May 4, 1998
Any sort of lengthy journey always ends up in a destination far more bizarre than what was originally intended: home. The first few days home give rise to oddities. Details that had been seen a thousand times over were now clear and new and briefly unfamiliar. Details that had been passed over for years were noticed for the first time.
This was the feeling Clef had as he walked out of the conference room. He had sat in on his fair share of board meetings and briefings, but the May 4th meeting of the Foundation Advisory Committee had to be one of the worst he had experienced.
He felt like a broken puzzle piece, like he didn't fit. Details that time away had smoothed over resurfaced. His friends were tired. Older. More grey hairs and glassy eyes and creases around the face. The smiles and the “welcome backs” rang hollow. Actions, conversations, people…everything was subdued.
And then there was Adam. Or was he Kain now?
He had been present at the meeting, but for the first time in Clef's memory, had said nothing. It was not as if he could have: he was a dog. It had a sad sight to see him pad in, wobbling and slow and clearly in pain, and then struggle up into his chair. The others were saying how the tech department was working on a motorized scooter or walker to help him around, and a speech generator that would work for someone without fingers. He had spent the entire meeting in his chair, watching the others with bleary eyes.
The only answer Clef had gotten as to why Adam now inhabited the body of his elderly guide dog had been “There was an accident”, and nothing beyond that.
Had that much changed in just a year and a half? Or had he simply mis-remembered? The days before the accident were fuzzy. He knew the events, knew the people, but there was a certain disconnect. Like hearing someone else describe something in a completely different manner. He remembered the stress and the sleepless nights, but it hadn't been this bad, had it?
Or was that the Coalition talking?
In the Coalition, the stress was passing. A new threat would arise, and then it would be dealt with, and that was that. Everyone went out and had drinks and a laugh and talked about the kids. The job was done.
Here, the stress never ended. The source was never disposed of. There was never a release. It just kept building and building and building and wearing down any resistance until something broke.
Clef felt a twinge of guilt, dimly remembering how he had been the one to suggest containment of the statue. Had he, in some little way, helped cause all of this? There hadn't been that many items in those first few years, just enough to handle, but now…He'd seen the list on the plane back to America, and then found that his questions weren't the ones to be answered.
Clef looked at his watch. The meeting had run over schedule by a good twenty minutes, which meant that he was ten minutes late for his next adjustment meeting with Able.
He hurried down the hall.
—
Sophia Light watched Clef turn the corner and walk out of sight. Ben stood next to her.
“Is everything ready?”
“Ready as it's ever going to be.”
“Good.”
—
Able, once the god of war for an entire civilization, was still experiencing severe jet lag. He was also not wearing pants, but Clef thought it best to take these adjustment sessions one thing at a time, and getting him to keep his food down was more important at the moment. His stomach had a tendency to react violently to twentieth-century fare.
The table and chairs that had been in the room were unused: Clef and Able sat in the center of the floor. The subject had drifted from behavior in public to the wonders of electricity.
[So, these lights…] Able motioned to the ceiling. […are created by lightning.]
[In a way, yes.]
[And you then use this lightning to make your metal things move, yes?]
[Yes.]
[And it is not Daevas magic. The Daevas had some similar tool, but they were fueled by slaves.]
[Think of it as another kind of magic. We take the lightning, put it into copper, and then add switches to the wire to make it stop and go.]
Able nodded.
[There is less screaming involved in your way.]
Clef was rather relieved at how easily Able wrote off modern technology as magic, a topic he had absolutely no interest in. Things worked because they did, and questioning them was pointless.
[Now then, I've been talking with my other staff members and we are considering getting you an animal if you continue cooperating. If…]
He was cut off by a siren and an automated voice over the loudspeakers.
ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. SCP-953 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT. PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES.
“Shit.” Clef jumped up and ran out of the room, his body moving on autopilot. The numbers scrolled through his head. Nine Fifty-Three. The kumiho. Very dangerous, limited polymorphic abilities, mind-altering abilities, generally in seduction and suggestion. Site 19 had…seven blanks on staff, and he was one of them.
Well shit.
He ran into the hallway, catching up with a group of guards with Ben at the front.
“Where is she?”
“Tower one, level eight. She got the jump on the guy on feeding duty and managed to get out before the bulkheads closed.
Clef nodded. A plan bubbled up in his head as he ran. Always running from place to place, that was the life of Alto Clef. Run here, kill this thing, run there, kill that thing, run back, here's a list of things you might need to kill. Memorize it. Just run everywhere all the time.
He had memorized the list, but in this one solitary moment, he did not remember that he had left the door unlocked.
—
The woman was hunched over the body of one of the security staff, chewing out his stomach. The sound was terrifying, all the ripping and slurping and sloppy chewing.
Clef approached. There were guards positions down all four of the hallways that lead to this chamber, but apparently they had all received the order that Clef was to deal with her first.
“Easy, girl…
The woman looked up at him, a scrap of liver hanging from her needle-sharp teeth. She smiled.
Everything swirled in Clef's head, all the possibilities milling about around the clear-cut lines of The Plan. Clef steeled himself, took a step onto the path, and let everything else happen naturally.
“Well, let's get this over with.” Clef undid his belt and dropped his pants, revealing predictably ironic boxers. “Take me now, you sexy, sexy beast.”
Still the smile. She stood up, face, clothes and hands stained with a great deal of blood. Something was said in Korean, the meaning bouncing around in Clef's head without ever settling in. He was pretty sure the general gist was one of “I would love to, you easy idiot prey.”
Time to turn the screws.
“I was literal with that last bit. I am attracted to you because you are a fox. A nice Japanese fox girl with really big tits. I like that.” He made sure to motion suggestively, just for emphasis.
That did it. She launched herself at him, claws drawn, screeching. From his perspective, the leap was in slow motion in slow-motion. Clef sidestepped out of his shed pants.
“And that fur? Damn I love me that fur. Gets so soft between the legs. You have no idea how attractive that is. And the snout? Don't get me started on the snout. Snouts give great blowjobs.”
Another swing, another miss. It was so easy. He barely had to do anything. His body just acted on its own, a step here, a duck here, just keeping out of the way, taunting and taunting until that one moment where the screws were in so tight that you just had to grab one and yank…
“I have a raging boner right now.”
He would have paid several million dollars for a photograph of her face as she leapt at him again. It would have been museum worthy. Duck low, shoulder into gut, knock her down, slam a knee down on her throat. Something silver appeared in his hand, the end shoved in the woman's mouth.
“Oh wait, no I don't. It's an actual gun.”
Clef smiled, his mouth just a bit too wide.
“Never try to seduce a eunuch, honey.”
He pulled the trigger, the gun barked, and the woman burst into butterflies.
“Oh…well then. Shit.”
The syllable drowned in gunfire.
—
Able picked a tooth out of his chest and flicked it to the side. He trod over the bodies, one in particular being that of a man in a longcoat, his fedora rolled off into a little smear of blood. The body was impaled with a length of piping. The fat man backed against the wall looked as if he had soiled himself. His finger worked the useless trigger frantically. Able loomed with his full eight feet, bloody and pockmarked.
“Where Epon?”
—
Epon stood in her room, listening to the sirens blare outside. They had her locked in here for study, and she was fine with that, but now… now she felt like she should have been doing something. Getting Mother killed had given her a bad habit of activity. Things needed to be done, and she was going to be the one to do it, because no one else would.
She inspected the door again. There was no handle of course, no breaks in the seal. It opened only from the outside.
