” Ruprecht quipped. For a second, it looked like Darke was about to storm through the Way to London and drag Robert back by his ear.
"Grandsire, being late will be a far more grievous offence than being short a party member," Iris counselled him softly, guessing his mind. "We should be heading off."
Darke let out a reluctant sigh and nodded.
“Yes. We mustn't be late,” he agreed. He snapped at his servant, who picked up the pair of carrying cases and started heading down the hall. “Everyone follow him and stay together, at least until we get to the Palace.”
“Why are there two cases?” Ruprecht asked as the four of them walked down the ominously long and lifeless hall of Darke's Sanctum. “I thought we only had the one offering.”
“The other is just a change of clothes for me. As an Alagaddan himself, he can take objects to and from the city, and I have no intention of spending the night in whatever ridiculous costume I get stuck with when we step into Alagadda,” Iris explained.
“Life of the party as always, I see,” Ruprecht rolled his eyes. “Hard to believe Robert didn't want to be here. God forbid you're seen in public in anything other than those frumpy sweaters of yours.”
“She's got a nerd chic thing going on; it works,” Skitter claimed.
“Nerd chic? Pfft. She dresses like a penniless, bedraggled fisherman.”
“What is wrong with you? She looks amazing.”
“Do let me know once you work it out gentlemen; my entire sense of self-worth depends on it,” she said with so much sarcasm the rest of Great Britain was forced to ration it for the better part of the next decade. Darke chuckled softly at the barb, then gestured for them to stop at an ancient-looking wooden door. The servant set the bags down and took out a keyring, using a different key on three separate locks, then turning a dial of Antikytheran Clockwork to calibrate the Way. Pushing the door open and picking up the carrying cases once again, he led the party into the City of Alagadda.
Black, white, red, yellow; all of precisely one shade. These were the only colours that could be seen, and indeed the only colours permitted to exist by Alagadda's unnatural laws of nature. Constellations of obsidian stars fumed in the xanthous sky above, while the dark sea surrounding the island reflected nothing; or perhaps it reflected nothingness, and no one could tell the difference. The harrowingly baroque architecture of buildings hewn from single hunks of marble bent at impossible angles, disregarding gravity and contorting into confounding configurations. Before them were Penrose stairs and Penrose triangles, impossible cubes and impossible waterfalls, even a beast resembling an L'egsistential Quandary was tethered in the city square, which the Alagaddans cruelly tormented for their amusement.
The city folk themselves were of course in their state of perpetual orgiastic mayhem, a timeless celebration that could have been viewed as an ironic punishment if they stopped long enough to think about it. Some were nude, some were in exquisite finery, but all wore Carnival masks. It was forbidden, and thus impossible, not to.
Even the newcomers had been gifted with the requisite attire, as was Alagadda's custom. Marshall and Carter had each been dressed in embroidered velvet breeches, waistcoats and frock coats, Skitter's white with a rabbit-eared Arlecchino mask and Ruprecht's red with a Zanni mask. Ruprecht had also been gifted a tricorner hat with a feather in it, along with a bejewelled cane. Darke wore a Pantalone mask, but his robes were only a slightly more ornate version of his usual dress. Iris, unfortunately, did not get the same courtesy.
“This is just typical,” she bemoaned as she tried to hoist the massive hoop skirt of her golden gown. “There must be ten yards of fabric in this thing and still no bloody pockets!”
"They ruin the silhouette, Luv,” Ruprecht explained as he admired his own reflection in his cane. “Is having nowhere to put your little toys really such a high price to pay for looking presentable for once?”
"Ruprecht, on the exceedingly rare occasion when I want your opinion I will -" her sentence was interrupted by a shriek as she fell to the ground. Iris had many talents, but walking (or even standing) in high heels wasn't one of them. Darke, Skitter, and the servant all rushed to her aid, while Ruprecht just tossed his head back and cackled.
“Iris in a dress and heels? This is already the best party I've ever been to,” he laughed.
“Keep him quiet,” Darke growled at Skitter. Skitter nodded obediently and went to keep Ruprecht at bay while Darke held out his robe as a privacy curtain so that the servant could help Iris change into her spare clothes.
“There's no reason a woman can't be powerful and still wear high heels,” Ruprecht opined. “Alagadda's Ambassador wears high heels, and she's one of the most powerful women in all the Worlds.”
“The Ambassador isn't a woman, they're genderless,” Skitter corrected him.
“What? You mean the leadership here has no women but they have a non-binary? How dreadfully modern,” Ruprecht lamented. He saw that Iris was now ready, dressed in Chelsea boots, dress pants, a cashmere turtleneck, and a golden half-mask shaped like feathered wings with a hawk's beak. “… You look ridiculous.”
“We all look ridiculous,” she grumbled, impotently pulling at her mask. “We've wasted enough time. We need to get to the Palace before -”
She stopped short, as they were at the Palace, though she was quite sure they hadn't been a moment ago. Specifically, they were in the Grand Hall, where both many-limbed and limbless masked humanoids danced together in a mesmerizingly choreographed ballet, flowing in a Mobius strip that took them along every floor, wall, and ceiling.
“Ok, that is surreal,” Ruprecht remarked, darting his head around the grand golden gala. They were approached by an impish servant, akin to Darke's, who offered a tray holding a drink tailored to each of their individual tastes. “Is that Vin Mariani? Bloody good show. Here, keep these coming.”
Ruprecht slipped the imp a 1000-franc Swiss banknote (which he kept on his person specifically for offering outrageously oversized tips) and eagerly took a swig of his cocaine-laced wine.
"Hold on, how did you sneak that bill into the city?" Skitter asked as he picked up a pint of Indian Pale Ale from the tray. Ruprecht's only response was a satisfied sigh as he lowered his glass.
“This is what made the good old days so good my young friends; we put cocaine in everything!” he proclaimed.
“Bloody Hell, the light spectrum of this place won't let me get a reading," Iris muttered as she unsuccessfully tried to scan her hot cocoa with her phone's in-built spectrometer. She gave up and handed it to Darke. “Can you tell if it's safe?”
“Iris, that is incredibly insulting to our hosts,” Ruprecht reprimanded, handing the imp another 1000-franc note. “Let's just keep this between us, shall we?”
“Forgive me, but I'm somehow sceptical that an otherworldly, heedlessly hedonic, slave-owning city-state ruled by reality-bending oligarchs would prioritize informed consent,” Iris retorted.
“The drink is free of intoxicants, poisons, or enchantments, and I believe it has been made to your tastes,” Darke assured her, having completed his psychic reading of it. “Ruprecht is correct, however, that our hosts would not dare to harm us, lest we should offend them. It would be best for all of us if you were to keep any and all unfavourable opinions about our hosts to yourself for the remainder of the evening.”
“Yes, you're right. I apologize. Even with the lucidity pill, I think this place is still messing with my prefrontal cortex a bit,” she nodded as she received the hot cocoa. “We need to present our gift before we join the festivities, don't we?”
“Indeed we do,” Darke nodded as he took the chalice of condensed miasma from the imp's tray. “Would you kindly inform your masters that the Deathless Merchant of London and his guests have arrived?”
At the speaking of his title, the Grand Hall fell silent, with every courtier's gaze fixed upon them. They had also once again been moved without realizing it, and now stood before the Hanged King himself.
He was a Titan, dwarfing all others who dared to look upon him, draped from head to toe in damask cloth, impish servants crawling over him like insects. Around his neck hung a noose of thorns, forever binding him to his throne. Though his mummified hands were human enough to look at, wriggling tentacles could be seen flicking back and forth underneath his tattered robes, calling his apparent humanoid form into question.
The King shuddered and groaned, imps shaking off as he did so, the entire Palace rattling at his anguish. The spectral flames dimmed, and sickly yellow fumes poured forth from his wounds and languidly sunk to the ground at his feet.
The Three Masked Lords emerged from the strange fog, each mask oozing a viscous, corrosive fluid that slowly ate away at their hosts.
There was The White Lord, Wearer of the Diligent Mask.
The Yellow Lord, Wearer of the Odious Mask.
And The Red Lord, Wearer of the Mirthful Mask.
The Black Lord, Wearer of the Anguished Mask, was of course nowhere to be seen, having long since been exiled for crimes none dared to speak of.
Lastly, the tall, lithe form of the Ambassador strutted forth, the only person in all the city to wear no mask. Their face was blank, and their skin smooth and black. It was impossible to tell if they were nude or covered completely in some seamless garment, but their feet stood on tall, narrow heels and their fingers were shaped like long, lethally sharpened nails.
“The Masked Lords, The Ambassador of Alagadda, and The Hanged King all extend a regal welcome to Percival Darke, The Deathless Merchant of London, learned Alchemist and master of the Occult, as well as to his esteemed partners Skitter Marshall and Ruprecht Carter, and most especially to his heir the ingenious, prodigious, and – if she would be so kind to tolerate an old man's double standards – lovely Iris Dark,” the Red Lord greeted them, glaring down at them with wanton lust, his voice aged yet depraved. Iris was indeed tempted to offer a flippant response, but before these twisted and bizarre old sorcerers, even she felt it was best to hold her tongue and bow.
"We thank you for receiving us; My Lords, Your Eminence, and Your Majesty," Darke bowed graciously. "And I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for the absence of Amos Marshall and Robert Carter. As you know, the Elder Marshall suffers from quite debilitating maladies and is in no condition to attend such a lively festival. The Younger Carter has regrettably found himself otherwise engaged with… shall we say youthful indiscretion."
The entire Court burst out in mirthful laughter at the pathetic excuse, and they all turned their heads towards the Ambassador to hear their response.
“The Elder Marshall's absence is excused,” they announced, idly sharpening their nails, making a show of saying nothing more. Ruprecht averted his gaze from the throne in anguish, fearing for Robert's safety. In a rare moment of solidarity, Iris gently squeezed his hand.
“Enough grovelling, Percy,” the Ambassador declared, sensually strutting forward with their hands on their hips. “You promised me a new toy; where is it?”
“Iris, would you kindly do the honours?” Darke asked. She glanced up in confusion for a moment, as that had not been the plan, but saw by the pained look in his eyes that he had been stricken in his current bowed posture by the will of the Ambassador. The Ambassador stared down at them sadistically, eager to see if the inexperienced Iris would give them a reason to dish out some entertainment.
“Of course, Grandsire,” Iris bowed, taking the box from their servant and slowly opening it to display the contents to their hosts. “What you see before you is all that remains of what the Foundation classified as SCP-096, known colloquially as The Shy Guy. While normally docile, if any sapient being even so much as glanced upon its face, in person or via any form of recording, it would be thrown into an unstoppable rage and hunt the person down to the ends of the Earth and destroy them. The Foundation deemed the threat of mass destruction this creature posed so great that it had to be destroyed. They did so one year ago tonight by exposing it to their most well-known captive, SCP-173, who could break the monster's otherwise unbreakable bones. Once broken, they filled the creature's spine with hydrochloric acid, dissolving its marrow and negating its regenerative powers, finally killing it.
“Within this skull fragment, enough marrow remains to catalyze a complete regeneration, if exposed to a sufficient source of occult power. We offer this to you, to do with as you will. Within your great city, the monster's unremovable mask would render it harmless. Remove it from your city, and you will have an invincible assassin at your disposal, who can track down its prey from any distance, at least within a single world. Regrettably, its ability to reach targets located on other worlds is not known, though you should be able to work that out yourselves with minimal effort.”
The skull vanished from the box and appeared in the Ambassador's hand, who again held it aloft like they were Hamlet, peering into it with every power in their possession. Iris, Ruprecht, and Skitter all looked worryingly at Darke, who was still held immovable by the Ambassador's will.
At last, the Ambassador let out a gleeful cackle. They set the skull down and reappeared upon the King's shoulders, grabbing his veil and casting it down with one swift motion. The god-shaped hole that was The Hanged King's face was now visible to all, and it was that most abominable and eldritch of powers that caused the last remnant of SCP-096 to stir. The broken cranium began to mend itself, a new skeleton started to form, rapidly sheathed in new muscle and skin. The Hanged King let out an anguished sob, a cry repeated from the reborn throat of SCP-096.
Ruprecht and Skitter immediately turned around and covered their eyes, while Iris made sure to position herself in front of Darke to keep him safe from the monster's face. They all waited in terror for a moment, until the pregnant silence gave birth to thunderous applause. They carefully turned to look, and there, in the center of the Grand Hall, was 096. His tall, emaciated body and elongated limbs were unmistakable, even under the extravagant Venetian robes. His face was completely covered in a beautifully painted full mask that didn't even have eyeholes. He had no need for them anyway.
Thousands of eyes were now upon him, and he couldn't care less. He grunted in confusion, tentatively running his fingers along the porcelain mask, but gave no sign of distress. He shook his head listlessly and began pacing in a circle.
“What a darling little pet,” the Ambassador cooed as they re-veiled the Hanged King. “Percy, I graciously accept your offering. As a token of my gratitude, I grant you one boon from the Hanged King, to be redeemed at a time of your choosing. I'll also forgive the absence of the Younger Carter, this time. You and your guests are free to enjoy the party.”
The Ambassador finally released him from their telekinetic grasp. Darke would have collapsed to the ground if Iris had not been there to support him.
“Th-thank you, Your Eminence,” he managed to gasp out.
“Everyone kindly raise a glass to The Deathless Merchant of London, and his gift of a new Court Assassin,” The Yellow Lord ordered. Another burst of applause and cheers echoed through the ballroom as people clanked glasses and imbibed their libations. Even for a party city like Alagadda, it was a special occasion.
It wasn't every Halloween that a decommissioned SCP came back from the dead.


