"So," Peter slid into a seat across from Brad in the mess hall. "Your crew got picked to take us on our little trip tomorrow, huh?" Brad swallowed the last of his lunch. "Heh, I volunteered us."

Assigned Personnel
Light Transport Vessel 04

Pilot:
Brad Cannon

Deckhand(s):
George Montgomery

Rudy Lynch

Timothy Holland

Boarding Party

Security Officer(s):
Ken Jones

Peter Alves

Researcher(s):
Gene Perry

Dorothy Hansen

D-Class:
D-3487

D-6533

D-2995

D-3855

Brad Cannon heard Peter Alves coming before he entered. He was humming some tune from some opera that Brad didn't know the name of. Peter didn't know the name either; he identified it as 'that song where the dude's just stoked about the elephants'.
"So," Peter slid into a seat across from Brad in the mess hall. "Your crew got picked to take us on our little trip tomorrow, huh?"
Brad swallowed the last of his lunch. "Heh, I volunteered us."
"Oh. Really?"
"Yeah, it's something to do. Beats just cruising around the perimeter all day, at least."
"I hear ya, man." Peter replied as he dug into his own meal. "Three months of seatox, and then the post is boring as sh-"
"Seatox?" Brad interrupted.
"Oh. Yeah, y'know. Like detox, but out at sea." Peter explained, adding with a grin "I am gonna party so hard once I'm back ashore."
"Sure kiddo," Brad smiled back. Then he stood and took his mealtray. "Speaking of boring, I've got to get ready for a patrol-shift right now. See you at the briefing tomorrow morning."
Alves gave a small wave goodbye as Cannon walked away.

Specialized Tools/Equipment

Noise-cancelling Ear Defenders (x12)
Disposable Camera (x6)
Set of Semaphore Signal Flags (x2)
Retractable Personnel Tether (x4)
Analog Stopwatch (x2)

Ken Jones held one stopwatch in each hand. After watching them count off 60 seconds in sync, he reset them and placed them back on the workbench with the rest of the items. Satisfied that everything was in working order, Jones turned around to find Brad Cannon approaching him.
"Hey," Ken greeted him "how was patrol?"
"Meh, same old same old." Brad replied with a shrug. "Weather's a bit nasty out there."
"Hm… That going to affect the mission?"
"Nah, shouldn't be anything we can't handle." Brad reassured him. He then turned to Rudy Lynch, who had just now followed him in. "Everything squared away down there?" Brad asked, referring to their patrol boat.
"Pretty much, sir. Tim and George are just topping up the fuel. Wanted to let you know we tuned into the forecast; it might blow a bit more tonight, but should die down by late tomorrow morning."
"Ah, good news." Brad said, as much to Ken as Rudy. "Make sure they don't need any more help, then all three of you can turn in until tomorrow's briefing."
"Oh hey!" Ken interrupted as he slotted the four mini-flags into the box holding the ear defenders. "I'm gonna come with, put these on the boat so they're there in the morning."
"Nah, Rudy can take care of that for you." Brad took the box from Ken and passed it along. "Right Rudy?"
"Sir!" Lynch gave an informal salute before he turned and left with the box tucked under one arm.
"Oh, the rest of that..?" Brad gestured toward the remaining gear.
"I'll hang onto it 'til tomorrow." Ken said.
After bidding each other farewell, Cannon left. Jones, once more, examined and tested each piece of equipment; then he tucked everything into his gearbag and retired to his quarters.

Objective

To board SCP-2454 for the purpose of gathering data and recording observations

"It doesn't mean 'get ready to make your way back soon'; it doesn't mean 'just finish your roll of film quick', okay? You get three pulls, you get your asses out!"
Ken Jones, giving the D-Class personnel their directions for the operation, could not seem to emphasize this enough. "Because there are no extra minutes. If you aren't back on this boat when the timer's up, I cut your cord and it's nobody's problem but your own."
The four D's tasked with entering the ship to take photos nodded broodingly. Jones, apparently satisfied, turned and faced the front window. He saw the cloudy gray sky as the small cabin cruiser's bow rose up over the crest of a wave, then the cold gray sea as it dipped back into a trough. Briefly in between, the massive cruise ship on the horizon.
Brad Cannon leaned over from his captain's seat. "Support Vessel's reporting about 11 minutes between pings," he mentioned to Jones. "Could be you will have an extra minute…"
Jones turned to him now. "Is that coming from the guy who woke up ten minutes before his alarm this morning, treated it like an extra hour, and still was late to briefing?" Cannon smirked at that slight exaggeration, but kept his eyes ahead as he negotiated the ocean swells. "If I'm lucky enough to get a bit of breathing room," Jones continued, "I want it there when I need room to breathe."

Planned Procedure

Light Transport Vessel 04 (operated by Brad Cannon and crew) will transport all personnel from Support Vessel 01 to area of operations
Boarding Party will enter SCP-2454 with cameras and evidence bags, taking photographs and collecting articles for study
Light Transport Vessel 04 will extract personnel from area of operations and return to Support Vessel 01 for debriefing

"Of course he won't want to leave anyone behind," Dorothy Hansen spoke in a hushed tone. "But if it comes to jeapordizing the entire team, and the objective, for the sake of trying to save one -" She halted mid-sentence and stared gravely at the back of the seat inches in front of her face.
"Relax," said Gene, soothingly. "Breathe… Try to focus on the horizon." Gene Perry and Dorothy Hansen were the two official researchers on this assignment. They shared a bench seat, and for the most part had been chatting between themselves.
The pair of them had been slated to board SCP-2454 together; recording observations while remaining on the deck of the ship, in sight of Jones and Alves at all times. But Dorothy started feeling nauseous shortly after the transport boat got under way, and Jones made an executive decision that she would not be boarding the cruise ship in that condition.
Gene, however, had insisted that he still get to investigate the anomaly himself. And Dorothy had been trying to convince him it was too dangerous to go alone; without a tether, without a second pair of eyes to keep contact with the guards. If he was, at the wrong moment, wrapped up in taking notes instead of watching for the signal to evacuate…
Gene argued that this opportunity was too good to pass up. If it's taken ten years to even attempt a first exploration, how long would it take to mount a second? This was a chance to make a breakthrough, to earn some recognition. He wouldn't get another chance like this one.
Dorothy raised a finger. She wanted to interject, after taking a second to brace against the seasickness. "You said 'ten years'?"
"It's a fairly short assignment, you know," Gene reasoned. "This posting, I mean. I guess enough people are happy to just put in their three months and transfer out." He sighed and added derisively "Without contributing to our overall understanding of the thing."
Hansen understood Perry's point. But this conversation only made her more anxious about the plan, though she couldn't articulate why.
"And we finally got a project head that's pushing this stuff through," Perry prattled on. "Not just thermal imaging and satellites, but real hands-on observations. I can't let this chance slip away."
Hansen had tuned out, instead committing her focus to not throwing up.

Hazard Assessment

Constant vocalizations by SCP-2454-1

Noise-cancelling ear protection will be worn by all personnel within the area of operation

Bursts of radiation occurring at approximate ten minute intervals

Total time in area of operation will be limited to seven minutes

All electronics brought on board rendered immediately inoperable

Non-electronic means of communication and data collection will be established and used while within area of operation

Deckhand George Montgomery held one hand up near his face, and the other pointed out to the side, extended index fingers representing the signal-flags he was rehearsing to use. "So, this is..?" he prompted Security Officer Peter Alves.
"One-minute signal," replied Alves, with mock indignation at being given the simplest of options.
"And you…" Montgomery pressed on.
"Return the same signal to acknowledge." Alves answered, his indignant feelings now a little bit genuine. He mirrored George's hand placement, with his elbows tucked in to his sides.
"Good," Montgomery replied. "Now, if you need immediate evac?" Alves pointed both fingers upward, then outward, then up again. "Right," Montgomery affirmed, "and if I give you that signal?"
"Then you're coming to pick us up, ready or not." Peter was confident he had memorized the pertinent signals they'd be using. "Hey," he looked to George with one finger pointed upwards tracing circles, and the other hand in a fist rocking back and forth. "How about this signal?"
"Oh," replied George thoughtfully. "That's… you signalling that giving some handjobs ain't no big deal."
"Hey," Peter looked sternly at him, "it's only gay if you cuddle after." The two of them stared at each other for a beat before Alves' expression cracked a little, and they had to turn away from each other to avoid bursting into laughter.

