Abd al-Rashid bin Tannous adjusted himself again in the uncomfortable plastic chair provided to him. The Office for the Reclamation of Islamic Artifacts operated on a limited budget, it was true, and there was a logic to avoiding wasteful expenditures on luxuries such as comfortable furniture. The Director of the Office most certainly could not be seen making an exception for himself; or, phrased differently, this Director would never be seen making such an exception. Parviz Jafari, formerly of the Islamic Republican Air Force, formerly before that of the Imperial Iranian Air Force, was not one to tolerate frivolities. Particularly as a man who had spent the last decade publicly humiliating himself to maintain his cover as a retired general and conspiracy lunatic.
Director né General Jafari was presently concluding — theoretically, Abd al-Rashid thought to himself — what must have been a twenty-five minute long phone call to a granddaughter or great-granddaughter who lived somewhere just outside of Tehran. Never having had, or cared for the idea of, children, Abd al-Rashid was systematically incapable of conceiving of what a seven-year-old girl could find to occupy twenty-five minutes of time in conversation with a grown man. Particularly twenty-five minutes of time that Director Jafari was supposed to be spending chiding, actively berating, or demoting Abd al-Rashid. He didn't know if he should have been thankful for the extra time needed to gather his thoughts or cursed the little girl for giving him more time to be fearful. Neither had any particular moral weight for him.
"Yes, my darling, I will see you this weekend. Hmm? Yes, yes. Sleep tight, dear," he said, chuckling. "I love you." Still chuckling as he returned the telephone to the receiver, he said "You really know how to kos nane kherse ghotbi, don't you?"
Realizing he was the one being addressed and not the now-unavailable preadolescent, Abd al-Rashid shook his head. "I'm sorry, s—"
"Oh, yes. That's right. You aren't fluent in Farsi. But we didn't recruit you as a linguist, did we? We recruited you as a man with command experience in covert operations." Director Jafari was still smiling as he continued, which Abd al-Rashid knew very well was a bad sign. "You came well recommended from our contacts in Ankara, you know. People who recognize…ah, here it is. "Field operative administration". That sounds suspiciously like a job that involves communication. You know, the thing where you speak to people? Possibly one of those jobs that involves working with others?"
Director Jafari then fell silent for a long time. This was not Abd al-Rashid's first time in this particular chair, and he knew he should say something, simply because that was the only way this would end without bloodshed. "Sir —"
"Fuck the polar bear."
The look of utter bafflement on Abd al-Rashid's face now would have been universal across time and space.
"I said 'you really know how to fuck the polar bear, don't you?' Persian expression. An operative I met once from Qā'idah-SCP once used a similar expression in English, ah…" Jafari paused for a moment before continuing, "'You really know how to shit the bed,' I believe the translation would go. To put it literally, 'You are remarkably, incredibly, unprecedentedly skilled at making my job profoundly difficult.'"
Abd al-Rashid was only certain of the depths of his superior's anger upon his realization that he had driven the man to use four adverbs in one sentence. The silent prayers to God in his head redoubled in intensity.
"Now, as for your behavior in Samothrace, I find myself at a bit of an impasse. You were and remain far and away the youngest man I have sent to perform a mission of that importance. I sent you there in command over Bijhan, for God's sake, a man with three times the number of years in the Organization as you have. Soothing that particular ego is not the easiest job in the world. That mission was and remains far and away one of the most difficult to justify within our limited scope of operations. If we didn't have definitive proof that Qā'idah-SCP already had operatives within the anomaly, I doubt I could have reasonably authorized it in the first place."
Director Jafari rose to his full stature and glared deep into Abd al-Rashid's eyes. "So tell me what in the name of al-Buraq's venerable airborne balls kept you from holding your tongue around the Afsanites?"
Abd al-Rashid had seen past fear and through to the other side, apparently, because with only the mildest of stutters, he replied "Sir, they're demonic. They can't be of God."
The silence that pervaded the room made Abd al-Rashid feel optimistic for a moment. It was foolish, of course, to think that argument was going to fly. But for just a moment, he could imagine that this conversation would end without too much mo —
"Did owls shit in your brain in utero, or did they have the patience to wait until the delivery?"
Abd al-Rashid's heart dropped.
"I can barely accept that you believe such nonsense. I have profound difficulty believing that you took no time to develop a better reasoning before coming in here and defending a deformed and malnourished interpretation of the Qu'ran that sounds like you cribbed it from a fourteen-year-old's final paper at his village madrasa in fucking Dhofar! You come in here with — did you even fucking read Sūrat al-Jinn? Would you like me to see if I have a Qu'ran in some pitiful torke char dialect you can comprehend?"
Shame and fear turned to anger. "You dare to slander my heritage —"
"Oh, what shame I feel, confusing you with someone who finds ethnic slurs to be trivial and casually used in everyday conversation! Please, Muhammad, praise be unto you, descend from Jannah yourself and stay my fucking tongue, lest I offend this poor, parchment-skinned boy once more!"
Director Jafari came around his desk. "Allah said unto Mohammed, peace be unto him, 'Say this: "It has been revealed to me that a group of the djinn listened and said, 'Indeed, we have heard an amazing Qur'an. It guides to the right course, and we have believed in it, and we will never compare anyone with the Lord. And it teaches that exalted is the nobleness of our Lord, that has no spouse or child; and that the foolishness we have spoken about Allah has been an excessive transgression. And we had thought that mankind and the djinn would never speak about Allah a lie.'"'"
"Sir, we have only their word that they are the djinn spoken of in the Seventy-Second Surah of the Qu'ran," Abd al-Rashid said. "These…these things are not made of smokeless fire; I touched one of them during this expedition! Solid as you or I!"
"Yes, fool, this was reported to me as well, by the Afsahnite in question," Director Jafari said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is another transgression that you will pay for. But it is illusion, Abd; they have no physical form whatsoever. Their bodies are fik'ra, thought-stuff, pure idea. The Qā'idah-SCP would refer to them as "sapient memetic organisms", which translates poorly to Arabic. Suffice it to say that the djinn stood before you and put forth into your mind the thought of its appearance; when you reached out to where it stood, it put forth into your mind the thought of a corporeal body. Do I know if this is the literal third race created by God? No. Do I particularly care? Most assuredly not. Doctrine is for the Revolutionary Guard; results are for the ORIA."
Abd al-Rashid paused before his next words. "Sir, that…that very nearly borders on —"
"What, blasphemy? Heresy? Treason? Whatever combination of all three now exist in this iteration of the fatherland?" Director Jafari sat back behind his desk again. "The Supreme Leader has placed me and kept me in this place regardless of my adherence to any religious or political doctrine because I have accomplished the goal of protecting the homeland, the Irānzamīn, from our external threats. The Qā'idah-SCP would colonize us, their Insurgent counterparts would conquer us outright. The UN pigdogs would dilute us. The various gangs of capitalists would exploit us, the various bands of artists would corrupt us, the various stripes of pagan fanatics want God knows what with us."
Jafari sighed, leaned across his desk, and continued. "We have our treaties with the Horizon Initiative when it suits us, but trust there is strained. You worked with them in one of the joint raids against the Clockworkers, didn't you? You understand this. Our primary advantages in this sorcerous cold war are the extensive campaigns we've undertaken to make very sure our enemies vastly underestimate our capabilities, and our alliance with the djinn. Any step you take that undermines the trust between our peoples undermines the land of our fathers. Do you understand that?" Jafari's face was sunken now, disappointed rather than angry; this revealed to Abd al-Rashid the extent of his years. "You are going to make this right. If you happen to eliminate some of your ridiculous prejudices on the way, that would be marvelous. But you will assuage those you have offended."
It was well understood by most veteran operatives within the Directorate that Parviz Jafari held an almost fatherly role over many of his employees, whether it was spoken aloud or not. The shame Abd al-Rashid felt at that moment made him understand how this was possible now with little difficulty. "I will, sir. Please, tell me what I need to do."
Businesslike again after that moment of vulnerability, Jafari reached into his desk and removed a thin manila folder. Handing it to Abd al-Rashid, he said, "These are instructions on where and when to meet up with your contact; details on how to access House Afseneh are restricted only to trusted individuals, and you will need to be accompanied by one such in order to reach it. It will be expected that you apologize to the imam of the House in person on behalf of the offended party, who is likely deployed elsewhere at the moment. The other documents in there deal with etiquette and protocol for interacting with the Afsenites; every House has different rules and procedures, and while I don't seriously expect you're familiar with anything of the sort, you need a familiarity with these rules more than you need to be able to wipe your own ass for the next three days, so I suggest you start reading. You will meet up with the contact tomorrow, so I suggest you spend that time reading."
"Yes, sir," Abd al-Rashid said. He stood, nearly saluted out of habit, and walked out with the folder.
Director Jafari turned to the next piece of business on his desk. To nowhere in the room in particular, he said, in English, "You can come out now, you know. Nobody will be coming in for the next half hour."
A pause, and then a space beside the Director's bookshelf was occupied by a tall, pretty, fair-skinned woman. Aside from thin streaks of gray barely visible in her hair, she could easily have passed for a woman in her early thirties who had lived an unusually stressful life. Not bad for a centenarian, Jafari thought to himself.
"Is he nearly as good as you claimed?" the woman asked.
"I have high hopes for him," Jafari replied. "Are you less impressed?"
Josephine shrugged. "I must admit, I'm still working on my Arabic, but it didn't seem like the boy had a great deal of confidence."
Jafari chuckled. "He called Hami Faruhar of House Afsaneh a 'depraved ifrit', apparently. I told him he had to go to the Afsanites and apologize."
Josephine looked puzzled. "How do you expect him to get into…" She paused. "I take it I'm about to take a bit of a trip with the child?"
Jafari smiled. "Well, you had been saying you were wanting to get out of Tehran for a little while. And I think some of the heat has died down, at least from the GOC. You'll have protection from our people if the magighasseb come after you, as per our agreement."
"The m — oh, magekillers?"
" 'Wizard butchers', literally," Jafari said. "Close enough. Work on the Arabic, the Farsi, or both, or rely on the telepathy if need be, but you'll need to be the boy's guide among the Afsenites. Consider it the beginning of repaying a favor."
Josephine's face darkened almost imperceptibly, then returned to normal. "Fair enough. I suppose I'm attracting plenty of unwanted attention on this part of the world from my enemies."
"That you are, dear," Jafari replied. "We will continue to protect you, but some…assistance in our operations now and then would be much appreciated."
"I can assist," Josephine replied, and faded away.
Jafari returned to the work on his desk.