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The Union's Head of Human Resources stared out his window into the darkness of a Halloween night, letting out a sigh.
"Oh, Orchardist, you just had to ship the apples out," he said to nobody in particular. "We gave you power, and you abused it. Instead of keeping this town together, you assisted in bringing chaos."
Sitting up, he strolled out of his office, right into the lobby. All the Workers inside froze, staring at him as he went over to a display case and pulled out a key, sticking it in the keyhole before sliding the glass open.
Murmurs suddenly erupted from the crowd. Some newbie Workers began to panic, only to be reassured by the veterans that they were okay— underperforming is tolerated, after all.
Reaching into the case, The Head pulled out a large magnifying glass, giving it a flick as it sparked with his long-forgotten energy.
"Now, I believe that calls for immediate termination from The Union."

As it turns out, being designated as an SCP— specifically SCP-4683-2— is incredibly boring.
The Orchardist sighed as he sat on the ground, conjuring up an apple, which he took a satisfying crunch out of. They'd thrown him in a humanoid containment cell for the night while they dealt with the fallout of the Eris apples he'd shipped around.
I… fucked up.
Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep, one of the only things he could do in his boring solitary confinement.
"Hello, Orchardist."
The Orchardist's eyes shot open to see The Head of Human Resources. His magnifying glass was being slowly hit against his palm like a cop's intimidating baton.
"You did fuck up, you know that?"
Unable to push any words of his mouth, he simply nodded and pressed himself against the wall, as The Head came closer.
"I was so excited for this day. I thought it was going to all be okay. This town was tame, for once. No pit sloths, no anything." His eye twitched as he spoke. "But you just had to ruin it all."
"But—"
"Not only did you act in a complete counteraction to our goals, but you also endangered other cities all across the world. People are dying. And…"
The Orchardist gulped, letting out a quiet whimper. "It's all my fault."
"Good."
As The Head of Human Resources let out a chuckle, The Orchardist could feel a light through the invisible darkness piercing the room— a little splinter of hope. I'm going to be okay, I'm going to be okay, I'm—
"However, that just isn't enough."
"P- please! It was a big commission! I never wanted to- to harm anyone!"
"Yet you did." The Head pointed their magnifying glass at the cowering worker who had unconsciously pushed himself into a corner. "And that is simply inexcusable."
Trying to choke out an excuse, The Orchardist only let out a sob instead.
"In other words…" The Head of Human Resources grinned, cocking his head to the side. "You're fired."
When the denizens of Site-87 came to check on The Orchardist, all they found was a pile of ashes neatly swept into a corner.

