Stackers Coffeehouse and Bar, N/A

Phaedrus sat in the corner of Stacker's Coffeehouse and Bar. Tonight was Open Mic, but he wasn't planning on staying for long.
A figure in black manifested at the door, nodding to the waitress on duty. The black mask with a golden "3" etched into it drew hushed conversation, but it was quickly drowned out by the latest singer. He took a brief glance around the room, locating Phaedrus in the corner and taking a seat. "Heya Phaed, whatcha got for me?"
"Not Starling business I'm afraid. Our contacts at OIS are acting up, they busted into our research lab last Monday containing Elfa-07. I need someone to have a word with them."
"Sounds good to me, I assume lodestone twelve is still hooked up to the OIS London research centre?"
"Indeed it is."
Phaedrus stood up and stretched, placing a gold-rimmed coin on the table. "Enjoy the rest of the entertainment tonight, I want this done early tomorrow though."
"Sure thing, see you around Boss."
"Thanks for your help, Julian." Phaedrus lightly rests his hand on Julian's shoulder. "Also, remember to take some time off at some point soon. You aren't invincible, however much you think you are."
Phaedrus pulled out his ticket, pressing the grey button. He blinked out, leaving Julian to listen to the soft piano chords now floating through the room.

OIS Research Facility, UK - Two days prior.

Jack checked his phone, quietly walking down the stark white hall. Research Lab 07, this was it. The echoes of whispered talk emanated from the next room. He slid the metal door open carefully, checking behind himself as he did. Nothing. He let out a sigh of relief.
Eyeing the empty room, he noticed a small vent mentioned in the briefing. Clambering onto the surface, he placed his outer vest and extra ammunition on the surface; it was unlikely that he would fit with all of it on.
Clambering into the metal vent he entered the lengthy confined space, realising it was even tighter than he had previously thought. Wide enough to crawl through, fortunately, though exiting would be rather difficult.
As the whispering got louder he slowly removed the phone from his breast pocket, clicking start recording. But, as he lay there, Jack slowly became aware of a form ahead of him, its eyes locked firmly on his through the darkness.
"So. What are we watching?"
He stared in horror at the figure. His eyes crossing as they slowly followed the barrel of an unidentified pistol now aimed straight at his forehead.
"I would ask if you want the easy way or the hard way, but I think that's ever so cliche. Either you cooperate, or you don't."
Jack nodded mutely.
"Wise decision. Well, first; who specifically sent you?"
"I- I don't know. I just get told to- I do—"
"Calm down, we are just having a chat, man to man. I assume Director Flynn sanctioned this at least?"
Jack nodded rapidly. Due to the nature of the vent, he couldn't easily turn—
"Secondly, does Mr Flynn know what you have found so far? Any recording or transmission devices?"
"No, I'm just meant to report back after— look I won't tell, I'll just say I found nothing."
"Well then, thank you for your cooperation."
Jack sighed, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His last breath for that matter. A small pop noise of a suppressed pistol was the last thing he heard.

OIS Research Facility, UK - Current day.

Julian strolled into the office, straightening his suit.
"Hello again, Director Flynn,"
They firmly shook hands, "Call me John. Please, take a seat. Is something wrong?"
"So Mr Flynn, you don't seem to have understood. When I bought the use of one of your secure facilities, I didn't expect your agents to try to spy on our research. I assumed an organisation like yours would be above all this. Understandably, it made me rather upset when one of them happened to tell me indirectly it was a direct ord—"
Julian cocked his head, hearing faint beeping. "Oh, I see, interesting choice. Backup on the way?"
Director John Flynn rose from his chair, Glock 17 in hand, grinning. "We aren't some sort of, company, you can push around. OIS works directly with the government and yo—" John let out a gasp, his eyes drawn to the Glock as it slowly fell to the floor with a clank, followed swiftly by two soft thuds.
"Sorry. You pulling that trigger would have been extremely inconvenient for me, so I have taken measures to relieve you of the chance to do so. It may make resulting paperwork from this slightly tougher though."
Having quickly stood up, grabbing the pistol as he did so, Julian slowly spun an engraved butterfly knife around his fingers, light dancing off its old, marred surface. Shoving the director against the wall he pierced his backup knife through the suit's lapels and straight into the wall, pinning the shock-frozen body there. Hearing the heavy noise of boots echoing outside he turned and with a soft sigh raised Director Flynn's discarded pistol towards the door.
Bang… Bang
The first bullet tore through the peephole of the door, the second just below. He waited for a second, rapidly pulling it open; a body slumping through the doorway, falling to the floor with a muted thump. A hail of hesitant gunfire went flying past.
"Jesus Christ, you guys shoot like a bunch of drunk stormtroopers," Throwing down the director's empty handgun, Julian grabbed another Glock from the fallen man. Standard British Secret Service issue, he could probably work with this. Hearing the rest of the agents shuffling towards the doorway, he looked around the room, his gaze alighting at John's desk.
Ah ha. He grabbed hold of the heavy metal paperweight from the stack of slightly stained paper. "Catch!" he shouted, hurling the metal block down the corridor with inhuman force. What happened next can be likened to someone hitting a particularly dense, red watermelon with an exceptionally solid sledgehammer. The pristine white walls becoming redecorated with a gory rendition of Jackson Pollock's art.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Julian stepped into the hallway, squeezing two shots off into the heads of the closest men; both falling into a heap on the floor like sacks of potatoes. Appraising the final man, he dropped his Glock, holding out his hands. "Well, what will it be?"
"Fuck you!" the man shouted, his barrel aimed directly at Julian. Click. Julian winked.
"Isn't that unfortunate." Taking a hand from behind his back, he threw his backup knife. It arced through the air like a dart, embedding itself in the middle of the guard's forehead, the man folding in half like a puppet with its strings cut.
Strolling over, Julian yanked the knife from the forehead of the downed agent, wiping it on his now mucky suit. After a brief pause, he strolled back into the meeting room, "We will be vacating the premises ASAP, we don't feel very comfortable with your current level of security. I'm sure you understand… Oh and enjoy your upcoming vacation."

The figure strode out of the room as Director Flynn sat in the corner shaking, the blood coating his stumps starting to congeal. He gave out a ragged sigh and passed out, silence reigning. A few minutes later the klaxon went off; by then it was too late. The man was nowhere to be found, the only sign that he had been there at all was a single gold-edged coin on the desk, the letters "AV" inscribed into it.

Money, Crime, and Disruption

The Norns Tale Hub

???


« Act II - Scene II | Demasqed | Act II - Scene IV »

Act II - Scene III

Interior of the conference room. Crystal-INE, Henry, Evelyn, and Chandler are sitting in their seats, staring at Michael's spot, which is empty. In its place is a phonebox with the phone laying face up. We hear Michael's voice coming out of the phone.
As the conversation progresses, Henry is seemingly focused on something unrelated, though it is unclear what. He stares at his hands and mimes flipping through documents, though he is not actually holding any.

MICHAEL
Alright, did we make sure the hornets were fed this time?
CHANDLER
Yes.
MICHAEL
Good. I'm sorry again that I can't be there, O5's completely swamped with this North Korea thing so Laura gave me a bunch of organizational tasks and now I'm temporarily overseeing containment of some ancient deity, something called Kor… Korothile Limagnar?
CHANDLER
(chandler's face lights up)
Korothyl Li'imangar?
MICHAEL
(surprised)
Oh, taken an interest in the Razhilkan mythos, Chandler?
CHANDLER
Yeah I'm actually doing some research on it, where did you say the deity was being held?
MICHAEL
Uhh… Just check with Crystal-INE later, we need to focus on this right now. Well, you need to focus on this right now… I need to get back to my overflow so I'm leaving Evelyn in charge.
EVELYN
Wait, me?
MICHAEL
Yes… you have the highest clearance of anyone else, I thought it would make sense.
EVELYN
Oh, no no no, my clearance is only like that because dealing with temporal anomalies grants you access to all the other files in the site, since it's such a precise science. I'm no more experienced than anyone else here.
MICHAEL
You can still be in charge, it's not really dependent on clearance level.
EVELYN
Sorry, I just don't see myself being able to run the Shuffle Puppies.
MICHAEL
The what?
EVELYN
We're the Shuffle Puppies, that's our team name.
MICHAEL
(sighing)
Oh, right… well… okay then…
CHANDLER
I could run the group, Michael.
MICHAEL
How… uhhh… how about you, Henry?

Henry mimics putting down a stack of papers and looks at the phone.

HENRY
Oh, actually, I'm not here right now. I'm in my office at the moment.
MICHAEL
What?
EVELYN
Henry's using that hologram thing Jazz was working on a few months ago so he can be at the meeting while still being in his office.
HENRY
Just don't try to touch me, we all know how well that went last time this thing was tested.
EVELYN
Poor Romano never could grow hair in that spot again.
MICHAEL
Wait, so then why aren't you physically there, Henry?
HENRY
(holding up the invisible stack of papers)
Laura also gave me some of her overflow, it seems. I'm redistributing the encryptions for all the Keter passcodes. Actually, coincidentally, I think this one goes to that Korath guy of yours.

Chandler perks up immediately.

CHANDLER
What is it?
HENRY
Aha, sorry bud, I shouldn't talk about this stuff remotely. Anyways, I'll be listening in, just pretend I'm actually here.

Henry goes back to flipping through the non-existent papers.

MICHAEL
Well then…
CHANDLER
Michael? Michael, I can run the team.
MICHAEL
I… I suppose since Evelyn is unwilling, Henry is unavailable, and Crystal-INE is-
CRYSTAL-INE
A computer-
MICHAEL
That yes, you can be the team leader, Chandler.
CHANDLER
Awesome! Does… does that come with any clearance changes? Maybe increased privileges in-
MICHAEL
Oh goodness no, it's just an informal title for this meeting. Speaking of which, I really have to get back to this, but please find some way to deal with this situation, because the public hates us right now. Good luck.

A mechanical click is heard, after which Evelyn grabs the phone and places it into the phone box.

CHANDLER
Alrighty then… let's put our noggins together and come up with some plans…

The group awkwardly stares at each other and down at the table. Chandler appears deep in… something. Thought, maybe, but his face contorts into many shapes and expressions that are impossible to read as a whole. After about ten seconds of this, he nods in approval to himself and looks up at the group.