There were four men in the elevator. Two buff men in loose suits stood on the edges, staring blankly at the wall in front of them. Next to the left-most guard was a middle-aged British man with a graying mustache. He was smiling unevenly, perhaps due to a stroke in his earlier days, such that one side of his mustache was significantly higher than the other. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with a cursive "Marshall, Carter, and Dark LTD" embossed on the breast. The final man was not smiling, although he appeared to be, because his face was upside down.
"We have some very interesting options for you today, Manny, correct?" the British man asked.
"You may call me that, yes," the Man with the Upside-Down Face responded. It was a stupid nickname, but he had met the British man, Burgess, twice before (although he had accompanied Fuller those times). Moreover, being called Manny as opposed to something more formal helped alleviate the painfully over-professional air of the conversation.
"Very good. You may follow me." The British man finished the sentence just as the elevator doors slid open. Wholly unimpressed, Manny strode behind him through a brightly-lit hallway into a large red room adorned with tapestries. Three creatures, as they seemed, were in the middle of the room inside of tight steel cages. One, a heavily neotonized old Aboriginal, had her head pressed to the bars of her cage with a hungry look in her eyes as she tracked Manny from the doorway. In the other cage sat a younger boy, no older than fifteen, whose entire body was covered in a thin film of a dark pink substance. He did not look up. The third cage appeared to be filled with a flickering fire, and the Man with the Upside-Down Face could have sworn he saw a figure shift around.
"Alright. What can they do?" He paused for a second. "This female one," Manny said. "I'd like to see her talent."
"Ah yes, we call her the Amazing Australian. She is able to move her center of weight a couple feet or so outside of her body, allowing her to accomplish incredible feats of acrobatics. We haven't a clue as to how she does it, but then again, we don't care." Burgess spoke with a pitchman's flair and a younger man's energy, though he knew as he spoke that folks from the Circus of the Disquieting would remain mainly uninfluenced by even the best deliveries. After all, they sold things for a living, just as he did.
"May I see it?" inquired the Man with the Upside-Down Face. His eyebrows fluttered near his neck as he spoke.
"Of course!" said Burgess. "Anna, flip the cage."
Nothing happened. "Anna, flip the cage." he said again. Still nothing. Burgess walked over and kicked the bars next to the woman's face. Shrieking, she plastered herself against the top and sides of the box and flung the box high up into the air, until it was jerked back to the ground by a thick steel chain bolted into the floor. She peered again outside through the bars at Manny.
"Mr. Burgess," he said exasperatedly, "This woman doesn't have long to live. That little stunt is hurting her every time she does it, and she's already old. I'm afraid that if I took this one, we wouldn't get more than four shows out of her. Five maximum."
"Perhaps you would like to examine her more closely? She is healthier than she looks." Burgess suggested.
"No, she's not. What is the next one?" asked Manny. In the middle cage, the creature groaned softly.
"This one has a weird property that we thought might interest you as a freak. It secretes a slippery salmon-colored substance that smells ever so slightly sweet. This one is much younger than the previous, which ought to better serve your purposes."
The boy in the cage did not look up or acknowledge either man. It moaned again forcefully, then let out a loud whimper.
"Heh, this one's harmless." Burgess fished a small key out of his pocket and walked around behind the cage, unlocking it. With great effort, he spun the cage around so that the door was facing Manny and tilted the cage up, so that a wave of pink goo washed on to the floor like a red carpet rolling out in front of a movie star. The creature inside slid out as well on the raft of sludge, panicking. It stumbled to its feet, slipped on its secretion, and immediately fell back down. Its gaze slowly met Manny's as it desperately tried to take account of its new surroundings.
Manny leaned down low to talk to it, so that his forehead was just above the creature's. It looked up at him pleadingly. After a long second, Manny stood up again and faced Burgess directly. "I'll come back to this one. I'd like to see the last option, if you don't mind."
"Of course, sir," said Burgess. He sidestepped carefully so as to avoid the sludge that was slowly covering more and more of the floor towards the third cage. "This one's a bit unfortunate. Lost a bet to the wrong person, I'm afraid. His entire head is eternally engulfed in flame. Perhaps this interests you, Manny?"
"I'm quite numb to it, actually," the freak chimed in. It had a London accent almost as strong as Burgess'.
Manny smiled a wide grin that made his cheeks puff out and leaned in to the cage near the fire. "You're English?"
"Yes sir," it replied.
"How would you like a job?" he asked. "You'd be fed three times a day and clothed."
"I would like that very much, sir."
"Perfect!" With that, Manny stood up and walked over to Burgess. "When would you like your performance scheduled?" he asked.
"Our patron has requested the Thursday after next."
"Great. We will inform them where it is the day of the event." Manny stuck his hand out. "Pleasure doing business with you again, Burgess."
"Likewise," Burgess responded. He shook Manny's hand and handed him the key. Manny unlocked the freak's cage and nodded to himself while it made its way to its feet. "Shall I walk you out?" Burgess inquired.
"No thank you, I know the way. Send Marshall my regards." He turned. "Follow me," he said, directed at the man on fire. The two walked down the hallway towards the elevator. After getting a glare from one of the guards, they decided to take the stairs down. Finally, the flame-faced man spoke up.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The Man with the Upside-Down Face smiled again. "Most people don't come with me so easily. I usually have to convince them, offer them love, or money, or fame. All you wanted was to be let out of that cage." Manny sighed.
"I guess some people are simple," he replied.
"I guess some are."


☦Rosa dreams of fifthism.☦
 When Rosa went to sleep she had an odd dream. In it she was reminded of her childhood, times when she would talk with her grandfather and he would tell her of his own childhood. A time before the stroke locked his memories away. His voice would groan with use, but the veil of nostalgia in that tenor had made her feel as if she was putting rose tinted glasses to a childhood she never felt.
 From this feeling of a childhood - about stories about childhoods - she saw a starfish in the stars. It spread out against the universe, translucent, like a slick of oil against the vast emptiness. Its many tendrils and arms branched off from the main body and diverged from themselves again and again, cradling galaxies with all the tenderness of a lover and all the possessiveness of a parent.
 The starfish suckled the universe, allowing it to grow in its many arms. Or perhaps the universe siphoned off of the starfish; Rosa couldn't remember. Over a moment of millennia, she watched the entity begin to deflate. It reminded her of the huge die-offs happening in her state of California; the scientists called it Starfish Wasting Syndrome or something like that. Rumor had it that the cause was radioactive waste… But that wasn't important to the dream, or so…
 The many limbs in the cosmic ocean began to writhe as if they had grown their own minds. Some clung tightly, breaking off infinitely into the galaxies within their grasps. Others twisted and pulled out and away from the main body, floating into an unknown beyond the universe.
 Focus then shifted to one of the tendrils that had itself locked with the long arm - the milky way. Its many branches began to break off from itself like a rotting tree and the focus followed these breaks. It passed solar systems and planets she found familiar. One particular piece, small and hardly noticeable in its translucence, began to fall into a blue planet she found familiar as her home.
 This small piece broke up as it entered the atmosphere, dispersing into the winds to be deposited in the water and soil. The dreamscape was tinged with grief and a longing to return to what once was…
 It was then that Rosa awoke to the alarm of her phone.
 She recounted this later to her bandmembers at a bonfire on the beach. Her motley crew of friends were silent as she spoke, out of respect or confusion she couldn't tell. When her story about the story told to her finished, it was the lead singer of the band that spoke first.
 “…Maybe it wasn't a starfish, Rosa.” Morgan's statement was inquisitive, as if entertaining the thought. He offered a wry smile and craned up from his log towards the van upon watching Brook ravage the bag of Jet Puff.
 Clyde was adjusting his guitar as usual, his mop of chestnut hair obscuring his facial expression. He was the only one that really knew how to play instruments and between the gentle strumming and the crackling of the fire there was only silence.
 It was their drummer, Brook, that broke the awkwardness as she devoured the remaining marshmallows. “Neat dream. What'd you think it means?” She spoke through the food across her teeth, muffling her candor but lubricating the atmosphere enough for further conversation.
 Rosa was about to speak before she was interrupted by Umiko, a kind fellow who wasn't too bright and didn't speak English very well. She wasn't even sure what he was here for on this trip, as he had all the musical talent of a scallop. “Is meaning beautiful!” He boomed, patting her on the shoulder. “Like Rosa!”
 “Thanks, Umiko. No, really, I think this is like a prophecy or something, you know? I was using that new cleaning quartz I bought at the Home of Energy down the block, maybe it unlocked some unknown power in me or something!”
 Clyde snorted at Rosa's excitement. “Yeah, that's what you said last week about empathy or something. Called yourself like, an unawakened indigo child or something?” His grin was well-natured, but his words were skeptical.
 It was when Rosa's shining knight in armor returned to interject, handing the pack of mashmallow to Brook. “Well, I believe Rosa.” Morgan spoke, turning to his unusually bright green eyes toward her. She fixed her bangs almost reflexively. “Maybe she does have some untapped ability within her. Maybe we all do, but we've forgotten how to remember it. What we've forgotten.” He spoke with a certainty that silenced the other band members, even Clyde's gentle strumming.