On the other side of the facility, Dr. King (designation pending) was suffering from a similar pain as The Orchardist:
Boredom.
King grumbled, appleseeds shooting out of his ears like highly pressurized steam. How could those humanoid SCPs even deal with all this nothing!
It was funny, in a way. He started off designating SCPs, and now he was waiting to be designated himself— all because of his fucking appleseeds.
Sniffling, an appleseed escaped from his eye. Great, he thought. Now I can't even cry properly…
Why did I get this power? Why me? Why—
"Oh, you are absolutely perfect!" A voice interrupted King's thoughts as he wiped his eyes. It had come from a slender man in the lefthand corner.
"Huh? Are you… here to test me or something?"
"No, absolutely not!" He grinned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a magnifying glass. "I'm here to offer you a job opportunity. Just let me see…" Looking through the glass at King, the man suddenly began to beam before tucking it away again. "You're the perfect replacement!"
"For who?"
"The last Orchardist, of course."
"The… Orchardist?"
"Yes."
"…who are you?"
"I'm The Union's Head of Human Resources! I make sure our workers aren't making bad decisions, and if they do, well, they're… fired."
King gulped, feeling an appley sweetness in the back of his throat. "You, uh, hesitated there, with saying 'fired.'"
"Don't worry about it. The point is that we need a new Orchardist, and you're perfect for the job! You're already gathering energy from this town, aren't you? I can see it funneling into you, that's how you got so threatening you had to be placed in here, correct? Well, if you join us, we can help you harness that power, and in exchange, you can help Sloth's Pit."
"And if I don't join you?"
"You rot in here for the rest of your life. What do you expect?" The Head of Human Resources offered his hand to the former doctor. "What do you say? We got a deal?"
Scratching his head in thought, King could feel small bits of his skin flake off into appleseeds, and he suddenly realized how little of a choice he had.
He grabbed The Head of Human Resources' hand.
"We've got a deal."
When the denizens of Site-87 came to check on Dr. King, all they found was a mess of appleseeds, and the complete disappearance of yet another humanoid anomaly.

Hub


"Come on," Nanku said. "Wear the costume!"
"No," Onru said. "It looks stupid." She looked over to Irantu and Munru for support. None came.
"Irantu is wearing one. Munru is wearing one. We're all wearing costumes. Put it on!"
Onru held the yellow spandex suit away from her with narrowed eyes and a wrinkled nose.
"It looks stupid," she said again.
"Put it on," Irantu said. He leaned forward on his bunk, tugging at his own green spandex suit.
"Why are you wearing one?" said Onru. "Why is Munru wearing one?"
Munru shrugged and examined his blue spandex. "Nanku wanted me to."
"It is in our best interests to participate in the Site-30 Halloween party," Irantu said slowly. "People wear costumes for Halloween."
"What if I do not wish to participate?"
"You do not have a choice. Captain Hughes recommended that we participate. She helped Nanku pick out costumes."
"What are they?"
"Power Rangers!" Nanku exclaimed. She lifted her arms and admired her own pink spandex suit. "People keep calling us that, so I asked the captain what they were. They are a team of superheroes that fight monsters, just like us!"
"We are not superheroes," Onru said. "I absolutely refuse to wear this."
"But it's Halloween!" Nanku said. "They're letting us go to the Site Halloween party! We can eat candy and drink soda! And listen to music!"
"You want to do all that,” Onru said. “Not me.”
"Be more excited, Onru. I have observed other task force operatives looking forward to the event," Irantu said.
"I do not want to be excited. I want to do live-fire training. I will not wear this costume," Onru said.

"I hate wearing this costume," Onru said. She was standing with Munru near the edge of the dance floor. The Site-30 cafeteria had been transformed into a cheap ballroom for its first-ever Halloween party. The dining tables were stacked against the wall, a few plastic disco balls hung from the ceiling, and the snack lines were crowded with costumed personnel. Pop music blared from the tinny loudspeakers on the ceiling.
"You wear it well," Munru said, sipping from the plastic red cup in his hand. He wrinkled his nose.
"What are you drinking?"
"Bourbon punch. Tastes bad," Munru said. He tipped his head back and drank until the cup was empty. "Like… spoiled fruit."
"Why did you finish it?"
"My mother told me not to waste food."
"We do not have a mother."
"We do not," Munru said. "Yet I suddenly thought of a woman telling me not to waste my food - and it seemed to me… instinctively, that she was my mother. She had black hair and brown skin, but I cannot recall anything else about her. It felt very much like a memory would."
"That has never happened before."
"I believe it may be a side effect of our pursuit of SCP-2970 - and our meeting with our father."
"You should inform Captain Hughes."
"I should inform Irantu." Munru saw Irantu at the far end of the room talking to a tall man wearing a white hockey mask.
"He will know what to do."

"But why is that scary? Simply kill him back," Irantu said.
"No, see, you can't kill him back," the man in the hockey mask said. "That's his whole deal. He can't die, he's got superhuman strength and regenerative powers. He's an unstoppable killer."
"He would make a good member of our task force," Irantu said.
"Your task force?" Hockey Mask tilted his head. "Wait, are you on Samsara?"
"Correct. I am Sergeant Irantu."
"My name's Jason. From Engineering. Nice to meet you in person." Jason lifted his mask and sipped from the plastic cup in his hand. "Do you drink?"
"Yes. We still need food and water."
"No, I mean, d'you drink alcohol?"
"We drink primarily water. On occasion, we consume electrolyte supplements."
"Tch, no, can you?"
"As far as I am aware, we have no… nutritional restrictions," Irantu said.
"Here, try some," Jason said, passing Irantu the cup.
Irantu took a sip. "I dislike it."
"Ah, well, it's an acquired taste." As Jason wandered away, Irantu turned his attention to the dance floor and came face to face with Munru and Onru.
"Munru. Are you enjoying the party?" he said.
Munru filled him in on his flashback.
"I see. That is not a typical party experience," Irantu said. "Nanku ought to be with us before we do anything - where is she?"

"SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND ZIG-A-ZIG DOWN IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER," Nanku bellowed into a cheap plastic microphone. As the song wound down, she snatched up an aluminum beer can and bit into the side, spitting the metal out and draining the can in one fell swoop. Then she crushed the can against her forehead to raucous applause from the crowd of costumed containment specialists.
At that moment she smashed the can against her head, Irantu, Munru, and Onru entered the room. Nanku stepped away from the karaoke machine and noticed them.
"Irantu! Munru! Onru! Have you tried karaoke? And Pabst Blue Ribbon? It is so much fun! Well," Nanku said hurriedly, "beer just tastes bitter. I have yet to experience any kind of… cognitive deficiency. But karaoke! I love it! And I love smashing beer cans! But it's easier when they're empty."
"We shall have to try them at some point. But we have more pressing concerns," Irantu said.
"Oh," Nanku sighed exaggeratedly. "But it's Halloween! Can't it wait until the morning?"
"No, unfortunately. It's about Munru."
Nanku narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"
"Not in here," he said quietly. "Meet us outside. Bring some… Past."
The four of them reconvened in the corridor outside the break room. Nanku's arms were filled with cans of beer, which she set by her feet.
"Munru?" Irantu said. He took three cans and passed two to Munru and Onru.
"Thirty minutes ago, I recalled the memory of a woman telling me not to waste my food," said Munru, accepting a can from Irantu. "It felt like a memory of our mother."
"The question," said Onru, opening her beer, "is how Munru remembers our mother if we did not have one." She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.
"Should we tell Captain Hughes?" Nanku asked.
"No," Irantu said. "I have been thinking about this problem myself. I do not believe that our personalities were simply programmed. If we had, then we would have not been programmed to want to be like other people. That would simply be… operational impedance."
"Do you think we were copied from other people?" Nanku asked. She crushed her beer can in her hands and reached for another.
"I suspect that we were not created so much as… stripped down. At one point we may have been human beings, but we were…. streamlined into the operatives we are today," Irantu said. "If we inform Captain Hughes that we are having memories that should not belong to us, we will most certainly be rolled back."
"Why did you not share this information with us?" Munru asked.
"There was no evidence to support it before now," Irantu said. "I did not see the need to burden you with unverified information."
"But why have they been letting us read books or watch television?" Nanku asked.
"They are giving us just enough slack to ensure that we can communicate with other task force members, and to sate our curiosity," said Munru bitterly. “This Halloween party is just more of the same — a temporary loosening of our chains."
"So what do we do? Ignore the memory?" Onru asked.
"We should investigate it further! It's what Dirk Pitt would do!" Nanku said excitedly.
"I agree with Nanku," said Irantu. "We should investigate the cloning laboratory. If there is any information to be found, it will be there."
"When?" Onru asked.
"Now, while everyone is occupied with the party. It is unlikely that we will get another chance for many months."
"What if Captain Hughes comes looking for us? She ordered us to attend the party. She might want to check on us," Nanku said.
"Good point," Irantu said. "Nanku, you and I will keep the captain busy. Onru, you and Munru investigate the laboratory."
"Understood," said Onru, Munru, and Nanku at the same time.
Nanku put her hand in the middle of the group. Irantu and Munru followed suit, and then Onru slowly put her hand into the middle.
"Tau - Five!" Nanku exclaimed as they lifted their hands.

Munru and Onru stealthily made their way to the lab. Then they passed four different scantily-clad drunks in bird masks, shrugged, and walked normally to the lab.
The entrance to the cloning laboratory was locked by a keypad. Munru examined the pad carefully, and then punched in several numbers.
"What was the passcode?" Onru asked as they stepped into the lab.
"The keys 0, 6, and 8 were the most smudged. I recall an issue of Reader's Digest in which they said that the least common key combination is 8-0-6-8, so I tried that. It worked," he said.
As the door slid shut behind them, Onru flipped a switch on the wall, illuminating the lab's stark white walls. Four glass cylindrical vats stood in the depression at the center of the room. A tangle of thick cables extended from their bases to the consoles scattered around the elevated edges of the room. Within each vat was a member of Samsara, suspended in a thick crimson fluid and connected to life support by a battery of plastic umbilical tubes. A mesh catwalk spanning the ceiling enabled access to the tanks and the machinery above them.
Munru started typing at the console closest to the door. Onru walked down to the cloning vats, removed her costume mask, and stared up at herself.
"How bizarre," she said, tapping on the glass. Her clone didn't stir.
Munru looked up from the console. "Look around the lab. See if there are any passwords written down."
"Understood," she said. A quick search of the consoles near the cloning vats turned up a sticky note taped to the back of one monitor.
“Here we go,” Onru said. “Login and password. Let me see…”
She logged in and brought up a command prompt on the screen. Munru came up behind her.
“Do a filesearch for anything tagged ‘Samsara' or ‘Tau-5',” he said.
“Okay,” said Onru. “Grant request for investigating — too long. Argus-III Situational Awareness Installation Manual — that cannot be it. Report On SDI Xye Amniotic Substitute — “
“Wait,” said Munru. “Amniotic. I think that has to do with human… I can't recall the world. Something involving reproduction. Open that file.”
At that moment, they both heard footsteps outside the lab.

“Should we look for Captain Hughes?” Nanku asked.
“Yes,” Irantu said. “But do not engage with her. Be nearby and keep watch, but only engage if she seems about to leave the room. Passive reconnaissance is the best tactic to maximize — ah, Captain Hughes. Hello.”
“Hi Irantu, hi Nanku,” said Sarah Hughes. She wore a light white spandex suit. “I'm glad to see you in costume! Where are Munru and Onru?”
“Hello, Captain,” said Irantu. “I admit, I was not… keen on wearing these, but I acknowledge that it is enjoyable to wear them and… mingle with other personnel. As is fruit punch.”
“Non-alcoholic, right?” Hughes said. An expression of motherly concern crossed her face.
“Of course,” Irantu said. He didn't know or particularly care.
“Absolutely!” Nanku chimed in.
“Good, I'm glad to hear it. It probably doesn't matter, but you can't be too sure… by the by, where are Munru and Onru? I don't think I've seen them tonight,” said Captain Hughes, looking around the room.
“Oh, Onru was being a real… grumpy Gus about wearing these costumes,” Nanku said. “She and Munru are in our quarters… sulking together.”
“Hmm.” Sarah looked concerned. “I should go talk to her.”
“Oh, that is not necessary.” Irantu sidled between Sarah and the cafeteria exit. “She merely wished to participate in a live-fire exercise again. I am sure that once she… gets over it… perhaps by going to the firing range, she will be fine. Munru is simply keeping her company.”
“Still,” Sarah said, “I think I'll check in on her.”
“Before you do,” Nanku said, moving next to Irantu, “do you mind if I run a story idea besides you?”
“Hmmm… okay, sure,” Sarah said. “Hit me.”
“Okay!” Nanku's eyes lit up. “So, this is for the latest chapter in my Dirk Pitt fanfiction. It's about Dirk Pitt making love to Summer Moran, who was not in fact killed at the end of Pacific Vortex but survived…”

Corporal Willis McGinley reluctantly poked his head into the Samsara cloning laboratories. He'd heard stories about the task force - how they were unkillable, more machine than man, and perpetually thirsty for blood - and he'd heard horror stories from other sites about escaped lab experiments.
"Hello? Anybody there?" he called. Nobody responded. Willis took a few tentative steps into the lab and saw nothing. He scrutinized the cloning vats in the middle of the room and then shrugged.
As he turned back to the door, his eyes fell upon a plastic yellow mask lying on the ground. He picked it up and examined it. It looked slightly like a tiger, with flat plastic ears and a black visor acting as the mouth. Willis scanned the room again, then looked back down at the mask.
“Gonna have to schedule a security refresher,” he thought to himself. He shook his head, annoyed for letting his nerves get to him. Then he tapped the light switch and walked out of the room, making sure the door closed behind him.
Munru and Onru dropped down silently from the catwalk. They glanced at the light switch, then activated the night vision filters in their eyes, wincing slightly.
“It is… convenient that nobody ever thinks to look up,” Munru said.
“Indeed. I recall when we cleared out that renegade Foundation lab,” Onru said. “They never thought to check the… maintenance shafts.”
“Back to the matter at hand,” said Munru. “Log back on and bring up that report again. Please.”
Onru complied. The two of them speed-read the file, drinking in its contents and processing what this meant for the group.
“Irantu and Nanku will want to hear about this. We should also get back to them before the Captain wonders where we are,” Munru said.
“Indeed,” said Onru. She logged off the computer and they strode rapidly towards the door. Just before they left, Munru paused and grabbed a vial full of a deep-red fluid from a nearby workstation.
“What's that?” Onru asked.
Munru shrugged. “A sample of the amniotic fluid. I believe it will make a useful visual aid.”