CHANDLER
I've got it.
EVELYN
(skeptical)
Already? What is it?
CHANDLER
The public is at our throats right now, right? They're looking for answers.
EVELYN
Answers about the North Korea incident, yeah-
CHANDLER
No, no, no, not the North Korea incident, everybody's moved on from that at this point.
HENRY
(looking up from invisible papers, concerned)
Chandler, with all due respect, I don't think that's true at all.
CHANDLER
Trust me, I know, it's all over social media. Everybody's mad because of the D-Class stuff.
EVELYN
I mean, yeah, but I think the North Korea thing is way more pressing, and-
CHANDLER
Just… just wait. Hear me out, okay?

Both Evelyn and Henry back down and look at Chandler, awaiting his idea.

CHANDLER
So essentially-
CRYSTAL-INE
Wait, Chandler, do you want me to record this?
CHANDLER
Have you not been recording this meeting?
CRYSTAL-INE
My services are being scoured at the moment for old data on dimensional anomalies, I'm afraid my consciousness is somewhat… fractured. So I'm trying to conserve energy where I can, it helps me focus on searching for files.
CHANDLER
… Yes. I would like you to record this part.
CRYSTAL-INE
Okay… ready.
CHANDLER
I think, in order to dispel rumors and even get the public on our side, we need to convince the most vocal group. The ones who are the most likely to cause actual social change.
EVELYN
So, like what, college students and activists?
CHANDLER
Children.
HENRY
Children?
EVELYN
(nervous chuckling)
Chandler… I'm not sure if kids are going to be the most likely people to sway the public opin-
CHANDLER
Think bigger picture. We want to leave a lasting impression and set a really firm foothold in the minds of this generation. If we can appeal to a younger demographic, then in five, ten, twenty years, we'll be living in a world where we can protect humanity unhindered, even aided by the people who are children now and will be adults then. I mean, let's face it, adults hate us and they're not going to change that. But children are malleable. They respond to memes and pop culture. And we can abuse that.
HENRY
This is all sounding a bit far-fetched to me, I don't really-
CHANDLER
No, no but here's the best part - it's really as easy as I'm making it seem. We just find out what the best, most popular memes are, incorporate them into a video that also explains the merits of the Foundation, and boom. They love us.
HENRY
Are you sure that won't just turn them even more against us? I feel like as adults with no real grasp on this whole meme culture, we'll be very obviously out of place and just seem pandery.
EVELYN
Look, my son loves memes and slang, but whenever I try to reference any of it, he calls me a "fellow kid". I'm pretty sure children know when we're bluffing.
CHANDLER
Hey, argue against it all you want, but I know this will work. And… Michael did put me in charge, so… we're going with it.
EVELYN
…
HENRY
…
EVELYN
(sighing)
I guess… I guess we could try it. You certainly seem passionate about the idea.
HENRY
Oh what the hell, why not. Crystal-INE, do a quick search and send me a list of the most popular memes we could use in our video.
CRYSTAL-INE
Should I prioritize any specific years, or…
CHANDLER
All of them, the more the merrier.
CRYSTAL-INE
Alright Dr. Ozid, I just emailed you a list, since you're in your office. Left out a few of them though, there was this weird one with hiding seven lines in normal images that I think might have been a cult thing.
HENRY
Perfect, I'll take a look.

Henry mimes opening a laptop and typing on it, as well as scrolling and clicking. He stares, confused, for a few seconds.

HENRY
(mumbling to himself)
What the hell is a "chungus"?
CHANDLER
Thank you Henry, and Crystal. You see? We can make this work! I'll start writing a draft and get it to you all so we can figure out plans for making it happen.
(standing up)
This is going to be great, you guys. I really have a good feeling about this!

Before anyone else can comment, Chandler walks offstage. Evelyn looks at Henry, concerned, and lets out a fake smile of skeptical hope, accompanied by a half-hearted shrug.

EVELYN
It will be fine… right?
HENRY
I… I sure hope he knows what he's doing.
EVELYN
Yeah…

The two sit in silence, their faces growing more and more concerned, until the lights black out a few seconds later.

End Scene

« Act II - Scene II | Demasqed | Act II - Scene IV »


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“You're gonna want to hold off on that.”
Yuudai Shibata's hand froze midway through its mission to deliver a snack to his mouth. He looked at his senior partner, detective Katsuo Tanaka, with a quizzical look.
Katsuo held out a hand and uncurled it, revealing two generic blue pills.
“These will mess you up. Believe me, it is not a pleasant experience. Take it from someone who's done this a lot.” Katsuo cracked a whisper of a smile before popping one of the pills in his mouth and dry-swallowing it.
“What is it?” Yuudai asked, holding up the small blue pill to the light.
“A very specific, localized amnestic. It'll let us be in a conference with other undercover agents without recognizing them. You'll see how it works.”
Katsuo returned to drumming his fingers on the conference table as he awaited the arrival of the others who would show up to the meeting. He didn't actually know how many people would even be here. These days, he almost never spent any time at headquarters due to the nature of his undercover work. Moreover, Commander Iwata wasn't exactly the talkative type when it came to meeting briefings. He supposed that, at the end of the day, he would still just have to do his job.
The nature of that job varied day to day. On most days, he and Yuudai were more or less ordinary detectives for the Fukuoka Metropolitan Police, solving mundane crimes and filing paperwork as most other police officers did. However, the past few weeks had decidedly not been like Most Days.
Spirit Dust.
That was the demon lurking in the shadows of Katsuo's waking hours. The drug that made its users temporary gods. The drug that officially could not exist. The drug that made his other job a lot more complicated. On the best of days, it wasn't easy being an undercover agent for the Foundation. The past few weeks were certainly proving to be no exception.
The sound of the door opening broke Tanaka's contemplation, and made him crane his neck to see who was entering.
The Iron Lady of Kyushu seemed like anything but, standing at just a hair over five feet tall. Most people meeting Minori Iwata for the first time didn't believe that it could actually be her. Hell, Katsuo had been one of them. Not a mistake that he'd ever make again.
Following behind her was a man that Katsuo had never seen before. He tried to study his face, but he felt as though he couldn't actually get a firm grasp of what the whole thing looked like. He could recognize the individual parts of it well enough, the dark eyes, the strong jaw, the whisper of facial hair, but he couldn't seem to snap it all together into one coherent face. Looking at the man's face made him go cross-eyed, like one of those magic eye picture books he had read as a kid.
Ah. So that's who the meeting was with.
Iwata shut the door and stiffly motioned for the stranger to sit down before she took her own place at the head of the table. Shibata looked around the room.
“Iwata-san, is there no one else?” Yuudai inquired.
The commander straightened some papers on the table for a moment, the gesture betraying her slight annoyance, before sighing. She paused in her idle gesture before looking Yuudai straight in the eyes.
“No, agent. This is it.”
Katsuo thought he saw a muscle twitch in Yuudai's jaw, but his junior partner held his tongue for the moment. Good. He was learning at least. The kid had heart, but his brain was still catching up. At least for now, he knew when it was time to speak and when it was time to let your elders talk.
“Three agents. That's all you can offer?” The mystery man finally opened his mouth, speaking with the thinnest air of an attitude that Katsuo winced at. Or was it the amnestics? The words coming out of his mouth sounded slightly scrambled, like the man was speaking through a voice changer. Maybe he imagined the attitude?
He turned to look at Iwata.
Ah.
Not imagined, then.
He definitely saw a muscle twitch in Iwata's jaw, as the commander visibly ground her teeth. She directed a tight-lipped glare at the other undercover agent.
“Would you like me to call the entire department in here? Perhaps you'd like us to introduce you to the entirety of our branch? Yes, let's get everyone involved in your undercover operation! What a stellar idea!” Minori had risen to her feet at this point and was leaning over the table, palms slammed down onto the wooden surface. Every word felt more accusatory than the last.
The clock on the wall ticked out every awkward second. Yuudai coughed uncomfortably. Finally, the stranger spoke up.
“…my apologies, Iwata-san. I didn't mean to cause offense. I was merely asking for more support. You must understand the stress that we are under.”
Minori sighed, the vitriol disappearing as she sagged her head. She settled back into her chair, and began rubbing at her temples tiredly. “Of course I understand. I'm the only one who knows what you're both doing. You think I don't get it?”
Katsuo cleared his throat. “If I may ask then, Iwata-san: why exactly are we here, if not to get more support from the main headquarters?”
“See for yourself.”
Iwata picked up a remote from the table and pointed it at the TV at the far end. It flicked to life, showing a saved broadcast of the evening news from the night before.
“…sources are now saying that the narcotic found in Shigeru Takeda's autopsy has been positively identified as ‘Spirit Dust,' a new drug that-”
“No…” Yuudai gasped.
“Yes. It's officially leaked over to the civilian authorities. We no longer have the luxury of time-every day that goes by, we risk the chance that the masquerade falls. I have already dispatched a containment team to the Fukuoka coroner's office under the guise of a federal investigation, but we can't possibly catch every case before it spreads out of our control. Agents, we are simply out of time.” Iwata folded her arms over her chest.
Once again, silence.
Tick tock.
Tick.
Tock.
“So what do you propose we do about it?” The mystery agent finally asked.
“That depends. What do you have for me?” Iwata replied.
“Unfortunately, not as much as I would have liked. We've begun tracking the shipments of Spirit Dust that route through our corner of the market and covertly seizing them afterwards, but we are only one small branch in a very large tree, Commander. And not one of the largest ones, might I add.”
“Mmm. Any progress on finding the source?”
“No. The old man's been playing this game longer than I've been alive, so he's not going to spill anything unless he absolutely has to. He likes me, I think, but he's not parting with his secrets anytime soon. I need time, Iwata-san.”
“As I have made abundantly clear, agent, time is not a luxury we can afford. Be better.”
The other agent inclined his head in a shallow bow. “Understood, commander.”
Commander Iwata turned her attention to Katsuo and Yuudai. “And you two? What do you have to report?”
Katsuo rubbed at the back of his neck. “We're handling the official response in conjunction with the embedded assets. So far we've managed to divert almost all of the major Spirit Dust related cases our way, but it's not getting any easier to predict when they're going to actually crop up…”
Yuudai picked up for him. “We've picked up on a few leads though! We've back-traced some of the major sales to a few regional distributors. I think we can at least mitigate some of the spread by making moves on the networks that we've already identified.”
“So long as you don't get in my way, that's acceptable.” The voice at the other end of the table interrupted.
Yuudai paused, and looked back at his partner instinctually. Katsuo squinted at the other agent.
“We'll clear it with Iwata-san before we make any big moves. But I can't guarantee that there won't be collateral damage with…your end of the operations, agent.”
“Appreciated…agent. But again, stay out of my crew's way. I can't risk you blowing my cover.”
“Blowing your cover? We're going to do our job, you lowlife-” Yuudai fired back.
Minori slammed her hand down on the table, getting a jump out of Yuudai and a blink from Tanaka, though he couldn't help but notice that the other man appeared unfazed.
“Enough! What are you, children? I think I've made my point abundantly clear: get to work, and make it quick. If there are no other objections or interruptions…” She made a point of fixing Shibata with a withering glare that melted the junior detective.
“…then we are adjourned. Regular updates the moment you are able to. Dismissed.”

