Welcome to the 4th edition of And Then I Died…, an SCP collective writing game! Useful information is held behind a collapsible tab right here:

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Whoever guesses an entry correctly first (more on that below) will pick an SCP to write a mini-tale about (200 - 500 words). If someone doesn't want to write, they shouldn't guess. The entry needs to be written within 72 hours (3 days). If it doesn't happen, the second person to guess correctly will be given a chance to write an entry. This continues until no one else has guessed, in which case, the judge will step in and write an entry for the person based on the SCP.
The character "speaking" must die at the end and the entry must end with "And then I died.". It might not be from the SCP in question, so long as their exposure caused it somehow.
While not required, a few red herrings are definitely encouraged, so long as the final solution is the most likely/most obvious answer. The answer doesn't need to be obvious, but it definitely has to be guessable, or at least have something clear about the connection to the answer at hand.
There are three days for guessing. There's a 24 hour wait time before the guesses are revealed (if someone guessed correctly in that time), to collect the guesses made. Otherwise, two additional days are allowed for guessing, for a total of three days.
If no one guesses the SCP after three days, congrats to the author! They can write one more.
If someone is writing an entry, they should send a message to all of the judges so the judges can know what the SCP in question is. Judges can help for proofreading, though do note the judges will tell you if you're potentially being too obtuse, or veto your entry if you're abusing the rules to get away with no one guessing. The judges, then, can't actually guess or give the game away.
If you've guessed right before and you guess correctly, your answer will be put in a lower priority than any other correct guesses. This is to prevent people from writing multiple times in quick succession and leave no room for other guessers.
Finally, for this edition we are only looking for SCPs belonging to Series 2 (SCPs 1000-1999) - given the size of the database and number of entries, this is to hopefully streamline the game.

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Looking for the old entries? Click right here, here, and here for some excellent reads! Answers are included at the end of each entry. Have fun reading, guessing, and/or writing!

Round 1: Shaggydredlocks
I spring, full-formed from the realm of all Happy things, brimming with excitement!
My first sight upon my joyous manifestation is a timid-looking person in a lab coat. They stare at me, eyebrow cocked, expectant. It is as if they're waiting for something to happen…
I stroll up to the glass dividing us, giving my most adorably dopey grin, and I can't help but notice the stranger seems to be desperately avoiding eye-contact. Why, that's silly.
From somewhere above me, a hatch opens. I hear the unmistakable sound of a chainsaw revving up.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 2: Captain Kirby
The world is about to end.
And that's fine.
My whole life, in fact, all of our lives, were created just for this moment. Most don't understand that of course. You can't just tell the whole world that it's about to end. That it's just a decoy. No, best to let them live their last day in ignorance. It is bliss after all.
I smile as I type out a farewell.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 3: Weryllium
Lung cancer, the doctor told me. Stage 4, terminal. Exactly what I needed to hear, as if the divorce wasn't enough.
Some shady guy came by the hospital room, offering a chance at an "experimental treatment". I could almost see him making the air quotes; his voice was that transparent. I didn't even care anymore, I'd be dead soon anyway.
An assistant led me to a room, and I sat and waited for the doctors. Right when I thought no one was coming I felt a pinprick, then another, then more. Couldn't feel any pain, couldn't move a muscle. Shady guy from earlier came down in a labcoat and stood there taking notes.
Whatever they gave me, I'd never felt anything like it. I felt like I was being poked and crocheted from the inside out. And then, wham.
Every cell in my body screamed and I felt like I was melting. My heart mixed with my kidneys and my veins and blood swirled. Still couldn't move, but I saw labcoat guy rush to stick a needle in my sloshing arm.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 4: Ellie3
My daily cravings had hit me again, this time at the mall. Luckily, there was a small candy store. Usually overpriced, but it would work.
“Gimme half a pound of these little… erm”
“Yes ma'am, sorry about the misspelling on the sign for those, I've been meaning to print out a new one” the man behind the counter bagged up the multicolored, sweet, tasty little treats. Perhaps I was letting my cravings get to me.
I slammed five dollars down on the table and ran off with the goods before he could say any more, letting him keep the fifty cents of change. Finally, my hunger would be sated. Tearing the top off of the bag, I shoved a handful into my mouth. I had just swallowed a few before the bitter taste hit me. Disgusted, I spit them into a trash can, throwing the rest of the bag in after them.
Perhaps they were actually just supposed to be sour, I thought as I walked off and started my car, driving away from the mall. Yes, that might have been another reason they needed a new sign.
