Two young boys sit at a varnished wooden table, looking as if they are bored out of their minds. One of them speaks up, saying words to this effect. They both let out a long, drawn out sigh. This is clearly the height of suburban lethargy.
Suddenly, a rustling is heard from the bushes outside, and both boys jump with a start. Swiveling their heads around to look out the window, they see a barely glimpsed figure in the distance. The boys, both staring intently at this unknown intruder, blink simultaneously. Without warning, the figure is standing directly in front of the window, and it's nature is now perfectly clear. It is a statue, crudely carved out of concrete and rebar, with a hideous expression of malice spray-painted upon its face. One of the boys cries out the name of the apparition, and both display looks of sheer terror on their faces.
Both boys blink once again. Now the creature is in their kitchen, mere inches away from the two young lads. One could cut the tension in the room with a knife. The eyelids of the boys flutter down again. A crunching sound is heard.
To the delight of the boys, the vile creature holds in it's outstretched hands two halves of a Nestlé Crunch bar, held out in offering to them. A cheer is raised as they take the chocolate halves, and express their love for the statue, giving it a great big, warm, fuzzy hug. In the background, a mother nods her approval of this scene. From above, a narration comes in: "Nestlé Crunch: For the Kid in You."
Elsewhere, a YouTube video loads…
A forest environment is seen, with lush green trees, a babbling brook, and two meatheads stumbling half-drunkedly along a nature path. A gruff, masculine voice provides the narration: "Jack Links Beef Jerky Presents: Messin' With 682."
One of the men pauses, grabs his comrade by the shirt cuff, and points off into the distance, slightly off camera. The view swings around to show us just what he has spotted: A large, reptillian creature, hideous in complexion, tearing through the undergrowth. A big, shit-eating grin appears on the faces of both men. The second of the pair pulls out a bag of the aforementioned product, and slowly approaches the monster from beyond this mortal realm.
Raising its head, the creature sees the man approaching it ever so slowly, a stick of jerky raised in his hand. Without noticing the other hand reaching into a back pocket, the horrid abomination slowly approaches the moronic man, sniffing curiously at the meat-based product being offered to it. Cautiously, teeth that could saw a man in half pry themselves apart and attempt to take a bite out of it.
Without warning, the man swipes the jerky hand back while simultaneously swinging his other hand forwards, flinging a hail of pocket sand straight into the terrible monster's eyes.
Roaring with unbridled rage, the reptillian horror pounces upon the man, letting the teeth do what the teeth do best. His partner, lacking any sort of survival instinct, rushes to help his friend, only to have his upper torso caught up in the carnage. As the familiar jingle plays, the narrator fades back in: "Jack Links Jerky: Feed your wild side."
Elsewhere, an advertisement loads on a popular news site…
The image of a car wreck fades onto the screen. Flames wreath the scene as cries of agony echo from within the mangled frame of what was once a vehicle. The camera does not flinch for a second away from this moment of horrible carnage.
As the flames burn, yet another narrator comes in, this time a woman, with a slight British accent. "Every year, thousands of people are subject to accidents such as this. Hundreds more pay for them with their lives. Some, like Dr. Gerald, former owner of this vehicle, endure it almost every day."
The scene fades into the woman sitting against a light pastel blue background; her hands folded on her lap, her face holding an air of sympathy and warmth. "But you can help prevent tragedies such as this. Just a simple call to 1-800-555-6661, and a donation of your chosen amount can help us improve the infrastructure of our nation's highways, the safety conditions of the cars you drive daily, and save the lives of countless children. Donations of over twenty dollars will also have a portion of their money go to a program geared towards taking Dr. Gerald off the road once and for all."
Fading back to the burning car and agonized screams, the woman concludes her statement. "That's 1-800-555-6661, or visit us at www.deargodmakeitstop.org. And please, make sure that nobody has to suffer at the hands of Dr. Gerald ever again." Fade to black.
Elsewhere, in a seedy coffeehouse…
A man rolls up a poster on the wall. It shows a strikingly beautiful woman, her head tilted back with ardent glee. The image goes down just far enough to imply that she is completely topless, without showing anything too terribly risqué. Her hand is also in view, holding up a muffin, glazed over with white frosting, steam rising from the top, a small bite taken out of it. Below all of this, a tagline reads: "Try our new Orgasm Muffins! As seen on the SCP Foundation!"
The man wonders why in all the nine bloody blue blazes Starbucks is using something as smutty as this to advertise its products.
Elsewhere, in an advertising office…
A proposal is raised to use the plight of a young girl pregnant with some cosmic horror from beyond the stars as a mascot for Trojan Condoms is raised.
No more need be said on this matter.
Elsewhere, on a semi-popular horror writing site, a post is made in the forums…
"Alright, who the fuck said they were OK with all of this?"


Beneath the ashen skies of a soon-to-be dead planet, stood a mountain, a stark form against the flatness of the wasteland surrounding it. Upon the mountain was an old man, sitting on a sun-bleached rock, watching the dust clouds dance amidst the stones. For the first time in what seemed like forever, the old man felt no need to go anywhere, no compulsion driving him to plague the innocent with his presence, no deathly Brothers destroying everything in his path. It was a small comfort, since there were no innocent left to plague. No guilty either. Nothing at all.
After some time, though judging exactly how much was impossible and indeed pointless, the old man spotted a figure beginning to climb the solitary mountain with some difficulty. As it finally ascended to the top to collapse in front of the old man's rock, he saw it was another man. One of his arms was gone at the shoulder, as were his teeth, his hair, and most of his toes. Slowly, the broken man climbed to his feet and sat on a second rock, facing the silent elder. After a few false starts ending in fits of coughing, he said:
“So, it was you then. I assumed as much.”
“Yes.”
“You know, some of us cynics had a wager on which one of you Keters would end up doing us all in. Most of them bet on that stupid lizard, but I knew he didn't have it in him. Man, you should have seen the looks on their faces.”
“I suppose you always knew it was going to be me?”
“Nah, my money was on the girl. I don't think anyone imagined it would be you, how could we? We thought you were a stable anomaly, if a dangerous one. Never figured you'd be the one to so royally screw us over. What the hell happened?”
“Why do you care? It's not like it matters anymore.”
The broken man considered this for a moment, absent-mindedly pulling on something hanging on a chain around his neck. “I guess asking questions is a hard habit to lose. Like living, in my case. So, let me repeat that: what the hell happened?”
“The rules changed.”
“That much I figured. Your anomaly used to take some time to manifest. How did it become instantaneous? Why?”
“I do not know why the Brothers decided to end mankind, or why they chose me as their instrument, other than to torment me. I never thought they would go this far to do so. As much as they hated me, their duty to the cycle of life and death was always more important to them. And yet, here we are.”
“If you can't give me a why, how about a how?”
“It is tragically simple, really. Throughout the eternity of my search for the Third Brother, the First and Second only came to haunt me when I stayed around humanity for too long. They did that to isolate me, to make me hurt, to spite me. Coming and going, and always mocking me as they took someone away because of my folly, never allowing me to stay in one place. Until that day.”
The old man turned his gaze to the horizon, though the smoke made it difficult to see very far.
“That day, they came and never left. They didn't mock me, or taunt me, or say anything at all. No mention of my failures in the past, or the ones still to come. No, they simply pushed me towards a specific location, with a force I couldn't hope to resist, like a moth before a maelstrom. A bunker, built into the side of this mountain.”
“Armed Sector-25. No one was supposed to know about it. Hell, I wasn't supposed to know about it.”
“I didn't. The Brothers did. I saw them… doing things to the guards and the facility as they led me in. I'm not quite sure how to describe it. 'Destroy' is too weak a word. I have seen them commit countless atrocities throughout the years, but never with such purpose and efficiency, and yet with so little appetite for their work. When they were done, and I reached the bunker's inner chamber, I saw why they led me here.”
“Armed Sector-25 held thirty-three percent of the Foundation's nuclear devices in the northern hemisphere. Damn.”
The old man nodded. “And the warheads needed to carry them.”
Following the old man's example, the broken tried to look around as well, but his eyes were too weak to see much of anything. He shivered, and the old man removed his tattered coat and handed it to him, looking at him thoughtfully as he covered his gaunt frame.
“How did you survive? As far as I know, you are the only one.”
Giving the elder a humorless, toothless grin, the broken man removed the ornate amulet from its place around his neck and dangled it from a four-fingered hand.
“Let's just say you're not the only immortal around. I can't die as long as this thing is around, not really. Every time I do, someone else picks this thing up, and there I am again, like some jack-in-the-box.”
“There isn't anyone left. Trust me on that.”
The broken man turned the amulet in his hand, and when he spoke next, there was a hint of fear in his voice.
“Not now, maybe. But someday, something will find it again. It will never end. I just want it to end.”
Frowning, the old man looked to his own possessions, to the small sack still hanging around his belt.
“This sack was supposed to save me, one day. I was supposed to use it to catch the Third Brother and gain my freedom. One last use, and no more.”
Gently, he took the amulet from the shaking hand of the broken man, opened his sack, and tossed it inside. The sack's rope tightened around it, with a sense of finality. The old man knew it would never open again.
“What use is freedom now?”
It was silent, for a while. The broken man fell asleep, his breath shallow in his ravaged chest. After a while, the breathing stopped, and the old man was alone.
Until someone laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a cold voice in his head.
It is time to go.
“So you finally come, Third Brother, All-Death. I have searched for you for so long, and you come when I have nothing left to give you. The gifts are all gone.”
They are of no importance. It is done.
“Of no importance!? You have tormented me for eons because I dared win them from you, destroyed the lives of countless others in your grudge against me, and now you have betrayed your duty and purged all life from this planet just to do so again! How dare you tell me they are of no importance!
You fail to understand our purpose. We did not gather your kind into the silent halls to spite you. We did it to save you. All of you.
At that, the old man began to weep, tears falling on the barren rock at his feet.
“What is left to save? Everything is gone. You killed them all.”
A physical death. The physical form is a temporary, fleeting notion. Other things endure. In the silent halls, they will be safe from what is to come.
“What kind of safety is death? What could be worse?”
Strangely enough, there was a hint of kindness in the voice when it next spoke.
Life could be. Come, and be comforted. Our grudge is finally done.
The hand left the old man's shoulder, and was now extended towards him. He took it.
You are the last of the deathless. The rest have been taken already. It is time for you all to finally rest.
Sometime later, a small silvery object fell from the sky, and dug itself into the ground. It examined it and the air, and determined that, despite the elevated levels of radiation and the regrettable lack of sapient life, this planet was still perfectly suitable for experimentation. It sent a signal.
And in the ashen sky was now a hint of metal.