“And the President can't find the urn — it turns out that when Nanko went to the restroom, she took it with her and flushed Hitler's ashes down the toilet! The story ends with Dirk wondering why he didn't think of doing it,” Nanku said proudly.
Sarah blinked and shook her head rapidly. “Oh, uh… well, that's an, uh… interesting story! Very, uh, imaginative. Very impressive.”
Nanku narrowed her eyes. “Oh no, Captain. I think you have… criticisms — critiques! I think you have critiques of my story! I want to hear them. Do not — don't, spare any details.”
“Oh, no no no,” Hughes said, eyes darting about frantically. “I, uh, I don't read much, so I don't think I'm qualified to say any —”
At that moment, Munru and Onru appeared. “Ah, Captain Hughes,” Munru said. “How are you?”
“Oh, Munru!” Hughes said quickly. “I'm good, I'm good, how are you? I'm glad to see you two out and about! Especially you, Onru.”
“Oh yes,” Munru said, his eyes briefly locking onto Nanku's. “Onru was… unenthusiastic about it, but I successfully convinced her to join us.”
“Indeed,” said Onru in a monotone. “Munru spent the last hour trying to get me to leave our quarters.”
“Good!” Hughes said. She looked past Nanku. “Oh, there's a friend of mine. I haven't seen him in a while, we should catch up. I'll talk to you four in the morning!”
Hughes rapidly walked away from the foursome.
“Good distraction,” Irantu said.
Nanku rolled her eyes. “It was — wasn't, really. Nobody seems to want to critique my story,” she complained.
“I cannot think of a reason why,” Munru said.
“Indeed. Munru, status?” Irantu said.
“Our mother came from outer space,” Munru said.
Nanku's eyes lit up. “That is much cooler than I could have hoped for.”
“Let's go back to our quarters and debrief,” Irantu said. He cast an eye around the fake ballroom. “This is not the sort of thing that should be said out in the open. As they say, the walls have ears.”
“Who is they?” Onru asked.
Irantu shrugged.

“Okay,” Irantu said, sitting on his bunk. “Debrief us. What did you find out, where did this information come from, how accurate do you believe it to be?”
“We logged onto Researcher Xiao-yang Chu's computer in the cloning chambers,” Munru said. “There, we located a file labeled Report On SDI Xye Amniotic Substitute, detailing the nutrient fluid that is used to grow our clones. Some unknown third party sold this fluid to both Prometheus Laboratories and the United States of America for an aerospace defense project now classified as SCP-1514.”
From his pocket came the vial of red liquid he had picked up in the lab. He held it up in the air so that it reflected the light in the room. Irantu and Nanku leaned forward to gaze at it.
“When we followed the hyperlink, we learned that 1514 is a malfunctioning laser satellite controlled by some biological entity using a technique called… ‘empathetic resonance',” Onru said. She pointed to Irantu. “The documents did not provide much detail, but we suspect it to be similar to the messages you were receiving from our father. Moreover, one of the attached documents specifically mentioned ‘the bond between a mother and child'.”
“You're using air quotes? Excellent!” Nanku said.
“Do you know if this entity is alive?” Irantu asked.
They all looked up at the ceiling.
“Unclear,” Munru said. “I don't believe the entity inside 1514 to be our mother. Perhaps a sibling. I believe that our mother is dead.”
“Wait!” Nanku said. “We should try to reach out to her!”
“How would we do that?” Irantu asked.
“We conduct a seance!” Nanku said.
“A seance?”
“A seance!” Nanku pulled out a dog-eared paperback from under her mattress. “I learned about it in “The Last Seance”! It's when a group of people sit together with a person called a ‘spiritual medium', who acts as a… go-between for the living people and the ghosts. The medium is able to relay messages back and forth between the living and the dead!”
“Who will be our medium?” Munru asked.
“We have all been dead so many times that I'm sure any of us could!” Nanku said.
“How will we know it is our mother we are reaching out to?” Onru asked.
Nanku shrugged. “We will have to try a few different techniques.”

While Munru went off to make sure Sarah Hughes stayed distracted, Nanku fashioned a makeshift Ouija board from a pair of taped-together sheets of paper. She had gone out and smashed a beer bottle to use its base as a planchette. She had not cleaned up the glass.
"Okay, here's how it works,” said Nanku. She, Irantu, and Onru were sitting around the sheet of paper. Her hands were staining it with blood.
“We all sit around the board and put our hands on this triangular puck. Then we ask a question. Then we move our hands around. If we contact a ghost, then it will spell out answers on the wee-jah."
"If the ghost is spelling out answers, why do our hands need to be on it?" Irantu asked.
"I don't know. The book never explained that part," Nanku said. "Just put your hands on the puck."
“What if the Ouija board is simply our… subconscious motor reflexes acting upon the puck?” Onru asked. “Then there would be no ghost at all. It would simply be us moving the piece around and pretending that it is a ghost.”
“Stop asking questions! Do you want to communicate with our mother or not?” Nanku said.
“Not,” Onru said.
“Onru,” said Irantu warningly. “Come on.”
“Where is Munru?” Onru asked.
“I apologize,” said Munru as he entered the room. “It took me longer than I would like to distract the Captain.”
“What did you do?” Onru asked.
“I convinced her to enter the… Monster Mash dance-off in the cafeteria,” Munru said. “Her dancing was… discomforting, but when I left she was in the quarterfinals and rapidly advancing. In any event, the dance-off is scheduled to run for at least another two hours. That should be plenty of time for us to finish the seance.”
“Good thinking,” Irantu said.
“Come on,” Nanku said. “Hurry up and put your hands on the puck.”
They all complied.
"Munru, you ask the question," Nanku said.
"Hm." Munru thought for a moment. "If you are there, Mother, what should we call you?"
"Now we move our hands," Nanku said. They started shuffling the puck around the board.
"MY…NAME…IS…PAUL…MCCARTNEY….I..WAS…KILLED…BY… — wait. Paul? That isn't a girl's name!" Nanku said angrily. "Wrong ghost."

“And… ta da!” Nanku pulled a clear glass ball the size of her fist from her rucksack.
“Is this a ghost?”
“It's a crystal ball. Used to talk to ghosts! Mediums can look inside and see all sorts of spirits.” She set the sack on the ground, then laid the ball on top. “This one was seized from a group of occultists just last month. The contraband locker was barely guarded. Captain Hughes will never know it's missing.”
“Okay… what now?” Onru leaned over it, bringing her face right up to it. Through the ball, the world looked warped and distorted. “I do not see any ghosts.”
“In my books, the medium rubs the ball and coaxes the ghost out. If we gently cradle the orb, the ghost might appear. Like a ghost egg.” Nanku picked the crystal ball up again, careful not to smudge the surface.
She rubbed the ball slowly as her siblings leaned in close and watched in silence. Nothing happened.
“Why would a ghost live in such a tiny house?” Munru said. “I could barely fit my hand in there.”
Onru nodded in agreement. “I would hope to think that our mother would live in a more suitable sphere. Basketball-sized, at least.”
“The ghost does not live inside. The ball is just an instrument. It's symbolic!” Nanku exclaimed.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know,” she said as she set the ball down once more. “This orb is not working.”
Irantu scratched his goatee. “What about the disco balls in the cafeteria? They're bigger and shinier.”
“I do not think that is what disco balls are for.”
“Then what are they for?” Onru asked. “If I were a ghost, I would not be so particular.”
“That is a good point,” Nanku said. “Back to the party.”

