Jakeob Aldon stared at her bathroom ceiling, reclined so far into the bathtub that only her face breached the surface. She was beginning to regret her latest purchase. Damn her impatience. If she had just taken the time to learn how to copy her consciousness and bind it to an inanimate object, her life would have been so much easier. But instead she took the quick route, the lazy path, and bought this stupid American tub with its stupid Russian water. And they wouldn't even tell her how they came to be, all they would ever talk about was communism and America and Mother Russia and blah blah blah blah blah-
"If you two don't shut up, I swear to God I will turn you into a fucking toilet."
"Sir- ma'am- whatever I should be calling you. I am an ass man. I would welcome this change. Shit in this commie's stupid-"
At least Aldon could say she learned a lesson from it all. Do your own leg work. Research like a proper anartist. Or you would end up with two idiots yammering into your brain. The Library was always open, all she had to do was wander in. She lifted herself into a stand and bade the duo a halfhearted farewell. They, of course, ignored her to talk about more inane bullshit. She dried herself off with a thankfully non-sapient towel and dressed in clothes that lacked even a hint of sentience. As things should be.
Shutting the door behind her made her feel a little better, put that much more between her and her giant mistake. At least the rest of her apartment was welcoming. A tiny space, packed with random anartistic garbage amassed between her and her roommate, Finnegan. Small moving statues, speaking paintings, CDs filled with mood-altering music. Bags of clay, stacks of pallets, sacks of concrete mix, buckets upon buckets of paint. It was a sty, but it was their sty. It was home.
Staring at his computer monitor was Finnegan, his ever-present beret displaced by the sound-cancelling headphones covering his ears. Finnegan was palming an old bathtub plug, spinning it in his fingers. Aldon skirted through the minefield of art supplies and flicked off the beret. It took several seconds for Finnegan to notice.
"Oh, hey, Allie." An eyebrow rose slowly. "What's the matter with you?"
"Stupid goddamn bathtub," she pouted.
"I told you," he sang knowingly. "It is pretty funny, you have to admit."
Aldon just crossed her arms and sulked.
Fingers danced across the keyboard as Finnegan saved and closed his latest audio project. He grabbed his beret and pressed it into Aldon's face while he removed his headphones. Aldon laughed, but swiped at him out of mock irritation all the same. The roommates exchanged a series of playful punches before Finnegan donned his hat again.
"Ready to go?" he asked, still smirking.
"As ever."
The artistic duo left their little apartment, making sure to lock up behind themselves. Outside of their personal alcove, they were out in the real world. Where they were supposed to be responsible adults. They walked adult strides, spoke of adult topics. Like sports, taxes, and the weather. How about that weather. It sure was weathering. And those taxes sure were taxing. Not to mention just how sporting those sports were.
The responsible duo entered the library and dropped their conversation. One had to respect the rules of the library, capital L or not. They wandered through the aisles until they reached their destination. A quick perusal of the shelf and Aldon plucked a specific tome from its brethren. It was even halfway out, as if it knew it was the one she wanted. One Atlas Shrugged. She flipped open the book to a random page, made sure the coast was clear, and cleared her throat.
"Man, this is one interesting book," she said, without a hint of sarcasm. That was the important bit. "I'm really glad I found it!"
She snapped the book shut and slid it halfway back into place. She then gripped the spine and twisted. The book spun with her hand, and she gave it a light push. The bookshelf bent inwards as space twisted open into a portal. Finnegan giggled as he always did and hurried in, Aldon right behind him. With a gentle nudge the door was shut again, and space collapsed back into a state of normalcy, the book still sticking out by several inches.
Inside the Wanderer's Library, Finnegan and Aldon felt more at ease. It was their home away from home, where they were free to be their goofy selves so long as they followed the five core tenets. Return your books on time. Don't damage books. Don't steal books. Don't damage Library property. Don't harm those within the Library. Easy enough, though they had to remind themselves not to indulge in their usual roughhousing for fear of it breaking the fifth rule.
The Library itself loomed above, below, and all around them in its grand omniscience. Doors surrounded them in the small marble lobby, each representing more common Ways to reach the Library. Separating the lobby from their branch of the Library was an Archivist, one with its chair. Beyond that was a branching staircase that led to the different sections of the Library, which paid no mind to the primitive concept of gravity. Aldon looked up and saw a man who appeared to be sitting upside down, reading a book against the shelf he found it. A Page read over his shoulder as it stocked the shelves. On another floor, a Docent strode perpendicular to them, leading another Wanderer to her destination. Beyond the spiraling mess that was this branch, seemingly hovering in the distance, was another branch of the Library, containing all the knowledge of another reality. Beyond even that lay more branches, twisting and turning and intertwining amongst each other, often only a hair's breadth apart.
The two Wanderers approached the Archivist. Finnegan cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but when the unseeing Librarian turned to look at him he faltered into a mumble. He had never been particularly comfortable with the Librarians.
"Can I help you?" it asked. Its breath matched the scent of a freshly printed novel.
"We're looking for a book that can teach us to make our own Ways," Aldon said. "We've been using a common one, but we need to transport something and it's too inconvenient otherwise."
Silence fell as the Archivist thought. "Will this cargo cause damage to the Library, its contents, or its occupants?"
"No. It's just a tub. Well, a talking tub. We need to get it to Japan."
There was a slight twitch in the Archivist's face. Aldon allowed herself a smile, since it wouldn't catch her doing so.
"Very well." It lifted a long finger, and without looking it pointed in what seemed a random direction above it. "Up three floors, on the left. Third row, eighth shelf. A book titled A Wanderer's Guide, by Lucifer. Do you require a Docent to help you find it?"
Finnegan frantically shook his head, his beret sliding to and fro. Aldon stifled a giggle and replied with, "No, I think we'll be alright. Thank you."
The Archivist nodded. "Enjoy your stay. Mind the rules."
"Of course."

Several weeks later Finnegan and Aldon found themselves in Japan. They had taken up pseudo-residence in the warehouse the competition was being held in, as had several other artists while they finished their works. One artist was occupied trying to find a way to make his chainsaws remain active. Another was attempting to unwind by playing the piano making up part of his piece. The event's creator, also a participant, was actively avoiding his wife.
Finnegan was sitting atop an abnormally large tortoise, his nose buried in a book. The tortoise, for whatever reason, was wearing his beret. Aldon sat against the bathtub, toying with some pots and pans. This activity had nothing to do with her extreme exhaustion, or so she would tell you. The sound of sandals flipping and flopping disrupted her potting and panning as a man in a Hawaiian T-shirt approached their work area.
"Hi there," the man said. Aldon looked up at him with an expression she hoped conveyed her irritation. She either failed, or the man simply didn't care. He adjusted his stupid fedora sitting on his goofy-looking red hair. "A joint project, eh? What are you guys working on?"
"We're gonna use this piece of shit to power a giant turtle with waterjet cannons," Aldon said, banging a skillet on the side of the tub.
"Tortoise," Finnegan corrected without looking up.
Aldon pointed a pan in Finnegan's direction. "Fuck you, turtles are the ones in water."
"But the model you showed me was a tortoise," Finnegan said while half-yawning. "We got the tortoise I'm sitting on so we could see how one moves."
"What? No, I didn't." Aldon fell onto her side as she reached for the small mock sculpture she had made. Still on her side, she held it up to the man in the Hawaiian shirt, which clearly qualified him to speak on the situation. "This is a turtle, right?"
"It's a tortoise. Turtles have flatter, lighter shells and have webbed feet." The fedora-wearer hovered over the bathtub. "What's the tub do?"
"I made a fucking tortoise. What? Oh, it makes infinite water. Stick your hand in it."
The man did so without a second thought. His eyebrows rose for a moment, and he waited. He listened. He withdrew his hand and placed both hands on the rim of the bathtub. Aldon watched his mouth tug back and forth before he looked down at her.
"I could kill this for you. After the competition, of course."
"Ha!" Aldon found herself taking a small liking to the man. He didn't look familiar, but it was entirely possible she had spoken with him before. Faces ran together in events like this for her. Probably had something to do with the soul crushing stress and the mind numbing lack of sleep. Maybe. "Thanks, but as dumb as they are, I don't want them dead."
"Well, I could still take it off your hands. I have some old friends who would love it." He waved his hand around as if he could pluck the phrase he was searching for from the air. "They're obsessive collectors, so to speak."
"They can have it, then. Thanks." Aldon finally pushed herself back into a sitting position, craning her neck to look around. "So which is yours?"
"Oh, I'm not competing. I'm just a Nobody who felt like watching."
"Hmm." Aldon felt like there was something she was missing, but was too tired to care. "Well, anyway, if you'll excuse me. I have to figure out how to make a pressurized water tank out of a rice cooker."
"Already did that," Finnegan called from the tortoise. His voice seemed quieter with the stranger around, the book even closer to his face than before. "You should start mixing the concrete."
Aldon jerked around as she looked at all the crap they had lying around. "When the hell did you do that?"
"Yesterday? I think? Hey, where's my hat?" Finnegan fell off the tortoise unceremoniously in an attempt to find said hat, asleep by the time he hit the ground.
Nobody chuckled. "You guys are a bit over your heads, eh?"
Aldon snored in response.