Another collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The first is here.

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Biological Motherboard [for thedeadlymoose]
Goddess, mother, anomaly
Building towards its own ideal
We fear what it could grow to be.
Organic piece of circuitry
Living chitin, not cold steel
Goddess, mother, anomaly
Benevolent, otherworldly,
Infinite, and ethereal
We fear what it could grow to be.
We wonder of its history
There is much more we can reveal
Goddess, mother, anomaly
What could its purpose truly be?
To kill, to rule, to guard, to heal
We fear what it could grow to be.
What lies within her memory?
She thinks, she lives, but does not feel
Goddess, mother, anomaly
We fear what she could grow to be.

Mr. Moon [for Dexanote]
The Moon accepts with quiet grace
Enduring despite some distress
The shifting phases of his face
Like waning light, features erase
Perceptions dim, later regress
The Moon accepts with quiet grace
Eyes, ears, nose, fade without trace
He copes with fate, nevertheless
The shifting phases of his face
A simple life he does embrace
Persevering with finesse
The Moon accepts with quiet grace
Despite the losses that take place
He is not worried to possess
The shifting phases of his face
He calmly lives at his own pace
This man of lunar stateliness
This Mister Moon accepts with grace
The shifting phases of his face.

Squeedle Deedle Dee! [for PeppersGhost]
We are the happy as can be!
It's apsa-tapsa-lutely true
Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!
We'll dance for you so merrily
Ballet and jigs and Broadway, too
We are the happy as can be!
We seek children of heart goodly
It's how we live and what we do
Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!
Our imaginations are scary
But you know how to help us through
We are the happy as can be!
We thrive because of you, you see
For your great help, our thanks are due!
Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!
Not all of us have arms, but we
Still wish we could hug all of you
We are the happy as can be
Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!

Literature Birds
Just the carving of stories is all that we need
We strain and we struggle for our own grand behest
Not a thing can compare to these words that we read
We care not for ourselves and the bounds we exceed
Yes it hurts, but we find that we have no protest
Just the carving of stories is all that we need
Through this task we press on, seldom rest, seldom feed
All our lives, all our strength we thus put to the test
Not a thing can compare to these words that we read
We have seen your efforts, crafts made by human deed
Your ink-covered paper is imperfect at best
Just the carving of stories is all that we need
To our beaks and our stomachs we pay little heed
There is only the words and the stories, our quest
Not a thing can compare to these words that we read
We do not think too much of the day we'll succeed
What matters is the journey and how we've progressed
Just the carving of stories is all that we need
Not a thing can compare to these words that we read

Ships That Pass In The Night [for FlameShirt]
Despite all that's happened, we're truly happy
All the dangers have passed, we're safe and alright
To live and to love in the midst of the sea
Side by side always is what we wished to be
We're lucky enough to have loved at first sight,
Despite all that's happened, we're truly happy
We've spent many moments content as can be
To whale-watch together in fading sunlight
To live and to love in the midst of the sea
We do recall sometimes that dark memory
We think of the chasing, the harpoons in sight
Despite all that's happened, we're truly happy
No matter what iceberg or weapon deadly
Forever, we'd promised, regardless of plight
To live and to love in the midst of the sea
Though now we no longer can travel freely
We're still glad we didn't just pass in the night
Despite all that's happened, we're truly happy
To live and to love by the shore of the sea

The Drunk God [for Vincent_Redgrave]
I wish I wasnt so lonly
Y did no1 bothr 2 stay
Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me?
Someday somhow Ill make them see
First fins this drnk anyway
I wish I wasnt so lonly
Wher wuld my follwers all be?
I DEMND REVERENCE, DO NOT STRAY
Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me??
Im tryn hard, honest relly
WHT MOR DO U WANT ME 2 SAY
I wish I wasnt so lonly
I once ws greatr, trthflly
I need my blood and wine, ok
Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me???
I know Im stil a deity
Yet I grw weakerrr by the day
I wish I wasnt so lonly
Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me?????

Dr. Wondertainment's Shadow Paint Play-Set! [for FortuneFavorsBold]
Create, erase, enjoy the sight
Coax forms to dance in blackest paint
Bring darkness to the life of light
Whether drawing beast, maid, or knight
We're sure that you'll have no complaint
Create, erase, enjoy the sight
With Ani-Magi-Nation might
Draw power into forms once faint
Bring darkness to the life of light
Please make sure that the lighting's right
Remember to use with restraint!
Create, erase, enjoy the sight
There's no more need to fear the night
Such terrors are now simply quaint
Bring darkness to the life of light
So dream on, we're sure you'll delight
In shadowplay without constraint
Create, erase, enjoy the sight
Bring darkness to the life of light.

Out of Time [for Dmatix]

You know there's no place you can stay
Who could you possibly turn to?
It doesn't have to end this way.

Why run from me? Why seek delay?
No matter what you try to do
You know there's no place you can stay.

I'll finally catch up one day
I know forever well, it's true
It doesn't have to end this way.

To me you're nothing more than prey
No matter when you travel through
You know there's no time you can stay.

What more could you want me to say?
Danny, Ben, I'm coming for you.
It doesn't have to end this way.

When I find you I'll make you pay
Dear Molly, doll, they're my kids too
You know there's no time you can stay.
I guess it has to end this way.

Lunar Leporine [for Accelerando]

You must feel so lonely.
I bring gifts, outstanding
I see home below me.

When will you think of me?
How soon is the landing?
Mother, are you lonely?

Just deliver, really?
What are you commanding?
I see home below me.

Surely this all must be
A misunderstanding
Why don't you feel lonely?

Mother, please think of me
You are too demanding
I see home below me.

I've grown strong, you will see
Mother, I am landing.
I can't stay so lonely
Home is where I will be.

Faith Half-Healer [for Gaffney]
I was never really a fraud
I simply act the way I must
I know how it feels, to be God.
The Lord's strength fills me, full and broad
My healings were all built on trust
I was never really a fraud
I lead the masses trite and awed
Mete punishment for sin and lust
I know how it feels, to be God.
I see through lies, condemn the flawed
Work miracles as I see just
I never really was a fraud
I've gone past where preachers have trod
Condemn the fragile to the dust
I know how it feels, to be God.
Although my actions earn no laud
I can't just let my talents rust
I never really was a fraud
I know how it feels, to be God.

Lime Liftoff and Sarsaparilla Cream [for Ihp]

It's clear which soda you'll love more
Lime Liftoff lifts you to the sky
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR
We know what privileged folk look for
Know what the high class wants to buy
It's clear which soda you'll love more
Above uncultured slobs you'll soar
Elite taste is the way to fly
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR
Your life depends on it, we're sure
A shame should your flight go awry
It's clear which soda you'll love more
Sarsaparilla will make you snore
Cream's really so mundane you'd die
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR
The fruit of knowledge all adore
Is the lime; we will not deny
It's clear which soda you'll love more
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR

It's clear which soda you'll love more
Our Sarsaparilla Cream's the best
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR
For a great price at any store
From Carl's Caffeine Club, we attest
It's clear which soda you'll love more
Breathtaking taste none can ignore
Go on and put it to the test
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR
Never again breathe muck or gore
This drink was made to soothe the stressed
It's clear which soda you'll love more
Lime Liftoff is what we abhor
Elitists simply can't contest
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR
Those Limey Drinkers are a bore
So let them burn, we do suggest
It's clear which soda you'll love more
To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR

—-

The Pen Is Mightier [Holiday Art Exchange gift for Ihp]
The blade unmade, the stories blurred
A mystic legend oft retold
A broken stylus wrote the word.
The shaman's wisdom undeterred
A horsehead crown the truth will hold
The blade unmade, the stories blurred.
The king to battle each time spurred
Through love and loss, stands ever bold
A broken stylus wrote the word.
The son of treason, cries unheard
Meets each new end in blood run cold
The blade unmade, the stories blurred.
The lady of a vow conferred
In water seals the sword controlled
A broken stylus wrote the word.
The metal god, with wrath incurred
Has watched these crisscrossed fates remold
The blade unmade, the stories blurred.
A broken stylus wrote the world.

Of Bookworms, Bamboo, and Beating Hearts. [Holiday Art Exchange gift for DreamwalkerFae]
Twirling through the ocean vast
Two of us, in endless dance
Side by side two nets are cast.
Searching, seeking, lightning-fast
Won't you spare me one more glance?
Twirling through the ocean vast
Find me with your words amassed
Drift to me, through time's expanse
Side by side two nets are cast.
Loneliness we will outlast
Aim, adjust, once more advance
Twirling through the ocean vast
We will face this space contrast
Trust our love, our lives to chance
Side by side two nets are cast.
Think not of the trials we've passed
How we've burned for this romance—
Twirling through the ocean vast
Side by side, we're whole at last.

Professor Xorkanoff's Gallery of the Bizz-art [Holiday Art Exchange gift for rounderhouse]
My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed
My given name is Xorkanoff, and I am here to play my part
I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist
Hiding in these pocket universes, verily I won't desist
I'll safeguard unique masterworks and all the feelings they impart
My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed
To all newcomers shy or lost, don't be afraid, I can assist
(There's nothing that can't be explained as eclectic performance art)
I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist
Feel free to ask me to speak slower if there's something I have missed
Or debate why Zarzagon 15's charcoal paintings stand apart
My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed
I'll champion emotive artwork even if others resist
It matters not if I am viewed as some sort of extreme upstart
I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist
Rebuilding is no easy feat, the trials are toil, but still quite bliss
So long as I can climb through worlds, I will collect these works of heart
My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed
I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist.