Contingency Plan

In the event of any unanticipated problems or emergency situation, all personnel must immediately evacuate SCP-2454
No recovery efforts can be made beyond the original allotted timeframe.

"Roger that." Cannon slotted the radio handset back into place. "Care to make the announcement?" he asked Jones. Jones nodded, and turned to address everyone in the cabin.
"Alright, listen up!" Jones waited until everyone gave their attention. "Support vessel's just reported a hit, and the next window is ours. That's action in ten minutes time, everyone be ready!" He concluded on that note, and everyone seemed to withdraw into their personal thoughts.
Ken Jones opened his gearbag and re-examined his equipment. He'd given one of the stopwatches to George already; the other he took out now and hung around his neck, tucking it under his sweater. The 'Personnel Tethers' for the D-Classes (actually not much more than retractable dog leashes) he left in.
Two of the Ds turned over in their hands the disposable cameras they had been issued, the other two just gazed out at the rolling waves. Deckhands Rudy Lynch and Tim Holland, who had been sitting quietly near the cabin doors, stood and shrugged into their cold-weather coats.
Hansen looked to Perry once more. It was a final, silent plea not to go, yet acknowledged that said plea was futile. Perry tried a reassuring smile; it faded to stoic determination after he turned away.
The support ship radioed in their latest reading. Everyone donned their ear defenders. The boat made its way toward the objective.

After Action Report

Assesment
Operation Plan

Mission was a complete success. Although no physical items could be retrieved from SCP-2454, (sample collection bags containing various items were all found to be empty after disembarking) photographic evidence gathered has been very useful.
I believe that this has provided an excellent baseline for how more information on SCP-2454 can be gathered moving forward. For reference, I've attached a copy of the original mission outline to this file. My recommendation, however, is that future undertakings might increase the number of participating personnel. With multiple photographers we could collect more data in a single exploit.

Operation Plan
Objective

To board SCP-2454 for the purpose of gathering data and recording observations

Assigned Personnel
Light Transport Vessel 04

Pilot:
Brad Cannon

Deckhand(s):
George Montgomery

Rudy Lynch

Tim Holland

Boarding Party

Security Officer(s):
Ken Jones

Peter Alves

Researcher(s):
Dorothy Hansen

D-Class:
D-3855

Planned Procedure

Light Transport Vessel 04 (operated by Brad Cannon and crew) will transport all personnel from Support Vessel 01 to area of operations
Boarding Party will enter SCP-2454 with cameras and evidence bags, taking photographs and collecting articles for study
Light Transport Vessel 04 will extract personnel from area of operations and return to Support Vessel 01 for debriefing

Specialized Tools/Equipment

Noise-cancelling Ear Defenders (x8)
Disposable Camera (x2)
Set of Semaphore Signal Flags (x2)
Retractable Personnel Tether (x1)
Analog Stopwatch (x2)

Hazard Assessment

Constant vocalizations by SCP-2454-1

Noise-cancelling ear protection will be worn by all personnel within the area of operation

Bursts of radiation occurring at approximate ten minute intervals

Total time in area of operation will be limited to seven minutes

All electronics brought on board rendered immediately inoperable

Non-electronic means of communication and data collection will be established and used while within area of operation

Contingency Plan

In the event of any unanticipated problems or emergency situation, all personnel must immediately evacuate SCP-2454
No recovery efforts can be made beyond the original allotted timeframe

APPROVED


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Riemann

“Foxchaser, do you have eyes on?”
“Affirmative Sky Kennel. Transmitting coordinates to you as we speak.”
“Coordinates received. Aerial scans show some signs of recent reality manipulation, be advised.”
“Understood Sky Kennel. Proceeding with caution.”
Captain James Lee took a hand off his radio and motioned his team to come closer. The members of Site 118's Containment Team Beta 6, “Foxchaser” leaned in, with the quiet reassurance of experience hanging about their demeanors.
“Hume scans say that the location shows signs of recent anomalous activity, so we're going to have to do this carefully.” James smoothed out a roughly drawn map on a flat rock, showing a drawing of a small farmhouse.
“We know there are two infiltration points that we can use. The front door is the main entry point, we'll call that Point Alpha. On the side of the house is a set of doors leading down to the storm cellar, which probably leads up into the building. This will be point Beta.”
“Melissa, Hung, and Thomas, you will proceed through Point Alpha. Sweep carefully, and watch all potential points. Hume detectors hot.” The three people he pointed out nodded quickly.
“Jackson and Pierre, you're with me. We're going in from below. Any questions?”
Melissa cleared her throat. "Weapons hot?"
James grimaced, scratching his chin. "No, not yet. We're not cleared to do so yet. Stick with the operating procedures for now." Looking at his squadmate, the captain could see her disapproval, but she merely nodded, tight-lipped.
"Alright, break."

James lifted the cellar door ever so gently, praying that it wouldn't make any noise. His luck held, and the door quietly opened.
The smells of a musty and abandoned storm cellar wafted pungently through the air as James nodded to his team and started to slowly make his way into the sublevels, rifle at his shoulder. Long-abandoned dusty keepsakes and mementos of a family long gone crowded the small space, and James did his best to avoid disturbing any of it in order to keep quiet.
Slowly, methodically, the team checked every corner of the old storm cellar. Under tables, around old furniture, sifting through the dust on the ground, all to find any signs of the escaped anomaly.
Captain Lee was less concerned with finding physical signs of disturbance than he was with more anomalous ones. If the skip was really trying to hide its physical tracks, there was nothing he could do to find it. So, he focused his time on the handheld Hume detector in his hand, seeing if it picked up any signs of anomalous manipulation. Carefully, cautiously, he swept the room, praying that he would get the jump on the anomaly if it was there.
Nothing.
James motioned to his teammates, who shook their heads. Nodding, he motioned towards the top of the stairs, carefully put his Hume detector away, and brought his rifle into a ready position. Jackson did the same, leaving Pierre the main detector as they quietly moved into formation.
About to head upstairs, James took point and prepared to enter the main house when he heard a blood curdling scream.