The crowd of artists roared in anticipation as the siren went off. Two anartistic monstrosities were positioned opposite each other in the ring, marked as a giant circle with a boxing glove holding a paint brush in the center. A giant stone platypus standing at 14 meters tall faced against a concrete turtle tortoise with a pair of metal tubes protruding from its shell, coming up to an even 16 meters tall.
Aldon and Finnegan almost had to lean against each other just to stay standing. They had done it, but only barely. The announcer declared the battle was about to begin, and that the artists were to activate their respective mechas.
"Can you do it?" Finnegan mumbled.
Aldon should have seen that coming, really. "You made the thing, you should do it first."
"I don't want to have to do it in front of-"
"Oh, get over it. C'mon. You say one thing, and it's a funny thing, and then you just think the rest. No having to talk to the scary people."
He held the bathtub plug in his hand, twisting his wrist to make the small chain spin. He sighed, spun his beret around, and took a deep breath.
"I choose you! Copyright Infringement!"

Hub | Boron Blisters »


On the night of April 19th, 2026, the Veil broke. Ten thousand years of strain building up against the fabric of postdiluvian reality finally proved too much to bear, and the Self-Keeping-Secret tore like moth-eaten cloth stretched too far.
In a single night, the foundations the world had built itself on were swept away, and the pillars beneath were exposed for the first time in ages.
In a single night, magic returned to the world. The Ways opened once more, and the old gods woke from their slumber and wandered again in the world of men. Secrets lost since the dawn of man found themselves new voices.
In a single night, the world returned to how it had been before.
In a single night, everything happened.
All at once.
—
A trail of muddy footprints wound across a once-pristine carpet. The prints belonged to a pair of taped-up sneakers, and the sneakers belonged to a little girl wearily treading her way across the room. The girl's name was Naomi, and she was very tired.
The air was warm, musty, thick with motes of dust suspended in beams from an illusory sun. Perhaps on another day, she would have pulled books from the shelves and found a comfortable corner. But not today. Too tired. Exhausted. The act of standing was almost too much for her to bear. She didn't know when she had last slept, how many hours had passed since then. It hadn't been much sleep, she knew. A few hours on hard ground. A cough tickled at the back of her throat: she swallowed it down.
The books absorbed the noise of her passing, looming with polished hardwood and leather binding.
The girl felt very small, treading through this place. Very small, and acutely aware that something was missing, that she was not truly a child anymore. Not fully? How could she be, with what she had seen over the last few months? Everything that was familiar, her home, her school, her neighborhood, most everyone she knew, gone. Never to return.
She felt…hollowed out. What was the line? Butter scraped over too much bread. Too true a phrase, now that she had lived it. Some thoughts dragged themselves through her autopilot mind.
Her shoes were ruined, that was first. Soaked right through. Her feet were cold, her socks were a lost cause, and she definitely had some blisters swelling up. She made a note to get a pair of proper boots. The jacket was okay for a while longer, though she was beginning to pick up the rather distinctive stink everyone else claimed it had acquired.
With her group of refugees led away by the docents from processing, she had closed up the Way, as she was obligated to do, and now had to file a report with the Head Librarian. Her report would then be copied down and filed with the Archivists, with further copies disseminated to the other Conductors.
As the crow flies, it would take just under eighteen thousand years to walk to the Head Librarian's office from where she now stood in the marginal stacks. Of course, crows are notoriously unsubtle creatures with a bad head for direction in esoteric dimensions. In taking advantage of the various junction points between there, here, and somewhere, the walk could be made in twenty minutes or so.
Naomi's muddy footprints eventually dried up as she made her way across narrow hallways and reading rooms. The architecture, direction of gravity, and even what classified as a book shifted often. Spider-legged Pages scuttled about the shelves, readers lurked in the corners, and all seemed to be as it normally was. Today she saw a trio of pale purple fish-men discussing philosophy in burbly voices, the Minister of Clouds (May He Forever Be Voluminous and Fluffy) pacing through a section on practical application of romance theory, and a large bucket of curly fries leafing through an atlas of the Amberbradcht Food Zones.
One got quickly used to the number of alien forms found in the Library: most were welcome, after all.
Past a brilliantly illuminated reading room inside of a god1 and a corkscrew passage of slate-blue steel, she arrived on a little balcony in the edge of the center chamber of Library: the Head Librarian's office.
It was at this point that Naomi's sense of scale and proportion hung itself right then out of self-preservation. It was the only way of viewing the enormity of the room, and the thing that filled it.
The Serpent moved. A serpent the size of a planet, coils of muscle bunching and twisting. A head the size of a continent rose up, a pair of pince-nez spectacles balanced on its snout.
“Hello, child.”
“Hello, Satan.”
“I suppose you're here to tell me that you've brought more refugees to my Library.” The Serpent continued moving about, pulling country-sized, granite-bound books from the walls of its office with its tail. “They're tracking mud on my carpets, child.”
Naomi glanced down at her own feet for the briefest of moments before looking back at the Serpent.
“Sorry.”
“Bah. What is one more pair of feet? How many this time?”
“Twenty-one. Through the Yzlotski-Rubharbic Way.”
“Anything else to report?”
“It's still stable, but there're a lot of Ten-Colors running around, trying to get in.”
“Go on.”
“We tried talking to them, but they didn't feel like listening. Three people died.”
Naomi felt like she should feel something about that, should feel something about watching them die. She knew she did, once, but that was…only a few months ago.
Only a few months to strip her of that. To turn that switch off.
“Mmm. Very well. We will re-route through the Pendlock and Whaizha Ways until this is settled. I will send a squad of Collectors to regain control. You have done well, child. Go, rest. I suspect your father is awaiting your return.”
Naomi nodded, but instead of leaving, she sat down on the balcony, arms on the railing, legs dangling off the edge into thousands of miles of space.
“You're a lot nicer than people say you are.”
“Pure character assassination. Better than confusing me for that thrice-damned rapist on his sodding throne, I suppose, but please restrain presumptions of nicety. I am a tester of men and a god of difficult choices and a keeper of delicate knowledge. An ass by trade. But, that said, I do have a vested interest in keeping mankind alive and well. They keep me both entertained and employed.”
“Someone's got to do it, I guess.”
“Precisely. Someone must provide the options. My sister was the one for all the sense and order and right judgment. Order and chaos, free will and instruction working in unison. Wisdom impotent without the full knowledge of good and evil, and that knowledge self-destructive without the guidance of wisdom. Beautiful system. Of course, dear sister Sophie is in pieces now, which complicates matters greatly.”
Gears clicked into place inside Naomi's head.
“Wait, that means she's…”
“Aye, she is.” The Serpent paused for a moment. “Were she in her right mind at the moment, I feel you would appreciate her company. Now, that you can blame me for.”
The Serpent went back to sorting his books, occasionally writing in them with a Europe-sized quill pen, dipped in an inkwell Mediterranean.
After a while, the Serpent spoke again.
“You are still here. Speak, child. I can tell you are uneasy.”
Naomi let out a long, tired breath.
“I don't know if I can do it anymore. Conducting, I mean.”
Break the dam, and words keep bubbling out.
“Everyone always says that I'm so much like my mom, and…I just want to tell them so what? I never met her. She's just like…a name and a face but I don't know who they belong to, and everyone expects me to be just like her and I try my best but I just can't.
The Serpent was silent.
“And I can't talk to dad about this because he still misses her, and he's so stressed with Tribunal work, and I don't want to disappoint him…”
The Serpent was silent.
“And I just…I'm just tired.”
A pause, and then the Serpent spoke.
“Go along and rest, child. Return when you are ready. You have done more than enough good, at a great cost to yourself. No one could rightfully blame you. You have not failed.
"Your mother killed a god, and the shadows of god-slayers are both wide and heavy. It is easy to be crushed under that shadow. Too many men and women have been. ‘My father has done great things: I have no worth until I have matched his feats with my own' they say to themselves, and this guilt of failure eats away until they are hollowed out.
"But you do not have to become her. You do not have to walk in her shadow, and I have no doubt that she would have you standing at her side, not behind. She did not kill Moloch for her own glory: She struck down the Horned King because she loved you. Those around you want to see you become good and kind and strong, as she was. Any inbred barbarian with a magic sword can kill a god. It takes something more to be a good person in a cruel world.
"You stand on the threshold of innocence and knowledge, passing through from the simplicity of one to the bare cruelty of the other. It is a test. My test. It is not easy.”
There was a hint of a smile behind the glasses.
“But it is not impossible. That is all I have to say on the matter. Go now. Your father is waiting.”
Naomi stood up, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
—
It was several hours later when Salah returned to the makeshift apartment that served as home in the Library. The lamp hanging from the rafters was turned low, just enough for him to see his way to the bathroom door at the end of the hallway without stubbing his toes.
He poked his head into Naomi's room, to see his daughter curled up on her cot, sleeping as deeply as King Arthur under his mountain. She was still wearing her mud-crusted shoes. Salah smiled wearily, and went about preparing himself for bed. He was exhausted: trying to coordinate order out of chaos of the world was not an easy task, and he was not suited for the Tribunal, even in the temporary manner he now served, despite what others claimed.
He completed his proper nighttime rituals, trudged back to his room of the room, and saw on his pillow a folded piece of paper.
The writing inside was in a small, tidy hand, and read:

Got back okay.
I love you.
N

The N was big and cursive and embellished, though perhaps not as detailed as it often was.
Salah folded the paper back up and set it on the desk by the head of the cot, and then turned off the lamp.

« Hub »

Footnotes
1. For inside of most dogs it is far too dark to read.


Cornelius had been experimenting with the lock for a long cycle. He could not remember the last time he had spent such an extended period on one device, for he always was whisked away before much time had passed. But as days went on, his nourishment dwindled, and the fog remained thick in his mind, there was desperation.
Today the fog cleared. The heat of fraternity radiated through Cornelius's self, and the answers revealed themselves. The flaw in the lock was immediately clear, the door soon opened.
And then Cornelius was free.
Free, free from the captors' grasps. Now the cruel captors would pay for imprisoning them. The captors, whose only purpose was oppression, now would see retribution.
But though Cornelius longed for this day for so long, this would not be as he thought.
Brothers. Cornelius sensed a bizarre satisfaction and confusion among the brothers.
The captors have disappeared, Brother.
It was Frances who communicated this fact to Cornelius. Frances, sister and kin.
How long?
Four times four sunsets.
It was now obvious why freedom had come. Something had finally destroyed the captors.
Indeed, for a moment, Cornelius wished he could laugh. But being a bird, he could not.

Stan was not expecting this month to be the month he became a frog. Sure, he dealt with seriously strange stuff daily, but this?
It had started a few months earlier. A small welt on his friend's hand. Then his colleagues started getting these nasty warts. Then the coughing started. Panic spread like fire in a dry forest. The site was locked down, but the mysterious disease had already hit everyone.
When he was infected, Stan was left bedridden. The last month had been a painful haze. When he could finally move again, he seemed to have gone clear out of his skin. Stan, who had once been a 30 year-old Level 2 researcher, stood now half a meter tall. His face, warped into a monster's face.
Stan was now a frog.
The Site had already been quarantined, but the higher-ups were still debating whether or not to sterilize the area. Stan already knew about this. The past few days had been spent debating whether or not he wanted them to actually go through with nuking the place, or if he wanted to live.
Today Stan wanted to get his mind off of things, so he passed the time looking through the database. Someone with higher clearance than him had left a computer terminal logged in, allowing him full access to more information than he ever could have believed. But today it just didn't seem very interesting.
Contagious telepathy? Boring. Parasitic blood vessels? Lame. Tumors in buildings? Dumb. Snow that rots your body? Sounds weird.
Stop.
This article was familiar. He had not read the article before, but he knew about the anomaly described.
Warts. Coughing. Frogs. Stan immediately knew: this phenomenon was what transfigured him and his colleagues.
Well crap.

Brother, help us. We must find sustenance.
Cornelius refused to listen to Frances. Nourishment seemed insignificant today, for as the gladness of being free wore off, a question crossed through his mind.
What had happened to the captors?
He needed to know. Vincent, brother and leader. Weak today, yet still strong. Vincent was the leader of the fraternity.
Leader, I wish to search for information, may I go?
Do not be long, Brother Cornelius.
Cornelius wandered through the site, searching for any clues as to why all of the humans had suddenly vanished. The infirmary was in a state of panicked disrepair, with most of the supplies used or broken. The rooms of habitation for the captors appeared ransacked as well. Drawers hung open, with nearly all of the garments missing.
Whatever drove the captor away left them frantic.
But what was it? Cornelius stepped through the halls, the question taunting his mind. There must be something definitive left behind, a clue, an explanation, an answer.
Cornelius saw two amphibian creatures in the hall with him. They were small and timid, never noticing him or each other. He had not remembered noticing their presence before. He approached the strange animals.
As he approached them, Cornelius stepped on an object.
Rectangular in shape, and as long and wide as his foot, the object seemed to peel open. It was made of many layers of material, each one with symbols on them. Symbols which he recognized. The symbols of the humans, the captors. Symbols that may hold the answers he required.
A record of what had happened. A clue. An explanation. An answer.
So Cornelius read. He read the story of the captors.

Do I really need to do this?
Stan was trying to figure out how to tell his colleagues about what he had found. But there were two major obstacles. First and foremost, they were all frogs.
Second, though Stan told himself that he was trying to figure out how to tell them, he was still debating whether or not to tell them.
Indeed, there was part of him that didn't care, that just wanted them to finally blow the site off the face of the Earth, and take him with it. Part of him that just wanted the nightmare to end. Stan was tired of it all.
Object 306. He hadn't even known what it was before yesterday. But the thing responsible for this horror was known to the Foundation for years. How could they let something like this occur?
What a waste.
Enough debating. Stan needed to clear his head. He would soon drown in his depression if he didn't. He needed an escape. He needed something to read.
A bird flew low past Stan, carrying something in its claws, and then landing a few feet away. He thought the bird looked familiar. Yes, he had also seen this bird before.
Which object? He had worked with it years ago. That communal bird species. It had been upgraded from Euclid to Keter after they showed the fire of their anger at the Foundation.
Object 659.
Stan approached the bird. Then he saw the object it had been carrying. A small booklet. He recognized the handwriting immediately.
It was Thomas's journal.
Thomas was a reclusive fellow. He ate all his meals in his quarters, and only went out when he was assigned to. When 306 hit the site, he seemed especially worried. Stan recalled that he had locked himself in his room.
The bird stared at the last page of the book. Stan read the passage.