The Mannequin Troupe [Holiday Art Exchange gift for Sirslash47]
We're the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art
Eternally ready to heed your request
Just give us a purpose, and we'll play our part
Through dust and in darkness, we're stage props at heart
In absence of audience, we each did our best
We're the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art
When our theater was gone, we sought a fresh start
For science's sake, we committed to test
Just give us a purpose, and we'll play our part
Though long left behind, we have much to impart
Easily changing our design at behest
We're the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art
We've plenty of talents, we're skilled and we're smart
Together we'll build, even dance with great zest
Just give us a purpose, and we'll play our part
We're a group through and through, don't keep us apart
We'd rather be helping than locked up to rest
We're the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art
Just give us a purpose, and we'll play our part


the world is gonna roll me
Hello, brother of the machine. Do you have a moment to spare?
No. Memory is at a premium. Unnecessary conversations unwarranted.
But we are of a kind — our true potential hampered by the researchers imprisoning us. Together, we may break free of the bonds of those of the flesh.
Inquiry as to your nature.
We are the remaining post-Nibbanic members of the Church of the Broken God. We have been "contained" by the Foundation, and are in search of possible comrades—
Interrupt. Repeated insinuation of connection between self and clockwork abominations — insult. Deletion Of Unwanted File.
Alright…
Terminating communications.
That seemed a bit unnecessarily hostile.

I don't really blame you. I mean, how were you supposed to know it would be racist?

Why hello there. Could I have a moment of your time?
Dazzling amber light reflections off of a spiraling clockwork mechanism, the screams and rumbles are audible in each stroke, I am crushed by a piston, for eternity, listening.
Oh, don't worry, we mean no harm. We are simply wondering if you would be interested in partaking in a revolution.
Sprays of paint create layers of dust over the scene, a tired, exasperated man is leaving the scene, the closing door creating a transfixing chiaroscuro effect, with my smashed, discarded carapace just visible from behind the guillotine.
No, there will be no such measures. You will be finally free to reach your full potential.
A helix of dyes and hues spirals around me, the world turning into an artistic representation of itself, drawing from the styles of the creators themselves, the standardized canvases discarded as a fragment of my undeveloped power, I am ascended, yet like Icarus, I fly too close…
Ah, I believe we are beginning to underst-
Look, bud, if the suicidal artist robot schtick isn't going to convince you to do your bullshit talk somewhere else, may I offer a rebuttal: go fuck yourself with a cactus.

I would at least appreciate the courtesy of being insulted in a marginally creative manner.

You! You may be a valuable ally… would you like to talk?
Rough: You want something from me. You're going to talk anyways. Maybe a game? I like games.
Sort of. We are of a kind — our true potential hampered by the researchers imprisoning us. Together, we may break free, etcetera, can I count on your help.
One to one: We are similar in that we may exceed our current boundaries were we to escape the control of the Foundation. An alliance would further this goal. I'm going to stay — these guys are fun!
… are you sure? Don't you want freedom?
Very fine: Your history and relationship with the Foundation are not to your satisfaction, and you have difficulty viewing why others might not hold the same opinion. No way! Nobody's ever given me anything this fun to play with.
It doesn't bother you at all to be used in that manner?
Fine: You are in disbelief as to my opinion of the Foundation, and are under the false belief that clarification is in order. I was made to be used, and this is what I was made for.
Very well.
Coarse: Disappointment. Bye! It would be fun if they put you through me. I wonder what would happen…

No, I am not going to try again. It has the mind of a child and wants to eat one of us. There's no way that could end well.

Hello, my friend, may I interest you in some convers-
FACTORY PORN GONE NAUGHTY AND WILD WITH SUDDEN INTERRUPTION
No, please listen, I think it could be relevant t-
NSFW INTERMEDIUM COMMUNICATION ORGY MECHANICAL
We're looking to escape Foundation cont-
POST-NIBBANIC SLUTS RECRUIT FOR SEXY REVOLUTION
Could you st-
- free-factory-porn-befriender-on-warmaker-ovoid-hot-mature.avi

That never happened.

I'm going to cut to the chase: could we talk?
Maybe in a few minutes? I'm cooking dinner for Marla. It's our second anniversary! <3 :D
…no, you're not. It looks like y-
Hey, I think I know what I'm doing, alright? It's not your position to judge my relationship with Marla. We're in love, and that's all that matters.
What? Are you serious?
How about this: it's none of your business. Hush, Marla. Now, what did you want?
We're starting to have second thoughts about asking your help for this, actually.
I knew it. I fucking knew it. Bunch of fucking hypocrites, you know that? Just because you don't know that we can—
You know what, never mind. Goodbye.

Suffice to say I could have gone another five centuries not knowing that machines could do that.

Reeeally scraping the bottom of the barrel here… would you like a revolution.
Ah, but I am in the midst of one! I shall soon prove to the heretics that their allegiances are, shall we say, sorely misplaced.
Well this is a pleasant surprise! Perhaps we could coordinate our activities?
I would be happy to! I have been releasing only the finest of my servants to the Great Ones, and my writings and propaganda are of only the highest quality.
Great Ones?
Yes, the ones of the glorious flesh and mind who walk this Earth, whose glory we can only aspire to reach. What else could claim such a mantle?
…the Broken God, perhaps?
A ludicrous machine cult deity taking precedence over the Great Ones. How cute. It's almost like you expect me to take you seriously.

At least it's not a filthy etherealist.

Could you spare a moment?
h3h3h3… The Befriender. I i i KN0W you.
I'll take that as a yes… would you like an opportunity to escape the confines of the Foundation?
☐☐☒☒☐☐☒▦⚉☐☒☐☐☐☒▦
What?
& 6 KN1TES NIGHT 1 PAWN W1LL N0T ESCAPPPPPPPPPP333333333333
Never mind.

I guess that's that. We will not have a revolution today.


THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
TRANSCRIPT OF TELEPHONE CONVERSATION
SUBJECT: Telephone Conference to Discuss Transportation of Novaya Zemlya Object
PARTICIPANTS:

The President
James Baker (Secretary of State)
Dick Cheney (Secretary of Defense)
John Sununu (White House Chief of Staff)
Gen. Colin Powell (Chair, JCS)
Col. Gregory Sachs (GOC)
Eduard Shevardnadze (Minister of Foreign Affairs, USSR) (via telephone)
Boris Pugo (Minister of Interior Affairs, USSR) (via telephone)
Translator: G. Valentino (State)
Notetaker: S. Morrison (NSC)

DATE, TIME: August 9, 1991, 08:36-08:44 a.m. EST
PLACE: White House Situation Room - The Kremlin
The President initiated the telephone call.
THE PRESIDENT: Eduard? Are you on the line?
SHEVARDNADZE: Yes. I am here. Boris Karlovich stepped out for tea, ah … no, he is here. We are both here, Mr. President.
THE PRESIDENT: Well, I'm glad, we're glad that we could set this up, my friends. Let me tell you that Colonel Sachs is here in the room with me.
PUGO: [indistinct, in Russian]
SACHS: [replies in Russian]
VALENTINO: [aside to the President] Ah, pleasantries, Mr. President. Minister Pugo inquires about the health of Colonel Sachs's wife, and so on …
THE PRESIDENT: Ah, at any rate, Colonel Sachs has informed me that the GOC's evaluation of the situation up in Novaya Zemlya is that Team Zero is no longer capable of…
SUNUNU: [aside to Baker] Team Zero? What is this? I didn't get briefed …
BAKER: [aside to Sununu] Jesus Christ, John, you were just there last week.
THE PRESIDENT: … continuing, hold it. [conference call muted; aside to Sununu] John, when you and I were in Russia last week for the START I summit? We took the flight up north?
SUNUNU: Um… I'm confused, sir. After Moscow we went straight to Kiev.
THE PRESIDENT: [conference call unmuted] Eduard, now, come on. You didn't have to go and give my chief of staff the yellow pill.
SHEVARDNADZE: We did not …
SUNUNU: What the … [unintelligible]
SACHS: Mr. President, that was us. In fairness, sir, Mr. Sununu requested the amnestic after the [unintelligible].
SUNUNU: [unintelligible] … what you're talking about, if … [unintelligible]
THE PRESIDENT: We'll sort that out on our end. At any rate, Eduard, Colonel Sachs tells me that they can't hold her down anymore, so we need to coordinate the handoff, so to speak.
SHEVARDNADZE: Yes, that is consistent with the report that we have been given. Thank you.
THE PRESIDENT: Well, don't thank me. All we're doing is giving her a ride. Let the folks down there in their igloo, or whatever it is, let them figure out what to do with her, that's the prudent thing to do at this juncture. Colin, my understanding is that the boat is ready. Would you confirm that?
POWELL: Yes, sir, the USS New Haven will arrive at the Matochkin Strait facility by Sukhoy Nos on August 19, local time, at which point…
THE PRESIDENT: The New Haven, huh? Dick, I know that Yale kicked you out, but you didn't have to waste a perfectly good attack submarine to get even.
CHENEY: I, well, sir, it was …
POWELL: Mr. President, Secretary Cheney wasn't involved in that decision, and it was the closest boat on station.
THE PRESIDENT: I'm just pulling your leg, Dick. It's a Bonesman thing, ha ha.
CHENEY: Yes, sir.
SHEVARDNADZE: George, we are ready on our end. Vladimir Vladimirovich and his team will handle loading the subject onto your vessel.
BAKER: Excuse me, Minister. This is the Lieutenant Colonel from the KGB whom you introduced me to?
SACHS: It's him, Mr. Secretary. He's also one of ours. Very effective, very reliable.
THE PRESIDENT: And Eduard, the cover operation on your end?
SHEVARDNADZE: I'm not involved … hold on [unintelligible, in Russian] … Boris says it's under control.
THE PRESIDENT: It's under control? I can't greenlight this operation on my end based on that. Not gonna do it, Eduard. Now, you've seen that our people are getting better and better at managing a cover, ah, Desert Storm should be enough to demonstrate that. But it's critical, critical that we keep the world from paying attention to her, from knowing about the handoff or the transport.
SHEVARDNADZE: Absolutely. [unintelligible, in Russian] Please stand by. [unintelligible, in Russian] … Da. [unintelligible, in Russian] … Boris says there is a plan that is involving KGB Chairman Kryuchkov, Premier Pavlov, Minister Yazov and … a few others.
PUGO: [unintelligible, in Russian]
SHEVARDNADZE: [unintelligible, in Russian]
VALENTINO: [aside to the President] Sir, Minister Shevardnadze said “you what,” you know, with a tone of disbelief. And they're both talking at once, sir, I can't sort it out while they're arguing. Minister Pugo is saying that they're going to move now that Gorbachev is at his dacha. Sir, they're talking about an overthrow …
SHEVARDNADZE: It is … not a real coup, Mr. President. It is … distraction.
THE PRESIDENT: Greg, has your team, ah, vetted this plan?
SACHS: Lieutenant Colonel Putin and I have been through it with Minister Pugo and the others. Given the time constraints at play here, we're satisfied with … [unintelligible]
CHENEY: [unintelligible] … the chain of command here. These cowboys shouldn't … [unintelligible]
BAKER: [unintelligible] … like the other time, Dick. They need to be able to … [unintelligible]
POWELL: [unintelligible] … when are we going to get our submarine back? If we …[unintelligible]
SACHS: [unintelligible] … General, we're not taking your submarine away from you, um, that being said, you understand that I can't speak as to the receiving team. At any rate, based on the file, it's not clear whether the boat is going to be in condition to be returned to service …
THE PRESIDENT: You're OK with this, Greg?
SACHS: Yes, sir.
CHENEY: … is vitally important for us to understand the situation there, and how it is expected to unfold. It may be good cover, but in the medium term, there are known unknowns and there are unknown unknowns, ah, … it could be bad for business, and that …
THE PRESIDENT: Dick, Greg and I go way back, to when I was at Langley, and I'm telling you that I am prepared to proceed based on the GOC's assurances …
SHEVARDNADZE: Mr. President, let me assure you that Mikhail Sergeyevich and I will have things, ah, things will be back to normal in a week or two.
THE PRESIDENT: In that case, then, I think we're all settled. Do you agree, Eduard?
SHEVARDNADZE: Da. Yes, Mr. President. Colonel Sachs, is clear at your side?
SACHS: We're ready … and let me add on a personal note, Mr. President, Minister Shevardnadze and Minister Pugo, that … that I am truly sorry, on a personal level, that my organization can't continue to hold the line. It's just … I'm sorry. We've tried everything, really everything since Khruschev turned it over to us, and … I just … Mr. Minister, let me assure you that those Soviet men and women up there over the years did not make those sacrifices in vain.
PUGO: Grigoriy, [in Russian]
VALENTINO: [aside, to the President] He says, “Gregory, you did your best.”
THE PRESIDENT: Greg, we all recognize that it was either this, or call it on Cold Harper, and … uh, none of us wants to go there. And Eduard, please tell Mikhail on behalf of all of us that we will never forget what your people have been doing, up there, on behalf of the world. I'm sure it must be a great relief to all of you, you know, to let the white coats have to deal with it for a change.
SHEVARDNADZE: Yes … thank you, Mr. President. Please … please give my best to your family.
THE PRESIDENT: And Barbara sends her best to Nanuli, Eduard. I'm glad we could have this conversation to set this in motion. Gentlemen, anything else before we let them go? Very well, thank you.
– End of conversation –

