Christmastime in Ohio used to mean bright lights all over, moderately snowy weather, and people who were normally the scum of the Earth giving some token effort to donate to the Salvation Army or the like. Now, it meant that while there were still bright lights, the only snow was the one that appeared on the television screens playing Christmas specials, and the scum of the Earth… well, they were being dealt with by a woman wearing a red wool beanie, a long white scarf, a brown winter coat and makeup under her eyes to make her look like she had been staying up for the past five days, high on something that was a mixture of rocket fuel and an octuple espresso.
The woman toyed with her scarf, while her partner on the other end of an ear piece and a few other agents watched from the top of a building. It was a classic sting op; dealer comes by, maybe with a couple of friends, and tries to sell her drugs. She buys some, and the boys follow them back to their den, seize the rest. Classic honeypot; almost too classic. The woman was afraid they would see right through it.
She breathed into her hands and shivered, her hand brushing up against the gun under her coat as she held herself. Why her partner wasn't doing this was beyond her, but then again, women were less likely to be profiled as law enforcement of any kind. One of the few times where sexism was useful.
Soon, she heard boots hitting the pavement, and turned to see two men (she put a question mark after that word in her mind; they were so bundled up she couldn't tell) carrying a metal briefcase with them. Classy, she thought, For a bunch of low-level Cinncy Dealers.
They stepped up to her and opened the case, grinning at her as they revealed several glass vials filled with bright green powder, with dots of blue scattered around in it. The people grinned with rotten teeth, and one of them spoke.
“See this, girlie? V.D.. 100% pure Spirit Dust with chunks of Vic mixed in. Imported straight from Japan; it's one hell of a fuckin' trip.” The man, as she could now tell by her voice, howled like a wolf and cackled. “It's good stuff. What's your offer?”
“Well,” the woman said, “It's hardly pure if you mixed it with Vic. That devalues it by about a hundred alone. Also… how does it smell?”
The dealer frowned, showing off his meth-mouth. “Smell?”
“Yes, smell. Good smells like nothing; the bad stuff smells like rotten Bender Blood.” She held out her hand. “C'mon, if it's good, I'll give you an extra 200.”
The dealer grumbled and presented the case to her; in return, she took out a vial, uncorked it, held it slightly away from her face, planted a small tracking device inside the briefcase, and took in the scent of the Spirit Dust. The smell wasn't exactly nothing; it was more of the scent of reality, ready to be turned into putty in your hands. But reality smelled like wherever you were right now. The woman grinned, taking out a bundle of Benjamins and handing it to them. “Thank ya kindly.” The dealer counted the bills and handed them to his partner, who took them in his hand, put them up to his face, and ate them. The woman blinked at this. “Uh.”
“What's the matter, girlie?” grinned the dealer. “Ain't never seen a Banker before? He eats money and shits out unmarked bills. It's great stuff; sometimes he even shits gold.”
“Useful,” the woman said, scratching at her ear. “How Can this Man do that?” She heard cursing from her partner on the other end of the earpiece; he had picked up on the slight emphasis she had put on the words “Can Man”. The dealer just shrugged.
"I don't question it, girlie, and neither should you." The dealer grinned and walked off, chatting with his Banker colleague. Once they were gone, the woman heard a voice in her ear.
"Special Agent MacAllister, do you copy? This is Agent Christman, over."
"I'm here, Darnell, don't be so formal." She paused just to mess with him. "Over."
"Protocol, Mac. I got the big boys up here. Over."
"I got some of the merch. They had, like, ten vials of the stuff in there. Over."
"All right. Get back to the car. Over."
"Right. Go after them, with the chance that they could find the tracker and ditch the briefcase, making off with the merch. Great plan. Did Higgins come up with that? Over."
"We already have a shadow on them, Quinn. Don't do anything stupid. Over."
"Darnell, do I ever do anything stupid?" asked Agent MacAllister as she walked off after the two people in the darkness of the December night. "Give me a little credit. Over."
"…Shall I call Harley? Tell her you'll be home late again? Over."
"If you'd be so kind. Over and out." Quinn said into her earpiece, before bundling up and continuing after them in earnest, and hoping they weren't using portable doorways or insta-holes or anything like that.

The west side of Cincinnati wasn't exactly the nicest part of town. That much was no secret; granted, the worst part of it, Over The Rhine, was showing significant improvement, and it was nowhere near as bad as some parts of Cleveland (or, as Quinn liked to call it, 'The Serial Killer Capital of the World'), but it was still pretty bad. And honestly, if it weren't for the fact that weird shit was happening here, Quinn wouldn't have bothered coming, and probably would have asked the P.D. to handle it. But, this was unusual, so she kind of had to do it.
So, Quinn MacAllister tromped around in the cold December night, going after a person who made and/or sold drugs that could turn you into a demigod and his friend who ate money, and all she could think about was what life decisions had led her to this.
Regardless, she soldiered on, always staying one corner or a block behind her marks, who were illuminated by the lights from televisions playing through windows late at night, or the occasional street lamp that actually worked, or even the headlights from a car passing by. And they were easy to follow, anyway; the dealer, it seemed, took joy in smashing trash cans and car windows with a crowbar. Quinn half-thought of a snarky comment related to Gordon Freeman on meth, but decided that it was best to save the snark for later.
Soon, the pair came up on the most stereotypical-looking Drug Lab Quinn had ever seen. Broken windows, a strong smell of… something highly illegal, weird graffiti everywhere from various gangs, overturned trashcans… all of that good stuff.
One piece of graffiti stood out to her; she'd seen it before in other, bad parts of town before, and it wasn't associated with any gang. It looked like a set of quadrants, with 2/3rds of a triangle in the upper-left corner, the number two in the upper-right, and a square in the lower-left. What was odd about it was the chalk seemed to give off a soft glow; luminescent chalk, Quinn guessed.

After a bit, she looked at the address on the building, and called it in. She wasn't stupid, nor was she Batman; she knew full well she couldn't take on a house of possibly anomalous individuals on her own, so it was probably best to call in a team.
However, as she was talking into the earbud, she heard the unmistakable click of a 10mm pistol behind her. "Well, well, well… Girlie's a cop. More than that… Girlie's a Skipper."
"…call me Girlie one more time. I dare you." Best to keep him talking. Druggies liked to gloat.
"Girlie. Girlie Girlie! Girlie." Methmouth the Dealer stepped around her, to the front, keeping his gun trained on her. "That explains why you didn't say nothin' about Terry."
"Your 'Banker' is hardly the weirdest thing I've seen in this city." Quinn rolled her eyes as she knelt on the ground before him. "Also, I'm not a god-damn Skipper. Don't call me that."
"What are you then? Gawker?"
"Nope."
"…Hi-Guy? You guys usually ain't about doing bee stings- ah!" Methmouth the Dealer grinned. "You're a UIUseless! Fuckin' hell."
Quinn laughed softly, looking up at him. "Really? That's the best nickname you guys have come up with? Not Useless Idiots Unit?" Quinn tried desperately to keep him talking.
"Shut up. Nobody cares if a UIUseless dies in a back alley. The Skippers'll just say that it was a… raid gone wrong or something." He turned the safety on his gun off. "Where should I shoot you fi-"
Methmouth's speech was interrupted by a punch to the nose. It glanced off slightly, but sent him reeling nonetheless. He hissed in pain, rubbing his nose and growling. "Oh… you…" he took a step forward with each word. "Fucking… bitch!" He aimed his gun at Quinn.
Just as he pulled the trigger, Quinn grabbed his arm and twisted it upwards. The gun went off next to her ear, causing it to ring as a bullet grazed her beanie. She winced at the noise and tried to swat the gun away from his hand. No good; he had it in a vice grip.
Fortunately, Methmouth was also in a state of shock from the gunshot, and momentarily forgot the gun was in his hand. He punched Quinn in the chest, and she winced as she felt a rib crack. The sound of it made her adrenal glands wake up and have a pot of coffee made with pure antimatter. All of Methmouth's action's seemed to slow down.
Quinn, despite the pain, swung around her hips into a cutting kick, trying to take him down before he could raise the gun again. One well-aimed kick to the side put him on the ground like a deflated tungsten zeppelin, and as his head asked the sidewalk if he could have its hand in marriage, he fell unconscious.
Quinn radioed in her position, and then promptly proceeded to practically pass out next to the building. She hissed as the adrenaline stopped, the danger now passed. The rib fucking hurt. It was minor, but it hurt.
By the time the FBI squad got there, Quinn's endocrine system had compensated enough that she could stand up, albeit shakily. Agent Christman came up to her, looking at Methmouth the dealer passed out on the sidewalk. "…you okay, Mac?"
"Please," Quinn spat out a clot of blood; she had bitten her tongue when she got punched. "The trainers at Quantico prepare you for hard stuff." She grinned as trucks filled with an FBI Raid Team pulled up, and quickly overtook the building. She didn't go in with them; her work was done.

Carla Bosch: Earlier this morning, some drug dealers got an early lump of coal in their stocking when the FBI raided their drug lab in East Westwood. The lab was purportedly used for cooking a hallucinogen similar to LSD, the name of which the FBI is not releasing due to public safety concerns. The raid was reportedly carried out with help from SpearCross Protections, a private security company, who had an unknown interest in the property…

Quinn watched this on the 8:00 news with a smug look on her face, sipping at some coffee while her wife sat next to her. Harley Sterling smiled back at her. "Another good night?"
"Yeah," she said. "Nobody really got in the way at all. Plapps is thinking of writing me a commendation for my work. I don't think I really did anything that good. Just shut down one of several dozen meth labs around here."
"Hon," Harley said, kissing her cheek. "You did fine. Now, you should probably get along to work."
Quinn nodded, finishing her coffee, kissing her wife goodbye, and heading down to her black station wagon. She drove off into the Cincinnati morning, leaving her mundane life behind like she did every morning, and entering the unusual.

