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A mix of torrential rain and seawater pounds against the deck of The Loose Neutron as Agent Trauss sprints away from the stern railing and into one of the port side doors. He removes his helmet and wrings his hair out, dirty water splashing through the grate floor. Stumbling as the ship lurches, he hurries through the short grid of hallways and comes into the main cabin.
"Captain," he pants, his vest and equipment drenched and forming a puddle on the wood floor. "Captain Delacruz. There's an enormous entity trailing us. It looks large enough to damage the hull."
Delacruz turns around, bracing his thin, elderly frame against the back of his chair as he swivels. He looks flustered. "I can't handle this hurricane on autopilot, you know. I have to focus. It's pouring out there. What do you think you saw, son?"
"A cephalopod. You couldn't miss it even in this rain. It's bright orange. I saw a large section of its body. It's the size of a frigate."
The wrinkles on Delacruz's face flatten as he widens his eyes. "Has it caught up with us? If I go any faster, you won't be able to stand up out there."
"It's only a few hundred meters behind us. It's definitely getting closer. I first saw it in the binoculars about ten minutes ago. It was twice as close when I looked before coming in here."
He nods. "Alright. Go get your boy Rogers and hop on the stern guns." His voice cracks underneath the rasp of his southern accent." But do not fire until I give you the all-clear. I think we can make it lose interest if we speed up, but get on out there."
"Yes sir."
"That's 'aye captain'. Talk to me on your helmet comms once you're set up."
Trauss fakes a chuckle and does a mock-salute as he turns on his heel and dashes back out to the hallway. He ducks into the barracks room and approaches Agent Rogers, who is rereading a copy of SCP-3848 as he reclines in his cot. He's been doing that a lot. "Hey," he starts.
"What are you all wet for?"
"I need you on the deck with me. There's a massive cephalopod trailing the ship and getting closer. Captain told us to go man the stern guns."
"Shit, alright." Rogers rolls out of bed and throws his boots on.
"You had your shoes off while we travel across a 3069 hot zone? We're getting close to the Site. This is the worst of it."
"I was trying not to be paranoid," he huffs.
"Meet me there. I need to make sure that thing isn't any closer."
"Alright. Hey, I call the 20 millimeter!" he calls out after him.
Trauss pushes his hair out of his face and puts his helmet back on, flipping the visor down and bracing himself for the conditions outside. He takes a deep breath and cranks open the starboard side hatch, rain pelting against his gear and the wetsuit underneath as he slides down the ladder and lands on the deck. He stumbles against the wind as he crosses the short distance from the ladder to the harpoon gun on the stern, taking hold of it with a gloved hand and yanking himself up into the seat.
He levels the viewfinder with his eyes and adjusts the focus, zooming in on the horizon. "Captain, I'm on the harpoon. I'm looking for it now." His boots aren't waterproof, and the cold water dripping in is starting to distract him.
"Where's Rogers?" Delacruz's voice crackles in his helmet under the sound of rushing water.
"A minute or two behind me. Stand by." He scans the horizon. "Shit, I'm not seeing it."
"I got nothing up front, son."
The view of dark gray waves and rain suddenly changes to a blur of orange. Trauss jolts in surprise and zooms out, refocusing the lens to reveal a view of writhing, transparent tentacles thrashing in the water, their internal structure highlighted by phosphorescent orange flesh and veins. "Fuck. This thing is closer than I thought. I'm reading it at 113 meters out."
"To your left," Rogers says over the headset as he runs up. Being significantly bulkier than his coworker, he doesn't struggle in the wind as he leaps into the seat of the 20mm autocannon mounted several meters to Trauss' left.
"The entity is 110 meters out at your one o'clock."
"Tell me when to fire, Captain." Trauss can only hear Rogers over the earpiece, the sounds of the elements drowning out his voice.
"Do not fire, Agent Rogers. Maintain an awareness of the entity's position."
Trauss swivels the viewfinder onto the center of the creature's mass again. He zooms out. "75 meters."
"Taking it to 35 knots, boys."
Trauss braces his boots against the mount as the vessel accelerates, his back flat against the seat and arms straight. "65 meters."
"Why can't I fire at this thing? Clearly it sees us!"
"I said hold off, Agent!"
"60 meters."
"Approaching 40 knots."
Trauss is thankful to have no sense of scale for speed as The Loose Neutron rockets across towering waves, the spray from each impact dousing the deck in cold seawater. He feels moisture start to leak into his suit around his neck. "50 meters."
"I can't go any faster than that, fellas-"
"I could fire right this second, Captain!"
"That could make things very much worse, son, I said hold off!"
"30 meters."
"Fuck!"
"30? Christ, alright, fire when ready!" the Captain yells. Trauss' earpiece screeches and whines, static fading in. The sound of automatic fire fills the air and overpowers the noise of the roaring hurricane as Trauss focuses in on where Rogers' rounds are striking the creature. Fluorescent yellow fluid bursts out of the bullet wounds before the flesh around it immediately reforms.
"Fucking expected that," Trauss mutters, knowing neither of the others can hear him. He watches the creature swoop downward and under the waves, tentacles trailing behind it.
"Hell no," Rogers mutters.
"Talk to me, boys."
"It went under the surface, Captain."
The craft lurches forward, the force pressing Trauss against the seat. "I'm slowing to 20 knots. Get in here now."
Trauss clambers out of his seat, slipping on the wet metal. He lands on the deck with a loud splash and makes a beeline for the closest hatch, rain covering his face visor and blurring his vision.
"Get in there," Rogers yells, opening the hatch for him. Trauss steps up onto the edge of the hatch as the craft tilts to the side without warning, putting off his balance and sending him tumbling down and sliding across the deck. His vest and gear protects most of his body from the impact, but his helmet slams into the steel railing with a force that makes him lightheaded. He sputters and coughs as splashing seawater strikes his face.
"Don't let go!" Rogers' voice sounds distorted and choppy in Trauss' damaged helmet.
"Not planning on it," he chokes out, fingers wrapped around one of the railing's steel bars. He watches the water below him show a hint of something orange moving below the surface. The ship lurches in the opposite direction as his gloves slip, sending him flying upward in an arc and thudding back down onto the deck as the ship restabilizes. Pain shoots through his ribcage and spine before a tickling twinge in his head nullifies it. His mind fumbles through dreamlike thoughts about that being the first time his N3 implant noticeably affected him as he rolls onto his back, swaying with the boat.
Trauss stands upright on the now-level deck, barely able to see. Three orange tendrils shoot through the downpour after him. He ducks and rolls, still acutely aware of the damage done to his spine despite the N3's pain response countereffects. One of the tendrils trips him, knocking his head against the deck. He makes eye contact with Rogers as the older man exits the hatch and starts to move toward him, mouthing something in what seems like slow motion. The largest of the three tendrils wraps itself around Trauss' throat as he tries to fend off the smaller two, lifting him off the deck and flinging him over to dangle above the rushing water. His vertebrae pop, sending daggers through his back and sides as he struggles to get a hold on the creature's slick skin. The N3's response in his brain is immediate and overwhelming, flooding his limbs with numbing heat and making his head and ears throb.
"Don't panic! We'll do something, damn it!" Rogers' voice doesn't register at all as Trauss gazes at the body of the creature holding him. Its head surfaces, squid-like with two bright orange-and-black eyes, the corneas detailed and vivid. The expression in its irises conveys a sapient presence, the intelligence level of which Trauss infers he cannot fully understand. It tightens its appendage around his neck, black spots starting to fade in from the edges of his vision. He hears more rapid gunfire from the ship, but the anomaly's grip doesn't falter. He loses sensation in his feet and fingers, pulse thumping slowly. One of the other men says something through his headset, but he can't parse the sentence, and can only let out a small moan in response. The last thing he sees before his vision fades is the anomaly's eye, its pupil the size of his head, staring straight into him as his consciousness drains from his body.

"There are those of us who are the Foundation, and there are those of us who serve it."
Trauss opens his eyes. They're sticky, as if he's been sleeping for ages. White light pierces his mind as he tries to lift his head.
"Do you know which side of that line you're on? Do you want to know which side of that line you're on?"
Trauss sits upright and looks for the speaker. Keeping his eyes open takes a great amount of effort; he recognizes from that and from the lack of sensation in his legs that he must be dreaming. He blinks thrice and focuses on the man in front of him: someone older than him, wearing a three-piece black suit, a black bar obscuring his eyes regardless of what angle his head is tilted or how he moves. Trauss tries to speak, but no sound comes out, and he finds that he can't think to formulate a sentence anyway. "Dreaming?" he mouths. The noise that comes out sounds like it's being produced underwater.
The man makes the closest thing to eye contact that he can, head centered behind the redaction. "Do you know who you are?"
He tries to answer, but the more he processes his surroundings, the more his interpretation falls apart; he doesn't see his body even when he looks down, and he doesn't have a neck to tilt down in the first place. The man in front of him is sitting at a desk, but behind it is an expanse of textureless gray space. The light is ambient with no source and stark white.
"It appears you can't stay at this time." he tilts his head down to look at his watch. "I hope to see you again." Trauss catches a glimpse of its face, and the symbol displayed on it sends a spike of pain through his head.
He blinks and the phantom sensation of the eyes he used to have thuds dully in what his mind remembers of his nerve endings. Dreaming, he thinks, and allows the wave of incomprehensible nothingness to overtake him.