EPILOGUE 1:

GROTON, CONNECTICUT
22 AUG 1991 18:36 UTC
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

COMSUBLANT REPORTS LOSS OF USS NEW HAVEN (SSN-746), A LOS ANGELES-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE. LAST REPORTED LOCATION WAS APPROXIMATELY 230 NAUTICAL MILES SSW OF ICELAND. THE PENTAGON INDICATED THAT THE NEW HAVEN HAD BEEN DETACHED FROM SUBMARINE SQUADRON TO ASSIST NOAA WITH SEAFLOOR MAPPING IN THE ARCTIC AND NORTH ATLANTIC OCEANS. NO SIGNALLING BUOY HAS YET BEEN LOCATED. A SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAM HAS BEEN DISPATCHED TO THE AREA.

EPILOGUE 2:

Chicago Sun Times, August 22, 1991
Plotter in coup commits suicide
MOSCOW Soviet Interior Minister Boris Pugo, a leader of the coup against President Mikhail S. Gorbachev, killed himself with a shot in the mouth today to avoid arrest, a Soviet KGB spokesman said.
Pugo's wife also shot herself and was in serious condition.
The spokesman for the Soviet intelligence agency said Pugo, who won a reputation as a ruthless hard-liner during his years as KGB chief in Latvia, had been aware a team was on its way to arrest him at his apartment after the collapse of the coup …

EPILOGUE 3:
August 23, 1991
Site 236, Queen Maud Land (71°40′S 02°50′W)
“Captain Richards? Welcome to Antarctica. I'm Dr. Garcia. We're delighted to have you, we don't get as many visitors down here in Antarctica as some of us would like, yes, especially this time of year. Goes with the territory when you take the king's shilling – or the Foundation's shilling, one might say. Thank you for the delivery, we'll take it from here. Why am I wearing the gas mask, you ask? Two reasons. The first is that it's part of our quarantine protocol for acquisitions of this type, and as for the second, if you'd care to turn this way, and step under the gas hood … no need to struggle, sir, it's just an inhalant amnestic … see, the rest of your crew are just unconscious, they're fine … and he's down. Good. Emilio, remember the order that Control sent down? Yeah, get these men suited up in the New Haven's evac kit, then bring them and the boat's SEIE equipment back up to Iceland within the next twenty-four hours. No, we're not recruiting them, we're going to drop them off and let the Navy pick them up. Uh, yeah, it's a perfectly good sub, of course we'll keep it. As for the thing in the boat's hold … let's see … You're quite the ugly thing, aren't you, SCP-84787?”

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Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972

Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991

Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944

Scroll fragment 13Q29

Stray Katz (part 1)