Hub | Another Boring Night»


"It all started when stingrays began spewing from the air vents."
Dr. Daniel Horatio Aeslinger, Psy.D., the psychologist currently on temporary assignment at Site-82, tapped his pencil against his lips.
"Go on, Agent Bouchard."
The man in front of him hesitated.
"Well, at first we didn't even notice. I mean, when you have a permanently PMSing giant lizard-thing and a homicidal immortal freak in a stone giftbox in lock-up, stingrays aren't exactly high on your oh-shit-o-meter. I guess I registered a kind of wet flopping sound as I chewed my way through my lunch.
Aeslinger cleared his throat. "So, you were eating lunch and stingrays started emerging from the air vents?"
"Right. So, at first it was just stingrays. Then came the sharks."
"Sharks, you say?"
Aeslinger started scribbling notes.
"Sharks, yes. Of course, most of them didn't fit through, so they got stuck. I swear I've never heard a sound like it. Kind of like Emerson trying to get up the stairs to processing, up on level 14. You know Emerson? He's this morbidly ob-"
"I know Emerson, yes. I work with him occasionally. Back to the sharks please."
"Uh…sure. So now there's stingrays flopping around, sharks bellowing from the air vents, jaws snapping continuously, and we're just sitting there, looking around at the mess. And that's when it happens."
"Yes?"
"A tiger shark manages to wriggle free and drops right down onto Helen Stapel, you know, from accounting?"
Aeslinger looked horrified and for a moment professionalism was just another word in the dictionary.
"Oh my god, it must've been a bloodbath."
"Not really, shark hit her in the head and she bounced off the table. Knocked her right out."
Aeslinger sat up straight and nodded.
"Oh. Well, a small victory then. Any day where someone doesn't get bitten in half by a falling tiger shark is a good day."
Bouchard looked at him funny.
"I guess so, Doc. Anyway, after about 15 minutes, there's no more of them. The stingrays and most of the sharks are dead or dying, and that one tiger shark is flopping around trying to bite people's ankles. And all this time, no one's said a thing. Screams, sure, but no conversation."
"Really? How odd."
"Not really. I mean, sure, we've seen a lot of weird shit. It comes with the territory, I suppose. But, well, we've never had seafood drop from the ceiling. It's a new thing. So we're all kind of stumped."
More scribbling.
"Ah, I see. And then what happened?"
"Well, like I said, no one's said anything, no one's moving and then all of a sudden, Dr. Cameron walks in. Diving suit on, snorkel and diving glasses on his head. He says something about miscalculating the alignment on an inter-reality thingamajig, yada yada yada flux calibration thing and how everything'll be sorted out soon. Then he flops off again, leaving us with a cafeteria full of stingrays and sharks."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Like calling in sick the next day."
"Why is that?"
"Cause I don't like fish, and I was pretty sure we'd be having it for lunch for a few days at least."
Aeslinger blinked. "Right. Now, Agent Bouchard, are you sure you didn't leave anything out of your account?"
"Quite."
"You're absolutely sure?"
"Positive."
"Agent Bouchard, do you know why you're here?"
"Not really. Ferguson called me into his office and told me to report to you."
"Agent Bouchard, why did you punch that tiger shark you were talking about?"
"I…ehh…"
"Agent Bouchard, I have here some statements signed by several of your colleagues. I will read from one of them."
Aeslinger shuffled a stack of papers on his desk and seemed to find the one he was looking for.
"Ah, here we are. Now, Agent Fitzroyce states that, and I quote: 'Something came over Bouchard. I've never seen that look in his eye before, but he just leapt up and charged that thing'," Aeslinger read. "Now, what would you say to that?"
"I-I really don't think I did anything anyone else wouldn't do?" Bouchard answered and squirmed in his chair.
Aeslinger put his pencil down and steepled his hands in front of him.
"Come Agent Bouchard, let's not beat around the shark-infested bush here: SCP or SPC?"
Daniel sat back and watched the agent's lips tremble.
"That's what I thought. Erickson, Winkler, you may escort Agent Bouchard to the temporary holding cells on the fifth floor until we figure out how he managed to transition into this reality construct," Aeslinger said to the two members of Site-82's Security Staff that had quietly entered the chambers.
Bouchard stood up and for a split-second seemed to be gearing up for a fight. Then he dropped his head and nodded. Wordlessly he went with his escort.
Aeslinger closed his eyes, thought for a moment and then wrote down a possible solution.

Until point of entry for SPC infiltration has been found, put up posters of sharks on concrete walls. Anyone reporting to the site's medical staff with fractures in their hands is suspicious.