Suddenly, there was a burning pain in my chest. I pulled the car over and slammed on the breaks, clutching my stomach. It felt like my stomach was going to explode, almost like it was leaking. The torture intensified, and my vision went white with pain.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 5: magnadeus
It was 6 o'clock, I think, when I was on my merry way, off for what I hoped to be a typical Sunday drive. Afternoon, of course. Plans to go see a movie with someone I finally managed not to fuck things up with. Weaving my way down the I-4, taking note of the passing billboards, it was… inspiring, in a way. Optimism took up residence in my mind as my vehicle moved on its own.
Clearly, however, my autopilot wasn't without fault.
I felt an unexpected jolt forward, violent jerking motions throwing me around in my seat. I threw my stare at the road in front of me, noticing nothing abnormal save for a small, green light, skewed in a way that I suspected it was probably being shone from some kid in the next car. I couldn't afford to get distracted by that, though. I needed to focus.
Focus didn't do shit, as it turned out. My car veered off the highway, careening into the rails despite the careful instructions relayed from my arms to the steering wheel before me. All at once, my car was reduced to rubble, shattering, caving, and cracking.
I lied under the smoldering wreckage, the skin on my soon-to-be corpse torn by the shrapnel of my windshield.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 6: Croquembouche
I stand amidst an audience of none, all of whom watch with eager eyes as my life's work draws to completion. Tapping, tapping, scratching, tapping; the sounds of chalk hitting against and being scraped across my blackboard echo around the empty room.
It is excruciating. The delay from my brain to the hand is almost unbearable. The thoughts, my focus, my flow; they echo around my head as the chalk struggles to keep up, flying as it is across the blackboard, leaving in its powdery wake numbers and lines beyond the comprehension of anyone but a mathematical genius.
And finally, it is done. I step back, let the stub of chalk fall to the floor with a gentle clatter and admire my work.
It is wrong. Not the maths — no no, the maths is correct — the answer is wrong. I stare at it, reason with it, fail, and I stand amidst an audience of one.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 7: stormbreath
As I slide into the driver's seat of the car, I notice that there is something wrong with the view out of the windows. It's not the testing chamber, but some city I don't recognize. And in the windshield, right where there's a hole on the outside, is this view of stars, going on forever. I don't have time to say anything about it before I lose control.
Right as my hand touches the seat, I become a prisoner in my own body. It feels like I'm a puppet, with something from beyond pulling and yanking on strings tied to all my limbs. And I get the feeling that those strings go out through that hole out into space. There's something out there, making me play a specific part.
The others get into the car, and I try to scream to them that they need to get out. Nothing comes out of my mouth: my body isn't my own anymore. At the very least, the others seem to have stayed in control, unlike me. They're talking among themselves, trying to get my attention. It works, but they wouldn't know. The thing controlling me pretends to put a key in and start the car, but that's a lie. Nonetheless, our view starts to change, and the car rolls forward.
It drives around for an hour, stopping at points and freezing for minutes at a time. I rage as hard as I can to regain control during those moments, but nothing works. The thing gets back in the car and apologizes for "Taking so long, the lines are just always a hassle." In my voice. It unnerves me.
And just as we're driving past some laboratory, I see a van, coming at us from behind. It strikes the car, and my body is flung forward. Right through the hole, right into the stars. I feel a pressure on my neck, almost like a bite.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 8: Ihp
Three generations gathered around the table. Grandfathers, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, all of them had the exact same features: The same scar on their arms, the same kind of wonky ears, the same color of eyes… even the same crookedness of the teeth.
It was my first clue that something was wrong. I'd come out here to research this family— part of a polygamous cult who tried to assassinate an evolutionary biologist last year. They'd agreed to meet with me on their terms, which meant a single cameraman and a microphone. We were streaming this live, so in case anything happened… well.
I avoided the obvious questions— about the similarities. But I knew this couldn't just be inbreeding. Something else was wrong here.
These people didn't trust outsiders. I decided to conclude my interview early, after I realized that they all had the same tattoo on their hands. They offered me a bit of fruit pie, and I figured it looked harmless. I took a bite, and when it hit my stomach, I started swelling and choking. I didn't bring my Epipen, of course not— who'd have thought that I'd find formaldehyde being served in a pie?
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 9: CondorTalon
I almost called in sick today.
I woke with a terrible headache. A migraine, probably. And as much as I wanted to pull the covers all the way up over my head and return to dreamland, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I'd never missed a day of work before. I wasn't going to let a little headache make today the first.
And so I forced myself to get into the shower and then get ready for work. By the time I left the house I was almost able to convince myself that the pain was nothing and I'd be able to make it through the day.