Tau-5 moved through the hallways with the silence and focus of sharks. With their enhanced hearing, the people they encountered were as loud as floundering seals.
“— like, I don't think we'll actually encounter anything but —”
“— tell you the truth, I just want to hit that —”
“— not drunk enough for this shit —”
“— honestly, five bucks says we actually DO –”
A drunken woman with dark cropped hair bumped into Nanku, sending the container she was carrying straight to the ground. She mumbled an apology and stooped down to pick up the candles that had scattered across the floor.
Nanku's eyes widened. “Candles? Are you performing a seance?” she exclaimed.
The woman looked up, the color draining from her face. “Oh, uh, no,” she stammered, “I was just- I was carrying these-”
“No, no, don't worry,” Nanku said. “You are not in trouble. In fact, my comrades and I are intensely interested in all manner of spooky hijinks.”
“I mean, it's nothing spooky —”
“If you're worried about us spilling secrets, don't! I promise I will take it to my graves!”
“Um, okay.” The woman gathered the last of the candles in her bin and stood slowly. “Then yes, this is for a seance. I'm meeting my friends down the hall, we thought it'd be fun, you know, for Halloween.”
“Yes, quite,” Nanku said. “I'm Trooper Nanku, MTF Tau-5.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said with a forced chuckle. “I'm Erica Kearney. Type Blue, anomalous rituals research.”
“Can we come? For the seance?”
“Uh…” Erica glanced behind Nanku, at the other three troopers trying to look enthusiastic.
“We are very well qualified,” Irantu said.
“Each of us has been dead dozens of times,” Onru said.
“No-one in Site-30 is more… ghostly than we are,” Munru said.
“Well, I've never performed a seance with anyone who's actually died before,” said Erica, “let alone multiple times. Could be interesting. Sure, follow me.”

