I'm just a mortician. Or really, a mortician's assistant. I'm not paid to ask questions about the dead bodies, just pick them up and move them back to the morgue. It's not my place, right? But humans make observations, that's just something you can't help, and I was beginning to pick up a pattern.
This lady was old. Real old. And she lived in this big old house. I wish I could say it was up on a hill just to really cinch the look, but everything around here is flat and open. It was just old. She died alone and there were no hints of foul play, so there was no real suspicion. Sometimes, when you're an old fogy living alone, you just die! Nothing much to it. It's not even particularly sad.
So I went in. Not alone, uh, Christine was there with me. Fellow undertaker, and we got to undertaking. Just a big old house, smelled like mildew, dark fine wood, you get the jist. This body, so, when we found her, she was just lying there, you know, in her bed, old and dead, and that's just the thing about it. People usually die with this expression on their face. Well, lack thereof, you know? It's usually just. Neutral. So that was what was so weird about it. I mean it's creepy in its own right, but people just don't die smiling that often, and here was this old lady, lying in bed, and damn it, she just had this smile like someone had told her she'd won the lottery that morning, but instead, y'know, she was dead. Not a lot of reason to be happy. Maybe she'd seen her husband in her final moments, awaiting her at the pearly gates or…
Well, when Christine and I were loading her up onto the gurney, I just couldn't get it out of my head, you know, that that was, what, the fourth person to die smiling that month?
So I asked Christine, I asked: “Christy, am I going crazy or is this the fourth person to die with a big-ass grin on their face this month?”
And she just rolled her eyes, and said: “Oh I don't know. But if it was, wouldn't that be wonderful?”
And we just left it off like that. Brought her out into the car, loaded her up, drove her back to the morgue. Just another day done in Grandview.
So why am I singling this woman out for this story? Well, because as a mortician, part of your job is to dress people up for their funerals, right? You might see where this is going.
It was a late night, not because I'm one for dramatics but just because it was, and I was in the morgue and it was maybe a day or two before this poor woman's funeral. Seems like she had a couple living relatives, and they weren't doing too bad for themselves so they'd paid to really have her done up you know. Usually Christine did it, makeup and all, but I was trained and she'd taken the day off so it was my job.
I pulled her out of her compartment in the wall, urged her onto a gurney, and got her onto the table. Horrible thing is, she was still smiling. Just beaming those little yellow teeth out into the world, like her smile was the greatest thing there was to have, and you know, I just wondered, well, are they really expecting her to be smiling at the open casket? At the funeral? I wasn't sure that was so appropriate, so I tried to start devising ways to get it to go away.
I started poking and prodding, and that's uh, that's when I made the discovery. You know, opened the mouth, looked in and bam.
I shut that thing right up, and I uh, I guess I didn't do too good at my job, because I put her right back into her locker and closed up early. I figured we'd just dress her up tomorrow morning, when Christine was around.
So we did. That next morning, Christine pushed the door open to the break room, looked me dead in the eyes and said: “Why didn't you dress up that old lady like I asked?”
And I had to tell her: “Well, come here, I'll show you.”
And we pried open that mouth of hers, and I could barely look in, but Christine just laughed and slapped me on the shoulder and said: “Oh, silly! Some people are just like that.”
And while I don't doubt her, no I don't doubt her at all, she'd never lie to me, but, it's just, I'd never seen someone to have two rows of teeth. It was something I could have brushed off on a good day, but. Well I asked Christine, I asked:
“You sure just anyone can have that? What about her smile? She's been smiling since we got her, it can't just be a coincidence can it?”
“Why,” she replied, “of course it can!”
And we just left it off like that. Now, I don't want you to start thinking things of me, alright? It's my job, I can look at the bodies however much I damn well please. And there were others. Others that we'd picked up, looked like they'd died in their homes, but they had these big ol' smiles on their faces and I just had to know, alright? I had to.
So I picked one. Some guy named Richard. Slid him right out of the wall, pulled that tarp off of him, and he was still smiling, proud as ever to be deader than carpet, and I put my gloved fingers right between his teeth and I just pried and pried against his stiff, rigor mortis mouth and when I got it open it was… well, it was as I suspected.
There they were, two rows of teeth. No, no. Worse. I started prying harder, trying to get a better look, and right as I thought I saw a third row, I swear to you, now don't think me crazy, he bit me.
Bit me! My fingers, caught in his mouth, I started yanking and pulling and I got my fingers out but he'd torn my glove and I still have a nasty bruise from the whole thing. And then I startled like the devil had looked right at me, ‘cause at first that's what I thought I was seeing, his eyes all open and looking right at me, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest!
But it only took a moment, breathing and collecting myself, for me to realize his eyelids must've just fluttered open in the struggle, and I… passed my hand over them, closed them so he didn't have to keep looking at the mortal plane anymore, sent him right on back to his maker.
So I guess that's when I knew something was wrong. Not just felt it, knew, for certain. And of course, because things always seem to work out this way, that's when things started getting worse.
Still in the morgue, I pulled out my phone and decided to dial Christine. It wasn't that late, maybe eight o'clock, so I figured she was probably still awake, reading in bed or something like that, but I just couldn't shake a feeling.
I had the phone up to my ear, and every time I heard that dial tone, it felt like it was… masking something. Every time, that ring, ring, ring, and it felt like something was happening under it, something… closer.
So I lowered my phone, and just listened.
It was quiet. And cold. The morgue has to be cold to keep the bodies from decomposing, and it has to be silent because the dead don't make a lot of noise, so you could pretty easily tell when there was someone in the morgue with you.
So there I was, listening… and I didn't hear nothing. Quiet. Just like I expected it.
So I brought the phone back up to my ear and found that it was Christine's voice telling me I'd made it to her voicemail and that I should leave a message. So it beeped, and I started talking:
“Christine, I just pulled out Richard, the poor fella who died two weeks ago, the first one we found smiling, right? Well, I opened his mouth just to check, and I swear to you, I swear to you he has more than one row of teeth. Two at least. Maybe three, but when I tried to…”
But then I felt the need to have two ears alert again. I just couldn't get it out of my head that I might be hearing something. Maybe an animal had found its way inside and was rummaging around? But something in my soul told me that wasn't quite right. No, it was something a little worse than that. I didn't know what. But I knew I didn't want to be around to find out.
“Do you hear that, Christine?” I whispered into the phone. “You know what, just talk to me tomorrow. I'm gonna head home.”
I hung up, and I listened again. Now, what really made me realize… that it was a real noise I was hearing, it must have been the echo. The morgue is all metal, and the quality of sound just bounces around the room, so when I heard it, echoing around, I knew it couldn't have just been in my head, something was here.
Well it didn't take me two seconds to figure out where I was going. I pocketed my phone, dashed out the door, and went home. Wasn't a power on earth that could keep me in the morgue longer than that. Only one or two powers in heaven, too.
The next morning was when things really started getting awful.
I woke up to my alarm clock, got out of bed, and felt like the last thing I wanted to do in the world was go into work. But, what I do is important, and I knew that, so I stretched, went into my bathroom, and started brushing my teeth.
Oh Lord in heaven, brushing my teeth.
Something felt weird while I was brushing, but it was when I flossed that my finger brushed up against something. Something lodged into my gums, right behind my two top front teeth. There's no words in English to describe just… the panic you feel, when you start connecting dots like that. So I was digging with my fingernails, trying to really get a grip on this thing in my mouth, and I started getting it loose. It hurt, damn did it hurt, but there was not a possibility of inaction. I had to get it out.
And out I got it.
Out and into the sink. Unmistakably: a tooth.
Well maybe you see my pattern by now, but the very first thing I did, before even thinking of tending to my bleeding mouth, I pulled out my phone, and I was gonna call Christine, but it looked like I had a voicemail. From her.
“Jim,” came her voice, “a body's gone missing. Get here quick.”
When I arrived, there were already police there, and Christine was waiting for me at the door to the morgue. “What's going on?” I asked.
“Didn't you get my message? A body's missing,” she said.
“No, I know that. I mean, what body?”
“Oh, some guy, uh,” she fished for the name, “Richard.”
I felt my heart sink in my chest. “Richard?” I asked, for clarification's sake.
“Yup. Richard Moorehead, if I remember correctly,” she said. “I'm sure it's nothing.”
“Sure it's nothing? What do you…?” I trailed off before I could say something revealing. “Um, did you get my message?”
“What message?” She flashed me a big, pearly white smile, and for some reason that didn't make me feel a lick better.
“Nothing,” I said, and we just left it off like that. That's when a police officer came up to me, and asked:
“Are you Jim Yacoobi?”
“I'm him,” I said.
“We have some questions for you,” and they pulled me aside and there were two of them, one just asking questions, another with a notepad.
“Christine told us that you were the last one here yesterday,” the officer said, “did anything unusual happen as you were closing up last night?”
I clammed up. “Uh, well, yes, sir, I thought I might have heard a noise.”
“What kind?” He asked.
“Well, I'm not sure, really, I thought it might have been a large animal, but I… I left shortly after.”
“Interesting. And what did you do when you closed up?”
There was something so subtly off about the officer, I couldn't quite place it, but… I'd never been one to be very wary of men of law, but these ones, I just felt like… like something was off, you know? And that's when I noticed that the one looking down, so intently looking down at his notepad, was smiling, so wide, this smile like someone had told him he'd just won the lottery that morning.
“I locked up,” I lied, “it's a quiet business and there's not much to do. I cleaned up, and locked up. That's all there was to it.”
“Alright, alright. That should be all,” he said.
“Really?” I wasn't expecting to be done with an interview so quick.
He responded: “Why not?”
“Well why's he smiling?” I asked, a hint of panic making it into my voice. “What in the world has he got to smile about?”
The other officer looked up from his notepad, that grin plastered to his face, and he said: “Me? Why. I'm just happy to be here!”
The first policeman chuckled and shrugged. “Is that so strange?” He said.
Is that so strange? I had to get out of there. “Thank you, I'll be taking my leave,” I said.
“Take care!” Came the reply, that smile so wide, that grin so… salivating. And when he spoke, I swear, I think I saw, I could have sworn…
No, I didn't need to know. I had to take a vacation. I walked right back to my car, and Christine saw me along the way: “Where you going, Jim?” She called after me, teeth clenched like a bear ready to maul me.
“Home,” I lied again, “I'm going to take the day off.”
I figured I had enough on me. I just needed to get out of town. You know how cats can tell when an earthquake's ‘bout to happen? I think that was the feeling. I knew something weird was going on, and I just wanted to be out of there. Away from all of it. My mouth still bleeding, my fingers still bruised. I just felt like if I stayed, something far worse was going to happen.
I ended up right, in that regard.
I wound up in a motel that night. Somewhere far away, I don't even remember the town really. I just kept driving until I was sure nothing could catch me, even if I didn't know what would catch me if it did.
The room was small. It was dim, there was a TV, and it was brown top to bottom. Just a dingy motel room like you'd expect. I put my things down, and I felt like I could finally breathe, but all I wanted to do was sleep. So, I flicked the TV on just to have in the background, and walked into the bathroom to wash up.
I pulled out my toothbrush, and brushed my teeth.
Oh, Lord…
I really don't know what I expected, but I felt something was wrong again. I guess that in the turmoil of the day, I'd forgotten all about that morning. I immediately put my toothbrush down and dug my fingers into my mouth, trying to figure out what the issue was, and it was so clear, so stupidly clear, it was like there were little beetles all along my jawline, poking out of my gums. But, not just my gums, I… I could reach a hand back, and there were more… bumps, more little beginnings of things, all the way back, so far back that to try and feel them all I accidentally gagged myself, coughed a little bit.
And when I did, out into the sink. Four little teeth. Four little pearly whites, and a healthy helping of blood to go with them.
I was just about to scream, just about to call out for help, when I heard something. Something on the TV.
The name of my town. Grandview.
I heard another few words, too. “Unknown causes,” for one, and that was enough to make my skin prickle.
I walked back into the bedroom. Slowly, because I wasn't even sure I wanted to be there. Wasn't sure I wanted to see whatever it was. I think it might have been better if I didn't, to be honest with you. I might have had a better time sitting in the bathroom and digging teeth out of my skull.
It only took one image. An image of a face, a horrible, disfigured face, like none I'd ever seen, with teeth growing out of the lips, and the chin, and the cheeks, almost like hair, some molars and some canines, piercing her skin like spears and clubs, even working their way up to her eyes, so that one, grown on the bottom of her eyesocket, come up and pressed the window into her soul so hard against the top of it that it had popped, that white fluid leaking down her cheek like she was crying — heaven forsaken and crying so that anyone might —
No, no, that's why I couldn't stand it, I turned it off. But right before I could find the remote, it went back to the reporter, and you can be damn well certain she was smiling like a breastfed baby, like the world was her oyster, like everything was going to be fine and more.
But then I turned it off. I turned it off and I collapsed. And while tears were streaming down my face, I couldn't help but notice, I couldn't help but catch on the detail…
It was Christine. That face was Christine.
So I prayed. I got to my knees, and I did the only thing I could think of, I pulled my cross necklace out from under my shirt and I prayed. I tried to get God to hear me, to set things straight, to give me and everyone I loved protection. To send her soul to heaven. Hell, sometimes I didn't even know what I prayed for, I just did it, because if I didn't I knew that I'd be further from His light than I'd ever strayed before, down into the deepest darkness of my mind.
I hope he understood me, ‘cause I wasn't speaking so straight.
My jaw hurt, and try as I might, I just couldn't help but smile.