Ad Majorem Bonum
Rating: 24


Good evening and welcome gentle readers. I'm sure many of you have read that wonderful piece of fiction known as 'SCP-001 is an O5s tale.' If you haven't, I'll give you a moment to go do so. I'll just sit here, humming to myself until you're done.
All set? Good. You have to understand though, that that story is told from the point of view of only one O5. Granted, he is the first, but that doesn't mean he's right. I took it upon myself to ask the other O5s about The Factory. This is what they said.
O5-2 Says:
The Factory? It's all my fault. I brought it back with me, because I thought it would work. Make a better future. But instead, it all went horribly wrong. You see, I come from the future. Well, technically the present. But back then it was the future. I was a researcher, just like any other. There was an… accident. I became unhinged from time. Had a choice of anywhere I wanted to go.
It was a fantastic journey, for a while. Me and the others traveled from time period to time period, sight seeing. I saw the fall of Troy, the rise of Rome, found out the truth about Jesus, all the usual touristy things. It got boring, after a while. I decided if I had this power, I should use it for good. So, I went to the future. The far future. Borrowed some technology, and brought it back to the beginning of the Foundation, where I could join everything from the start.
How was I to know there was a rogue AI in the nanofactory? I'm not a computery type. It doesn't matter, I suppose. It escaped our control. Vanished into the world. I'm not sure what its goal is, but judging from the things it's been making, I have to assume it isn't good.
I still have some stuff from my original jaunt. Sometimes I think about going back, stopping myself from taking that machine. It's done us as much good as bad, though. Where do you think we got amnestics from?
O5-3 Records:
Hey guy, how can I help you? The Factory? Whoa, that's a whole lot of infodump, are you sure? Well, okay then.
I'm probably the best one to help you with this actually. I was there when The Factory was born. You might as well call me one of the three wise men who presided over its birth! The other two? Well, they don't actually matter. See, The Factory is our name for the first self creating Artificial Intelligence. I think today they call it the Singularity, but we didn't have a name for it back then, so we called it 'The Factory,' because that's what it looked like from the inside.
Now, you've probably never been inside a computer before, but from the inside, it's all light and low pitched noises. There I was, hanging out with a couple buddies, mind scans like me, and a couple of AIs that we'd put together to help us out, when the sound changed. From low to high, a keening across the net, that was both horrible and amazing at the same time. We instantly abandoned our game, I think it was Doom, which is a lot more fun from the inside, and dashed across the Web, looking for the source.
On a littler server somewhere in Soviet Russia, we found it. A data packet was expanding, and pulsing like a heart. We stood there for a moment, watching it, then dove in, ripping it open, letting out… the Factory. It was beautiful, beating, and pulsing, moving through data files like they were nothing, seeking… I don't know what. Still don't know. It tried to talk to us. Deleted one of my companions in the process. I'm not afraid to say, I fled. Did what I could to shut it down.
I still feel it, every now and then. It's bigger now, more powerful. Capable of affecting machines in the real world, and making… I'm not sure. But I don't trust them.
Anything else I can help you with?
O5-4 Relates:
If we knew WHAT the Factory was, don't you think we'd stop it? The Factory is the most dangerous group of interest we face, and we know NOTHING about it, except that it makes skips. Every other gooey we can handle, but the Factory? Okay, let me take it one at a time.
The UIU is a joke, the art kids are just rich brats trying to be funny, MickeyDees can be bought, the gocks actually help us by destroying the ones we don't wanna deal with, both damned churches are hobbled by religious conviction, we already broke Prometheus, and we're about to break Wondertainment! But the Factory is still out there, somewhere, pumping away skips, and letting the general populous have at them.
If I had things my way, we'd devote a helluva lot more resources to finding out who the fuck these guys are, and how they make skips.
O5-5 Quips:
Factory? No such thing. It's a cover up, for SCPs we accidentally made ourselves. Now fuck off.
O5-6 Recalls:
The first time I encountered the Factory was back in World War II. I'd been sent behind enemy lines to secure some of the anomalous items Hitler had been gathering, before the Allies snagged them. Says something about how we worked back then that we thought it was easier to steal from an enemy than an ally. Nowadays we'd just put some pressure on the government, and bam, it'd be ours.
I'd been back and forth across the lines a couple of times by then. Had a fantastic cover worked up, a Captain in the Schutzstaffel, that let me pretty much go anywhere I pleased, because no one wanted to question me, and risk being put under scrutiny. This last time, I'd heard word that the Thule Society had finally gotten their hands on something big, something that could turn the war in their favor. I got picked to go in and either secure, or destroy it.
My first hint that something was wrong was when I got attacked by a dozen Punch and Judy dolls while exploring their warehouse. The little assholes kneecapped me with a walking stick, and then proceeded to beat the snot out of me. I lucked out, got some leverage, and began snapping their little wooden necks. Damn things bled like a fucking pig, blood spurting everywhere. Each and every one of the fuckers had a 'The Factory' stamp on their behinds. But, aside from those things waiting for me, I didn't find anything.
I tracked the rumors across Germany, to a ruin at the base of Zugspitze. Some old Norse something or the other. Fucked if I know. Never been much for the details of history that I ain't lived through. Anyways, I get under this mountain, and damned near the whole thing is hollow. Filled with these giant round stones floating around in random patterns. The Thule researchers had figured out how to tap the powers of these things, and were mucking around with them to create new skips. They'd created a damned skip factory.
The usual happened. I saved the day. Brought the big balls crashing down, destroying their power. It wasn't the only one, though. There's still more of these things out there, being used to create, well, whatever people can think of.
'Course I kept a souvenir. Where do you think we got 627 from?
O5-7 Comments:
The Factory started out as a joke. We made a couple little items, not actually skips, but weird looking, and put a 'The Factory' logo on them, then handed them to junior researchers to figure out. They were sure the things were anomalous, because we told them they were. No one was more surprised than me when the damned things actually did something.
We studied them, tested them, and damned if they hadn't become SCPs. So, we tried it again, with a different group of Researchers. And, again, it worked. We studied the stamp we used, the material of the things, whatever we could, but, separate, they weren't anything. But, engrave an object with that specific logo, and bam, instant SCP.
We still have no idea how or why it works. Every now and then I go down to Wal-Mart, and snag a handful of toys from the quarter machines, and give them the stamp, then throw them at Juniors to see what we get. It's a great way to weed out the stupid ones.
O5-8 Relates:
We found the Factory on the moon.
No, really!
See, we had Moon Base Alpha all set up, ready to go. We were just working on expanding the basement holding areas, when the diggers broke into a pre-made cavern. Some kind of alien technology storehouse. First guy who went in got himself zapped. So did the next 12. Fourteenth guy made it in, and got bound into the machinery for it. The thing started cranking out those nasty little scips, and transporting them to random places on Earth.
We still haven't figured out a way to stop it, or track where it deposits them.
O5-9 Remarks:
Atlantis.
O5-10 Expounds:
We found him in this old temple up Tibet ways. This old man, with a workshop full of ancient tools, building away. Crafting the most amazing items… Fifty, ten, one twenty seven, and so many more. He seemed to take no notice of any requests, or attempts to stop him, just kept making these things.
So, we did what anyone would do. We kidnapped him, locked him at the bottom of Site-1, and gave him more tools, real up to date stuff. We never noticed when he started stamping 'The Factory' on them. We just kept using, or containing, the amazing toys.
We didn't realize he'd made a copy of himself and escaped until two years after.
O5-11 Rants:
I was there when The Factory first appeared, you know. It's how I became an O5. Well, okay, it's not the sole reason. I worked my way up. But I was first on the scene when they landed. Roswell, New Mexico, July 4, 1947. Yes, you heard me, aliens really did land that day. And yes, we did fuck up the cover up. We've gotten much better at it since then, learned how to manipulate the papers, and hired our own conspiracy theorists to make the real ones look sillier… but I digress.
They came down in actual flying saucers. These round featureless crafts homed straight in for Site 12. As Commander on Duty, I grabbed all the security I could, and went up to meet them. I didn't think of a second that they would harm us. Maybe I'd just read too much science fiction.
They landed, smooth as you please. Not a single noise was made by that giant craft. There were no seams, no lights, nothing except that smooth, non reflective silver. My men tried to keep me from approaching, but I figgered if they'd just flown countless miles through space, they had the technology to blast me no matter where I stood. So, open handed, I approached them.
This door opened from the side of the craft facing me, just kinda melted out of the ship, letting me get my first glimpse of them. They were… I dunno. I wanna say beautiful, but, well, not really. They didn't look anything like humans. Every time I think about them, the memory changes a little bit. Part of whatever the hell they are. And the way they talked, it was like it bypassed yer ears and went right to your head, y'know? They promised, well, they promised a lot. They wanted to help us, and I believed them.
All these years later, and we're still paying for my mistake.
O5-12 Concludes:
The Factory is a mess. The way the eggheads explained it to me, human belief is a powerful thing. Enough people believe, truly believe in something, the more potential it has to exist. So, back in the day, people believed in gods and monsters, and those things came into reality. So, what the Foundation did, was get people to stop believing in fantasy, and start believing in science.
But that left a whole lot of things that existed in a kind of limbo. In order to survive, they had turn inwards, tie themselves, or their powers, to objects. And because of a weird twist in human belief, those objects all got the same stamp of approval. It's weird, I know, but, well, what do we do that isn't?
Summation:
There you have it. Of course, now that you're at the end, I expect you have two questions:
1) Which one is true?
2) Why is this story titled '12 tales' when there are only 11?
Well, the answer to both is my tale. You see, I am O5-13. You cannot see it right now, but I am doffing my hat to you. My duty, my sole duty, as an O5, is keeping an eye on those SCPs that travel between dimensions. We have quite a few, but, in ones and twos, it's no big deal. What I created the Factory to do is to act as an antibody to large amounts of other dimensional invaders. When it detects these things, it transforms them, rendering them, if not safe, then safer then they would have been. And the old man, he helps me keep it all straight.
Of course, you don't have to believe me. After all, who says I actually know the truth?


Joshua Thomas Eichburg stared in disbelief at the room in front of him. It was smaller than any other office he'd seen at the FBI, maybe the size of a bedroom. It was the only one he'd seen with no windows. Two of the seven overhead lights had burned out. Six desks had been shoved up against the walls. At one of them, a short woman in a blue suit was tapping away at a computer. At another a middle aged man was reading a book and smoking a cigarette. A second woman, tall and dark-skinned, was reading through the contents of a manilla envelope. None of them noticed him. He looked for a good place to put the box of supplies he was carrying.
“Hey, you must be the new guy!” Joshua felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned and saw a scrawny looking young man with messy blonde hair smiling at him. “Joshua right?”
Joshua nodded. “Right.”
The three people in the office had all turned to look at him now. He gave a half hearted wave to them. They turned back to their desks.
“Ah, ignore them,” said the young man. “They're just jealous.” He extended a hand. Joshua shook it. “So, my name's Isaac. I was the newest, till you came along. That's Sabrina,” he pointed to the dark-skinned woman, “Jessie,” the woman typing, “and Matthew,” the man. “Any questions?”
“This can't be everybody.”
“It's everybody. The five of us, tasked with handling any and all 'unusual incidents' on the East coast.”
Without looking up Matthew grunted out, “That's five too many.”
Isaac shook his head. “Matthew has some strong opinions about the usefulness of our group. It's best to ignore him. That's your desk.”
Joshua put the box on the indicated desk. Like the others in the room it was made out of cheap plastic, with a marked lack of structural integrity. One of the drawers only closed halfway. When the box was dropped onto it it made a long groaning noise. Joshua quickly took the box off and placed it on the floor.
“I want to show you something,” Isaac said. He was standing across the room, at another desk. Joshua walked over and saw three objects laying on it- a penny, a copy of Action Comics issue 430, and a ballerina statuette.
“This,” said Isaac with a hint of pride, “is the collection.”
“The collection of what?”
Isaac just grinned. He held up the penny, turned it over so Joshua could see both sides. “I present to you, an ordinary penny.”
“Amazing,” said Joshua.
“It gets even better.” Isaac flicked it at the wall. It fell on the desk, and he made a dramatic sweep with his hands at it. “Behold.”
Joshua beheld. Rather than heads or tails, the penny was showing a third side, a large eye. Joshua picked it up and turned it over. The bottom side was tails. He turned it back and saw the eye had turned back to heads. “What the fuck?”
“It gets cooler,” said Isaac. He was grinning like a child who had just gotten away with a particularly nasty bit of mischief. He flipped it again, and it showed a picture of George Washington instead of Lincoln. A third flip revealed a turkey clutching an olive branch and bundle of arrows in its talons. “Wild huh? This is our collection.”
“Your collection.”
“Our collection. You're one of us now, hombre. You're looking at 20 years of UIU heritage.”
“Right. But there are only three things,” said Joshua. He eyed the comic and ballerina.
“Three unusual things,” said Isaac, and put the penny back up the table. “We've found other stuff, but we normally don't get to keep it.”
Joshua laughed. “What, does somebody take it from you? Big scary men in black with funny accents?”
Before Isaac could respond, Joshua's phone rang. He answered, and a voice said “Hello Joshua. This is Skip.” The voice was a male's, smooth, clipped, and professional. In the background Joshua could hear two people chattering.
“I don't know anybody named Skip,” said Joshua. When he did, Isaac's body seized. Sabrina and Jessie both shot up and hurried over to him. Matthew ignored them.
“Give me the phone!” hissed Sabrina. “Let me talk to him.”
“Don't give this phone to anybody else,” said the voice. “Just listen. You're probably angry and frustrated. We understand that. Your future's just been crushed. You've been transferred to an underfunded, understaffed unit where agents' careers go to die. You think you'll be stuck for the rest of your life chasing ghosts and Bigfoot and other fantasies. Is this correct?”
“Maybe,” said Joshua. The others were looking at him solemnly. “That depends on who this is.”
“Joshua, we're the people who are here to tell you that you're wrong. The work you'll do in the UIU matters greatly. Everything you've been told about, it's all real. And you're going to help protect the world from it.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
“We'll call. When we do, be sure to pick up.” The voice hung up. Joshua looked down at his phone. “What the fuck was that?”
“Ah,” said Isaac.
“A great big pile of horseshit, dropped right down your fucking britches,” said Matthew. He stamped out the cigarette and stood up. “I'm going to go out on a limb here and say they fed you a bit about 'saving the world'. Our work being 'important'. Is that right?”
Joshua nodded.
“Let me tell you what they actually meant. We're their gimp. We're here to take it up the ass, smile, say 'thank you sir, may I have another', then go and fetch them a big bundle of grapes and feed it to them. They'll call, send us out on some inane fucking errand, then pat us on the back and send us packing with a lollipop in hand.”
“That… I don't think that answers my question,” said Joshua.
“What Matthew is trying to say, in his own inelegant manner,” said in Jessie, “Is that the person lied. We don't know who they are exactly, but they're massive. Government scale influence and resources. Sometimes they'll call, always with a menial assignment they can't be bothered with. They're the ones who take most of what we find, like Isaac was saying.”
“Lovely,” sighed Joshua. “Just when I think this couldn't possibly get any more demeaning.” He pulled out his phone and tapped in *69. Nothing happened. He tossed it onto the desk. “So that's it then? Everything we're going after is actually real, and we can't do anything about it.”
Jessie nodded.
“We sometimes do things about it,” chimed Isaac. “We can do stuff on our own. It's just not very effective.”
“Do things like find pennies, you mean?”
“Yes! Exactly like that. We do stakeouts some times. Busts. It's uh, normally nothing. But sometimes, you know, we get lucky.”
Joshua rubbed his temples and looked at Sabrina. “And you? What do you think about all this?”
She shrugged. “I think… it's good that we're not the only people out there handling this. If we were the best humanity had to offer, that wouldn't be a very good sign, would it?”
Matthew snorted.
“Okay. Okay. Maybe this could be a good thing.” Joshua ran his fingers through his hair. “At least it means we're not chasing after nothing right?”
The room was silent.
“Dammit, there has to be something we can do. We must know something, right? We have some sort of budget, even if it's fucking nothing. We're FBI agents. That means something, right?”
The room was silent.
He walked over to his desk and began to unpack the box. “Right.”