I arrived at the school, heading toward the room where today's lesson would be held. Opening the door, I was immediately assaulted by a blinding light from within.
I grumbled as I squinted. Did the custodians leave the lights on through the night? One way or another, the lights were on when they shouldn't be. I turned toward the light switch. As I did, my foot kicked something across the floor, which collided with the nearby wall and shattered. I looked down to see the broken remains of a beaker.
Ugh, great, just one more mess I'll have to clean up, I thought, reaching for the light switch.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 10: Stallmantic
Halloween is my favorite time of year.
I put on my costume and go out to collect. My best friend comes with me in his Hulk costume, and he compliments my astronaut costume. We go house to house, collecting candy wherever we go with a merry "Trick or Treat!"
The real suckers are the people who are too lazy to give out candy, but too nice to not. They just leave their bowls outside. These are the Jackpot Houses. As the night goes on, more and more suckers leave their suckers, gummies, and chocolates outside for us to take. By ten o'clock we have entire trash bags worth of loot to eat.
"We gotta head home, Travis." my friend yells, "It's almost 10 o'clock."
"You're right, but first we have to trade candies!"
My favorites are hard candies. Jawbreakers, gobstoppers, anything hard and sweet. My friend hates those though, which turns out to be a very profitable exchange for me. While I give him my worthless trash, like pretzels and raisins, he gives me his gobstoppers. But in the exchange, I notice a brand I haven't seen before.
I can't just not try this brand. It would betray every ideal I have ever held.
I pop a red one in my mouth. It's delicious! I feel like every step I have is lighter. I do a giddy jump and I go real high! My friend is amazed, but now I want another. This next one is a lighter shade of red, and it looks even better. I pop it in my mouth. It's even more delicious than the last one! I do another jump for joy.
And I keep going up.
And I keep going up.
And I keep going up.
And then I died.
SOLVED

Round 11: Westrin
"Hey man, thanks for doing this for me."
"No problem man."
Me and my friend climbed up the stairs of his apartment building in order to conduct a photo shoot. I was looking to become a model, and to do that I needed a portfolio. It was sunset, and I wanted pictures of me in front of the sun. I was wearing a plain black t-shirt, jeans, and I was ready to pose. I even brought my aviators for bonus points.
My friend set up the camera facing the setting sun, and I prepared for the avalanche of pictures that would be taken. The camera is set up. "Alright man, prepare to pose."
I did just that.
"Alright, taking pictures in 3, 2, 1!"
I put on my aviators, and I posed as hard as I possibly could. Picture after picture, and I was flexing for each one. They wouldn't deny me for the position now! But then, my friend stopped, and took off his sunglasses.
"Uh… dude… look behind you…" I noticed a bright flash of light coming from behind me.
And then I died.
SOLVED
Footnotes:

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To guess, send a Wikidot PM only to Shaggydredlocks Make the subject "Round [Number] Guess". They'll let you know if you've guessed correctly by the end of the time period. You only get one guess, so make sure you think you're right before you take a swing at it! If you win, then congrats! You get to write the next one. Have fun!

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Michael had been on the road for hours. His tires had now worn from the stress of gravel pits and broken tarmac. The light from the moon barely made a dent in the environment around him, the headlights from his car the only source for illuminating the road ahead. He was too tired to do this, make another delivery to a school in the north of Queensland by the following morning. It was a near impossible task, not without sacrificing the basic necessity of sleep.
Hey, he loved Australia as much as the next boomerang wielding, slogan shouting, barbecuing bogan. But looking out the cracked screen of his car and seeing the same dry, dusty, uninhabitable land for days on end; it takes its toll on anyone. With at least a small shred of hope and maybe some caffeine, he could make it to Yaraka before the sun rises.
With another swig of coffee mixed with a bag of hot chips, he jerked the wheel to the left, speeding down a road that made dirt feel like a luxury. The car rattled and squeaked with each uneven pile of rocks that laid the track. Michael pushed down on the accelerator, trying to get above 80 kilometres per hour. And if his calculations were correct, which they always are, he could get to Yaraka within the hour.
The night was ending soon, as the cries of curlews and cockatoos echoed past him like the horn of a freight train. No, wait, that was a freight train. Michael rubbed his eye and shook his head, jolting his brain to a semi alert state. God, this lack of sleep was making him worse for wear. He could now see a sign for Yaraka in the distance, with another sign of a kangaroo next to it.
30km to Yaraka
Watch for Kangaroos!
Oh yeah, how could he forget? Kangaroos were a staple of Australia since the early settlers stepped foot on this country. Without them, many people wouldn't have given Australia the time of day, let alone even want to settle and create a superpower out of it.