Naoki Koga stiffly rose from his chair as Commander Iwata closed out the meeting. He bent at the waist for a deep bow, as did his fellow undercover agents. Watching them, Koga noticed the one who seemed more senior awkwardly stretch before stuffing his hands into his pockets and sauntering out of the room, accompanied by his smart-mouthed partner.
Heh. Kids.
Minori turned her attention back to Naoki as she noticed him still standing there. She sighed once again, before sinking back into her chair and giving him a look.
“Well? What do you want?”
Koga leaned forward on the table and rested his chin on his palm.
“I'm concerned about you, Iwata-san. You look tired.”
“Your concern is noted, agent. Is that all? Flattery won't get you anywhere.”
“No, I was being polite. My real concern is how much deeper I can get without further risk.”
“Worried for your safety?”
Naoki paused for a moment, considering. He placed his hands on the table in front of him before holding up his left hand. Minori's eyes flicked away for a moment before returning to his face, an admission of guilt that he hadn't failed to pick up on. She didn't want to look at his hand, or the missing tip of his little finger.
“My first year undercover in the yakuza, my kyodai asked me to beat the shit out of an old shopkeeper who hadn't made his payments for the month. He was older, balding. He looked to be old enough to be an early dankai, probably had worked his entire life since he didn't know any better. He looked a lot like my grandfather.”
Naoki leaned back, closing his eyes.
“So, no. I couldn't do it to him. How could I? How could anyone? My kyodai didn't care. The rest of the men beat him even more harshly afterwards, and sent him to the hospital for weeks. For my dishonor? My kyodai asked for my finger. The Dojin-kai may buck the traditions of other families, but this is one that we have not forgotten.”
Naoki tilted his head forward and looked Minori in the eyes. She was not looking away this time. Good.
“That night, I was brought in front of my entire crew and forced to strip down until I was nearly naked, before they handed me a cleaver. I cut my own finger off in front of a dozen of my brothers. Since then, I have not flinched.”
“And yet, a few weeks ago, the oyabun himself called me for lunch. I watched as his bodyguard gutted a brother who was accused of skimming some of the profits for himself. They tossed the rest of his body into the harbor that night. I cannot imagine what they would do to a mole like me. No, I am not concerned for my own safety; I understand better than anyone what the risks are. But you must understand, Iwata-san, that this is a dangerous game. Any sniff of treason, and I am a dead man.”
Naoki crossed his arms over his chest. Minori looked deep in thought. She straightened the fictional untidiness of the papers on the table before setting them down, and staring into Naoki's eyes while clasping her fingers together.
“Koga-san. I understand your reservations. But you must also understand that barely half a month has passed in this crisis, and we've already seen dozens of dead civilians who had no business being part of this game. It is our job to defend them, no matter what the consequences to us may be.”
Naoki paused, and gave a slow nod, before a slow grin touched the corners of his mouth.
“We die in the dark, so they can live in the light? Really, Iwata-san?”
She snorted, but Koga could see the whisper of a smile curling her lips upwards.
“If you enjoy American propaganda and it gets you doing your job, then fine by me, Koga-san. Speaking of which…some of us have actual work to do that isn't playing at being a gangster.” She stood up, picking up her papers, and turning for the door before pausing. Iwata turned back to Koga once more.
“Koga-san, understand this: I am watching out for you. And I will not abandon you, regardless of what you may think is happening on the other side. You have my word.”
Naoki bowed at the waist, a deeper one this time.
“Thank you, Iwata-san. So long as we are both on the same page.”
Minori gave him a firm nod, and exited the room. Koga took his time to shrug his coat over his shoulders before departing the conference room and the generic business park where they had arranged to have their meeting. Outside on the street, hordes of Fukuoka's busy workers were bustling on the streets, jamming the entrances to the subway while schoolchildren were excitedly chattering as they strolled home or waited at the bus stop. A few scattered street vendors were hawking snacks at the hungry masses, the scent wafting in the air to Naoki's nose.
All in all, it was a peaceful afternoon, Naoki thought. He gave it one last look.
Then, he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone before swiping it open. He punched in a number and held it up to his ear while waiting for the call to go through.
“Yo. Boss here. What do you have for me?”
It was time to go to work.

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The Plant, depicted in 1895.

The King Company Textile Plant

Abandoned Location/Alleged Phenomenon

Geographical/Provincial Data

Location:
Saltville Municipality Incorporation Area, New York State, United States

Date of Establishment:
1870

Original Owner:
Malcolm L. King and the King Textile Company

Current Owner:
Saltville Municipality, New York

Witnesses to Phenomena

Original Witness:
Jakob "Jack" Shriner, Employee of King Textiles

Last Known Witness:
N/A

The King Company Textile Plant was a textile factory in Saltville, New York, which operated from 1870 until its almost complete destruction in 1895.[1] It was notable for being the largest producer of white cotton shirts in Upstate New York, many of which were high-quality and were marketed to the upper class. King Shirts were worn by individuals in Tammany Hall[2], and are notable for being remarkably long-lasting, due in large part to the amount of pesticides used to 'finish' the fabric, repelling insects that would otherwise infest and consume the shirts[1]. Furthermore, it was one of the first factories in New York State to use a mechanical time clock, as opposed to timesheets.[3]
On October 15th, 1895—the birthday of Malcolm King, Founder and President of King Textiles—the factory burned to the ground in an act of arson. Originally attributed to a communist element[4], the culprit in the arson case was found to have been Jakob Shriner, a German immigrant who was illiterate in English and had no familiarity with either the name or the works of Karl Marx. Shriner's statement was used to send him to an asylum on Wards Island, New York City, where he died of smallpox in 1899. Until his death, he claimed that his statement was entirely true.
Construction
Saltville was founded in 1860. A relatively poor community, its demographics were made up of immigrants kicked out of New York City, largely due to religious persecution. The majority of the community were German and Slavic Jews, along with several Catholic families, and a small pagan element that may have practiced Irish fairy worship[citation needed].
In 1870, the King Textile Company, a British textile firm based in Manchester, bought a large plot of land in Saltville for the construction of its first American factory, promising jobs to the inhabitants of the town. By the time it was fully operational in 1872, approximately 50% of Saltville's population—men, women, and children—held a job in the factory, even after the federal abolition of child labor in 1881[5], behavior which was allowed due to the fact that the government of New York State never sent regulators to the King Textiles plant.
The building was constructed with living space enough for over five hundred workers; Saltville, at the time, only had a population of approximately six hundred. As the town grew due to the presence of the plant, it was expanded outwards to accommodate a larger population. In addition, the plant was unusually progressive in that—possibly in part due to the fact that the majority of its workers were Sabbath-observing Jews—it closed operations almost entirely on Saturday and Sunday[6]. A crew of Catholics was left to operate the plant on Saturday, with Romani and Pagan workers coming in to work on Sunday, if available.
Employment of Jakob Shriner
Jakob Shriner(b. 1860(?)) was a German immigrant who had no family, friends, or connections in the United States. His reasons for immigrating are unclear, as records pertaining to the time that he would have arrive in America—either August or September of 1890, based on his testimony in court—were destroyed by flooding during the Vagabond Hurricane of 1903[7].
Facing discrimination and a life as a beggar in New York City, Shriner relocated to Saltville as part of a caravan of Romani and Jews. He found employment at the plant almost immediately, and by all accounts[Whose?] was well-liked and a good worker. Being Jewish himself, he was allowed to take the Sabbath off.
Shriner lived in the quarters at the King Factory, in communal rooms on the third floor, with several other German Jews. His behavior became erratic around the start of October of 1895, following an apparent nightmare.
Implementation of the Time Clock

A National Time Recorder Co. Ltd. Time Clock, similar to what would have been used by employees at the King Textile Plant.

The time clock was implemented in 1893, approximately two years after Jakob began working there. Though no pictures exist, records show that it was purchased from the National Time Recorder Company Limited, a London-based company that made some of the first mechanical time clocks. Transitioning from timesheets to the clock was a rough process, with several workers using the timesheets until mid-1894[3], when they were discontinued.
The clock may have had a fault in its mechanism; workers said that it produced a 'clunking din' when certain workers punched in and out, which was loud enough to be heard across the floor. This is likely due to the mechanism which read the punch cards catching on certain ones, as several employees needed replacements on an almost-weekly basis[3], with Shriner being the worst offender.
Though no fault of his own, the foreman refused to let Shriner have a different punch card assigned to him, as reprogramming the clock to recognize a different card for him would be more time-consuming than simply giving him a new card every time his tore. One should bear in mind the fact that the cards in question were made of cardboard, and tearing through them, even with a mechanical apparatus, would have been very difficult. Furthermore, maintenance logs for the clock make no reference to having to remove torn cardboard from the mechanism[citation needed].
Destruction of the Plant
At approximately 12:30 AM on October 15th, 1895, Jakob Shriner (who was possibly not sober at the time) entered the main factory floor with a bottle of high-proof alcohol and a box of matches. Knowing that unprocessed cotton was highly flammable following a minor fire in the factory in 1893[8], he doused several spools of it with the liquor.
While letting it soak, he claims to have taken up a wrench or hammer (his account on this varied) and smashed the time clock 'thoroughly and violently'. He then doused the doors to the living quarters with water, in a measure to prevent the fire from spreading. Shriner then spread the cotton over as wide of an area as he could, positioned himself by the door, and lit the match.[9]
While the exterior of the building was largely stone, the interior had several wooden elements, so while the alcohol used as the initial ignition source burned off quickly, the cotton used as kindling quickly ignited several wooden structures inside, including the office of the foreman, as well as the apparently flammable pesticides used to finish the shirts made there.
Remarkably, there were no deaths as a result of this fire, but several life-threatening injuries resulted from the crush that occurred when attempting to exit the plant through auxiliary doors.[9]. Several hospitals in Oneida county admitted the workers.
Of the time clock, nothing was found, barring a sign that had once read "Property of the King Textiles Factory, Saltville". The words "King Textiles" had been dented to the point that they were unreadable.[3]
Statement of Jakob Shriner
The following statement was taken by a detective from New York City, where Shriner was apprehended. The detective is known only today as 'Detective Bouchard'; due to its oddly eloquent style, it is thought that it was embellished by Bouchard in some way.