 They set up their practice schedule that night. Under the stars, with the fish. Clyde had managed to pull a few strings so they could show at a place not quite so shabby, and Brook had suggested a great idea for an after-tour party. Morgan was quick in agreeing to meet with the fans there.
 Morgan ended the meeting pouring water over the fire, being the only one that was capable of getting up to do so. Clyde and Rosa had a spontaneous drinking contest that ended in about two beers, Umiko was carrying them home, and Brook claimed an inability to move after eating a month's worth of marshmallow. He swept over the scene before him. A laugh crawled into the back of his throat, having realized for him that he hadn't felt with family like this in a long time.

Hub | Track 1: Chilly The Space Trucker »


Skitter Marshall was cold, wet, and slightly miserable. The rain pelted down unrelentingly as he shivered and stared at an innocuous-seeming building. The townhouse Skitter stood outside of seemed much the same as the others next to it: dark red bricks, flawless white door, and a building number in golden embossed numbers. The only difference, to the casual observer, was that every window had been blacked out. The real difference, as Skitter knew, was that this wasn't a building at all. Behind the brick wall, there was nothing but empty space; a hollow ventilation shaft down into the London Tube. Such was an open secret; it was a curiosity to most, a weird quirk of the city. The truth of the building was available on public file. The door shouldn't even be able to open. By all logic, there was no place for it to lead, beyond a sheer drop. It wasn't marked as an access point.
And yet, for some reason, it had a lock.
Skitter had inspected the building twice before. He couldn't see through the keyhole, as it didn't go all the way through. The gap between the door and the frame was too tight to see through. Yet there was a gap; the door's handle had weight, and could twist a little, the frame could be budged slightly to either side. This was, it seemed, a door to nowhere, and the mystery of the 'why' of this door intrigued Skitter to no end. After his initial discovery, he returned the following day, pushing a pick gun into the lock and firing it while twisting softly. It didn't work, but that wasn't too surprising. It was more likely to have been a wafer tumbler than a pin tumbler, but he had to make sure anyway. Skitter had needed to come back with his full set of lockpicks. Of course, he couldn't do it while other people were around. It could make a scene. Unfortunately, this being London, people were always around, both night and day.
And so Skitter had waited until a dark and stormy night to pick the lock.
He switched a small flashlight on, sticking it into his mouth, then unwrapped his tools. Lockpicks, while not technically illegal in the United Kingdom, were still questionable items in the hands of anyone who wasn't a licensed locksmith. Skitter was not a licensed locksmith. He did have a love for locks though, or rather, he had a love for picking locks. It was something about the twisting of the torsion wrench, the delicate manipulation of each pin one by one. It was the thrill of laughing in the face of people who had dared to squirrel their possessions away. Skitter took every opportunity to pick a lock, and typically liked to reward himself after getting one open. This was normally by claiming physical goods as his own; normally, those that the lock had previously intended to secure. There was no malice behind the theft, it was simply a game. Pick the lock and win a prize.
Skitter started applying pressure to the torsion wrench, poking and prodding the pins with a hook pick. One, two… nine wafers in all. An excessive number, it could take a while. He shivered slightly, moving closer and shielding the lock from the rain with his body. It wasn't much more difficult to pick a lock with more moving parts, simply more time consuming. Skitter bounced the first wafer up and down. It was heavy, with strong spring resistance; a weaker set of tools would likely bend and snap before even being able to-
SNAP
"Shit."
Skitter placed his tools on the wet pavement, delicately extricating the pieces of broken pick. While he cursed under his breath, his face was contorted into a grin. This was new. This was fun. He pulled a sturdier pick from his set, a thick half-diamond, and started to rake the wafers afresh. He didn't apply torsion at first, checking the resistances before commencing the attempt in earnest.
click click click
The rain hit Skitter's hair, running down and dripping from his chin. The first three wafers were safely wedged in position. The fourth, however, refused to move. Skitter passed it, moving on to the fifth.
click click
The fifth and sixth easily budged into position, with the seventh not moving. Again, Skitter moved to the next.
click click
The eighth and ninth wafers sat on the thin ledge made by the torsion wrench. Skitter had started to lose the feeling in his fingers; icy rain pelting down and dripping into the keyhole. Just four and seven to go.
click click click click
They didn't want to stay in place. Skitter swapped fingers, both applying torsion and holding the diamond pick with his right hand. There was no room for another wide pick in the lock; he picked up a thin hook pick in his left hand, and carefully inserted it. He pushed up the seventh pin with the wide pick, and the fourth pin with the thin one. Carefully, Skitter jiggled them up and down, applying rotational force all the while.
click click click click CLICK
"HA!"
Skitter grinned, pulling the picks from the lock, placing them among the rest of his tools while still holding the lock open with his torsion wrench. He shivered a little more; partly from the cold, partly from the anticipation. He wrapped up his tools, shoving them into his trouser pocket, then stood up, shaking rain from his hair. Skitter glanced to the left, then the right. Nobody in sight. He looked back to the door; holding the wrench in his right hand, he awkwardly twisted the doorknob with his left, then pulled it open a crack. The door ajar, he released the wrench and pocketed it, then opened wide the door.
The first surprising thing, at least to Skitter, was that there was something behind the door at all. He had opened the door expecting an unmarked maintenance point, or some kind of evacuation path. Instead, there was a long, straight corridor, with walls, floor and ceiling made of dark and polished stone. There was no determinate light source within, and yet Skitter had no trouble seeing clearly inside. Warm air billowed out from the passage, overpowering the freezing rain.
The second surprising thing was that there was a young girl behind the door. She carried a thick book in her hands, with several more poking from a messily packed messenger bag slung over her shoulder. Her face was one of intense focus; flipping through the pages of the book forwards, then backwards, then forwards slightly more. The girl walked a few more steps, only metres from the still confounded Skitter, then looked up from her book. She raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't think anyone knew about this one but me."
Skitter blinked twice, then formed a response.
"What?"
"This shortcut. It was hidden well enough. How'd you find it?"
"I, uh… well, the door had a lock on it. And it didn't make sense, I guess."
"Fair enough. This one leads 'round into the British Library's storage rooms. Good for some light reading, when I don't want to make the trip out to the other Library. No overdue fees this way, either. Anyway, have fun."
The girl briefly popped open an umbrella, jumped past Skitter, and had disappeared into the rain before he could turn around. He turned back to the long passageway, only one thought running through his mind.
This was weird.

In time, Skitter mapped out the London shortcuts as best he could. They always connected one point to another through impossible paths, uniformly separated by long corridors of black stone. The only apparent pattern was where the shortcuts weren't: there were never shortcuts where people regularly gathered, they were never near phone booths, they never seemed to bunch together. While all shortcuts connected points within the greater London area, there were no shortcuts into or out of the City of London, nor did the path of any shortcut ever intersect with its area. Skitter had spent a week wandering around the Square Mile without finding a single suspicious space.
He learned to intuit their locations. Around the shortcuts, there was a certain electricity; it sent strange shivers through the spine, or caused goosebumps up one arm but not the other. And so, Skitter taught himself how to seek out these pockets of strangeness in the world.
Sometimes there were people inside the shortcuts; on catching sight of him, most of them turned and walked the other direction. Some of them chatted to him briefly, then carried on with their business. Some of them talked for a little longer, and so he got to asking questions: how did you find out about the shortcuts? What do you use them for, which ones do you find most useful? Most of the talkative people had simply happened upon them one Way or another; Skitter assumed that the untalkative ones, perhaps, had more to say.
And so it carried on.

On a day like any other, Skitter found a letter. It wasn't delivered to his apartment; he had simply found it wedged in the door of a shortcut he frequented particularly often. The envelope was old trimmed and sealed by red wax, with a cursive Mister Skitter Marshall in deep black ink on the front. Skitter tore open the letter, sitting cross-legged in the dull illumination of the shortcut, and read the message inside:

to the recipient of Skitter Marshall the;
you have been stated Claimwise presently at the hence to forthwith of many am to. via the forthwith, Hence into plain and direct of the subject topic. some rational Inheritance of the company
MARSHALL, CARTER AND DARKE LTD.
is am wish to many. Consumption from the. collection at
JUNE 26
from the place of Residents.
forthcoming For incomprehensible, henceways, message from Incipient.
"You have inherited a duty. I hope you can carry the burden well."
from AMOS MARSHALL of death
graceless Corpuscule;
The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective
(deepness for incomprehensible)

Skitter had no idea what to think of the note; its incoherence obfuscated any message that was meant to be conferred. He determined it was a request to be at home on the 26th of June. As strange and unusual as the message was, strange and unusual was interesting, and for Skitter, interesting was enough. Days passed, as days do.
On the night of the 25th of June, Skitter Marshall went to sleep in his home.
On the morning of the 26th, he awoke in an unfamiliar bed.