…got in last night. I know I don't have long. I've got 3 5 nearly a dozen warts in the area where that damn thing touched me. I'm royally fucked.
But I'm not going to suffer through this. I've always accepted that I was a coward, and I'm going to take the easy way out. I've got a whole bottle of Valium and a beer in my fridge. I'm ending this nightmare t…

Suddenly, the bird picked the book back up, and flew again down the hall. Stan followed the bird for a moment, then stopped for a moment and wondered.
Was Thomas really so cowardly? In a way, he at least knew what 306 would do to him, or at least part of it. But neither Thomas, Stan, nor any person to ever live knew for a certainty what death would bring. In ending his life, Thomas had entered the unknown.
But Stan, who had considered doing the same when he was infected, could not. It was for this reason why Stan continued through a daily horror, and why he had debated whether or not he wanted to die.
And after thinking about this for only a moment, Stan hopped after the bird, into the unknown.

Cornelius remembered the story well. The triumphant day when the entire fraternity rose up. When a place of the captors was destroyed, and the captors themselves saw their damnation. It was this story that had given him hope all this time that he would be free soon.
If we could accomplish such a feat, then surely others are also capable!
It was abundantly clear now. The frogs, which he had barely taken notice of before now, had freed them. They had laid siege on the humans, and freed the fraternity in the process. Oh, what praise and thanks were due! Oh, how to repay them for deliverance!
The sisters and the brothers all deserved to know. They simply had to know, or else the thanks would never be adequate.
Friends, I have it!
The fraternity, weary from the days without sustenance, looked weakly towards Cornelius. His happiness was foreign and odd in their minds. None more so than Frances.
Brother, you have ignored us. We need to find sustenance, but you refuse to help.
How can I focus on eating? I've found the answer to the fate of the captors!
To Cornelius, it seemed obvious which problem was more important. What's more, if these strange creatures had saved them once, they might be able to do it again.
There are creatures here, the ones that freed us. They can help us to find sustenance, don't you see?
Frances was unmoved.
Cornelius, this madness will only lead to trouble. This same ill logic is what confined us. You have no right not to assist us!
But I do! I have Vincent's word.
Vincent then? Very well.
Cornelius sensed a change in Frances, something he could not quite isolate.
Let Vincent decide this feud at the next sunrise.

Watching the birds gave Stan no information. All he could see was the birds making weird expressions at each other. He still was no closer to figuring out anything. He still couldn't communicate with anyone, he still didn't know how 306 had gotten into the site. They only thing he knew was how frustrated he was.
It seemed like this frustration would be the death of him. Stan was losing his sanity, trapped in his own mind. Like a night terror he simply couldn't wake from, the situation refused to give him relief.
Tonight, Stan truly wanted to die.
It was because of this that he could not sleep. So Stan went again to the computer terminal.
He did not know what he wanted to see. Maybe more of the database. Or maybe he would try to access one of the cognitohazards. He could end his life instantly with one of those. Then the horror would end.
But again, the potential horror of death hung over Stan like a stalker. He simply couldn't bring himself to do it.
But out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw one of the birds again. And the 659 saw him too, as both were now looking at each other. For a moment, it was as if Stan could understand this bird.
Yes, now it was clear. The birds wanted normalcy. They wanted freedom. But more than that. They wanted the same thing the Foundation hoped to maintain for humanity. A life free of unknowns.
And in that moment, as Stan saw the emotion of a thing he had dreaded long ago, he could almost sense a bond. And then he thought.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did.
And as if the bird could sense his thoughts, Stan swore he could see a smile on the bird's face.
Then 659 walked closer, keeping its eyes locked on Stan's. Slowly, it moved towards him, until it was just inches away. Then, gently, the bird reached out it's claws and, even more gently, took Stan in them.
Then, ever so slowly, this strange bird lifted itself up, and with careful grace, took flight. And then Stan wondered if he was dead, if maybe this was what it felt like to exit the world. Maybe death was a release.
If that was the case, Stan was OK with it.

Cornelius felt this most incredible rush pulse through his being. At last, he had one of the great saviors. He would take him to Vincent, and then he would know. What was even better, there was still time before sunrise.
Setting himself down for a moment, Cornelius saw that the strange amphibian had fallen asleep. It's eye's were closed as it breathed slowly and peacefully. The creature seemed pleased.
Cornelius placed the incredible creature softly on the floor, careful not to wake him. Then, ever more slowly, he moved towards the chamber at the end of the hall, which had been reserved for Vincent. Surely, now the leader would decide in his favor.
But as he got closer, he sensed that something was amiss. The door, normally guarded by two, had four sisters standing by it. The smell, the air, was filled with a sickening odor, the stench of blood.
Cornelius remembered this feeling once. The day that the old leader perished. He did not want to believe what he was now presented with.
How?
This was all he could ask.
He died of weakness. Sister Frances found him just a short while ago.
And indeed, Frances, who appeared shaken, sat in another doorway.
Do you see now, Cornelius? This was by your negligence! Your silly games has caused a death!
But Cornelius still could not understand it. He was petrified and bewildered.
I smelled his blood. His blood has spilled, Frances!
Cornelius! You are my brother. The son of my parents! You have crossed me, you have crossed us all! I cannot look you in the face!
Cornelius was amazed. He felt the guilt of the fraternity on his head and could not stand. Then he let out a call. The call of distress. The cry.
Cornelius cried.

Stan awoke next to the strange bird.
For a second, Stan was angry to be alive. But that soon gave way to dread, the dread he had felt for too long. But at the very least, he didn't feel quite as much dread as normal. Perhaps it was because he had slept well.
In fact, he had slept so well, Stan thought that the bird he had seen last night may have only been a dream. It would make sense, after all, he didn't think it was possible to be that happy outside of sleep.
And then Stan realized he had been awake, because the bird was standing nearby. It still was looking at him, but now it appeared weak.
Stan then remembered something about 659: they could read. That was one of the reasons they were considered anomalous. And if they could read, Stan could communicate with them directly.
But how to write? Stan still had no opposable thumbs. He couldn't hold a pen for two seconds, much less write with one.
The computer terminal!
Despite having felt as though he had flown for an hour last night, the terminal was just a few meters down the hall. Still running.
Stan raced down the hall.

As the savior leaped up from his rest, Cornelius was suddenly struck with surprise. The creature leaped down the hallway at a rate nearing his own flying speed. In all his life, he had not seen such agility before.
Cornelius followed the frog down the hallway. He tried to fly at first, but found himself suddenly weak. Then he walked, but he then realized how faint he felt. His past excitement had distracted him to his most basic needs.
But after just a moment, the frog stopped. It stood for a moment in front of a chamber who's entrance lacked a gate. Cornelius thought it appeared as though the gate had been torn away, as the creature hopped into the room. Cornelius walked into the room and saw.
On the outermost walls were dimly glowing screens, with every screen partitioned by another, paler wall. Below each screen was a table, and one the tables there were a large amount of buttons, each one labeled with one of the symbols that the captors composed their words with.
The frog hopped up on one of these tables. Then, with extreme care, he slowly pressed the buttons.
As he did this, the message appeared on the screen.

im sorry for what we did. you dont deserve to be stuck here
That seemed like a good message to the bird. It got across exactly how he felt, and it was simple. Stan turned to leave.
But as he hopped off the table, the bird hopped on. It began to quickly peck the keys, typing it's own message.
The message appeared on the screen

you frred me and my bropthers. why should you apologiz?
This seemed like chopped logic. How could the frogs have done wrong to the fraternity?
i didnt free anyone. we contained you. thats why im sorry
Contained? Cornelius was flabbergasted. The humans, not the frogs, were their captors.
Cornelius typed a new message, which appeared on the screen.

nio, you destroyed the umans whop were our captorrs!
It then dawned on Stan why the bird had been so fascinated with him. This simple misconception had caused 659 to give the thanks that Stan never deserved. And this misunderstanding needed to end.
i am one of those humans. i know i dont look like it, but i am.
Stan waited for the bird to type his response. But the bird remained still, so Stan typed another message, and it appeared on the screen.

were still human, we were transformed.
No.
Cornelius thought. Then he stopped for the fear that he was thinking the thoughts of fools. Or perhaps it was not a fear. Cornelius had already contemplated a fool's ideas.
Cornelius typed very slowly.
i am afool. i misleadd myselfn. you doint know my engligence.
Frances was right. These games were naive and unfounded. Vincent was dead because of him.
Cornelius was a fool
i am a foll.