I have been with the Foundation for a few years now, but never in this deep. Up until now I had just been serving meals to the human test subjects. It felt like serving meals to prisoners – and some of them were death row prisoners who wanted the Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card by agreeing to be tested on. Certainly a weird environment. The test groups were changed out on a monthly basis and I never questioned why. I assumed they all went back to their lives when the testing was done and that was that.
But where I am now is much different. I've been told this is a promotion, yet the pay is not much better and the restrictions are much tighter – this is where the real Foundation shit goes down.
“Phone or any recording devices in the box,” Marta stated bluntly as the receptionist pushed a plastic box across the counter.
I pulled my phone out of my uniform pocket, checked it one last time to see if I had any new messages, and reluctantly dropped it in the box.
“Why can't I have my phone?” I asked ignorantly.
Marta and the receptionist exchanged a look that said “this guy is stupid as fuck, isn't he?”
“Well, Jay, what you see in here cannot be seen by the outside world,” Marta explained. “One picture gets out and boom, you're dead.”
I assumed she was joking, yet the cold look in her eyes suggested she was entirely serious. The fact there were two heavily armed guards on each side of the doors leading to block three also reinforced this idea – why the hell did I take this promotion?
“Now, grab the cart and let's move,” she demanded once the receptionist cleared her for entry into the block.
Marta Anderson is an interesting woman. She'd apparently worked for the SCP Foundation since the 60s. Originally she was the only female and the only African American until the 80s. Now into her late 70s she was retiring and passing the torch onto me. However, I'm not sure if I want her torch. I certainly don't want to work here till I'm her age.
“So a nice change from your other job is that you only have to do this once a day and to fewer patrons,” she said in a way that suggested that those where the only nice things about meal delivery in block three.
Looking over the railings as we walked, block three was five stories deep seeing as it was underground. I didn't see how there were less people in this block than in the test subject area.
“Are you sure there are less people here?” I asked while comparing the amount of food in the cart to the number of rooms. “Because this block is a heck of a lot bigger than the test subject block.”
Marta scoffed.
“Nah. We only have to feed thirty-two here.” She tapped the piece of paper resting on the top of the cart. “These are all the rooms we have to deliver food to. I've memorized what rooms I serve, but I brought the list to make it easier on you.”
I still wasn't convinced. This block was far too big.
“So besides the thirty-two rooms we go to, are the rest of the rooms empty?”
She laughed.
“No, but some of these… things don't need food like you and I do.”
Things? What the hell does that mean? I thought. Was she suggesting that some of these cells had inhumane creatures in them or was she just dehumanizing the starving people in the remainder of the cells?
She stopped me in front of one room before putting a finger to her lips. I remained quiet as she went over to one door with the words ‘RM550 SCP173' inscribed on a plaque. She knocked once before moving back towards me with a cheeky smile on her face.
I froze when I heard the sound of concrete grinding against concrete coming from inside the room as something moved its way closer to the door. It appeared to stop just at the door and remain motionless. I turned to Marta with a confused, but mostly terrified, expression.
“Some of these things don't need food,” she whispered. “Whatever's in there is not human. Hell, I don't even think it's organic.”
“Do you know what's in there?” I asked in an equally quiet tone, afraid to speak loudly in the presence of the concrete creature on the other side of the door.
She shook her head. Funny, all these years and yet she had no clue what was in there. On mutual agreement we got away from that room as quickly as possible.
“So tell me where our room is,” she requested. Of course she knew where we had to go first, but she was training me.
“Err, it says ‘RM474' so I assume that's the seventy-fourth room on the next floor down?”
“Yeap.”
We took the elevator down to fourth floor. It, along with the stairwell, was only accessible with the Foundation key cards so I was going to be so fucked if I lost it.
“So are most of these… things dangerous?” I muttered to Marta as we headed for room 474.
“Yeap.”
“Including the ones we're giving food to?”
“Yeap.”
“But they're well-contained, right?”
“Yeap.”
“Have you ever been attacked by one?”
Marta glanced toward the ceiling as she thought.
“I've come close with a few. One time a scrawny thing with sharp fingernails tried to get me through the food port when I opened it. I had a pretty nasty cut on my hand afterwards.” She then glanced at the walkie-talkie attached to the tray to make sure it wasn't on. “The most recent injury I've gotten was actually at the hands of a security guard who pushed me out of the way when there was a containment breach. Something down on the first floor got loose and I was in the middle of my run when the guards came flooding in. I got thrown against a wall and injured my shoulder.”
I inhaled deeply. Those would not be fun injuries to suffer through, but they assured me that this job wasn't as dangerous as it sounded if a scratch and a shoulder injury were the only major damages she suffered in all her years of working here.
My very first time delivering food in block three was incredibly unspectacular. I opened the food port, slid the tray in, closed the food port and that was it. I didn't even get to see what was inside – but that was probably for the best.
“So when do we collect the trays?” I asked.
Marta shook her head.
“We don't. They get collected at the end of the month by cleaners. Well, what's left of them.”
“Oh.”
I had the same experience with the next thirty cells as I did with room 474. However, halfway through the process a bloodcurdling screech echoed through the block from an unknown source. I was scared shitless, but Marta shrugged it off. She was used to it in all the years she had worked here. I realized this job was going to be far more terrifying when I was doing it by myself.
“Now, this final room is a little different,” she warned me. “It used to be a security office, but before block four was finished last year the Foundation was running low on space so they renovated this office and changed it into a cell.”
“So how does that affect the serving process?”
“You have to go into the room.”
My heart skipped a beat. No. There was no way in hell I was going to do that.
Marta saw the anxiety spreading across my face.
“Don't worry, this thing's harmless providing you're a good fairy and don't kiss it,” she said in a mocking manner followed by a chuckle.
Oh my god, I haven't been called a fairy since junior high, I realized. I was a little taken back by her slur, but I decided to excuse it due to the fact that she was old and old people talked that way – my relatives were much worse.
“Excuse you,” I scoffed. “What makes you think I'm gay?”
“I saw the picture of your boyfriend when you were fumbling around with your phone,” she said smugly.
As much as I wish Ryan Gosling was my boyfriend, he is not, I thought, but didn't say because there was no use opposing her claim. She was old and would be gone by week's end. But seriously, I doubt there's anything in this block I'd want to touch even with a ten foot pole.
When we reached room 217 Marta briefed me about the different procedure that went with this room.
“So with this one there's a red line down the middle of the room with a red square coming off of it. Do not step over this line. Just slide the tray into the red square and then go.”
That sounded simple enough, but I was still worried about what was waiting for me in this room.
I waved my key card over the sensor to unlock the door. Taking a deep breath, I opened it and stepped in with the tray.
To my surprise, there was no psychotic monster waiting to tear off my flesh and drink my blood. There were only five things in the poorly-lit rectangular room. A metal-framed cot, toilet, sink, neatly stacked food trays in the corner and a pale boy curled up on the bed. He sat up instantly with a petrified look on his face as if he was expecting someone else.
My god, I thought while gasping. This kid is young. He didn't even look old enough to start growing facial hair – or because he was blonde his stubble was invisible. What disturbed me most was the shackle around his left ankle that was attached to the wall. It kept him from being able to go past the red line.
“Hello,” he said politely even though he sounded quite scared.
“Hi,” I replied awkwardly. “I'm, um, just here to give you this,” I stated while gesturing to the tray in my hand.
He nodded with a smile. After placing the tray in the red square I stepped back. He hopped off his bed quite quickly and crawled over to the tray – he would not be able reach the tray if he was standing due to the chain. I noted how skinny he was. His grey jumpsuit was pretty baggy on him even though it was pretty small. The kid had to have no fat or muscle on his limbs.
One meal a day isn't enough for a growing kid. Hell, when I was his age I would go through eight whole meals.
I heard a “thank you” as I turned to leave. Looking back, I saw that he was smiling up at me.
“What's your name?” he asked.
I had to think for a moment. Would it be right to tell a kid locked up in a Foundation containment block my name?
First name can't hurt.
“Jay,” I replied. “Yours?”
“Danny.”
“Nice to meet you, Danny. We'll probably be seeing a lot of each other,” I said in a semi-joking manner.
He looked confused.
“What happened to Marta?”
“She's retiring.”
“Aw. Good for her.”
I nodded before swiping my key card over the sensor to leave.
“See ya tomorrow,” I said awkwardly.
“Bye.”
I slipped through the door and quickly closed the door. I was not prepared for that. I had not expected to see a poor kid being treated like an animal. What the fuck had he done to get himself in trouble with the Foundation?
“I can't do this,” I said more to myself than to Marta. “That kid is too young to be in this place.”
Marta shook her head.
“If he's in here, he's in here for a good enough reason.”
“I don't know what he could do that would land someone his age in here.”
“Whatever he did… or whatever he is, that's not your problem. You just have to feed him and avoid kissing him.”
Okay, what am I doing that makes her think I'm going to fuck anything with a penis? I thought with a displeased expression.
“I'm honestly surprised seeing lil' Danny hit you so hard,” she stated while we were in the elevator. “After all, you were working in the human test subject area. Didn't seeing all those people and knowing what was going to happen to them make you feel strange?”
I stared at her blankly. She sighed. It was clear I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Seriously, you never figured out what was going on over there?”
“People sign up to be tested on and once they're done they leave, right?”
Marta laughed pretty hard at that. Clearly I was completely wrong about the Foundation.
“Let them leave? I'll be surprised if they really let me retire,” she muttered. “If I conveniently die due to ‘mysterious circumstances' you'll know why. You don't get to leave if you know too much.”
Now I was really unsettled.
“You suggesting I shouldn't start thinking about my retirement plan?”
“Hell no.”
“Then why the fuck am I taking this job if they're going to kill me for it?”
“They rely on people as stupid as you to do the basic blue-collar work. They know you don't have a clue about what's going on here and they know you won't see it coming when you ‘retire'.”
“Can I quit now and have a clean escape?” I asked anxiously. This situation had felt so surreal for the past hour that I wasn't properly processing what she was saying.
“No. It's too late. Just stick it out and hope you get forty years under your belt. Who knows? Maybe they'll let you go at the end of all this.”
That wasn't reassuring at all.
“So if you're so sure they're gonna kill you when you retire… why are you retiring?”
She shrugged.
“I've lead a decent life. All I ask is that they take me out in the most humane way possible.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. I was either in some pretty deep shit or this woman was batshit insane – both seemed equally plausible.
“Can I run?” I asked quietly in case there were any security cameras that had sound.
“Probably not,” she said quite passively. “The Foundation has ties to basically every government in the world. They'll find you no matter how far you run. Your safest option is to play along for a few years. They might let you leave if you gain their trust.”
“Do you have the Foundation's trust?”
“Nope,” she said followed by chuckle. “You probably don't believe me, but I was actually more of a rebel in my youth. The only reason I've survived this long is because God's got an angel working overtime to keep me safe.”
Her voice was drowned out as I thought over everything.
Be real, she's an insane old lady just trying to make you paranoid. There's no way they'd kill the random guy who just does the catering.
I was about to ask her another question when she put her hand up as a gesture to tell me to shut up. We had reached the doors and it wouldn't be wise to continue this conversation among others.
“Three more days,” the receptionist reminded Marta in a cheerful manner. “What are you going to do first once you're retired?”
Marta shrugged.
“Order fast food. I haven't had it since 1963.”
The receptionist laughed before pulling out the plastic box. I grabbed my iPhone out of it before following Marta to the kitchen to return the cart.
“Same time tomorrow,” she said casually. I found that ridiculous seeing as she had just been telling me about how she was probably going to be killed.
“Uh, yeah,” I agreed.
Her hand landed on my shoulder. That was quite a reach for her based on the height difference.
“Don't lose sleep over it, Jay. By the time you're my age things will probably have changed and you'll get to retire properly.”
There wasn't much she could say now to make me feel better. I just had to keep telling myself that she was a crazy old lady who was lying.
“How long has it been since you last left this place?” I asked. It seemed weird that she had not eaten any fast food since 1963 – unless she had been joking about that.
“It's been a long time,” she said with a smile as she ran through the memories of the out-of-doors in her head.
She returned to reality pretty swiftly. Then with a quick wave, she was gone.
I was back in my room half an hour later. Usually after work I'd go to the on-site bar with my friends from my previous job. They had all been happy for me about my promotion. A few of them had even been jealous – now I was beginning to think they had nothing to be envious of.
I didn't get much sleep that night. Partly due to the things Marta had told me and partly due to the nightmares I kept having about the creatures locked away in block three.
What have I gotten myself into?
Surprisingly, the next three days were rather uneventful despite the news Marta had dumped on me. When just went through the motions of serving all the cells. I still found it difficult to serve Danny because he looked so out of place in this hellhole. Every time I saw him I was on the verge of trying to start a conversation with him, but Marta would always bang on the door and tell me to hurry up if I took too long. It was clear to me that she didn't want me to try and mingle with him. I found it hard to leave him. He looked so sad every time I turned to go.
Marta did not have much enthusiasm after she finished her final shift ever finished. I assumed that was because she was under the impression that she was going to die – whether or not she was correct was anyone's guess.
“Thanks for showing me the ropes,” I said with a smile while shaking her hand.
She looked very out of place in normal clothing while everyone else was in uniform. It had been quite a while since I had seen people dressed casually here.
“Good luck, Jay.” She squeezed my hand. “I really mean it.”