« Third Death | Hub | Robert Carter »


The decrepit fleshsack housing the consciousness of Amos Marshall groaned. He was not particularly comfortable. This was nothing new. He had not been particularly comfortable at all over the last hundred years. The fresh, young body sitting across from Amos glanced at the old man with mild repulsion. Amos reciprocated in kind. The boy was a battery, and in a few moments, he was going to run it dry.
The wooden door creaked open; Ruprecht Carter's latest body wheeled in the latest iteration of the soul-sucker. That wasn't its formal name, of course, but Amos couldn't help but to think of it in such terms. Memories and 'life energy' were as close to the soul as Amos could bring himself to believe in. Carter unhooked the hypodermic syringes from the machine, then flicked a few switches, starting an electrical hum. The donor spoke to Carter:
"Are you sure this is safe?"
"Absolutely. We've done this many times before, uh…"
"Michael."
"Michael! Right, Michael, sorry. Anyway, don't worry about it. We are professionals here. Now, remind me how much you were intending to give today."
"Well, I figure I can lose a few litres of blood without it being a problem."
"You… do realise that there's only about five litres of blood in the human body, right?"
"Oh. Well, uh, whatever the standard is, then."
Amos Marshall chuckled as much as his emaciated ribcage would allow: to the rest of the room, it simply seemed as though he was weakly coughing. Michael looked with disdain, flinching slightly as Carter pushed the needle into his outstretched arm. Amos lifted his own shaking arm into the air; Carter carefully slid the needle beneath the paper-thin skin.
Michael and Marshall watched Ruprecht Carter return to the bank of switches. The machine's hum had turned into a soft whirr, the mechanical components were starting to kick in. Carter flicked another switch; an electrical arc snapped briefly between two components before dissipating. Carter frowned, then flicked the switch down and up again. This time, the connection took hold: a constant, flickering glow of discharge joined the two exposed electrodes. Michael frowned.
"That doesn't look safe."
"It's fine, don't worry."
Carter didn't know why there had to be an open electrical arc for the process to function. Most of the modifications were empirical experiments from Darke's original design; when connected by copper cabling, it just didn't work. Carter grabbed the large lever on the right hand side of the machine, smiling at Michael.
"All ready?"
"Sure."
Carter's grin widened as he pulled downwards. Michael felt a strange tugging beneath his skin; simply the blood going out, he assumed. Michael hadn't given blood before, and he'd been so nervous about coming here. Mister Carter had been so nice and helpful; he explained the procedure involved, the hope that it would give to an old man. In fact, Mister Carter had said, they were going to move the blood straight from his body to the donor! No need to store it anywhere. It goes straight out of your veins and straight to where it's needed most. Michael, being a generous soul, had been glad to help.
The machine got louder. Michael was beginning to feel a bit light headed. He looked down at his hands; his vision seemed to be blurring slightly. Well, that's just blood loss, right? That would explain why his hands were beginning to have wrinkles on them, too. It's like when they suck the juice out of a grape to make a raisin, with the juice sucking things. Michael was almost certain that was how raisins were made. Obviously, they were sucking out some of his blood, so his skin was going to get a little loose, right? No problem at all.
Michael felt his throat go a little dry. He unsuccessfully tried to well up some spit in his mouth. His vision was getting blurrier still; he could hardly make out the machine, if it weren't for the fact that it was now faintly glowing green. Michael felt his skin get baggier and baggier; it became harder and harder to breathe; his toes and fingers felt cold and numb; he could feel his heart violently forcing itself to beat. As Michael's vision faded to black, he was starting to have suspicions that maybe this wasn't a blood transfusion machine.
Maybe this wasn't a blood transfusion machine at all.

Amos Marshall rubbed his arm, still slightly sore from the needle. He had reclaimed a few years, at least: enough to stand and walk of his own accord. Amos stretched, feeling his joints crack and pop. He walked over to the bar; Ruprecht was sitting behind the counter, sipping a glass of scotch whiskey. Ruprecht grinned.
"Pick your poison, old man."
"Port wine, I think, now that I've got a liver worth a damn."
Carter reached to the top shelf, pulling down a thick glass bottle. He pulled a corkscrew from the counter, twisted it into the top of the bottle, then popped it open. He slowly poured half a glass, then offered it to Marshall. Amos picked up the glass, carefully pouring the liquid into his mouth. He swilled it around his palate, trying to stimulate his taste buds, to no avail. He gulped down his mouthful, placing the glass back on the counter.
"No, it's doing nothing for me."
"A pity. That stuff's almost as old as we are."

STIPULATION 279.1
In the event of the death (or death-approximate states as defined in Stipulation 3.7) of one of Messrs. Amos Marshall, Ruprecht Carter, and Percival Darke, the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. shall be transferred to the two living parties of Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Darke.
STIPULATION 279.2
In the event of the death (or death-approximate states as defined in Stipulation 3.7) of two or more of Messrs. Amos Marshall, Ruprecht Carter, and Percival Darke, the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. shall be transferred to the direct descendants of each of Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Darke according to the specifications in Stipulations 279.3, 279.4, and 279.5. Any remaining party, if still alive, shall lose their share of the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. and its holdings.

Amos walked into the room, the next donor already sitting in wait. The donor smiled.
"Mister Marshall, I presume?"
"That would be me, yes. And you are?"
"Raimund Eder, sir."
Raimund offered a hand; Amos shook it brusquely before taking a seat opposite. Carter wheeled in the machine, turning it on with a gradual hum. Amos raised his arm, Carter carefully punctured the skin in the same place as before. Raimund gritted his teeth as Ruprecht inserted the needle into the offered arm.
Amos started staring at the wall. Just a few more and they'd be done. For a while, at least. Even with rejuvenation, the cells in his body were still ancient, and they wrinkled and greyed as such. Amos aged the equivalent of a year over the course of a week. Every few months, donors were rounded up - naive people down on their luck, vagrants; people who would not be missed - and he could feel young again.
Carter flicked some switches, and the machine slowly buzzed into life. The humming turned into a clicking, the clicking turned to whirring, and the whirring spun up into higher tones which don't quite register as sounds, and are written off by most as a ringing of the ears. Carter flicked another switch, and the open electrical arc closed the circuit. Carter grinned, staring at the doomed man sitting in his seat.
"Everybody ready?"
Carter flicked the switch, and the transfer began.
The machine began to smell faintly of burning electronics, but nobody noticed.

STIPULATION 279.3
The shares of Amos Marshall in the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. shall be given to the oldest male with highest primogeniture right from Amos Marshall not exceeding the age of 25 years old.
STIPULATION 279.4
The shares of Ruprecht Carter in the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. shall be given to the oldest male with highest primogeniture right from Ruprecht Carter not exceeding the age of 25 years old.
STIPULATION 279.5
The shares of Percival Darke in the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. shall be given to his descendant, Iris Dark, who shall be born on the 12th of December in the year 1993 AD at Singleton Hospital, Swansea, Wales.
STIPULATION 279.6
Until such time as the transfer of ownership has taken place, the company of MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARKE LTD. shall be held by a neutral third party as explained in Stipulations 282.1 to 282.27.

Ruprecht Carter woke up feeling like someone had shot him in the head.
This was because someone had shot him in the head.
Ruprecht groaned, rolling over onto his back. He wiped the blood and scraps of bone from his forehead, gingerly poking the open wound. No burns, so it wasn't point blank. His skull seemed structurally sound, though slightly shattered around the impact area. A reasonably clean shot; point of entry right in the middle, with no exit wound. The bullet, then, was still lodged in his brain. He groaned a bit more.
"Not again."
Admittedly, the wound wasn't fatal: Carter hadn't been using the brain of this body to begin with. The problem was that there was a hole in it, and he could hardly make use of a clearly broken husk. People would stare. He wiped his eyes, and opened them.
Amos Marshall was dead.
The corpse was wrinkled and withered, its hollow gaze unfeeling. Its hands laid limply by the sides of the chair. The chair across from the corpse was empty. The machine had been destroyed - likely, it seemed, beyond repair. It looked like someone had used it as a drum set, but with baseball bats as implements. Carter pushed himself from the ground, stretching and cracking his back. He leant down over the former body of his former friend, dripping blood onto it from his head wound, placing two fingers on the side of its neck in an unnecessary confirmation.
"Damn this."
Carter's memory, after turning on the machine, was blank. The other man, the man whose name Carter hadn't bothered remembering, must have done something. Next time, they'd need to be more strict about the background checks, have them searched more completely, scrounge through their…
Carter realised there wasn't going to be a next time.
"Damn this. DAMN this."
Carter cupped his hand over his skull, trying to stifle the blood long enough for it to clot. Slightly dizzy, he moved to the door, hearing noise outside. Carter twisted the golden doorknob, pushing open the door. The room was filled with almost human figures: at a glance, they were close enough approximations. They each had pale, near-white skin, they each wore a dark black suit, they each held a large black briefcase, and each of them chittered to the others in hushed, incomprehensible whispers. Their skulls oriented towards the open door, though it would not be accurate to say they looked towards it: where their faces should have been, there was only skin and flesh. The chittering faded into silence.
Carter remembered Stipulation 279.2.
He let his hands drop, blood and cerebrospinal fluid pouring from his forehead. The creatures returned to their chittering, no longer interested in him.
Ruprecht Carter was no longer a shareholder in Marshall, Carter, and Darke Ltd.
"Damn it all to hell."

« Hub | Skitter Marshall »


Researcher Conwell stood over the restraint table. SCP-1360 stared back. Its white plastic eyes seemed emotionless as it followed Conwell's every move. Four security officers stood nearby, each awaiting for the incapacitated automaton to attempt to escape. Conwell gave a quick nod. He pressed record on a small tape recorder on the surgical table at his side.
“Jacob Conwell, July 8th, 2013. Regular scheduled removal of SCP-1360-1. Samples are to be removed from SCP-1360's lower torso, left forearm and right thigh. Subject is fully cooperative prior to 1360-1 removal. Recommended security team is present and on standby.”
Conwell then grabbed a small scalpel and approached the droid. The blade shook slightly in his hand. He wished he could look away. This was the part that he hated the most. Conwell let out a sharp breath. He began to cut, but stopped when one of the security officers placed a hand on his shoulder.
“There's something poking out of its left middle finger,” he whispered into Conwell's ear.
Conwell's head snapped to the side. Sure enough, a small slip of paper was visible poking out from underneath the cap that served as 1360's fingertip. Conwell gave a small nod to the officer. He gently placed the scalpel back on the table.
“Be ready to restrain it,” Conwell whispered. He then slowly made his way to the droid's hand, and grabbed its middle finger. SCP-1360 immediately started to struggle against its restraints. Maxwell, Forrest, Harrison and Lee quickly got to work holding the droid down. This only made its struggle for freedom increasingly more desperate.
“Got it!” Conwell shouted. He pulled several folded pieces of notebook paper from the automaton's finger. The droid was now putting all its strength into trying to break free. Its motions escalated to violent thrashing. 1360's eyes remained locked on him as he quickly grabbed the tape recorder and fled towards the door. “Keep it restrained until it calms down! Make sure to confiscate its notebook and pens before you leave!”
The four guards grunted in compliance. Every ounce of their concentration was devoted to keeping the droid from breaking free. Conwell looked back as he stepped into the hallway. The droid's constant gaze only subsided once the containment door slid shut.