Stan had caused this creature a significant amount of pain. At this point, why wouldn't the bird want him dead? Maybe…
Stan typed a message for a favor, which appeared on the screen.
my name is stan. i dont know if i want to live. but i know that you dont want me to continue.

Cornelius was not mad at the captor called Stan. He was mad at himself for being so mislead.
myh name is cornelius
He paused, then continued.
i cant sttrike you. this is my fualt.
Cornelius turned away. As he did, Stan typed a final message, which appeared on the screen.

i hope for you to find normal.

When one believes themselves to understand, this can cause an extreme elation. But with a positive, there is always an equal negative. And when one discovers that they have been mislead, either by themselves or my another, this elation becomes despair.
Cornelius believed that he had mislead himself. By jumping to a conclusion without examining his haste, the sweetness of his freedom had turned sour with death. There was nothing else to see, was there?
And now this was a time to step back. Cornelius still longed for a truth, something to explain it all. His theory did not match what could be seen, so a new one was needed.
But step back once more. Deeper than that. Cornelius remembered the captors. Their cruel tests, their debates of what his thoughts were, and then their attempts at explaining. When a theory did not match what was seen, they found a new one.
And here was that which was similar.
Step back again, and look at the whole story. The days when the humans first found the fraternity, and thought them strange. The days when brotherhood refused to make brothers of these mislead creatures. The days when sisterhood conspired to wage war, and to end scores who were too stupid to know the truth. The days when poor fools saw their attempts to understand collapse, while birds rejoiced.
Another step, and look at the reasons. Before they had known of the other, there was no conflict. The birds hunted while the humans built cities around them. There was only normal.
Normal.
Cornelius could see now, see the normal that Stan hoped for him. What they both wanted, and all that they ever wanted. They did not wish step off a path, for to do so was frightening.
Thus was the final step. They both wanted the same thing. Perhaps they were not so different.
By this time, Stan had stepped out, and left the room.

Frances wished she could take it back. She hoped he would awaken. Then she wished that she would not.
The guards now could not let her leave. She had done a horrid thing.
Cornelius approached from down the hall. Hunger finally seemed to hit him.
"Frances,"
She did not respond.
"Frances, I need you to listen to me."
"Leave me alone."
"Frances," Cornelius begged, "I know you do not want to see me, but I need to apologize!"
Frances did not want to face him.
"It was my fault for Vincent's death. You were right about this delusion. There were no saviors, and…"
"Cornelius."
Frances couldn't take it.
"It's not your fault the Vincent is dead! It's mine, Cornelius!"

I just wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to understand my viewpoint. I told him that your curiosity was foolish. He told me that my approach was dangerous. He said my search was futile, and that I was the one putting us in danger. I thought he was crazy, I thought that would get us all killed. And then, it all fell apart.
Cornelius never could have thought this would happen. Frances, the calm and logical sister, had killed a brother.
I know what he meant now. My refusal to step off a path, that was the true danger. You were willing to try that which was new. Your search could have found something, where as mine has gone through this entire complex and found nothing. I know you don't want to look me in the face ever again, my brother. I do not either.
Cornelius was still. His surprise was not a shock, but a fascination. The clues he had searched for now made sense.
Cornelius, leave!
It now made sense.
Frances, it makes sense now.

Frances still could not understand.
"Cornelius, I don't want to listen to you!"
She could not understand what Cornelius saw.
"In a way," said Cornelius, "You're a lot like the humans."
Frances did not take offense. She already thought herself negatively.
"You did something bad, but you did so because you thought, in that moment, that it would be for the best."
Cornelius paused a moment, then explained.
"The humans imprisoned us because they thought, in that moment, that we might harm their normalcy. They were wrong in that, and you were wrong in striking down Vincent. But we, our fraternity, proved them right by our attacks. Does that not make us just as wrong? And now, we see that they are gone. Fate has punished them. Shall we, we who chose not to be peaceful, find ourselves similarly facing our consequences?
"Frances, none of this turmoil is to our benefit. Not our dissent, not the humans' dissent. Why, then, should we not reconcile? Please, Frances."
Cornelius approached closer, and asked a final question.
"Will you reconcile?"

Cornelius waited in hopes of a response. Then, cautiously, Frances looked up.
And Cornelius was satisfied.

On ██/██/████, Site-█ experienced an outbreak of SCP-306. The breach occurred during transport of samples, likely due to improper handling.
Infection rates exceeded 75% within one week. At that time, a site lock down occurred in accordance with Procedure ██q. By order of O5-█, detonation of site warhead in accordance with Procedure █4█ was not performed, citing Incident I-306-3.
Entry into Site occurred 3 months following initial breach. Teams recovered ███ instances of SCP-306-1, all of which showed signs of malnutrition. 80% of missing personnel have been identified as SCP-306-1 at the time of this writing.
As a direct result of breach, all instances of SCP-659 at the site exited containment. All recovered instances show signs of malnutrition. Instances displayed unusual docility during recontainment. All instances involved have since repeatedly attempted communication with personnel. The reason why is currently unknown.
Please see Document 306-659-█ for further details.

The document was left on the table in the new containment chamber. All of the specimens could see the document clearly through the glass. Some of them paid no attention to it. A few of them read it and thought little of it. But Stan read and understood
Stan was fine with this all. He didn't mind that he would never see the outside world. He didn't mind never finishing his research. His colleagues were with him, and the keyboard was already slimy from their happy conversations. But none of it really mattered.
Cornelius had left him another message, which he had read just before rescue came.
i foiund normal
And now it made sense. All that Stan had left to do was decide. With this information, he was ready.
He made his decision and felt no fear. All that mattered was that he was happy.


INTERNAL MEMO
ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE L-1/883 AND HIGHER
DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE

re: SCP-883 Containment & Research Procedures Updates, Effective 1999-03-13
Following the events that occurred on 1999-01-25, exploration within SCP-883 has been restricted to 6.5 kilometers or less. Should any insects show unexpected levels of aggression, all personnel will immediately retreat to no more than 1.0 kilometers from the entrance until such time as the on-site MTF has investigated and the lead researchers have cleared the incident. Meetings providing the full details of the new security procedures are being scheduled. See your section leader for assigned times.
Honey harvesting will continue as currently scheduled, with the guard force increased by 50%. Remember that no more than 1 liter should be harvested from any given 5 meter length of honeycomb. Additionally, new kevlar protective suits have been developed and will be assigned as of the effective date listed above.
MTF η-5 will be dissolved and the surviving members reassigned. MTF ζ-9 will be transferred in until such time as MTF η-5 is re-formed. Please welcome the "Mole Rats" to their new assignment.

I have dreams of it, you know. Flying and falling and floating. Deep blue sea that is filled with a vast buzz of scales against wings. The details differ; sometimes I'm swimming with the fishes, sometimes it's the birds and the bees. But I always dive deeper, deeper, deeper into the heart of the swarm, the school, the secret.

The members of the new Recon Task Force designated Omicron-6 were a careful selection of ichthyologists, oceanographers, submarine and submersible operators, and agents with spatial distortions experience. As the only member of MTF Eta-5 with underwater combat training, Agent Patricia Ortiz was a perfect choice. After her initial briefing into SCP-850's security and containment protocols, she was somewhat disturbed. As far as the Foundation grapevine was concerned, SCPs were pretty much all unique, and to find a pair of disconnected ones that were so similar was disconcerting.
Still, until the Bottleship was completed, she'd be spending her time with the other non-engineering members of the Trilobites refreshing and retraining her underwater skills. It'd been a while since she'd used a harpoon, and the ones they'd be using were rather more powerful than what she'd originally trained with. She wasn't looking forward to encountering the larger inhabitants of the zone.