[+] Content Warning [+]

[-] Content Warning [-]

Author's Note: This section contains graphic imagery, including descriptions of mutilation and incontinence. Reader discretion is advised.

Have you ever slept in a room with a ticking clock? The noise it makes, it can be sickening. If the gears stop, your heart can skip beats. It is how my grandfather died, so we never, ever keep clocks in the house.
When the clock was first put in at the factory, we were told that we did not have to use it, not at first. I avoided it as much as I could, but was told I would be given a three-cent raise if I started using it, and times were, ah, not so good, so I started using it.
Every day, the damn thing would growl and eat my card. It didn't clank, I don't care what anyone else said—it growled. I felt like it was biting into my card. It tore off a chunk at the wrong place, in one of the holes, making it useless. They had to punch a new one, every week, a new card.
One day, it wouldn't come out, wouldn't even tear. I used a stone to hit it to get my card out, and it didn't growl—it ROARED. But it surrendered my card, back into the slot, and the foreman didn't see I had dented his machine, so all was well.
…then I returned to the quarters that night. I walked into the front door of the boarding rooms, and I found myself on the factory floor. The machine still had the dent in it. I thought I must be dreaming, but I got to work so I didn't dream of being fired. I, er. Punched the clock? Yes, that's it. I punched the clock, and got to work.
People were crying throughout the first hour. I didn't notice it until I turned to attempt to make conversation with someone else working the frame beside me—her eyes were wet. I knew she was having troubles at home, and thought her upset, so I didn't think of it. But then I looked across the frame—the man on the other side, always so cheerful, though we didn't speak each other's languages. Crying, downtrodden, looking downwards.
The factory never smelled nice—it smelled of sweat, certainly, and dirt, and the fibers got in your nose. But we were never allowed away from the frames that day. Not once. The woman next to me soiled herself, and that made her cry harder. Worms came up out of the floor to eat it, and I was told to stomp on them, lest they get to the fiber.
When the second hour started, we were all called away from our positions. We were all stinking, sweaty. The sun was unreasonably hot out for October—or was it July? January? Time melted together. I looked out the window and saw snow, then night, then soot-blackened birds in sweltering springtime. The foreman yelled at us, but I couldn't understand him. None of us could. He was speaking every language at once, and none. We knew we would be fired if we didn't listen to him.
We tried our best to figure out what he wanted. The machines weren't broken. The spools were well-fed. The cotton was clean. The shirts were being treated. One of the children went over to ask him more clearly what he wanted, and—in English this time—he said that he would demonstrate.
He took the child and tied one of his hands in with the spools of the spinner I was working on. He told me to get back to work—I said that I would hurt the child. He said to get back to work, and that I would be fired if I didn't.
I thought I would just get his fingers, at first. He whimpered as the skin came off, just a small burn. But then he realized his hand wouldn't un-catch, and was pulled into the machine, unraveling into the spools. There was—there was no blood, I can't explain it. It was like he was made of cloth, but the cloth had eyes and bled. He stopped screaming when I unraveled his mouth, but I couldn't stop, because I knew they would dock my pay.
I did not see what happened to his yarn after that, because I was told that I had to come and work on the treatment of the shirts—something that I did not know how to do. I told him this, and he said I must learn, or I would be fired. There were two women who worked the treatment, like always, but they did not speak any language. How could they? Their mouths drooled the pesticide.
One of them kissed me, and my mouth burned. I tried to pull away, but cotton took me by the neck and forced me to her. My tongue burned away, and I found myself drooling onto the finished shirts, fabric becoming red and green with the poison and my blood. I tried wiping my mouth on the shirt, and my blood ate through it.
We broke for lunch—I thought it a reprieve. But everything in my pail had moldered, and the milk I had brought home was curdled. I was so hungry, but could not eat. I lacked the money to go to the grocer and even buy myself an apple. I tried to eat the food, and though I could keep it down, my blood and the poison mixed with it, and I found myself sobbing.
It proceeded like this after lunch. We threw more into the spools, unravelled them, and I would be forced to kiss the Giftfrauen—the poison women, and do work on the finishing. I could feel myself crying more and more, to the point where I thought my eyes would fall out.
When the foreman announced we would work another shift due to our laziness, all nodded. We worked an additional half of a shift, and then clocked out. I walked out of the same door I came in to. Another day had started, and the foreman was yelling at me for being late. The clock ate my card, and he threatened to fire me if I didn't fix it myself.
That shift was the same. More people unraveled, more poison down my throat, more blood on the shirts. I could not take it anymore, and as we were feeding another into the spools, I began to weep. But I knew the Sabbath would come soon, I had come in early so I could leave before the Sabbath began. When the bell rang—I hadn't even eaten my lunch at the time!—I put my card back into the clock, and with it, one of my fingers. I knew it would only work that way.
I do not remember my Sabbath. But I must have spent it, for I walked back in for the next shift. And the next one after that. And after that. For what seemed like years and years, I came into my shift, until one day, I could not tolerate it.
Have you ever seen the needles we use on the spools? They are far sharper than they look. I have cuts on my hand from them, dozens of cuts. When the foreman told us we would no longer be taking Sabbath, I broke. I could not defy the commands of God himself. I drove my head into the spinner. I felt my eyes burst as the needles dug in, only to awake in the quarters, surrounded by friends who looked concerned. A nightmare, I thought, but so vivid.
Then I went to the loom the next morning. One of the children who worked in the plant was missing. It was the boy who we had spun into cloth, and when I looked upon a shirt that had been finished, I saw a green stain on it that could not be removed, the same green as his eyes.
I burned it, I had to burn it. It is a Moloch! The entire thing, a Moloch! An altar we sacrifice ourselves on, and for what? Pocket change!

Aftermath
Though his statement was disbelieved by the public at large, the fact that he had experienced this apparent hallucination or nightmare brought serious scrutiny on the King Textile Company. When it was discovered that they still employed child labor at the factory, Governor Levi P. Morton ordered the plant shuttered. State prosecutors issued an arrest warrant for both Malcolm L. King and the foreman, Phillip Watch; however, both of them disappeared from a ship en route to England in November 1895.[10]
While the inside of the factory was gutted by fire, the structure itself remained standing. It was finally demolished in the 1920s, when construction began on the New York Parkway system in order to make way for what is now NY-28. A sub-basement is believed to still exist[by whom?], but has been rendered inaccessible to the public.
Shriner died of smallpox in an asylum in Ward's Island, New York City four years later. While given a chance of freedom (or at least better living conditions) if he recanted, he refused to do so, saying that what he said was true until he died. He was buried in a potter's field.
Saltville itself experienced a period of economic decline, a local depression that nearly resulted in the town being abandoned. By 1897, only four families remained in Saltville, and much of their time was spent praying for salvation. However, discovery of a large magnetite deposit in 1898—the fourth largest in New York state—transformed it into a thriving community largely made up of miners. Magnetite is a mineral very rich in iron, and its natural magnetic properties made it ideal for use in the growing amount of dynamo generators across the nation. By 1903, approximately 60% of all dynamo generators in the state of New York used Saltville Magnetite in some form. (For further details, see the Wikipedia article on the Oneida County, New York Depression.)
Comments by the Author
Article by FlavaFlavionol
Since the fire, the factory has become somewhat of a local legend n Saltville, which is a boring town besides. Other than a plaque saying where the factory used to be, the only thing that might remotely draw tourists is an old Irish manuscript in the local library; granted, it is a beautifully-illuminated manuscript, but it's almost impossible to see, with the fact that it's kept in climate-controlled darkness for 23 hours a day.
That being said, something bugs me about this—that being the use of the word 'Moloch' in Mr. Shriner's statement. Those of you who study Near East Mythology may be familiar with the fact that it is a name for a Caananite deity, whom children were sacrificed to, something that would reasonably have been known to a man of the Jewish faith. I find the use of that word interesting, however, because the word may have roots in the Caananite word for 'King'.


Site-01, Foundation Headquarters
201?
The gagging wheeze of shattered lungs finally sputtered to its end. The last in a line of failures that had started long ago. O5-7's eyes were locked forward, staring intensely at nothing. There wasn't anything to be done now.
Automatic Voting Sequence Initiating…