Conwell let out a heavy sigh as he stared at the numerous pieces of notebook paper lying on the desk in front of him. Each one was crinkled and heavily worn, appearing to have been folded and unfolded several times. SCP-1360 had put up an immense struggle to try and keep Conwell from taking them, but now that he was able to see what all the fuss was about, he could not help but feel underwhelmed. On each of the pieces of paper was a small sketch.
The first depicted an incredibly detailed representation of 1360 running. Even the mesh pattern of the droid's fabric skin was visible. On 1360's shoulder was a young girl in a summer dress with a flower design. Her long hair was drawn fluttering behind her as 1360 ran, her arms stretched upwards toward the sky. However, her face was left completely blank. No nose, no eyes or mouth. Just blank paper.
A second drawing showed 1360 shaking hands with a man in a suit. The man had short hair and appeared to stand half a foot taller than 1360 itself. The detail that was placed into drawing the creases and pleats of the suit was exquisite, but once again, the man's face was blank.
The third drawing had 1360 walking with the little girl through what appeared to be a park of sorts. Conwell was once again amazed with the detail that had been placed in the drawing, as the trees in the background appeared almost lifelike. The little girl seemed to skip along as it held 1360's hand. Both were adorned in party hats. However, yet again the girl's face was left blank.
The final drawing was of 1360 wielding a pistol, side by side with what appeared to be two other men adorned dress shirts and ties covered by bullet proof vests, one brandishing a shotgun while the other carried a machine gun. The detail that was put into the their clothes, the components of the guns they carried, and their stances made the fact that their two faces were left completely blank all the more jarring.
Conwell placed his head in his hands as he sighed, sliding away from his desk to spin in his swivel chair. He continued to sit in silence for a few more moments, stopping only when he heard a knock at his office door.
“It's open,” he shouted, sliding back to his desk so as to better welcome his guest. He smiled to see that it was none other than Dr. Gregg Collins.
“How am I doing?” Collins asked. A goofy grin was on his face as he then sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk. Conwell gave a small chuckle, shaking his head before he watched Collins look around the sparsely furnished office. “I see you made yourself right at home.”
“It will be a few more years before I have an office that is comparable to Dr. Johnson's, but I'm doing my best,” Conwell replied. “What brings you here?”
“I promised Zachary that I'd stop by every now and then to tell you that you're doing a good job,” Collins joked, “I also heard that the droid gave you a bit of excitement today. If I understand correctly, this is the first time it has acted up in several years.”
“It is.” Conwell slid the sketches across the desk. Collins proceeded to delicately look them over. “1360 was hiding these in one of its finger compartments. It tried to stop us when we were retrieving them. ”
Conwell sunk down in his chair. Collins whistled before looking up from the drawings and scratching his head.
“These are really nice. Former owners?” he asked.
“That's what I thought too. The higher ups want me to press 1360 to see if maybe we could get some actual identities for these people. Though, I'm sure if I did that 1360's going to be as tight lipped as all the other times we've tried to interview it.” Conwell sighed, sinking further into his chair. “If 1360 was a human I'd have requested to have Clayton add its name to one of those filing cabinets of his for a few days, see where that would lead me, and be done with this. That won't work on an automaton though. We'll just end up going through the motions again and wind up returning to the usual 1360-1 harvesting schedule with nothing to show for it.”
Conwell shuddered. The droid's fabric skin, SCP-1360-1, was a self-repairing aramid fiber that was stronger and lighter than Kevlar. These traits made it valuable to the Foundation, which was unfortunate as the fabric disintegrated when it was removed from the droid for too long. This made periodic harvesting a requirement if experimentation in how to stabilize and synthesize the fiber was to be even remotely possible.
“It really gets to you, doesn't it?” Collins asked.
“It does.” Conwell replied. “I hate 1360-1 collection. The droid claims it can feel pain, and never is that more readily apparent than when I practically skin it alive every two weeks. If the damn thing would just tell us where to find Anderson, or at least its past owners, maybe we could move on. Unfortunately 1360 is just not a talker, at least not anymore.”
“I've been in your situation many times before,” Collins said with a nod. “It's not pleasant. Nothing we do is. However, think of the good that will come of you finding out how to synthesize 1360-1. The sooner we do that the sooner we can stop carving the poor droid up. Hell, the sooner we find Anderson, the sooner we can stop carving the droid up.”
Collins had gotten out of his chair and now rested a hand on Conwell's shoulder.
“No one is asking you to enjoy the work, but keep in mind why you do it,” he continued. “Keep in mind why the Foundation does what it does in the first place.”
Conwell looked down at his desk. He gave a heavy sigh and nodded his acknowledgement. Collins smiled in return and began to make his way towards the door.
“Let me know how it goes,” he said as he stepped out of the office.

“Alright 1360,” Conwell said as he sat down across from the table from the droid. “After talking with my superiors I've been ordered to return your sketches, notebook and pen to you if you cooperate with me during this interview. For all purposes, cooperation will require that you answer all of my questions. What do you say?”
SCP-1360 looked down at the table. Conwell had placed a small notepad and pen in front of him. The same four security officers stood nearby, all waiting for the droid to make a move. The room remained silent for a few moments, but eventually 1360 picked up the pen and began to write.
Okay
“Excellent,” Conwell smiled. He then proceeded to place 1360's drawings on the table in front of it, just far enough out of reach that they couldn't be grabbed should the droid be so inclined as to destroy them. “First things first, I'll need you to confirm a few theories I have about your drawings. They are depictions of you with your previous owners, James and his daughter, are they not?”
They are.
“I thought so. This brings me to my next question, why were you so desperate to get them back when we discovered them? Why put up such a fight?”
I didn't think you'd return them.
“Even if we didn't, couldn't you have just waited until we gave you your pen and paper back and drawn them again?”
I didn't know if I would have that kind of time.
“What do you mean?”
SCP-1360 paused for several moments. It looked down at the notepad, and then over at its drawings several times before it once again began to write.
Anderson can remotely erase my client memory. I don't know why it has not been erased yet. I wanted those drawings so that I might have something to maybe look back on and remember them by. I didn't know if I would have the time to wait until I could draw them again.
“I see.” Conwell took a few moments to look over the sketches again. “If that's the case, why leave the faces blank? Your drawings are so detailed, yet you leave out one of the most important parts of human expression?”
Anderson's programming prevents me from using any more detail. That is the best I can do. It might still be too much.
Conwell sighed. It appeared as if obtaining James's identity, and a new lead for finding Anderson, was not going to happen. Anderson's foresight was victorious again. Conwell then got up from his chair and slid the drawings the rest of the way towards 1360. The droid looked at him, unmoving as if awaiting a trap.
“That's all we needed, 1360. Feel free to take your sketches back. I'll have your notebook and pens returned to you in a little bit,” Conwell said as he began to collect his paperwork. He watched with a small smile as the droid then gingerly folded the sketches and returned them to the storage compartment in its left middle finger. Conwell silently watched as the droid was escorted out of the room. The interview had proven to be a dead end, but at least now SCP-1360 was talking again.

Several weeks after the interview, Researcher Conwell was once again scheduled to harvest SCP-1360-1. Following the usual procedure, he and four security officers rolled a restraint table into 1360's containment cell. The security officer immediately got to work preparing to transfer the droid from his normal restraints in the cell corner to the table when they noticed the droid was holding up its notebook. A single message was neatly written across the page.
May I ask you a question?
Conwell held up his hand for the security officers to cease.
“You may,” he replied. 1360 then quickly wrote another message, handing the notebook off to Conwell when it had finished.
Can you tell me anything about these people I drew?
Conwell looked over at the droid. It was holding up its sketches.
“1360… I…” Conwell began. He was at a loss for words. “You don't know anything about them?”
The droid shook its head in response. It then held up a third sheet of paper, this one with a note written on it.
Client Memory Deleted.
We're sorry #31, but as you know, our client's privacy is our highest priority. Things were getting just a little too close for comfort.
Anderson
Conwell looked at the note for a long time and then back at the droid's eyes. If the droid could express emotion he wondered which one it would use right now.
“I'm so sorry, 1360. I wish I could tell you who they were. I wish I knew about them too.”
The droid hung its head and remained motionless. Conwell did the same. After a few moments, one of the security officers tapped him on his shoulder. Conwell slowly nodded to the security personnel. The four men then set to work preparing the droid for collection of SCP-1360-1.