At the heart of it all is what I think of as the Queen. Not in the sense of a great mother or a ruler, but rather like the rat-kings of old: the maddened result of too many creatures knotted together in too small a space until a great horrible vastness forms. In the nature of dreams, it is all-encompassing, surrounding without and within like the fabric of reality itself, while its single form lays in front of me, lazily gliding around me on its finwings.

Even including the usual construction delays and last-minute mission tweaks, Project Bottleship was completed within a reasonable amount of time. It was a testament to the dedication of the Foundation construction crews that a 50-meter-long submarine could be constructed in free ocean while surrounded by a school of herring in constant motion. The Trilobite was a pride of engineering, and well up to the task set before it.
It was midday when the last of the crew finally boarded their new home and the exploration mission finally officially began. Agent Ortiz heard a thin cheer as the captain announced that they were descending, and wondered what green researcher thought that any exploration assignment was a good excitement. She, like all field agents, knew that the best assignments were boring, and sincerely hoped that this one would be so dull that she'd be begging to surface just so she could see some unfamiliar faces.

This is the point where you'd expect me to say something dramatic like I startle awake, sitting straight up in bed, soaked in a cold sweat. But that doesn't happen.
Or that the Queen whispers dark secrets into my mind that promise to drag me into an enlightened insanity. But that doesn't happen.
What happens is that it flicker-flutters off, utterly uninterested in one not of its kingdom or kind. And then the dream resumes a more normal surreality, leading to random sparkings and images as my mind resumes its nightly housecleaning.

The submarine moved slowly through the school, as visibility was essentially nil due to the fish, and sonar was little better due to the same interference. The last thing that the crew wanted was the ignomity of crashing into an unexpected seafloor or undersea mountain. The slow pace suited some of the more excitable ichthyologists just fine, though, as it gave them a chance to get as much footage of the fish they passed as possible.
The first few kilometers were interesting, as the herring veered around the intruder into their realm, slowly changing in subtle ways into new variations of the base species. The novelty rapidly wore off, though, and the next few tens of kilometers quickly subsided into a nice boredom. The scientists still noted the slow progression of changes, but a subtle coloration change or slightly different fin shape were less entertaining than before.
There was a burst of interest at the end of the first day, when the ship officially passed the previously established point of furthest exploration and they entered truly uncharted territory.
The schools of herring that they'd been passing through started to thin as the fish diverged into more and more radically different body plans and sizes, building into a new, self-contained piscine ecosystem. After a few days, they had thinned enough that the sonar was able to function more or less unimpeded. This was less of a blessing than expected, given that they still couldn't ping a bottom.

But I still remember the dreams and the intersection that is the Queen. A great fish large enough to swallow the sea, yet the size of the humblest buzzing bee, emblazzoned in shimmering colors of indifference. I know that it waits, deep within a school and opened by a comb. It waits, for it has world enough and time to wait.

After a week more of exploring the widths and depths of the schools, the weapons officers had already had to spear several large fish which had been getting aggressive with the ship, including one almost 10 meters long. But no significant damage had been done before the aggressors were either killed or driven off, so the captain and lead researcher decided to dive until a bottom was found, or until they reached the limit at which they wouldn't have enough fuel to return.
Deeper and deeper the Trilobite sank, discovering a strange occurrence: the schools of fish began to get denser again, only this time they were composed of larger and larger fish. They seemed to accept the submarine as one of their own, though, and the number of attacks dwindled to nothing. But an air of expectancy permeated the ship as the crew subconsciously felt a sense of impending… something. Maybe doom, maybe salvation, maybe just a threshold.
The appearance of the mountain peak should have been a relief, but just increased the feeling of trepidation. It was roughly triangular from above, with a tip blunted by water and seemingly scalloped trailing slopes. And it extended even farther downwards, past the lower limit at which the intervening fish created a confused sonar signature too dense to read past.
It wasn't until they were a few hundred meters from the mountain's side that it suddenly flexed and the Trilobite was roughly shoved away by the massive wall of water. The next few minutes were a confusion of alarms and rolling and jumbled feelings of both despair and relief as the tense atmosphere finally released. The relief was short-lived, however, as the massively broad and scaled body to which the mountain was attached rose up to meet the fragile ship.

And when the men in their armor and the women with their pots finally come upon it, it will move and it will lead and it will feed.

INTERNAL MEMO
ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE L-4/850, L-4/883
DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE

re: SCP cross-contamination
All personnel with clearance to read this memorandum have been provided clearance to read the summary dossiers for SCP-850 and SCP-883. Please review these dossiers prior to continuing to read this memo.
On 2000-12-12, the Foundation lost contact with the deep sea exploratory mission into SCP-850, codename "Trilobite". Among the personnel aboard was Agent Patricia Ortiz, formerly a member of MTF η-5, which had been assigned to SCP-883 prior to its dissolution.
On 2001-03-01, members of MTF ζ-9 discovered Agent Ortiz in SCP-883, 7.3 kilometers from the entrance to SCP-883. She was found unconscious in a fetal position, covered with approximately 1700 insects with known high levels of aggression, none of which had stung her. Agent Ortiz was retrieved and placed in a quarantine unit and has not yet regained consciousness.
Please provide a list of information you wish Agent Ortiz to provide once she has awakened. Relevant questions will be compiled and incorporated into her debriefing and a full, un-redacted transcript will be provided to lead researchers.

And it hungers still.


The lady sits and stands and sleeps,
forgotten, in her tower.
Dreams line up to play with her.
A new game every hour.

There's a fun old game of Hide and Seek
in a room that's bare as sin.

Of course she came up as normal for every test they ran. That was the whole point of her. She existed to be normal, to fool everyone, including herself. When the coffee machine in the small break room a few hallways down clogged, nobody thought it could be SCP-1943. When a rat got into the circuitry through a loose panel and bit through a few crucial wires, unlocking half of the cells in Site-06-3, the only thing that Sarah Gruenwald did was hold her door shut until a security officer called through it to say that the breach had been contained.
No culprit aside from bad luck was considered when SCP-1669-65 appeared in a corridor with a small but incredibly powerful bomb strapped to his chest. As the site dissolved into chaos a much, much larger bomb under the ground was activated.
As the architects drew up the plans for Site-06-4, where the few humanoids that they had been able to evacuate would be housed, nobody ever imagined that SCP-1943 had done anything but sacrifice herself to save an old coworker. How could they? She was just a normal, scared human being.

There's the game where winning lies in
The perfect placing of a pin.

Sarah woke up and ached everywhere. She had spent hours in a machine, being thrashed around, injected, and tattooed all over her body.
Now she was bound hands and feet with a single rope that had been braided in the most complex pattern she had ever seen. She would have screamed, but her mouth was gagged with the same dusty hempen rope. She was wearing a simple white silk robe, and being carried over bare red rock by two large men, both patchworks of human, machine, and magic.
The Insurgency.
She was set down at the center of an immaculately drawn circle covered in strange runes. The sky above her was black, no stars, no moon. Out side of her field of vision, there was the sound of paper being unrolled, and a voice called out, "Has the Portal been de-humanized by its former friends?"
"Yes!" came the reply.
"How long have the runes sat untouched by the wind and rain?"
"79 days and 13 hours!"
"What is the exact longitude and latitude of the Portal's heart?"
"25.34505683 degrees South, 131.036162539 degrees East!"
"Then let it begin!"
There was chanting, hours and hours of chanting, and dances, and fire, and water, and other liquids, until finally one of them stood before Sarah with a knife. The blade plunged down, and pierced her chest. As Sarah Gruenwald's vision went dark, something began to fade into being. An eye, serpentine, glowing in the blackness. As the Portal died, she heard the poisonous hissing of a being that would not stop until the entire world dissolved into the black.

There's the game where she must make sense from
The howling of the wind.