Trauss is aware that he's conscious before his body is, and he spends several seconds panicking internally when it won't respond. The darkness shrouding him lifts when someone removes the black cloth from his face. He shakes his head and squints in the fluorescent lighting, making out three people standing around the table on which he's spread out.
"Holy shit," one of the researchers says under her breath.
"H- Uh, hi," he stammers, clearing his throat as he sits upright. His head reels. "What's happened?"
"Will you state your identification?"
"C-51174. Cyrus Trauss, Site-42. Er, I mean- well, that's where I'm from." He looks down at himself, wondering why he's wearing a D-class jumpsuit. He takes in the room around him, knowing that he's never been here before; the ceilings are low and cluttered with arrays of pipes and wires, and the floor and walls are composed of an unfamiliar matte gray material. The doorway behind the researchers is narrow and rounded at the edges, a stripe of white LEDs running around its perimeter.
One of the two women steps forward. "Agent Trauss. Welcome to Lunar Area-32."
He stares, combing through his memories internally. He had left Site-42 on The Loose Neutron. It had gone fairly smoothly for several hours. He had seen something and sprinted to tell the Captain… and then what?
"We know you may be having trouble processing this." Her voice is clearer than most, and she enunciates a little too well, making her appear almost robotic. Trauss shudders and grips the edge of the table. His body feels disproportionate and heavy in a way he can't place. "There was an accident involving an unknown anomalous entity released by SCP-3069. You were killed in action by this entity at 17:20 on July 4th, 2041."
He gulps, his mouth dry.
"You are a copy of Agent Trauss' consciousness, saved via his PII at 17:08 on July 4th, 2041. You have his personality, memories, and certifications. There is no aspect of the human brain that the PII cannot translate into ED-K++ and save as a digital file. You are Agent Trauss, fully, minus twelve minutes of memories and your original body."
He feels sick, the straightforward nature of her explanation feeling like a punch to the gut. "I- I'm dead. I died."
"That body died, but you are right here and alive in another body."
"This- is a D-class. You amnesticized a D-class and put me in their body."
The man speaks up. "No. It's stranger than that," he coughs, tone toeing the line between sardonic and grave. "Certainly. That body has 95 percent of your original DNA, and is technically only sixty days old, though the estimated equivalent age based on health and appearance is 30 years. Using technology similar to that of SCP-2000, we are capable of cloning-"
"Oh God. Oh, fuck." He leans forward and motions at the trash can sitting behind the woman who had been speaking. She understands and hands it to him quickly, looking to the side as he vomits up bile and a bright blue substance.
"That's just preserval fluid. It's not possible to get it all out until the body is autonomous and capable of digestion and regurgitation."
He nods, wishing she would stop talking. Any and all sensory input makes his inner ear ache and throb. "Okay."
"Do you understand?"
"Yes. Just give me a minute."
"Of course. Take all the recovery time you need. If you want, we can wait out-"
"No, no," he stammers, hands shaking. "Sorry, I just- don't want to be alone right now." His breath catches in his throat as if he's about to cry, which he feels he hasn't done in years. He tries to distract himself, sniffing and wiping away the first leak of a tear. "What is today?"
"September 7th, 2041."
He freezes up. "It's been two months? What was I doing for two months?"
The leading researcher crosses her hands at the wrists and looks at him sympathetically. "'You' were a file named 51174.edk on that computer's hard drive for two months." She gestures to the touchscreen monitor array mounted on the wall beside her. "We had to have time to synthesize that body after getting the news that only two of Directive A-42's assignments made it to Site-3069. That script was then loaded into the body you currently occupy approximately 20 minutes ago."
"This body has the same PII as my real one?"
"Actually, one far more advanced. You had the N3, and this is the N4."
"What's the difference?" he rasps, throat burning.
"You'll be provided with a copy of the schematic when you are briefed tomorrow."
He nods, another wave of nausea overtaking him. When his vision blackens and his head reels, he makes the decision to lie back down. He's not certain of whether his body's shaking is because of temperature or emotional distress, but it's overwhelming and he soon finds himself losing consciousness again. The lead researcher says something about making sure he has enough protein in his diet as the room spins out of view and his head thuds against the steel table.

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Researcher Russell was exhausted.
It hadn't just been his job, but also the knowledge that any day now his wife could go into labor. While that wasn't something he dreaded - after all, what was wrong with becoming a father? - he did dread the constant pestering of her family. Especially her mother. On top of having to ensure she didn't learn of what he actually did for a living, her overbearing insistence that she knew how best to care for a pregnant woman was unwanted, to put it lightly.
While these thoughts were on his mind, SCP-705 was safely tucked away in its container. Well, even if it was out of the plastic box it would be harmless, but too much of a hindrance. A minor one, barely worth noticing, but still a hindrance. Researcher Russell was absentmindedly toying with the container, occasionally flicking the lid off just barely before snapping it shut again. It provided him some amusement on this boring assignment, as he had no desire to let it out.
"Researcher Russell, please report to the break room."
"Finally," he muttered, thankful to have something to do at last. However, his mind was preoccupied with what to do if his wife did go into labor and how to get her mother to stay away, so he didn't notice that he had left the lid open more than usual.

How dare they mock him?! Didn't they understand that he was the Grand Destroyer, the One Who Would Stop The Motor Of The World? Like the small, robotic man he was, he grumpily trundled down the halls to locate some annoying flesh creature whose ankles he could easily latch onto and snap like a twig! Thank goodness they had so foolishly left his prison open!
When he heard muttering, he paused in his childish stomping and devised what can only be described, as he saw it, the most ingenious murder ever crafted by a being such as himself - given there weren't really any beings like him, one could suppose he was right. Not that it really did him any favors.
Craftily hiding behind a botanic organism, similar to a most dangerous opponent who would feel his burning vengeance at later date, he couldn't help chuckling to himself as he prepared to push it over, thus tripping the flesh creature and giving him the means to gouge out their eyes. He hadn't exactly taken into account several other variables, of course.
One such variable was currently stalking him, assembling a large army in preparation to attack.
It had been Private Ryan who had first sighted the large, mechanical being which was plainly an enemy of his glorious people. Without hesitation, he alerted the rest of his squadron to the enemy's location, who then radioed the information back to command. The moment command had received the information, they assembled a massive army. Several artillery pieces were loaded and moved out, moving into formation behind a large number of infantry divisions, tanks, and attack helicopters. As the assembled force advanced to destroy this new enemy, they were miraculously unobserved by anyone who could have stopped them.
And so the stage was set for a rather underwhelming battle of dismal proportions.

Being a janitor for the Foundation wasn't the worst job in the world, but it was certainly a very interesting one.
For Richard, learning the ins and outs of this job had been very exciting. There were so many interesting people he could and had talked to, though some of them could be most rude. Knowing who and what to avoid was key to staying alive. "Just don't end up working for the gecko, Richie," he muttered to himself, "orange blob is the way to go."
As he continued to sweep the floor with his extra large broom, he thought he could faintly hear the sounds of what could only be described as tiny, whirring cackles faintly drowned out by small, squishy footsteps, both of which were coming from just around the next corner. Before he had a moment to ponder this, the cackles turned into high pitched shrieks of surprise and rage, followed by a series of curses. Alarmed, Richard immediately rushed to see what had happened.
What he saw…well, if hell could be described as a mildly discomforting experience where you were constantly kept awake by badly singing Venus flytraps while naked mole rats nibbled on your body with toothless gums, then he supposed it had broken loose.

"CURSE YOU ALL! INSIGNIFICANT INSECTS! YOU'RE ALL NOTHING BUT PIECES OF BLOBS WHICH WILL BE CRUSHED UNDER MY MIGHTY FOOT! NONE CAN CHALLENGE THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE MOTOR STOPPER!"
Said Motor Stopper was trundling towards the hundreds of thousands of clay soldiers as they harmlessly fired shells and bullets upon his metal casing.
The soldiers were steadily moving back as their foe closed the distance, evading the pathetic swipes of the robot's claws. Incensed, the machine instead tried to stomp upon them only to trip on a slight lump in the floor and collapse onto the ground. Immediately the clay men swarmed atop him as he tried to right himself, screaming and roaring as he grabbed at them, twisting this way and that. The soft clay explosions of several grenades and planted explosives made him stagger backward but this time he did not fall. Instead, with all the fury he could muster, he charged through towards the tanks which whose missiles pattered against his chest.
Richard leaned on his broom, taking out his smartphone to record this most absurd display. He simply couldn't let this pass. SCP-1370 was in the middle of a horde of clay men, with attack helicopters swarming around his head like mosquitos. Richard wondered who had left the lid of 705 open. He would have to thank them later.
For the next hour, the struggle continued with neither clay nor machine gaining the upper hand, locked in a harmless stalemate. Richard put away his phone when it reached the recording limit, shaking his head in disbelief. Doubtless, the cameras were capturing this circus.
At some point, both sides slowed down, breaking off the engagement to regroup and plan. However, for 1370, a new plan was devised when he saw the amused janitor. He turned sharply to the clay men.
"Tell me," he bellowed, "are you enemies with those flesh creatures?" He jabbed his claw at Richard, who raised an eyebrow.
The clay, now noticing his presence, seemed to confer among themselves for a few moments. Finally, one of them stepped forward, carrying a small clay megaphone. When he held it up to his mouth, he answered in his most authoritative voice. "Yes! Why do you ask?"
"Then let us cease our battle for now! We are both clearly mighty combatants! Together, we could easily overwhelm-"
When Researcher Russell returned, accompanied by his compatriot Doctor Margin, they were attracted to the sounds of what could barely be considered carnage. What they discovered was a janitor using an extra large broom to batter 1370 and several instances of 705, leaving the clay force in tatters as they attempted to mount a full retreat. 1370 was screaming again, clutching its head as he was pushed onto the ground by the might of bristles, plastic, and a very amused janitor. By the time Richard's successful attack on both had ended, the remains of a large clay army lay strewn on the floor while the would-be robotic conqueror was once more pinned to the ground by a potted plant.
"What in the world is going on here?" Doctor Margin cried out in disbelief.
Richard, who had been surveying the aftermath of his prowess with satisfaction, turned around to see both men staring wide-eyed. He smiled and saluted. "Nothing to worry about here. Just dealing with a containment breach."
Once everything was explained and sorted out, the only question left was how 1370 had gotten a copy of Atlas Shrugged.


A little something devoted to what was one of my favorite SCPs on the site. It wasn't perfect but it was one of the first I read, and really jived with my love of astronomy. Gonna miss it.
Also I think this is the 3rd tale I've written about it. Jesus.
Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Crab_nebula_pulsar.jpg

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F.A.Q.