<<<ACT 1 ⏮ <<<ACT 2 ⏪

Act 3
Trash, Cash, and Two Smoking Tailpipes

Guys, I've got it! Listen to this: "The Stench Connection"!
I don't get it.
The French Connection was a movie about smuggling drugs.
But not just any drugs. Heroin! And what do they call heroin on the streets?
Horse?
Brown?
Smack.
Junk! And what is it we're hustling around in our cargo?
Garbage?
Trash.
Effluvium!
Come on, you guys. This is really clever.
Hey! Where is DUSTER?
Dunno. We thought he was back here already.
No. Hey FINCH! Where is DUSTER right now?
Not showing up on the map. He just lost signal all of a sudden.
Something isn't right. I've got a bad feeling about this.
We're almost done here, BEARD. Come on and press this last load of loot.

"Well keep looking," Rodney rifled through the center console of the truck while Polk combed the glove compartment. "We need another clue to go on here."
"What are you two looking for?" Slate asked while he stood smoking a cigarette.
"Gotta find the LoJack."
"The what-now?" McCormick paced on the sidewalk while the Skippers searched inside the streetsweeper.
"A transponder; like a GPS unit," explained Rodney. "Tons of companies these days with fleet vehicles install tracking systems on them. If we're lucky, this truck had one on board, and if we can get at the data it could tell us something."
As it turned out, the Skippers were lucky: the truck did have a vehicle tracking system installed, and they were able to get at the data. Polk's phone converted the information into a functional user interface, and he pulled up a map of the city with a "Trip History" projected. The 10th street district they were in right now, as well as a couple other neighbourhoods nearby, had been visited multiple times in the past few days. But all these trips started and ended at the same address.
"What is that place?" Slate leaned in to see what was being discovered.
"In the industrial district," said Polk. "Machine shops, warehouses, a couple auto repair places…"
"This spot used to be a recycling depot," Rodney recalled bringing his old TV there when he'd upgraded to a flatscreen. "A while ago now."
"Are they trying to be poetic or something?" McCormick scoffed. "That has 'Hey! Come catch us!' written all over it."
"Sure, it's so obvious you'd almost wonder why nobody's gone and done it already."
Polk's sarcastic quip almost set McCormick off, but Slate responded first. "Well then now's the time."
Rodney checked his watch. "Damn it, where's our backup?"
"No time for yours," Slate pointed everybody toward McCormick's and his car. "We've got a SWAT team on standby that can meet us there."
Moments later, everyone was in the Feds' black Crown Vic speeding to the scene. "This is FALCON, calling in a Code Red at the following address," McCormick said urgently into his phone. "Get local backup on-scene ASAP! We are heading there now - I repeat, we are on the way right now."

Ah crap. Listen up everybody, the heat is closing in faster than expected!
I knew that something wasn't right!
Calm down. There is a backup plan for this.
There's a plan that we don't know about?
When we've been practicing every possible plan, over and over?
Just do as I say and leave the rest to me. I can talk our way out of this, but only if you all lay low and let me handle things.
I can not get arrested! Seriously uncool.
Everyone, park yourselves over here. Go on, and shut everything right down. I'll throw the tarps up.
Hold it! Is this really our best bet? I can't abide staking the farm on a long shot.
I was hoping you'd say that TWO-PAIRS. No, since you have all the loot on board, you'll need to make a break for it now.
Hold on, how is that plan any better?
Brother, don't worry about me. I can bluff or barge my way through whatever they've got waiting.
But not with all of us moving together…
Hurry it up, BEARD. I need you here with the others.
FINCH, will you shut up for one minute?
Alright, this is what's best then. We'll wish you luck.
You know I've got all the luck I need.
See you on the other side, brother.

Slate stopped the car at the mouth of an alleyway formed by a fenced-in lot and a factory adjacent. "Alright, here's the loading yard. Follow this fence and the gate should be around the corner down there."
"What are you telling us for?" said Polk.
"Because yous two are going to slip around and cover the loading docks at the back," McCormick explained. "Our boys are waiting for us at the public entrance, but they only got enough men to breach the front doors. So you're gonna have to be the pincer."
"Sounds like the reports of a SWAT team on standby were greatly exaggerated," Polk quipped.
"Test me once more," roared McCormick. "Once more, and see what happens!"
"Alright, look," Slate said, defusing the tension. "We need five minutes to regroup with the cops around front and prepare to storm in. So wait no less than five before making any move from the back, got it?"
Agents Rodney and Polk slid out of the car and slinked their way along the shadows beside the fence. Polk was glad to finally have a minute away from the Feds.
"Okay, Rod. What the hell are we doing?"
Rodney looked at his partner. "What do you mean?"
"I mean are we completely off the rails, running around with these two idiots instead of getting our own guys out here?"
"I talked to HQ back at the cafe, remember?"
"Right. So how'd that conversation go?"
"I told them the anomalous activity was confirmed and that we'd need to dig deeper on it. I told them we were dealing with autonomous vehicles, and that our car got wrecked."
"So what about reinforcements?" Polk asked.
"Funnily enough, I did ask them about dumping a thousand soldiers into the city on 20 minutes notice, and sending a tank or two to smash up the magic trucks for us."
"Let me guess, their counter-offer was Dr. Wile E. Coyote and his big magnet by Acme?"
"Close," Rodney chuckled. "They're starting with a city-wide perimeter, checkpoints on all avenues in and out. Keeping these vehicles from getting onto the interstate and out to who knows where is the first step, until more MTFs can be deployed."
"So where does that leave us?"
"I hate to admit it," Rodney shrugged. "But it leaves us counting on Uncle Sam's firepower here, for now."
By this point the Agents had found their way into the dusty lot and were hunched behind a pile of debris. "What's our timing like?"
"Still too soon," Rodney replied. They spent a moment surveying the entire face of the building - noting the placement of every door, anticipating the interior layout behind, scanning windows for movement. "Hmm… seems quiet."
"Yeah," Polk agreed. "A little too quiet."
Rodney glared at Polk. "You know what happens every time you say that."
Polk rolled his eyes, "I don't think anything happens every time I say that."
The metal bay door of the recycling centre was suddenly ripped from its frame and sent flying by a dump truck ramming through from within the building.
"Oh come on!" Polk whined, before Rodney tackled him down out of the path of flying bricks and rubble.
"You bastards," came a shout from somewhere within the truck. "Come and get me, if you're feeling lucky!"
As the Agents found their feet and ran for cover, Rodney fired a handful of rounds in the direction of the truck.
"You are shooting a .45 caliber handgun," Polk shouted over the noise, "at a ten ton truck. Will you get real!"
The dump truck, instead of pursuing the Skippers path, veered toward the gate. It easily barreled through the chainlink fencing and drove away down the road.
"Well," Rodney sighed as he tried to catch his breath. "That didn't go well."
Slate and McCormick appeared in the new gaping hole in the wall. McCormick was shouting a bunch, but the Skippers made it clear there was nothing that could have been done.
"Never mind then, come on over here." Slate waved them over. As they approached, he turned to McCormick and said "Hey, if those boys have swept all the rooms and got the prisoner secured then go ahead and send 'em home. I ain't swallowing all their overtime for just standing around." He added with a wink to the Skippers, "And they probably oughtn't be witnesses to what comes next, huh?"
As McCormick went back inside, Polk addressed Slate. "You said 'prisoner'? Singular?"
"Get a load of this," laughed Slate. "These gangsters must've cleared out just before we got here, but left one patsy behind to take the fall."
"There was just one guy in there?"
"No resistance, easy takedown. We got him inside now, ready for a little informal interrogation."
Polk and Rodney exchanged furtive glances, but finally Rodney said "Okay then, lead the way."