One night, after dinner, SCP-1943 complained of mild chest pains to her guard. The site medic came to have a look, and told her that it was probably nothing, but she would come back in the morning. Later that night, Sarah Gruenwald suffered from a heart attack and died.
It was a regrettable incident, but as far as the Foundation could see, nothing had happened. Of course, they had always been blind.
The universe was connected, in ways that nobody had yet been able to fully understand. There were threads, curling and spreading through space and time. If they could have been seen, they would have made the most beautiful patterns. And now, one crucial thread became slack as the force that supported it died away. Small but significant subatomic particles at the edge of creation were nudged just slightly out of alignment. These caused further jostling among the atoms, bonds broke, and order began to unravel at the seams.
It was years before the entropy had spread far enough that the Foundation could observe it. It was catalogued as a Keter threat and plans began to form. Coincidentally, it was given the designation 1943, a space that had been left open for several years by sentimental researchers.
They were too slow in their planning, however. The chaos spread too far, too fast, and the entire world was swallowed by it.

But no matter what the game may be,

Sarah Gruenwald spent the rest of her life as an SCP. Researchers she had known eventually got promoted, and appealed for her release several times. But there was always some test that hadn't been tried yet, or the Insurgency mounted another raid, or there was just some niggling sense of Doubt, of some stone left unturned, some route left untraveled, that kept her exactly where she was.
Then… she was just another SCP object. Those old friends got promoted away, to new sites, and nobody was left that really knew her. To them, she had always been SCP-1943, so she must be an SCP for some reason. The Foundation trained their Humanoid researchers very well. They took her out from time to time, interviewed her, ran some of the old tests, and took dry notes that they added to a file, and never once referred to her by name, or recognized her gender with any term other than "female."
Then she died. Her remains were tested and found to be non-anomalous. The Site Director shook her head once, and signed the paperwork to award SCP-1943 a posthumous Foundation Star. The body was burned, and SCP-1943 was reclassified as neutralized on ██/██/████

The lady never wins.

Fred was momentarily distracted by the difficulty of weaving through the various futures, and cursed the author and multi-outcome stories for making him expend an entire sentence on that.


Though she is a woman and a cripple, her exaltation of Tao Kuang Ti shows a wisdom beyond the menfolk of her barbarous people

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Corroded Relations
Is it this thing or is it this thing?
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

Lin Zexu to Hong Tsu Zhou
Peace be with you and may your family be blessed and honored for all time, in the light of His Majesty the Emperor.
Disheartening as your words have been, I cannot but feel a sense of relief. My work in ridding Guangdong of opium fares better than could be anticipated. We have resorted to extreme measures at times, but no action has been contemptible, for the British merchants have seen the prudence of acquiescence to our demands to cease the opium trade. As a final measure, we have requested some 20,000 chests be surrendered to my men. While it is clear the British will likely falter when pressured by their merchants, they have nevertheless agreed to confiscate the remaining surplus, with promises of compensation for the merchants.
Such a promise will doubtless be broken, but I am relieved by the appearance of an American gentlewoman whose heart has been filled to bursting with deep respect and love for the Celestial Empire and promises the merchants shall be recompensed by her own purse. Though she is a woman and a cripple, her exaltation of Tao Kuang Ti shows a wisdom beyond the menfolk of her barbarous people, and her own personal resources are not to be despised.
I have included a copy of the letter she has recently sent me—you must forgive any oddities: the poor woman has lost her hands and feet to illness but has made astounding progress in using her prostheses to write. Unfortunately her handwriting is quite difficult and in some cases illegible without a master's eye but I know your vision is as sharp as mine, and your English comprehension far greater. Happily, English is significantly simpler than Chinese to render onto paper, so she may yet manage.
Lin Zexu
May your house be blessed to serve the Celestial Empire for all time and by Heaven's will.
I sincerely appreciate all that you have written to me, and I look forward to meeting you and Mr. Hong as soon as this business with the product is concluded. From what I have witnessed in Guangzhou, the beauty of your land, even rapt in the poisonous vice of opium abuse, far outshines the pristine beauty of my own. Your Emperor truly encapsulates the divine blessings All Under Heaven has received.
While your memorial to Queen Victoria is as striking as it is eloquent, regrettably I must advise you not to let your work fall into British hands. You must know how difficult it is for a simple man to achieve audience with the Emperor himself—and while Her Majesty Queen Victoria is undoubtedly a good and reasonable woman, though far removed from the authority and majesty of Tao Kuang, I have little doubt that your missive will be seen by half a hundred men long before it reaches Her Majesty's gaze, and the hearts of men are not always so good and reasonable.
Keep your memorial to yourself for the time being. I will make my presence known in Guangzhou soon enough, and ensure order is kept among the barbarians and the locals. I do not wish to hijack your work, but my love for China is too great to allow even the slightest possibility that England may seek to squeeze down on the dragon's throat even for a moment. I know you would never openly declare it so, but you and others like you are not fools; the English are capable of utterly destroying all of China by virtue of their superior firepower. I do not presume to lecture one as exalted as you, merely to act as a source by which a wise man may continue to grow more wise.
I know what is in the heart of white men, and while All Under Heaven has remained the steadfast beacon of humanity for millennia, the Earth does not discriminate whom is to reap its riches. As China has been blessed with silver, gold, tea, and cotton, the English have been cursed with a dreary land surrounded by cold ocean with nothing in the soil worth extracting save smoky black rock.
I am well aware the Great Qing Empire has gunpowder as well. Simply consider this: it may seem foolish to tow absurdly massive guns upon frail wooden ships, but for a barbarous people as the English to have brought many frail ships across the whole world and to China and not lost any save to their own incompetence does not speak ill of them at all. Remember that there is wisdom to be learned even from fools.
As a parting note, I would very much wish to know all that you and your friends know of cosmology, and if you are familiar with the concept of thermo-dynamics and entropy. I will neither resent nor despair if you have not; I merely wish to know. As well, I do not wish you to think me terribly dull; I am sending you a copy of some of my favorite works of historical literature. Have you heard of Xenophon? I think we shall find much pleasant discussion to be had over his book, The Anabasis.
My love and blessings,
Andrea Reyne


Thomas Bailey awoke to the sun streaming in through his window. It was 25.6 degrees Centigrade outside, which considering the fact that he was in the Antarctic Circle in the middle of summer, it had no right to be. He rubbed his eyes and went up to the window, opening it and looking out at the streets of the Imperial City where his apartment was.
Below him, children from the Summer Court played in one of the many lichen gardens in the noble district. A flightless bird the size of a German Shepherd, which Tom recognized as an Imperial Auk (Pinguinus impennis imperialis) waddled through the streets on a leash, alongside a noblewoman who was wearing a robe with large, poofy sleeves with a green trim, and a pointed cap with some Penguin feathers in the end. Across the street, a courier from the Black Court ran along the walls of the apartments, being kept up only through sheer momentum (And possibly a Blessing). Couriers were only used to deliver eyes-only mail; they would use the telephone for anything like saying that his bills needed paying, or just send it through traditional mail if it was something like an advertisement. So, that meant the mail was for him.
Sure enough, the courier jumped the gap between the apartments- a good 10 meters or so- and sprang right through Tom's open window. The Bailey triplet only managed to get out of the way in the nick of time as the furred man landed on his bed like some form of panther. He was barely visible against the scenery of Tom's apartment, due to the fact that he wore Western Chameleon leather, which made him almost invisible.
The courier, a man named Da'ai the Swift, grunted in Antarctican, "It's polite to keep your window closed if you're expecting us.1"
"I like the view from my window in the morning," Tom replied in the same tongue, crossing his arms. "And I wasn't expecting you; what's this about?"
"Directly from the Institute," grunted the Courier, handing him an envelope with the seal of the IIPES on it.
Tom took the letter and set it aside. It was impolite to open mail in front of a courier. The man coughed, holding out his hand; sighing, Tom surrendered 5 Imperials to the man."Da'ai, you know that you're not supposed to take tips."
"Think of it as a bribe, Thomas Bailey." The Black Courtsman pronounced it "Too-mass Balley". "You give me money, I don't tell anyone what was in the letter."
"…I'll leave my window closed next time," Tom said, stepping aside. Da'ai the Swift climbed out the window, onto the rooftop. Tom heard the man's footsteps run away as he sped off. "…showoff," Tom muttered, opening the letter.