Kanawah County, West Virginia
I-64 highway towards the city of Charleston

The State of West Virginia was hollowed out long ago by companies searching for something called clean coal. But it was still beautiful country. The mountains left standing were a marvel to behold. Not even the greatest efforts of Union Carbide nor the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency could break the spirit of the place or the people residing here.
Waylon Severus' headlights lit up familiar back country, blasted and beautiful Appalachian landscapes splayed out between peaks. Wherever inhabited dwellings still stood, there were dark places made out from hard choices. The twinkling night lights over Charleston reflected off the golden capital dome. From behind the wheel, Severus paid it strategic but disinterested attention.
It was a lousy first mission for his rank. Consideration for membership in Mobile Task Force Alpha-1, nicknamed Red Right Hand, was something you had to be born into. Most of the time. With an Espirit de corps centered around representing the impossibly abstract and massive in physical, tactical form. All of his true comrades, now they were subordinates.
None of them are here tonight. Severus drove on alone and unknown to the world. Few were traveling this dreary place, inside or out. It would be easy to spot a particular Pontiac Aztek headed in the same direction. The orders from the Overseers had been succinct, and blunt. Everett Mann was an enemy to the Foundation. He was to be dealt with, immediately.
They had never met before tonight, but Doctor Everett Mann's reputation preceded him: A highly proficient roboticist with expertise in all things bio-mechanical. Also an unnervingly unnatural individual obsessed with tampering in nature. The Foundation and Mann meshed like peanut butter and jelly.
Or had, until now. No explanation had been provided as to what crime caused Mann to stray from a righteous path. Severus didn't particularly care one way or the other. This had become why he was put on this planet and in this moment, it was all that he thought of.
He rolled down his windows, allowing cool mountain air to rush through his hair.
A lime green automobile came into Severus' light as the two cars took the same exit off the highway and onto a twisting mountain roadway. Severus could see a robust-looking gentleman in the driver's seat. The man was drumming his fingers on the wheel.
For a few minutes they both continued maintaining equivalent velocity. As they approached to a sharp turn, Severus turned on cruise control and rummaged around the backseat. Feeling a tube of cold steel, he smiled and leaned on the car's horn. The other driver turned momentarily, long enough for Severus to flash the car's high beams.
Illuminated in the flash was bespectacled man bearing a broad mustache which tweaked past the ends of his lips. An unbuttoned white coat was clinging onto his body and he looked soaked with sweat.
Severus pulled his rifle out of the backseat, leaned out his driver' side window, and fired two shots into the lime-green Pontiac Aktek's tires.
There was a brief calamity and for a few moments, everything twisted and shook. The Aztek swerved, drifted, and tumbled from the road's pivot point, crunching itself against a tree as its glass shattered into infinitesimal pieces.
Parking on the side of the road Severus peered through pocket binoculars at what remained of his quarry. Every inch of it was dented, front to trunk. The Aztek's headlights were the only part still running, its light half-heartedly flickering to light up the space between the trees.
Approaching the dancing shadows in the woods, Severus gingerly walked down the hillside to the wreckage. The passenger's side door had been separated by the crash. A few cigarettes and shattered test tubes littered the ground around the crash site.
Crouching to look inside the smoke-filled cabin, Severus comes eye-to-eye with a grinning straw automaton with wires poking beneath corny corduroy clothing. A high-pitched voice with an Italian accent burbled from inside. "Oh no! So you think you were tailing the real Everett Mann?"
"Oh, you think you're clever buddy? Pulling a Rosenberg on me? If you can hear this, you're not two steps ahead of me. Good job, well done. Very impressive. You're probably feeling pretty good right now. But unless you want to live a hungry life as a hunted man, you've still only got one other option. Give up while you're ahead and I'll make it quick. Maybe in ten, fifteen years your memory gets rehabilitated."
It was at that moment that the remnants of the Aztek erupted in flames, engulfing Severus in a wave of heat, fire, and white-hot chunks of debris. Severus' vehicle was tipped, breaking several windows and one rear-view mirror. The road would never be repaired.
In the distance, a rogue scientist smirked and picked up his pace.

Yeager Airport
Terminal waiting area

Dr. Everett Mann had always been keen on Chuck Yeager's methods and accomplishments. A classic example of a scientist's legacy being to serve as the namesake of a tiny airport when it should have been used to dedicate a far more significant building than this. A podunk airport perched atop flat blasted rock where, once upon a time, there had been a mountaintop.
The fact that history so often reserves only footnotes for brave geniuses who put their bodies on the line to test their minds is a travesty.
But it had always been too slow. How can anyone make a lifetime's worth of necessary changes to improve humanity's future, if getting one small part of it done takes that an entire life's worth of effort? Once upon a time, the Administrator had shown it was possible.
He would miss it, of course.
Who else could have imagined such a wonderful myriad of test subjects, each one more crucial to humanity's future than the last. Hatbot, of course, had been a darling auto. Not only a fully intelligent creature capable of cultivating the talent of an entire facility to maximum efficiency, it also possessed a sense of identity and eccentricity, there could be only one, even if they were in multiple places at the same time.
No, none of those chumps at AIAD really created any intelligence that came out knowing it's all just stupid.
Traveling light and rough made the perfunctory TSA check that much easier, Mann imagined an old woman's hands clapping as he checked in his baggage. For all the amazing ideas held inside his skull, marvelous ones, which may never yet see the light of day, but how interesting it would be to bring them all to life. Restrained by higher ups who did not understand what was truly important. Pathetic.
Mann checked his watch. His plane really should have been here by now. So close but still so far. One flight was all that stood between him and all he could imagine becoming real. He could hardly contain his excitement. Serious thought was being dedicated to cracking a brief smile.
All of that was still to come. Blinking, then yawning, he felt a mildly sharp tingling in his abdomen as his stomach gurgled. Mann stood from the gateside seating and walked to the nearest coffee franchise stall. It was time to do some greasy-style maintenance on this fallible human body.
Black coffee and pre-packaged donuts were a safe enough way to take the edge off. Mann always had a few chemical testing strips on hand, and there always were a few floating around in his coat pockets. But not tonight. All Mann's probing hand could find was a hole in his pocket.
No problems, not a problem at all. Mann could eyeball foodstuffs pretty accurately and his perfunctory meal was safe enough. The dye coloring the caramel drizzle on his donuts stained Mann's teeth orange. The coffee left a nice brown tinge and bad breath to accompany it.
Satisfied, Mann stuffed the refuse into his pockets as burst of static from the intercom mumbled out an announcement that Mann's flight was boarding. Mann stayed in his seat, waiting for any stragglers to make their way over. None would ever come.
As Mann contemplated where to sit while walking through the cabin, he nearly lost his balance and half-fell, half-sat in a middle row seat. He closed his eyes, and sighed contentedly. As he did, he felt a squeezing pain in the nape of his neck.
The squeezing curled around his spine like blood on a barber's pole. Mann was blind, with feeling in his arms and legs fading fast. The last whispered words he heard were the most unbelievably stupid and pointless things he heard throughout his life:
"The Overseer Council does not forgive you."
Mann's eyes were rolling in their grave. “You're fucked. You've made yourself the common enemy of mankind.”
And then, he died.

Site-01
O5 Council campus
A dead man's hand rose, and cracked lips parted. The only sound was a cool tone, burbling through the public address system of a tomb. The same happened for the second man, and the third, until all around a table thirteen dead hands were stretched towards a heaven they would never reach.
Intruder… intruder…
Mobile Task Force Alpha-1, "Red Right Hand", marched through the aperture to the Overseer's Quarters in orderly parade fashion. Weylon Severus was in lock-step with them at their head. In his left hand, there was nothing. In his right, Dr. Mann's head.
In theory, the Overseers cleaned up after themselves. A robust and noxious residue was hanging in the air, on the ground, dusty rust almost an inch thick everywhere. Every single one of the light fixtures had been smashed to smithereens. It made everyone feel like they couldn't hear an inch past your ears.
Where was everyone? They were the only ones leaving the footprints in this dirt. Severus considered hesitating but, at this proximity that would be the height of disrespect, no matter the condition of the corridors.
Feeling more trepidation by the minute as the dust muffling his footsteps began clouding around them, Severus wondered how such a sacred place had found itself in this state. Did the Overseers not care? Who had been here? The front door hadn't even been locked.
Severus was the one who saw it first. A chamber of horrors. Thirteen desiccated corpses sitting around a table, hands raised as if to inquire the nature of their own demise. Gagging, he staggered backwards, away from horrible but unavoidable truths.
Every individual member of the Overseer Council was seated and deceased. For how long, nobody knew. By who's hand, it could not be said. Nobody was there to send a brief distress message either but it was far too late to respond to that message in a bottle now.
Searching for anything else to focus his eyes on, Severus saw the wall of glowing monitors installed all around the perimeter of the room. It didn't take long to decipher the monochromatic code rapidly executing across the screens. In keeping with the Foundation's strive for stability above all else, the Overseer bureaucratic automation systems had kept the wheels turning in their eternal absence.
Trembling, light inside his stomach and heavy in his head, Severus would never remember how he managed to find his way out of that place. At some point, he dropped the head. All he could remember was that he kept asking the same question over and over again, and none of his comrades could answer it.
What happens now?
«| Prelude | — | -- |»


Portland, UK

Outside, the sun was rising, its rays steadily bathing Portland in a honeyed glow. Two masked figures sat in a small country bar. The outside wall adorned with ivy gently waving in the sea breeze, a blanket of silence only punctuated by the creaking wooden sign depicting a gold crown.
"So, any news?" The voice came from the tall man on the left; an imposing figure with an equally imposing voice.
The reply was from a man far from home, a rough slow drawl at odds with the scene, "The Insurgency seems to be preparing for a Foundation raid, not sure it matters to us either way… 'ang on, there was somethin else…"
"Ah yes!" he continued. "The Foundation seems to be planning an MTF raid into one of MC&D's warehouses. They've an instance of Tempus-02 stored in there."
Phaedrus thought for a second, "I'll take the Wolves again, we need some more exercise."
"Good to see ya gettin back into it," replied the Canadian, a grin tugging at his face.

Sarah, the current server, headed over to the table to take the bill. Despite it being early, these men weren't an unusual sight. They seemed to like watching the sea in relative privacy.
Interesting fellows though, she mused, looking out the window. Turning back she saw the larger of the two staring at her with his head cocked. She gave a little yelp and tripped over a buckled wooden floorboard that she had completely forgotten about. A half-empty pint flew over, just missing her head and landing right in her lap. Mortified, she looked at the men in the corner. As the larger of the two stood and went to walk over, she tried to scramble up.
A hand came into vision.
"You lookin like you be needing a hand?" She accepted it gratefully and with the help of the Canadian's firm grip, she unsteadily stood up. The other figure walked over to the tab that lay in a puddle of beer from the spilt pint. He brushed it off, and placed it on the table along with a pile of coins, before turning to leave. She noticed him pointedly ignoring her, as well as her mistake, and frowned.
She watched as both men exited the door. "Thanks!" she hollered at the Canadian.
"Sorry for the trouble, ma chérie!" the stocky Canadian shouted back, flipping something towards her. She caught it by instinct. A small silver coin lay in her palm with the letters "AV" etched onto its face and ringed by a series of notches on the edge. Before she could shout a further farewell, they were gone. Shaking her head, she pocketed the coin and went to change. Probably the most exciting thing that would happen to her for weeks, she supposed.

Olken City, N/A

Phaedrus donned his kevlar vest, followed by a slightly tatty leather jacket. The rest of Alpha-1 (known colloquially as the Wolves) squad watched on, their expressions unreadable under their caps. Today was a plainclothed operation. They didn't want MC&D raising the alarm too soon; it could bring the Foundation down on them faster than planned.
Percy had said there was a Chameleon on the other side waiting, they had a lodestone set up already. Glancing quickly at the rest of the wolves for confirmation, Phaedrus placed his hand upon the linked lodestone, twisted the watch dial 90-degrees, and pushed.