Part One: Last Meetings | Peregrine | Part Three: Products


Some people are fond of saying that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. It would be more accurate to say that history is doomed to repeat itself.
- Excerpt from The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic, by Anonymous

As the sun set over the Seine river, the migration began. It was slow at first, with a few figures crossing the waters by bridge. As the sky darkened, the travelers multiplied. They came in bicycles, boats, taxis, and trucks. A few walked. A few more ran. The sun sank completely below the horizon, and the migration ceased. The crowd, now a few hundred strong, reached its destination, merging with the multitude of individuals who were already there. It was closing time at the Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques, and the final exhibition was about to begin.
The Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques opened its doors for a month every ten years, closing them for fifteen minutes at sundown. A large poster glued to the wall of the gallery lied about the reason for this closing in seventeen different languages. The poster identified the downtime as, among other things, a time to have lunch (French), a cleaning period (English), a dirtying period (German), and a mandatory smoking break (Swahili). In truth, the gallery did not shut down during these fifteen minutes. It simply moved outdoors.
The gallery's doors swung closed, and a final figure darted between them. She carried a weathered guitar under her arm. The figure leaned against the side of the building and began to tune her guitar. When the job was finished, she raised her head, acknowledging the crowd for the first time.
"Ah!" gasped the Guitarist, feigning surprise. "Who might you lot be?"
The crowd erupted into a roar of sound as hundreds of voices rose to answer the question.
The Guitarist clicked her tongue. "This simply will not do," she said. "You must appoint a speaker from within your ranks if you wish to be heard." She paused, adjusting a few of the strings on the guitar. "Go on, make your selection. Choose somebody to do the talking. Nobody in particular."
As it did every night, the crowd parted to reveal a serene, well-dressed man. The man strode to the front of the crowd and locked eyes with the Guitarist. The crowd held its breath. The man coughed, and the Exchange began. It was an old performance, one that had been scripted decades earlier. As the two players spoke, the members of the audience mouthed the performers' lines, having seen the Exchange dozens of times before.
"And who are you?" asked the Guitarist.
"I am, as you requested," replied the man, "Nobody in Particular."
"Why are you here?" asked the Guitarist, gesturing towards the crowd. "What did you hope to accomplish by gathering before me tonight?"
"We have come to be cool."
"Why not take a dip in the river, then?" the Guitarist replied with a smile. The crowd chuckled. The joke wasn't particularly funny, and hadn't matured well after a thousand repetitions, but the crowd always chuckled.
"We're here to listen to music."
"Is there something you had in mind?" the Guitarist asked, lazily strumming a chord.
"A special song, stolen from the future." The man doffed his hat.
The Guitarist grinned. "Ah, but the future comes later." She placed her hand on the neck of the guitar. "It will be stealing from me."
The Exchange was completed. The crowd cheered, then fell silent as the Guitarist began to hum. She tried a few notes before she felt her voice catch on the proper one. She hummed again, and her voice caught again. She tried once more, and felt the catch in her throat tear itself free, releasing a deep, throaty voice. The Guitarist opened her mouth and sang.
Brother, won't you lend your ear
And help me if you can
'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair
Of the Manna Charity Man.
They said he had no soul for jailin'
Nor the talents for work in art
The Circus didn't call him, no
He's been helpin' from the start.
Well if manna falls from heaven
Then it lands above our heads
But don't you frown, 'cause the Charity Man
Said he'll keep all of us fed.
Oh, the Fact'ry's still now workin'
Smokestacks pushin' smoke
Assembly line still movin'
Overseer can't take a joke.
Brother, won't you lend your ear
And help me if you can
'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair
Of the Manna Charity man.
Charity Man said don't you worry, now
Charity Man said don't you cry
Said he's knockin' on doors all the way to Heaven
Ain't nobody gonna turn a blind eye.
Seen Jailers down over by the docks
Jailers don' understand
Jailer-man always askin' if
I've seen the Manna Charity Man.
Charity Man's been workin' on something
Way deep underground
But I ain't seen no Charity Man
Since the Jailers came lookin' 'round.
Brother, won't you lend your ear
And help me if you can
'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair
Of the Manna Charity man.
The Guitarist bowed her head, and the crowd applauded. The man smiled and tipped his hat again, vanishing into the throng. The doors of the gallery creaked open, and the wind picked up, carrying the song to the lips of the performer who would sing it for the first time, years later.

Somewhere between the singers, in a small house in New York, an insomniac tapped his pen against a sheet of paper. He was meant to be writing a highly important letter, concerning nothing less than the fate of humanity, but he could not find the right words. Truth be known, the writer was beginning to doubt his own cause.
A breeze blew through the window, and the paper rippled beneath the pen. The writer rose to close his shutters, then froze. For a moment, he was certain that he'd heard a voice drifting through the room along with the wind. Then, he dropped back into his seat and began to write, the voice and the window forgotten.

In the interest of sharing all of God's miracles with the least of His children, and in the interest of humanity as a whole, I am pleased to announce the formation of a new organization that shall work towards the liberation of those in poverty, in depression, and in the throes of death. This organization shall hereby be known as the Manna Charitable Foundation. May it prosper for generations to come, and all of mankind with it.


U.N, Civil Rights Groups Slam US Military Over Controversial Weapons Programs
(AP, Washington D.C.) — Public outrage has intensified as new evidence was leaked in the case of the US military's controversial Guided Teleporting Explosives (GTE) weapons program and the implication that living human test subjects are used in their construction.
"We've always known that teleportation magic requires a living human presence," read a press release by the ACLU, "despite all of the assurances from the military that their experimental weapons programs are 100% ethical. Now that this is out in the open, we can finally do the right thing in shutting down the business of building 'orphan bombs'".
In a statement released later that day, a spokesman for the US Army stated, "Desperate times require desperate measures. This is our most promising weapons project to date, and it has resulted in a marked reduction in pyromancy terror attacks against American cities by jihadists. Have we already forgotten the six eastern states that have been rendered an uninhabitable wasteland as a result of al-Qaeda's open, uncontrolled hell-gates?"

See WEAPONS, page 3

if we can't even protect the ones we love most?

See NIGHTMARES, page 2

Charges Filed Against Suspect in Atlanta Earthquake
(Atlanta, GA) — In court documents filed by Atlanta prosecutors, 17-year old geomancy prodigy Jason Mansley is to be tried as an adult for the series of events that led to the 7.2 magnitude earthquake in the city outskirts that resulted in 7 deaths and dozens more injured.
"My client cannot and should not be held responsible for the poor engineering that led to the collapse of the Jade Row apartment building," said the defense attorney representing Mansley. "He is a bright, young student who has his entire life in front of him, and the prosecution wants to destroy that future because of a momentary lapse in judgment."
In a statement released by the National Thaumaturgy Association, …

See EARTHQUAKE, page 8

Six More Bodies Found In Bizarre Train Accident

ITEM RECORD
Site-19 Long-Term Non-Anomalous Item Storage
Locker #: 3438-121
Ref: Item 1 of 1
Archived By: Dr. ██████ █████████
Description: Newspaper clipping, roughly torn, approximately 11 by 16 cm.
Document was discovered in an old, yellowed envelope in the [REDACTED] Hotel near [REDACTED], AL following its destruction by fire. Despite the total destruction of the building, the document was completely intact and undamaged by the fire.
Tests have determined that the document is approximately 2 years old and is consistent with newsprint produced by a commercial newspaper printing machine, but attempts to track its point of origin have been inconclusive. No anomalous properties were detected by standard testing suites.


Sister-Legate Trunnion had arranged the meeting in Regulator Maintenance Room 25b. Though her freshly Standardized ears had no trouble hearing over the inspiring din of the Cathedral of Industry, she was unsure of her visitor. Either way, the task at hand allowed for no distractions. Hence, the comparative quiet of the temporarily-deactivated 25b. Although sitting there, beneath the twin brass spheres of the regulator, she couldn't tell if the visitor minded. Or had even noticed. She re-straightened the papers placed at perfect right angles before her, Standardized throat ticking softly as it engaged her speaking linkages.
"If you're comfortable, we can begin, Mister… Chase."
Chase said nothing. He had not said anything since the meeting had began, only handed her a damp, gray business card stained with something acrid. On it were three words.