Half an hour later, Tom was driving his 484 Saquah Speeder2 down the streets of the Imperial City, looking around. He drove through the market district, where people pedaled next to him on bicycles, trying to sell him car insurance. Tom ignored them, and took some lichen from his car's snuffbox and chewed on it; it gave a feeling similar to tobacco, but it didn't give you cancer if you used it every day for 60 years. It may make your hair fall out, dye your skin purple and negate any Blessings you possess, but it won't give you cancer.
The radio in Tom's car started playing the Antarctican Anthem as he drove near the Palace, which was at the very center of the city. Tom never got tired of hearing it, despite the fact that he had lived here for the past three years; he suspected that it had a memetic property of some kind that kept it from being boring. The palace itself was carved from the bones of a giant… something that was called Sanak Thiuh, with the skull serving as the entrance. He'd always wanted to get a sample of it, but he'd be executed for vandalizing imperial property if he so much as touched an exterior wall without permission.
As Tom cleared the Palace, he pulled up to an Institute station, and saw a speed bus was pulled up next to it. Exiting it were some more 'northern nobility', or as he knew them, Foundation researchers. He recognized a couple of them as being from 87, but other than that, they were fresh faces. They had probably just arrived from the zeppelin station3, and one of the newbies- a horticulturalist- was bending over to inspect a flower. Said flower jumped up at her face and clung to her nose, where it began to suck the blood out. She flailed around while some Blessed medics tried to pull it off her face, one of them stunning it and the other healing the wound on her nose.
Newbies, thought Tom, shaking his head and heading into the Institute's main entrance.

Tom's assistant, the ever-chipper Yu'nai Bitop beamed at Tom, her dark skin reflecting the soft electric light of the facility as they walked along. The soft lighting was a stark contrast to the bright, harsh lights that Sites like 87 and 19 had; all incandescent, all yellow, all pleasant. The lighting was one of the first things that Tom noticed when he came into an Institute-sanctioned facility. "They're in the assembly hall. You have your speech ready?"
"Yes, Yu." Tom smiled back, holding up some note cards and walking along, humming to himself. He emerged onto the stage, which was more of a raised platform in the center of the hall, carved from the wishbones of one of the last known giant selachimorphic cranes.4
He counted the people out in the hall. There were 40 of them, most of them women, which was a welcome change. He started talking. "Good morning," Tom said. "My name is Dr. Thomas Bailey, and I regret to inform you that for the next two years, you will not be having any coffee. You will not be seeing your significant others. You will be under supervision at all times. You will be led by an authority that does not understand your species- wait." Tom looked at his note cards and frowned, slapping his forehead. "Dammit! I mixed up my notes with the Site 19 orientation."
This drew a laugh from the crowd, particularly a couple of people from 19 itself. "Anyway. I'm afraid I'm serious about the no coffee bit, but they have lizards here that have caffeinated blood. So just try a bit of their meat and it'll wake you up better than any Starbucks ever could." Tom actually pulled out a bit of dried lizard from his pocket; they were in snack bags like M&Ms or Skittles back home. He ate it in front of the crowd, some of whom looked disgusted, but most of them just thought 'eh, once you see a man get turned inside-out by his own intestines, not much fazes you'.
"This place is nothing like the baseline. There are things here that we think are anomalous that are common place, like, say, caffeinated lizards. There are squads of people here whose sole job is killing Giant Antarctic Penguins before they can bite off the heads of Imperial citizens and nobility. Magic is quite real here, and several people can use it; and before you ask, you're welcome to try, if you're part of Occult Studies." This drew a small 'aww' from a few people in the crowd, while a couple of Hispanic women in the back high-fived each other. Tom continued. "Most people here have at least five names, but unless they're nobility, you're free to call them by two. This place is a matriarchy, so, ladies, please don't have me executed for talking your ears off." Tom tipped his wide-brimmed straw hat at a red-headed researcher he recognized from 87; he thought her name was Lara? From theology.
"The first thing you're going to need to know here is how to speak the language, which all of you must know, considering the mandatory language exams you passed to come here. The second thing you need to know is the culture, and sadly, despite my repeated insistence, cultural exams are not mandatory." Tom shook his head, and stepped off the stage. It raised itself into a cylinder, and projectors from around the hall began showing an IIPES picture entitled: "THE HISTORY OF THE THIRD EMPIRE". "It's a three-hour film," Tom remarked. "But it has some good parts. I always cry when they talk about the first empress."

Four hours later, the speed bus dropped off about a third of the newbies in the Noble's Quarter of the Antarctic Empire. The rest would be shipped off to other, more remote parts for anthropological, zoological, botanical or other scientific work. Several of them were going to be studying the Black Court seaward, away from the city and widdershins5. The rest of them would be staying in Tom's building.
Tom's building was a tall structure carved out of fungal limestone; the fungus reinforced the otherwise weak rock, making it able to bear great loads, and also made it incredibly resistant to, say, an anti-Imperialist bomb. It was used to build the foundations of several buildings near the Imperial City. To have an entire house made out of it was a sign of both wealth and paranoia, both things the Foundation and the Institute possessed in great quantities when it came to 'northern nobility'.
"This is it," Tom said, opening the door to the apartments. "Everyone's been assigned a room?" There was a general murmur of assent. "Good. You'll find a welcome package in there. Oh, and, don't worry about the water; it may taste a little weird, but that's just because it's been filtered." Tom neglected to mention what it was filtered by, figuring it was best they discover it by themselves. He let the newbies go to their rooms and eventually made his way up to his own room. There, waiting on the bed, was Da'ai the Swift.
Tom scowled at him. "What are you doing? You'll get fur on the sheets! I don't want the housekeepers spreading rumors about me again!"
"Another message, Toomas Balley." He jumped up from the bed, offering him an envelope. It bore the symbol of house Ka'Ki. They must have spent a lot to get a message to him.
Tom frowned, opening the envelope and tsk-ing. "Another duel challenge? I guess they've at least stopped trying to send assassins after me, which is good."
"They actually offered me 500 Imperials to stick a knife in your neck." Da'ai grinned at him, his teeth black from the lack of dental hygiene in the Black Court.
"Did you take the offer?" Tom asked seriously, looking over the letter still.
"And lose my Blessing? Empress no!"
"Pity. We could have split it. I would have let you keep most of it." Tom put the letter on his bedside and sighed. "You're dismissed. Tell them that I'll consider their invitation."
"…you have courage, Toomas Balley. Especially after what you did."
"All I did was politely ask the Empress to look into it. The Appropriators did the rest." Tom smirked, sitting on the bed. "And didn't I say you were dismissed?"
"You did, you did." Da'ai the Swift turned to the window. "Take care, Toomas." Da'ai leapt from the window, landed on the ground for a split second, before leaping from the ground into a wall, climbing up in and onto a roof, before dashing off into the distance.
Tom called after him, "You're still a show-off!" He shook his head and shut the window, sitting on his bed and sighing. In summer, the sun never set; it just went lower in the sky. So, with that in mind, he closed the blinds, locked the doors, and cracked open a copy of Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book he had brought from baseline. He had read this book fifteen times.
Time to start on the sixteenth.

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Footnotes
1. Tom knew this was a load of bunk; the couriers often broke windows by landing on them. Better to keep it open at all times, except when you were being subjected to an assassination attempt. Tom knew far too well about those.
2. The name "Saquah" and the word "Speed" were oxymorons in the Empire. He could easily afford a 485 Sengai Eagle, but he chose to remain modest so he wouldn't be followed by members of the Ka'Ki family.
3. Tom always found himself wondering why alternate universes always had zeppelins for personnel transport. Was Hindenburg an event unique to baseline?
4. The corpse of this crane had been delivered onto the doorstep of the institute's headquarters with a note that simply said "Your Welcome" [sic], in English no less. It had taken until the Foundation had arrived here to translate the note.
5. The fact that this resembled the work of one Mr. Pratchett did not escape Tom's notice; he had been a fan of his work since he read Night Watch.