Liverpool, UK

Phaedrus arrived standing in a dingy, poorly lit room beside an identical lodestone; his stomach feeling like it was briefly left in the aether. Field division Alpha One carefully walked to the door, opening it slowly, the hinges recently oiled. They seem to have arrived in a storage shed within the perimeter fence of the warehouse. Guards were posted up the entrance to the main compound, presumably to cover the MC&D trucks as they fled.
"Alright, Alpha One One and One Two, you guys take the entrance on my left and clear it out. I will take the small entrance ahead nearest the warehouse. One Three, you are on Foundation watch."
Three "ayes" swiftly came back as he started to advance forward towards the brickwork. He peered slowly past the corner, then swiftly stepped out.
A sharp jab to the nose of the first guard as he rounded the corner to disorientate, H&K P30 shoved up to his chest. Bang. The shot was slightly muffled by the body, but not enough. Phaedrus dropped to the floor, bullets flying over his head for a second before he heard a wet thump. A brief scuffle to his left was heard before a slight crunch cut it off. Phaedrus stripped the guard off, shrugging on the uniform. A voice came over the headset.
"Alpha One Three here, we have a problem. The Foundation started the raid early, there's a squad headed your way."
Phaedrus cursed, grabbing the Glock and its spare ammo from the fallen man. "Roger that, we are waiting near the warehouse now." He heard a loud engine getting steadily louder.
The truck rumbled past, some sort of open top transportation vehicle, no more than 2 meters away. He pondered a second before speaking, "Hey, One and Two, you able to take out the driver and 3 remaining passengers? I got the other two."
The reply was fast, "Sure thing, looks like somewhat easy pickings."
Phaedrus headed towards the warehouse, picking his way past hastily discarded boxes. Perfect. A small brick wall sectioned off a load of crates. He sat and patiently waited.
Just under a minute later, he heard two guys advancing towards his hiding place. He took a quick look, one looked like a trainee, the other one he wasn't sure. They had probably expected an easy smash and grab.
Three.
Two.
One.
He let off a burst of shots from the Glock, one scoring a direct hit on an unknown shin, the soldier crying out in pain. He took the advantage. Within two steps he had closed the gap, smashing the gun barrel down on the MTF's head. Twisting the arm of the man up as it reached for a holstered pistol, he dislocated the shoulder with a sharp pop. As the guy struggled to free himself, exposing his weakened headgear, Phaedrus took the opportunity. A quick shot into the back of the head, through the broken helmet, finished the job.
He turned to the second guy. Click. Shit, he was out. In a moment of pure stupidity, he chucked the empty gun towards the remaining MTF. The unfortunate MTF's eyes followed the trajectory of the spinning pistol, raising his arms in defence. Surprised the ploy worked, Phaedrus grabbed his knife and shoved it into the kid's earpiece gap with a wet squelch. A brief look of surprise passed over their face before the body slumped to the floor.
"My two are down, what's your situation?"
"All are neutralized. One dead, three completely lights out."
"Okay then, I see the truck we need. Numberplate TR15 MCD, meet you there."

A quick shot blasted through the driver's window, painting the inside a deep red. Phaedrus grabbed the doorway of the truck, yanking it open, a body tumbling out; warm viscera coating the seat. Phaedrus brushed the fabric off, wiping his hand on the driver's coat.
"I got the van secure. You almost here?"
"Yep, we see you. Will just hop in the back."
Phaedrus heard the clank of the door shuddering shut. He waited till the noise died down, then quietly edged the van out the gate and onto the side road, effectively avoiding the Foundation and bulk of MC&D's force entirely. It would hopefully be hours before they realised the van was gone, and they would likely blame Foundation forces.

/

The Norns Tale Hub

Late Night at the Office


The lights down here were too bright, too artificial and too real all at once, forcing Shiloh to perceive everything in perfect clarity. They closed their eyes for a moment, letting Maisy guide them forward. It helped.
"Where's JR Isle again?"
"Probably on the 　　　　　 in the breakroom."
Shiloh blinked at her, slowly. "…The what?"
"The 　　　　　," Laraskë repeated, patiently.
Shit. They pointed upwards, then made a fist parted with their thumb, then pointed loosely to the side. American Sign Language, D-N-P. "Did Not Parse".
Her face softened, and she clicked her tongue in sympathy. "Another one, huh? I guess you can make an appointment with the memeticist after we're done today."
This sort of thing hadn't happened in a while, but Shiloh supposed it was only a matter of time until something else was swallowed up by the slow-healing memetic sludge occupying part of their brain. At first, it had been broad, sweeping concepts, unreachable in their entirety; one week they'd lost the ability to read, another they'd had to manually breathe until the ability was coaxed back via something they'd called “conceptual association therapy”. Lately, they'd been getting lucky and only losing words. It was livable, and they'd be able to retrieve whatever had been lost after an hour or so of drawing connections between things that seemed entirely unrelated, until everything clicked back together.
Still, though, it was a bit scary. A hole in the world where a word should fit always robbed them of speech, leaving them to old habits, if only just for a moment.
"Let me go check," Shiloh mumbled, not acknowledging it. They'd bring it up in therapy or something.
Junior Researcher Isle was, in fact, in the breakroom, sitting on something that Shiloh couldn't quite conceptually grasp. Isle was primarily seen as an annoyance; they were perpetually eating some sort of snack food out of the package, they never seemed to leave the breakroom or actually do any work, no one seemed to be certain who they worked under, and no one ever actually saw them go home. Still, though, Shiloh felt a strange sort of allyship with them, a shared experience of a weird relationship with gender and also apparently having something very wrong with their brains. They tried to make a point of saying hello to Isle every morning, as some sort of confirmation of that connection.
Shiloh nodded in greeting. Isle nodded back behind a long veil of dyed hair, looking up from the tub of cheese snacks between their knees.
They were still a goddamn weirdo, though.
Back to their workstation; Shiloh wasn't important enough to get their own office like Laraskë had. The space around their terminal was sparsely decorated, with a colorful cushion on the office chair, a single flowering cactus, and a sticky note reading PW MODEL YEAR MOM'S CAR and REMEMBER: SEND SCP DOCS TO RAISA GUY FIRST stuck to the monitor as the only real distinguishing details.
They had resented the job at first, restless and pent-up and tired all at once, frustrated that they'd somehow let themself sink to menial transcription, observation, and documentation work. The more time passed, though, the more they'd sunk into the role like a worn, familiar mattress. The tasks given were repetitive, easy to lose yourself to, and hard to screw up, and the light jazz they were allowed to play through the tinny speakers of the terminal—another “accommodation”—made the time pass faster.
It was something, Shiloh reminded themself, sitting at the terminal. They were lucky they were still considered an asset.

SCiPNET - WELCOME
Checking filesystem:

[ OK ]

Init audit/keylogger.ADMIN:

[ OK ]

Init auth:

[ OK ]

Please enter credentials:
USER: shoffman2@@foundation.scip
PASS: maisy1983justincaseiloveyou_

Their finger hovered over the Enter key.
They closed their eyes, took a deep breath in.

Credentials confirmed.

In their head, they started counting thirty seconds.

LEVEL 2 RESEARCHER SHILOH A HOFFMAN

Maisy laid her head on their lap, trying to comfort them like she'd been trained.

Please stand by for deployment of visual targeted Berryman-Langford sleep meme to confirm identity.

An extra six and a half seconds. Just in case.

If you have entered these credentials in error, press the X key now.

Six and a half seconds.

Failure to do so will result in security dispatch to your location after confirmation of your unconsciousness.

Someone who'd been there at the time said their eyes had rolled back in their head like a cartoon. That they'd vomited, but their gag reflex hadn't kicked in, and they'd choked on it, drowned in it.

that which should not be known will not be known forever and ever until the end of time

It was a little stupid, looking back on it. Befitting of their cowardice, though. Done in by a goddamn image.

SECURE
CONTAIN
PROTECT

They remembered walking into the lecture hall for the Mu-4 orientation, and nearly tripping over a desk, not quite used to the new prosthetic.
No one had stared—they weren't goddamn high schoolers—but the silence was sudden, heavy, and tangible. Shiloh had spent the next twenty minutes or so of the lecture sunken into their seat, watching but not comprehending, trying to forget and remember simultaneously.
They looked up again when someone started handing out blindfolds.
"—clearance isn't high enough, which goes for those of you for whom this is your first assignment—subunit Tau, that means you. For those of you with clearance, I'm about to show you something that you may find difficult to view directly. I'm going to ask that you view it directly. It'll be clear why in a moment."
Shiloh blinked dumbly. They hadn't been given a blindfold. The guards at the doors were armed to the teeth. What the hell?
After everyone who'd been issued a blindfold had it on securely, the slide clicked and displayed—oh, wow, ouch. Shiloh managed to bite their tongue, but there were a few gasps and groans from their fellow audience members; looking at it had sent a stab of pain directly between their eyes, straight through to the back of their head. Somehow, though, they were disinclined to look away.
"Don't panic, everyone." The man at the podium had an irritatingly superior air about him. "That pain you're feeling right now is natural, as long as it subsides with time like it's meant to. You're currently being inoculated against Level 3 Berryman-Langford kill agents, which we use to keep our intranet secure. It's just like getting a shot, only with your brain. Please keep your focus on that image up there."
It was a little mesmerizing, actually. Swirls upon swirls upon swirls of color, wrapping around their optical nerves. Their mouth tasted tinny and artificial.
"Everyone get a good look? We're moving on to the next stage of the inoculation now. There are three phases." Before they could blink, the next slide was there, and with it a similar sharp ache behind their eyes. "Those of you blindfolded can remove your blindfolds now, if you want to have a seizure, of course." He barked out a sharp laugh. Shiloh wasn't sure how that was meant to be funny.
"All three of these images will be necessary. If you're curious about the exact workings of it, ask someone from Memetics, but currently the subtleties in your psyche that say 'cortisol overdose' when you see a Berryman-Langford are being reprogrammed to associate those same triggers with a completely separate stimulus. Specifically, the taste of vanilla."
Shiloh licked their lips. There it was, faintly sweet and alcoholic. All of this was getting to be overwhelming.
"We've chosen that trigger to make it obvious to you that the inoculation is working. All of your inoculations won't be that obvious, though. Just try to keep it all straight." It sounded like some sort of magic, too blasé for something that was supposed to be deadly, but they supposed they should have been used to it by now. They sat up, reminded themself to focus.
The slide clicked again, and the pain spiked, then settled into something approaching a tolerable migraine. "Give that an eyeful for a minute or so, and you should be fully inoculated." Vanilla, rich but artificial, sticky in their mouth. Pain, dull and overbearing. Was that it? Were they safe now?
Their gaze flicked away, then back. Another sting behind their eyes, piercing their skull. Had he said it was normal for the pain to stay intense? They couldn't remember. The space where their leg used to be was aching again.
At the time, Shiloh had decided just not to bother anyone about it.
They tripped over their desk again on the way out.
Four weeks later, Agent Hoffman of Mu-4 (“Debuggers”), subunit λ, was given their first high-clearance assignment. Actually, the whole subunit was, but they hadn't been meshing well; despite working with electronics, Mu-4 still did field exercises. Shiloh physically and contractually couldn't participate in them, placing them at an awkward, pitiable distance from everyone else.
Still, the transition hadn't been all bad. Site-15 was where they'd met Laraskë, and even though they didn't work together directly, Shiloh remembered watching her scratch Josie behind the ears as she rubbed her face all over her monitor. She'd looked up at them and smiled, real and warm and not pitying, and they thought then that maybe it was possible for the higher-ups to be nice.
The whole affair had been almost theatrically secretive. They weren't even cleared to know the number of the skip, just that they had to try and crack a particularly hardy system that was also volatile and prone to self-wipe. Shiloh had come to enjoy coding by then, to find comfort in the way computers always worked according to simple rules and never said anything they didn't mean.