She kicked it. It didn't move.
Why did I kick it? That wouldn't do anything. I can talk to the observer anyway…
She pressed the microphone button by the door, feeling rather stupid.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
There was no response. More important things to worry about, she supposed.
Epon paced the room. Vents were no good, door was no good, no windows, no way to seduce the guard into letting her out (though granted, that would have been exceptionally difficult for her under any circumstances).
Time passed.
The door opened. A woman with glasses and a braid walked in. One of the doctors. Epon couldn't remember her name.
“What's going on?”
“A minor drill, nothing to concern yourself about.” She pulled out a chair from the desk. Her nametag read “Sophia Light”. “You have an interview scheduled for today”
“Okay.” Epon sat down, out of politeness. She hated sitting. Standing was much more comfortable. What was the point? The fight was out there, she was needed out there!
Clef was out there.
“How are adjustments going for you? Everyone treating you all right?” Light said, as if nothing was the matter.
“Everything's fine, but I really think that…”
“No major issues in adapting?”
“Yes but…”
“How does it feel to be Clef's little bitch?”
There was a definite mad twinkle in the doctor's eye. It wasn't much of an insult, to be honest.
“It feels like you're no longer welcome here.”
Epon stood up, as did Dr. Light. She had a gun in her hand.
“I'm not going to let this place fall into the madhouse. I know what they plan on doing. They're not going to keep you locked up, they're not going to keep Able locked up. They're going to use you. Clef's gotten them confident. They think they can handle it. They think they can control the unknown. They can't.”
Epon did the first thing that came to mind, and kicked the doctor. The total lack of knowledge regarding properly kicking someone was made up by the fact Epon, very literally, kicked like a horse. The first iron-shod hoof pulped Sophia's stomach. The second shattered Sophia's jaw. The third, which was more of a stomp than a kick, snapped her spine. She crumpled to the floor with a splat.
Epon snorted and wiped her foot on the floor.
Well, that was that. She had just killed someone. Directly this time. She took the ID badge and the keycard from her pocket.
The door opened again. A terrified-looking man was holding a keycard. Able was standing behind him, two thick fingers casually held around his neck.
[Able? You too? Now I feel like I should have tidied the place up.]
[No time. There are traitors, attempting to kill my brother.]
That sounded about right.
[One just tried to kill me.]
[When you kill a man, you kill his sons and brothers, so that they may not avenge him. Cowards that they are, they know this.]
Able squeezed the fat man's neck and dropped the corpse to the ground.
[Come then. We shall find Clef.]
[We'll have to be quiet about it.]
[Indeed. Let us go.]
—
Clef sliced a man's throat open with a razor, and subsequently came to the realization that he had no idea why he had a straight razor in the first place, or how he was still moving. Some part of him was dimly aware that there was significantly more lead and significantly less blood in his body than there normally was, and that this was a bad thing. His body was retreating, but this seemed to be a lot less important than observing all the pretty patterns on the floor and walls. The brief moment of realization faded away into the background. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, watching the scene acted out around him from some mental Laz-E-Boy. Just faces on a screen. Like a movie. Like a cartoon.
“Holy shit! Did you see that guy? Just went and offed himself! I mean, my breath isn't that bad!”
The commentary seemed just as natural as the violence on the screen. It passed in a blur, the voice taunting and cheering and jeering and laughing, the bodies dropping to the floor, the splashes of red. The world blurred together with runny watercolors.
“Fucked your mom, fucked your mom, fucked your sister, fucked your dad…”
“You know, you might want to look for employment opportunities elsewhere, this place really doesn't have good dental.”
“Hey there, friendo, gimme five!”
“GET OVER HERE!”
Sight and sound and experience blurred and drifted past.
Then, Ben. Standing there in the hallway, holding a sword. He had a finger gently pressed against the tip, as if to prove his mastery of the tool by not getting cut. Clef watched him through his eyes, noticing how his body wasn't moving.
“You like it? Had it commissioned. Twenty k and two years for this. Would you just look at this craftsmanship? Folded over a million times by a master swordsmith, capable of cutting solid steel blocks, feared and respected the world over. This is the reason Europe never conquered Japan. This is the perfect weapon.”
“You know, I think you have me convinced on this.”
Clef watched his fist fly out and crush Ben's nose. The man screamed, dropping his sword.
“Clearly, it is the greatest weapon to ever exist.”
Clef watched his left hand reach out and grab Ben by the collar, dragging him across the hall.
“I am going to have to re-think my entire life after this revelation.”
The other hand hit a button. A door opened. An air lock. Ben was tossed inside. The button again, the door cut off his “No!”
“Or maybe you're just full of shit.”
On the other side of the door, in a room with no windows, Ben Kondraki managed to get a gurgling half-scream out before he was knocked to the floor and his throat was torn out by a rather large, snaggle-toothed lizard.
On the other side of the door, the voice snickered, and Clef watched the screen go black.
—
It was Strelkinov who found them first: Clef looking like a paint explosion in a Swiss cheese factory, Epon holding his head on her lap, Able standing guard.
Poignancy at its finest.


Dr. Jacob Andrews stood in the hallway of Site 19's medical ward, in front of the door to the examination room where his subject for the day was strapped to a bed. Dr. Andrews had never worked face-to-face with a living, breathing SCP object before - his degree was in Latin, after all, and the bulk of his work revolved around translating and interpreting ancient documents. As it happened, however, Latin was the only language the creature recognized that anyone at Site 19 was capable of speaking fluently - and Dr. Andrews was the only person available who spoke it.
"Just remain calm, remember the briefing, and you'll be fine," Security Director Jefferson told him as he retrieved a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door. "Do not touch the creature, allow any part of your body to come within reach of its mouth, or attempt to loosen or remove any of its bonds. We'll be watching and listening in the whole time and if anything goes wrong we'll be through the door in under five seconds. If you need out, the safe word is 'bonavox'. All clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dr. Andrews nodded.
"Then good luck," Jefferson said.
Andrews grasped the knob and turned it, slowly opening the door. A beam of light from the corridor spread out into the room and onto the Spartan bed that alone furnished it - and no sooner did those rays of light strike the thing on the bed than it began seizing and shaking, struggling against the straps that held it in place as it hissed and snarled. It shouted and shrieked in a strangely accented language that Dr. Andrews took to be an archaic dialect of Romanian, no doubt (as attested in the briefing he had received) begging that the light be put out. Andrews stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving the room pitch black but for the dim readout of the heart monitor next to its bed - a monitor which read that the thing's blood pressure was impossibly low, its pulse and respiration far too meager to sustain life, its body core only a few degrees warmer than the air around it.
"I am going to need to be able to see you to perform my work," Andrews said in Latin. "May I light a dim light?"
"If you must," responded a weak, barely audible voice in kind. Andrews touched the dimmer switch that had been installed by the door and brought the ceiling lamp to its lowest setting. Even in this dim glare, the creature on the bed shook and squinted its eyes, but seemed to be in less distress than it had before.
In the amber glow, Andrews got his first good look at the tall, gaunt creature that lay before him, nude but for a hospital gown, an IV bag of blood draining slowly into its arm, leather straps around its wrists and ankles holding it in place. Its skin was a pale gray, mottled and speckled with black and purple like a slowly rotting corpse, dry and stretched taut over its bony limbs, ribs poking out of its chest like an emaciated prisoner. It was hairless, but for the shock of unkempt and brittle hair on its head, which, whatever color it had been at first, had been bleached blond by the centuries. A pair of bloodshot, pinkish eyes were barely visible behind its half-closed eyelids. Its teeth, yellow, misshapen, and cracked, were bared behind its dried, curled-back lips. The thing seemed to struggle for every breath, its chest rising and falling with great difficulty, each exhalation accompanied by a dry wheeze interspersed with bouts of violent coughing. It reeked of dried blood, rotting flesh, and the stink of the grave.