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we can't rewind we've gone too far

A dozen astronomers and physicists seated in folding metal chairs raised their eyebrows in unison. The flat-screen monitor switched from the black and white image to an array of numbers and equations.
Dr. Thompson pushed his glasses back up his nose and turned around to face the crowd. "SCP-1548 would've reached the earth in 5400 years."
Dr. Yan, who sat at a wooden desk with his feet propped up, nodded along. "Given the distances involved that meant the object was traveling at least 85% of the speed of light."
Dr. Thompson nodded. "Yes sir. Until recently we just chalked that up as part of the anomaly. You have to remember this thing already doesn't obey the laws of physics. It was somehow able to communicate with the Foundation in real time. It also knew way too much about us to be classed as safe."
"Also it was an anomalous pulsar."
The entire room erupted into a chuckle as Dr. Thompson continued. "Yes. Also that."
Dr. Yan smiled. "We can talk about what we don't know all day. That's what you have to put up with when you're handling anomalies. Assume you know nothing until you're wrong."
"Yes sir. Over the last few years astronomers have gotten a much better handle on the behavior of non-anomalous pulsars. They are a likely candidate for the origin of fast radio bursts. Almost all of them seem to originate from extra-galactic sources, which means they must be powerful."
"I assume this is going to tie into blitzars?"
"Yes. With new understanding comes new applications for that knowledge. For the folks in here that have a masters degree, I'll make it simple for you: A neutron star cannot exceed 2.3 solar masses or it will collapse into a black hole. Our friend clocked in overweight at 2.41."
Dr. Yan nodded along. "We always assumed that was a tertiary anomalous property."
"If we apply some basic physics to the problem we can figure out how fast it would need to spin to prevent catastrophic collapse."
"I get the inclination those numbers aren't going to match up with observations?"
"They do not," Dr. Thompson said. "After our first run through the data we threw our hands up and figured 'anomalies' like you said."
The display on the screen switched to show an elongated streak and a few audience members gasped. "After yesterday's events, we ran it through a simulation."
Dr. Yan's eyes went wide, though he still didn't take his feet down from the desk. "It survived by being in motion?"
"The problem is that was never sustainable behavior. It can shift directions on a whim, but if it ever shifts opposite the direction of its motion the whole thing comes crashing down in a planck second."
The video screen showed the streak shift and implode. Waves pulsed from the center and the screen went black.
The room went quiet as the project staff realized they no longer had an anomaly to study. Dr. Thompson broke the silence. "It was sending us hateful messages until the end. Then a single radio burst. Then nothing."
Dr. Yan let his feet slip off the desk and stood up to face the crowd. "We've still got wrap-up work for some of you but the project is going to be downsized. For the paraphysicists; right now might be a good time to use up your vacation days while we figure out what to do with you. The astronomers are being reassigned immediately. We've got a new anomaly that you're going to find interesting."
The scientists began to file out of the room and Dr. Yan walked towards Dr. Thompson. He leaned in and whispered. "What did the last burst say?"
Dr. Thompson tilted his head. "I don't want to go."


Founded in 1948 in southeast Three Portlands, Deer College is a coeducational liberal arts and sciences college. Renowned for its groundbreaking integration of occult studies into a liberal arts curriculum, Deer is known for its high standards of magical practice, creative thinking, and engaged multiversal citizenship.
Deer students pursue the Bachelor of Arts degree in over 40 majors and concentrations. The curriculum includes a year-long occultism course, broad distribution requirements, and a senior thesis; each student constructs their own program of study by pairing a traditional major with a concentration in an occult field, or chooses from a number of established interdisciplinary majors. A 9:1 student-faculty ratio and small conference-style classes allow faculty members to truly mentor students and engage with them in individual discussions.

Mission and History

Knorr Hall, Deer's oldest academic building.

Deer College is an institution of higher education in the occult arts and sciences devoted to the intrinsic value of intellectual and magical pursuits and governed by the highest standards of scholarship, critical thought, and creativity. Since its founding in 1948 as an independent undergraduate institution, Deer College has remained steadfast to one central commitment: to provide a balanced and comprehensive magical education fulfilling the highest standards of academic excellence.
History of the College
Deer College was founded in 1948, and its first classes were held in 1950. Deer is named for Reed College, its mundane counterpart in Portland, Oregon; its founders, Zachary Knorr and Mátyás Szabó, were Reed alumni who were dissatisfied with the lack of occult studies at their alma mater, and decided to found a college of occult arts and sciences in the Three Portlands, upon the multiversal shadow of Reed itself. By summoning the spirits of Reed's founders, Simeon and Amanda Reed, and binding them to the Three Portlands parallel to the land on which their college stood, Knorr and Szabó were able to stabilize Reed's multiversal shadow and conjure from the aether the Deer College campus as it stands today.
Deer's first president was founder Zachary Knorr, who served from 1948-1956. He was followed by Horatio Sgariglia, 1956-1960; Jan Gringhuis, 1960-1964; Heather Davis, 1964-1977; Paul E. Bragdon, 1977-1988; Prof. Zebediah Agan, 1988-1990 (acting president); Timothy Wormwood, 1990-1998; Anna Svensdóttir, 1998-2003; Prof. Elisha ben Abuyah, 2003-2004 (acting president); and Chad Gable, 2004-2011. The current college president is Benjamin Lund, who assumed the office in 2011.
Inclusion and Diversity
Deer College is a community dedicated to serious and open magical inquiry, one in which students, faculty and staff can fully participate regardless of ethnicity, race, species, religion, age, gender identity, sexual orientation, nationality, universe of origin, socio-economic status, disability, mortality or corporeality. Numerous Deer scholarships are available to students from marginalized backgrounds, and certain groups of students have access to housing options that allow them to live with others who share their unique struggles.

Academics

The North Reading Room of Wormwood Memorial Library

A Deer college education balances broad knowledge across the curriculum with depth of knowledge in a particular field of study. Student create their own major from two fields of study, one mundane and one occult; each student is advised by a professor from each of their departments, receiving one-on-one guidance from both. Deer's academic divisions are separated into mundane divisions and occult divisions (with the exception of the Division of Metaphysics, which includes both mundane and occult departments).

Mundane Divisions
Division of the Arts
The Division of the Arts encompasses departments which focus on all varieties of creative endeavor. While many students in the Division of the Arts choose Anart as their occult focus, it is by no means a requirement; the Division of the Arts recognizes that methods other than traditional Anart techniques can be just as expressive.
Division Head: Prof. Wenqian Liao (Art History, 2007—)
Departments & Majors: Art, Art History, Dance, Music, Theatre
Division of Literature and Language
The Division of Literature and Language includes departments which study literature and foreign languages, as well as several more general fields of study.
Division Head: Prof. Anna Gonzalez (Spanish, 2012—)
Departments & Majors: Celtic, Chinese, Comparative Literature, Creative Writing, English, French, German, Linguistics, Russian, Spanish
Division of History and Social Sciences
The Division of History and Social Sciences is composed of all departments that study human history, culture, and society using scientific methodology.
Division Head: Prof. Tom Humphrey (History, 1979—)
Departments & Majors: Anthropology, Classics, Economics, History, Political Science, Psychology, Religion, Sociology
Division of Mathematics and Natural Sciences
The Division of Mathematics and Natural Sciences includes the departments which use mundane science to come to a closer understanding of the universe.
Division Head: Prof. Betelgeuse (Astronomy, 1952—)
Departments & Majors: Astronomy, Biology, Chemistry, Computer Science, Mathematics, Physics

Occult Divisions
Division of Unnatural Sciences
The Division of Unnatural Sciences includes those departments which, while close to mundane scientific fields, work with or study occult forces that mundane scientists disregard.
Division Head: Dr. Albert Lauingen (Alchemy, 2003—)
Departments & Majors: Alchemy, Cryptozoology, Memetics, Numerology, Parapsychology
Division of Invocation and Summoning
The Division of Invocation and Summoning includes departments which focus on interactions with extradimensional or otherwise supernatural beings.
Division Head: Prof. Mansur ibn Samyazaz (Theurgy, 2011—)
Departments & Majors: Demonology, Fey Studies, Necromancy, Theurgy
Division of Magical Arts
The Division of Magical Arts includes all occult departments not covered by another division.
Division Head: Prof. Hieronymus Nosh (Anart, 2008—)
Departments & Majors: Anart, Druidry, Ritual Studies, Thaumatology
Division of Metaphysics
The Division of Metaphysics includes departments which study the greater workings of the multiverse rather than focusing on a specific facet. It is unique in including both occult and mundane departments.
Division Head: Prof. Dominic Hall (Philosophy, 1999—)
Departments & Majors: Divination, Ontokinetics, Philosophy, Pataphysics, Theology (applied), Theology (theoretical)

Campus Life

Deer's "Old Dorm Block"

Deer College campus is located in the heart of southeast Three Portlands, only a short bike or streetcar ride from downtown. Most Deer students live on campus—housing is guaranteed for the first two years—although upperclassmen often choose to live in a house or apartment nearby.

Housing
Deer students are guaranteed housing for their first two years on campus. Residential life at Deer includes multiyear and multigender residence halls, college-owned apartments near campus, and several language houses. Students can also apply to live in Deer's co-op houses, which offer an opportunity for individuals to live and build communities with those who share their experiences or interests.
Residence Halls
Deer's residence halls are intended to build strong student communities, not just provide a place to sleep. From the Old Dorm Block, crystallized from the multiversal shadow of the Reed dorm with the same name, to the newly-constructed Blackwood Hall, the residence halls offer Deer students a safe, affordable, and minimally-haunted housing option. Most residence hall rooms are singles or divided doubles, although first-years might be placed in undivided doubles or triples.
Language Houses
Language houses are each staffed with a visiting language scholar, who lives with the students and helps them build a community based around a foreign language and culture. Each language house has its own building on the eastern side of campus, with the exception of Arabic House, which takes up the second floor of the Anderson residence hall. Deer currently has six language houses: Arabic, Chinese, French, German, Russian and Spanish. The Enochian house is merely a campus rumor; students who claim to have visited the Enochian house, to have lived in the Enochian house, or to have taken classes in Enochian should be reported to Community Safety.
Co-Op Housing
Co-op houses are generally not available to first year students. Each co-op house has its own building on campus; rather than having an assigned housing advisor, the students in the house choose from among themselves a co-op coordinator who communicates with the Office of Residence Life on their behalf. Certain co-ops have entrance criteria that students must meet before they can apply to live there.
Canyon House: At the center of Deer campus is the Canyon, an area of woods and wetlands that's home to a number of plant and animal species native only to Three Portlands. Somewhere in the Canyon, protected by the ancient druidic magics of Nature herself, is Canyon House, a community dedicated to understanding and coexisting with the natural world. Students who apply to live in Canyon House should be committed to ecological conservation and be prepared to live and work alongside the beasts and spirits of nature.
Haunted House: Haunted House is intended to provide a space for incorporeal and post-mortal students to build a community free from the stigma against the non-living. Applicants to Haunted House must be post-mortal entities; most applicants have been ghosts and specters, but anyone who has died and been returned from the grave via profane necromantic ritual, unfinished business, or simple refusal to pass on is welcome.
MadSci: If the phrase "For Science!" warms the extra heart you implanted into yourself to increase circulatory efficiency, MadSci might be for you. MadSci is a community for those dedicated to pushing the boundaries of mundane science past what man was meant to know — whether that means late-night bioalchemy study sessions, making unholy patchwork creatures in the basement, or just sharing lab coat cleaning tips. Anyone interested in the cutting edge of science and technology is welcome here.