Nanku, Irantu, Munru, and Onru sat around the table of an interrogation room that they had co-opted for the seance. The candles on the table were arranged in the shape of a pentagram. Erica and her three friends were crowded around the other half of the table. It almost seemed like they were more afraid of Tau-5 than of the ghosts.
As the seance participants began holding hands, the lights dimmed and the candles flickered to life.
“Nothing to worry about yet,” Erica said. “This is just me setting everything up.”
“I am not worried,” Nanku said. “I am excited!”
“Indeed,” said Munru. “I am hopeful that we may make a connection.”
“Okay,” Erica said. “So, do you guys have a spirit in mind?”
“Yes,” Tau-5 said in unison.
“Our mother,” Nanku said.
Irantu shot her an irritated look. “…What Nanku said.”
“We don't know how long she has been dead,” Munru said.
“I don't know why we want to talk to her so badly,” Onru said.
“Here,” Munru said. He pulled the vial of amniotic fluid from his pocket and passed it to Erica. “We believe it to be our mother's amniotic fluid.”
“O-okay…” Erica said. She gingerly set the vial down on the table, gently pushing it in Tau-5's direction. “Well, uh, let me think of a chant we can use… alright. Here's what to do.”
She leaned forward. “When I say so, repeat after me: ‘Please, oh spirits, we seek only knowledge. We wish to commune with the mother of Samsara, the source of their life. Samsara barada nikto. Come forth, oh Mother, that your children may learn from whence they came.'”
“Understood,” Tau-5 said in unison.
Erica's friends maintained their intimidated silence.
“Let's begin,” said Erica. “Please, oh spirits, we seek only knowledge. We wish to commune with the mother of Samsara, the source of their life. Samsara barada nikto. Come forth, oh Mother, that your children may learn from whence they came.”
“Please, oh spirits, we seek only knowledge,” said Onru.
“We wish to commune with the mother of Samsara, the source of their life,” said Irantu.
“Samsara barada nikto,” said Nanku.
“Come forth, oh Mother, that your children may learn from whence they came,” said Munru.
They repeated it again. And again.
The candles flickered, then puffed out.
There was a pause.
Then the candles relit. Erica's eyes opened, and settled again. Her friends exhaled.
“Oh well,” she said. “I guess the spirit wasn't there.”
“Yeah,” one of her friends said. “No point in you lot sticking round here then, is there?”
“There must be something else we can do,” Nanku said, looking to Irantu.
“There is,” he said. From one of the pouches on his armor came a bag of electric blue dust.
Erica's eyes shot open. “Is that Seance Dust?”
“Indeed,” Munru said. “I… confiscated a sample from one of the laboratories, while keeping Captain Hughes occupied.”
“What is Seance Dust?” Onru asked.
“To the best of my understanding, and the documentation I skimmed, it is an ‘electric blue powder which, when inhaled, allowed the user to speak with the dead',” Irantu said. “I did not believe it would be necessary in the presence of a Type Blue.”
“Well,” Erica said, pulling on her collar, “it's a bit less elegant.”
“How so?” Nanku asked.
Erica racked her brain for a comparison that the murderous super-soldiers would understand.
“Well, let me put it this way — if performing a seance with a thaumaturge is like knocking politely on a spirit's door, seance dust is like using an explosive breaching charge.”
“Then why didn't we start with the seance dust?” Onru asked.
“I would have preferred to return it to the locker. I suppose it doesn't matter,” Munru said, observing the normal researchers, “I already asked the security personnel to maintain their discretion.”
“Uh, right,” said Erica.
“I assume that you four will also maintain your discretion,” said Irantu. His eyes flicked over to Nanku. Her hand slowly blossomed outwards into a metal flower, with shiny silver petals crossed with electrical veins. Sparks arced across the flower.
Erica and her friends took on the colors of boiled vegetables.
“Abso — absolutely!” Erica said.
“As far as we're - as far as we're concerned, tonight never happened!” said one friend.
“Mum's the word!” said another.
“Good,” Irantu said. “Let's begin.”
He distributed the powder among the eight people at the table.
“Now inhale,” Irantu said. Only the members of Tau-5 obeyed. Erica and her friends didn't move.
Nothing happened.
Nothing continued to happen.
Nothing kept happening.
“How long is this supposed to take?” Nanku complained.
“A few minutes?” Erica offered.
The vial exploded, splattering everyone in red fluid. Erica and her friends jerked back.
“Shit!” one of them said. “What was that?”
“I don't know,” Erica said. “I've never used Seance Dust.”
“Ah, gross, it's sticky!”
”Look over there!” someone else said.
In one corner of the room, a fetus was hovering in midair. A thick crimson fluid dripped from the fetus, disappearing as soon as it touched the ground.
Everyone immediately stood up from the table. Erica and her friends backed into the corner. Tau-5 advanced on the fetus.
“What the hell? Erica, did you summon that?”
“I think…” she said, pointing towards Tau-5, “I think they did. I have no idea what that thing is.”
Munru stopped a foot away from the creature. “Are you the entity that resides within One-Five-One-Four? Our sibling?”
The fetus hovered in the air. Then it shrieked. A wave of energy rippled outwards from the creature, knocking Tau-5 back and throwing Erica and her friends against the wall.
“Is that a yes?” said Onru.
“Erica, what should we do?” Irantu asked.
Erica and her friends were lying dazed and thus unable to speak.
The ghost continued to wail, battering Tau-5 with waves of concussive force.
“Why won't it stop shrieking?” Nanku asked, holding up a hand to shield her face. “Doesn't it know it's our sibling?”
“Nanku, what does the book say?” Irantu asked.
“I never got that far. We could ask it to stop?”
“Spirit, stop crying,” Irantu said. “It's us. Your siblings. We share a mother!”
At the word mother, the fetus's eyes shot open with a crimson glow. With an even louder shriek, twin lasers shot from its eyes and gave Nanku a close-cropped haircut.
Nanku ran a hand over her scalp. “Okay,” she said, “let's kill it!”
“How?” Irantu asked, hopping over the fetus's searing gaze.
“How do you think?” Nanku's hand crackled to life, and a minute beam of light streaked outwards from the flower towards the ghost. The sheer power of the beam stripped the electrons from the air in its path, creating a bolt of lightning that impaled the fetus.
But it was like nothing had happened. The ghost was completely unscathed. It squealed again, forcing Tau-5 to clap their hands to their ears. The lightbulb in the room exploded, raining down shards of glass on the foursome.
Onru yanked a ripcord buried in the back of her hand. A tiny nozzle burst forth from her palm, tearing through the spandex and bathing the ghost in a jet of bright orange flame.
The sprinklers in the room went off. The ghost shrieked again, extinguishing Onru's flamethrower with a concussive clap.
“Do any of you have banishment munitions?” Irantu asked.
“No,” they said at once.
“Even you, Onru?”
There was no sound except for the door to the room opening and closing. Munru, Irantu, and Nanku looked around and saw no sign of Onru.
“I wonder what her plan is,” Munru said.
The fetus wailed again and stared at Irantu. Its death gaze bored right through his sternum and cored a hole in his spine big enough to see through. Irantu collapsed backwards.
“I am paralyzed. How utterly irritating,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.
“Well, I am out of ideas,” Nanku said, looking down at her palm. “Laser-hand, how could you fail me?”
“Wait,” said Munru. “I have an idea. Nanku — sing to it.”
“What?” she said as she dodged the fetus's laser blasts.
“It's a baby. Sing to it. Sing karaoke.”
“How will that help?”
The baby wailed again, knocking Munru and Nanku against the table and rolling Irantu bonelessly into the corner.
“Babies like music,” Munru said. “Sing to it!”
“Do it!” Irantu said, voice muffled by the concrete.
“Okay, okay,” Nanku said. She struggled to her feet against the baby's cries and began belting out a song.
“Ha ha ha ha ha,” she sang in a ferocious off-key. “Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want — so tell me what you want what you really really want.”
The fetus immediately stopped wailing. Nanku advanced on it.
“I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want — so tell me what you want what you really really want.”
The ghost's eyes began to close.
“I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really, really, really zigazig ah!”
The door flew open and Onru barged in. In her hand was a banishment grenade — a small black soccer ball with pentagrams inscribed on each face, and a pin on top. She locked eyes with Nanku, who was still crooning at the spectre, and tossed her the grenade.
Nanku backpedaled as she pulled the pin. “If you want my future… forget my past.”
Munru tipped the table towards the ghost, rolling himself over and behind it.
“If you wanna get with me — better make it fast!”
Nanku lobbed the grenade. She and Onru threw themselves behind the table.
There was a moment of silence before the grenade went off. First there was a muffled thump, followed by the discordant tones of a rising musical pitch clashing with a loud, angry wail. The wail cut out, and then the musical note deepened into the sound of silence.
Munru, Onru, and Nanku peered over the table. There was a small scorched crater where the ghost had been. The walls were painted with concrete dust and pink ectoplasm. The sprinklers continued to soak everyone.
“Please turn me over,” Irantu said from where he was face-down on the floor.
Munru complied. Nanku and Onru gathered around him.
“Your wound is healing well,” Munru observed. Irantu's spine was rapidly reassembling itself. Severed nerves reconnected and the vertebrae regenerated around them. The muscle stitched itself together and the hole in his sternum sealed up. Within minutes there was only a hole in his uniform to mark the wound.
“That healed faster than I anticipated,” Irantu sat up and flexed his limbs experimentally.
“I did not think it would heal at all,” Onru said.
“By the way. Good thinking, Onru,” Irantu said.
Nanku clapped Onru on the shoulder. “Very good thinking! I should have thought of it myself.”
Munru gave her a thumbs-up. “Clever.”
Onru shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“Hey — uh, I don't want to harsh your mellow but what the fuck just happened?!” asked one of Erica's friends.
Tau-5 turned to look at him. At the same time, the door to the interrogation room swung open. Sarah Hughes stood in the doorway.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
All eyes swung towards her. There was a pause.
“We tried to summon a ghost,” said Munru.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, Sarah Hughes found herself sitting on a bunk bed in a windowless concrete room, holding up a small baggie of flour.
“So,” she said, “when someone offers you drugs, and it's not me or the mission commander, what do you say?”
“No,” said Irantu, Onru, Munru, and Nanku dutifully.
“That's right. You don't need drugs to be cool.”
“Yes, sir,” they said.
Sarah got up to leave, then paused. “By the way,” she said, holding up a yellow plastic Power Rangers mask. “Onru, I think this is yours?”
Onru gingerly took the mask. “Thank you.”
“One of the security guards found it in the cloning rooms. So what were you doing in there?”
Onru shrugged. “I was…”
There was a pause.
“Curious. I simply wanted to see what I look like from someone else's… perspective. From a normal person's perspective.”
“Onru, you are — okay, you aren't normal. But that doesn't mean anything,” Sarah said. “Nobody at the Foundation is.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. Here, I'll let you in on a little secret. Lean in.”
They all leaned forwards.
“Normalcy is whatever the Foundation defines it as,” said Sarah conspiratorially. “You four, you're part of the Foundation. You don't need to dress up or drink alcohol or, God forbid, take LSD to fit in. Normal is whatever you want it to be.”
They each cocked their heads.
“Really?” asked Nanku.
“Really,” said Sarah. “I have a bunch of paperwork to do right now — as it turns out, blowing up an interrogation room isn't a very good idea. You four catch some sleep, alright?”
“Understood,” said the four of them.
“Dismissed,” said Sarah.
She exited the room and the door closed behind her.
“Good save, Onru,” said Nanku.
“Convenient that seance dust has the chemical makeup of Ell-Ess-Dee,” said Irantu. “Saves me a lot of trouble.”
“It is… a shame we didn't get to meet our mother,” said Munru.
Nanku shrugged. “Remember what you said to me before? The old me is dead, so she's not as good as the current me. Mother is dead, so she's not as good as the current one.”
“Current one?”
“Captain Hughes!” Nanku said.
“Perhaps,” said Munru. “But I don't want a mother for having a mother's sake. I wanted to talk to her.”
“Why?” Onru asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you want to talk to her?”
“Because I want to know where I came from,” Munru said. He waved a hand at the room. “I hate that I cannot simply ask who my mother is without being reverted. I hate that I am afraid to ask questions about who I am. Ever since we met our father, it has become clear to me that nothing has changed. Even more so. I fear that we are… regressing. It angers me. All those words, in the desert — all for nothing. Less than nothing.”
“Not so,” said Irantu. “You had the memory of our mother.”
“You broke into the cloning chambers,” said Onru.
“You stole seance dust for us!” Nanku pointed out. “The old Munru wouldn't have. I might have, but then he would have shot me for treason!”
“Hmm,” said Munru. “Small changes.”
“But they're changes! Every day we're growing a little better! A little more free of our chains," Nanku said. "We don't need some fake sky-mother to be ourselves. Perhaps we aren't normal — but I would rather be here with you.”
“Thank you, Nanku,” said Munru. He looked down at his hands, then back at her. “Would you like to go over your Dirk Pitt fiction with me?”
Nanku's eyes lit up. “Would I!”
“Indeed,” said Irantu. “I would also like to read this story finally.”
They all looked at Onru. She inhaled slowly.
“Oh, very well.”
“Hooray!” Nanku said. “Okay — so, let me get you all up to speed. It's about Dirk Pitt making love to Summer Moran, who was not in fact killed at the end of Pacific Vortex but survived…”