The Skippers followed Slate through the loading bay and into a secondary warehouse area. There they found a younger looking man handcuffed to a chair, with McCormick pacing the floor behind him.
"Come on, fellas," said the captive. "This is a pretty extreme response for someone simply trespassing in an abandoned building."
McCormick yanked down a large tarp, revealing an inert garbage truck beneath. Pulling away another revealed the forklift they had seen earlier on; a third one, the cargo truck as well.
"Well, well," Slate reached into the compactor of the garbage truck. "What do we have here?" He hauled up a small gold bar for everyone to see.
"Okay, fine. I'm using this space as my workshop. I'm an artist."
"An anartist," accused Polk.
"Hey, you can't let a little thing like reality get in the way of your creative vision, man."
"Well then," Rodney stepped closer. "Why don't you tell us about this particular vision, man?"
"Yeah? Right, so it's called 'One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Treasure'! I'm taking the old cliche phrase and using it to make a fresh statement. Not just about the environment, but the nature of humans' attachment to possessions, and the perception of value in-"
"How about the nature of having a ton of free gold in your pocket?" Polk cut him off. "Was that a part of your vision, Mr. … what is your name, anyway?"
"Charlie," the young man replied. "Charlie Finbar. But the truck's conversion rate is too low for me to make much use of it that way."
"Maybe not on your own," McCormick loomed behind Charlie. "But you had some helping hands out there, didn't you?"
"Those are just prototypes. Like practice pieces."
"Don't play dumb with us!" McCormick leaned down. "Those trucks were out removing trash from the streets tonight, weren't they?"
"Fine. I needed something to test my work; there's nothing wrong with that."
"On the contrary," Slate chided. "Racketeering is a rather serious offense. Organized crime, undermining labor union negotiations - someone could do a lot of hard time for charges like that."
"Oh, no way!" Charlie jerked in his chair to look straight at Slate. "That's not on me, I'm no gangster. I just needed them so I could get my hands on the materials."
"That's more like it," McCormick softened up now. "Tell us about this 'them' then."
"Well," Charlie hesitated. "I can't just buy a garbage truck on my own. A friend of a friend put me in touch with someone who could arrange what I needed. But a deal had to be made, so I had to help them to use the piece like this - to make the payment! I didn't even know there could be those kinda implications."
"But if all these crooks wanted was a bunch of gold," Rodney reasoned, "Why not just go to a landfill and have a literal mountain of the stuff?"
"You don't get it, man," Charlie rolled his eyes at the Foundation agent. "I'm not some kinda reality-bending alchemy-wizard dude, I'm an artist. There has to be intent and expression and all that creativity stuff in the mix before I can do what I do."
"Skip the theatrical bullcrap and get to the point."
"Waste disposal is more complicated than you might realize. It all starts when someone throws something away - could be anything - but once that consumer discards that product, it can be considered 'waste'. And there's lots of ways that all that waste gets handled. Some of it might be salvageable for reuse, some of it might be recyclable, some of it might just end up in a landfill; but it's all manners and means of 'waste disposal'."
Apparently the kid had done his homework. Or at the least, his creative interpretation of the matter sounded informed.
"Now, at what point is that waste 'disposed of'? Maybe once that consumer has left it out on their curb or tossed it into a dumpster, to them it's gone. But that waste still has a ways to go - collection, sorting, processing, all that business. Anyway, by the time it's under the dirt in a dump is way too late for me to work with. Like, New Yorkers call Flushing Meadows a park now; you get it?"
"Whatever you say, kid" McCormick scoffed. "But I asked you to tell us more, and I didn't hear no names. So maybe running you in downtown is what we're gonna have to do."
"Ahem!" Agent Rodney got Slate's attention. "May I have a word with you over here?"
Slate convened with the Skippers at some remove from their prisoner. "What is it now?" he hissed.
"This 'arrest' talk from your partner here is what it is," said Rodney. "We don't actually know the extent of this person's anomalous abilities; they need to come through a Foundation facility for assessment."
"Oh, give me a break," Slate scoffed. "So he can make a truck drive on its own, you said yourself you've seen that before."
"Yeah," replied Polk. "Still anomalous, still our concern. And if it comes down to it-"
"Well, now now," Slate became suddenly conciliatory. "If we all have to call up our bosses and get them involved, that's just gonna make for some more unhappy campers. We've been getting along well so far." Slate glanced back at his partner for a second before continuing. "Look, we really need a new lead in this case; we're desperate here. If you give us just 24 hours with this kid in our custody, we can make him flip on these gangsters. And then you guys can do your little tests and all that."
"One day," Rodney clarified, "and then you turn him back over to the Foundation?"
"Absolutely," said Slate. "And we only need the info he has, so we'll let you guys leave here now with all the other anomalous stuff. Those trucks there, the trashcan, any gold loot still laying around - you can all take away now."
After some consideration, Rodney finally agreed to the deal. Slate and McCormick led Charlie Finbar in handcuffs out to their car, and drove off.

Wait a second… Did you ever mention the trashcan videos to those guys?
Huh? Yeah, I think so. We talked the whole case over at the cafe, right?
We talked about the trucks at the cafe. We saw the truck driving on its own, and we shot the forklift, and that's what we went to the cafe with those Feds to discuss.
Right, we went and we talked to them about the anomalous vehicles. We talked about the union strike, and we talked about the trucks hauling the trash.
But we never said to them what tipped us off to the scheme in the first place. We never told them about the online videos, or the trashcan that looks like a girl, or any of that stuff!
Well, so what if we didn't?
The last thing Slate said to me was that we can take all the anomalous objects and evidence - the trucks, and the loot left behind, and the trashcan. How did he know that trashcan was part of the package we'd want?
… He wouldn't. Unless they knew more than they were telling us.
Or they were outright lying to us.
But they did help us contain the anomaly in the end.
They weren't helpful, they wanted to get rid of us from the start. They tried to tell us it was nothing anomalous; they tried to tell us to just drop it. They didn't really get motivated until after we'd already nabbed that streetsweeper and picked up this address.
Yeah, that's when they get all hot to call it in and rush over. Then at the sting here, they put us alone at the back door - knowing we can't stop any truck on our own. So, you think they wanted to make themselves look good by making us look bad?
No, I don't think that's it… Why would they say we weren't needed; that it's mundane crime? Why would two UIU Agents be on a case without anomalies involved?
They knew we were Foundation, so not bulling us for The Veil's sake… What are you saying?
They were in on it, all of them! The punk's job was to run the trucks and pack the loot, and those two fake Feds' job was to pull the wool over our eyes and keep us running in circles until they could get away!
Holy shit!
They played us like a damn fiddle! Call HQ on your mobile phone right now; screw infosec protocols! We need to let them know what's happened, ASAP.

Days later, back inside the offices of a mid-tier Foundation Site, Polk and Rodney settled in at their workstations. This would be their probationary assignment for the next six months, relegated from field work until then.
"Well, we're back on desk in the bullpen," Rodney was trying to cheer Polk up. "You must be happy about that, right?"
Polk said nothing.
"I got my appointment at Site-17 done too," Rodney said. "So there's no way now that some hucksters could pull one over on us with any memetic influences."
Polk kept his eyes on his work.
"And we did successfully bring in all those anomalous objects," Rodney offered. "So we aren't even really in that much trouble after this probation is done."
Polk's keyboard became pointedly louder with each keystroke.
"Fine then, go ahead and pout."
Tracy, a Level 1 administrative assistant in the same office space as Polk and Rodney were now stationed, had taken it upon herself to make the Agents feel welcome. As was her habit, she dropped by to chat on her way to the break room. "Say, did either of you see that one weird story in the paper today? There were three murders out at the old quarry site."
"Oh, no kidding?" Rodney replied absently. This mention of the quarry was the first time he'd considered it, but that place did once have both a cityside address and access via dirt road out to the old two-lane highway. Had HQ thought of that when they established those checkpoints?
"Maybe some kinda gangland executions, they say," Tracy went on. "Pretty gruesome stuff; apparently the victims looked like they'd been run over by a dump truck!"
"How cruel," Polk deadpanned. Rodney was glad he at least seemed to perk up a little.
"And here's something really weird," Tracy announced. "Underneath one of the bodies, they found a gold brick pressed into the dirt! What do you suppose that means, huh?"
Polk and Rodney stared at each other.

Somewhere on a lonely highway, a dump truck might have been cruising along with a load full of gold bars in the back, and Kenny Rogers' 'The Gambler' playing on the radio.

***

THE END
rating: +14+–x


≡ HR Menu

≡ HR Menu

▷ Numbers Lie
▷ Re: Potential Anomalous Activity
▷ The Transfer
▶ Journeys: The Tale of Dane
▷ Just Enough