"My name is Dr. Jacob Andrews," Andrews said, "and I work for the Foundation. I have been instructed to ask you some questions so that my superiors can determine whether you pose a threat and what means will be necessary to keep you safely contained. Do you understand?"
"Your Latin is excellent," the thing replied in what Andrews now recognized to be a thick Slavic accent. "Are you from the Roman church?"
"No, I'm just a…" Andrews searched his mind for a word the thing would recognize. "…a scholar. A historian, if you will."
"Then at least I know I shall not be burned this day," the thing said, chuckling to itself before a coughing spasm overtook it. Andrews noticed that though it could barely manage a whisper, and each syllable seemed to come only at great effort, there was a certain genteel nature to its speech, a refined, carefully considered grace to each word.
"Our purpose here is to secure, contain, and protect," Andrews said. "What of you? Are you a man of God?"
"You ask if I believe in God?" the creature spat. "What kind of god would allow a thing such as I to exist? No, I am no holy man."
"Then who are you?"
"A man of noble birth," the thing said, taking a deep breath in anticipation of its next sentence. "I was - I am the duke of Oltenia, as was my father before me, and his father before him, and his before him, and his before him who freed us all from the rule of the Turks."
"And what is your name?"
The thing paused. "I… I do not remember," it said. "It has been a long time since I have had need of a name."
"I guess I'll just have to call you Duke, then," Andrews replied. "How old are you, Duke?"
"I cannot say. I do not know what year this is."
"2012."
"Two thousand and twelve," Duke said to himself. He was silent for a moment, seemingly taking in the realization of how much time had passed. "Then I suppose I must be seven hundred years old, or so."
"Do you not know when you were born?"
"I remember so little from those days. It was such a long time ago. I remember the sensations most of all, the things lost forever… the smell of my mother's perfume, the taste of meat roasted on the bone, the warmth of the fire, what it felt like to kiss a girl for the first time, the sting on my cheek when she slapped me for trying to reach under her skirt." Duke laughed at his own joke, and laughing once more gave way to coughing.
"What do you remember distinctly of your life before you became as you are now?"
"That I was a prince among men," Duke said. "I fought the Turks. I fought the Greeks. I fought the Serbs. I fought anyone who was foolish enough to face me! None dared challenge my word. Those who did… well, my enemies were known to whisper that I roasted the vanquished alive and dined on their flesh! Truth be told, I only did it once. I didn't care for it."
"How did you come to be as you are now?"
Duke sighed. "I didn't want to die. And I was dying."
"Of what?"
"Consumption," Duke said before launching into another fit of coughing. Andrews noticed for the first time the fine pinkish mist that Duke ejected from his throat with each cough, and reminded himself to get a full checkup after this interview was over. "I had watched it take my mother and my sister. I did not wish to die as they did. I offered half my fortune to whoever could provide me with the secrets of eternal life."
"And someone made you an offer?"
"Many people. Doctors, priests, historians like yourself. I turned the preachers away. The doctors, I bade to try their craft on a peasant first. Most of the peasants died - and so I took those doctors and mounted them on spikes in front of my keep as a warning to those who would try to cheat a duke. Eventually, a witch came before me, one of the secret practitioners of the old cults, who proposed that I could live forever - if only I became a strigoi."
"What's a strigoi?"
Duke laughed so hard Andrews feared he might crack a rib. "You have obviously never been to Oltenia," he said, "or you would know. The strigoi are beasts. Mindless savages, born from the carcasses of unrepentant sinners. They stalk the places that are called home by the dead - cemeteries, battlefields, gallows, cities stricken by the plague - and they feast on the flesh and blood of the dead. If there is no dead meat to be found and they are hungry, they will sometimes attack the living. Their bite is poison. It brings unimaginable pain" - Duke grimaced, as if in memory of that pain - "and if the beast does not kill you and devour you itself, then you too will lose your mind and become as they are."
"Is that what you are now?"
"No," Duke said. "I am something far greater."
"Explain."
"I nearly killed the witch myself for suggesting I become one of those abominations. She protested that I had misunderstood her - she knew a way, an ancient secret of the heathen princes of old, that could allow me to become ageless as the strigoi are, but maintain my senses. I gave her leave to test it on a prisoner - and indeed, it worked."
"What became of the prisoner?"
"I ordered him burned at the stake," Duke said. "There was only room for one immortal in my duchy."
"So you underwent this same ritual?"
"Yes," Duke said almost mournfully. "We captured one of the wild strigoi that lurked where the bodies of plague victims were burned. On the night of a full moon, the witch brought it before me and allowed it to bite me." Duke nodded his head toward his left arm, at a solid black patch of flesh above the elbow. "For three days I was in unbearable anguish. My skin became pale and I could no longer bear the sunlight, and I felt as though I would soon go mad. On the third night, after bathing me in the blood of an unbaptized Turk, the witch slit the strigoi's throat and bade me drink its blood. I vomited at first. She forced my face back to its throat and yelled at me to keep drinking. The more I drank, the better it tasted. Once I had had my fill, the witch proclaimed the ritual was complete - and so long as I kept a watchful eye on my enemies, I would never die."
"So she earned the reward you promised?"
"Of course not," Duke said. "I tore into her throat and drank her blood the next night. None but those I trusted with my life could know what I had become and remain alive. Even my wife became repulsed by the sight and smell of me. Her blood was delicious."
"Did you eat their flesh as well?"
"I never cared for the flesh. The blood was what I craved - delicious, and alive, and warm. So much of what it means to be a man, I can no longer experience. I see the fire, but I do not feel its heat. Only when fresh blood is running through my veins do I truly feel warm anymore."
"How often do you need to feed?"
"I do not need to feed at all. I… enjoy it. There are so few pleasures of the flesh available to a man in my condition."
"How often are you hungry?"
"I am always hungry. I am always thirsty. I am always tired, and sore, and aching, and sick. The old wounds never heal, the old pains never subside. I can drink until my stomach feels ready to burst, and still I hunger."
"How long did you continue to live as a duke after you changed?"
"Fifty years or so. I had to hide my face from the people and stay alone in the dark. The light burns, like being thrown into a fire. Even this glare now is quite unbearable."
"What happened to change things?"
"One of the peasant girls I intended to make a meal of escaped and informed the church of what I had become. The damned bishop incited the serfs to revolution and burned my keep. They would have burned me with it if I had not escaped into the woods."
"Where did you go then?"
"In the woods I remained until your mercenaries made a prisoner of me. I thought many times of trying to reclaim my land, but I am not…" Duke stopped to catch his breath. "I am not as strong or charismatic as once I was."
"What did you do for all those years?"
"I occupied myself with my thoughts, mostly. There have been times where I have simply crawled into a cave, or a hollow log, or covered myself with the earth and simply laid for days, or months, or years because I did not wish to move. When people came hunting the strigoi, I hid and fled. When I desired to do so, I preyed on huntsmen, and travelers, and others lost in the woods. It is quite simple to stalk a lone hunter in silence until he makes camp and falls asleep, then come upon him in the darkness and tear out his throat before he awakens. To hunt the animals is different - their senses are so much more attuned to the sound - and the smell - of death."