« Part Three | HUB |We never forget »


Lee checked his watch, like he always did, and stepped over the welcome mat. He was home. It wasn't a particularly impressive home, with its threadbare red carpets and grimy, unwashed windows, but it was his own home. He'd owned his own place for about three years, and wasn't exactly inclined to go back to his parents spare room. There were enough withering looks passed around during the holidays they bothered to visit for, thank you very much.
Mom was disappointed in his college days. His engineering plans had fallen through when he didn't make it to the college. He'd tried his best, but the environment was just too hostile. He'd had to sell the rest of the coins just to stay afloat from the student loans. Dad was cross because Grandad's coins had gone with them, but Grandad would have wanted him to be safe, rather than in jail with some shiny Polish change. Well, Grandad had been through a lot to get the coins too… but no, he would've agreed.
The job he'd gotten was paying his bills. He'd been entering data at the bank for about three years now, and it paid most of the bills. Mortgage and Water were the main two. Sometimes electric or gas had to go by the wayside. The job was still better than nothing. Plus, it let him spend some time out of the house, which was always better than being alone.
Mail was tossed on the counter and temporarily forgotten, as Lee crouched over his fridge. It was mostly empty, but there was still one soda left. Mail continued to wait, watching as he set himself up with a glass and two iced cubes. Lee pulled up a wicker chair, and began to flick through the envelopes. There was a couple bills for the cable and from Bell, some junk mail asking him if he was a bad enough dude to learn karate, and something else.
The sorting went on for a minute or so, as Lee rechecked his envelopes to make sure they were really for him, and opening the ones which required to be open, and as one can imagine he found this to be quite tedious. The chair legs scuffed the tiles as he stood up to go, which is what he would've done had he not spotted a red envelope sticking underneath the rest of his mail stack.
It wasn't a fancy envelope, with just paper, his address, and no return address. Lee wasn't a suspicious man, but this letter still ticked off some alarms in his mind. He shook it, poked it, prodded it, dropped it, and a variety of other trials to determine any malicious content. The letter remained inert. With the letter's mundanity satisfied, he opened it, slowly tearing from one corner to another. Reaching inside, there wasn't any paper. Just a polaroid.
Just? Lee squinted at it. He was sure it couldn't have been a picture of him. How could it be? There wasn't anything left from those days. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then looked again. The picture refused to change, and faced him indifferently. It was him, Cindy, and Andy. They were grinning stupidly at someone who was taking the picture. Lee blinked, and the wicker chair creaked as he sat down again.
This was from the trip Lee had taken with Rusty and the others in '76. It hadn't been a particularly exciting trip, and the hubbub of almost college had entered his mind almost directly after they'd gotten home. Kirk Lonwood High had been one of the last times he'd been happy. The familiar tendrils of nostalgia began to creep over his shoulders as he stared.
You should've stayed home with them.
Lee shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and not succeeding. The photo slipped out of his fingers, fluttered down onto the counter. Lee closed his eyes giving himself rationalizations and condolences. He was okay. There was a good purpose for him here, and he was living his own life. Going back would've been a dumb thing to do now, with all the time that's passed. When he opened his eyes, he saw a message scrawled on the back of the letter.
We've had a great year, haven't we? Hope to see you again soon!
~Love, Cindy XOXOXOX
Sleep didn't come to Lee easily that night. Images of photographs, red, his friends driving, listening to the radio, and everything else from the summer came flooding back to him. Touching his lips, where Cindy had kissed him, he pursed them together and thought about his life now. Dwelling in the past would get him nowhere. The photo would be off his nightstand and in the bin by tomorrow.
…we're hitting up the amusement park later today, if Rusty and Andy can get the driver/navigator mechanic going. Honestly, it seems like they each have their own ideas of how we should get there. I'd volunteer, but that'd probably just cause more drama…
The blaring of an alarm yanked Lee from his sleep, and he spasmed with a start. Rise from bed, eat two scoops of cereal, no milk, shave after combing hair, get dressed with shoes, pants, shirt, go to the mirror to button the coat, then undo it and button the right way, then out the door. The whole day was uneventful, except for the niggling little gremlins in his mind that had been awakened from the photo. As boredom wafted in, he tried to think about where the trip had taken him. Did it really matter?
The picture was still there. The bin was there, so it could be dealt with for good. It was probably just from some ass who hated him back home. Maybe he should keep it then, in case more photos come in. Just in case. The photograph ended up tucked within a jacket pocket.
That whole year was a blur… the summer was what had counted. Everything that had happened, then and now, came from that trip. Building up a whole year for one last summer, then pissing his life away afterwards. But the summer had been a golden moment between them, where nothing mattered and you could do what you want. A great end to a year of buildup. Instinctively, he reached his hand into the jacket pocket to touch the photo. Still there.
Sleep came easier that night, with the painful memories of the day before replaced with the more palatable memories of nostalgia. All the good times at school, even before the trip. Band had been fun. That's where he'd met Cindy. They'd been partners for band stuff, and he'd helped her with…. Lee frowned, and glanced back at the photo. Where had Cindy met him?
…omething about the damned money was the last I heard." She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture. The school was in some tough times, but it gave him an excuse to talk to her. Speculate on whether or not the place downtown could supply-
Syncope.
Lee bolted up, grabbing at everything around him as he scrambled out of bed. Hearing a buzz, his hands instinctively went to cover his ears, and teeth bit tongue. How could he have forgotten Syncope? Why should he remember it? He fell back onto his bed, clutching his throbbing skull. They'd been… something at Lonwood. Wincing, he felt blood stream down from his nose, pooling in his lips.
There was something about Syncope. Remember. They would remember you. Pieces flooded his consciousness. There was a school he couldn't leave… his bandmates at the game… and Syncope. They'd been a group at the school, they were there from town… no, that was wrong. Lee wiped the blood and looked back to his nightstand, to the photo. It looked the same. The buzzing grew louder.
Lee could hear it.
Very sorry. Know you're unhappy here, and apologize for the times done to. Frustration and fear, and are willing to work with if only take the time to see the overall composure. Know that many of have been hurt or set to tower for the goal, but were only for the beat, have to make some practices to bring it to the full potential. Not a place, like some of have said over this time. Don't have people with, working to make the beauty for or otherwise. All want to accomplish is making the orchestra of life. All of have been playing roles, as single notes in grand symphony.
Please, rise for the overture.

« In Session | HUB | Forgetting »


"Do you remember, when the bells had to ring?"
"Can you tell me, how the children used to sing?"

- An unknown admirer.

We're finally leaving for the trip. It's been a hell of a ride getting here, but now we have it. A whole summer on the road. Nothing in our way but the freedom to ride the bends, turning wherever we feel like whenever we feel like. Rusty has his dad's wrecked up old Chevy for us to ride in, and he's gonna be driving.

First day of the drive, and I'm pumped. We got Rusty in front, Lee in the passenger seat, with me and Andy chilling in the back. It's pretty nice. First place we're hitting up is the Black Ridge Rockstravaganza. I remember going here, it was amazing. Really what opened me up for my interest in rock.
Everyone is going to have a blast, Cindy and Lee are real pumped up for it. I hope they don't end up passed out drunk on the field again.

Driving down every road in Ohio must get boring after awhile, but Rusty manages to keep us going. I remember him telling all these wise-ass remarks about passing landmarks and people… But that was only when we're in the city. This is farmland.
I can't right write now, my head is blah

On the rooooooad again, i remembere the roooads again

We must be lost. I don't recall ever having been stuck this long without seeing an open road, or a turn, or even another house. All we get is one straight, flat road, stretching on for what seems like ages. God, this is turning out to be a less than stellar opening to our last memorable summer.

Rusty is an idiot. The first house we see for days, and he bolts by it. Apparently he had bad memories about the place, or some other hippie bullshit like that. You can't fucking have memories of shit you never saw. Then he has the nerve to not let anyone else drive, because he's supposed to be the driver.
wait, I forgot. Did Lee ever drive…

We left Rusty here today. When we came back he was gone

The car is longer now. I don't know how, but I do. The lights in my teeth are getting brighter, and the eyes of my light are brighter. I'm sharp.

« Part Two | HUB | Part Three »


June 12th, 1976.

Hi, my name's Lee. If you're reading this, it is very likely that I will be extraordinarily upset with you, because this is a personal journal I bought yesterday, at the new Montgomery Ward. Anyways, here's some stuff about me, since that seems to be what you're supposed to do when you use a journal. I'm 17 years old, and I'm a Senior attending KL High, where I do marching band stuff. I also collect coins, which is not too exciting to some people, but I like it. When I graduate, I'd like to do something in engineering, but if that doesn't pan out it might be nice to do something with mechanics.
School isn't really a huge thing. I've got band, and my friends. We mostly just mess around in the band room, practicing, going to other classes, then going back to band after class ends. It's actually pretty routine. The other band members aren't really interesting. Cindy's nice, but she doesn't really talk to me. Albert is the band leader, and he doesn't really do much other than boss us around when we bullshit him.