"Good evening. My name is Dane Aisling as I'll be serving as your arbitration officer today."
"Doctors," Dane said, shaking the hands of Doctors Tamino, Alfa and Racey. "Assistant Director Kamon." Dane shook his hand as well, and they all sat down, Kamon across the table from the doctors and Dane at the head of the table. Elanor, quietly typing on a Foundation laptop, sat at his side. "This is Elanor Jones, also from Human Resources. Let's begin. This should just be some general policy overview and I think we should be able to sort this out relatively quickly."
The doctors looked between each other and nodded.
"To make sure I understand the issue correctly," Dane said, the warm tones of his English accent visibly relaxing the researchers before him, "An unanticipated side effect of a breakdown of SCP-1979 has caused unexpected dilation of time in the offices of these three researchers, which are situated near to where experimentation was taking place. As a result, each of them experienced a period of time during one experiment at a different rate than their peers. And," Dane glanced down at the notes in his leather-bound notebook, painstakingly written with a fountain pen, "based on the calculations of Dr. Racey, they each believe they are entitled to approximately 394 hours of additional compensation as non-exempt employees. And to this, Assistant Director Kamon disagrees."
They nodded.
"So we are clear," Dane said to the doctors, "You each experienced about three hours locally. Meanwhile, outside the anomalous bubble, 397 hours passed. And you wish to be paid for that time, despite not actually having worked a period which equals those hours."
They nodded again, but there was more hesitation. The edges of Kamon's mouth twitched.
"And Assistant Director Kamon, you reject this assertion as a fundamental misunderstanding caused by, and I quote: 'silly Classical Mechanics nonsense.'"
Kamon didn't flinch. Elanor, meanwhile, suppressed a smile.
"That said, Foundation has a policy in regards to this kind of situation." Dane opened a folder in front of him; the paper inside had a photocopy of something resembling an employee handbook. "The Foundation's timeclock is managed by Human Resources, and maintains a particular standardized speed at a rate measurable in relation to baseline reality."1
Kamon was now the one to hesitate.
"The reason for this is very simple. While these three doctors may have only experienced hours, their obligations outside the Foundation have not. Bills, expenses, the milk in their refrigerators all experienced an additional 394 hours that they did not. So," Dane said, signing the bottom of the paper, "This arbitration finds that these three doctors are entitled to the requested compensation and related benefits."
The doctors all tried to hide their glee as Dane stood and shook their hands. He thanked them for their time and excused them from the room before addressing the Assistant Director, who was utterly seething.
"Pardon me, Assistant Director Kamon, I need to follow-up on one quick thing before we're done here." Dane resumed his seat. "I understand your frustration and why you initiated these proceedings. Part of your job is to handle your site's budget."
"Mhm."
"And had this case ruled in your favor it would have saved you over a thousand hours of personnel compensation. Somewhere in the ballpark of eighty thousand dollars in pay and benefits. Seems such a small amount, based on your Site's budget, am I right?"
"Director Byers," Kamon said with firm politeness, "Does not actually work in our building. He budgets us a small amount out of the main Site budget."
Dane nodded. "I know. And so a reduction of that size would leave more for you."
"For other things at the site," Kamon corrected. "Part of my job is to keep the bean-counters at the top happy. And that's what I'm doing."
Elanor spoke up for the first time, casually raising her hand to identify herself. "Hi, I'm the bean-counter at the top. And I'm not happy."
Dane nodded. "Assistant Director Kamon, we both know what those 'other things' you're talking about are. Let's call it 'discretionary'." His demeanor was pure camaraderie—two professionals just chatting.
Kamon wasn't having it. "What are you saying? Spit it out."
"Can you explain to me, Assistant Director, why exactly you changed the experiment schedule of SCP-1979? Perhaps you can also give me some clarity as to what the source of the treadmill's breakdown was."
Kamon bristled. "I do not abuse the resources of the Foundation. I don't know who you think you are, but I'm not going to stand for any accusations like that." Kamon gritted his teeth. "These are my offices, Mr. Human Resources. I know what this research costs and it costs more than money. I bet you've never gotten close to an anomaly in your whole fuckin' life."
Dane chuckled, pulling a sheet from his folder with the word Disciplinary at the top. "You would be surprised."

1733

The R. H. Commission on Unusual Cargo
Authorized by the Board of Regents of said Commission
Manifest # 3794
Curator: Hon. Dane William Aisling, Regent's Ward

Storage Instructions
Each copy of the material which may summon the Cargo is to be kept in a triple-locked archive at Lieu de rendez-vous No 56. These items currently consist of: five preserved copies of the 1640 quarto. At no time are any of these to be removed. Access to these profane documents are to be heavily monitored; absolutely no one is permitted to view these materials save for the Curator, whose duty it shall be to confirm the continued existence and security of said damning papers each fortnight.
Cargo Description
The Cargo is an unusual entity, manifesting only during the performance of a theatrical masterpiece entitled The Hanged King's Tragedy…

Manifest Remarque 3
Having arrived at the designated place some time before noon, I entered the grand theatre by way of the front door, what had been torn partially from the frame and was left both ajar and askew. Within, the furnishings were upturned in disregard, and that unmistakable smell of death greeted me from within the gloom.
A young man, with whom I was unacquainted, met me within. He offered me his hand, and with it the first mode of recognition of a member of our Institution. I returned his handshake and with it identified myself in a like manner. Said business dispatched, we proceeded to the anteroom of the theatre. From there the extent of the unholy destruction wrought upon this place was clear.

"Elijah Wullen," the young man said as they entered the darkened theatre room. "It's a pleasure to have such an esteemed expert on these matters here, Warden Aisling. We do not know how best to handle this."
Dane removed a leather pouch from his coat and began to untie the tassel. "This is the ninth time the Commission has had to handle this kind of matter," he said quietly, removing a small gilt mirror.
"This time, at least, one of us with allegiance to the Commission recognized the signs of the creature's work." Wullen sounded pleased with this fact. Too pleased, Dane thought, given how the play's performance had ended. "You're familiar, then, with this manifest?"
Dane did not immediately reply, instead focusing his attention to the mirror, which he was slowly rotating as if to see something hiding in the darkness reflected on its surface. "I am," he finally replied after a few creeping minutes of silence. "And that is why I do not understand how this performance was able to go ahead in the first place. I would imagine that an agent of the Commission would have stepped in to prevent it." He put the mirror back in the leather bag and looked up at the younger agent. "There are supposed to be two Commission Yardsmen2 with the knowledge to recognize the beast's work."
Wullen shook his head. "I have only been in this city some short time. I know I have not met anyone at this theatre who identified themselves as such. Is it possible they abandoned their post?"
Dane reached down and picked up a small quarto, discarded on the floor and crusted over with the suburn stain of blood. He turned to the title page. The Hanged King's Tragedy, it read. 1640. Dane pulled a leather book from his pocket, glanced at a page, and then replaced it in his pocket. "How many dead, Mr. Wullen?"
Wullen solemnly averted his gaze to the floor. "Fifty-six."
Dane shook his head. "No, no. How many dead before the play began, Mr. Wullen?"
The young Commission agent took a slight step back. "Sir?"
"Because," Dane continued evenly, gesturing to the splatters of blood across the stage, "If the dead are to be believed—and I firmly believe they are—then something is even further afoul about this tragedy."
Wullen did not reply, lost for words.
Dane took a deep breath. "The Commission is very displeased, Mr. Wullen. You see, the Regents were identified—too late, I am afraid—of an agreement with this opera's owner, the Duke LaRoungey, to levy improvements to this theatre, to which he purchased an amount of some insurance."
Wullen furrowed his brow, trying to follow along. His eyes widened as he realized what the Warden was implying. "The Duke LaRoungey knew this would happen!" he exclaimed. "But how did he know about the play's curse?"
"The missing Yardsmen," Dane replied. His eyes were piercing the darkness, as though he was looking for something hidden in the shadow. "I believe they betrayed their allegiance. This," he said, handing Wullen the blood-stained quarto, "is not a new manifestation of this curse."
As he took it from Dane, Wullen stammered as he tried to follow the logic. "Because this is the old printing? Not a new one, as the Manifest suggests it should be."
"Indeed." Dane walked to the edge of the stage, crouching down to examine some half-burnt debris. "Planted, knowing the terror that might spawn from the performance. a curse from which the Duke LaRongey would certainly profit—either from the fulfillment of his insurance, or compensation from the Commission to ensure secrecy. Perhaps even both."
"Devious! Evil!" Wullen was sputtering with anger. "In the name of God, how could they execute such a foul design?"
"We live in a world of men, Mr. Wullen. And men are, by nature, flawed creatures." Dane shifted some of the debris aside, uncovering a pile of wadded fabric and rope. "Mother of God."
"What is it?" Wullen started to make his way through the gloom and toward the stage.
"The play does not always summon the demon," Dane replied. "But that wasn't the point. They were prepared to make it look like the creature had manifested. They wanted to attract the Commission's attention. Or worse—"
"What—ack!" Wullen coughed and sputtered, and Dane leapt to his feet; he had not even heard the sound of the rope being lowered from the stage rafters, and before he could even move, the noose had tightened around the young agent's throat and he was rising from the stage floor, grasping at his neck. The Warden's sword found his hand, but Wullen had been raised up and out of reach, where a shrouded figure awaited in the rafters.
"With this, in tribute," the shrouded figure shouted, words echoing in the dingy gloom, "in full it is paid!"
"No!" Dane cried out, but it was too late: the figure had drawn a long dagger across the young man's stomach. Blood and gore rained down, splattering onto the stage with sickening finality.
Another voice, just behind the Warden, replied. "With this, fool's blood—"
Dane spun, his sword slicing at the source of the sound. His blade met another, and the Warden drove his hilt forward to strike at the face of his attacker. It connected, and the other man stumbled backward and off the stage into the orchestra pit. Dane swept to the stage stairs to meet the man at the bottom just as the Yardsman threw out a vicious slice from the side—but it connected only with Dane's heavy coat. Another swipe was parried, then another, but the fourth swing of the blood-stained steel was lucky, finding Dane's shoulder and digging into flesh.
Dane didn't waste another instant. Wullen's blood was on his face, streaming into his eyes and stealing his focus. The Yardsman's swings were careful and exact, deviating only in clumsy parries. This was not a soldier trained in the art of swordplay; this was an actor, trained in stage swordplay. Dane needed only one feint to the left and a right-side slash toward the man's ear to dispatch him, sending him down the orchestra pit floor with an open throat spewing a veritable fountain of blood.
"With this, fool's blood, it is the Hanged King's." Wullen's killer had lowered himself to the stage by the same rope, Wullen's lifeless corpse still attached to the end.
"I thought you wanted money," Dane spat. His shoulder was burning. "But that was just a ruse, wasn't it? To convince the Duke to put on The Hanged King. You're trying to summon the demon. On purpose."
The murderer tore the young agent from the noose, dropping him to the floor in a slump. Then he put the rust-stained rope around his own neck.
Dane took a step closer. "No…" his head was spinning. The wound was feeling hot in his skin now. The darkness was overwhelming his senses.
Wullen's killer grinned. "With this, our blood, it is the Hanged King's." A moment later, Wullen's killed was lifted back to the rafters. His feet were still thrashing when Dane plunged into the darkness.

I do not know if these servants of darkness succeeded in their goal that night. Their infernal acts, I am told, opened a door to somewhere, and I had but the misfortune to fall into it. But a door once opened may be opened again, and so…
Where I am now, I do not know. But I shall endeavour to continue performing those duties to which I have sworn a sacred obligation.

Dane folded the piece of paper and placed it in the front of his leather notebook. Across the table, the person who had identified as Scranton was watching him. Not judging—observing. Considering.
"And then," he said, finishing his tale, "I am here."
"Yes," Scranton replied. "You are here. You've gone quite literally to hell and back."
He nodded slowly. "And this…this is the Commission, now?"
"The Commission dissolved over a century ago. But its purpose lives on here at the Foundation."
Dane drummed his fingers on the book. "And where does that leave me? A man displaced in time, in a world he does not understand? What am I, then, to this Foundation?"
Scranton seemed amused, rising from the chair and walking to the door. It opened, and the director gestured to the hallway beyond. "If I am not mistaken, Dane, you are the Foundation's last Regent's Ward. And there is plenty of room for those of us who are displaced." Then Scranton walked out.