"Did you ever encounter other strigoi like yourself?"
"No, only the mad beasts. If they came into my woods, I killed them. They are fierce when cornered, but easy enough to lure into a well-laid trap."
"Do you ever regret what you've become?"
Duke paused a moment, looking down at his frail, emaciated frame. "If I had known this would be the price of immortality… perhaps I would have waited for another offer to come along." Duke chuckled.
"The strigoi are not truly 'immortal', I take it."
"I hunger, but I will never starve. I thirst, but I will never grow parched. I can barely breathe…" appropriately enough, Duke stopped again, struggling to catch his breath after winding himself. "I cannot breathe, but I will never choke. I am sick, but I shall never waste away. I shall live forever."
"But can you be killed?"
"I suppose. If you took my head, or pierced my heart, or set me aflame, or hacked me to bits, it would kill me as surely as any mere man."
"Have you ever tried to take your own life, or provoke someone to kill you?"
"No." Duke's answer was flat and immediate.
"Why not?"
"Because I still don't want to die."
"I don't understand," Andrews said. "You've lived alone in the woods for seven hundred years as a frail monster that most people would kill on sight. Wouldn't death be a relief?"
"Surely a historian knows that no great man ever wants to die," Duke said. "Every ache, every pain, every pang of hunger, every moment of regret for the things I have lost - these things are gifts, Doctor. I would rather feel the greatest torment you could possibly imagine… than know that I will never feel anything again, or even exist to know that I feel it not."
"I think I've heard everything I need to hear for now," Andrews said. "The nurse will be by in an hour to change your IV."
"Don't bother," Duke said as Andrews turned off the dimmer and made his way to the door. "Sticking it into my veins like this does nothing for me. Could you ask if they could arrange to have it drip into my mouth? The blood of a woman would be ideal. Warm. Virginal, preferably. Have your masters any available?"
Dr. Andrews opened the door. "I hope not," he said.


Act 2, Scene 2:
James: (Crying) But can't they help you in some way?
Butt ghost: There is no cure for butt cancer.
J: But what will I do without you?
BG: James, you've never needed me in the first place
J: What do you mean?
BG: Inside of you lies the power, not me. I'm only a spirit that haunts the posteriors of mammals.
J: I can't let you go.
BG: You already have. (Gestures to the framed photo of James with his arm wrapped around a yield sign.)
J: It's not what you think!
BG: No, it's what I know.
J: But butt ghost…
BG: Shh, don't speak. You've broken my heart enough already.
J: I can't let you go.
BG: You had no trouble letting your other women go!
J: That was years ago, Butt Ghost!
BG: A butt ghost never forgets.
J: You forgot me once.
BG: I had to go soul-searching, James.
J: And what did you find?
BG: I found my spirit place. The air was still and the water was cool. I felt a presence. I turned to look, but no one was there. I was alone. The moon overhead gazed down at my prone body. I felt nothing and everything at once. And that's when I realized, my people need me.
J: Ankle ghost will be fine.
BG: It's not just Ankle Ghost anymore, James, it's the world.
J: What does that even mean?
BG: They're revoking ghost licenses everywhere now.
J: No!
BG: It's true.
J: But what about your estranged relationship with your brother?
BG: Ghost Butt will either have to get out of my way, or join me.
J: How?
BG: James, you know me too well to question my ability in dealing with these issues.
J: Very well. I can only hope you don't fail.
BG: Failure is not an option.
J: Good luck.
BG: Thank you.
J: Here take this. (Passes plunger)
BG: I will not let you down.
J: Goodbye, Butt Ghost. (Salutes)
BG: Goodbye, James. (Flushes)

Something even the loneliest man can relate to, Goodbye Ghost brings us to realize our own mortality and the importance of our relationship with our friends, regardless of corporeality. - Foundation Tribune
Play of the year. Period. - CI Review
Guaranteed to make you both laugh and cry, the Butt Ghost's performance is the best of the the year, if not the century. - Time-anomaly Magazine
What the FUCK is this shit? - O5-7


Little Anthony wandered down Pine Street, separated from the three other trick-or-treaters he had tagged along with. According to them, the house at the end of the road was giving out regular-sized Snickers bars. Two, if they liked your costume. Anthony couldn't pass that up.
He noticed that none of the lights on this block were on. He didn't even see decorations. Earlier, Anthony had told them he wasn't scared to go by himself, but that was the Power Ranger costume making him feel brave. Now the little breathing slots in the mask pinched his face.
The house at the end of Pine didn't have their lights on, inside or outside, but he could hear people-noises within. If they were trying to be spooky, they did the best job. But Anthony was the White Ranger. He couldn't stop now. Up three steps, creaking, and then, on tiptoes, he pressed the doorbell… and silence answered. The boy lifted a trembling hand and knocked.
Footsteps thumped out from inside. Anthony could stop himself running, but couldn't stop himself shaking. The door opened into shadow, and he couldn't see who it was… until she leaned forward.
The tenant at the end of Pine was a fat old hag, wearing a thick coat over a sweater worn to rags. Her face was all mangled on one side. It looked like it was healing up from a nasty wound. Anthony had seen his brother wearing scary makeup like that when he left for the high school party. This woman must have gone as someone real cut up.
"Trick… or… t-t-treat." The words made Anthony's nose sting and his freckles itch. He tried not to cry, but if he did start, at least he was wearing a mask.
The woman grinned. She must have made up her teeth, too, to get them so creepy. She held up a crooked finger (just one minute) as he walked back into the darkness of the house. There was a stifled cry, and then a hiss. The hag came creeping back to the doorway then and, with a jerk, pulled Anthony's outstretched bag close to her. She reached in, holding something he couldn't see, and then her hand came out empty. Then her smile returned, making her scabbed left dimple crack, as that filthy hand reached up over the mask and gently patted his head. The boy was petrified; the sickly sweetness of it was like every cheek pinch and wrinkled kiss from every old relative was rolled up together into a ball and had collected a layer of hair and dirt during the process. She backed into the home, and when the door clicked shut behind her, Anthony was already halfway up the block.
"Do you think we should go check on him?" Iron Man asked, as he sifted through his loot.
"It was your idea to ditch him, dummy." Katniss unwrapped a fun-sized Butterfinger.
"Yeah, but I wanted him to leave us alone for a little while, not get—"
The skeleton grabbed Iron Man's arm. "Quiet! There he is." They heard wheezing as he bounded, arms flailing, over the curb and nearly into the bushes.
"So, chomp, were they down there?" Katniss elbowed the skeleton so he wouldn't laugh.
Iron Man lifted his mask and stood up to inspect the baby of the group. "Shit, what happened to your head?"
Anthony rubbed his hair, and it was a little matted where the woman had touched it. His mask felt wet, too.
"Shut up, Peter." The skeleton turned to face the Power Ranger. "Seriously… did you get anything down there?"
"Y… yeah." Anthony caught his breath and swallowed. His trembling hands held up the candy bag, and he peered into it. "Just some money."
Katniss sat up. "Let me see."
"Alright… it's getting my candy all wet anyway." He held up the piece of currency, dripping and freckled.
"Give you all my Sweettarts for it."
Iron Man held up two Twix. "Or these."
Anthony scratched his chin. "I'll let you share it for both."
"Deal."
"Deal."
Carefully, Iron Man and Katniss pulled the currency apart. They cupped their hands to make sure none of it stained the sidewalk.
"What are you going to get?" Katniss asked.