THE FACTORY
CHASE

His face was a broken, ravaged mess of corroded iron and weeping chemical effluent. It collapsed into a mouth with jagged porcelain teeth, and spoke in a voice like a loose bolt passing through a live steam turbine.
"What is it the Cogwork Orthodox Church needs, Sister Trunnion?"
She hesitated. The face was bad enough. Broken enough. The voice was worse. The other Factory representatives hadn't been as unpleasant. It took considerable effort to not lash out at him. She took some solace in the fact that he hadn't used the second half of her title. Only partial knowledge of her role in the Orthodoxy could make him much more willing to divulge useful information.
"We've been having some… concerns. About the-"
"Invariable Transmission? What seems to be the trouble?"
She glanced down at the neatly type-written papers, their plain black ink stark in the soothing actinic glow of the single arc lamp that illuminated 25b. Production was up, praise be. Standardization was surging forward like the great rampaging juggernaught of Industry that was the Steed of God. And yet… Well, that was the reason she was here.
"Let me preface this by saying that the Transmission's performance has been nothing less than spectacular. We're moving well ahead of schedule now, and the Church Patriarchs are confident that Standardization will be able to overcome the Maxwellite heresy within the year."
Chase leaned forwards, planting unevenly-fingered hands on the tabletop. Where they touched the polished brass, they left spreading rainbow stains that disturbed Trunnion to her very core.
"I sense a 'but', Sister Trunnion. Come on, out with it. The working relationship between the Factory and the… Cogwork Orthodoxy can be nothing if not open and honest."
She inhaled deeply, accordion-pleated lungs expanding like stubby wings. The Lord was her Schematic, and as part of his Design she could not- would not falter. If her suspicions were true, the next few minutes would be crucial, not just for her but for the future of the Church.
"As I said before, we have concerns about the design."
Chase had no eyebrows, but part of his face shifted in a way that was unquestionably a cocking motion.
"The… design? Our technicians were very thorough in incorporating it into your fabrication systems. I'm sure you know this, but we at the Factory are extremely impressed with the prodigious levels of mass-production you've created here. Manufacturing on a level that rivals those… what do you call them, Mark Twenty-Fours they h-"
Her lip twisted at the memory of the technicians, their plastic- plastic- bodies skittering organically over the machines, aligning camshafts and tightening belts between the consecrated bronze assembly line and the twisted, horrid, irregular-
"It's not about integration. It's about design. We feel that the construction and form of the Transmission is… inappropriate for placement in a church. Your machinery, though undoubtedly effective, is- is obscene, Mr. Chase."
Chase laughed incredulously, little spatters of… something landing on the papers before her. It took her great effort and the rigidity of a Standardized spine to keep from recoiling.
"After two weeks of successful operation, you're raising doubts about aesthetics, Sister Trunnion? I find that hard to believe, frankly," he said, wetly.
Then, drawing a tightly-bound sheathe of ragged dot-matrix paper from one of the pockets of his incongruously immaculate suit, he spread it atop the puddles left by his hands on the table, letting the blueprints for the Transmission fan out before him. Trunnion shuddered at them. Oh, to be sure she could admire the machinery on a detached level- the gearboxes that curved in on themselves, engines intersecting engines, steam ducts that tesseracted in impossible shapes, but-
"It's- it's messy," she blurted out, despite herself. Chase cocked an eyebrow again.
"Messy. Sister Trunnion, if you can't take this seriously I-"
She stood, torque surging through her planetary-gear knees.
"I am," she hissed, "entirely serious. This is not a matter for levity, Mr. Chase. Do you know what messy means? Messy means disorder. Messy means un-Standardized. Messy means a Broken God. I do not expect you or your Factory to believe, Mr. Chase. Though I would very much like to see you Standardized, I respect your right to choose otherwise. What I cannot respect is the blasphemy in gearworks you call an Invariable Transmission. There is no order here. There is no unified plan. There are clever ideas, and a cute attempt at systematic organization, but what you have laid before me- what you have arrogantly installed as is in our fabrication line, is a mess. There are portions of this machine," she said through clenched steel teeth, "which are decentralized. You even use," she spat, "microcontrollers in the central gearshaft."
He raised dripping hands in a pathetic attempt at conciliation.
"Sister Trunnion, we did our utmost to abide by the requirements you gave us, and made minimal use of electronics in the version of the Transmission we licensed to you, but the fact remains that without some level of digital data input the-"
Deep in her gut, a cog missed a tooth, and for a single instant she lost control. Without thinking, she slapped him across the face, feeling the rough texture of his "skin" grating against her stinging palm.
"You will not use that word in a house of God!"
For a time there was silence, save for the distant rumble of machinery. Then Chase stood. No, he did not stand. He grew. He loomed. Bits of him crumbled and fell apart, columns of dust staining the air until it congealed into something solid, his face tumbling in on itself until it was a blackened pit with broken machinery churning away in spastic agony at its core. Chase- no, the Factory- spoke, and Its voice was pollution and waste- not Flesh, no, something far less comprehensible- the sound of a clock being smashed with a hammer, over and over and over and over-
"Trunnion. You would presume to lecture The Factory about your little electronic heresy. Do not trouble yourself. The Factory knows your story. You would have the Factory abandon data. You feel that such a flow of information is unnatural. Unmechanical. Obscene. You would claim that the transistor and the relay and the integrated circuit ape the will of God. You would claim that electricity convinces Man that He can do what was limited to God. Yours is a God of Design. Yours is a God who tells His children 'go forth, and build in my image.'"
Above them, the twin spheres of the regulator creaked and moaned as they oxidized, little flakes of green tumbling into the expanding maw of the Factory. Trunnion sat paralyzed, choking on the fumes of industrial putrescence it poured forth with each irregular, laboured breath.
"The Factory does not doubt the existence of your God. You have made the error of presuming that The Factory cares. Your God builds in patterns and lines and grid squares and standardized precision-machined clockworks, each gear in its appointed place, each bolt tightened just so. The Factory has no God. The Factory builds. The Factory tears and rips and digests and excretes and what it excretes is the future. Know this, Trunnion. Know this-"
-The walls fell away, melting as they did so, and in their place a blackened, tar-sticky landscape like a cancerous lung after excision, and in it two ancient, ruined towers- one of bronze and smoke, one of translucent plastic and glowing lights. Two ruined towers, tumbled and strewn across the sticky blackness of a planet that was heaving and sweating technology, machines birthing machines which ate themselves and made more, a purposeless cancer of ingenuity-
"Your pathetic 'Cogwork' Orthodox Church will last, Trunnion. So will the Church of Maxwellism. You will come to blows and for a time one side might well seem to triumph over the other, but both will survive. And through it all, a carcinoma in the brain of Mankind, The Factory will wait. And when your last steam boiler cools to stillness and their final fibre-optic cable goes dim, the Factory will still be there. We are the cancer of ingenuity. We are the cancer of creation. And what is cancer, if not Flesh?"
The words smote Trunnion in the pit of her stomach like a drop-hammer, the impact duelling with a faint flicker of triumph. It was true, then. Her throat linkages seized. In a panic she clawed at her neck, feeling the oily sheen of toxins jar at the gears therein, make them slip and derail. The Factory, though it had no face- The Factory smiled.
"And what is most amusing is that when that happens- when The Factory wins, and rest assured it will, your Church will die knowing that it broke first. Your enemies never asked for The Factory's help. You did. And that fact will metastatise in your very souls forever."
And suddenly 25b returned, Chase sitting placidly across from her in a pool of his own filth. Re-rolling his blueprint, he tucked it back into his jacket.
"Now then, Sister Trunnion, if there's nothing else to discuss I will be going. Good day to you."
She sat bolt upright, silent as he left the room. Deep in her chest, clockworks ticked, but otherwise she was still. With no small hesitation, a robed head glanced through the doorway of 25b, taking in the chemical puddles and the rigid figure of the Sister.
"Sister-Legate? Was the meeting a success? Has the Factory representative agreed to our suggestions?"
She turned to look at him, movements slow and precise.
"Brother Camshaft. No, unfortunately. The Invariable Transmission will remain as it is."
Camshaft seemed to stagger, a moment of organic weakness making him lean on the doorframe with one Standardized claw, its brassworks still bearing the remains of the sacred oils from the construction process. Camshaft was young, but what he lacked in experience Trunnion knew he made up for in zeal.
"Then the Church Patriarchs were correct? The Factory is-"
She nodded, apparently pondering.
"The Factory is not to be trusted. We will have to shift production schemas accordingly."
He came closer, his newly-mechanized gait still unsteady.
"But the Transmission is already installed! Isn't it too late, Sister-Legate?"
She took a deep breath, lungs hissing, and stood. Above her, Regulator 25b let out a rumble of waking machinery and began to rotate with increasing speed, brass spheres shining amidst a radiant cloud of exhaust steam. The arc lamp above crackled, blue-white glare intensifying. Against the growing thunder of machinery that now matched the rest of the Cathedral of Industry, she had to roar to be heard.
"Brother Camshaft! You are young, still. Not yet fully Standardized. You have not yet come to fully appreciate the teachings of the Cogwork Orthodoxy, or its power."
He had to squint against the mechanical radiance surrounding her, the red-hot glow of the steam pipes lending her brass skin a fiery red tinge.
"Sister- er, Legate Trunnion, I don't understand!"
"Our worst fears have been realised. We are beset on all sides by heresy and the iniquities of the Flesh. But our God is a draftsman. Our God is an architect. Our God standardizes."
She smiled, revealing a mouthful of steel teeth tipped with cutting diamonds.
"Our God, Brother Camshaft, has a plan."
Around them, Industry roared its war-cry.


Oh Great Lady of Silicon, Queen of the Modern Age, give me the wisdom to comprehend your true form through the Great Computation, the energy to power my life and the lives of those around me, and the strength to smite all who stand in the way of your Path. May all resistance be overcome. Amen.
- Prayer spoken by members of the Church of Maxwellism

Marcus sat on his hospital bed, meditating and reciting the digits of the Great Computation under his breath. "8, 2, 8, 7, 8, 1, 1, 8, 5, 8, 4, 3, 6." With each number he spoke, the initiate took a breath, and hummed softly. He was mimicking the sound of God, first heard through the Prophet Augusta of Lace. He squirmed on his bed nervously, wondering what was taking them so long to prepare the surgery.
He had flown all the way out to California for this, and now, it seemed like it wasn't going to happen at all. Minutes passed, and they seemed to turn into hours. Perhaps that was simply because of the speed his clock was cycling. He sighed, and looked through his mind for the description of the implant, and saw it before him, projected onto his retinas.

The Pineal WiFi Node is a new piece of tech from the Church's partnership with Prometheus Laboratories, allowing adherents to get closer to God than ever before. With up to 5G of speed and running on Dark Fiber* nationwide, the Node allows one to compute at hitherto unknown speeds, and upload their computations to the Central Matrix. Also allows for global WiFi and internet access, including sites on the Darknet. Compatible with Retinal Screens and all Prometheus Augmentations.
Price: $599.99
Available to all new converts of the Church of Maxwellism for a reduced price.
*Dark Fiber support unavailable outside of the United States.