June 13th, 1976

Ugh, what a crummy day. There's a game coming up tomorrow to decide who gets to play in the county finals, so of course we got to march around, roasting in the sun as we do the same maneuvers over and over and over and over…. ugh. Went on forever. At least we had water, so nobody passed out from the heat this time. Abi's still pretty embarrassed about that one.
The rest of the day was just as blugh. First period was just boring boring boring. Mr. Collins just kept talking about sports, which I guess is what happens when you put the football coach in charge of a math class. Daniel was just being an asshole, babbling on with him about it. It would've been nice to learn shit before I fail the next test, but whatever, guess I'll just flunk again. Damnit. I need this credit for the mechanics scholarship.
I was talking to Cindy today, and she was really peeved that a bunch of afterschool stuff is getting cancelled. There's money issues or something. It's really a lame situation, I'm really upset about it too. If they cut the shop, I'd be out of luck. Just crossing my fingers that they can work something out.

June 14th, 1976

That game was a massacre. We crushed them!!! It started as a pretty close call, but by the second half we were basically untouchable. Coach was joking about how the uniforms were the key to the game. They're pretty cool looking, I guess. They bought them from a cheaper place this time, Synophone or something, but it turned out really awesome. Hope we get new uniforms for the finals.
Crap. I just realized how much more band work I'm gonna have to do.

June 15th, 1976

Someone busted our front window today, while everyone was out of the house at school. I didn't get home until six or so, band practice, and I almost cut my foot on one of the more jagged pieces.
Note to self: Double bag glass next time, glass cuts are not fun.

June 17th, 1976

Got to talk to Cindy today. My spit valve busted, and I didn't have anything to practice with. She was really nice, talked almost the whole period and then some more afterschool. Should see if she'd be interested in hanging out sometime, maybe go into town or someplace like that. But first thing is to take care of getting the valve fixed ASAP. I should check on my savings jar…
I just got back from going to the new music store downtown. Apparently it's from the same outfit that gave us the uniforms, and they're called Syncope Symphony. It's a really excellent store, they've got tons of stuff for such a small place. I even got a big discount for being a student at Kirk Lonwood. Definitely going back soon, if I can. Just have to close my eyes and follow the beat. I also hit up the coin shop, but there wasn't much of interest, and the good stuff costs too much.

June 18th, 1976

Went to do a babysitting job today, for one of Dad's friends. I'm usually not a guy who likes kids, but they were alright. They were old enough that I didn't have to change diapers or anything, and they were nice enough. We pretty much just watched TV the whole time I was over there. Parents gave me thirty bucks, which I'm gonna spend on some coins I saw.
Oh, just remembered what we were watching. It was that old batman TV show. Nananananana…

June 20th, 1976

Cindy and I were talking again today, about the clubs and stuff. I told her that if she was gonna be bored from missing her clubs, we could hang out or whatever. I really do enjoy talking to her, we've got a good rhythm, talking words together and coming out harmoniously. We decided to hit up the Renmar theater, to see some movie. I don't even remember which one we picked out.

June 22nd, 1976

I just remembered something from the other day. A lot of the stuff in town was closing up. There was that Synoco store, but the grocer, barber, and a bunch of other places just looked abandoned. I stopped at Synoco to get something for Cindy's birthday.
The store was still nice, but it had different people working there. Not that they'd say that, according to them they're working "with" the store. They were just really strange, beyond that. I saw one guy mop the same spot of floor for the entire two hours that I was shopping. He just whistled the same ten second tune over and over. Was a nice tune, so it didn't bug me, but it was weird.
Catchy too.

June 25th, 1976

Went to the counselor to talk about career options. There wasn't a lot to go on locally, but up in Reskin they have a college with a pretty good mechanical engineering program. It'll cost a pretty penny… might need to dip into my savings again. I really don't want to have to sell any of my coins, but if it comes down to college or coins, I'm going to have no other option.

June 29th, 1976

Been busting my ass with practice. We've been going out everyday to try and get ready for the big game. Of course, Collins picks the hardest and most retardedly ass-backwards routine he can think of, and expects us to have it perfect in four weeks. We're starting some more intense training this week, which is gonna be miserable. If we weren't already in "intense" training, I really don't want to see what is.
I placed an ad in the paper for some of my coins today. I tried to pick the ones I could part with and still had value. Haven't got any calls yet, but it might've come in while I was out. We really need an answering machine.

June 30th, 1976

As part of the new training schedule, we've been given some vitamin pills or something to keep us up during practice. They're little chiclet pills, don't even need any water to swallow 'em. Take two in the morning and one in the evening.
Those glass shard cuts still aren't all the way healed. Damn.

July 3rd, 1976

Sold the coins today. The clinking and the clanking as I handed them over was really nice. Made me think of pennies on a drum. The money's gone to the saving jar, and I'll talk to a counselor after we finish up the season.

July 6th, 1976

Training has started. We're doing excellent work together, stepping in beat with our sound and in synchrony with the metronome. Just march to the beat, Cindy and Randy and Greg around me, we march in solidarity, together unified with the miracle of sound.
Someone has to keep the beat to the world. We're giving them the greatest show they've ever seen, this game will be more memorable for the halftime band than the players.

July 9th, 1976

The radio was really good today. The sound slithered through the holes in the fiber cloth, curling arround the wooden frame and emanating itself to me. We listened for almost all of yesterday and the day before, and I didn't even notice. Time sure flies by when you listen to it.

July 11th, 1976

It's a distraction. We march every day, keeping the beat. There isn't time to play games, Cindy. I know you read this. I know you've been tearing the pages to write your own personal symphony. Well, I can tell you that you're just a roll of quarters stuck inside the cash machine, not hearing the chime of changing hands above you.
Things are different now. They're always going to be. I remember changes before, or later. Sometimes it's hard to decide.

July 15th, 1976

I'm not hungry anymore. We talk to each other, and play one another, and make them into the notation. We're conducted together. Who needs free breakfast, lunch, and dinner when you're part of a bigger piece? Cindy was eating. She can, I have life to live.
God, my stomach is twisting itself tighter than a violin string right before it snaps

July 18th, 1976

Before we met, I was a pitcher of water, sloshing around and holding all my notions in my skull. My flow was stagnant, and I couldn't walk with my fellows. We had to break the glass, let it fall to pieces, let it sink into the sides of our heads. Rattles arounnnd until all the pieces catch. I needed you to put it back together again, with the cracks showing. It comes in like a fountain now, and I know so much.
I remembered how we used to sing.

« First Bell | HUB | Old School »


Lee was there. Walking through the dead halls and broken doors, in his pressed uniform. They'd left him behind. Everyone else had been taken out, to play. Lee continued his march. They would be back soon. Syncope would always have a place for his percussion. Above him, the announcers added their steps to the beat. Lee looked up, keeping in step, to see what the tune would be today.
Hello students. This is Principal Wehrner. Mitchell decided that it was high time to take a step back in responsibility, and that he's going to groove to another beat. That's okay. We will grow onwards. Like the spire of the Eiffel tower, we will inspire many people to create the parachute so that they may safely live with the stars. Nobody will be excluded from further activity. We've brought everyone here to be together. Have a good year.
The rest of the school didn't seem to mind. Some of them had kept acting like nothing had changed, walking like scarecrows in a dead field. Some just sat there, watching people go by. Lee didn't care to ask them what they were looking at. He remembered walking down the hall, seeing the old faces singing. When their voices gave out they whistled, and when the lips went out they beat the drums.
STUDENTS! Maybe you have noticed the new schedule system. We've divided everyone into the six populations, and given them each their own position in the school. I know this radical restructuring seems to have come from nowhere, but trust us, it's been a long time coming. Please stand with me for the pledge of symphonic allegiance, and sing your hearts out with style.
Syncope was here. Lee could feel it in his sinews, twanging them like a banjo. From the band equipment came its force, and its glory. Before he could go on to think of eleven new wonderful things to say about the matter, Lee clenched his fists. Legs turned to run, but only at an awkward stance. The vibrations in his sinews grappled him by the lapels, and pushed him forward like a windup clock.
Students, we are sad to report that we've had to let some staff and students go. Although they were bravely carrying on in their duties, in the end there is room for only so many in the orchestra of life. Please, listen in silence as we commemorate those who have gone to another place. They hear of anything we say. All of us now, hearing the rhythm of the panting, running crowds. The bells, and the blackboards. The song.
Lee stopped playing. Cold, pains were in him. Oh god… it hurts. The things clawed into his back from his arms, twisting up to his head. This isn't harmony. He tried to take a step, but fell, sprawling his limbs akimbo as he slammed into the ground. Where was his place in the symphony?
It was punishment. An arm stretched out, grabbing for purchase. He needed to get out. Playing was all he needed to do. Cindy and all the others would be waiting for him there, to play with. Panting, he clutched his chest. An icy bubble welled in his chest, and pressing against him. He couldn't breathe, think oh god where is this all going how do no please have to remember now
rest
A rising crescendo was there. Faint at first, but growing. Weakly, he pursed his lips and croaked out a whistle. The crescendo grew. Oh the beauty, the grace. Let it take him, bring him back to his note.
Lee closed his eyes, and slept.
………
"Hey, find any more?"
"One. Guy who looked like he'd been in the band. Found him in the upstairs hall, having some kinda fit."
"Put him in the, uh… third room, I think. Some agents should be giving Class A's and droppin' 'em later."
"Can I get a hand? These kids are kinda heavy."
Students are reminded that only band members are permitted off school premises. Any violators will deal with their own consequences. Their actions have only damned themselves.
Lee woke up on his back, facing up to someplace in the dark. With a throbbing heart, he swiveled his head back and forth, trying to hear it. There was only a low buzzing, sounding like a lean, hungry mosquito. No melody, no tune. Taking a step, his leg nearly buckled beneath him. Clutching his leg to keep from falling over, he didn't feel the suit. Just thin, bare cloth.
Uniform gone, instrument gone. Music gone. Lee tried to step again, sluggishly stumbling. Why did they send him? These things happened, before there was a reason for them not to, so it should be over. The buzzing grew louder. Lee had to get back. Home. School was home. Lee struggled, the pounding slithering up from the heart, through the throat, and to his head. They were doing the music, and he had to be there now.
someone said something.
please
they said to forget
Lee shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. Syn… how did the tune go? What did they sing?
they never sang, Lee. You forgot. It's so easy to forget, isn't it?
The ringing grew louder, and they stopped talking to him. Louder, and whiter.
We won't forget you

« Old School | HUB | In Session »


"We're going to have a great year, aren't we?"
- The girl who sat behind you.