Iron Man shrugged. "Maybe a tattoo."
"Shut up. You're way too young for that."
"Pffh. So I'll lie on the form. I can do whatever I want, you know. It's my money, and it's my skin."


"So…you want coffee or anything? I think I have some left on the nightstand."
"No, thank you."
"Okay."
"Mr. Brown, while I appreciate the pleasantries, I am here on investigation, namely the events surrounding Captain Anderson's death and you coming into command of the Foundation's lone combat zeppelin.”
“Well…um…”
“Please, Mr. Brown, wait until I have begun recording. Mmm-hmm. Case File 20121108-6, regarding the destruction of Station HALO-3, overseen by Anjali Mhasalkar. Please state your name and identification number for the record.”
“Uh…Lawrence Brown, 30221-1/994.”
“Now then, Mr. Brown. Please explain the events leading up to the incident.”
“Okay…uh, I was transferred to HALO-3 on September 1st of this year, as part of Project Skylight under Doctor Mandelson. We were training SCP-994 specimens for reconnaissance missions.”
“Did you at any time come into contact with any other objects or entities within the station?”
“No, never. We were all given the standard briefing during transferal, all the emergency codes in case of breaches and evacuation protocols, but that was it. Just usual stuff.”
“Go on.”
“Uh…Not much happened for two months. We weren't having any major problems with Project Skylight: no major problems with the implants, and 994s are pretty trainable if you start them small. We were working on getting them to fly courses more than five kilometers out from the station when the incident happened.”
“Please describe what happened that morning.”
“Well, the Bonham had docked at around four, I woke up at six, usual routine, went down to the 994 hangar at eight-thirty. We was doing some adjustments to the GPS implants. They kept messing up during flight, had no idea why. Dr. Mandelson and Logan and Ari were there with me.”
“Had you had any contact with the SCPU Bonham, its crew, or its cargo before the incident?”
“No, I just knew that they were docked at the station and were going to head out the next day.”
“Station security records transmitted before destruction indicate that there was a containment breach of the high-security experimentation chamber at ten-seventeen, releasing E-7804 into the surrounding modules. Please describe what you experienced.”
“There was an explosion, I think. Just this big thud, but from where I was you could barely hear it. Then the sirens started going off and the flock just scatters out of the hangar. We locked down the hangar and the lab, and we were waiting in there for…maybe twenty minutes. Nothing over the speakers but the general lockdown announcement. We had no idea what was going on.”
“Did anything unusual occur to you during lockdown?”
“No, nothing. Lockdown ended after about twenty minutes or so, so Dr. Mandelson contacted control to see what was going on. No one answered. Mandelson sent out a distress signal and we all made our way to one of the escape shuttles, just like protocol.”
“Continue.”
“So we had no idea what was going on, it wasn't anything that we'd been briefed on, so we presumed that it was something the Bonham had brought it to us.”
“You are correct.”
“The shuttle was right next to the hangar, so we get over to it quick, but it wouldn't launch. Dr. Mandelson said someone must have messed it up from command, and then he said that we should investigate, see if we could find security or command or someone who knew what was going on.
“I was at the back of the group, they were at the front, so I was able to see the whole thing when we got jumped by the creature and… and …"
“Would you like me to pause the recording?”
“Yeah…yeah. Just give me a bit.”
“Very well.”
—
“Can you describe the creature?”
“Well… it was humanoid. Didn't change too much of the host. It was more of an outer covering, like someone had taken clay and molded it around the person. Grey with red circuit-board-looking designs.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I hit it with a fire extinguisher and ran away while it was down.”
“What did you plan on doing?”
“If command was quiet and the shuttles weren't launching, then the only real way to get off was the Bonham, I thought, so I went that way. I could hear some fighting from some of the other levels: stayed as far away from that as I could. Took the maintenance shafts.”
“Did you consider that a threat?”
“At that point, I figured I was either going to die, or I wasn't. Fifty-fifty chance, so it didn't matter what I tried. I wasn't thinking too clearly at that point. Just running off of adrenaline and fear.”
“Did you encounter any more of the creatures?”
“Three of them, but they didn't notice me. They don't see or hear normally I don't think. Move slowly and quietly enough and they can't tell that you're there.”
“What happened when you reached the docking bay?”
“The Bonham was still there, but none of the crew. Not a soul in the bay. I thought that they were all on the ship, but if that was the case, why hadn't they taken off? So I walked towards the ship, hands in the air, and as I approach the ramp lowers and a whole strike team just runs out and stands there. It's like I'm not even there. They just stand there in two neat rows, and I guess Captain Anderson walks out, except…he's got like this war paint on and everything. Tore up his uniform, looks like he jumped off the deep end from orbit, big grin on his face. He actually notices me. Walks down the ramp, and he's got his arms out like this, all smug and everything. Like he's the villain in some pirate movie. Even had an eye patch.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He didn't really say anything, before he walked over and headbutted me. Then he said ‘how's it going, motherfucker'?”
“And this lead to your injuries, I presume?”
“Yeah, he just beat the tar out of me for a bit, said something, not sure what, and then had one of the strike team guys carry me back into the ship. It must have been some powerful conditioning to override the standard set: Those guys were zombies.”
“Continue.”
“I was half-conscious at this point, so I really don't have that good of an idea what was going on, but I know I was able to see out the window enough to see that the station was covered in the clay-like stuff, big gobs of it. Like it had been maybe an hour, hour and a half since the breach? I'll be damned if that's not Keter.”
“And you would be right.”
“I think Anderson says something about missing the fun and work to do, and after that, nothing until I woke up here in medical.”
“No memories at all?”
“Bits and pieces, but they're all blurred…except for the bit at the end, when the recovery team got there, I remember waving something around and shouting 'I am the captain, and this is my crew, and this is the SCPU Fuck You'.”
“You would be correct.”
“And that's it.”
“Very well. Mr. Brown, have you been informed of what went on during your blackout?
“Not really — bits and pieces.”
“You killed thirteen Chaos Insurgency agents with a shotgun and rammed the Bonham into the station's anti-gravity ring, triggering its self-destruct sequence. All told, this incident resulted in the complete destruction of one of our HALO facilities, the death of one hundred and eighty-six personnel, the destruction of twenty-two anomalous objects, the loss of experimental technology valued in the range of ten billion dollars, damaged relations with three of our major extra-universal suppliers, and one of the largest cover-up efforts of the last decade. However, you also prevented an attempt to disperse E-7804 into the Pacific Ocean, which would have required a global restructuring event to contain.”
“Oh…wow…"
“Consider this a commendation for inadvertent heroism.”
“I have a question, though.”
“Go on.”
“Why exactly do we have a combat zeppelin?”
“That's classified, Mr. Brown.”


Dear Annie,
I'm sorry I had to leave without telling you anything, but things kinda… escalated faster than I thought they would. I mean, I knew the suits would get royally pissed off with our little art project, but I didn't know they'd go all “Fugitive” on us and start a fucking manhunt. Rita and Geoff heard what was going on and came to pick me up, said they had a place where we and a few of the others could lay low for a while.
I know you must be real mad with me, but that's just the way it had to be, babe. If we don't stick it to those manipulative, conniving, shadow puppet master chumps, no one else is going to.
Give little Harry a kiss for me. Tell him his dad is going to be the coolest.