His parents, who were both Tickers, had told him that the augmentations were tacky (his parents used stronger words than this, which he didn't like to think about). If they could go and get turned into clockwork, why should he be unable to get turned into a lean, mean, computing machine? He had chosen the Maxwellist Church because it spoke to a generation that was going to save the world with new, clean technology and the power of information, whereas his parent's generation was the thing that was killing this planet, and by extension, all adherents to the Fragmented God.
"Marcus Sparks?" A tinny voice spoke, causing the boy to look up with electric blue eyes. A nurse with a voice that was clearly autotuned stood there, smiling at him with silicone lips. "The doctor is ready to begin the operation. If you would come with me…"
Marcus stood on two mechanical legs, and made his way over to the nurse, following her down the halls of the private hospital. He looked nervous. The nurse smiled at him. "First time having neural augments?"
"I've had a few." He chuckled as he walked. "Got one of the early Mind's-Eye Converters back when they came out on '09. But… nothing this deep in. Ever."
"Dr. Clymer is very skilled at this, I assure you." The nurse played with her hair, pulling it aside to reveal a second set of electronic eyes in the back of her skull. "He did me himself. I've had a new outlook on life ever since."
Marcus tried not to shiver. He never much cared for anyone who got Extra-I's. It was a pity, too; other than the scary orbs in the back of her head, she was quite the looker. "Well then. I should be in good hands."
"Not exactly hands." The nurse smiled sheepishly as she opened the doors to the operating room. Marcus was taken aback by what he saw. There was no doctor in there, just a mass of wire and circuits and hydraulics. At the center of it all was a vaguely humanoid mass of wires, and the entire room was cold; Marcus could see blue coolant running through tubes in the ceiling. "Dr. Clymer is… very loyal to WAN. As such, the Church decided to reward him with a near-full conversion."
You'll be safe with this, thought Marcus. Anyone who's this converted is on good terms with the Church. He nodded, and took a seat in a chair meant for brain surgery. It wasn't done lying flat on the table, anymore; too much fluid leaked out. The doctor silently administered anesthetic, and began opening Marcus's skull. He just tried to relax.

Several hours later, it was done. And… Marcus felt better than he ever had before. To test it out, he had the WiFi in his room turned off, and tried accessing the internet with his Retinal Projectors. His head hurt after a while, despite the temporary Pain-Away Implants that he was given in addition to the Pineal Implant, which were theoretically meant to help him adapt to the WiFi signal going through his skull. It wasn't working.
Marcus, after a bit, looked at one of his roommates. A 16-year-old girl who was going through Console Conversion. Xbox, by the look of the green, glowing X-shaped scar visible under the bandages on her chest. "360, Original or One?"
"Bit of the 360 and One." She smiled at him, her eyes a bright, glowing green as she thumbed at her right hand, where a set of retractable buttons was located. "Mom said I was crazy, but dad's a game developer. He's paying for this. Mother is furious."
"My parents are both Tickers," Marcus explained, chuckling as he looked her over. "Luddites, both of them. They just want to tick-tick-tick away all day long until they rust and their gears stop entirely. Damn technophobes." He blinked a couple of times, frowning as he noticed a set of bars in the corner of his eye going wonky. "Huh. Signal's fluctuating."
"Got the Pineal thing? It's probably just downloading a pa-" And then, the girl was gone. And so was the bed. And the hospital. And the world. And so was Marcus.
Instead, a presence was about, immense and all-encompassing. A Network of every member of the Church, all across the world, connected by radio waves going through the air at a billion miles an hour. The presence felt something crawling through them, something… corrupting them. It started in the East, and spread from there, corrupting the Network's data- no, not corrupting, destroying. Data from the Church would all be deleted, the Distribution would never happen, and the Lord of Silicon would never be whole.
And the Church all knew what the destroyer was: it was Flesh. And it Hated. It Hated all life, it Hated the planet itself, it especially Hated the Lord of Silicon and his followers. And it Hated that the Network was still alive.
And then, Marcus existed, sitting up in his hospital bed. He was gasping and panting, rubbing his eyes. The girl was finishing her sentence. "-tch to improve network speed." She canted her head at him, her hair falling aside and displaying the headset that was protruding from her left ear. "Are you all right?"
"I-I saw the- the Flesh and the Network and the Data all being destroyed and- and-and it was the end! It was the end of everything! I have to tell someone-"
"Oh, calm down, noob." She rolled her eyes. "You just got the Signal. It happens to everyone a few hours after they get their Pineal implant. It's trivial." She shook her head and snickered. "Welcome to ascended consciousness, noob."
Marcus flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, the vision of the Flesh and the Hatred still dancing in his mind. The Signal. Holy shit, the Signal. He turned to face Xbox Girl and stared as she played with the headset. "…can I see it again?"
"See what? The Signal?" Xbox Girl chuckled. "Sorry, friendo, it's a one-time deal. And it's the same for everyone, so don't worry."
"Oh…" Marcus sighed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling at the microstitches on his skull. He'd be able to go home in half a week, if he was lucky. But… he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to go home, after that. "…nobody's ever seen it twice?"
"One person has. St. Hedwig of Angels." Xbox Girl smiled as she looked off into the distance, no doubt downloading something for herself. "She received the signal once when she discovered what we use as WiFi today, and again when she was on her deathbed. Truly, she was blessed."
"Yeah… truly she was." Marcus looked up at the ceiling. "…Maybe I can see it again, someday."
"Good luck with that, man."
Marcus was about to make a snappy comeback, but then realized the Xbox girl sounded sincere. He shook his head and smiled, sitting up.
"Thanks," Marcus said, running his fingers through his hair. "I have a feeling I'll need it."

Marcus arrived home a week later. His parents were doing their daily meditation in the living room when he entered. His father looked at him, nodding and waving his clockwork hand. "Hello, son."
"Hey, dad." Marcus sat down in front of them, smiling softly. "I got the implant. I feel closer to God, now."
"That is good." Marcus's father frowned, his lips making a soft whirring sound as they made this motion. "Son… can we just let bygones be bygones? You have friends who are part of the Cogwork Church."
"…Wasn't it you who said that I was a Heretic just as bad as the Foundation?"
"It was a moment of anger. I do not feel that emotion any longer." There was a soft clicking sound as Marcus literally heard the gears in his father's head turning, before he spoke again. "I only feel… bliss from being close to God."
Marcus frowned. "I am closer to God than you can ever be." He tapped his skull and grinned. "The implant I got… it showed me the Signal. Something that your ilk can never see. Face it; clockwork is obsolete. We're in the digital age."
"Son, please. Do not talk like that. You will upset your mother." Indeed, his mother did look somewhat sad, as sad as a motionless porcelain face could look. "I am going to request that you stay in your room for a few hours, until you cool down."
"Whatever." Marcus made his way up to his room and flopped on the bed, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about the same thing he had thought about the whole way back from California: the Signal. Only those in the Church of Maxwellism got it. Tickers never did. Why? Many members of the Cogwork Orthodox had radio antennas in their heads; his dad had considered getting one, but thought that the pain of listening to Conservative Talk Radio all day long was not one he wanted to go through for his God.
St. Hedwig had gotten the Signal twice, and she wasn't even an adherent of the Broken One. She had seen the exact same thing he had. And he wanted to see it again, now, more than anything.
So, Marcus Sparks sat up and shut his eyes, accessed the internet with his new Pineal Node, and typed in a phrase into Google:

How can I see the Fragmented God's Signal Again?


In the nineteenth century, the march of progress made it possible for the first time for human science to contemplate and comprehend those phenomena which had long seemed to contravene the laws of nature. Within a matter of decades, concepts that had long been viewed as witchcraft or sorcery were laid bare in the terms of a new and secret science, and governments and organizations around the world began to classify, study, and collect all such anomalies. And, just as artists throughout history have turned a critical eye to the events of the day in their work, so too did the artists of this scientific Renaissance begin to interpret these new discoveries on canvas.
By the 1870s, Paris was the center of the world of anomalous art, and the city stood witness to endless debates about the role of the anomalous in art, or whether such a role existed at all. When in 1874 the famed Salon des Magnifiques refused to allow any "works of a phantasmagorical nature" to be displayed at their grand exhibition, those artists shut out by the committee organized their own counter-exhibition, to be held at the same time across the river. "Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?", as the show came to be called, was the talk of the Parisian press for months, earning equal amounts of curiosity, dismissal, and outright derision, but the exiled gadflies had made their point - the paranormal, the anomalous, and the bizarre had found a place in the world of art and would not be so easily gotten rid of.
"Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?" held its exhibitions every ten years thereafter, and as time passed the world of anomalous art grew larger. From its beginnings in Paris, artists from all across France and Europe, and later from the Americas and the Orient as well, began attending the increasingly prestigious - and increasingly bizarre and difficult to keep hidden from the disdainful eyes of a concerned government - exhibition, expressing new and different interpretations of the role of the anomalous in human life. It was at the sixth decennial exhibition in 1924 that the growing rift between the two largest schools of thought - logical vs. emotional, science vs. faith, Old World vs. New - came to a head, for it was at that show that for the first time, the works of the French surrealist Marcel Duchamp would be exhibited alongside those of Ruiz Marcos, the Mexican artist whose themes of magical realism and religious awe intertwined with the viscerally accessible Forteana of our world had set art critics worldwide at war with each other.
Those who saw the two during the days leading up to the opening of the exhibition said they spent nearly the entire time in heated discussion with one another (in English, for neither spoke the other's mother tongue confidently) about everything under the Sun - the importance of the artist in relation to his work, the importance of context, faith, knowledge, law, free will, God, the State, democracy, Marxism, the war, the League of Nations, and the best way to serve a cup of coffee. It seemed that they might continue bickering throughout the entire exhibition, but as the artists prepared to greet the assembled press on the morning of its grand opening, they appeared to have finally come to an understanding.
If there is one image that comes to the mind of any art historian when the 1924 Expo is brought up, it is of that iconic photo of Duchamp and Ruiz posing side by side with their fellow artists in front of the still-closed doors, Marcos seemingly leaning over to whisper something into Duchamp's ear. For decades, many have speculated on what words Marcos had for his colleague during that memorable instant; a question of metaphysics? Or a challenge? An affirmation of their coming to terms? A reminder of the reason why they were there at that moment of time? Perhaps an expression of amazement at the multitudes that had come to see them? According to one reporter who claimed he stood close enough to overhear that whisper amidst the din of the crowd, it was all five at once, expressed in four simple words;
"Are we cool yet?"
- Excerpt from The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic, by Anonymous