Footnotes
1. HR-29448.43(A): Employees experiencing time dilation must be reasonably compensated for either the hours they experienced locally, or the hours which passed as measured by the Foundation Universal Timeclock, whichever is greater. Note: Being drunk does not meet the standard of time dilation, Steve. Quit submitting requests.
2. Contractor for the Commission, who performed specialized tasks for them under their banner on contract.


<<<ACT 1 ⏪ ⏩ ACT 3>>>

Act 2
Gone In Stinky Seconds

First! Always first. I am… the Fastest One! (rah!) (rah!)
Yeah yeah, okay okay. Did we lose 'em though?
Of course we did! After you put their car outta commission, weren't no way they were gonna match us!
Well how about the loot; is it all good? … Oh yeah buddy! Clear eyes, full load, can't lose!
Jeez, they stuck ya once or twice, didn't they?
Naw, just the dummy. I'm right as rain.
Ya got DUSTER to thank for that then, don't you?
I never said he had bad ideas. That's not the reason he's a pain in the ball hitch.
Here comes DIVA now.
What's the haps, boys? Why'd you need me to meet up so quick here?
We ran into some interference just a minute ago. Weren't nothing we couldn't handle though.
For sure, for sure. We knew that was coming sooner or later.
I dunno, it feels like this could be a real bit of trouble for us.
(cluck cluck cluck!) Don't be a chicken, STAKE!
I'm SPIKE, he's STAKE.
Whatever. Look, if you boys have a load of goods then let's just get it back to base already.
Yeah, I've got enough here to keep BEARD busy. Let's roll out!
Why don't you be a doll and give me a ride, huh SPIKE?
He's SPIKE, I'm STAKE.
What ever! Gosh…

It was Agent Polk who defused the situation - he offered to let the Feds buy the Skippers a cup of coffee, to discuss matters over. The Feds insisted that the Skippers pay for the coffee, so the meeting took place in a corner booth at the nearest Spicy Crust Pizza cafe. In the minds of all parties it was a decided win.
UIU Agents Slate and McCormick sat across from the City Slickers and took full advantage of the free refills. Rodney joined everyone at the table after using the secure phoneline in back to touch base with HQ. Polk ordered a dish of appetizers.
"Now," Rodney began. "What are you guys doing out here in our neck of the woods?"
"More like what are you doing mucking around in our investigation?" McCormick shot back.
"There's something anomalous going on, that's our concern here."
"What are you guys investigating?" Polk interrupted.
"Organized crime," Slate explained. "Somebody's upsetting the apple cart and trying to move in on the labour racket."
Rodney followed along. "So it's got to do with the trash strike? Gangsters wanting to influence the union?"
"Yeah," Agent McCormick scoffed. "It's a lucrative opportunity. Ain't you kids ever heard of Jimmy Hoffa?"
"Well, neither of us are cops so-"
"Federal agents."
"Neither of us," Polk persevered, "need to get into the legalities of the matter."
"Neither of yous needs to get into the matter, period. Some punks think they can scab the job and sway influence on the settlement negotiations."
"It's racketeering," Slate said. "Open-and-shut case; and it's all ours."
"You needs to pack it up and go home," sneered McCormick. "Before I get an anonymous tip about a firearms discharge in the street about half an hour ago."
"Alright, alright now," Polk waved a placating hand. "Don't get your untouchables in a twist."
"Right, look here," Rodney leaned forward over the table. "We did see anomalous activity out there in the street just now. Polk and I, we've seen similar cases before."
"Ok, maybe you think you saw something out there," Slate turned his palms up. "So what? What's that to me?"
"So your gang isn't out there scabbing with just manpower," Rodney reasoned out. "They got these magic trucks-"
"Vehicular anomalies," corrected Polk.
"These trucks that are out hauling on their own. Maybe your perps don't actually have enough numbers to pull this off; maybe they're scared of being pegged by the other gang. But I'm telling you, they are not doing this the mundane way!"
The Feds did not respond to this right away. They exchanged earnest glances with each other before Slate finally conceded, "Alright then, Skipper. Tell me, what else are you telling me?"
"Well, that's about all we got so far," said Polk. "I didn't even think it made sense until you guys brought up the racket thing."
"Well then what's your next move?" McCormick pressed.
"I'd say our best bet is to get out there and make contact with another one of these anomalies. But we gotta wait here for our replacement car, I think." Polk turned to his partner, "Rod, you called in a car for us back there, right?" Agent Rodney had his gaze fixed out the window. "Rod, what are you looking at?"
"I need a second opinion," Rodney pointed out a streetsweeper cruising the curbs down the block. "Who's driving that thing; looks like the guy from that TV show, doesn't it?"
"A goddamn dummy," cried Polk.
"I know you don't think much of celebrities like-"
"I mean it's another fake driver mannequin!"
"Alright everyone," Rodney leapt from his seat. "Let's get going! Follow my lead on this."
Everybody else stood and followed Rodney toward the exit. A shout came from behind the counter, "Order up! Appy platter, Table 1!"
"Oh come on!" whined Polk as he dutifully dashed after the others out the door.

One Night Earlier…

Okay guys, how about this one: "The Effluvium Job"!
The … what?
Y'know, because it sounds like "The Italian Job".
Did you run over a dictionary or something? Where would you learn a word like that?
Hey now! I'm an intellectual.
Coming up with jokes while we're here plotting the take? Is that your idea of intellectual?
Lighten up, DUSTER. We know our role, we'll perform on the night-of.
DUSTER is scared of getting busted.
I don't want to see any of us get busted! I'm sick of feeling like the only one here who actually cares about it.
Settle down, all of you. STAKE and SPIKE will be up to the task when the time comes.
See?
And that task will be to follow the course set by DUSTER, exactly as he charts it. Nobody's going to be busted, and it's because we plot the job from the ground up.
Yeah, BEARD. Okay.
And you two have been practicing?
Absolutely, TWO-PAIRS. We can pick up a ton in seconds flat.
We could do it in the dark, with spare tires on.
We could lift a dish of milk from right under a cat's nose;
Have it back here without spilling a drop.
Bet your bottom dollar on it, as you would say.
Alright then. How about you go run another drill now.
Really?
We're putting all chips down on the table tomorrow night. I want it to be a sure thing.
I guess I've got homework that's due tomorrow too, huh?
…
How are we feeling, DUSTER?
A bit tense if I'm being honest.
Did you find something concerning while you've been casing the job?
No, the street layout works. These communities are just what our plan needs.
Concerns about the cards in our hand, maybe?
No. Well- no, I mean… Alright, you two have always known what you're doing when it comes to this; for as long as I can remember. And our crew - we're like family, all of us. But pulling off something so risky?
Bet big, win big. That's how we've always played; what's the trouble?
I just don't want to see anything bad happen. How long can we keep doing these things before the heat catches up with us?
As a matter of fact, I think this will be our final gig. One last take, and we'll be set for life. But listen… None of us are classic hotrods bound for a collector's garage. We all need this if we're going to make it after tomorrow night. And for us to make it tomorrow night, it's going to take all of us; at our very best. Can I count on you?
Always.

As the four men spilled out onto the sidewalk, Rodney hustled the group forward in a tight huddle. "Alright guys, I think this alleyway must dogleg out onto the next avenue at some point; so if the sweeper turns right at these lights then I'm going to-"
"What the hell are you even talking about?" Agent McCormick cut Rodney off.
"That's a streetsweeper, out on the job during the union strike," said Rodney. "I'll bet it's tied to the other trucks we've seen."
"That's a leap of logic," Slate doubted the connection.
"A leap of faith," said Rodney. "Sometimes that's what it takes to get this job done."
"We can't be seen to go around harassing citizens without probable cause."
"No, never," Polk muttered under his breath.
"You don't have to harass anyone," Rodney said. "Just keep your badges in your pockets and try not to get in our way. Now as I was saying, if it turns right then I'm going to-"
At just that moment, the streetsweeper's flashing signal indicated a right-hand turn. "No time to explain," Rodney determined. "Polk! Statue Of Liberty play! Red on two! Break!" The two partners put their hands together in the centre of the huddle; the play was in motion. Rodney turned away and dashed down the alley.
"And what the hell does that all mean?" McCormick asked.
"Well we're going to split up," Polk began trying to explain. "See, we're gonna go and-" he stammered. "He's gonna- and ya see, in two-" Finally he gave up and shook his head, "It means just try not to get in our way!" Polk jogged up the sidewalk to catch up with the streetsweeper. Agents Slate and McCormick had little choice but to tag along.
"Hey! Hold it right there ya big jerk!" Polk hollered and waved his arms at the streetsweeper. DUSTER wasn't sure what to make of this scene in his rearview mirror. "What are ya, blind? Where'd ya learn to drive, anyway?"
DUSTER switched gears with an audible groan; he was going to have to deal with this. "What's the fuss there, pal?"
"I'm not your pal, buddy! And the fuss is that you scraped up my damn car because you don't know how to drive."
"I know how to drive."
"I parked on the curb not half an hour ago, and when I come back the side's been all mangled up! I know it was you. South of here, just a couple blocks over."
"I didn't touch any cars! I ain't even been south of Main street all night, so I don't know what you're talking about!" DUSTER suddenly realized he may have said too much. It's none of this stranger's business where he's been. "Leave me alone, I'm just trying to do my job."
Agent Slate grabbed Polk by the jacket and whispered, "What the hell are you thinking? Where are you going with this?"
"Well, we're creating the diversion," Polk glanced at his wristwatch. "And any second now…"
Right on cue, Agent Rodney entered the action. Screaming out of the nearest alleyway, he launched himself from atop some construction scaffolding toward the roof of the passing streetsweeper.
"Leap of Faith!" Rodney cried out as he sailed over the sidewalk and impacted DUSTER's rooftop.
"And what in the blue hell is this guy thinking?" Slate screamed out. As happened often, Polk would have liked to know that himself. But time and experience had taught him how to roll with the punches.
Agent Rodney had reached down through the open driver window, and struggled to wrestle the mannequin up out of his way. Agent McCormick aggressively yanked the door open, spilling both Rodney and the dummy down onto street level. By this time, Agent Polk had managed to scramble in from the passenger side and pulled the keys from the ignition. DUSTER's engine spluttered and stalled out.
While Agents Polk and Rodney lay panting for air, McCormick towered over them. "Jesus Christ! What have yous two gots to say for yourselves?"
Polk managed, in between gasps, "Touchdown … City Slickers." Rodney raised an arm from the ground to complete an exhausted fist bump.