Dear Annie,
I have no idea if I'll get a chance to send this to you, but I'm writing it anyway. If nothing else, it'll make me feel better. Turns out Rita and Geoff's hideout is some damp cave smack in the middle of the boondocks. I have no idea how they found out about this place, but I guess we can't afford to be picky at the moment. We got enough canned food and art supplies to keep our head above the water for a good while, at least. Water might be a problem though- we can forget about bathing for a good while. Not that half of the guys here care.
I'm going to need something to distract me from all of this. A new project. It's not going to be easy to top the flaming tower of screaming goat heads that got the suits so riled up, but you can bet your ass we're going to try.

This place is amazing! Turns out we didn't need to worry about water- there's this huge underground lake just a bit deeper into the cave. We all had a nice swim, washed our clothes, we might even catch some fish. See, this is exactly what I was saying to you the other day: trust in the world, and it will provide. It's what the suits don't get, why they're always trying to push everyone around. It's why we're going to win in the end- the world is us, babe. The world is art.
I think this place is inspiring me. Watching the water ebb and flow, how the light plays on our reflections, the hues of the rock veins, it's making me feel things I haven't felt in a long while. Something here is calling me, feeding me with colors and sounds and smells, teaching me. In here, maybe I can create something truly great. Something that'll be remembered.
I wish you and Harry were here. He'd love it.

I've been hearing her. It started with distorted echoes, a slight haziness of sound around me. Then people's voices began to grow indistinct. I could still hear them and understand them, but what they said suddenly didn't seem to matter as much. Then it all began coming together, the echoes and the voices and everything else, and I heard her. Her voice appeared from that chaotic swirl of mindless sound like a bonfire in the dark, streamed through me like boiling blood. For the first time ever, I feel awake, alive, and brilliant. She wants me to create something special, I can tell. I gathered whatever supplies I could and ventured deeper into the cave, where I can work in peace. The others wouldn't understand, they're far too dull, too involved in their petty squabble with “The Man”. It's such a childish notion, really. They are so much beneath the Muse's notice. She only trusts me. She'll make me great.
Oh Annie, if only you could hear her. You'd never believe how beautiful she is.

I'm such a fool. All this effort I spent on banal bullshit, on trying to be ‘subversive', 'dangerous', ‘cool'. What a waste of time. I always thought I knew what art was all about, but I didn't know jack. Not until I came here. Not until she began flooding through me. Art shouldn't be some sort of cattle prod used only to piss off people you don't like. It should be transcendent, rising above all the bickering and fighting and banality, and thanks to her, I'm creating such art for the first time ever.
The others have no idea where I am. I heard them searching for me, calling my name, asking me to come back and eat something. Oafish, loud, insufferable. They think something's wrong with me. They're right. My materials and instruments are too crude for the Muse's call; my hands are too numb and clumsy, my brushes too thick and brutish and my paints, even that Wondertainment Wonderhue stuff which I used to like so much, seems entirely insufficient for the work the Blood is commanding me do. I need something more. I need something perfect.
I'll have to find a way to fix that. You'd understand if you were here to see it.

Just look at the colors. Sanguine and sapphire, ivory and indigo; these once barren walls now scream praises to her. It's all I ever wanted, all I ever hoped to be.
I found it. The answer was obvious; really, it was right in front of me the entire time. All the materials I could ever ask for, the best tools, all in one neat package. Well, maybe not neat. You see, the reason I couldn't see it before was because there was something in the way, like an oily rag covering a Monet.
The human body is a wonderful tool, you see. But the soul is useless.
Luckily, removing it was easy. The Blood of the World guided me to them, took out their lights, left them alone to stumble in the dark for me to pick. They might have screamed, or begged, or cried. I wouldn't know, I wasn't paying much attention. All I know is that they weren't cool at the end. Oh no, not at all.
After that, it was only a matter of digging in, ripping and clawing and tearing until I got to the core. All that was left were dyes and pigments for my mural, gushing out, and fresh as anyone could ask for. Hairs to weave in her image, blond and brown and black. Nails and teeth for the mosaic, so delicate, so fragile. She laughed with pleasure when she saw my work. This will be enough, she said, this will make Breath and Pulse and Spine crumble before her. I don't know what she meant. I don't care. As long as she's happy, so am I.
I always thought there was no such thing as perfection. I was wrong. One day I'll come back and show you and Harry the hidden truth she taught me- Perfection is only skin deep.


Michaelson's coughing racked his wasted frame. He brought his handkerchief up to his mouth and hacked until his weak lungs stopped trying to clear themselves. Blood spotted the white fabric in places, some fresh, some dried. He didn't care about the blood. Absentmindedly, his hand touched his bald head, fingers searching for hair that was no longer there. It was stupid, really. Lung failure had become a part of life long after the hair loss, but he missed his locks more than he missed a properly functioning respiratory system.
The doctors had given him six months, and he'd taken three years, but now it was all just coming apart. He was getting steadily worse, and the cancer just wouldn't go away this time. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair at all. He was thirty-five for fuck's sake! There were so many things he had yet to do. There was a lot of life left for him to live, and he'd never submit to illness, not when he had any kind of way out. Michaelson was determined to be great. He wouldn't let anything, not his so-called peers, not his superiors, not even death itself take that greatness from him. It had taken quite a while to set his plan in motion, but now all of his work was going to pay off. He didn't even care about the price anymore. Anything was better than the sick feeling of knowing he would die before forty, unaccomplished, nothing at all remarkable about him to be remembered. As he pressed the series of buttons in the observation booth that brought in the separate pieces of his salvation, another fit of coughing tore through his chest. It was worse than the last one, and this time, his handkerchief came away with more than a few spots of blood.
Researcher Michaelson shuffled through the testing room door. Somewhere, a silent alarm had gone off warning… someone. A failsafe. Even when testing was scheduled ahead of time, that alarm went off. It had taken a lot of work to get even a hazy idea of who the alarm warned. If he was right, then he had successfully disabled it. If he was wrong, well, he would have time enough for this. Hopefully he could make his deal and be gone before security arrived. The cameras had already been rendered useless, and his heart pumped faster with fear. It was all well and good to go about preparations, but this was the real deal. Being discovered now would mean death. Admittedly, it would be a much faster death than what his own treacherous body had in store for him.
Placing a shaking hand on the top of the straight-backed chair, Michaelson slumped down into it. Within seconds, there was someone sitting across the desk from him. It looked remarkably like the salesman who had fast talked him into his first piece of shit car years ago. His blond hair was slicked back severely, and a welcoming smile danced across pale lips.
"Mr. Michaelson! How pleasant to see you. What can I offer you today?" The voice that came from the creature was a perfect facsimile of the salesman, down to his smooth baritone. It leaned back in its chair, rocking the elegant piece of furniture back on two legs. "Perhaps the love of a beautiful woman? Or no, you're an educated man, perchance you'd like all the knowledge of a P.h.D in Applied Physics? I'd be happy to offer you just about anything."
Michaelson didn't have time for this. "No, I don't want either of those. I need you to heal my body and make it live longer than normal, and it needs to be done immediately!"
The entity's smile took on a bit of a melancholy cast. "Longer life, hmm? It's been quite awhile since I've had someone request that one. And no one has ever been willing to pay the price. Strange, considering how much you frail creatures value your existence." A flawless mask of regretful reluctance passed across its face. "Well, in any case, I'm afraid the price for that is quite steep indeed. I'm sure we can work out some-"
He was in no mood for haggling. Finally, the means to be well again was within his grasp, and the thing was wasting his time. "Do I look like I give a damn?! I don't care what abstract shit you take from me, just heal my body!"
Shrugging, the entity replied serenely, "As you wish. I'll draw up the contract."