The captain rushed up the house, taking the stairs two at a time, and heading to the top part of the house where he heard the scream. His team followed closely behind, watching the group's sides and sweeping their flanks for any signs of movement.
James stopped when he reached the top of the stairs, holding a fist up. Jackson and Pierre stopped behind him. Lee made a series of hand gestures, before dropping to a crouch. His squadmates did the same, and the group formed a triangle, rifles out, watching all points as they quietly moved down the hallway of the farmhouse.
The house was small; the second floor little more than a pair of rooms at opposite ends of a narrow hallway. One of the doors was askew, and the group made their way to that end of the hallway first.
Captain James quietly opened the door, rifle ready. What he wasn't ready for was what was inside.
The room inside defied all logic. Not merely in an exaggerated figurative sense, but the size of the room was easily larger than most of the rest of the house. Moreover, where the rest of the house was a dust-covered abandoned shell, the room inside was a gigantic bedroom.
It was one James had seen before, two years ago, but not at this size, and certainly not in this location. The pattern on the wallpaper was soft yellow ducks on a light green, and the carpet was covered in the scattered toys of a typical young boy, exactly in the places that he had remembered them being before.
The light came in eerily through the windows, and Lee heard the sound of a steady pitter patter of rain on the window, even though it had been sunny and clear when they first entered the house. He noticed the time on the clock by the bed.
8:36 PM.
Just the way it had been before.
Hung and Thomas's bodies were sprawled on the ground, twisted in unnatural angles and so still that James knew they were dead on sight. Melissa had been smashed into a wall and was lying in a pool of rapidly spreading blood.
The captain closed his eyes, knowing that if the anomaly wanted to kill him, it would have done so as soon as he entered the room. He avoided looking at the bodies of his squadmates, and instead tried to look for where the escapee could be.
“They tried to hurt me.”
A very small voice coughed when it finished, and Lee heard the sound of sniffling. He looked around for the sound of the voice, but he saw nothing.
“I'm scared.”
Then, he remembered where he had found it last time. James took his helmet off slowly and set his rifle down. He got on his hands and knees, motioning for his teammates outside to not move, and he crawled towards the giant children's bed. Pulling out his flashlight, he shined it underneath.
In the light was a young child, dirty, disheveled, and still wearing a raggedy Foundation-issue jumpsuit. He blinked in the sudden bright light, and shivered, covering his grime-coated face, streaked through with tears.
“Mister….Mister….Lee.” The child sniffled.
“Hey there kiddo. How are you?” Captain Lee tried to look as reassuring as he could.
The child rubbed his eyes with his hands, sniffling again. The streaks of dirty tears rolling down his face smudged and only succeeded in making the child look even more sad.
“I-I'm scared. There's lots of mean people around and I don't want to go back to the big room.”
“Shh, shh, it's okay buddy. I'm not going to take you back to the big room, I promise. We're taking you home now.” Captain Lee quietly spoke, extending a hand for the little boy.
The child shied away, a sudden reaction that made Lee's heart leap into his throat and freeze for a moment. The boy hesitantly looked at the hand and then back to the captain's eyes.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The child slowly took James's hand, and he pulled the boy out gently, slowly, making sure to not startle the poor boy as he did. He lifted him into his arms carefully, and held him as the boy clung to him like a bear cub to its mother.
The door was 30 feet away. Not too far. Just a minute until he could reach it.
“I'm glad we're not going back, Mister Lee.”
“I know you are buddy. We're going to bring you back to your home. Remember what home looks like?”
20 feet.
“Yeah.” The boy sniffled again. "It was big and loud and fun, and it had all my toys. I never get any toys at the big room." The child wrinkled his nose, leaning against the steady, reassuring weight of the captain's arms.
10 feet. The captain slowed his breathing, and closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. Only 10 more feet until he was clear of the anomaly.
“What do you miss most about home?”
The child thought for a moment, and became so quiet for a moment that the captain's heart started doing calisthenics again.
“I miss my dog, Frog.”
“Frog? What kinda name is that for a dog?” James laughed.
5 feet.
“I named him Frog ‘cuz I was really little when I did it and I didn't know any better. I miss Frog a lot, how'd he always jump around and be really happy to see me.”
They were clear of the anomaly and back inside the house. James breathed out slowly.
“I'm sure Frog will be really happy to see you again.”
“He will. I miss Frog a lot.” The child smiled, thinking of happier memories as he wrapped himself around Lee's body more.
“I bet you do, kiddo.” Lee closed his eyes, and his hand went to his belt.
“Mister Lee?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for taking me home.”
Captain James Lee shuddered as he patted the child's back with one hand, drew his sidearm with the other, placed it against the boy's head, and pulled the trigger.

Neutralization Report: SCP-5389
During an escape attempt by SCP-5389, the anomaly killed two Foundation field agents of Containment Team Beta-6, Privates Hung Nguyen and Thomas Blake, and crippled a third, Sergeant Melissa Jeffries. As per standard operating procedures, Captain James Lee was forced to neutralize SCP-5389. Lee has been awarded a Meritorious Commendation for his actions in preventing the escape of a hostile anomaly as well as his quick thinking, which allowed him to prevent further loss of life.
Additionally, Captain Lee has requested and been granted a round of Class B amnestics for personal use.


Previously on the UIU Series With No Name

Agents Quinn MacAllister and Darnell Christman are the only two agents of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit in the Midwest, following the disbanding of the Chicago team and the loss of the Cleveland division to a bare room with an open door. They get as much respect as you'd think as the only two government-employed anomalous law enforcement officers from Cincinnati to Sloth's Pit, which is to say: fuck all.
After helping bring down a Spirit Dust ring in December of 2014, they were called to Sandusky, Ohio in early 2015 to assist with a Foundation investigation into an explosion at a bank. A briefing from the Foundation revealed that this explosion was caused by a para-terrorist organization known as Grassroots, created by a Dr. Ainsley Kerrigan in the 1950s following the United States Government's mistreatment of his research in Project Cloudburst. Dr. Kerrigan was killed in a FBI-Foundation raid in the 1950s, and Grassroots has been quiet ever since…
Until now. The vault underneath the bank held a portal leading to somewhere in Brooklyn, New York. The Foundation sent a drone through, and discovered documents pertaining to the clandestine Cold War CIA Project SMILODON, an attempt to weaponize anomalies for use against the Forces of Communism. With the knowledge that a highly-dangerous para-terrorist organization is in possession of Government Secrets, our heroes…
…are relegated to the role of errand boys by the Foundation, having been tasked with escorting the remains of the individual who caused the destruction of the bank home. We re-join them now, on a street in Cincinnati.

And now, on with our story

Almost five hours down I-75 later, Quinn MacAllister and Darnell Christman stepped out of their van in front of a nondescript office building in Cincinnati. They'd been caught in a traffic jam halfway past Columbus, which was around the time the van gave out as well, meaning they had to call AAA. And then it started sleeting.
"Fucking hell," Quinn groaned, stretching for the first time since Bucyrus, her hair falling around her head and her bones popping. "That felt like it took almost two years."
From the back of the truck, Darnell retrieved a biohazard container, looking at it warily. "So, what's the plan after this?"
"Go home," Quinn said, "Explain to Harley why I'm almost two days late back, and pray that she doesn't think I've actually had an affair."
Her partner nodded, and started into the building; inside was a white hall, with a sign behind the desk reading "South Cincinnati Planning". It was allegedly a construction company, but anyone who paid the slightest bit of attention to the anomalous world knew what the SCP Acronym meant. They usually weren't stupid enough to use it anymore. Usually.
Quinn approached the desk, and looked at the receptionist behind it. It was a man wearing a loose shirt and khakis, talking on the phone about a deal that was being made between South Cincinnati Planning and a construction union. She leaned over the desk, noting a bulge in his sock, concealing either a knife or a gun.
When the receptionist hung up, he looked at Quinn, and cleared his throat. "Was Wilbur right?"
"Yes, but Orville wasn't wrong either."
He nodded, and handed her a key from behind the desk. "Turn it counter-clockwise in the emergency stop switch, then select the basement floor."
Darnell was already in the elevator by the time she took the key, his thumb leaving an imprint in the elevator open button. Quinn inserted the key, and when she turned it, the lift shook and groaned, like the building was clearing its throat.
Once she selected the basement, the elevator lurched, groaned, and then began dropping at a speed that was disconcerting. When it finally leveled out, Quinn was clutching the handrails inside the elevator like she was going to fly off.
"I've heard that there's a Skipper lab in every major city," Darnell said as he scratched his nose. "Didn't think that Cinncy qualified."
"There's at least one. I hear that they have one under Progressive Field in Cleveland."
"No foolin'?" Darnell laughed. "No wonder the Indians keep losing. Who knows what kind of shit they're testing under there."
The elevator eventually stopped with a ding, and opened to the sound of air conditioners and halls that were a dull white, illuminated by fluorescent lights. Along the walls were posters reminding people who visited of safety protocols, or what passed for it in the Foundation.
In front of them, they were greeted by an older man, balding, with rimless glasses resting against his face. He looked like he was Chinese, and had a missing finger on his left hand; Quinn wondered how he lost that. "Agents MacAllister and Christman? You have the sample?"
Darnell held out the biohazard container. "Hell of a sample. It's… we don't know what. Sculpture that used to be someone."
"Hmm." The man snapped his fingers, and a pair of Foundation agents took the container from them. "Well, thank you for agreeing to transport it. We'll take it from here."
Quinn stepped forward to speak, but Darnell tapped her on the shoulder, and gave her a look that said both 'don't start shit' and 'let me talk'. "With all due respect, Dr…."
"Zhou."
"Dr. Zhou," Darnell said. "We've just driven non-stop from Lake Erie. Do y'think we could at least use the can?"
Zhou rolled his eyes. "Very well." He pointed back down the hallway. "Restrooms are unisex, down 30 meters, to the left. Don't look in any of the windows, don't touch any of the doors, don't make eye contact with anyone."
"Thanks." Darnell walked along, and Quinn followed. They looked at each other, and Darnell was the first to speak. "Maybe you should've stayed topside."
"Why?" Quinn asked, looking away from one of the researchers who passed by.
"Because, if ya don't mind me saying, you kind of have a hate boner for the Skippers."
Quinn coughed into her hand to conceal a snicker. "Darnell, you're thirty-five in two months. Did you seriously just use the term 'hate boner'?"
"The concept of a hate boner defies generational boundaries." He looked around the hallway. "Wonder what they have in here."
"Can't be anything world-ending if they're willing to have it under a major population center." She looked at her partner and frowned. "All right, what's up?"
"What?"
"The whole 'using the can' excuse is bunk." She stood in the middle of the hallway, a frown on her face. "You're trying to find out more about it. As much as I hate to say it: this is their jurisdiction now."
"Technically," Darnell began explaining, "Under the Paperclip Clause of the Whitman-Ross Act, the Unusual Incidents Unit has at least partial jurisdiction over any matters that pertain to the United States Government and anomalous actions taken by or against it."
Quinn frowned, chewing a nail, "The Skippers aren't exactly known for following protocol. See: Loveland."
"Yeah, that was a cluster and a quarter." He kept on walking. "Still, we may be able to finagle it."
"Right." Once they arrived at the washrooms, Quinn felt at her head, and sighed. She hadn't had a proper wash since yesterday morning. "Think they have showers in there?"
"One way to find out," Darnell nodded. "See you on the flipside."
She strode into the washroom, the large, metal door slamming behind her; if Quinn had to guess, it was about a foot thick, and heavy, probably had some kind of piston or hydraulic system so that they could open without you needing to break your arm. Probably so that you had some sense of security in case something broke out.
There were no showers in the bathroom, but there was a sink large enough for her to, at least, rinse her hair. Bowing her head, she ran water over her mane, sighing and feeling pieces of Sandusky flow out- debris from the bank, an insect that had nested in her hair in the car, and a small stone that had somehow become lodged in her bangs.
"Christ," Quinn shivered, watching it flow down the sink. "I am going to need to spend an hour in the shower when I get home."
She watched the debris circle the drain, the stone stuck in the sink, making soft click-click sounds as it pinged against the metal. She stood there, and watched it, before a curious hand wandered towards it.
She held it in her hand, and swore that she heard a girl with skin like freshly-tilled dirt laughing behind her. She turned, and there was nothing. Just her, alone. She pocketed the rock and headed out of the washroom.