***

⏩ ACT 3>>>


Calibold

Responsible Promotion

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page

Cal's fingers tapped nervously on his briefcase. For the fifth time, he reached into his pocket to pull out a bit of origami paper, before remembering that he'd deliberately left it behind.
Stay professional, he thought to himself. Origami is not professional.
He sat in a little chair, adjacent to the blank white door. His mind briefly flashed back to when he was a little kid, the only time he'd ever been sent to the principal's office. He didn't remember much, but it had something to do with making another kid cry because he'd been scared of his magic trick. Thankfully, his younger self didn't know that a seven-year-old's magic tricks would be the least of his worries one day.
After a five-minute eternity, the Site Director's door opened. Director Jennifer Monroe, an eighty-year-old woman with the presence of someone even more frighteningly ancient, peered down at him, making Cal's heart skip a beat. Her aged eyes seemed to pierce right through him, boring holes through his cheap tie, further reinforcing his single memory of being in the principal's office.
Following her came a much more friendly and familiar face. Cal's brother looked no worse for wear, thankfully. A smile filled his face, although most of it was eclipsed by a dark, bushy beard. David turned to his brother and his smile managed to somehow widen more. He reached out his arms for a hug, which Cal gladly accepted.
The two of them embraced for a few moments, before they heard a light cough. They both turned towards the sound, and stiffened as they succumbed to Director Monroe's menacing glare. After a moment, her expression softened, and she held out a hand to David, who shook it.
"Again, congratulations," she said, "I am very impressed by your work here, and I think it's safe to say that we'll miss you." She cleared her throat. "Now, I still have some matters to attend to, and I'll leave the two of you. Well done to you both."
She quietly retreated back into her office. Cal punched David playfully on the arm.
"Loser," he said, "Imagine being so bad at your job that they make you director of another site just to get rid of you."
"Imagine being so awful that you get kicked off of the containment team for 212, and then somehow 4745," retorted David.
"Aww, come on, it's not that bad."
"I bet you're gonna miss staring at a plastic snowman for two hours a day, aren't you?" David poked Cal. "Huh? Bet you like staring at the snowman. Bet you like staring at his beautiful face, his nice, thick, round base."
Cal broke down in laughter as his brother kept poking him and taunting him. He stood up and wiped his eyes. Instantly, a slight frown passed over his face, and he reached out and hugged David tight.
"I'm gonna miss you."
David hugged back. "Me too."
The two of them held each other tightly. Over the past year, they'd grown incredibly close, especially compared to the years they'd gone without seeing each other. Knowing David would be gone just felt wrong.
David held Cal out at arm's length. "Hey, don't get all dramatic. We'll still talk and all, and you've got plenty of friends — and snowmen — to keep you company." David flicked Cal's badge. "Tomorrow, give me a call, I wanna hear all about your first day as Lead Researcher."
Cal grinned. "Alright, but you've got to tell me about Site-119. I'll be disappointed if they haven't bullied you at all."
The two of them walked down the hallway, bantering and teasing, until they were forced to part ways. The rest of the day, Cal couldn't take his mind off of what would come next. His new promotion was nice, but taking out David would be like poking a hole in a slice of bread and calling it a donut: fun shape and activity, but the flavor and joy just wouldn't be there.
He eventually managed to psych himself up a bit more. It wasn't like David would be out of touch or anything, he was just getting new opportunities. And he wasn't the only one! Cal spent most of the night anticipating his first day as a Lead Researcher. Doubts and worries nagged at him, but his excitement overcame them, stomping through his anxiety as he marched into the next day.

Cal struck the match, careful to keep an eye on the vital readings. His first test with 649 hadn't gone terribly, but it had taught him to be a bit more careful. He'd doubled down on the layers this time, but the cold still crawled like ants over his body, biting into him.
649 wasn't the most interesting item he'd ever worked with, but his stomach still fluttered with butterflies at being the research head. His fellow researchers stood around him taking notes and readings.
A snowball hit the back of his head, startling him. He turned around but didn't see anyone. He eyed the door carefully. This was still dangerous, of course. He had to remember that. As curious as he was, he couldn't allow himself to be lost.
A child laughed behind him, and another snowball struck his shoulder. Other researchers started getting pelted as well. Quickly, he directed everyone out of the chamber, running for the door as the assault intensified.
They retreated into the test room and took off their equipment, laughing as they did so.
"Have they always been that crazy?" asked Jean, one of the tech leads.
One of the other researchers shook his head as he pulled off his boots. "I think they're planning an invasion." Cal tried to place his name, but it barely escaped his tongue. He made a mental reminder to look him up later.
"That was fun!" he said. "We'll have to look into that though, we might need to strike back. No-good kids." A few of his colleagues chuckled, which sent relief through his body. Nothing more stressful than telling a joke to a new group of people and all of them immediately thinking he was lame. "Let's take five," he said, "Go get some lunch."
The rest of the crew all left the room, with Cal staying behind to finish putting away some paperwork. He thought he'd be the last one to leave when a hand patted his shoulder, making him scream at an octave that would make mice jealous. The voice of an older man laughed from behind him.
Cal turned and saw the hand's owner, Winston… something, the security head for 649. Cal needed to crack down on the names before someone's feelings got hurt. Winston whatshisface had a cheery grin, accentuated by slight wrinkles showing his age. His light blue eyes were deeply piercing, but in a friendly way, like he was looking into someone's happiest memories rather than investigating their darkest secrets. He removed his hand from Cal's shoulder.
"I think you need a bit of rest, pal. Get some fresh air, not that recycled arctic crap." His voice sounded like the engine of an old, familiar car: rusted down and clearly worn, but reliable and hardy all the same.
Cal smirked. "I'm fine, really. But thanks, I'll be sure not to let people sneak up behind me."
Winston laughed: a contagious, hearty guffaw that forced Cal into giggles as well. He held out his hand to Cal.
"Winston Amos," he said, "I don't think we've really spoken at all yet."
Cal shook his hand. "Calvin Bold."
Winston nodded. "Good to see some new blood 'round here. I've spent twelve years with this thing, and it's fun to see everyone meet them for the first time." He rubbed his nose and scowled. "Ah, gonna miss Ralph though, hope he's well."
Cal smiled. "I hope I don't let you all down."
"Nah, son, you're doin' great." Winston gripped Cal's shoulder again. "You're gettin' the hang of it quick. And that's good for me. If you know how to do your job, that means I don't have to do mine." He snickered. "That makes me sound lazy! But you get what I mean. As long as everyone's safe, we're doin' our jobs right."
Cal nodded. "Thanks, that's reassuring. For real."
"As long as everyone's safe, you're doing fine. Now," Winston straightened. "You said lunch, kid? I hope you let us have more than five minutes."
"Huh? Oh, no, what I meant by 'take five' was just, you know, take a break. In general. I thought that's what it means."
"Nah, I'm pretty sure it means just five minutes."
The two of them started towards the door, but right then, a massive BOOM echoed through the facility. Alarms started blaring, and a moment later, the lights went out.
Attention. A containment breach is underway. This Site is under lockdown. Please remain calm. This is not a drill.
Cal turned towards Winston. "I think it's gonna be longer than five minutes either way."
Winston locked the door. He pulled out his sidearm and peered through the window, then back at Cal. He made a "get down" motion, then slowly moved one of the desks in front of the door, barricading it.
Cal reached for a doorstop and tucked it between the floor and the door. He looked at Winston and shrugged. "Doing my part?" he suggested. Winston nodded thoughtfully.
"That's all we can do for now," Winston mused. He leaned against the wall and breathed out. "You ever been in a containment breach?" Cal shook his head. "Yeah, luckily this is one of those low-risk sites. Only ever seen one before this one here, turned out just to be an angry duck. Nasty bloke."
Cal sighed with relief. He'd been a researcher for a while now, but he still felt like the new guy in the Foundation. It was assuring that Winston knew how to handle himself here.
"Well," he said, "I think we're safe."
In that moment, Cal's lingering newbie-ness manifested in the worst way. Under no circumstances, especially not during a containment breach, should any personnel ever claim to be safe. The moment he said that, the door shattered, the table was thrown against the wall, and a massive creature burst in.
Luckily, Winston was quick on the draw. Two shots rang out, and the creature fell to the floor. Crawling forward, Cal could make out its pale skin, jet-black hair, and fangs. "Oh no."
"The hell?" Winston exclaimed. "This is a Safe-object only facility. What's this doing here?"
Cal gulped. "That's not an SCP."
"What?"
"It's created by 4745, it creates generic horror monsters and stuff when active. I was on the containment team for it. We'd been testing its long-term effects and I think it got—"
Cal's words were interrupted by the vampire's hand reaching out and gripping his throat. Panic instantly seeped into him. I'm going to die, his mind repeated over and over again.
Another gunshot pierced the air, and the grip on his neck loosened. Cal scrambled away, looking towards the sound. Winston held his gun in one hand and a broom in the other. "Get out of here!" he yelled, swinging the broom at the vampire. It ducked, but another well-placed bullet blew through its head, temporarily halting it.
"I'm gonna hold it off, I can't keep it down long. Go!"
Cal ran. A small, fantastical part of his imagination envisioned himself bravely staying behind to help Winston, but it was as fake as the vampire was deadly. In that moment, Cal didn't care about Winston. The friendship he'd made evaporated as he ran down the hall, not knowing where to go or what to do.