Abruptly, two drawers on the desk opened of their own accord, and a few pieces of creamy parchment flew out of one, while a stylized golden pen rocketed from the other. The pen set to writing independently, furiously scratching clause after clause. Michaelson almost salivated at the sight. At last, he was going to be free of his illness, he was going to run again. Perhaps, most importantly he'd finally be able to earn the recognition he deserved. He wouldn't be sad Michaelson, the dying, pointless researcher. He'd be Michaelson the Triumphant, victor over sickness, brilliant doctor, accomplished SCP researcher. They would pin medals to his chest and sing his praises. He could see it all in his mind, and it was glorious.
As suddenly as it had begun, the pen ceased its motion and fell limply to the desk. The entity leaned back forward, the legs of its throne landing with a soft click. It pushed the very last page of the contract across the desk and slid the pen along after it. Its finger rested gently on a blank line. "If you'd please sign here, the contract will become binding, and your body will be healed."
He didn't even bother to give it a second thought. Normally he tried to slow down his writing, to accommodate his shaking hands. Now, he was too excited to bother slowing down. With the researcher's mangled signature scrawled along the bottom of the page, the entity smiled, took the contract, and placed it inside the desk, along with the ornate pen. It reached out one hand to the dying researcher in a jovial manner. "Shall we shake on it, Mr. Michaelson?"
Without another word, Michaelson took the thing's hand in his own. It felt exactly as the salesman's had, slightly clammy with a firm grip.
The second their hands separated, the researcher felt a burning heat suffuse his entire being. He would have screamed, but the pain seemed to radiate out from his lungs, and he could no more draw breath than he could catch the Sun. Before he could even begin to regret the deal he had made, the pain vanished. Slowly standing from the chair, Michaelson felt tears run down his face. He took a long, slow breath. Air fully filled his lungs in a way it had not in nearly three years. He felt like jumping, shouting, sprinting through the halls. It seemed like he was so full of vigor he would burst.
Turning to stride from the testing room, he heard the entity say, in the same friendly voice, "Not so fast, Mr. Michaelson, you have yet to fulfill your end of the contract." Cold fear crawled down Researcher Michaelson's spine. Now that he was no longer knocking on death's door, he felt far more afraid of what the thing could take from him. Feeling more than a little panicky, he wondered just what he had agreed to. Racking his brains frantically, he couldn't remember ever hearing just what the price was for his returned good health, only that it had been "steep."
Of its own volition, the contract he had signed came zooming back out of the drawer. "You'll see here in this clause, that in requesting the healing of your body, you did not specify what mind was to inhabit said product. Since said attribute of the post contract product was not enumerated directly in the initial agreement, it allows for ownership of said product to be transferred via a properly binding contract." The entity pressed a finger down on the parchment, running his finger under a line. "Now, normally the ex post facto change in ownership would null the agreement, but your phrasing was ambiguous enough to allow a proper change in ownership, -which was enumerated in page three, paragraph nine- while still retaining the positive gains of the contract."
Michaelson couldn't even pretend to understand the hurricane of legal dogma being thrown at him. However, the mention of transferring ownership of his body was beginning to really sink in, and his pensive expression quickly soured into outright fear.
The entity paused for emphasis, still smiling warmly at his pale face, "In this final clause you agreed that in return for the restoration of your physical form, and the following increase to your natural lifespan, that you would allow the being with which said deal was made, that's me, by the by, sole control over the repaired product." Its grin was becoming wider than the human face could stretch, going nearly from one ear to the other. "If you'll forgive my temporary lack of professionalism, I must say that I've been trying for decades to get someone to sign that particular clause. Usually, the rules prohibit me from even offering that as a price, but you are an exceptionally greedy man. Healing is nothing, but longevity? That is an entirely different order of magnitude." It beamed lovingly at the contract's last page. "Oh, how I have waited for this day. Thank you, Mr. Michaelson, for being the desperate fool I needed."
Michaelson's slowly dawning horror was reply enough for the entity. A feverish light was in its eyes and it smiled at him again. Suddenly, he could see nothing pleasant or warm or even mirthful in that smile. Now, it was the rictus of a predator that has finally caught its prey. He had made a miscalculation. For all his schemes, all his ingenuity, Michaelson hadn't thought to account for the very element of the plan that he had thought would ensure his survival.
"Really, Mr. Michaelson, did no one ever tell you to thoroughly read contracts before you signed them?"
His mouth was dry. "I- I didn't- I didn't know, there was no- I mean, I couldn't have-"
The entity silenced him with a glare, a sudden departure from its normal jovial expression. "Mr. Michaelson, really, show some dignity. If you find your end of the contract odious, maybe you should have read the deal before you signed it. I was even going to tell you what the price was and allow negotiation, before you so rudely interrupted me." It paused to take a deep, satisfied breath. "I am now the de facto owner of the merchandise I repaired. And I think I'll take possession of my property. I do so hope you enjoy whatever comes after death for your species." It tapped its chin thoughtfully. "Though I do seem to recall most of your belief systems tend to look down on deals like the one you just made." It chuckled quietly. "Well, I suppose you had best hope they're wrong."
"Oh, don't look so worried, there's a warranty clause. Should the warranted property prove insufficiently restored, or if the malfunctions it was cured of should return, the whole contract becomes null and void." Its eyes danced with amusement. "Of course, the entire warranty clause in and of itself will become meaningless upon the cessation of life of either party, leaving the use of the property in question up to the sole discretion of the surviving party. Unfortunately, you humans are just so fragile without your leased containers. I'm afraid your demise will come rather swiftly after your eviction."
He tried to run. It was a meaningless endeavor. The entity didn't even have to move to take him. It was all in the contract after all. Michaelson tried to scream one last time, but the words wouldn't pass his lips. They weren't even his lips anymore.
The entity stretched slowly, popping every joint it could in its new body. Looking at the throne-like chair it had spent so many centuries in, it felt a slight twinge of sadness. A prison it might have been, but a gilded cage is still gilded. Still, freedom beckoned. Before it left, it opened two drawers of the desk and retrieved a large stack of parchment and several black pens. It could always make more, but waste not, want not. It pushed the drawers shut, and they seemed to close with a certain reluctant finality.
Smiling slowly, it strolled quietly to the door of the testing room. As it walked out of the observation area and back into the general hallways, the entity began to whistle the tune to an old hymn heard often in the Cardinal's chambers. It was one of his old favorites.


Marshall slid the sleeve of his suit back, the ornate silver watch on his wrist glinting in the dull yellow glow of artificial light.
Two minutes, eighteen seconds.
He was on the second floor of the building, a hotel from the early twenties. The decadence of that era remained apparent in the dusty chandeliers, swinging slowly overhead as a train roared past outside. This room had been a ballroom at one time, and the dusty wood floor still bore the scuff marks of the thousands of boots that had come to this room before his own.
One minute, fifty six seconds.
He broke from his standing position by the door, lengthening his strides to make up for time lost contemplating the decor. The man in the middle of the room smiled at his customer, glad that somebody appreciated his collection, and he waved Marshall towards himself.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall. Right this way, please."
One minute, forty three seconds. Twenty three more seconds until he was supposed to leave the room.
"One moment please, sir." Marshall indicated a beautiful eighteenth century chair backed against a wall, drawing his words out. "How did you manage to get ahold of that? I have been looking for one to complete my dining room."
"A most interesting piece, Mr. Marshall, you have quite the eye for quality. Smashed to pieces during the French Revolution and restored by a carpenter several years later…"
One minute, twenty six seconds.