The ride back to Quinn's place was mostly silent, bar the NPR station. They stopped in front of her apartment, and Darnell gave Quinn a wry look. "You'll be fine."
"I don't want a repeat of last year," Quinn groaned. "I just wish I could tell her about half of this. Even a quarter of it. Fuck, at the very least, the entire werewolf thing. She was wondering why I kept having nightmares…" She rubbed her face, and unlatched her seatbelt, opening the door. "Thanks for the ride, Darnell."
"Mac." Darnell looked at her, hand on the steering wheel. "Ask her if she wants dinner tonight with me and Danielle. But… Christ, shower first."
"Same to you, stinkass." She circled around the back of the van, and looked at the looming apartment building as Darnell drove off, before beginning her ascent into the five-story red-brick complex that looked more ominous than it had in almost a year.

Harley Sterling was waiting for Quinn when she came through the door, sitting at the coffee table that Harley's mother had given her, reading an issue of National Geographic. She looked over the magazine at Quinn, and closed the periodical, laying it on the table and sighing. "Hey."
"Hi, Harl." Quinn looked sheepish as she set her phone down on the counter. "I'm… I'm gonna shower. I fucking reek."
"Right, you do that." Harley rose from the couch and proceeded to the kitchen. "I'm gonna make some coffee for you, hon."
"Thanks. Love you." With that, Quinn vanished into the bathroom, and a sound of running water and falling clothing followed.
Harley made sure the door was locked before picking up Quinn's phone, staring at the lock screen, an image of a psychotic clown girl that somehow had more fans than Bruce Springsteen. She knew the combination. She could look through it, see what she had been doing for the last three days, if she had really gone to Sandusky… see who the hell those people outside their apartment once a week.
She had noticed them when Quinn got transferred to Unusual Incidents. UFO Chasers, Quinn said, pointless work. Since then, she had seen people walking along outside, usually at night, trying to look as normal as possible; talking on cell phones, having conversations, getting into fights, having drinks. But they made the mistake of sending the same actor twice.
Someone was spying on them. Did Quinn know this? Did she know who they were? Would it have-
She nearly dropped the phone as it suddenly rang, humming in her hand and playing notes that were both incredibly annoying and instantly forgettable. She fumbled with it, and in doing so, accidentally answered the call.
Shit. She looked at the number, and saw that it was blocked. Must have been government stuff. She didn't know what compelled her to bring it to her face. "Hello?"
"…Agent MacAllister?" A voice, male, on the other end, inquisitive.
"Her wife, actually. She's in the shower."
"Well, when you can, forward a message to her? Tell her that…" There was a long pause, as if she was listening to a tape that had skipped a track, "Mike from Samson-Cooper Pharmaceuticals called. I'm an informant on a case of hers…"
"Right, drug bust. The whole LSD thing, yeah? Or Spirit Dust or whatever?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"All right, Mike, I'll tell her. Samson-Cooper…"
"Pharmaceuticals. Samson-Cooper Pharmaceuticals. Tell her that exactly."
"Will do." Harley hung up the phone and frowned. Since when did an informant have a blocked number? And… she'd heard that name. Samson-Cooper.
She looked out the window, and sure enough, there was a bench outside with an advertisement plastered on the back advertising a painkiller manufactured by Samson-Cooper Pharma. Weird coincidence.
She put the phone down, and sat on the couch, running her fingers through her hair. She'd been in Iraq, seen people get shelled to shit, seen a car blow up in front of her in a convoy, and then get discharged with a slap on the ass on the way out because she had the audacity to have a girlfriend. And here she was, paranoid about the woman she loved cheating on her.
She'd seen people get blown up, literally had to help pick up the pieces of one of her squad members so that they could be put into a bag, and… this is what was scaring her. The thought of her wife cheating on her with someone who had a blocked number.
Quinn came out of the shower a few minutes later, wearing as much as Lady Godiva, but with a more sensible haircut. She dried her hair, and gave her a quirk of the eyebrow, and headed down the hallway.
Harley sighed and followed. She needed this. Some time next to her.

"Someone called for you," Harley said as she looked through her laundry. "When you were in the shower."
"Hope you didn't forget their name." Quinn was finally getting into some clothes of her own, putting a brush through her hair, getting ready to get back to work.
"It was… Mack? No, Mike. From Samson-Cooper Pharmaceuticals."
Quinn dropped her hairbrush with a loud clunk and ran from the room, to her phone. She noted that Harley had moved it, undid the lock, and re-dialed the number. A voice on the other end spoke. "Did you pick up the roses?"
"No, all they had was snapdragons." Quinn tugged at her hair slightly. "Really not the best code to use around my wife," she whispered into the phone.
"We need you to come back down to Site-92 immediately."
"…what?" Quinn's face screwed up.
"The South Cincinnati building. We have a car coming for you. It's regarding the anomaly you brought in."
"Fucking…" Quinn rubbed her face. "That's your jurisdiction. We're not even going to bother with Whitman-Ross. What the hell do I have to do with it-"
"Does the name Jo Ann Storm mean anything to you?"
Quinn nearly dropped her phone. Jo Ann Storm was a kid from back home, in Green Pastures. Went missing around the time Quinn left. Around the time a lot of other kids went missing. Around the time a girl with skin like freshly-tilled dirt had broken Quinn's heart.
"…let me get a shirt on." She went back to her room, and looked at Harley, swallowing as she felt a lump form in her throat. A memetic lock, they called it. Something to keep her from vomiting information about the Veiled World to anyone who walked by. She wished that she could break it, that she could tell her wife about everything- the monsters they fought, the bureaucracy, the fact that the UIU wasn't just a glorified X-Files, that her work mattered… but she couldn't.
"Harley…" she started. "I…" she wanted to tell her about home. About what had happened, about Jo Ann, about Jemma, about Clyde and Chuck and Emily and Kendall and Asher. About how her world went to hell in a handbasket almost seventeen years ago. But she couldn't. "…have work. There's a new lead, we may not have taken down the ring entirely."
Harley looked at her, incredulous. There was that look again, the suspicion and doubt. "All right. Can I expect you back soon?"
"Before midnight, swear to god." She approached her wife, and exchanged a kiss. She felt it, a bit of the passion, still there on her lips. A sign that things might be all right. "…Love ya, Silver."
Harley Sterling smiled as Quinn left the room, before going to their bedroom window and pulling down one slat of the plastic blinds, pressing her nose against the winter-cold glass. She saw a pair of men drinking coffee outside; the same men had been having an argument outside their apartment a week ago.
She sat down in bed, and opened up a book she had kept on her bedside for weeks; a tourist's guidebook, with two tickets used as a bookmark.