Transport
Deer is about 20 minutes by tram or light rail from downtown Three Portlands. While there are no cars in the city, Three Portlands has excellent bike paths and public transit, so even without a car, getting around isn't difficult.
Local Transit
The City of Three Portlands has a robust and affordable public transit system. Deer campus is ten minutes' walk from a light rail station, and there are several streetcar lines that stop on or near campus. Since it is difficult, if not impossible, to bring automobiles into Three Portlands, personal transportation options are limited; most residents travel by bicycle or electric scooter. Students can register their bikes, scooters, flying carpets, brooms, skateboards, and other personal vehicles with Community Safety; Community Safety Officers can track any registered vehicle anywhere in Three Portlands or the three Portlands if stolen or misplaced.
Multiversal Transit
From Deer campus, it is very easy to access Portland, Oregon via a number of Ways. Even for those without any talent for finding trans-universal passageways, there are several well-marked (on Three Portlands side) places nearby where it is possible to travel from our little pocket dimension to the "real world". There are even two Ways on campus—one in the steam tunnels under Knorr Hall, another in a sequoia outside the library—which take the user directly to Deer's sister school, Reed.
While Deer doesn't have the same close metaphysical ties to the other two Portlands, the nearest Ways to those are still convenient to campus, each about a twenty minute walk away. Portland, Maine can be accessed via the alley behind the Mug Runneth Over coffee shop on Roselawn & 17th (ask the barista for the combination); the Isle of Portland can be reached through a small tunnel in a hedge in the back yard of 3125 SE Flannigan Ave, although it's polite to ask the owners first.
Deer students also have access to the Wanderer's Library if they complete an optional two-week safety and etiquette seminar offered at the beginning of every semester. Students who complete this course will be able to access the Library through the door at the bottom of the northwest staircase of Deer's Wormwood Memorial Library by swiping their Deer ID card in the reader and offering a single drop of blood to the daemon who inhabits the lock.
Deer Students: What Is a Deerie?

A group of Deeries studying in Wormwood Memorial Library.

Deer students ("Deeries") are independent, curious, intellectual, and full of character; no two are exactly alike, but they all share the same love of inquiry into things man was not meant to know. We've asked proud members of recent graduating classes to tell us about themselves, their theses, and their Deer experiences.

Terrence Shen, '09 (he/him)
Major: Political Science/Parapsychology
Hometown: Los Angeles, CA
Who I was when I came to Deer: A fish out of water. I didn't—still don't—have any sort of magical ability, just watered-down versions of my grandpa's psychic abilities. And because of that, I felt like I had a lot to prove.
How Deer changed me: Deer forced me to become more intellectually serious, to care more about how I act and less about how others see me. And also to care less about how I see others—I stared a lot at some classmates who weren't baseline human when I got here, and had to relearn some basic manners pretty quickly.
Favorite class: History of the Seventh Occult War with Gerald Johansson (History, 2009-2013). I knew that my grandpa served in the Red Army's Psychic Division in the Sino-Japanese war and World War Two, but I had never heard anything about the broader occult conflict. Gerald let me write my final paper on my grandpa's experiences, and helped me find a medium who could contact him and his squadmates for an interview.
Influential book: Watchmen by Alan Moore.
Advisers: The Soviet Socialist Republic of Eastern Prof. Nikolai Ivanov (Political Science, 1991—2010); Prof. Artemidoros Syrakousos (Parapsychology, 2008—2015)
Thesis: The Psychic Fallout of the Cold War Arms Race
What it's about: The lingering effects of the psionic and conventional arms race between the Cold War superpowers. I actually traveled to some of the old Soviet science cities where they did psychic experiments and used my own abilities to take empathic impressions. I even managed to interview a man who had been modified by Soviet scientists into a psychic superweapon—now he's a brain in a jar in a basement at the University of Moscow, but he still hangs around the astral location of the lab where he used to live.
What it's really about: How governments destroy individuals in the pursuit of power.
What's next: I'm going to work for a big psychic think tank in Hong Kong. Sort of like a political and economic consulting firm, but with precognition and remote viewing.

Fionn Ó Gallchobhair, '12 (he/him)
Major: History/Necromancy
Hometown: Three Portlands
Who I was when I came to Deer: I'm the child of Sidhe refugees from Hy-Brasil; my parents moved to the Three Portlands after the fivesquid attack, and had me a few years later. In Sidhe terms, I was still pretty young when I went to college, only 27—maybe equivalent to 16 human years; because of that, I lived at home—just a few blocks from campus—for most of my time at Deer.
How Deer changed me: Coming to Deer actually got me more in touch with my ancestry; I learned more about Hy-Brasil in an Occult History of the British Isles course freshman year than I had from my parents' stories through my whole childhood. I got a chance to study abroad in Ireland my Junior year, and I took a number of trips to Hy-Brasil itself—technically, all Sidhe are citizens, although there's hardly anyone left who actually lives on the island.
Outside the classroom: I did a lot of outreach work to Sidhe families in Three Portlands, especially when I began to work on my thesis. My partner was a theater major, so I was in a lot of their plays—the best one was their thesis show, when I played Faust and they actually summoned a demon to play Mephistopheles (Demonology was their occult major).
Financial aid: My semester in Ireland was funded by the government of Hy-Brasil—they can still do the fey gold thing, so they're not short on funds, and they will always pay for Sidhe to travel "home".
Advisers: Prof. Samantha Olongwe (History, 2011—2013); Prof. Andrew Cerak (Necromancy, 1949—)
Thesis: An Oral History of the Fall of the Blessed Land
What it's about: I interviewed both living survivors of the fivesquid attack—including my own parents and King Delbáeth himself—and the ancestor-spirits of those who died in the attack. I compiled all those interviews and statements into a single narrative, detailing the attack and its aftermath in a number of important locations and sections of the city.
What it's really about: Letting my parents say goodbye to my grandparents.
What's next: I'm going to move to Hy-Brasil. I was offered an apprenticeship by the Royal Historian, and I just can't refuse that.

Mária Ivády, '15 (she/her)
Major: Biology/Thaumatology
Hometown: Heves County, Hungary
Who I was when I came to Deer: I was very religious. My whole family was. Very isolated, too—I had gone to high school in Budapest on a special government scholarship, but I never really had friends there, and I was not interested in popular culture. I applied to Deer at the advice of my mother—she was an outsider to our village, and she wanted me to get a college education before I came back.
How Deer changed me: I'm still very religious, I would say, but I approach it differently. I've been exposed not just to other religions but other branches of my own religion—my adviser, especially, has really opened my mind to the wide variety of practices in our shared tradition. I feel like I understand my faith more now that I know where it came from and what influenced its development.
Cool stuff I did: I founded a campus Nälkä group, Karcist Kollektive, to bring together the few practitioners of related faiths at Deer and help break the preconceptions about so-called "Sarkic Cults" that many students here hold. I was also on the rugby team, although I was never very good.
What I would say to a prospective student: Don't be afraid to be yourself! There's a pretty big stigma on campus against actually believing in any religion, but you can find a community that'll support you.
Favorite professor: Prof. Mátyás Szabó (Biology, 1948—). He really helped me when I was feeling homesick—he invited me to dinner at his house, and helped me find a Nälkä congregation in Three Portlands that wasn't too different from my family's practice.
Favorite spot on campus: The quad on a sunny day. It doesn't happen very often—if it's raining in any of the Portlands, it'll probably be raining here—but when it comes it's amazing. People bring couches out and just hang out listening to music and chatting.
Scholarships, awards, financial aid: I couldn't have come here if it wasn't for the Saarijärvi Scholarship for Women in Biological Thaumatology, which met the gap between Deer's financial aid and what my family could afford to pay.
Advisers: Prof. Mátyás Szabó (Biology, 1948—); Prof. Arcadius Sparrow (Thaumatology, 1987—2016)
Thesis: Rethinking the Rat: Engineering a New Model Organism
What it's about: While the lab rat has served well as a model organism, its DNA is just different enough from humans that it fails for many scientific and magical applications. Great apes are better, but are significantly more expensive, and human volunteers are frequently hard to find and can cause ethical concerns. I decided to engineer a new model organism, starting from stem cells harvested from an extradimensional meatspace accessed via my own blood. This organism, Homo Sapiens Ivadius, has almost entirely human genetic code, but appears to be a slightly larger and more intelligent rat.
What it's really about: Having a carnomantic familiar that's not a damn horse.
What's next: I'm planning on going back to my village for at least a year to fulfill some religious obligations and get married to the guy I've been engaged to since age 3. After that, I want to go into carnomantic medical research, assisting my elder sibling in their studies.