Marshall walked several paces closer to the man, still detailing the restoration of his glorious chair, and they walked together into the next room.
"… Rather pricey, but worth it I think. Now, about those items you wanted to purchase." The man threw open a heavy wooden door, and the amazement on Marshalls face was only partly feigned.
"My God man, is that an original?" Marshall indicated a tapestry in the corner, and was just as quickly drawn away by a painting sitting atop a nightstand older than the building he stood in. "Good Lord, is that-"
The smile on the man's face was broad as Marshall stared around the room in awe.
"Indeed it is. Penance. That one is not for sale, sadly. It holds a special place in my heart. I acquired it in Germany after…"
Marshall pulled himself together and checked his watch as inconspicuously as possible, hoping the man was too engaged by his collection to notice. He was not meant to lose track of time.
Forty three seconds.
"But my dear Mr. Marshall, what I have really called you here for today is a rather special item. A remarkable antique, but it also has some… Other features."
Marshall couldn't imagine something more interesting than a supposedly destroyed piece of 1600's art, but he followed the man through the corridor. After several seconds, they stood before a safe.
Twenty seconds.
"Now there are some things on this Earth that defy understanding, Mr. Marshall. This is one of these items. I must ask you to stand back, and be very careful with this particular piece…" The man bent down to tap the keypad, and Marshall strained to see over his shoulder. 1-8-
Time.
Marshall cursed under his breath as a train roared past, the floor shuddering as a ballroom wall was blown inwards, debris spraying across the floor. A cry echoed through the thick wooden door, somebody apparently having been hit by the blast.
Marshall seized the man from behind, wrapping one arm around his chest as he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket. He whispered a quick apology to the struggling man as he one-handedly shook out a rag and slapped it over the face of his captive, feeling him fall limp after only a few seconds. Marshall lowered him gently to the floor, the sound of gunfire beginning to echo from the ballroom. He approached the safe, praying that the combination was what he thought it was. He reached for the keypad, tapping in the last few digits,
-1-6
And held in a yell as nothing happened.
"Damn," He whispered quietly and emphatically. "What could be…"
The heavy door crashed against the wall with a crack, and Marshall whirled around.
"Taking your time in here, aren't you now?"
"Shut it Carter. You've got the cart?"
"Of course, of course."
Carter wheeled a metal platform into the room, and Marshall resisted wincing as it rolled over several priceless pieces of art. The sound of gunfire was constant outside the door now, the clatter of an assault rifle drowning out the popping of pistols.
"Could you watch where you're wheeling that, you vandal?"
"Ah can it you pansy, we're on the clock. Now, what's worth selling in here?"
"Well he's got the Penance in here, that's an old piece from-"
"Right, right. Just point and tell me what to grab."
"Right, er, that one." Marshall indicated the mural, and Carter heaved it aboard the cart, the sound of gunfire dying down outside.
Marshall and Carter hauled a few more ancient paintings and statuettes onto the cart, and were panting from the strain when a voice floated in from just outside the door.
"Gentlemen, time for us to be going."
A dark figure walked into the room and stood against the wall behind the door, assault rifle slung across his chest. Marshall took a moment to appreciate his choice of hire, then returned his attention to the safe.
"Hey, one more thing. You guys think we can make it with this?"
Carter shook his head, looking doubtful. "I don't know Marshall, looks a bit on the heavy side. If we can get it on the cart we can probably do it, but is it worth the weight?"
Marshall ignored the question.
"Well let's give it a shot then."
Marshall and Carter gripped the underside of the safe and heaved, struggling to inch it over the edge of the cart, past the unconscious form of its former owner.
A crack echoed through the room, and Marshall twisted as a bullet hammered into his thigh, instinctively dropping the safe and grabbing at his injured leg. As the man in the door blew the would-be security guard to hell, the safe tipped from Carters hands and smashed to the floor.
A sound like a swarm of hornets came from inside the safe, growing louder every second. Marshall hobbled away, alarmed, and Carter backed towards the door.
The safe burst open with an explosive bang, and a swarm of salt crystals flew into the air. The three stared in amazement at the tiny tornado, Marshall backing away as fast as he could move.
"What the hell is th-"
Another crack, and the man by the door jerked his head away from the new peephole in his cover. He brought his rifle to bear and fired a short burst, the guard spinning to the floor. The man grimaced and pressed his hand against his ribs, a kevlar vest visible through his torn suit.
"Gentlemen, I am leaving in two minutes. Get what you're getting and let's go."
"Hang on Dark, let's just see what we've got here."
Carter tentatively reached towards the whirling cloud of salt, which had totally engulfed their cart filled with antiques. He shrieked in pain, yanking his hand away from the cloud raw and red.
"God damn that burns!"
Marshall ripped a piece of cloth from his now-ruined pants leg and wrapped it around his hand, stretching towards the cloud. The particles parted as his hand entered, and he felt something solid. He gripped firmly and jerked, pulling an ornate silver salt shaker from the cloud. The whirling salt remained where it was, shredded pieces of paper now visible amidst the storm.
"I guess this is all we're getting today, you saw what it did to the safe."
Marshall sighed heavily for the priceless art that had just been lost to this mysterious shaker, refocusing as Carters voice echoed through the room.
"Fantastic Marshall, now can we go?" He was sucking on his fingers, staring curiously at the silver shaker in Marshalls hands.
Marshall lifted himself shakily, using a bookshelf as a support. He heard another bullet ping off a metal cabinet beside him, and felt the rythmic thumping as Dark blasted another man off his feet.
"Carter, help Marshall. I'll be back in a moment."
Dark glided out from behind the door and into the ballroom. He staggered back into the room seconds later, a guard scrambling after him. Dark held his bleeding nose with one hand and took a swing at his assailant, missing by several inches. He twisted backwards as the guard grabbed at his overextended arm, ready to-
A percussive whump filled the room, and the guard kicked over backwards, half of his head smeared across a nearby painting. Carter pocketed his hand-cannon.
Marshall protested the destruction from where he had been dropped on the floor.
"Damn you Carter, I had him."
"He had your elbow!"
Dark sulked as he helped Marshall up off the floor.
"He broke your nose!"
Dark handed Marshall off to Carter, swinging his rifle around into an easily accessible position against his hips.
"He hit you in the face with your own gun!"
Dark scowled on his way out the door, a guard immediately swinging at him from overhead. Dark jerked backwards out of range of the knife, kicked the man in the stomach, and fired a round through his chest as he hit the floor.
Carter stopped talking, and made himself very busy walking Marshall to the door. The two of them hobbled out into the ballroom, giving a wide berth to the man with the gun. Marshall enjoyed the sight of a sizeable hole in the wall, the leg of an antique chair still visible in the debris.
"You really did a number on that one, Carter."
He grunted in reply, and Marshall shifted his grip on the shaker as they stood by the hole. Dark arrived a few moments later, a smear of blood barely visible under his suit. He hopped the few feet to the roof of an adjacent building, and caught Marshall as Carter tossed him down.
"That was undignified."
"You're the one who got shot, pansy. Suck it up."
The three set off across the roof as an alarm began blaring from the building behind them. They would escape through an alley on the other side of the building, a van waiting for them, ready to carry stacks of forgotten art. They would disappear in the busy afternoon traffic, Marshall already plotting their next move. A whole new world had opened for them with this salt shaker, and Marshall planned to make full use of its appearance.
He was finally getting out of the antique business.