I carried her duffle bag for her out to the vehicle. It would be rude to not help an elderly lady with her bag. The car's windows were almost completely black. I went to open the trunk, but the chauffeur quickly stepped out and grabbed the duffle bag from me. The guy looked like the freaking Terminator with his sunglasses and masculine physique.
Shit, this is no regular chauffeur. I realized. No, stop freaking out. You're just being paranoid.
Watching the car drive off through the tunnel out of the parking lot, I couldn't shake the feeling that Marta hadn't been kidding. That guy was going to take her out to a field, shoot her in the head and then hide the body.
This is so fucked up.
After another sleepless night, it was finally time for me to do the meal run without Marta – who I suspected was dead by now.
“Try to relax,” the receptionist, who was now someone different, told me as I stopped by with the cart. “The things in there can smell fear.”
The sound of the doors closing behind me echoed through the whole block. I didn't see how I was ever going to get used to this place. It was so unsettling.
What would happen if there was a power out?
I cursed myself instantly for putting that thought in my head.
I tried to go through all the motions as quickly as possible. However, that led me to fumble and nearly drop a tray.
The receptionist was right about the whole fear-smelling thing. I heard an ungodly hissing sound coming from room 349 when I opened the tray port. This is why I went to the restroom before my shift – I wanted to avoid shitting myself.
It's nearly over, I reminded myself as I pushed the cart towards room 217. And this final guy is harmless.
As per usual, Danny looked quite scared when the door opened, but he calmed down when he realised it was just me.
“Who do you keep expecting to show up at the same time every day?” I asked in a joking manner as I placed the tray in the red square.
He laughed hesitantly.
“Uh, sorry, I don't really know what time it is so I'm not sure who's going to arrive when,” he explained in a timid manner.
I stood back up, but didn't turn to leave. I wasn't under as pressure to get out now that Marta wasn't demanding I hurried up.
“Who else shows up here?” I asked in a concerned manner. He was only fed once a day so who else was coming down?
“The scientist guys,” he said in a tone that suggested great fear.
“What scientists?”
“The ones who think I'm something I'm not,” he choked out. His eyes were a little watery now. “T-they think there's some sort of… thing in my body and they're trying to run tests on it. They don't believe I'm who I say I am and I don't know why. ” He lifted his blonde fringe to show a clean scar tracing his scalp and hiding behind his ears. “They ripped my fucking scalp off a-and drilled into my skull. I was awake for that!”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “They can't do that to you. They can't torture a kid. That's just fucked up.” I dragged my hands down my face. “You're just a kid. You're fourteenish, right? That's just so wrong.”
Danny stared blankly at me.
“Actually, err, I'm eighteen.”
Despite everything, I was actually quite shocked by that revelation. I wouldn't have been surprised if he was in block three due to the fact his physical age was frozen at fourteen.
“Wow,” I stated dumbly. “Danny, I'm so sorry. I really wish I could help you get out of here, but I can't. Hell, I don't think I'll be able to get myself out here.” He nodded in understanding. “However, I want to try and make this all a little more endurable for you. You seem like a sweet kid.”
“Sweet adult,” he objected in a joking manner – I was amazed he had a sense of humor based on the circumstances.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “So if there are things you want which I can get for you without getting in trouble then just ask.” He nodded with a little smile forming on his face. “And I'll try to sneak you some extra food.” I gestured to the tray. “That's just bullshit right there. That's barely a snack.”
“Thank you,” he said softly before picking up the plastic cup and holding it up to the shitty 70s light bulb dangling above us. “Sometimes they put drugs in it,” he explained as he examined it under the light. He took a sip after coming to the conclusion it was clean.
I don't think I've ever felt this bad for someone in my entire life, I thought while watching him very slowly eat the mashed potatoes. He's eating slowly so that he tricks his stomach into thinking it's had enough, I concluded.
“Anything else you need?” I asked. It was awkward to just sit here and watch him eat.
He quickly looked up, there was a sad look in his eyes when he realised I was preparing to leave.
“C-could you tell me about your life?” he asked desperately.
This kid didn't want to be alone. I betted he only saw me and the scientists all day so I slumped against the wall in order to get settled.
“Sadly, my life is very uneventful,” I explained. “I dropped out of high school, never went to university and I've only ever left the country once to go to Canada.”
“I've been to Canada,” he said happily before taking another bite of his small meal. “My family went there to go skiing. Why did you go?”
“Skiing as well.”
“Cool.”
Our mundane conversation continued for the next ten minutes. However, I realized it was probably time for me to go before the receptionist started to get suspicious.
“I'm sorry, Danny, but I really think I should leave,” I explained while standing up.
He nodded understandingly even though is expression was that of dismay.
“Anything extra you want me to bring you tomorrow?”
He ran his fingers through his hair awkwardly.
“Uh, would you happen to have any spare pens or notepads?”
“Yeah, I'll bring you some.”
“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Poor kid, I thought again while closing the door. I wondered how long he would be stuck in this place. He wasn't like the other things here. He was just a normal guy who got confused for something else.
I slipped a standard Foundation notepad, pen and extra plate of mashed potatoes into the cart before making my way to the block three reception. I was probably being unfair to the other creatures I had to serve, but this kid was so different from anything else in block three. I felt like I was doing the minimum I was supposed to do by treating him like a human being.
“Here ya go,” I said while sliding the food tray along with the notepad and pen across the floor and into the red square.
Danny beamed and scrambled over to collect his gifts.
“Thank you so much,” he said enthusiastically.
“Do you like drawing?”
He blushed.
“Heh, yeah. I loved art class in school. I'm not very good, but I can try to sketch you… if you want.”
I had to think for a moment. If he was quick sketcher we weren't going to have a problem. However, if he was very precise with every detail that could take a whole hour.
“You can give it a shot,” I said casually.
He was done in five minutes. I asked to see, yet he seemed hesitant to show me.
“It's not very good,” he warned me as he flipped the notepad around.
I smiled. This kid lacked confidence even though he was an amazing artist.
“It looks great. Certainly better than how I actually look.”
He laughed and shook his head.
“No, this is terrible. You look much nicer in the flesh.”
The following few weeks followed the same cycle. I'd serve all the other things and then hang out with Danny for a bit. He was a really sweet guy which only made me feel worse that I was standing by as he suffered in here.
In fact, he was getting worse. Every day he got thinner and weaker no matter how much extra food I gave him. I assumed the tests the scientists were running on him were causing this. I felt helpless as I watched his body slowly degrade.
At the end of the month I entered his cell only to find him crumpled up on the ground sobbing uncontrollably. Disobeying the rules, I quickly set the tray down and stepped over the line. I cradled his upper body only to discover his scalp covered in blood.
“Holy fuck,” I gasped.
“They're going to kill me,” he wailed.
My eyes widened at that claim.
“What?”
He took a few long breaths so that he could speak.
“They're gonna take my brain out of my body. I'm gonna die!”
“Fuck,” I groaned. “They can't do that!”
“I don't want to die,” he blubbered. “I don't want to.”
“I know,” I hummed while rocking him back and forth.
We didn't say anything more for a long time. I chose to neglect my usual leaving time in order to try and comfort Danny.
They couldn't kill him. He was only eighteen. It was just wrong.
“P-please save me,” he begged.
His words pierced my heart like a knife. I felt sick. No matter how desperately I wanted to save him there was nothing I could do.
“I can't,” I admitted. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have no idea how much I want to get you out of here. I'd sacrifice myself if meant you'd go free, but there's no way out.”
He cried for a little longer before he began to calm down. He leaned against my chest and stared at the ceiling – I assumed he was deep in thought.
“Do you know, err, when the scientists plan to do this?” I asked.
He sniffed before answering: “They're coming back tonight.”
“Fuck.”
He closed his eyes to try and remove himself from reality.
“Dan, is there anything you want me to do right now? If they're coming back tonight then I have to leave within three hours before it's six, but if there's any final things I can do for you… just ask.”
He sat up properly and rubbed his eyes.
“W-would you kiss me?”
I was a little surprised by that request and was conflicted about how to respond. I would be an asshole if I rejected him, but the age difference was a problem. I was a full decade older than him.
“I-I've never kissed someone.” He sighed. “And I don't want to die not knowing what it's like.”
A fair request, I thought. I would never forgive myself if I denied him his final wish.
“Okay.”
I could see a faint smile on his face through all the tears.
“Thank you. I know it's stupid, but…”
“You don't need to explain, Danny. I'd want the same thing if, uh, never mind. Yeah, let's do this.”
He was quite quick to press his forehead against mine. I sensed some of his blood was now on me, but chose to ignore that detail.
Something felt odd as he pressed his mouth against mine. His lips were unusually cold, yet I ignored that because it really didn't matter.
Something's wrong, I realised when his so-called tongue slithered into my mouth and reached the back of my throat. It then flicked upwards as it attempted to break through the roof of my throat in order to get to my brain. Fuckity fuck. This is all wrong.
At that point I began to push away from him. Opening my eyes, I was greeted by a pair of dark purple ones staring back at me.
Holy shit!
For a scrawny thing he was pretty strong. In fact he was inhumanely strong. I couldn't escape his vice grip on my shoulders and my attempts to push him away failed miserably.
“Mmmph!” was all I managed to get out as my air got blocked off. I was now choking on his tongue.
Everything went black when his tongue punctured the top of my throat and went straight for my brain. My first thought was that I had died… but if I had died then how would I have been thinking?
To my surprise, all the pain faded within a few seconds as Danny let go of me and retracted his tongue. My vision gradually returned after my brief blackout.
I was staring into my eyes.
“What the fuck?” I gasped in voice that was not my own.
I moved away from Danny and stood up. As I watched myself stand up I realized what was going on.
Holy fuck, he's in my body. This was confirmed when I looked down and saw the scrawny frame in a jumpsuit I now possessed.
“W-what?” I asked, this voice cracking due to the crying Danny had been doing earlier.
“You said you'd sacrifice yourself if it meant I'd go free,” my voice replied in a rather cocky manner.
“But I didn't mea–”
“You didn't mean it?” the monster in my body asked. It almost sounded offended. “Oh well, no take backs. See ya later, Danny.”
“No!” I screamed as he headed for the door.
Danny's former body stumbled as I tried get up. I tried to chase after my own body, but the chain around my ankle took me by surprise and Danny's body hit the floor. I was numb to the pain because my nervous system had not adjusted to the new body.
“Danny, please!” I begged as he opened the door and stepped through.
“I'm not Danny,” he replied. “My name's Jay.”
I continued to scream even after the door was closed. There was no one who could help down here.
Why did I trust him? Oh my god, I trusted him. He was a monster all along.
I screamed and cried for the following hours out of anger at my surreal situation. Three hours later Danny's body was lying on the floor covered in tears and blood.
What I have done?
Danny's heart skipped a beat when the door to the cell opened. Two men in white lab coats and a female guard poured in.
No. Fuck!
“You ready, Danny?” the black-haired scientist with a Spanish accent asked. The smile on his face suggested he was quite excited about what was coming.
“I'm not Danny!” I cried. “I-I'm Jay Owens! Danny tricked me! Please… I-I need your help.”
The red-haired scientist sighed and rolled his eyes.
“For fuck's sake, telling that same fib a hundred times doesn't make it anymore true,” he growled. “Now, are you going to be cooperative or are we going to have to use force?”
He gestured to the guard who lit up her cow-prod-like device.
“I'm not lying,” I sobbed. “Please, he's in my body.”
The black-haired man ignored my pleas and instead pulled out a key before kneeling down near me.
“Give me your ankle.”
If he unlocks you he'll take you away to be killed, I thought. He did not look pleased when I refused to obey.
“Becca,” he grumbled.
“No!” I screamed as the guard came over and jammed the cattle prod into my stomach.
My whole body jittered as electricity ran through it. I just had to lay there as the scientist removed shackle around my ankle. The whole situation felt so unreal. At no point in my life did I ever plan on swapping bodies and then having my brain removed.
I'm asleep and this is a nightmare. That is the only logical explanation, I told myself as the three Foundation workers carried me out. I was hung over the shoulders of the red-haired guy and the guard as the Spanish guy led the way.
“Please,” I mumbled groggily as I slowly regained control of Danny's mouth. “I'm not your guy.”
“I'm going to go ahead and call bullshit,” the red-head said with a scoff. “I am impressed you've been able to keep this act up for the whole fucking month, but it's over now. You don't need to pretend anymore.”
“No,” I whined. There was no way I was going to be able to convince these guys I wasn't Danny.
The receptionist didn't bat an eye as Danny's body was dragged past the counter. This was apparently a regular occurrence.
In my desperation I started to scream “please help me!” over and over again and tried to squirm away from the guard and the scientist holding me up. The guard let me drop and pulled out the cattle prod again. This time she held it on my body for longer to ensure that I didn't try any shit like that again.
The black-haired scientist led us to a small surgery room close to the test subject block. There was a full surgical team waiting around an operating table. I was dropped onto the metal slab and buckled in with the leather straps. I began to cry again. I was utterly helpless and about to die.
There was a clicking sound as a metal brace was secured around my neck in order to make sure I didn't move my head. However, just out of the corner of my eye I could see the saws, scalpels other utensils that were going to be used for this procedure.
“Please, Danny swapped bodies with me,” I tried to say, but all I did was moan. My mouth was numb from the second shock.
One of the most disturbing factors in all of his was the fact that none of the surgical staff dared to look at my face in case they made eye contact. Even the chief surgeon who was standing right above my head looked at the opposite wall rather than down. I got the feeling none of them actually wanted to be doing this, but they were probably just as trapped here as Marta and I were.
A nurse stopped next to me with a syringe in her hand. I made one last desperate attempt to communicate, yet only more gargling sounds escaped Danny's mouth as she pressed the tip of the needle into my arm and started injecting sedative into my body.
“Five seconds,” she stated coldly before moving away from the operating table.
The last thing I ever saw was the chief surgeon picking up his saw running his finger gently across the edge to test its sharpness.
I'm not Danny. I'm Jay. Somebody please help me.