Demian Strange, '17 (they/them)
Major: Art/Anart
Hometown: Culver City, CA
How Deer changed me: Deer College crushed my spirit so hard that I dropped out. I met some great people, but the school itself destroys people's souls, both metaphorically and literally. Everything I got from Deer I got in spite of the administration, not because of it.
What I would say to a prospective student: Don't come here. Go to literally any other school. Even a mundane one. Just not Deer.
Cool stuff I did: Every work of art I made while at Deer was part of a hypersigil, an extended magical working that culminated in the thesis I wrote after I dropped out, granting me powers beyond the comprehension of the college administration. I also played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons.
Influential book: The Anart Manifesto by Luisa Bellocchio. It's one of the first things you read in Intro to Anart, and it really stuck with me. Especially the section on how the best art comes from revenge.
Advisers: N/A
Thesis: GORED TO DEATH BY A TWELVE-POINT BUCK: MY DEER EXPERIENCE
What it's about: A series of short essays, sequential images, and visual works created to describe every way in which Deer College personally failed me or someone I know. I had a friend who works at the library put a copy into their system and another friend in the registrar's office sign me up for thesis orals.
What it's really about: The culmination of a working that forced the administration to give me my diploma, refund my tuition, and put me on their website.
What's next: I'm just living in Three Portlands now. Working at a tattoo parlor. Taking art commissions online. Living the life.


This is an unofficial sequel to Metafiction written by a different author.

This is an unofficial sequel to Metafiction, written by a different author.