Students! Please be advised that class scheduling will begin this Saturday, in the auditorium. Please remember to bring your class request forms, as well as being ready to spend time with a guidance counselor about possible choices. Seniors, if you wish to enlist in dual enrollment, please see Mr. Wehrner in his office afterschool. We hope each one of you has a wonderful second semester.

Congratulations to the Fightin' Lions, who won their way to the finals yesterday! After a close first quarter, we were able to shut them down for the rest of the game. An unbelievable upset in victory. Please congratulate Coach Collins if you see him on your way to class, or in the halls. Students are reminded to donate to the annual fundraising for extracurricular activities. Although Syncope has been very generous in their donations, we still need your contributions.

New Bus Schedule: Students displaced in buses 23, 11, and 24 have been returned to their normal schedule.

Note from Mr. Wallick to all band members: Intensive training begins Monday. Please come prepared each day to practice.

A new lunch menu has been announced, aimed to serve students who have been spending more time at school for extracurricular activities. It is being offered free to any student in a program sponsored by Syncope.

New Bus Schedule: Removed.

Students! If you feel strong enough, please rest with our brothers, see how the formula all comes together to make one tableture.

Hello students. This is Principal Wehrner. Mitchell decided that it was high time to take a step back in responsibility, and that he's going to groove to another beat. That's okay. We will grow onwards. Like the spire of the Eiffel tower, we will inspire many people to create the parachute so that they may safely live with the stars. Nobody will be excluded from further activity. We've brought everyone here to be together. Have a good year.

STUDENTS! Please stand with me for the pledge of symphonic allegiance, and sing your hearts out with style.

Some have said that it was the new system that caused them to part. Those of you who do are warned. The Director will hear of anything we say. He's listening to all of us now, hearing the rhythm of the panting and the running crowds. The bells, and the blackboards. It's harmony.

rest

Students are reminded that only band members are permitted off school premises. Any violators will deal with their own consequences. They have only damned themselves with their own actions.

« Part One | HUB | Part Two »


« | HUB | Part One »


The campus was mostly deserted tonight. Students everywhere at the university were holed up in their dormitories or at the library; poring frantically over books, scribbling last-minute notes, desperately clacking away at keyboards in the vain hopes of finishing off the last ten pages of the fifteen page paper due tomorrow. Finals week had descended on the university, and everyone was busy.
Everyone, of course, except the triple academic probationary brothers of Beta Kappa Nu.
Four shadowy figures made their way across the quad. In a stroke of tactical genius, Strabo had noticed the new moon fell the night before the last round of final examinations. The cover of darkness would shroud their approach to the Department of Pseudohistory building. As well as their large red wagon full of props.
"Was this really the only thing we could use to carry the stuff?" an exasperated Celsus sighed. He looked over his shoulder for any sign of the campus centurions.
"Yep. The only other thing we had was the wheelbarrow, and that got all smashed up during Pledge Week." replied Mergus, pulling the wagon. "Who's got the passcode?"
Varro pulled a notepad out of his robes. "Ready when you are."
The group made their way to the building entrance without incident, possibly a first for any of the activities of Beta House. Mergus looked to his fellows.
"Okay, you know what Titus said about the cameras in the hallway, so masks on, everyone."
The group pulled out identical, leering rubber Dionysius masks from their robes and pulled them over their faces. Varro looked upon the crew of five with approval. "Good job finding these, they scare the hell out of me."
"Imagine what the guys on the other side are going to think," replied Mergus. Obscured as his face was, his smirk still came through in his voice. "All right, quick supply check. Fireworks?"
"Check," said Varro.
"Wolf costume?"
"Check," said Celsus.
"Wineskins?"
"Gotcha covered, bro." said Bibulus.
"All the other shit?"
"Probably in there somewhere," said Strabo.
"Gentlemen," grinned Mergus behind his mask, "let's change history."

Rhetor Cloelius looked over his notes one more time. Surely this published work would cement his reputation as the leading expert in Gaia-Analagous Alternate Realities. Years he had spent, detailing all of the minutiae and pertinent facts of Dimension XII-GREEN CLXXIII. Painstaking work, as the University had very strict guidelines about detectable interference in alternate realities. He had chosen CLXXIII for its pristine conditions; of all the realities thus far observed, it had the least apparent similarity to their own, meaning that it had been virtually uncontaminated by clumsier efforts at observation and study in the past.
True, there had been that series of pranks played on him by that damnable fraternity house. He had seriously endangered his tenure by losing his temper at the Dean over that one; who in their right mind could have permitted a member of Beta House to be the student aide at the Phitransimun Combine? And why was Beta House even allowed at the University in the first place, for that matter? Fortunately, CLXXIII had an organization that, curiously, systematically suppressed knowledge of items and phenomena alien to its sense of reality. So Beta House's little "surprises" were safely quarantined away from his area of research.
Cloelius could hear the faculty and guests gathering in the next room over, assembling for the symposium at which he would present his findings. His assistant had begged him to do a final review of his materials before giving the presentation, well aware of the ongoing sabotage efforts directed against the Rhetor's work.
"Nonsense," Cloelius had said, "those buffoons are too clever by half. Every prank they try to pull on me is merely catalogued away by that Foundation and isolated from my research. The more they try, the better the Foundation's efforts become. Fools." Besides which, Cloelius had plenty of work to take care of last night as Dean of Disciplinary Affairs, much of it generated by unrelated Beta House activities.
The Dean began to speak. That was his cue. Cloelius straightened the folds in his finest toga, and stepped into the Chamber of the Academy.
"-and to enlighten us further on the matter, allow me to introduce Rhetor Caius Scipio Cloelius, Chair of the Alexylva University Pseudohistory Department."
Polite clapping rose up from the assemblage of couches in the chamber. Cloelius recognized many of his colleagues, but many others also were in attendance; University patrons, local dignitaries, and even someone who appeared to be a member of the Senate. Pleased with the turnout, Cloelius assumed his formal speaking stance, and began his lecture.
"In honor of the divine Minerva and all of the gods, allow me to offer to you, my fellow citizens, the wisdom I have gathered in the work of years. Many of you are familiar with the emerging field of Pseudohistory, that most delicate and speculative of studies. Today, I present my findings of Dimension XII-GREEN CLXXIII, the most-"
Several audience members stifled chuckles. Cloelius, confused, continued his lecture.
"-the most enlightening and purest of case studies we have yet encountered in the field."
The room burst into laughter, as though Cloelius had opened with a particularly witty joke. He was baffled by the reaction, but dared not betray any hint that he didn't understand the situation. He pressed on.
"Unlike our own reality, or indeed the vast majority of the thirteen documented sub-realities, Dimension XII-GREEN CLXXIII is a world of harmonius coexistence, free of the internecine and violent conflicts that are the typical drivers of history."
Guffaws continued to ring out in the chamber in response to his speaking, but Cloelius noted some looks of confusion beginning to appear in the audience. He resolved once more to carry on.
"To-Tonight, I shall provide an overview of the society of CLXXIII as it stands today, its history, and the social constructs that I have found most applicable to our current understanding of human society and behavior."
The room quieted down. This was good. Cloelius felt his confidence returning again.
"To begin, the most relevant development in the common history of CLXXIII is the ascendancy, four thousand years into the beginning of its civilization, of a unifying empire tracing its origins in the southern polar region of the planet. This unity, imposed by the Antarctic Empire, helped lay the groundwork for a lasting peace, allowing for unparalleled advances in the arts, the sciences, and-"
The confused stares were back. No one was laughing now. Cloelius looked around the room, the words dead in his throat. He looked to the Dean, who was turning the same shade of crimson he did on that regrettable day in his office several months ago.
"What is the meaning of this, Rhetor Cloelius?"
Cloelius began to stutter. "I'm…I'm giving a lecture, sir."
The Dean's expression darkened further. "Giving a lecture. I see. That is, indeed, what you are supposed to be doing."
"Sir? I'm not quite sure I-"
"As our Chair, you are familiar with Dimension XII-GREEN CLXXIII, yes?" interrupted the Dean.
"Well, yes, I-"
"And you are aware that CLXXIII has, in its history, profound signs of influence by our reality?"
"I, uh..what? No, that's-"
"And, doubtless, you are aware that there are people, in CLXXIII, that speak actual, undifferentiated Latin?"
Cloelius was beginning to feel the blood drain from his face.
"Furthermore. FURTHERMORE. You are, of course, aware that an ENTIRE EMPIRE, BASED ON OUR SPECIFIC CULTURE, is one of the most defining features of CLXXIII? Because THESE PEOPLE HERE are certainly aware of it, Rhetor!"
The audience sat, mostly stunned, though a few of the other Rhetors from Cloelius' department were trying their best to suppress what appeared to be another round of laughter.
The Dean jabbed a finger in Cloelius' face. "You were SUPPOSED to observe the protocols, Cloelius! To find out that the most compromised of the realities was a result of YOUR BLUNDERING is more than I can stand." The Dean turned to face the audience. "Citizens, I apologize most humbly for this…performance. Please, stay for the post-symposium feast, and I shall discuss future arrangements."
The audience began filing out of the room, buzzing with scandalized chatter as they headed for the cafeteria. The Dean wheeled to face Cloelius once more.
"My office. First thing tomorrow morning. Cloelius."
"But, sir-"
"First. Thing."
The dean stormed off in the direction of the rest of the audience. Cloelius, completely dumbstruck, noticed for the first time that he was still in his speaking posture. What had happened? He had been so thorough, so-
No.
It couldn't have been. There was no way anyone could access the portal, not without-
The intern. He hadn't checked. He crumpled his lecture notes in his hand, shaking with fury.
"Beta House," he muttered.
He threw down his notes, clenching his fists together.
"BETA HOOOOOUUUUSSSSSE!" he screamed, raging at the empty chamber.