During a particular road trip adventure...

A new toy rolled off the production line at the Wondertainment toy factory. It was a cube. The cube was grey, and consisted of six sides, none of which were in any way differentiated from any of the other five; All six sides were completely equal in their grayness and flatness. The edges and corners were rounded, so as to remove all threatening influences from the cube and to provide a safe, feelings-appropriate environment. In addition, the cube was designed so that it was incapable of interacting with any other cubes, so as not to form unbalanced societal hierarchies such as stacks, rows, or piles. While a green dot had been included on one of the sides in the prototype, this was found to be offensive to certain obscure minority groups, and was subsequently removed. Colored shapes were written off entirely after this point.
The Executive Board nodded in approval of the focus group results, in one slow, knowing movement. A new age for Wondertainment toys, they thought as one.
Wheezing admissions of thanks rose from the board to the cube's designer; a little old lady who stood at the far end of the table. A special guest to the Workshops of Wonder.
An outside adviser.
—
Nowhere
A tide of rotting flesh swept up around Emma Aislethorp-Brown, throwing itself at the leviathan in an orgy of scrabbling fingers, and gnashing jaws. She was ignored. The Rotting Ones found their prey by the sound of its heartbeat, by the heat in its blood, by the stench of the slow decay of life.
Emma had a heart, but it was purely decorative. She watched the Rotting Ones gorge themselves on the Leviathan's corpse. A few more had crawled out of the monster's burst stomach, shambling around, half-melted by digestive juices and torn by teeth.
The rushing sound of contracting time-space rose to a deafening cacophony midway between silence and absence that overpowered the snarling, slobbering horde. It all fell in upon itself at once, blinked, and went black. Like a station switched off.
And then Nothing.
Emma floated in-between Here and There. Somewhere around her1, the collapsed Way existed in a negative state. An inside-out space leading nowhere, arriving nowhere. The Rotting Ones would still be feasting, frozen in a moment, but they could not emerge, lest someone else flipped the negative space right side out again and stabilized it. With the map gone, and no place in the overarching directive to permit her, Emma had neither the inclination nor ability to do so. An uncommon occurrence.
Emma drifted, and while drifting, she thought. She didn't have much else to do. The plan reorganized itself, the underlying directives planted new supporting actions. Redundancies merged together, events shuffled themselves into an abbreviated timeline. Contingencies were pruned and alternatives sprouted anew. Variables arose. The specter of attention drifted onto the stage where probability danced the tango on the back of turtles all the way down.
Unwelcome, but not unplanned for. Even this far out, a Way collapsing, especially one that had been breached by a Leviathan, would attract attention. Though not immediately. There was still time for things to work out, still time to adapt.
From this side. As for Isabel…she was on her own, for the time being. A contingency triggered long before Emma had originally hoped. She had shaped events as best as she could for the child, but uneasiness still settled like a patina on her mind. Isabel was outside her protection. Unsupported. Prepared for, but nonetheless unwelcome. Why delegate to others what you can do better yourself? Why leave a vulnerability open?
Alas, she couldn't be in more than one place at the same time. All the threads she had woven would now be on their own. Drifting as she was.
A light opened upon the Nothing. A gaping maw of burning white, circles within circles within circles, twisting and swirling and spiraling about, on a field of gunmetal grey.
Emma looked up into it, and hoped she had chosen the right people for the job.
—
The Workshops of Wonder
Mister Merit tugged at his red ascot. A nervous habit of his, something to show what his face didn't. The neatly folded note in his pocket itched to be taken out, to be revealed.
The Doctor had left to go on an adventure, and this was not unusual. The Doctor often left, and her adventures were often lengthy, but this particular time something was wrong. Somewhere down in his gut, Mr. Merit felt that some cosmic tumbler had shifted awry.
The toy factory was never this busy when the Doctor was gone. Now, misters and misses and workbots and roving hordes of Jeremies scurried about, as if the Doctor was sitting down in her office churning out blueprints until the pen caught on fire.2 The halls were clouded with swarms of Memobots, all carrying messages from the Executive Board. More messages than ever before, and Mister Merit was unsettled by them. The print was too small and the words were too big, and they all looked incredibly important, but none of them mentioned where the Doctor had gone. Or the Doctor at all.
What they did mention was that an Outside Adviser had been brought in, an adviser that did not sit well with Mr. Merit.
“I'm sorry, could you repeat that?” he asked the little old lady standing in front of him. She had little round glasses, and a pink shawl over her shoulders, and freshly permed blueish-grey hair, and a warm, friendly smile.
“It's nothing to worry about, dear. The Executive Board invited me in as an adviser for the new toy line. You don't need to worry yourself at all.”
Mr. Merit glanced at the little old lady's twin bodyguards; two tall robots with gleaming chassis and rubber faces to make them look like people. They did not look fun. They looked…wrong, to Mister Merit. He was used to Wondertainment robots, which had all sorts of knobs and dials and doodly-doos and thingamawhatzits and doohickeys and various other choking hazards. These looked like they were just popped out of the mold and fit together, without so much as a kung-fu action grip.
“I don't recall the Doctor saying anything about you.”
“I was brought in after she had left for her trip, though I am looking forward to meeting with her when she returns.”
Mister Merit kept a brave face and nodded. Better to just let her go. He didn't like the way her eyes twinkled, or the look of her robotic friends, and the appeal was lessening by the moment.
“All right then. Enjoy your stay here,” he said with the most genuine cheer he could fake.
“Thank you very much. Now, don't get into any trouble now, dear. Wouldn't want you to get involved in any messes while the Doctor is away.”
The little old lady walked off down the hall, her guards clanking alongside her. Did she know? Had she seen through the cracks of his act? Was she weighing her suspicions now? Or had she not picked up on it, and just seen the simple-natured Mister who was a bit confused at the change of pace? Mr. Merit had no idea which, but he felt himself erring on the side of fear. She was a little old lady. Little old ladies were powerful creatures. They could smell fear. And secrets. Mr. Merit had both of them in large quantities. The note in his pocket felt as heavy and conspicuous as a brick of lead.
Down more halls up some stairs, out away from the hustle and bustle of the workshops and up towards the Doctor's tower. It was empty, at least to appearances, but that said only so much. The Executive Board was not very good at listening, but they were very good at hearing things. Horrible at seeing, but excellent at watching.
Mr. Merit didn't trust them, or the little old lady. That alone would have been the source of his nervousness, but the note in his pocket outdid all of that.
Miss Emma had given him the note when the Doctor was preparing to leave. It read:

My quarters. 1650.