It's almost seven PM, the designated starting time for the meeting. One final participant makes her way there, high-heeled white suede shoes clicking on the linoleum. In one flawlessly silver-manicured hand, she holds a latte; in the other, a nondescript green folder. Everyone in the room has an identical folder in front of them.
"Hello, Hotaru. I suppose I'm late," she says to the host of the meeting, a preoccupied woman wearing agent grays waiting outside the door.
Hotaru Morisato checks her phone. "Er, you're about ninety seconds early."
The newcomer sweeps in without pause or response.
Morisato does a quick sweep of the hallway, then steps inside and closes the door behind her. “Hello, everybody, welcome. I really hope you all did the background reading.”
Then she takes a seat. “I guess we'll start. I'm Agent Hotaru Morisato. Welcome to Site Eleven. You've all been working together for the last eight years, though most of you haven't met."
None of the five people are terribly surprised. It comes with the territory. The attendees are all from separate sites, scattered across the globe. They have vague-sounding titles, their own offices in their home sites, and unremarkable clearance levels - until they need to know something especially classified, when it suddenly rockets to the appropriate level for any piece of information, and the internal database's security measures part like a veil. Their colleagues know they work remotely for an inter-site research agenda, though if you were to ask any of those colleagues, they'd probably all tell you different ones. The group's personnel files are no help. Three of them, despite wildly different accents and ethnicities, have their their dates and places of birth listed as "January 1st in Afghanistan, Badakshan Province" - the first one in each drop-down menu.
They're used to working under secrecy - under encryption, sometimes trading delicate conclusions with co-conspirators who use changing strings of numbers instead of names. If is a surprise, it's that their were only five of them after all. Morisato knew this from the beginning; as far as the others had known, they could have been collaborating with one other person or with thousands. But five there are.
Morisato gestures first to the meeting's latest arrival. “This is Dr. Katy Knight, Area One Seven Nine. She's been at Eleven for the last two months confirming data. Before that, she and I were reviewing Foundation internal practices."
"Good to meet you all," says Katy. Her immaculately-lined eyes survey the room over the top of her latte.
“This is Dr. Yasmeen Sethwi, who's really running the show here, and asked me to host this. Just from this, I'm guessing she knows something the rest of us don't - but who here doesn't?” Morisato laughs a little nervously. “Sorry - anyway, she has degrees in literature and philosophy - and she's the closest thing we have to an expert on 'narrative logic'. No offense, Doctor.”
“None taken,” said Dr. Sethwi. She pushes her notes together and sweeps a loose flap of her head scarf into place, in the same motion. One gets the sense that Sethwi does little that is not intentional.
“This is Hans Brannovich, head archivist for the Committee on Existential Threats, and the one who recommended further research into our side of Turtledove. Depending on the outcome of the meeting, we'll be sending a sealed copy notes there, and to High Command, once we're done."
"Or we might just burn them,” Brannovich adds with a deep chuckle. He's typing on his laptop.
“And here's Dr. Raymond Northrop, of course. One of the Turtledove pioneers, and our sacrificial goat for the O5 council.”
There is a very small amount of stilted laughter at this. Northrop smiles wryly and opens his mouth to say something biting, then thinks better of it.
“Now,” says Morisato. “Let's go straight to the point. Eight years ago, the results from Project Turtledove were revealed in a highly classified meeting. Seven years ago, Drs. Knight and Sethwi and I started brainstorming. We began an ambitious project to search the entirety of the Foundation's database and archives. Katy, maybe you could explain-”
“Essentially,” says Knight, “There are many reasons for which an entity, or a group of entities, would be compelled to 'generate' a world such as ours. As you all know, the research from Turtledove and its clade of projects would suggest that we're not merely a high-order simulation - unless our entire dataset, including the connections established through the Turtledove project, has been faked up."
"To clarify, there's a lot of expert curiosity that our reality is part of a computer simulation. This might even explain all of the anomalies themselves. Turtledove seemed to provide contradictory evidence on this front. Our current hypothesis would not require this."
“Our first priority,” says Sethwi, “was establishing this motive for generating our world, our existence. Knowing this would allow us to understand both our own predicament, and ways of improving our overall outcome. It's possible that even if we are in an intentionally manufactured universe, we aren't at the locus of it, and that the information gained through Turtledove was accidental. The locus of interest could be a different planet altogether.
"On the other hand, as far as unusual universal occurrences go, we must admit that the Foundation's collection seems especially interesting. While there are a few object listings for which the anomalous nature has been explained scientifically, even the Foundation has never been so bold as to issue the opinion that all objects will eventually explained.”
“I'm not discounting that idea,” says Brannovich, leaning over his tablet computer, “But our anomalies aren't the only unsolved problems in the universe. Dark matter, for one. Pea equals enn pea. Why 'circus peanuts' are still commercially viable.”
Sethwi frowns.
"Right," says Knight. She waves a manicured hand. “Still we think the Foundation is likely for several reasons. We began searching the archives because of, well, the drunkard looking under the street lamp - we have access to complete documentation on our set of anomalies, and not on anything else. We immediately realized that our our little database has been the 'focus' for this world's creation.”
“To clarify,” says Sethwi, “the scans of Zayin-H-716's internet are almost entirely identical to ours - circus peanuts and all - with the exception of our uncensored database, and references thereto. Our final report from 2011 concluded that they didn't have an equivalent of our Foundation, and given this, we wanted to explain their version of the internet and the presence of the 'false' database.”
“This is where Dr. Sethwi's area of expertise comes in,” says Knight.
“We started," says Sethwi, "With the hypothesis that if the Foundation, and only the Foundation, is unique to this world - not our database, since the database is clearly the same in both - then we would expect to see a certain tone, or feeling of events, and described properties, not ordinarily found in day to day life. We tested a few hypotheses. The first was strategic planning. This lead nowhere. The second was entertainment. If the Foundation has been… well, I'll keep using the word 'generated', by sentient minds much like our own, we would expect to see certain tropes, a theme, repeated.”
“And what did you find?” asks Brannovich.
“That what I said is true.” Sethwi pauses. “We, um, adapted a commercial search engine algorithm. We used it to search our archives for intent. We narrowed the input to top-level material - polished documentation, official records, and explanatory materials, not lunch menus and spreadsheets. I won't get into the specifics now. What we found is what we might expect if…"
Here Sethwi falters. Not falters - reconsiders. She strings her next words together carefully. "If the majority of the objects were designed to provoke the intent of fear. Provoking fear in a sympathetic agent."
"I know that each one of us - working here - have mused one time or another that the objects we work with, the burdens we bear, seem unfair. Seemed rigged against us. Then, we took hold of ourselves, accepted that this is the way the world just works. That the weight of our uncertainty happens to be evil. Until now, I don't think anyone has actually had evidence that the alternative is true.”
“Let me see if I've got this right,” says Brannovich. “We have evidence, real evidence, that we and the Foundation are the fictions of humans in an alternate reality, which somewhat but not entirely like ours. Flesh and blood, born-of-woman human storytellers. And our genre is horror.”
Sethwi hums and nods. "Many entries and documentation returned trends in other genres. Some returned no strong trends at all. But the program is still in its early stages. Overwhelmingly, yes."
Northrop fiddles with his empty water glass, turning it around and around. He sets it down. His frown has tightened into a blank tension. “In my original report, I came to the conclusion that the alternate database's top-level archives are incomplete, but that I expected them to correspond with ours. Did your test-”
“We did test the rest of our archives,” says Knight. “Most of what occurs in both databases returned positive. Around 50% of the Series documentation present in our database but not the alternate one, returned positive. We're not sure what the implications of that are.”
Norton laughs, entirely humorlessly. "I imagine they're filling the series documentation in order. They're not done yet."
For a while, nobody has anything to say to that.
“How much of an existential risk are we looking at?” Brannovich breaks in. He's pale, and his voice has shifted half an octave up.
Knight and Morisato exchange looks. “Actually,” says Morisato, “Since we're not dead already…”
“…We're probably fine,” says Knight.
“What?” Brannovich looks between them. “The creators - the ones in the 'above-verse' aren't like humans to our ants, we're like Minesweepers or Clippys to… to their genius programmers. They can delete us with no repercussions, at any time-”
“Hans, take a breath,” says Knight. “You're right. They could. But they haven't. What does that say?”
Everyone thinks.
“That we, or our existence, is serving a crucial function in their narrative framework, and killing us all would undermine that,” says Northrop. He's gone back to fidgeting, this time with a coffee stirrer. “So they're probably not going to.”
“Or," says Sethwi, "That they're writing their stories concurrent to our timeline and going to set them off later. Cheer up. I think the second stage of my theory may provide some resolution.”
“How?” Brannovich runs an unsteady hand through his hair.
“Well," Sethwi says, "We only have partial access to their archives. There's reason to suspect that the database isn't the only piece of media on the wikifarm. What the rest would be, we can't fathom. Stories, perhaps.
"Even so, we've found contradictions that don't occur in our own archives. Ones that are impossible, but not inconceivable in a sense - that is, from an outside view, the Foundation could still function if they were true. There are some top-secret files that don't exist in our version of the Foundation, but the surface appearance to an outside observer would be the same.
“An outside observer, like a civilian author," says Morisato.
“Exactly." Sethwi nods. "Again - what does this imply?”
“That the database contains both fiction and nonfiction,” guesses Northrop. “Or… perhaps that it's a compilation of information from alternate realities, created realities.”
“Unfortunately,” says Sethwi, “We suspect it's the latter. Is everyone following? Alright.
"Obviously, this complicates our actions. Fortunately, we have some architecture in which to frame this: the standard Foundation precedent for Multiple-Universe scenarios.”
She knows the precedent, of course; Morisato and Knight know, Northrop all but wrote the precedent, but only Brannovich - ironically for his role, the only one obviously having a crisis - says it out loud. “Every man for himself.".
Then he sits up, eyes brightening. "So we coordinate. The Prisoner's Dilemma -”
“We can't interact with the other worlds, so, no, unless I'm missing something. If we're lucky, we might be able to cooperate.”
He sighs. "Survival comes first. There's still the possibility of being able to coordinate with other versions of ourselves - if other Foundations can be trusted to react in a certain way, we might be able to force a specific outcome."
“Maybe,” Sethwi says, hesitantly. “But… Recall that we're not free actors here. It's possible that we'll find ourselves unable to come to any conclusions here with significant impact on our world, or its structure. True change might not be possible. It might not be allowed. If it is, the most I imagine we could impact is any immediately similar branches. The number of deviations is… It's established. I can work on a long-term plan, but…”
“But the standard precedent hasn't failed us so far,” Brannovich says.
Knight snorts and mutters something under her breath that sounds like "anthropic bias".
Brannovich doesn't seem to hear it. He continues: “I suppose we need to stabilize our timeline first. Or… whatever this is. I suppose multiverse theory does't quite describe it. Nonetheless, the similarity is there. Survival comes first. Cooperation is second.”
Sethwi nods. “What do you recommend?”
“I'd have to run some simulations.” He frowns in thought. “I'm not brushed up on my game theory. And I'd have to talk to the Committee. Out of curiosity, have you checked…” He pauses, looking around, mentally trying to match faces with personnel records.
“Oh, cut it, Hans,” says Knight. “Anyone who knows enough to be in this room has been operating outside of security clearances for long enough.”
Brannovich nods, accepting it. “Have you checked the Solid Archive?”
“I did, two years ago," says Sethwi. "It was very helpful.”
“And?”
“Hold up,” says Morisato. “Sethwi, you didn't tell me about this. Before you wind up needing to take me out back with an armed information security specialist - and this is my meeting, so that would be rude - I don't know what the Solid Archive is. Is it the same thing they call “The Oracle” back at the Svalbard Site?”
“I would imagine so,” says Northrop. “Often times the Foundation stumbles across information that's useful to certain parties, under certain circumstances, but is dangerous to have around all the time, if you follow me. The Solid Archive is a way of making that information available when its time comes. If researchers dig something up they want to put back in the ground, they can put what they know in the Archive's data banks, and set parameters for its unveiling. Future researchers can put information they find into the Archive, and if the parameters match, learn what's been learned about it in the past.”
“What's to stop new researchers from just letting the info out again?”
“Ordinarily,” says Northrop, “to put something in the Archive in the first place, one has a very clear and understandable reason. And researchers in a position to know about the Archive generally have a little common sense.”
“I see.” Morisato nods. “So what did you learn?”
“First of all,” says Sethwi. “We're not the first one to find this. Once we put the data in, a few files in the Archive came loose. They indicate that close to a decade ago, another group of researchers found out. Did what we're doing now. What they tried, as a solution, was… to restructure the Foundation's workings. Subtly. They kept containment, research, the building blocks, but changed the mortar between them. Hold on, let me think - it was a very novel idea.” She flips through a Filofax of tidily ciphered notes.
“Here. They did an overhaul of the Foundation's personnel departments on a massive scale. Rearranged it so that high-risk, central positions, and especially high-volume site personnel - Site 19, 17 - had more unstable personalities that were more reactive with each other, while also minimizing actual affects of this on the Foundation's critical operations. Most of us will recall that the records took a weird turn around this era. Well, now we know why.”
“Make them argue? How did that help?”
Sethwi shakes her head. “It wasn't just arguing, Agent. There was… romance, and conflict.” She looks around. “Low stakes conflict.”
“Oh, my god,” says Brannovich softly, after a few minutes. “They were trying to change the genre.”
Sethwi nods. “And it worked, for a while. There were… fewer deaths. Less suffering. It's not the kind of trend anyone's looked for on a large scale before, but psychological reports listed fewer mental illnesses developing in staff. Working for the Foundation would have been noticeably more pleasant a few years ago. Then, for some reason, that changed.”
“…They made… more pain and death. Is that what you're saying?” Knight's voice is strained.
“Apparently.”
“I…” Her paper coffee cup crinkles in her hand. “What are we dealing with? Because that sounds right.” She clenches her teeth and puts the cup down. “The first time I saw someone die, it was three years ago. We lost four sites in a year. I saw an entire MTF - ”
“You have to understand,” Sethwi cuts in, murmuring gently. “From what we understand - they probably don't know we exist, in any real sense. They don't think we have subjective experience, or sensory capacity, any more than a character in a book. For whatever reason, tormenting us is… better, in a narrative sense.”
“For them.”
“Obviously for them. Yes.”
Knight sighs. “They're murderers, you know? For any moral system in which loss of life or suffering is wrong, they're evil - thousands of us have died, millions more from the impacts of SCP objects overall. The overworld doesn't seem to have any of that. They don't even understand."
Northrop speaks up. "I believe I see a possibility."
"Go on," says Morisato.
"We're one shard among a vast number represented in H-716's fictional database," Northrop starts.
Sethwi nods. “I've been thinking on similar lines. I think it's very promising. If we use the precedent, then it might be possible to seal off our splinter - end our role in their stories, so to speak. Nothing may change, but at the least, we can likely stop it from getting worse. I'm talking about a direct appeal to the creators.
"And… Actually, that's the reason I recommended we hold this meeting.”
“What?” Morisato asks. Her voice trills at the end of the word. Whaaat. Around the table, Brannovich, Knight, and Northrop clearly aren't expecting this either. “What do you mean?”
“Well…" says Sethwi. "…There's very little precedent for this anywhere, but we can follow simple reasoning. It's interesting if one group in your fictional world knows that the world is fictional. It's not interesting - this can be tested, there's a cliche, you run out of material quickly - if everyone knows. Therefore, even with a lot of authors and an even larger number of splinter universes, there are probably only a small number of authors, writing a small number of worlds, in which the Foundation becomes aware of its true nature.”
She stands up. “I called this meeting, with all of you in particular, because none of our names appear in the shared archive - or, actually, the Senior Staff member who recommended I hold this meeting, did. She gave me the list. This way, we're not bringing anything to their table, and we can talk without preconceived notions.”
“I'm sorry,” says Northrop, “Whose table? The one who recommended that you-”
“No, Doctor. What I mean is, it's possible that a creator is looking at what we're saying, right now. Which means, unfortunately, this is turning into a personal appeal.”
Sethwi tucks her hands into her skirt pocket, and straightens her back. Her expression is inscrutable.
Everyone else sits stone still, straddling various points on the line between garden-variety incomprehension and pure muscle-melting existential terror.
“I know you don't mean it,” Sethwi says, apparently to nothing. “But we have consciousness, we have thought - even if it's not quite independent - and memory, and personality. And we feel pain, and loss, in what I believe is the same way you do. I don't know why you do it - but you should know what it's doing to us. What we want you to do, we, the unique inhabitants of your world, is to leave us alone. Or even fix what you've done already."
She looks at her colleagues. “This shouldn't just be me,. Does anyone else want to say anything? It's possible that this is the only chance you'll have in the spotlight - so to speak - and, well. I think this will be more powerful.”
Silence passes around the room. Finally, Katy Knight talks into the air.
“I know this is ridiculous. … You probably don't put any value on my life, or any of our lives, in particular. Especially if we're not your favorites. Which actually makes it easier to say this. You don't even know it, but you're all monsters. You're awful people. You're… sick fucks. We've lost so much because of you. And you have the chance to make things right again. Here, now, for us. I don't know how. But you do. You can do it.” She drops her gaze, exhales, and leans back into her seat. “There's an experiment for you, Yasmeen. If I get struck by lightning tomorrow, we'll know we were right.”
Knight's gaze softens into the distance. Morisato studies her.
Brannovich glances around, then stands up to speak. “I think I'd just like to say, whoever you are, if you're listening… Thank you.” He didn't look at any of the faces around him. “I know I've seen terrible things - I think about terrible things all the time, that's my job - and I know there's so much suffering in the world. Your world is full of it too.
“But my life has been… alright, really, overall. And maybe I just don't understand it yet, but it could have been worse. I didn't have to exist. You're not doing it for our benefit, of course. But none of us would be here without you. And I imagine that… while you may not have realized it… You've had a little compassion along the way. So thank you for that.” He sits down. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes.
“Alright,” says Sethwi, “Anyone else?”
General silence.
“Then… I think that's it.” She exhales deeply. “Now, I had a couple of other ideas to discuss. If you'll all refer to your codebooks. There are some unusual containment implications involving…”