Credentials confirmed.

They had been happy that morning, all lined up in front of the secured Site-15 terminals. Excited, even.

Welcome, AGENT HOFFMAN.

It had all been so normal.

Please enter a command.

Just a routine fucking image that kills you if you look at it.

[shoffman2@@foundation.scip]$ cd /scipnet/mtf/mu4/lambda

Maybe it was some sort of karmic punishment, their cowardice that had been buried under a brash exterior forced out into the open.

[shoffman2@@foundation.scip]$ ls -l
-rw-r----- 1 jroger6 mu4 5067 Jan 11 1998 19980111_MU4.scit

Maybe it was this fucked up job's fault.

[shoffman2@@foundation.scip]$ xdg-open 19980111_MU4.scit
Info on SCP-████ is strictly classified LEVEL 3: SECRET.

But did anyone deserve this?

By continuing, you consent to exposure to a lethal memetic agent.

Did they deserve—

THE BLACK MOON HOWLS TO SACRIFICE HERSELF FOR THE PACK

　 si x
　a n 　 　 d
　a 　 h 　a 　l f
　　s 　 　 e 　co 　　n 　d 　　　s
　 r　　 ip pin 　g　　　an d　te　arin g fronta　l parietal occipital temporal cerebrum cerebellum
the　ir consciousn e ss vivisected injected with a 　hundred thousand hostile concepts studied like a lab rat twitching foaming at the mouth
ideas buried in id　eas buried in ideas buried in ideas buried in ideas buried in absolutely nothing at all in a hole in the ground in their skull in the 　　　　　 in their teeth in V. planifolia in
neurons suffocating on conceptions misconceptions coughing up viscera in the prefrontal cortex seizing nonexistent limbs dissolving tibia and fibia
tongues forced down their throat cracking open the base of their neck and siphoning out comprehension in drip drip drips of spinal fluid
a sickeningly slow dance with reality spiraling to mutual annihilation like a dogfight like a solvent a solute like a scalpel to the leg to the brain
why the fuck am i not dead?

Why the fuck am I not dead?
It was the only thing they could grasp when they came to again. Nothing felt solid, not their environment or their body or their own mind. I should be dead. Why didn't I die? They couldn't remember what had happened—come to think of it, they couldn't remember anything at all, couldn't even reach for their own name. It didn't matter, though, because a single thought was there, persistent, clear as day. They grappled for it desperately, a firm foothold on reality. I should have died. I should be dead. What the fuck happened?
Breathing was strenuous suddenly, something they had to remind themself to keep doing. Everything felt too heavy, fuzzy around the edges, hard to grasp. There was metal in their arm and the room was too bright and nothing made sense.
They tried to sit up, to say something. Neither worked. A dull panic set in, and they tried to move again; a sensation consistent with a full-body spasm coursed through their nerves, but all that happened was a lazy twitch of their right hand, six and a half seconds later. Their eyelids felt like leaden curtains, too heavy to keep open, and for a moment they were certain they'd been too hasty, that they were dying, that they were dead already and this was what came after.
Someone they didn't recognize approached them, and at first they'd thought they had gone deaf. After another moment—six and a half seconds, to be precise—they realized that they could hear the woman in scrubs speaking to them perfectly clearly, but the words were getting lost somewhere in their brain, not quite reaching the language parser. It was like a foreign language that they recognized by sound but couldn't translate, and yet they knew it was plain English but they couldn't understand, none of it made sense, nothing was working. In a last-ditch attempt at communication, they tried forming a sentence on their own, but couldn't even get as far as putting the words in order until it all fell apart in their head, and then their nerves finally woke up and they started panicking.
They ended up on the floor somehow in their frenzied state. Something—they weren't sure what—felt bruised, and for the first time they registered blood around their ears, dried and flaky. They knew that was bad, but not why. The person approached them, an unsettling amalgam of incomprehensible humanity, continuing to speak and make facial expressions they couldn't connect to a meaning.
She held them still by the neck, then plunged a syringe into the crook of their elbow. With the action, something clicked in their mind, a scrap of familiarity—they were in the medical ward, they now recognized. Somehow, they'd screwed up again.
The drug-haze rolled in like a fog, and their body went limp again, muscles ceasing to respond. Their mouth wouldn't cooperate with the instinctive signals their brain was sending, but as their vision clouded, they made three last futile attempts to produce speech.
Oliveira?
Mom?
I'm sorry.
When they woke up again, who knew how many hours or days later, their nose was bleeding. They felt lightheaded, but a little more like they could keep the world in order; their vision was clearer and the names of objects were coming to mind more easily. The environment was sterile and cold, but more familiar than they would have liked it to be.
They still weren't sure who they were. There was a familiar weight in their back pocket that they grasped at for the answer, more innately than anything.
Their dogtags clinked together pleasingly in their hands.

NAME: HOFFMAN, SHILOH ANDREW
DOB: 1973/09/23
SEX: N/A
DESIG: MU-4-λ-6
BLOOD: A POS

Shiloh smiled faintly, rolling the name around in their head, reacclimating. Shiloh, Shiloh, Shiloh. Their name was a comfort at this point, a blanket of familiarity they could wrap themself in.
Reading over the tags again, they felt another memory bubble to the surface.
SEX: N/A
They'd fought for those two letters, spending hours on paperwork and negotiations, back when they'd had more of a backbone. Weeks of asserting their identity, just for two little letters of acknowledgement. Still, it felt good to have a tangible reminder of it, something they could hold in their hands. They were a fighter, weren't they? They'd always been a fighter.
Bits and pieces were starting to come back. Under an ill-fitting hospital gown, Shiloh was still wearing the same outfit they'd had on before, splattered with bits of dried vomit. Before… they closed their eyes and tried to order their thoughts. Recall was a demanding task now, but they painstakingly wound back the clock to before they'd woken up, the orientation, the inoculation, the assignment, the terminal—
Six and a half seconds later, they straightened up and doubled over, covering their mouth, suddenly feeling like they were about to throw up again. Blood smeared across their face with the action, metallic on their tongue. Was that it? The kill agent? But the inoculation—
Apparently, they'd looked as panicky as they felt. A nurse hurried over, and they shook their head strongly, refusing to let themself get drugged up again. They'd lost enough consciousness.
How did I— but the words didn't come. Shiloh's mouth still wasn't cooperating with their brain. Their grip tightened on the dog tags as they grit their teeth, asserting with their gaze that they were lucid and aware enough to deserve an explanation.
Six and a half seconds.
Six and a half seconds of exposure to a Berryman-Langford had caused a type of brain damage that was seldom seen, rarely survived, and poorly understood. Shiloh wasn't going to die from it—they'd apparently gotten past that stage, at least. The inoculation hadn't completely failed. That was the only concrete thing anyone seemed to know about it, though; the responses to the unspoken questions of is it permanent? and can you fix it? were tight-lipped smiles and diplomatic, carefully worded, empty answers.
Somehow, after enough anxious gesturing, Shiloh managed to convey their inability to remember how to speak, and was given pity in the form of a laminated sheet with the ASL alphabet on it. They recalled it vaguely from Epsilon-11 training, and considered themself lucky they hadn't forgotten how to read, too. There was no Oliveira now—no one to hold their hand through this.
Shiloh quickly grew dependent on that sheet; it was another week and a half before they started remembering how to form words, and during that time a disconcertingly familiar march of people with lab coats and clipboards asked them ceaseless questions. What are your symptoms? Do you recall anything before or during the incident? Were you fully mentally engaged with the inoculation procedure? They had painstakingly spelled the answers out letter by letter. Usually, it took hours. The questions sometimes had words missing from them, bits that their brain hadn't healed enough to comprehend, and to those Shiloh just shook their head and watched them mark "DNP" for "Did Not Parse" on the assessment forms. Eventually, they picked up the acronym themself to save them the trouble.
Stunted reaction time, limited spacial awareness, aphasia, reduced gross motor skills, cognitive delay, loss of memory, confusion, lightheadedness, and "conceptual dissociation", whatever that meant, was the official list of symptoms. They were a case study—a miracle, technically. Shiloh wasn't sure they particularly appreciated it. Bits and pieces of the image still flashed behind their eyelids whenever they blinked, seared into their retinas, carrying a pulsing headache and a vague feeling of loss with it.
During that first week, Laraskë had come to visit them in the medical ward a few times. It was strange—they were barely acquaintances—but it came to be the highlight of their recovery. She was the only one who seemed to understand that under all the beeping monitors and slurred attempts at speech, Shiloh was whole, lucid, human. They had lengthy, mostly one-sided conversations, about family, work, Laraskë's six cats. Once, Josie followed her in despite the protests of the medical attendants, and the odd little half-cat had curled up on their chest and fallen asleep.
A few minutes later, Shiloh had managed their first sentence since waking up, halting and slow. Exactly what it was they couldn't remember, but it hadn't been all that important, anyway.
Consciousness became easier and easier to grapple with as time went on, and by the time two weeks had passed, Shiloh almost felt normal. The visits from strangers with clipboards kicked back up then; every form felt like a diplomatic way of asking we can't get rid of them, what are we supposed to do with them?
Most of them received listless nods and mindless signatures. The mental fogginess Shiloh was mired in, they suspected, was something they were going to have to learn to live with.
One form, though, gave them pause. They hadn't actually been paying attention to the legalese until the word ‘liability' broke through the haze in their head, and something Laraskë had said came to mind: They're gonna try to make it your fault, kid. She'd leaned back against one of the sturdier-looking machines, took a long drag on a short cigarette, and looked Shiloh in the eye. I've seen it happen. They get you when you're not paying attention. Don't let them, you hear me? You didn't do shit.
“…Excuse me?” Shiloh's voice came out halting, uncertain.
The man at their bedside looked taken aback, tugging on his tie. They recognized him vaguely, knew the face but nothing else. “I just—need you to sign this acknowledgment of misconduct during the inoculation, very standard, all it does is waive your—“
“No, thank you.”
The man's strained, polite expression withered in a way that was oddly satisfying, like pulling a single thread and watching the whole sweater unravel. “Sir—“
“Agent,“ Shiloh corrected, gently.
He pressed his lips together into a thin line, adjusted his glasses. “I hope you understand the inconvenient position you're putting me in here.”
Shiloh considered their response. They could feel the man's growing impatience, and mentally acknowledged it, but made no effort to appeal to it. “I need to approach this with a clear head.” A pause; six and a half seconds to assess his reaction. “I'd like some more time to recover before I make a decision.” Their tone was polite, almost meek, but their voice didn't shake.
Another silence, spent carefully arranging words in their head until they were certain of their order and meaning. Unintentionally, they interrupted him. Intentionally, they continued to speak.
“I want to put in a request for compensation. If it's possible, I want to look into getting a service animal.” Shiloh spoke slowly and deliberately, with a core of certainty under the polite phrasing.
The man had given a tight smile that poorly concealed a wide range of strong emotions, tucked the form back into his folder, nodded curtly, and left.
Shiloh allowed themself to breathe.