Darnell was already waiting for her when Quinn was escorted down to Site-92 by a man who had stiff arms and no eyebrows. Darnell frowned at Quinn as they walked, turning into a hallway labeled "Processing".
"Quinn," Darnell asked, a high tone in his voice showing some concern, "Who the hell is Jo Ann Storm?"
"She's…" Quinn blinked, her tongue going numb in her mouth, her mind going blank, as she shook her head. "I can't. I'm sorry. Not cleared. Gag Order."
"…you're fucking kidding." Darnell groaned. "God, I sometimes wish they would just mindwipe us like the good old days."
"…I want to tell you. I really do. But it's to do with home, and-" Her head spun as she tried to tell him, and she leaned against the Agent, who helped prop her up, patting her shoulder.
"Easy there," He said, helping her get back on her feet and speaking into an earpiece. "Tell Memetics that we need a countermeme for a gag order. Send it to Dr. Zhou. It's urgent."
Quinn nodded her thanks, and soon, the two of them were led into a room where the sculpture-person from Sandusky was laid out on a table, like a scene from an autopsy. Quinn swallowed as she looked at it, and then looked to Dr. Zhou, who was removing a set of gloves. Quinn's hands covered her mouth as she gasped. "That's-"
"Jo Ann Storm. Resident of Green Pastures, Iowa, missing since 1998. One of a dozen missing children from that time."
"I remember," Quinn swallowed. "I… god, that sucked for the whole town."
Zhou nodded, and his pocket buzzed. He took out the phone within, unlocked it, and handed it to Quinn. "Watch the screen, please."
Quinn looked at the screen. It first displayed a countdown from 3… 2… 1…
She fell over, only to be caught by the Foundation agent behind her. She didn't remember what she saw, but she felt a weight on her mind being lifted, a block being destroyed. She handed the phone back to Zhou. "…ow."
"Counter-memes are hardly ever pleasant," he said, holding out his hand for the phone. "Quinn MacAllister, your mother was a Schafer, yes?"
"Hold the phone," Darnell held up his hands as Zhou did exactly that. "Quinn, are you going to tell me just what the fuck is going on? Is anyone?"
Dr. Zhou looked between the agents and the body on the table. "These are the remains of Jo Ann Storm. Former Resident of Green Pastures, Iowa, and a Class-3 Meteoromancer. She was a tool of Grassroots, subject to a Project SMILODON experiment, and…"
"…my next-door neighbor," Quinn sighed, looking at Darnell, an apologetic look in her eyes. "I think I need to tell you about my hometown."

<«Of Portals, Plasma Cannons, and Other Boring Things | Hub| Midnight Plane Going Anywhere»


Aurelio always rides too fast. I told him as much on the last night I saw him. Do you really need to die in a way that will leave such a mess? It's so unfair to the rest of us that we have to see you like that. His reply was always to hell with you all, I'll be dead, what do I care? Ha ha.
Here he comes on his bike, tearing around the hillside curves as the Ciudad comes into view. He's by himself, and this is worrying me. He's been bringing large crews of the new Barqueros with him lately. Trucks and equipment and tools into the tower. But now? Just him, this time. How many are left? Does it matter? The empty city is cursed, just as much as it's haunted. The new Barqueros crossing the same river as the old ones.
He slides around to a stop in front of the little market, spraying dirt everywhere to the infantile delight of the ever-present Maximo and Ernesto, seated in their pensioner's chairs in front. Why do they find him so funny? Is it because he isn't dead yet? That's something that might be funny to those that grow old, maybe. I wouldn't know. Never got the chance.
Aurelio goes inside, and I already know he's getting his traditional six pack of Quilmes for whenever he visits the Ciudad. The tanned wrecks of old men return to their wizened, ritualistic head shaking and muttering while he goes inside. Maximo and Ernesto sway like two spindly quebracho trees stripped of their leaves, the brief disturbance of Aurelio and his motorcycle giving way again to the wind that always whips through this place. Wind is madness and impermanence and slow grinding destruction. If the planners from the Ministry had thought to ask anyone before they built this city, anyone from the plains could have told them that.
He's coming back out now, already started on the first bottle. He throws one to Maximo and one to Ernesto. I'm troubled. They're not. They start drinking without any questions. You question everything when you're dead. I miss that; plunging headlong into the next moment of your life without thinking. Not allowed now. I would complain to the management if I could. Aurelio stops a moment before getting back onto his bike.
What do you think, eh? What's going on in the world now?
Ernesto doesn't bother to look up. Same as ever.
Maximo looks at his fellow scarecrow, insulted. His face folds up even more, a scribble of brown lines and wrinkles. Same as ever? You old fool. It's falling apart. Even the goddamn yanquis are shitting themselves.
Eh, they just grew eyes now. It was always there. That's why I told you not to go poking in that fucking tower, Aurelio. No one listens.
His words make me catch. Oh Ernesto. Not even you knew what was in there.
Aurelio laughs. And when have you ever listened to anyone, eh cabrón?
Ernesto scratches his beard and drinks some more. No one listens to anyone. No one pays attention to nothing until it's hurting them. Just the way of the world. The madness really comes from out there. It leaked into the valley below. Dribbling into a puddle down there.
You should come work for me Ernesto. We could use that insight. It's a real growth field, you know. Career advancement, dental care, a receptionist with nice chichis. Man like you could have a real future.
Those guys who came with you last time. What kind of future they have?
Seems like even Ernesto has had enough joking around today.
Aurelio finishes his bottle. Same one we all have, Don Ernesto. On a day like all the others, we lie down under the earth.
I never felt closer to you than when you were quoting some idiot poem at a stupid time, Aurelio. You always thought it was so funny, how mad it would make me. I guess it was kind of funny, looking back. It still makes me mad.
He leaves them then, into the heart of the dead city. I watch from my house on the Boulevard of Progress as he winds down the roads to the valley floor, where the living in their wisdom made a tomb for the future. He's going to the tower alone and I am afraid. What will happen when the rest of us pass to the other side of the river? How long will that day be, the day where no one is left and every one of us is alone, forever?