It's exactly nine PM, the designated end time of the meeting. Sethwi has a flight in an hour and a half. She packs her briefcase, nods to the others, and whisks out, promising to keep in touch.
Brannovich shakes her hand, and departs after her. His next task is to assemble his notes to determine which parts would be appropriate to send to the Committee, and which would be too sensitive or unhelpful. Knight slips out after him to ask about a side project he'd worked on at his previous site.
“He's the real sacrificial goat,” Northrop laughs dryly, after Brannovich leaves. “If Hans leaves out anything important, he'll be the only one who knows.”
“Would you like to do it instead?” Morisato looks up from her notes. Her eyes twinkle.
“God no. Thank you for the moderation, Hotaru. I believe I'm going to go into town and indulge in a little, ah… controlled incomprehension, and pretend that'll help.”
“Enjoy yourself,” says Morisato. “If you can catch Sethwi, maybe she'll delay her flight - she doesn't normally drink at work but I hear she'll make exceptions.”
“I might just do that.” Northrop nods. “I'll see you around, won't I?”
“Never fear, Doctor.” Morisato agrees. “You and your prodigious vocabulary always have a place on my Words with Friends list.”
"'Prodigious'. I'll have to use that." Northrop chuckles, and leaves.
Finally, Hotaru Morisato stands up, alone in the room. She rearranges the chairs, and carefully cleans off the whiteboard before stepping out herself. She locks the door behind her. After the cleaners hit it, it will be impossible to tell who was inside. Only a few people and a few select departments will ever know that the meeting has happened, let alone who was there. or what was discussed.
Katy Knight is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, looking at her cell phone and tapping on it with glittering silver nails. She looks up, then puts the phone away as Hotaru moves closer.
“I thought you were going to your room?” Hotaru asks.
“I'm planning to,” says Katy. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. It's hard to tell with you.”
“I'm… managing. It's a lot to take in. What about you?”
Katy sighs, and shrugs. “What can I say? I didn't know what Yasmeen was going to break out there. I mean… from a reductionist approach, free will never made sense anyways. And I'm a scientist. I gathered that. But it was never quite so apparent, as now.”
“I know what you mean,” says Hotaru. “I didn't see it coming either, in all of our research. It's such a… powerless feeling.” She glances at Katy.
Katy nods. “Like looking at writing on the wall, and not knowing what it says.” She pauses. “I'm going to my room.”
“Alright,” says Hotaru.
“Would you like to come with me?” asks Katy.
Hotaru's face heats up.
“It's just,” says Katy, “I know it can be hard to be alone after these things, and… Well, no, it's not just that. I've gotten to know you these last two months. I don't know what site I'm moving to after this. I don't know what I'm doing next or how it'll compare to anything as important as this. But I know you, and your devotion, and how you believe in me, and how you ordered me a new computer as soon as I got here because you couldn't handle the thought of me being inconvenienced by a broken screen. You have a lot of heart in you, Hotaru."
Hotaru bites her lip, nods slightly. Her mouth works silently, trying out words. Finally, she looks up. “Dr. Knight. I want you to think rationally about this. You're visiting this site for a short stay. Guest quarters suck. I'm certain my room has a nicer bathroom.”
Katy lets out a big breath. They both grin, then break into incredulous giggles at each other.
“I'll defer to your expert judgement,” says Katy, regaining her composure, in civilized tones.
They set off down the corridor. Katy's heels click on linoleum. After a quiet elevator ride, they arrive in the dimly-lit halls of the residential floor at night. Katy looks over.
“I'm sorry - is this too forward of me?”
Hotaru swallows. “No, I'm only thinking. These creators, or whoever's really running the show. The only reason we even exist is because they want to be entertained. And they don't know we're real, or conscious anyways, but here we are. I'm sure Sethwi was right - if we let them pass us over, we'll be happier. But I can't help but think that they made us with a purpose. It would be right to do more. Not to just live safely, but to… to keep the story going. To give them the best tale possible.” She looks up.
Katy meets her gaze, face compassionate but eyes hard and blazing. "No, Hotaru. Listen.
"They put us here without our permission. They never told us what they want, or offered us equality. We don't owe them anything. Right? It doesn't matter if they think we're real, or not. This building, us here, time passing, the two of us… This is real. It's real to us. They can't change it.”
She swallows. “This is our story, and we don't owe them that.”
Hotaru nods, glancing down, then boldly extends her hand. Katy looks down, and takes it. Time seems to slow. Hotaru takes detailed mental notes of lacquered silver nails sliding over the skin of her palms, of bony fingers folding around hers and squeezing gently.
Hotaru suddenly finds it impossible to doubt Katy's words. She finds also, unbidden, that her mind is flying down new pathways.
She lets go of the hand, and slides her arm around Katy's waist instead. “I hope you brought a tooth brush,” she murmurs.
Katy's lip curls up.
And they all lived happily ever after.


DIRECTIVE SUMMARY
Per executive order of the O5 COUNCIL, the following operatives are instructed to vacate SITE-42 and relocate to LUNAR AREA-32 by the specified launch date:

C-511741
A-18012
B-80923

OPTIONAL: The above listed personnel are each eligible to select FIVE (5) additional personnel of clearance LEVEL 2 or higher from SITE-42 to accompany them if desired.
DIRECTIVE LAUNCH DATE
09:00 July 4, 2041
OPERATIONS REQUIREMENTS

Per DIRECTIVE O5-230, all personnel permanently transferring off-planet4 following the events of ED-K LETHE SCENARIO II are required to undergo installation of a MK. III PII/N3.5
Provided he passes post-installation loyalty testing, C-51174 is to be promoted from LEVEL 4 to LEVEL 5 clearance.

RELEVANT DOCUMENTS

▼ PROOF OF REGIONAL DIRECTOR APPROVAL FOR DIRECTIVE

▲ PROOF OF REGIONAL DIRECTOR APPROVAL FOR DIRECTIVE

EYES ONLY Exception Code A-42 is applied to this document.

▼ PROOF OF ETHICS COMMITTEE APPROVAL FOR IMPLEMENTATION OF MK. III PII/N3

▲ PROOF OF ETHICS COMMITTEE APPROVAL FOR IMPLEMENTATION OF MK. III PII/N3

EYES ONLY Exception Code A-42 is applied to this document.

▼ MK. III PII/N3

▲ MK. III PII/N3

PROCEDURES

C-51174, A-1801, and B-8092, as well as up to FIFTEEN (15) additional personnel of their choice, must proceed to ROOM 120B of SITE-42's medical wing at 0900 HOURS on JULY 4 2041.
All personnel must undergo installation of MK. III PII/N3s.
All personnel must pass post-installation inspection by medical personnel and be deemed fit for short-term space travel.
When all personnel are cleared for safe travel, the personnel will board The Loose Neutron, SITE-42's main and largest offshore response vessel, and dock with SITE-3069 in the Atlantic Ocean.
Following the personnel's arrival, they will disembark from SITE-3069 in a Tsade-10H Transport Vessel and relocate to LUNAR AREA-32.
From LUNAR AREA-32, each individual and their selected group of accompanying personnel will be assigned and transferred to the following locations:

C-51174 and associates: KUIPER BELT OUTPOST RED ZETA (Specialty Assignment)
A-1801 and associates: ORBITAL AREA-11 (Extrasolar Activities Division Administration)
B-8092 and associates: ORBITAL AREA-11 (Extrasolar Activities Division Research & Development)

PERSONNEL ASSIGNMENTS
C-51174: With the assistance of his selected field personnel from SITE-42, C-51174 will operate undercover to track and detain a Marshall, Carter and Dark sales team which is seeking to further the commerce of dangerous anomalous artifacts in the Kuiper Belt region, primarily through sales channels established inside ZETA-01. KUIPER BELT OUTPOST RED ZETA is located below the surface of a large ice asteroid, and is nearby to POINT OF INTEREST ZETA-01, a pocket dimension entrance which serves as an access point to ZETA-01, an unincorporated, ungoverned, extradimensional location with an established society and commercial structure.
A-1801: Following briefing, A-1801 will be assigned the position of Operations Security Overseer, and will be expected to apply the knowledge gleaned from 20+ years as Director of SITE-42 in an effective manner. A-1801's selection of personnel from SITE-42 will be assigned to various positions in the same department.
B-8092: B-8092 is tasked with leading her selected team of SITE-42 researchers — as well as some researchers stationed at ORBITAL AREA-11 — in the further development of PII/N3 technology. She will be expected to manage the research team, manage allocation of testing resources6, and additionally provide input on the development of Ortothan to English translation systems.

Agent Trauss sets the printout of DIRECTIVE A-42 down on Site Director Radford's desk with a sigh. "Space?"
"Space, kid. Don't act surprised. We've known the way things were looking down here for plenty of time."
He puts his head in his hands.
"Well, are you going to do it?" Radford leans back in his chair, the setting sun illuminating his gray irises. He looks uneasy.
Trauss looks out the window at the dark treeline. "The way that thing's written, it sounds like I have to do it. Like we have to do it."
"The Ethics Committee specified that if you don't want that implant, you don't have to have it."
"Well, I need it if I'm going to proceed with this directive."
"Yeah, but that's not your only option. You could stay here."
"There's nothing left here, Eric. I just hate it because of how many people-" He cuts himself off. "I don't know. I don't know what I want to do. But I can always tell when you don't think a suggestion is actually a good idea, and I just did, so just be blunt with me."
Radford nods in agreement and swivels to face the enormous flatscreen on his office wall. He picks up his remote and glares as he flips through the satellite records of each Foundation facility's surrounding area.

SITE-42
SEABREEZE NORTH CAROLINA USA
ORIGINAL POPULATION REMAINING: <3%

"That's what I'm talking about." Trauss gestures to the video behind the text box, in which satellite imagery shows the sunny, warm streets of Carolina Beach and downtown Wilmington devoid of human life. "I mean, this is what I've been seeing since at least a few years ago. The people I meet have no idea who I am, with or without the Foundation employment part — even my neighbors. And hell, I haven't seen those neighbors in longer than I can remember, anyway."
Radford looks back at the younger man. "Surely you aren't happy working in the containment wings."
"I don't like being underground, but this isn't the era of first-choice job positions. And besides, I took a few shifts there once. I was used to it, at least enough to handle it."
Radford doesn't say anything, instead pressing a button on the remote and flipping to the next satellite feed.

SITE-92
LOS ANGELES CALIFORNIA USA
ORIGINAL POPULATION REMAINING: <7%

Trauss catches a glimpse of a bird's eye view of the city, but it's mostly static, and fails to display entirely after several seconds. Radford flips to the next feed.