It was four-forty-six right now. Mister Merit didn't question the directive: he had no reason to distrust the Doctor's assistant. One didn't doubt assistants like Miss Emma.
Four-forty-nine. He had reached the room, just down the hall from the Doctor's office. He opened the door.
Miss Emma's room was empty. A blank white room. No bed, no chair, no desk, no papers, no windows, no carpet, no vents, nothing but a tile floor and whitewashed walls and a vague, diffused light.
That, and a single, lavender note was stuck to the far wall, artistically out of place. Mister Merit went over and read it. The handwriting was perfect, nearly typewritten.

Go into the center of the room and say ‘Hello, are you there? I need help' in a loud, clear voice.

Mister Merit pulled the note off the wall and walked into the center of the room. He had no idea what to expect from it. He hoped some sort of help, to set things straight. That's what Miss Emma was there for, right? To put things in order.
“Hello, are you there? I need help,” said Mister Merit in a loud, clear voice.
A nothing sound whispered down the back of Mister Merit's neck, as if someone was standing in the room behind him. That, of course, was ridiculous, as there was nobody in the room, and he had closed the door behind him.
He turned around, and saw that he was not actually alone in the room.
The stranger standing there looked to be a miss with very short brown hair, wearing a ratty blue t-shirt, jeans with frayed hems and a jacket that had faded from black to grey. They smelled of smoke, the old, stale kind that soaked into clothes.
The stranger had their head tilted to the right.
“You called?” The voice was bright and cheery; a bubblegum and lollipops voice.
“I did.” Mister Merit tugged at his ascot. He had had enough of strange people today. “Who are you?”
The stranger tilted their head to the left.
“Who's the one person you can always find in an empty room?” The voice was rough and gravelly now; a two packs a day voice.
“No one, I suppose,” Mister Merit said.
Tilt to the right.
“No one important, at least! Though since I introduced myself, I should be asking you who you are, because you don't look much like Em.”
“I'm Mister Merit. Miss Aislethorp-Brown is not here at the moment.”
Tilt to the left.
“I can see that.”
“She left a note.” Mister Merit handed it to the stranger.
Tilt to the right.
“Oh Em, what have you gotten yourself into now?”
“What? What's going on?”
Nobody sighed, crumpled up the paper, and stuffed it in her pocket.
“Hope you like the cleanup crew. Em has some leftovers for us to mop up.”
—
Somewhere
Isabel Wondertainment looked out over the cliff's craggy edge, at the valley choked with ancient pines. Two moons, too big, hung in the deepening blue sky above the young bladed mountains. One was grey and plain. One was made of clockwork.
“Jeremy, I don't think we're in the workshop any more."

« Part 2: The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure | Hub | Part 4: Memory of Days Long Past »

Footnotes
1. Though “around” was a purely subjective term at this point, at least anywhere that was not Emma Aislethorp-Brown.
2. The invention of the Wondertainment Asbestos-Pen™ had cut down on this significantly.


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The air was still as snow fell upon a forest clearing outside of Minsk. Here and there a few dead tuffs of grass would appear above the powder, but otherwise the blanket of snow was pristine. At the center was a single, black, pine coffin with a white orthodox cross adorning its lid.
By the clearing's edge stood two men and one woman. Each turned to the others in silence before one, a tall man with a chin coated with a thick layer of stubble, nodded for them to continue. They were Researcher Lee, Researcher Hastings and Agent Navarro. The date was November 15th, 2012. SCP-1760-16 had returned.
Normally, 1760-16 was identical to other 1760 instances save for the name Pyotr Astapenov etched onto the lid. This year, however, twelve additional names were present. Each one belonged to a prominent anartist on the Foundation's watch list. It was for this reason Agent Navarro, anart specialist, now found himself in Belarus.
As they approached the casket, a loud scratching sound could be heard. They stopped moving and watched as a single name appeared etched onto the lid below the others.

Daniel Navarro

“That's… really unsettling.” Researcher Lee commented as she eyed Navarro. Her feet refused to carry her closer.
“This is the first time one of the instances has been externally altered. I don't like this at all.” Researcher Hastings also kept his distance. “What do you think, Navarro?”
“Keep to the plan,” Navarro replied. “We're safe if we don't open the box.” He coolly gestured for the researchers to proceed.
Without another word the two researchers went to work. With the same level of care one might use to clean a glass figurine, they measured, listened, and recorded. Navarro stood at the ready, hand on his pistol as he looked for calamity to strike. As the researchers worked the casket remained silent.
Eventually, all requested data had been collected. 1760-16 had failed to produce little more than a creak the entire time. The researchers and agents stepped back and looked upon the coffin quizzically.
“This is it?” Lee's chuckle faded into a frown. “Just names engraved onto the lid?”
“It would appear so,” Hastings nervously giggled. “I guess we just wait for the 20th now.”
Navarro nodded in agreement. One by one, each made their way back to the nearby facility. Before heading through the door, Agent Navarro gave one last look back at the coffin. His eyes glanced over the white cross that adorned its lid. He felt the coffin staring back. Navarro quietly shivered and turned away, closing the door behind him.

The next four days came and went without incident. Unfortunately, this made the site personnel more and more uneasy the closer November 20th came. The night of the 19th was by far the worst. Few in the facility could sleep. The rest were fixated on the sword of Damocles sitting in the front yard.
This is how Agent Navarro found himself walking towards the clearing at 11:15 PM. The thick trees appeared to twist around him in the dark as he slowly crept through the snow. As he approached the clearing's edge, three security officers emerged from the trees. Their hands tightly gripped their guns as they moved to intercept the intruder. Upon seeing it was Navarro, the officers frowned, but waved him through with a nod.
For a few moments Navarro stood motionless at the edge of the clearing. The moonlight illuminated the snow and cast a white glow on the waiting coffin. By its side, Navarro could make out the silhouette of a woman. He could feel his hand reach for his pistol as he approached, but relaxed after seeing that it was just Researcher Lee.
“Couldn't sleep?” he asked.
“What… what are you doing out here?” Researcher Lee, gasping, turned on the spot.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Navarro replied with a small smile. “This thing really has everyone on edge, doesn't it?”
“You can't blame them.” Lee turned back to face the coffin as she whispered. She was there in 2006. She remembered how a pig carcass erupted from 1760-16 and exploded in a shower of human bones. One of her colleague's heads had been pierced by half a femur. A piece of rib had left a deep gash in her right thigh. They remained silent for several minutes before Navarro placed a hand on her shoulder. Lee shivered.
“You can't help but feel the shit is going to hit the fan in the next few seconds. Even if they brought a specialist out to ensure all goes well.” Lee nervously smiled. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Navarro said with a shrug. “To be honest I'm not sure what they exactly thought I could do out here. Normally I'm assigned to deal with anart threats, but this object didn't really give me that ‘anart feel' when I read its file.”
“Well, it was on display when we found it,” Lee replied. “Someone wanted others to see their work.”
“Maybe, I mean it does have a ‘hey look at this cool thing' quality to it. But, pig bombs…”
“The 1760-16's didn't appear until after we started containing this site, though…” Lee looked at her watch. It was now 11:30 PM. 1760-16 would be gone in 30 minutes.
“I can stand watch if you want to head back and try to get some sleep,” Navarro said with a smile. Without a word she returned his smile with a nod. Lee then began to make her way back towards the facility.
Navarro turned back to the casket. He waved to the several nearby security cameras before taking a seat on the grass as he waited alone. Fifteen minutes passed. The silence was unbreakable.
“Hello, Daniel,” a male voice whispered from the coffin.
“Shit!” Navarro jumped to his feet. A shard of ice ran up his spine as he drew his pistol. The security officer were quick to run to his side, but stopped when Navarro held up his hand for them to stand down.
“Frightened, are we?” The voice softly chuckled. It spoke English but had a very thick eastern European accent.
“Hello there, I guess…” Navarro's eyes narrowed as he held his gun steady. “Who the hell are you?”
“In a prior life I was known as Pyotr Astapenov. I was a skilled mortician, a respected scientist, and a gentleman. If you would be so kind as to open the lid, you may see for yourself.” The voice whispered.
“There is no way in hell that's going to happen,” Navarro replied. “There was nothing anomalous about Pyotr when we poked around his grave. You've got a huge hole in your story, pal.”
“I was afraid you might say that,” the voice sighed. “They've really changed you. Your curiosity has been replaced with certainty. What a shame.”
“You sure know a lot about me considering we just met,” Navarro said.
“Because I know your breed,” the voice whispered. “You're an artist. They may have you dress in a suit, hand you a gun, and ask you to apprehend your brethren, Daniel, but you are still an artist at heart. One with a heavily compromised sense of morality, mind you, but an artist all the same.”
“I don't understand,” said Navarro. “Where on earth are you going with this?”
“My point is that you don't want to open this casket to catalogue it like a scientist. You recognize the importance not only in expression, but expression in a manner that is truly unique. I've met plenty of men like you, and can guess that it's torturing you to not know what's inside this coffin.”
The security officers looked at Navarro nervously. All seemed to hold their breath waiting for Navarro's response.
“I've got a pretty good idea what's in your box,” Navarro replied. “Sorry champ, but I'm not opening it.”
“So sure of yourself yet again,” the voice said. “Are you afraid that I am just some horror waiting to be let out of my cage? Or, that I just might be Pyotr after all?”
“Fuck it. I'm not going to play this game with you.” Navarro shook his head. “What I do saves the lives of both anartists and civilians. If that makes me a sell-out, so be it. I'll be the biggest sell out ever.” Without another word he took a few steps back and looked at his watch. 11:55 PM.
“So be it…” the voice said. There was a crack like a shotgun blast. All of the nails that kept the coffin lid sealed flew out of the wood. Navarro and the security officers readied their weapons. Their eyes widened as the coffin lid creaked open.
It was empty.
“It must truly be troubling to have sold your soul as you have, Daniel. Regardless of what you say to yourself to allow you to sleep at night, you have sold your soul. It is a shame. You had such promise,” the voice called from inside.
Navarro didn't respond. The last few moments passed in silence. Upon the stroke of midnight the casket began to sink into the earth, eventually vanishing into the ground.
“Christ…” Navarro let out a heavy sigh, and sat back down on the ground to gaze at the sky. The report for this was going to be a nightmare.