Aurelio cut the engine in front of the concrete block house. Le Corbusier's shoebox, she always called it. A house looking like every other one on the street, except for the two crossed oars painted above the front door. All the Barqueros had a color. Hers was red. As was his.
He kicked his boot at the bike's center stand. The goddamn wind would just blow it over if he used the little kickstand. Bringing its weight to rest atop the stand, he grunted. Getting old, he thought. That's going out of fashion. A howling gust of wind raced down the Boulevard of Progress, cloaked in dried weeds and white dust and whistling by like a man on a train, mocking everything on his side of the tracks. Fucking bullshit place, he thought. I should have done this at the very beginning.
The first of the Barqueros, early in their times their leader, now their Captain, entered the square cement house through a square steel door, little clouds of brown rust spilling out from the hinges to join the dirty wind outside. He stepped into the house. Boarded windows and impregnable walls ensured complete darkness. He closed the door behind him.
He opened his third bottle of Quilmes. The only thing visible was the outline of the door behind him, dusty light filtering into the shape of a wan square. He could not see his hands.
"Deathbed conversions are bullshit." Aurelio addressed the black interior of the abandoned house. "This is just really bad procrastination. I know you're not there, Jacinta. My mind hasn't changed on that."
God damn you Aurelio. Why did you wait so long?
He took a drink, wiping his mustache with a hard brown forearm. "But you're supposed to conclude your affairs when you do stuff like this. So fuck it. I've wanted to do this for a long time. For me."
So what else is new?
"I sent off the newer Barqueros. Told them to go end it in whatever way they saw fit. Dumbass kids from America and Europe and wherever, so hurt when I told them that. As though that isn't the greatest freedom that any of us will have. They aren't bred from the madness, though. They came to it fully formed. Invaders and foreigners, wherever these guys go."
Oh bullshit. You loved those young men and women, Aurelio. I saw it all from here.
"The older ones just went home. Eduardo and Mariela and Frankie and the others. Melted away. I didn't tell them what I was going to do but they knew anyway. Friends are assholes like that."
I saw Eduardo here on his own two days ago. I think he would have done it if you hadn't thought of it first, Aurelio. You two always were like brothers. This is going to shatter his heart into pieces.
"So now I have to do it. And I'm scared, Jaci. I have to do this, talk to you like you're here, because when the time came for you, you stood. Just like you did for Pablo and Roberto and Lana and the rest of us in that fucking goddamn jungle so long ago."
I was petrified, Aurelio. I can't even remember deciding to act. Either time. My skin and my blood were ice. I didn't know what else to do. I wish I could tell you this, Aurelio. More than you can possibly know.
"It's not death I'm afraid of. I mean, more than anyone else is, but it's descended upon us, that's for fucking sure. Like being scared of the sunset."
I've waited so long, Aurelio. Why did it have to be like this? Where I cannot reach you or speak to you or hold you? Every word of this is like dying again. It's taking me apart in ways I can't understand. Please don't stop.
"I'm afraid of that top floor. I'm afraid of going back in there. It's going to try to convince me to do something else."
You are Aurelio Rojas, and you've never done a thing you didn't want to do, you intractable bastard. God damn it, I wish you could hear me now. I wish I weren't behind eternities of space and time and void. I wish we had just left everyone else and vanished into the streets of Montevideo like we should have.
"I'm stealing what's left of you. Using it for my own purposes. Reconstructing the dead to fit the spaces inside. I'm going to twist the shards of what I have of you that remains. Grind your memory into something resembling courage. My last crime against you."
Aurelio finished the bottle, casting it forth from darkness into darkness. He heard no sound.
"God, what a fucking obscenity. I hated it when people would go talk to the stones in the cemetery. As good as digging them up. But this is worse. Jaci, I'm sorry."
You damn fool, Aurelio. You can't rearrange me. You never could. That's why you liked me.
He ran his hands up from his forehead into his thin, brittle hair. The echoes of his voice in the cold tomb house reflected back to him from the walls. The words sounded just a little different somehow in the split second it took to reach him again. The darkness was pulling his mind too far outward. A familiar feeling to a Barquero. It was time to leave.
"I'm…I'm sorry for all of it. Sorry that you weren't here to see out the end of this spiral. I'm sorry that I made it out and not you. But I'm going to go fix that shit now."
Aurelio turned to leave. He found himself standing in place. It fixed him where he stood. The allure of the inner consciousness, desperately clawing and shredding and tearing its way to the waking world, burning everything around it. The allure of death, in service to the birth of something, even of something terrible. The longing of the tower. Its pull grew further by the hour.
I am here, Aurelio. And I am with you until the end. A shadow maybe. But it's my shadow. I will walk with you.
Aurelio Rojas, Captain of Mobile Task Force Phi-9, reached his hand to the dimly lit square hanging in darkness. The door opened, caught by the wind and slamming against the wall outside. The boulevard was a tunnel, a private gale rushing between row upon row of abandoned concrete houses exactly the same as the one he left now. No garbage, no wrappers or papers or cans being blown about by this wind, no signs of living human habitation. Just the white dust of the dead city, the steady erosion that would one day wear down these houses and all others in the world beyond.
He leaned forward into the maddening, breath-stealing winds, and started walking. In the heart of the city lay the moldering ruin of its former capital, the place where a group of friends finally found what they were looking for, to their bitter regret. By his side was Jacinta Araya, co-founder of the Barqueros in life and in death. Unseen. Together, they approached the tower.