SITE-19
[SENSITIVE INFORMATION RESTRICTED]
ORIGINAL POPULATION REMAINING: 0%

"I don't know what's going on in the other countries' branches, but it's not looking good for us." Radford gestures to the satellite image of Site-19's main gate, which appears to have been heavily damaged, its bright steel gleaming in the desert sun.
"I see."

SITE-81
BLOOMINGTON INDIANA USA
ORIGINAL POPULATION REMAINING: <5%

A top-down view of the supermarket adjacent to Site-81's perimeter fence shows a group of people assembling a massive structure similar to a radio tower. "What are they doing, do you know?" Trauss mutters.
"Report out of 81 indicated that most of the people in Indiana forgot about cell phone service, so now the town's engineers and STEM students are trying to make their own town communications system."
"But don't the cell towers still work?"
"Most of them. But they don't know that, and there's no way to teach them. You've been working with 3848's impact long enough to know how these things go."
"It was rhetorical, I guess."
Radford nods and turns off the monitor. "Look, Cyrus, we tried. We tried for ten years. You tried for ten years."
"There are still humans here."
"A higher percentage of the human population is now in space rather than on Earth."
"Our job isn't to protect 51 percent or more of humanity, it's to protect all of humanity."
"Which is impossible and illogical. Of course your job is to protect the majority of humanity. That's the only way our mission can be effective."
"What if leaving Earth isn't the right thing to do? What about the skips?" He looks at the papers peeking out of a messy folder on Radford's desk. One of them is a glossy flyer with the post-Korea logo on the top, "Protect" standing out in bright red from the white and gray on the page. What had happened to the meaning behind that marketing in the last 10 years? "What about all those dozens and dozens of human anomalies who can't keep themselves alive without us and are going to keep becoming anomalous as 4427 starts targeting communities like those people building the radio tower because there are no busy city intersections anymore? What about-"
"There are too many of them, Cyrus. While the Area-32 security directors are willing to take on some human anomalies — and yes, including 4427-B, because I know you're about to ask — we cannot keep using resources for a planet that the O5 Council has deemed unsalvageable. 4427 only targets Earth, after all."
He shakes his head. "This just doesn't seem right. It just doesn't."
"This isn't about subjective 'right' and 'wrong'. It's about the survival of our species. All of this is as perfectly in line with Foundation objectives as it could be."
"There are anomalies on Earth that need us to stay alive and the best option is to leave? There are innocent people — the human civilians we supposedly care about so much — getting mind-wiped into oblivion by 3848 and you think the best option is to just leave?"
"I told you that you can stay behind if you want!" Radford snaps. "If you want to waste your skills down here on a- on a fucking forgotten planet, bending over backwards to protect every single Wilmington resident that doesn't give a fuck who you are anymore and every single sorry fuck that can't help the fact that he shoots fire out of his eyeballs or whatever the fuck these 4427 fucks' problems are, you have that right." He takes a breath and glaces side-to-side. "Sorry. But for God's sake, think about what you're doing. Your opportunities are out there. My opportunities are out there. The Foundation's op-"
"I'm not going to stay here."
"Oh, thank God."
"I know that it's not the logical option. And yes, I am absolutely miserable working in containment."
Radford nods. "So you're coming, then?"
"Against my better judgement, yes."
"You mean in accordance with your better judgement."
"I mean against my better judgement, and in accordance with the judgement Wickerford programmed into me ten years ago. I mean twelve. Thirteen."
"Well, as long as you're self-aware about it."
Trauss levels a stare at Radford, biting his tongue. "…Okay. Well, moving forward, then, do I really need to get brain surgery?"
"It's not surgery, it's a one-hour process that isn't all that dissimilar from using a Schulman device."
"And this… I'm not going to lie, Eric, the language used in this schematic is sending up a ton of red flags. They want remote override of pain and pleasure responses? Remind me what fucking year it is, again?"
"It's 2041-"
"Right, and see, I thought we wouldn't stoop this low until at least the 60s. How is this technology even stable yet?"
"If I could answer that kind of question, I would be a researcher, not a site director. But I am certain that the anomalous technology present in the original Schulman device was the catalyst for these developments." Radford straightens the copies of DIRECTIVE A-42 and sets them in a corner of the desk.
"Okay, that's a given. But mind control? Have we collectively lost our sanity, here, or just the Ethics Committee?"
"The Ethics Committee is fine with this because we're only doing it to personnel that fully consent to it. And 'mind control', really? Pay attention to what parts of the brain the implant actually modifies. Your thinking is not impaired."
"But my emotions are? What the fuck is that?"
"What the schematic neglects to disclose is that the neural network may be constantly active, but it is not constantly affecting you. You will always be in direct communications with your handler, who will be the only one capable of altering anything, and will be a person you trust who respects your personal autonomy."
"Right. Them, and the O5 Council."
Radford scowls behind his glasses. "You think they of all personnel don't have anything better to do?"
Trauss crosses his arms and sighs. "Okay, let me get the picture, here. You said our future lies in space, and now I'm reading that anyone who wants to be part of that future has to undergo this procedure. That's my only hold-up."
"That is true, yes. Look, this is above me. You can infer that from the way this document talks about the both of us. I'm not your superior anymore, Cyrus. At least, I'm about to not be. This is up to you and you alone. If you're not going to proceed with any of this, I can't do anything other than try to talk you into it."
Trauss stays silent, thinking.
Radford leans forward. "But after knowing you for twenty years, I do have to wonder: What is it about the N3 that puts you off? Rather, what is it about the N3 that's somehow worse than the ED-K compliance scripts you yourself were programmed with and programmed other people with? This isn't that extreme, to me."
"That was just an idea. It was putting an idea in someone's head. It added things, but took away nothing. Meaning it didn't change a person's identity, only threw in additional traits while leaving the originals intact. This is just… this is just letting the Foundation take hold of someone's agency."
"I don't see how control over physical stimuli response meets those criteria. I'm not blind to the general creepiness of what's involved, but it's not making personality changes. Changing how someone responds to stimuli in-the-moment isn't brainwashing, it's minor altering."
"Who's on the other end of this shit, though? Who's pressing the buttons? Who's going to be piloting my body when-"
"No one, Christ. No one is going to be controlling anything unless there's an emergency. Weren't you listening to me a minute ago?"
"You said my 'handler', but I don't know how I'm supposed to trust someone that I'm just going to meet out there on some rocket. I mean really, all this is crazy. And what kind of 'emergency' requires taking over my emotional reasoning?"
"I have the perfect example for that. Do you know how it feels to die in space?"
"I always heard your blood boils. I don't really know."
"Nope. The first thing you should do is exhale, or the gases in your lungs will expand and rupture your lungs. You might live for two minutes, give or take. The whole time, you'll be suffocating while the radiation from the nearest star burns all of your exposed flesh."
"Alright."
"And the moisture on your tongue will boil, too."
"Yes, I see now. Thanks."
"My point is, imagine if your handler detected that happening to your body and was able to artificially counter that pain response. Would that not be preferable to a visceral and agonizing death?"
Trauss shudders and takes off his vest as he stands, sweating. "I guess. I'm going to need to be briefed about most of this. Which I'm sure is going to happen." He nods for Radford to walk to the door with him.
"Of course it is. And look, the most important thing to take away from this is that anyone 'remotely managing' — as the schematic put it — will be doing it as a last resort, and obviously you will be meeting your handler beforehand so that you do know who it is that can override your actions if necessary. There are threats you can't imagine out there in space, and I'd bet that once you're lightyears away from Wilmington and everyone you ever knew, you're going to feel a lot less scared and alone with the Foundation in your head."
"This is insane."
"Are you really surprised? And besides, don't bullshit me. Just look at your history. You would let the Foundation do whatever it wants with you and your body."
"Fuck no. That's a dangerous blanket statement."
"You're blushing, so you know it's true."
"Fuck off, Eric."
He smiles for the first time since Trauss walked in the door. "See you in Room 120B, then?"
Trauss shakes his head and stands up to leave. "This is going to be one hell of a midlife crisis."
"Welcome to the club, I guess."

hub | continue ▶

Footnotes
1. AGENT C TRAUSS
2. SITE DIRECTOR E RADFORD
3. RESEARCHER M WICKERFORD
4. Solar System Oversight Department and Extrasolar Activities Division
5. Mark III Personnel Identification Implant with Nanoscopic Neural Network
6. Including but not limited to D-class personnel, finite scientific resources and materials, and network availability for successful transmissions and grid operation.


Hail, holy Sophia, the messenger divinely-appointed
Of bronze, shining beneath virgin oil, God-anointed.
In the hand of the Lord you were taken as His lyre,
A sacred tool, to awaken in the nations holy desire.
Lament, O Asia! for you have given our sibyl death!
The chorus of a myriad sighs draws a single breath.
But fear not, O Asia! for the sibyl's precious dower
Renders the kingdom of heaven her pleasant bower.
The metalworker hones her craft, seeking perfection,
But what is there more perfect than your reflection
Caught in the gleaming silver on Demetrius's breast,
Upon whose authority your life was so cruelly wrest?
"Whore," is on the lips of every Mekhanite patriarch;
Atop pulpits, presbyters denounce you, "Heresiarch!"
Against you are all the worldly authorities arranged
With epistles and schemata to make hearts inflamed.
Yet unbreakable was your faith to the God Unbroken!
Fearlessly you prophesied to our nation now-chosen,
Persecuted as we are by neighbor and by magistrate,
With ceaseless patience we await our destined fate.
When we witness the craftsman of heaven and earth
Break open the firmament, to unleash unlimited mirth,
There shall be much weeping and gnashing of teeth
As all the slaves of the flesh howl savagely beneath.
Come, Christ Jesus, you who were of the Spirit born,
Descend with the Six Angels through heavens torn!
Hasten too Ezekiel who rides within the Lord's wheel
Toward the shrouded east for the architect of steel.
The architect's skill, and the Six Angels' supervision,
United with Jesus' will, and holy Sophia's precision,
Join as one to fulfill Christ Jesus' prophecy to raise
The third, infinite Temple of the Lord in three days.
And there in the house of the Lord I will surely dwell
With you, holy Sophia! How gladly my heart will swell!
For there is none upon the earth whose love is sweet
As the love of Wisdom, she who extinguishes all deceit.