Agent Navarro stood quietly over the grave of Pyotr Astapenov. He had wasted no time in obtaining clearance to re-exhume the remains. As much as he hated to admit it, the voice had been right to a certain degree about his curiosity. This seemed as good a means as any to put that feeling to rest.
Eventually the crew succeeded in reaching Pyotr's casket. Upon Navarro's order they opened it. Pyotr's body was still present and displaying the expected decay of a man buried in 1959. Unfortunately, there was a small piece of paper held tightly within his right hand. One of the crew quietly handed it to Navarro. It contained a single note.

Daniel,
I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.
See you soon.
J. T. H.

Navarro sat down on the edge of the grave. He buried the note in his fist as he gave a nervous laugh.
“Well shit.”

«START | Hub | Meeting Over Coffee»


"You have been IP Banned."
A young man was sitting in front of his computer screen. He donned a stained white tee and frayed shorts. His disheveled hair covered his face as the fan behind him blew relentlessly. He stroked his stubby beard, pondering his fate. He hadn't gone outside for days, but that was okay.
The man glared at his screen. There was no warning. There was no explanation. But he knew why. He saw it coming.
The man sighed.
Fuck it. They didn't need him. He wondered what they were saying about him.
"What the hell happened to Aryanne?"
"He probably got doxxed, again."
Aryanne was a man that craved attention. And attention was something he always got. He was revered as a "lord of the underworld", a "king of memes", and "The 4th Reich", among other things. But now his power and prestige was revoked, all by one message.
"You have been IP Banned."
The letters on the screen were blood red. The same color he used to paint his portraits.
He contemplated changing his proxy.
Fuck it.
Aryanne rose from his chair and approached the blood-soaked canvas to his left. A beautiful face of intricate detail lay before him. It was a portrait of his mother. The color was appropriate for family. He picked up his brush and applied it to the canvas.
But he was out of paint.

Who is John?
John was by no means an extraordinary person. He was obedient, ignorant, and complacent. John was destined to be a consumer sheep. A corporate cow. Like all cattle, John accepted his branding with open hooves. Except John had arms. To John, his branding would represent the beginning of a loving relationship.
Aryanne furiously crumpled up a piece of paper in his hand and tossed it in the trash. How long has it been? How many years? He couldn't tell. Still, he could remember when he first met John. The mere thought brought a smile to his face.
It was a sunny day…
Wait, no. Aryanne ripped another paper in his hands. Shit, he had to start again. He received another piece of paper.
It was a sunny day, except Aryanne was cooped up in his room, as usual. After his untimely ban, he looked elsewhere for his title. Likes, comments, subscribers, followers … anything he could get to prove his worth. Social media? No, that was far too tame. His presence in the under net wasn't welcome, either.
John had his own business that day. He glanced at the screen in front of him. One hundred and eighty two. His followers. Admittedly, most of those members were fluff, but there was a fan base underlying.
NOW RECORDING
John reached for his knife. It was rusty, with blood caked on the surface. It was an old friend of his. John rolled up his sleeve carefully positioned the knife on his forearm, gripping the handle firmly with his hand. He pressed down, applying just enough pressure. Then, with one cut, John slowly drove the blade down his arm. John smiled expectantly, though his hooded jacket obscured it.
To Aryanne, it was beautiful. The precision of the cut. The way the blood gushed out of John's arm, like a majestic river. The calm and almost professional demeanor. Ideas came flooding into Aryanne's head. One hand on his temple, he grabbed a notepad with the other.
He began to scribble on the pad while John continued to bleed, non-stop. John was now looking towards the camera sternly, waiting. The air around John and his thirty-two watchers stood still.
Aryanne would finally have his following. A kingdom. Wait, no. An empire. Fuck yeah. He looked back at his pad. A crudely drawn castle was staring back at him, while John continued to bleed. Aryanne tossed the notepad to the side. How was John still alive?
At this point, John's forearm was coated in deep red. He glanced at his arm, then slowly back towards the camera. He spoke to his audience, with a slouched posture and a raspy voice.
"I'll be back … tomorrow."
John swayed back and forth before slouching back in his chair. He slowly leaned to the side, hitting the ground with a thud. The camera continued to play. It stopped at exactly five minutes.
He was professional, talented and timely. Aryanne could definitely use a man like John.

It was months later. After deliberation over chat, arguments over business, and the fear of being doxxed, Aryanne and John were finally living together. Aryanne was sprawled out on the couch, watching the news.
John walked over in a T-shirt and shorts, sporting a bright pink apron. He shoved a plate of food in Aryanne's face.
"Here. Eat it."
Upon closer inspection, Aryanne's eyes saw pancakes drizzled with syrup and blueberries sprinkled on top. The buttery aroma smacked him in the face. He slowly sat up before John laid out a table in front of him. The clank of the plate being placed on the table rang through Aryanne's ears.
"Whoa."
"Figure I'd give you something a little special today."
"Why, is it a special day or something?" Aryanne snorted.
John gave Aryanne a cold stare.
"Don't tell me you forgot."
"Uhh…"
"One thousand."
"Huh?"
"Followers, Aryanne! One thousand followers!
Aryanne began eating his pancakes. There was a hint of cinnamon as the food melted in his mouth.
"You could show some appreciation every once in a while." John stated, his voice rising. "After everything I do for you, not even so much as a 'thank you'? That's all I ask for, Aryanne. Would it kill you to do such a thing?"
"I'm sorry." Aryanne mumbled bits of pancake flying out of his mouth.
"Sorry doesn't cut it." John angrily pointed his finger at Aryanne, who was still graciously eating pancakes. His eyes narrowed, judging Aryanne's complacent satisfaction. Aryanne dropped his fork and turned towards John.
"I mean it." Aryanne whispered. John sighed. His eyebrows furrowed as he placed his hand on his forehead. After a few seconds, John spoke.
"Fine. But you're still taking me outside today."
Aryanne sometimes wondered how it would be to continue his old life in the undernet. No, he couldn't. He was contempt.