Cal ducked into the doorway. One of the monsters had spotted him, a stereotypical zombie, but he was able to outrun it. He quietly shut the door, and watched as the occasional monster or anomaly rushed past. His heart pounded in his chest, and he wanted to grab it and make it still just so nothing would hear it.
Tears streamed down his face as the reality sunk in. Winston was either dead or going to die, and Cal had let it happen. He'd barely spoken to the man, and yet he'd been willing to fight for him. In return, Cal had thrown him to the wolves.
"As long as everyone's safe, we're doing our jobs right." That summed up Winston's job, of course; he was an agent, member of security, and the front line for this stuff. But wasn't that Cal's job too? Protecting people? That was the whole point of all this, keeping people safe from the dangerous and anomalous. And Winston was as much of a person as anyone else.
A faraway crash jolted him back to the present. He wished he could stay in the room, but a basic lock was all that protected him, and it was only a matter of time before something tried to enter. He swallowed, then cracked open the door. Seeing that the coast was clear, he began sneaking his way down the corridor. He knew these hallways, and followed the quickest path to the exit. He almost walked into an intersection before stopping himself. Something big was approaching.
He looked around. This was the only reasonable way out. Turning back would take him on an extremely long path that would almost definitely get him killed. He looked for side doors in his hallway, trying to find a place to hide. He squinted at the door next to him, trying to make out the words on it. Finally, he was able to discern them, and he almost had to stop himself from laughing.
He wasn't thinking about where these hallways would go, aside from to the exit. But perhaps through some stroke of bizarre luck, he found himself right next to the door labeled "SCP-212". Which meant that the door across from him led straight to… SCP-4745's containment unit.
A choice presented itself. He'd been on the research team for both anomalies, and his keycard could open either door. If he entered SCP-212's chamber, the heavy-duty security doors would surely keep out any intruders. He'd likely be safe until a rescue team came. On the other hand, he could enter SCP-4745's chamber. It was almost definitely more dangerous, and doubtless some monsters were still in there… unless they'd all left. If he could just get in there…
Fear clutched him, wrapping around his brain like barbed wire. His mind came up with all sorts of situations and misfortunes that could occur. He could save everyone, but would he be safe?
The footsteps became louder. Whatever was approaching was taking its time, but eventually, it would be on him. He had to make a choice now.
Cal opened the door and immediately shut it behind him. He breathed a sigh in the darkness, safe in SCP-212's chamber. He started grasping at the walls, feeling for the light switch. He was familiar enough with the chamber that he knew roughly where everything was, even in the dark.
Or at least, he thought he did. Until he reached his hand into something mechanical and realized, a second too late, that the new containment team had moved SCP-212. Mechanical appendages reach out and pulled him in.
He tried to escape, calling out in fear, but the device closed around him all the same, as a searing pain pierced his body.

The first sense to return to Cal was smell. He breathed in deeply, taking in a slightly coppery scent, permeated by the familiar aroma of a laboratory — or a hospital. Next was his hearing, the sounds around him gradually amplifying. Beeping machinery, people talking over each other, and rolling equipment all infiltrated his ears. His senses slowly grew, and he could feel himself lying in a bed, cold air surrounding him, permeating his skin like water into a napkin. His breath felt slightly stale, with some kind of mask having been placed over his mouth and nose.
He wanted to see where he was. He tried opening his eyelids, but they felt heavy. He tried again, and again. He reached to his face, where he found some kind of cloth covering his eyes. He gulped, hoping to swallow his panic, when a familiar voice called out to him.
"There's the man!" His brother's voice was unmistakeable. A loud banging sound popped next to his ear, and David sighed loudly. "How's it going?"
"Davey… my eyes… what—?"
"Ooh, yeah. I talked to one of the doctors, they said, um, well…"
"Am I gonna be blind, Davey?" Cal's voice rose with a wave of stormy panic. "What happened to my—?"
"Hey, hey, hey!" cried David. Cal felt a hand grasp his arm. "You're not— well, I dunno. You might end up blind—"
"Might?"
"—But they said that it's weird. They're still connected to your optic nerves, they're just… Hmm…"
"Just what? Davey, just what?"
"Hold on. Hey, can we take that off?" Cal realized David was speaking to someone else. "I get— yeah, I know, but he's in a bit of a state right now, can we just— alright, thank you."
A hand brushed against Cal's temple, and he slowly felt the blindfold being unwrapped from around his eyes. A few moments later, he saw a strip of darkness peel away, and the faintest cloud of light entered his vision. He laughed. "I see some light!"
"Hey, that's a good sign!" said David, his grin practically audible. More and more light came into view, until at last the weight on his head was almost nonexistent. He clutched the blindfold, stopping David from unwrapping it further. He breathed in, then out. He grasped the fabric and lifted it from his face.
For a brief moment, Cal was excited by the blinding light. He couldn't discern any other features, but he was just relieved that he could still see. But the blindness of light slowly receded, and his elation was quickly replaced with terror. He could see, but it was too much seeing. The world around him fractured like a kaleidoscope, the room he was in collapsing and repeating into infinity, a demented tesseract of an image. He started breathing heavily, before letting out a scream. The infinite doctors turned towards him. He tried shutting his eyes but couldn't. He reached for his face, his endless fractal hands feeling something like stone embedded in his face. The doctors reached towards him, but before they could, Cal was brought back into the now-welcome darkness.
He felt something tighten around his head, and then a pair of arms wrapped around him in an embrace. He hugged back, trying to perceive David in any way other than through sight. His screams died down, being replaced by broken sobs. The two of them held each other for a few minutes.
Finally, after Cal had calmed down, David hesitantly pat his back. "So, uh, yeah. How was it?"
The awkward question lightened the air, and Cal laughed a little bit. "Terrifying." He gulped.
"Can you still see?" asked David nervously.
"Yeah. But it's…" Cal shook his head, as if trying to throw away the sight from his mind. "It'll take some getting used to, to say the least." He thought to himself. "Wait, what happened?"
"The reinforcement squad found you in SCP-212," explained David. "You saw the stuff with the eyes, and apparently there's something different about your lungs now. On the plus side, wait until you see your arm!"
"My arm…?"
"Yeah, it looks like it replaced your flesh with something transparent, so now it looks like you have a skeleton arm. Really cool."
"Huh!" Cal started chuckling at the mental image, before the memories of the containment breach suddenly came crashing down on him. SCP-212. Modification. Winston. He started hyperventilating again.
"David," he exclaimed, "Is everyone alright? Did anyone get hurt?"
"Hey," David said softly, "It's fine. The team managed to deal with 4745, only a couple of casualties."
Perhaps those words were meant to feel reassuring, but Cal immediately broke down into tears. He wanted to ask who, but he couldn't bear for his fears about Winston to be confirmed. He didn't need them to be. He knew the answer already. "This is all my fault," he said.
David hugged him and rubbed his back. "It's not your fault at all, okay? You hid, of course you did, that's what you're expected to do."
"But I—" Cal sniffed. "I—"
David clutched his face in his hands. "Hey. It's not your fault, alright? There's nothing you could have done."
Cal hugged David. He wanted to believe him so badly. He wanted to pretend like he didn't have a choice at the time, or a choice now, a choice to confess. He shook, trembling until he felt like he would fall apart if he didn't say anything. Finally, he spoke.
"Yeah. There's nothing I could have done."

+ More by Calibold +

- More by Calibold -

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page
— SCP Articles —

SCP-7178 — A Thief In The Night
SCP-7179 — E is for Eternity
SCP-6469-D — A BABY?????
SCP-2082 — Elephas cryophilus
SCP-6156 — Oh, Doug!
SCP-6579-D — The Detective Killer
SCP-6900-D — The House of Stars
SCP-5277 — What Can Go Wrong
SCP-5363-D — Controlled Containment
SCP-3482 — fine mayor posters campaign by dado
SCP-5156 — monke
Director Bold's Proposal-J — "Guys, please don't read our SCPs 🥺"
SCP-2693 — Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Deep Dark Well
SCP-5559-D — The Great Ambrose Bake-Off!
SCP-3448-J — Should Have Taken Him Sleeping
SCP-4456-D — No One Expects The Spanish Decommission!
SCP-4745 — Spooky Scary Snowman
SCP-4645 — Blackmailing Computer

— Tales —

OpusConfidant Wiki - SCP-4645 - Threatini
Diary Of An Existential Kid
Responsible Promotion
Friends Of Us Never Die
Truth Lies
A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust
Happy Father's Day
Mission: Decommission
A Bold Choice
I Am Become Death
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Eldritch (Sung to the tune of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas")
Chapter One - The End

— GoI Formats —

Manifest 476: Vanishing Galleon
The Book Of Mathisi, Chapter 1: The Parable Of The Three Princes
LTE-8686-Yellow-Kewpie
UIU File: 2001-023

— Other —

Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0 Guide
Decommissioning Department Hub
Fortune Favors
Decommissioning Dept. Theme
Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0
Mega Cool Author Page Tool Ver. 1.4.0
Calibold's Mega Cool Alternate SCP Logos Page
Calibold's Mega Cool Art Page (It's Mostly Just Icons, But Whatever, It's Still Mega Cool)

— Co-Authored —

Abraka David's Proposal — A Peak Behind the Curtain (feat. Ralliston, Placeholder McD, Guaire, Guezma, Jack Ike, Sherf, Yossipossi, Dr Balthazaar, Grigori Karpin, LORDXVNV, Lt Flops, Uncle Nicolini, Metaphysician)
SCP-7400 — Your Honor, League of Legends (feat. Sherf)
I, Hub (feat. many other authors)
Resurrection: New Faces (feat. Grigori Karpin, Nagiros, and redredred)
SCP-5545 — 𝙰 𝙱 𝙽 𝙾 𝚁 𝙼 𝙰 𝙻 𝙸 𝚃 𝚈 (feat. Yossipossi)
SCP-194 — Thank You For Your Cooperation (feat. CityToast)

— Foreign —
Director Bold's Proposal — Language
SCP-LA-II — Fruit

« A Bold Choice | Responsible Promotion | SCP-4456-D: No One Expects The Spanish Decommission! »