The wind has stopped. So still that the earth could shake and swallow us whole right on the spot. Aurelio doesn't hesitate, unlocking the chains across the main entrance and pulling open the great door. Why would he? This place has been his home more than any other. The two of us inhabiting tombs next door to each other all these years. That's an ending I would have written before I died.
I follow him across the lobby, and I hear whispers. These things, these ideas that live in this place, you don't need any technology to hear them when you're like I am. I must be closer to them, now. Though they don't speak to me. What good am I to bring anything into the world now? They speak to him. Does he hear them with his own ears, after all these years? I suppose if he did he would have died long ago. Then again, maybe this is something that they've told him to do. No, unlikely. He would have turned the place into an amusement park instead if they'd told him to do this.
We step into the elevator. The only pristine, maintained space in the building. Aurelio programmed his own voice into the thing, and so we hear him mark off the floors as we go up. One, two, three. I'm sure he thought that was funny as hell when he did it. Now it's making him nervous.
The whispers surround us as we are carried into the top of the necropolis. Visions destined to drive men mad and ignite the vast piles of unseen suffering that surround them. This place is a monument to the first man, who saw the leaping flames of the bonfire and wondered what it must be like to throw himself in. It's a mercy, really. A world that had been going mad long before this, spared the worst of its excesses, the human mind built with a collective failsafe in the middle of one of its many banal errors. Somehow knowing that it can always be much worse is a necessity of survival. It's the lack of that knowledge that everyone can feel in their hearts today. It's how they all know, everyone, that there's no going back now.
Ding. Floor 32. The elevator, having no sense of ceremony, merely opens its doors to the expansive space at the top of the tower. The Grand Hall. Designed for the meetings of the Ciudad's leaders, a grand dais at the far wall, hopeful rows of seats facing the empty thrones of the rulers of this necropolis, who never bothered to show up to claim their due. It was here that I stopped being and became this. The space is strangely unmoving to me. Should it be? More questions for no one.
I am watching Aurelio. His mouth is set, but his eyes light up with recognition as he looks out over the hall. I turn to see what he's looking at. I expect to see the man, like we did last time, walking us through our inferiority and the greatness of his apex predator world. Instead it's a woman, tall and stately in flowing purple robes, an icefall of white hair frozen down over her bare shoulders. Alabaster skin like a Roman statue. She's looking back at Aurelio. Her face is wholly unconcerned. But her eyes, so blue as to be white like her skin, so cold that I can almost see Aurelio's breath as he stands before her. A woman with a gaze like a refrigerated hospital basement. Hateful sterility, frigid contempt, a death goddess with no hint of humanity. She would be beautiful if it weren't for her eyes.
Aurelio comes to a realization at the same moment as I do. You're from the play, he says. You were here the first time and you were there when the world went mad yesterday. Monashir Violetlight, Lady of the Tower. Didn't realize that was a literal title.
In the space of time that it takes him to blink, the woman is ten meters closer to us. Walking is apparently beneath her. She flickers and reappears. Even before my last night I knew better than to mistake something like this for an apparition. She holds the same position, same expression. Unlike Aurelio, she does not blink. The impression strikes me that we are not important enough for her to dignify us by moving.
Gonna say something, Aurelio asks. You were a minor character. Did you forget your lines for this one?
Not his voice, not his face, not his smell nor his posture change. But I sense the terror's avalanche within him, giving way suddenly from the rocky cliffs of his mind. One of the abilities I maintained from my previous life. I begin to understand what he was afraid of.
He blinks again. She flickers again. She is right behind us. I half expect her to kill Aurelio then and there. But the hateful woman statue is looking over his shoulder instead. In front of us are more people. These people move, breathe, are alive. In this place, it is they who are the apparitions. If there was any doubt, it was dispelled by one of the people in front of us now. My self, living again. In a person's time in the strange realm of the Earth, this is the only impossibility.
The scene before us is this. The Barqueros, the old Barqueros, are talking among themselves. Things are getting heated. Some of us think we've gone too far up in the tower. That we need to leave now. Leading the opposition is myself. Others think that this is the culmination of our exploration (don't ever call it research). An Aurelio with a little more hair and a little less belly is speaking for this group. They're all shouting now. I remember this part. You've let yourselves be seduced by it. The world is a labyrinth and this is the center. What do we gain by knowing any of this shit? What did we spend all these years looking for? A gyre of points and counterpoints, swirling under our feet as we tried to make sense then and there of the decade we burnt up in pursuit of the deeper currents. Then and now, I can feel the sharks circling in the waters underneath us. A fish's sense. The electricity is all wrong in this place.
Here is where what is happening diverges from my memories. The Barqueros all stop talking. The ghosts before us hold their positions. Simulating the movements of breathing, of waiting. This was where Aurelio told us all that he was going in and damn the rest of us if we didn't. I can see him, the real Aurelio, replaying the moment in his hard head.
The woman behind us speaks, finally, a voice like mist breathing from an icy cliffside down onto the rocks below. Cold, slow, half-whisper. She says, choose.
Like an injury, a person learns to live with different kinds of regret. Some kinds ache softly in the knees or the wrists, returning for a visit when the rain comes down. Some kinds are a pinched nerve, pain that from time to time prevents you from turning your neck to look back over your shoulder. The wounds we get when we hurt ourselves, hurt others for what we think is the right thing, though. Those don't close. They fester, infecting every other decision within you. This day, so long ago, is a knife that has been sticking out of Aurelio's chest. His hand is creeping toward an invisible hilt three inches from his heart, even if he doesn't know it.
The voice of mist behind us breathes again. A little louder this time. Aurelio feels it like he feels the wind in the forsaken valley outside. She says, knowing all of the things that you know now, Aurelio Rojas, what do you choose? I turn back to look at her. The bitch is smiling now.
A neatly diagrammed problem. If Aurelio expresses desire for a different outcome, it destroys him. Every death, every one of his years after that night at the top of the tower is for nothing. The tower, more than anything, taught him what it really is to carry a burden. To be haunted. To renounce the mistakes of the past will pull the knife out of the wound, but the corruption merely spreads under the healed skin. The pain is so great. I can see it in him every time he comes to this goddamned place. But without the burden, the journey becomes pointless. A question to rip a man's soul from his body.
If Aurelio makes the same decision again, he undersigns their decision to call us back to their hell. We had an advance screening of the performance that ended the world yesterday. Knowing what we all do now, does he choose to witness again? To call others to it? He can stand by the certainty which has led him to where he is today, but the ground on which he stands is falling away by the second. The possibility of his curiosity being akin to complicity with the atrocity being visited upon everyone is one that threatens to crush him. This question, posed by the tower, is forcing a clarification of his situation. Utter annihilation, or unforgivable collaboration.
I watched their performance in awe on that night. Visions more powerful than anything we had ever gotten with the herbs that we went so deep into the jungle hell to retrieve. A society of indescribable beauty. The inescapable damnation of the Planet of Hands. The eviscerated, nightmare love with which they regarded us. An experience speaking to the deepest levels of human expression, unspeakably alien to anyone with a speck of humanity left. It's no wonder they've tried to drive that from all of us.
I was the first to be called. To them, it was a reward, for finding them first. Come back home, the spectral man told me, eyes beaming with tears of twisted happiness. It seemed the only option, really. The only sane thing to do when faced with such magnificent beauty was to surrender. I could see it in all of us, transfixed. I saw it in me too. What they saw in me was a way to eliminate the last threads of resistance holding us all back. And behind that part of me open to the beauty of the world and its fine systems was something else. Something older, and wiser. Something that walked hand in hand with the darkest fears that we hold. Something red.
Through tears of ecstasy and joy, my hand found the long knife hanging from my belt. And in one fluid motion, passed down to me through what is dismissively referred to as the reptilian portion of my brain, I opened my own throat. Deep enough that my hands were not enough to stanch the curtain of blood pouring out of me. Blood enough to wash away even the visions crafted by this post-human non-humans. I fell to the floor, weakening instant by instant, my breath stolen by the impossibly gaping wound I had made. The cold of the room passed directly into me. Then the freezing cold of the night outside. By the time Aurelio got to me I was filled with the blasting chill of the black spaces between the stars.
Here are the last moments I saw in this life. Half of the Barqueros running like hell back to the door. Half of the Barqueros weeping with joy as their hands piled up in front of them, one after the other. Aurelio holding his coat to the ruin of my throat, praying aloud to the only saint he recognized, as though this were not something guided by her hand as well. The cold being followed closely by its brother darkness.
And then no more.
The sight of Aurelio faced with this choice makes me replay these moments in a way I have not done since they happened. And I would sooner cut my own throat a thousand more times than have him assaulted with this hideous suffering once more. I would do it ten thousand times more to be able to help him. I don't know what to do.
Aurelio turns away from the past arrayed before us and toward the gloating, icy face of the future. His hand is in his pocket.
You should have tried this in America somewhere, he says. Or some other place where they think they have this shit figured out.
He's been replaying the last time we were here too. I see it now. His hand is moving around whatever is in his pocket.
She replies. That you don't make the choice doesn't make it cease to exist, Aurelio Rojas. A dynamic state in the system is still well within its bounds. We accounted for your truculence, in any event.
Aurelio's hand moves slowly out of his pocket. From the way his arm is trembling I can tell that the movement is involuntary. There is nothing in his hand. A second later, a small metal box with a steel switch floats out of his pocket of its own accord. Aloft on a stillborn wind, it drifts away from Aurelio, stopping in front of the woman. She sneers, finally finding something worth her contempt amongst her cattle. She even goes so far as to raise her hand up. Closing it into a fist, the detonator is crushed into a tiny, jagged point of metal. It clatters onto the ground.
Who is more God, Aurelio Rojas? The cow, squeezing out more life into its putrid field, unreasoning, vacant? Or the overseer, tending to the survival of that cow, adjusting the conditions in which it waits to serve its purpose, mending its organs and its flesh when the purpose requires it?
The hatred is not warming her voice. Is this what we are, truly, when the mask is off?
She continues. Surely even you were not so stupid as to think that we did not notice your kind attaching the explosives. You must have known that your actions are clearly laid out before you even made the decision to pursue them. Meaningless, empty gestures. Ill-considered. Petty. Much in keeping with your forebears, long ago.
The woman in the purple robes raises her other hand. Aurelio rises slowly into the air, held in place by the forces governing this skyward monument to futility that we had been so eager to discover. She spreads her arms, and thus are Aurelio's spread open as well now, a hovering Christ mockery. But his face. A beaming calm has overtaken him, a face at home on this impossible cross. The mockery is instead homage, somehow. The subtlety is lost on the mistress of the tower, the symbolism of the livestock beneath the contempt of the master. Here are where the final moves of his game are beginning to come to me.
His turn to speak now. So much effort, he says. To thwart a meaningless gesture. What does it say, oh great Monashir, that you are in this tower with us?
Cracks begin to appear in the ice cliffs of her face. This is angering her. Before she can reply he continues.
They must have been surprised, eh? To find something of themselves in here? Why hide this place, why let us hide afterward, if this is such an enduring symbol of your fucked up paradise? And why do you protect it by meeting me here?
He laughs now, and she loses control. With sudden violence, she lowers her hands, and Aurelio is thrown to the floor, slammed into the dust and debris beneath him. He lands on his side, bones cracking from the force, the breath driven from him by the impact. He coughs as he struggles to breathe again, heaped on the floor, blood beginning to drip from his lips. He laughs again.
Still trying to figure it out. The shit you're playing with didn't start with you, did it?
His words struggle out through his laughter and blood, no less clear from the effort as his life begins to leak out.
No, you've been right here with us, trying to figure out how you ended up on the top floor. Why the laws that govern this tower apply to you too. What the flaw in your system is that buried you along with all the other corpses. Scratching and clawing at your coffin lid.
The purple woman flickers and appears over him as he lies on the ground. Guttural fury leaking from her crumbled face, the hate now fully formed in her, dead eyes lit with pyres of rage. Her arms sweeps out, and Aurelio is thrown in the air away from her, striking the dais at the front of the room, wood splintering, his laughter making room for the groans of pain, unstoppable now.
He wheezes now as I rush to him, dead or not. I'll save you some trouble, he says. You thought you banished death. But all you did was forget about her. You thought you enslaved madness. But you merely brought him into your house. And you think saving this tower from us will let you solve the one problem you can't figure out. But I've got the answer for you. You belong in here with us. And you'll never know why. You can't understand.
She's over him again. I look up at her from my place next to Aurelio. She is going to end it.
He spits blood up at her with ragged breaths. As she moves to finish him, he returns the favor.
You forsake death, and death's wisdom is lost to you. You push madness away into this world, but it lives in my heart instead, and you are defenseless. You've blinded yourselves, but the grave awaits you all anyway. Fuck your mother.
Horrifying, terrible force comes down from above her, now channeling the fury that has driven her beyond all reason, striking moments too late before Aurelio has laid bare the chasm at the heart of the perfect world that now must reckon with its hidden cracks. Hatred wells out of the fault lines in her self and her realm, spewing out like a geyser. No pushing it back in now.
She strikes Aurelio with her fists, crushing his chest, silencing him. I scream with no words or breath, such things forever beyond me here. Something catches my eye through the ruins of his shirt.
A freshly sutured wound on his sternum. The glint of exposed metal. The last halting breaths, a smile still plastered on his bloody lips. I feel him looking toward me through darkening eyes. From deep within him I swear I hear something.
She hears it too. The terror of something impending, building within her at Aurelio's words, now seizes her. The madness lives in his heart. It lives in all of our hearts, decaying every system they touch, even from our living tomb in the stars. They will never outrun it because we are they and they are us.
Dead man switch. Wired in his chest. His heart stops beating. She has just enough time to bellow like a cow in the slaughterhouse chute.
Here is the last moment. Deep rumbling. The walls and the ceiling and the floor buckling. Fire. Smoke. Gouts of dust and bits of metal and plaster and stone rushing all around us. Aurelio borne aloft on a great pillar of flame as the great tomb at the heart of the world's necropolis comes apart, the winds and the sunlight and the wreckage all suddenly of one composition. The purple woman burning for a second before being rent asunder by the uncertainty and death that lay at the heart of humanity. A mortal wound that will be felt a million miles away, perhaps in a million years. Perhaps tomorrow. A funeral pyre that will burn away the dead and make room for the living. Even if the dead do not acknowledge it yet. I feel myself rising with Aurelio. What does it matter when the truth lay outside of time? There is us. There is madness. There is death. In these things we proceed in all directions, blasted apart by the first and last forces, and settling back again. This monument to colossal, unimaginable error has stopped existing. Eventually, one of these directions must take us to something closer to the truth. Closer to balance. Death shows her face once more and guides us to mercy again. She shows her face to me at long last.
I am with him in the end, in the sky of a world giving way to whatever the next may be.
I know no more.