Consciousness confirmed.

They exhaled, sudden and forceful, and ratcheted forward, nearly slammed their head on the screen. Fuck. Holy shit. Get over it.

Welcome, RESEARCHER HOFFMAN.

Maisy whimpered, pawed nervously at their intact leg. How long had they not been breathing?

Please enter a command._

"I—I'm okay, Mae." She was a smart dog. Shiloh didn't remember her being trained to tell when they were having flashbacks. "I'm okay. Good girl."
This was getting a little tiring, if they were being honest with themself. They'd sorted out all the bureaucratic blame being pushed on them a few months back, but it still weighed heavy on them; all those pitiful gazes, all those invasive questions under the pretense of sympathy. It felt like that scrutiny hadn't ever really stopped sometimes. Somewhere deep and innate, they knew there was extra weight on their shoulders, the metaphorical Sword of Damocles poised above their neck and ready to sever their throat the moment they no longer proved useful.
It wasn't all that dramatic, though. Really, Shiloh just wanted to be left alone nowadays. They'd had enough of being studied, and more than their fill of having to assert themself as human.
Six and a half seconds after she'd spoken, Shiloh registered Dr. Laraskë behind them, addressing them directly.
“…Sorry, what was that?”
“We've got a new assignment.” Laraskë ran a hand through her hair. It did absolutely nothing to tame the utter rat's nest of a bun she sported. “Stationary task force, actually. It's some sorta new Web-based surveillance skip, and you and I are supposed to figure it out.” A pause. She fished out a cigarette from her pocket. “Well, us and like six other people.”
Shiloh blinked at her. “What's the number?”
Smoke hung in the air, thick and stagnant. “Fifty four oh-three.”
They sighed, and for a moment leaned back in their chair. This was the first real assignment they'd had in months, and on the one hand they were grateful for the change in pace, but on the other—this was the Foundation. Who knew what Shiloh was about to get themself into?
Then, they braced themself on the desk and closed their eyes, waiting for six and a half seconds for their head to catch up with their body. They rose to their feet, slow and steady, Maisy standing at attention at their side. Laraskë smiled, and they smiled back.
Whatever it was, they could work with it. Shiloh was a fighter. They'd always been a fighter.

half two of two
thank you very much for reading


« Act II - Scene I | Demasqed | Act II - Scene III »

Act II - Scene II

Interior of jail, with same props and setup as Act I Scene VI. Jazz is standing out of her cell, directly next to the door. In her hand is a phone with a cord, connected to a box with a numerical keypad. Standing next to Jazz, watching her intently, is the police officer from earlier, who is holding the aforementioned phone box. Jazz looks distressed. She enters a phone number into the keypad, and holds the phone to her ear.

JAZZ
Come on… come on… pick up…
POLICE OFFICER
(tired)
Look Korbachev, I really don't think he's gonna pick up. You've tried three times now. Come on, let's get you back to your cell.
JAZZ
(distressed)
No! One more time! One more try, he will pick up! He has to!
POLICE OFFICER
(tired)
I… you know what, fine, but this is the last one, understand me?
JAZZ
Yes, thank you, thank you!

Jazz enters the phone number again, and holds the phone to her ear, desperately hoping for a response. Just as it seems like there won't be one, we hear a low-quality crackle.

BRIMLEY
(yawning)
Yo, who is this?
JAZZ
Oh my god, Brimley? Is that you? It's me, Jazz!
BRIMLEY
(extremely tired)
Jazz… what're you doing out so late? Got some sorta secret work meeting?
JAZZ
I… I'm in jail, Brimley. Did you not get my voicemail? It was probably the only one from the fucking state prison!
BRIMLEY
(extremely tired)
Yo, you expect me to check my voicemail?
JAZZ
That's all you're going to say? You're not at all phased by the fact that I just told you I'm in jail?
BRIMLEY
(extremely tired)
Babe, I'm like three quarters asleep right now, I've got no idea what's going on.
JAZZ
Just… listen, my… my boss managed to pull a few strings and they posted my bail for only 350 dollars, I need you to come pay it and pick me up.
BRIMLEY
(slightly less tired)
Three hundred and fifty bucks? What for?
JAZZ
For getting me out of jail! Are you not listening?
BRIMLEY
(tired)
I'll see if I can pull together some extra money in the morning, babe. I gotta get back to sleep.
JAZZ
Brimley, wait! You're not coming to get me?
BRIMLEY
I will, just… it's a lotta money.
JAZZ
(pissed)
Yeah well how about 'I'm your girlfriend'? I'm not worth three hundred and fifty dollars to you? This isn't for some pretty necklace I saw in a store, I am incarcerated!
BRIMLEY
I don't have that kinda money at freakin… whatever time it is.
JAZZ
It's not even 9 PM… have you been out drinking?
BRIMLEY
Tim's son had a recital.
JAZZ
That doesn't answer… why were you at Tim's son's recital? You know what, forget it. Just forget it.
BRIMLEY
(yawning)
I already did.
JAZZ
(through angry tears)
I'll see you tomorrow morning.
BRIMLEY
Kay, night. Get home safe.

Jazz, wiping her tears with her arm, stares blankly forwards. Without moving her head, she hands the phone to the police officer, who places it on the box, and opens Jazz's cell doors. She ushers Jazz inside, and locks it, before walking away. Jazz climbs into bed, staring straight at the ceiling, not moving or closing her eyes as the lights quickly fade to black.
Lights come back on the prison, mid-day the next day. Jazz sits on her bed, staring blankly towards the door of her cell. Her facial expression makes it clear that she knows Brimley is not coming. After a moment, the Police Officer comes on stage from downstage right, and walks up towards Jazz's cell. To Jazz's surprise, she begins to open the door.

JAZZ
Wait, what's happening?
POLICE OFFICER
Some guy just posted your bail. You're free to go.
JAZZ
Holy shit, I thought he wasn't going to show!
POLICE OFFICER
Yeah, well, he did. Did you have anything on you when we brought you in here?
JAZZ
Oh… no, nothing.
POLICE OFFICER
Great, then follow me.

The police officer walks, with Jazz following close behind, downstage and then towards stage right. They cross in front of the partition, and stop.

POLICE OFFICER
You can just wait for him here, he'll be in in a second.
JAZZ
Great, thank you!

The police officer walks offstage. Jazz looks around nervously/excitedly. Suddenly, she sees someone come on from stage right, but to her surprise, it isn't Brimley.

JAZZ
Wait… Dana?
DANA
Hey Jazz, I'm here to pick you up.
JAZZ
I… I don't understand, I thought Brimley was going to pick me up in the morning…
DANA
Morning? Jazz, it's 2 PM. If someone was going to pick you up in the morning, you'd be out.
JAZZ
Huh…
DANA
Listen, Michael told me he was able to… persuade them to post your bail. I didn't ask for details, he didn't seem too keen on sharing, let's leave it at that.
JAZZ
…
DANA
The point is, shit's going down at the site right now. You've missed a lot in the past couple of days.
JAZZ
Wait, what's going on?
DANA
The geniuses in the PR Group decided to let reporters poke around inside the site, and one of them got a little bit of info about the D-Class program.
JAZZ
Oh fuck…
DANA
Yeah, turns out the general population isn't too keen on doing inhumane testing on amnesticized prisoners.
JAZZ
So, what's the Foundation going to do?
DANA
I tried to talk to Laura but every member of staff level 4 and higher is still wrapped up in trying to get Korea back from whatever dimension we zapped it to, so it's kind of been left to us.
JAZZ
Wait, dimension?
DANA
Sorry, figure of speech. Nobody has any clue where it is, and that's precisely why none of the higher-ups are available to help us deal with the crowds. Michael's in charge while Laura is busy, and he didn't want to take any chances, so he put the site on lockdown. Nobody can get in unless they're part of essential containment personnel, which none of us are.
JAZZ
I thought you were a containment specialist?
DANA
Emphasis on the word specialist. I'm not really needed when it comes to general, day to day containment. How do you think I have time to basically run the bar alone?
JAZZ
So… then what? You must have come here for some reason.
DANA
Well, other than the fact that I consider you a friend, I also know that you're innocent. And we're going to prove it.
JAZZ
How?
DANA
Crystal-INE has access to the Foundation database. They can get us more information on the project, but it's all off limits to me. You, on the other hand, were part of the project team. You can access those documents for us!
JAZZ
But Crystal-INE's stored in Site-96, and you just said it was on lockdown.
DANA
(grinning)
It is on lockdown. That's why we're going to sneak in.

Blackout.

End Scene

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