I'm a researcher at bio-site sixtysix. I've never been part of the most important stuff, I've never been one of the big-shots. Hell, I don't know what the most important stuff is. It's not my clearance to know. But that's a comfort, not a curse. I have gotten the faintest inklings that it's better not to know. We die in the dark so you can live in the light type stuff. Well, I like to die in the dark with at least a flashlight in hand, so to speak. So that's why it doesn't bother me when I get assigned to the small stuff. It's what I'm good at, the pay is amazing, and I get a fair bit of downtime too.
I was between things when they assigned me to skip-thirteen. I always expected the lower numbers to be more important, so when the errand boy slid the little pack of cigarettes and its associated paperwork onto my desk I got a little nervous. But when I read it over, my concerns were eased slightly.
They were straightforward little things. I played with one or two in my hands and looked them over. Apparently, all they did was make the smoker start to think of themselves as a woman. Not just any woman, but a blue woman. With blue hair, blue lipstick, blue dress, the whole shebang. A simple perception-affecting anomaly. Hell, it was basically a more specific psychedelic. Harmless. Suspiciously so. You get a healthy helping of paranoia working at the Foundation, no matter how close to the bottom you are.
My first question was what I was even supposed to do with it, so I looked over the attached memo.
And when I was finished, I laughed out loud. Of course, what else was I supposed to do with it?
The SCP-013 research team has concerns about the breadth of their test subjects, it read. So to make sure they weren't just testing it on D-class criminals, it looks like they wanted someone with a little more going on in the noggin. Of course, no one on the team smoked, so that naturally meant they were mine.
The note said to smoke them at whatever pace I liked, and return a self-evaluation to the skip-thirteen research team upon the depletion of my supply. Oh, and to take plenty of notes on the progression of its effects.
Of course. Why not? I was probably an unknowing guinea pig to any number of unidentified cognitohazards in the site already, it was about time it was made official and I got a pay bonus for it. Fine, I thought to myself, I might even enjoy it.
So I leaned back in my chair, and decided to begin the process promptly. I retrieved my trusty lighter, flicked it on, and brought the white paper to my mouth, pulling in a deep drag of the hazy blue smoke that resulted — and what a nice feeling it was. Smoking on company time, in my office. Hell, the taste wasn't half-bad either.
I looked at my fingers. I looked at my chest, my legs, my feet. I pulled out my phone, and looked in its reflection. Hmm, I thought to myself, I guess it doesn't work that fast. I turned on my phone, and began a note that read: “First pull, no effects.”
That was my Friday. After that, I packed my things, said goodbye to the few coworkers who mattered to me, and all along the drive home I fondled the new toys in my pockets.
I've never been the modest type, so I liked my property to match my income. After stepping out of my car I was in essentially the middle of nowhere. When you're a part of the Foundation, it paid to not have neighbors to worry about. Or connections in general.
I walked past my front yard's fountain and fished the keys out of my pocket. When I unlocked my door, I stepped inside, and the temperature dropped several degrees. This was it. My house.
It was roomy. Two stories, and the foyer had a chandelier. I didn't have much to fill it with. Mostly bought it because I could. I had little other than some cat towers here and there for my pets to play around on. They were the only other residents in my manor. I liked it that way. Dogs were too attached at the hip for my liking.
Missy came up to me and started weaving between my legs, but I ignored her. I had a weekend and a pack, and I was going to have to get through them.
So I walked through the dining room, past the kitchen and up a cramped staircase that led me to my room. My room was rather Spartan. A queen-sized bed took up nearly a quarter of it, and the rest was graced only with a desk, a closet, and of course the door to my bathroom. I decided to pull my chair over to my window. I opened the thing, sat down, and made it my goal to smoke until I noticed something.
Should be easy enough, I thought, and took my second long, drawn out pull. It took a few minutes of sitting and puffing to go through a whole cigarette. I was slow and methodical with it. And all throughout it, I was repeating my process. Looking first at my hands, then my chest, then my legs. Just to see if anything had changed. By the end of that first cigarette, I wasn't noticing anything. My hands were still mine, my body was still mine. I had remained unchanged. So I pulled out my phone, went to take a note, and that's when I saw it.
My reflection, on the black screen. It was different. But with the glare of the sun coming through the window, the specifications on that difference were lost to me. So I stood up, with more than a little excitement, and made my way to my bathroom to get a nice look in the mirror.
Oh, what a look it was. They weren't lying.
She was so blue. So blue it attacked the senses. Her bright blue lipstick, her hair. Her nails. Her dress. Her eyes, too. Blue from top to bottom, except for the hue of her skin, which was this pale, pale white. Her hair and dress made me think she wouldn't look out of place in the roaring ‘20s. That, and her posture. The way she favored one foot, and how she held her cigarette in such a fancy, seductive way.
But then, I realized, I was doing that.
I quickly corrected. Right. This was my reflection, even if it looked different. I held my hand out in front of me. No, in the real world, my nails weren't painted. In the reflection, however, my movements were copied exactly by the lady.
I let out a laugh.
What could I say? It was novel. I took out my phone and opened my notes, chuckling again as I saw her long azure nails whenever the screen turned black. “First full cig,” I wrote, “reflection looks like her.”
Her. I paused at the word choice. Looking back up at the mirror, and leaning over my sink, I got a good look, deep into her eyes. Who was she? Did she exist at some point? Maybe, maybe not. With skips, it was of equal likelihood that she could be a ghost or an invention. Maybe these cigarettes were supposed to be some kind of work of art. Who knew. That wasn't my job to know. My job was just to test it out.
And so it occurred to me, because I was trying to record all the mental effects, that maybe I should write down that she looked familiar.
I walked out of the bathroom, and took the cigarettes with me down the stairs. I opened my front door, and decided to take a short stroll around my house, just walking through my mismanaged gardens I'd let overgrow. Suddenly, for some reason, I decided that I didn't want to be cooped up in that place.
There was a feeling I was trying to ignore, and I thought maybe a change of scenery could make it go away.
I took out my phone, and made a note: “Woman feels familiar. Beginning second cigarette.”
I lifted the thing to my mouth, and took a pull. The blue smoke that came out of my nose dissipated into the late afternoon sun, which was soon to set over the trees, making the shadows long and the air chill.
Her. I thought it again. The documentation never specified any emotions that subjects felt towards the blue lady they slowly began to perceive themselves as. Was this an entirely personal experience? It was strange. Of course, with stress tinting my thoughts, I began to instinctively bring the cigarette to my mouth.
Familiar. She seemed intimately… familiar. Which was odd, because I definitely didn't know any blue women, nor was I very versed on the ‘20s. So it must have been something else. Something in her face, then.
I caught myself looking at her face in the reflection on my phone. Yes, that was it.
She faintly resembled someone I used to know.
A crush, actually. From high school.
I figured out where she took her lunches by asking around. Wasn't very hard to find. What I was surprised to find out, when I walked behind the gym to take my first peek, was that, there on the asphalt of the basketball courts, she smoked.
It wasn't peer pressure. Not directly, anyways. I just wanted to impress her. I wanted to infiltrate her group, and you know what they all did? They smoked. So, my dad had cigs, I figured hey, there was an easy solution to my issue.
And when I did eventually ask her out, she said no, of course, ‘cause I was some weird short kid who she didn't know at all, or maybe she was just mean, I don't really have the energy to spend to reason that out. But that was that. She moved, and then sophomore year and onward I just. Still smoked.
I still smoke now. Habits die hard, or something like that. Looking at her reflection, it wasn't even an uncanny resemblance. They were different people, certainly. But wasn't it a strange coincidence, that the woman who made me smoke looked like the woman I was smoking?
It bothered me. So I put the phone away. I rose the cigarette to my mouth, and puffed.
Someone more reasonable than me might have been self-conscious about smoking in the first place, but I've never felt particularly upset at the self-destruction. No. What bothered me about smoking was that it never felt like me. It always, inevitably, felt like her.
That was one thing I truly appreciated about working at the Foundation. The privacy of it all. Hell, I barely interacted with other human beings entirely. They were nearly cut out of my life. Paperwork and high risk for good pay. Sounds like a deal made in heaven even now.
So it began to weigh on me, as I rounded the corner on my house, that I had just unknowingly committed to a weekend of… reminders.
I pulled out my phone: “Second cigarette. No noticeable difference. Will update when something changes.”
I ended up circling around to this old fountain that was on the property. It was full of water, but it wasn't running, because it, like the rest of my house, was left relatively unmaintained since I purchased it. The stagnant water had some little fish in it and I was always slightly curious how they survived.
I nearly raised another cigarette to my lips, but… no. I tucked it back into the case, and pocketed it. Usually, smoking calmed my nerves. That day, things were different. I stood up, went inside, and went to bed early.
…
I think, in retrospect, that might have been a bad idea. Because that night, I had my worst dream in a long, long time. Mind-affecting anomaly plus sleep? The time when your mind is at its most vulnerable? It seems so obvious looking back. It's been difficult to sleep ever since.
In fact, excuse me, but. I don't want to talk about it.
Besides, you're likely more interested in what happened next.
I woke up, as people often do from nightmares — screaming.
Sweat was so thick my clothes were sticking to my body, except I couldn't quite tell where. My body map was so… I couldn't tell where my clothes were, or what I was wearing exactly, I could just feel that horrible sticking to skin, that moisture that had collected from everywhere along my body. And I found myself on all fours, hands straddling my pillow that I was screaming down into, knees behind me, and as I looked down, all I could see was the barely moonlit darkness of my room and the… the smudges on the pillow. When I came to enough to realize I was awake, that things were… better, if not okay, I uh, I reached my hand over, and I pulled my phone off of my nightstand, and I couldn't help but turn the flashlight on, and that pillow, so smudged, I saw…
Ash. Little bits of ash, all around my bed, and, uh. Stains. Blue… stains of blue lipstick.
I wiped at my lips instinctively, and I accidentally, I uh, ah god damn it. I accidentally s-scratched myself, with the nails, right? I had — she has such long nails, right? Thank fucking god I lived alone, because I couldn't handle it, the file said that a full, uhh that a full transformation would take, like. Well I don't remember but this was fast. So much faster than I was expecting.
So I wasn't thinking straight, and the first thing I do when I'm not thinking straight is I take a smoke because that's just the kind of guy I am. So I grabbed the cigarettes, I scrambled for my lighter, and when I flicked the flame on, I flinched and dropped it, because in the reflect— in the — ahem, sorry, in the reflection the face I saw wasn't fucking, it wasn't, well it wasn't her exactly.
But it wasn't me either.
It wasn't… well, it was…
No, I don't want to talk about it. Well and truly. It doesn't mean anything to you, it won't mean anything to you. Except.
There's a reason that my door's always closed and locked, and that I take my lunches in my office. The paperwork, sprawled across my desk. There's a reason my house is big and empty. There's a reason I'm not going to like you and you're not going to like me.
I hate smoking because she made me do it. Every time I bring that thing to my mouth, I'm just reminded. Reminded that if she hadn't smoked, I wouldn't have smoked. Reminded that if my dad hadn't had cigarettes, I wouldn't have had cigarettes. That if my mom didn't tell me to wear polos, I never would have. If my teacher hadn't told me how to do math equations, I wouldn't know.
So what did I do? What part of me… is me?
So that's what I saw, looking at the reflection in the lighter. I saw, I saw her in me. But not just her. I saw everyone.
So that first scratch? I uh, I guess I uh, I exacerbated it, didn't I? She has such long nails, you know, such… long nails. And I thought if I didn't want to look like her, than I'd rather look… like no one, right?
But it didn't work. Every time I look in the mirror, she's there. Pristine. It's just my face, my skin that's gone. I'm still her, in a way.
…
Well, there is one good thing that's come of this. You know, smoking, terrible habit, right? Well now, I can't even look at them. Isn't that crazy? Just thinking about them makes me nauseous.
So that's a good thing, right? Heheh. Self-improvement or, or something like that. And she made me smoke, so, that can't have been her right? I did that. Right?
…
I'm not sure, to be honest with you.
I don't know.
I hope it was me.