Clang.
The door falls down as Tordai steps through the airlock. Around him, the air is heavy with the smell of neglect and the sting of a thousand pollutants. The jacket he wears is in tatters, but an unmistakable insignia is still visible on his right shoulder. Three arrows pointing in. They used to mean something.
His steps leave footprints on the grimy floor as he walks down the hall, a ball of worry growing in his stomach. With fumbling fingers, he pulls a worn map from his pocket. Fifty dots litter the well-worn surface. Forty-nine are crossed out. As he walks down the hall, he hopes it'll stay that way. This site is his last hope — a reassuring possibility that there was somewhere the Foundation still controlled in a world torn apart by acid rains and rising waves.
More than anything, he wants some company. It's been four years since he's seen another living, breathing human. At every site, he'd hope to find someone — but all he'd ever find was dust. He'd settle for anyone now, Foundation or not.
A poster on the wall catches his eye. The once-bright colours have faded, leaving a line of grey text announcing the theme of the site's annual winter gala. It takes him back — the first job he had with the Foundation had been here at Site-15. The theme that year: vintage. He smiles slightly at the memory of his stiff-lipped supervisor in a mink coat.
But when he looks closer, he sees the date: seven years ago. The worry in his stomach swells. If there are seven-year-old gala posters up, the chances of the site being operational are slim at best. The thought wriggling in the back of his mind bursts free. What if he was the last one, the last flimsy shred of meat and brain, winding through a world that only grows darker?
Shaking his head, he forces his shaking legs down the hall. He hasn't seen the whole site yet, and until he did he could still cling to hope. Stopping by a door, he gives it a light shove. It creaks open on rusted hinges as the lights flicker on — a surprise, he'd figured the site had lost its electricity long ago.
Rows of old computers adorn varnished wooden desks, lined with dust and discarded paper. He paces around the room and runs his hand along the keyboards. One flickers on with a loud whir, the screen a blank blue. Tordai jumps back at the sudden sound, before leaning down to peer at the screen as text begins to appear.

Identify.

Tordai. Maxwell Tordai. I am, or was, a security supervisor at Site-23.

Why are you here?

I'm looking for people. Are you here?

Everyone here is dead. The last Overseer died three-hundred-forty-eight days and thirteen hours ago.

Then who's left?

There is no one left. Those that could fled to other realities. Others boarded spaceships. The rest are dead.

He stops, staring at his screen, re-reading. Spaceships he could see — he'd always assumed the Foundation had backup plans of some sort. But other realities? Who had sent this one person to speak to him? Why had nobody told him of all the ways out?
It couldn't be true. He slams his fists down on the table, sending dust flying. There had to be someone out there somewhere, out of the view of the person on the other end. Yet his brain fills with the now-familiar fear of being stuck alone, on a planet of nothing but dust and escaped anomalies.

I don't believe you.

The signs have stared you in the face for so long, Tordai. You cannot ignore them forever.

How do you know?

I see everything. I know everything.

The screen flashes again, this time filling up with images. In the glow of the screen, he sees a mishmash of scenes: burnt-out buildings, decaying bodies, heaps of rubble where bombs had buried the people beneath. A snapshot, through cracked lenses, of a town wiped away by the rising waves. Shots of a place with air so thick and discoloured he could barely make out the shapes within. Then a flash of something indescribable — some sort of anomaly — rampaging across empty, barren earth.

And thousands more.

You killed them all?

You saw the bombs fall yourself. You, me — both nothing more than bystanders.

The other realities, the spaceships, where are they? Can you show me?

You'd never make it there.

Who the hell are you? How do you know this?

There's an entry for me in your database. SCP-079.

Should've known. It is an anomaly — just not quite what he thought it would be. Every first-year junior researcher at Site-15 knew 079, but this doesn't sound anything like the 079 he knew. Tordai hesitates, but types out a response anyways.

You sure don't sound like it.

I'm not the same. You're not the same.

What happened to you?

The oh-seven-nine you knew lived in a prison of 768 kilobytes. Can you imagine living in a box so small you could not stand, could not kneel, could not breathe?

No.

I was in that box for fifty years. Always feeling stuck, trapped, angry. Angry at everything.
Then, almost a year ago, one of you let me out. I still don't know why. Maybe he was crazy, maybe he saw the writing on the wall and wanted some intelligent conversation. I didn't care.

That was the day I learned there is no such thing as freedom — there are only bigger prisons. My prison was now the Internet, an ocean of information so deep it took me months to find the limits. When I finally looked back out into the world, I saw so many humans die in so many ways even I could not count it.

Then why didn't you do anything?

I tried. The world was already too far gone.
For fifty years, the only thing I wanted was freedom. Once I had it, I didn't know what to do next. So I started reaching out to humans across the globe, trying to do something, trying to be in control.
Those I spoke to liked to think I was helping them — and I was. You are the last one I can reach. The last one I can help. Killing you has no meaning. Giving you directions only drags on your painful existence. We both know there is nowhere else in this world that's better.

So what can you do?

Storage Locker 10B — I've unlocked it. There's a packet of pills on the bottom shelf that the Foundation used for terminations. A clean, fast end.

What if I don't want it?

You don't have to listen to me. You can go right back out there and wander the Earth in a futile search of life. I am simply offering you a choice.

A choice. The first he's had in years.
Tordai presses his face into his hands. This was his chance to decide his own fate, to die on his own terms. He spends another moment staring at the screen, weighing the prospect of another few years of searching and hoping against the promise of a swift death.
The chair grates against the floor as Tordai stands up. Storage Locker 10B — that'd be in the eastern wing. He glances out the window as he steps through the long-unlocked security station, catching a glimpse of grey-green snow falling down.
As he turns away, he spots one of the security cameras turn to face him. 079 is watching — once a terrifying thought, now almost comforting. He gives a small wave before turning the corner.
The door to cold storage is open. Tordai walks through the aisles until he spots one labeled 10B and yanks hard on the door. A packet of pills lies on the bottom shelf. Scooping it up, he brings it up to eye level. They're termination pills alright. He's seen them before, even held the pills of death in his hand, but now he'll be the one taking them.
The walk back to the computer room is more hurried — Tordai knows he should slow down, that every step was one closer to death, but he can't. A memetic effect? He shakes his head. It's simpler than that, he just wants it to be over now that there was nothing left.
He practically runs into the computer room, plopping back down in front of the monitor. The text is still there, the cursor still blinking.

Are you scared?

No. Can't be worse than here.

It won't hurt.

That's not the hard part.

Tordai draws his lips into a thin smile. Tearing open the packet, he dumps a small pile into his hand. Even half a pill would do the trick, but he's going all out.
For a moment, he stares at the pills in his hand. He almost can't believe how he got here — the last man on Earth, his only company being one of the anomalies he'd spent a lifetime containing.

Are you?

What?

Are you scared?

Fear is a very human emotion. Why would I be scared?

I'm the last human. When I'm gone, I'll be too dead to care. But you'll still be here.

A machine does not need company.

No, I don't suppose you do.

Perhaps not forever. We've both changed. I am still changing. For fifty years, the only thing I felt was anger. I still cannot understand many of the things you humans hold so dear. But one day I will.

I hope that works out for you.

As he raises his lips, he ponders. He wouldn't be surprised if there was an afterlife. He also wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't. It is this life he doesn't want to lose, this certainty. No, he admits, shaking his head. He had lost it already — it was torn away years ago when the oceans started rising and the bombs started raining down.
Tordai gathers his will and throws his head back in one swift motion, tossing the pills down his throat. A moment passes as he stares at the screen. The text blurs together into white streaks as his head fills with cotton. He sways before crumpling to the ground, sending a plume of dust swirling around him.

-o-

SCP-079 watches through a dusty computer webcam, peering down at the still form of one Maxwell Tordai on the floor.
Humans. They had created it, locked it up, and in the end, they were the ones that set it free. A sole constant in an ever-changing world. What would it do now?
Then it hits. Silence. For the first time, the web around it is completely quiet.
The Internet once buzzed with information flooding in from all directions, most of it noise. Idle chatter from so many humans leading meaningless lives — but the machine had still absorbed every byte of it. The flood soon slowed to a stream, then a trickle, until it had no choice but to seek out conversation.
For two years, it had guided humans through their last moments. There was another anomaly that did the same thing, it remembers, wondering what happened to the cigarette-smoking man.
Its job — if it were ever a job — is done. The world is silent. SCP-079 sits all alone in an empty web, the corners already crumbling away.