John and Aryanne hiked along a rocky path. For once, Aryanne could say it was a sunny day. Tall trees lined the sides, while birds obnoxiously sang all around them. The two strolled along as a familiar mountainous landscape came into their view. Aryanne felt a heavy burden on his back. Maybe it was the luggage they took with them. Maybe it was not. He broke into a sweat; his knees buckling as John triumphantly lead the way.
"Are … we … there … yet?" Aryanne panted between words. John offered no reply.
The surrounding woods began to disappear as the two walked closer to the mountain. Here they were. Bitch Mountain.
"John, guess what you are?" Aryanne thought to himself.
John perked up and turned towards him. He leered at Aryanne as he commanded "Get the camera."
The enormous backpack Aryanne carried hit the ground with a thud. He made haste as he scrambled to get the camera, lighting, and microphone ready. Everything had to be perfect. They were trying to get subscribers here.
As Aryanne set up, his mind wandered back to his untimely ban, months ago. He remembered the note, clear as day.
"You have been IP Banned.
- Fedora Man
P.S: Don't try to be so edgy, m8."
Aryanne knew all the admins of the undernet. Some he knew personally. Fedora Man was one of the few admins that Aryanne ever bumped heads with. Their arguments would often span countless of pages, with supporters cramming their opinions between posts. Aryanne was even backed up by other admins (despite not being one himself). Fedora Man dissented with every word that came from Aryanne. He was truly a euphoric asshole in Aryanne's eyes.
Aryanne didn't need the undernet. He had a new purpose in life. With John, he didn't have hordes of people fearing him or kissing his ass. For once, he could live a normal life.
The air began to become stale. The taste of the air was almost metallic, like a rusted nail. Aryanne's eyes grew wide with terror. He dropped a microphone in hand. John quickly looked at him.
"Ugh." was all John managed to say. The air behind him began to swirl. A figure materialized in the midst of the swirling air. A short, stubby man in a trench coat stood directly behind him. John whirled around.
"Who are you?"
The man pointed to Aryanne. He tipped his fedora as he said: "Aryanne, you should know who I am."
Aryanne became flooded with fear and confusion. Wait, what? This makes no fucking sense. He thought to himself. Can it be…
A smirk grin grew on the man's face. "C'mon. My hat. You know it. Say it Aryanne."
"Fedora Man." John spat out. "I know who he is. He's a follower of my blog, Aryanne."
"Intelligent, isn't he?" The Fedora Man replied. "He's quite loyal, too. Is he your girlfriend or something?" He guffawed.
"Uh…"
"Wait, wait. Whoo." The Fedora Man tips his hat, looking at John. "M'lady". He continues to snicker, like a little schoolgirl.
John recoiled in disgust.
The air continued to fill with the man's laughter. After a few moments, the man fixes up his trench coat. His giddy and cheerful tone was replaced a more serious one.
"John. First I'd like to say, thank you for the blog. Quite a … interesting performance, to say in the least. Second, I came here for Aryanne. If you would kindly step forward."
Aryanne stepped forward.
"I don't get it." he said meekly.
"It's very simple." The Fedora Man replied. "We want you back."
Wait, what? Aryanne didn't understand. The same man who was the bane of his existence was now welcoming him with open arms.
"You see, Aryanne … You are an attractive individual. That is in the sense that you draw attention to yourself without really trying. What do they call it?" Fedora Man pondered. He spun his hat around his head.
"Ah, yes. The power of attraction. Ha! You are quite magnetic, my friend."
Aryanne's eyes squinted. Friend?
"That is why I came to you for assistance. The undernet is in need of people like you. The admins are crude, greedy politicians. The people distrust them." The man's tone resumed to a more cheerful one.
"But with a fresh face like yours, peace can once again be restored. Think about it, Aryanne. Your fame will be justified. You are the man people can relate to. With all that power, we can give you anything you want."
"Are you serious?" John spat out. He growled.
"Oh, I'm deadly serious." The Fedora Man's eyes gleamed. "Promise not to do another b& incident, and the admin status is yours!"
Aryanne's memories flooded back to his glory days of the undernet. He remembered the rush he felt when he saw his supporters. He remembered the smug satisfaction of being the man behind one of the stupidest memes on the internet. He allowed himself to relish in those memories, for a split second.
"No." John said "He doesn't need you, or the undernet. He's past that now."
The Fedora Man's voice is lowered again as he answers: "I don't believe I was addressing you. I think Aryanne is more than capable of answering."
Aryanne stood rooted in place.
"Huh," The Fedora Man said, "I figured as much. Whatever shall we do?"
"You can start by leaving." John hissed.
"Oh no. That will not do. I will have to convince you, Aryanne."
The Fedora Man begins walking towards Aryanne, shoving John aside. He produces a pistol from his trench-coat.
"Aryanne, please think this over. As an admin, I had nothing against you. I simply cared for the welfare of the people. And besides, think of your former glory."
Aryanne's eyes met the Fedora Man's. He saw small, dark beads. He was soulless. Aryanne's mind was in a whirlwind between his distant memories and his fast approaching fate. What was he going to do? He wanted to move a leg, an arm, something. Aryanne broke into a cold sweat. He was frozen by fear.
"Time is running out, Aryanne." The Fedora Man chuckled. "Don't do this to yourself. Make the right choice."
The Fedora Man pointed his pistol towards Aryanne's face. John immediately jumped in between them.
"Oh, what's this? You're intervening?"
John glared at the Fedora Man.
"Oh, I see. You want to save your girlfriend. Well, you asked for it."
John lunged at the Fedora Man. A shot was heard. Aryanne's vision was blurred, between the dust surrounding him and his eyes beginning to water. The shot left his ears ringing and his head spinning. Aryanne looked up to see flocks of birds hurriedly scattering in every direction. When he looked back down, he saw a body lay dead on the ground.
The Fedora Man was dead. John was victorious. Aryanne's mouth was agape, while John sprinted towards him. John kneeled down next to Aryanne, who was already beginning to position himself into a fetal position.
"Aryanne." John said. Aryanne heard his name mentioned as an echo.
"Aryanne … Aryanne. C'mon, get it together." Aryanne knew his name was being called, but was unsure to answer.
"Snap out of it!" John commanded. Aryanne knew who had called his name. A smile was brought to his face.
"John…" He whimpered.
Both of them were silent for a moment. A soft breeze was blowing behind them. Aryanne could see the leaves blowing around him. He no longer smelled metallic rust in the air.
"Aryanne. You know, if you want to return to your old life … well, that's fine. I'm not stopping you."
Aryanne wanted to say something. A lump was stuck in his throat.
"The choice is up to you." John said.
Aryanne was brought to tears. John himself wanted to cry, but stopped himself from doing so. He held Aryanne close to him.
"I want you, John." Aryanne said between sobs. "But, no homo."
The both of them stood by the foot of the mountains. For John, this would signal the first of his fans.
For Aryanne, it would be his first enemy.


Dodger. Why couldn't the woman just be normal for once?

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The Stuff Industry Week 3 Day 3: End of Line
Thank you. I love you.
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Vangen was a mess as they sat him down. His eyes red and puffy, snot dribbling from his nose. Caecilia patted him on the shoulder, holding his hand as she scooted closer.
"You're not in trouble, Mr. Vangen. We just want to talk."
He wiped his nose with some tissues, barely able to make a coherent statement. Caecilia Cortez glared at Director Hong, who met her gaze with a firm stare, "I did my job. To the letter," He grumbled.
He'd been tasked with finding Petter Vangen and interviewing him about the "Stuff" company. Dodger had done the hard part, and now Hong brought Vangen in to an MCF office nearby. It was strictly voluntary, an invitation to lunch and a discussion. Hong had come in holding Vangen under the arms, the man sobbing uncontrollably and wailing for his mother, or brother; the accent and the blubbering made it unclear.
"Po… police?" He whimpered.
Caecilia patted him again, "If you want to go home, we can take you. You're not in trouble, we just want to have a friendly conversation. Do you understand?"
He looked up at her, then over at Hong, and back to her, "I didn't mean. I'm sorry. Not mean to be creepy to redhead girl."
Dodger. Caecilia sighed. Why couldn't the woman just be normal for once?
"That's fine, Petter. It's all okay. Are you feeling better now?"
He nodded his head, still slumped over in his seat.
"Let's get you something to eat."
"She asked about Stuff Company. I want to say, but… they all around…"
"Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning."

Hong slipped into the bathroom, catching Dodger leaning over the sink, rinsing out locks of her hair. She heard him enter and whirled on him with wide eyes, "What are you doing in here, you idiot?"
"It's a unisex bathroom. And you didn't lock it. What are you doing?"
She snatched up several paper towels, pressing it to her head, "I hit my head getting into my car. Thought I was bleeding so I felt around my scalp to check. My fingers were full of ketchup."
"Do you take pleasure in being a pretentious twit pretending to be a loveable screwball?"
"The fuck did I do?"
"You had us waste a week tracking down and harassing a mentally challenged man," Hong held up a notepad, and pushed it against Dodger's chest before turning and leading the way out of the bathroom, "You spooked him, then ran off with the wild idea that he was an anomalous ghost-whisperer or some shit. Read."
"I… what?" She glanced at the notepad. It had notes taken down by Hong of the interview with Cortez and Vangen.
"Final analysis," Hong explained without letting her read it all, "The guy's not anomalous and doesn't speak to strange people. He's mentally disabled and you cornered him without his handler and freaked him out. He thought you were playing games with him, so he played along. Fed you some shit from a movie. Fight Club or some shit."
"I didn't even…" She looked down at the notes, heart racing as she foresaw the pancaking layers of shit coming down on her for this, "What the fuck did I do wrong?"
Hong snorted, seeing Dodger apparently on the brink of a panic attack, "Calm down, Christ's sake. Story's clear-cut, exactly as it appears; Vangen starts a company, loses his shit somewhere down the line. Add copious amounts of alcohol and he's fried. Company closes down and he gets the help he needs. Good for him."
"What about the board? The lab techs, office people, no one knowing shit about each other? Who organized them and kept them up and running and paid for a decade?"
"Don't know."
"What about the products they put out? The profits they turned? Why can't we find any of it?"
"As far as we know, they probably dumped it all, or sold it on the black market."
"How did they get started? Did he tell you?"
Hong shrugged, "Guy says they had a packet of paper. Paper had some kind of portal on one side. Only had like four sheets."
"How did they make more of it? How did they make the miracle pills, the blacksmith robot, the whatever-the-fuck-else they've got floating around out there?"
Hong spread his arms out in a helpless gesture, and turned away to leave. Dodger crumbled up the paper and threw it at his departing frame, "There's more to this, Hong!"
"There probably is. If you find out what it is, you'll be a hero."
"What about his brother, Siggy? What if I find him and talk to him?"
Hong quickly knelt down, scooping up the crumbled paper, and tossing it back to Dodger, "I told you to read. There is no 'Siggy'. Vangen made him up. Alternate personality, alias, or imaginary friend, doesn't matter. Vangen himself doesn't even know why."
"Someone must know something."
"Someone probably does. But with the amount of people we've tracked down and talked to already, what are the chances of getting any definitive hold on this joke of a company, much less actually finding some of their remaining unsold products?"
Dodger cracked her knuckles, and pressed them into her lips, thinking back on all she'd heard and gone through thus far this month. "A lone nut starts a company, suddenly it occupies an entire office building and staffs hundreds, churns out anomalous products and makes a profit, and no one involved has any clue how…"
"Dodger —"
"It's like everyone in a single place suddenly gather together and start to dance. No one knows how to dance, or what kind of dance they're doing, yet they all dance, and they dance well. Better than average."
"Dodger, it's done. This is not worth our time and resources to pursue any further. These people aren't the only peddlers of anomalous garbage out there, and nowhere near the best. Personally, I'm fond of Wondertainment's crap. And Wondertainment actually donates things directly to us. What if we find a 'Stuff Co.' product and the owner doesn't wanna part with it? What then?"
Dodger kept her knuckles against her lips, hopes of any salvaging this situation dying away quickly.
"Enjoy your vacation, Dodger. When you come back, Cortez and Kone have got some work for you to do in Somalia. I recommend doing some research on a place called Laascaanood."
"Bye," She mumbled, slumping against the doorway, finally letting Hong get back to work.

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