There are vague memories of light at the beginning.
His body is compressed and cold. There is the cold of concrete on his skin so much that it is his skin- the cold smell of paint and rebar in his breath that's lost in the twisting passageway above him. From time to cold, cold time he hears the cave move, scratch, rumble, the only movement his body has.
He struggled once to move his leg, to feel it, but the rock is cast to his foot, his bones fuzed together (how many joints does a man have?). He cannot remember being smaller than eight, remembers when he grew, grew, his back became large enough to crack the concrete compressing his ribs, (move his abdomen to conserve heat but it is cold) but his ribs are conformed now, twisting and turning around the hard concrete. No room to move. Arms out in front. There is no crying. No crying. He cannot see- the concrete is conformed around his open eyes, only his nose and mouth exposed to air, the tube in his anus. The time he cries the tears stick to his skin and pool into the (cold) concrete.
There is food.
Food comes to him. Comes. Comes. Smacks onto him so he must eat in order to breathe. Hair. Nails. Teeth. The bones cram into his throat and make him choke. The marrow is the best. Animal fur. Blood fills the cavern and he almost drowns, almost passes out, he cannot move, his head is trapped inside. (How many joints does a man have?) For he only has his jaw, slipping, slamming, darkness inside. The womb. The womb. The womb. His abdomen constricts and he shits out the pipe.
Time moves faster sometimes than not but there is no passage, how many joints does a man have? His father. Sometimes, the cave mouth opens and there is a moment before wet meat slaps down on his crusted lips that he sees harsh white light flood inward and the muscles of the rock constrict, he is one but cannot move. It does not speak but gives him food. He loves the rock as it hugs him tight. Pelvis broken and regrown to the curvature of the rock's insides he opens his mouth with blind desperation and consumes hair sliding down his throat long, long hair, then lips like his own that squish like skin and burst into meat and then teeth that grind against his own and he struggles to breathe again.
It's cold, cold, cold, his world is cold and hard and dark. He hears nothing through the concrete in his eardrums. He has been here as long as the rock has moved and it took his shape, roughly, he laughs.
Arms outstretched, the rock feeds him.


Clef didn't miss his face. Initially the loss had been painful. It wasn't just his physical face the creature had taken. For years he'd wandered with a hole in his existence, one that could not be filled no matter how much achievement or memories or fellowship he built up. They all simply… fell away, refusing to attach themselves to him. He may have acquired them, briefly, but they had never been his. Never been him.
So he weaved himself a mask. An idea, a facade that he could wear like clothing to cover the torn skin. One that thrived on its impermanence, its malleability, its ambiguity. That clutched at the questions like a babe to a teat and drunk itself fat. He could no longer have a self. So he became a story.
And of course, there were benefits to not having an identity. Like being able to walk into Site 2000 unquestioned. All you have to do is tweak the tale a bit. Yes, of course he should be here. No, it wasn't strange that a notoriously volatile researcher was strolling into the most heavily guarded object on the planet. Continue your workdays. Everything is going as intended.
He strolled down the sterile hallways of complex, whistling to himself and flipping his badge between his fingers. There were no guides on the wall to indicate direction. Everyone working here was expected to fully memorize their daily routes (and nothing else) before arriving at the station. It didn't bother Clef. He knew exactly where he was going.
“Sir?”
He stopped to look at the source of the voice. Cute. Blonde. A bit too scrawny for him. He smiled. “Yes?”
“No one's scheduled to be in this hall at the moment. Where are you going?”
His eyes moved from her stern expression, to the way she held her hands on her hips, to the gun at her waist. Ah. One of those, then. He smiled. “There's been a small malfunction in the 2Z-31 anchor. Trying to patch it up before it gets too serious.”
“There aren't any repairs on the schedule.”
“It just popped up. Try not to let these things linger for too long, you know?”
She glanced at a PDA. “We update on a minute-to-minute schedule. Nothing's showing up.” Her hand rested on the gun at her waist. Clef was impressed. He hadn't even seen her switch position. Anyone else might have let her get the drop on him. “So again, what are you doing here?”
His arm shot forward, snatching her wrist. Before she could get a grip the gun, he jerked back. There was a crunching noise as her ulna cracked. She screamed, but he already had his hand over her mouth, covering the noise. He worked the rest of his arm around her neck. She slammed against him, jabbed her elbows toward his side, but he rotated his body. All her strikes bounced harmlessly at her side. Soon, she stilled. He lowered her unconscious body to the floor.
No alarms sounded. But now he had a time limit. He sprinted down the hallway, taking turns on instinct, trusting his memorization of the building to take him where he wanted to go. He darted up three flights of stairs, slammed open a door, breezed past the three researches chatting about takyon fields. He ran, unthinking, until he arrived at an unmarked, unassuming door.
The central hub.
Select few people had access to this. Most people wouldn't even notice it under the memetic defenses. Even the people who worked at the site didn't realize what the place was truly for. They thought a secret within a secret was all there was to it. But Clef knew. He'd known even before the Watchers told him. He'd known ever since they found the note on his dead corpse, when the pieces of every puzzle fell into place and showed him the true nature of the game. Even his comrades probably didn't realize the full magnitude of this place. He glanced around, saw that nobody was watching, and opened the door. And prayed for forgiveness.

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