“Kangaroos are weird aren't they? Giant sacks of muscle that hop around to be hit by cars. Target practice more like.”
Michael laughed at his own terrible joke. A coping mechanism he developed from driving the open stretches of road he found himself on, or if he wasn't driving, just laughing to pass the time. He checked the time on the dashboard, and then remembered that he didn't have a clock to check.
He sped past the signs with a trail of dust thrown behind him, unaware of the animal corpses that his tires just bumped over, a common sight to be found on roads in the Outback, or so Michael was told. The car began to sputter and wheeze, smoke spewing out of the bonnet and exhaust. Michael ignored it. The car was younger than he was, and was frankly pathetic for its age. Three years after production and it starts wheezing like a pug. Great.
Michael took his foot off the accelerator and tapped the brake. The car rolled to a stop right next to a ditch, a fitting grave for any creature, especially humans. Michael went to unlock the doors. If the prevention of robbery needed the inconvenience of unlocking doors, Michael was all for it. He jiggled the handle and the door made no effort to open. Grunting, he jiggled and pushed the door as hard as he could, and it still did not open. Michael prayed that he didn't end up permanently trapping himself.
“Stubborn piece of..”
He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, but to no avail. His laughing technique wasn't working either, for his breathing rate had become too rapid. He reached over the passenger door and pulled the handle. That door didn't budge either, like it was stuck with superglue. Michael dug his fingers into his scalp and cursed. If he didn't call that mechanic a stuck up bastard for overcharging him, then maybe, just maybe he wouldn't have had this problem in the first place!
He fished for the phone in his pocket and dialed his roadside assistance company, otherwise known as his best friends. Maybe Michael could get them to tow his car when they inevitably pass by. Hopefully. After three rings, the call was redirected to an automated voice message. Michael decided to leave a reasonably firm and somewhat desperate message to have his car picked up. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and laid the side of his head on the steering wheel, thankful that his horn didn't work.
The view outside was nothing to gawk at though, the barren desert and dull rock formations made the urge to sleep difficult to ignore. How come every time he was in dire situation, it involved a desert? They were so boring for a setting of any plot, hell, even action films knew the desert was a terrible and frankly depressing place. After a few minutes, a small grey kangaroo hopped up to the window, looking like a mindless hitchhiker that ask for rides during traffic jams.
Deciding that he had nothing better to do, and that the tow truck would probably take a few hours at most, he sat back in his seat and rolled down the window. The kangaroo seemed to be tame, at least compared to the ones he saw on TV. Now that he thought about it, Michael had never seen a kangaroo in the wild before, the sight was surreal considering his current situation. Ignoring the pile of smoke surrounding the car, he reached out and tried to pet the furry animal. The kangaroo jumped back with fright and fled, squeaking with each hop. Scowling, Michael rolled the window back up and sat further in his seat, he just wanted to pet it, he wasn't going to kill it or anything. At least he hoped he wouldn't have to kill one, the thought of a kangaroo carcass in his bumper grill made him queasy.
A sharp pain prodded the back of his head, like someone had just poked him with a needle. Of course now of all times a migraine would make his life all the more torturous. Taking a small sip of water, he imagined himself beating the ever loving Christ out of the migraine. Was this another coping mechanism? He wasn't so sure.
The migraine, however, decided to pulsate like a consistent drum beat. Scowling once again, he tried to find some medication to ease the pain. But of course he threw out all his tablets after he cleaned out the car yesterday. Life was kicking him hard in the balls today.
He winced as a pulse of unnatural pain shot through the front of his skull. God, he really needed those tablets, or a cigarette, that would do too. He mimicked the gesture of a smoker for a few minutes; the only time he can experience a cigarette is after he 'quits'. By this time, the first few rays of the sun had started to rise over the horizon, warming up the already humid desert sand.
Figures began to emerge from the sunlight, drenched in shadow. Michael compared them to shadow monsters from those waking dreams people have. Maybe he was having one now, who knows? As he watched the figures grow in number and become more defined in shape, he realised just what those shadows were.
What the hell?
Kangaroos. Kangaroos everywhere. They all faced him. They were behind him, beside him, and even above him! Michael slammed his head against the driver side window a few times to make sure he was sane, and then a few more for good measure. This was too freaky to see, even for him.
“Please tell me it's just a mirage, for god's sake it has to be a mirage.”
Another pulse of pain in the back of his head threw the man forward, slumping him against the steering wheel. His body was like a rag doll, eyes wide and unblinking. The kangaroos got closer to the car, now baring their teeth and squealing like pigs in a slaughterhouse. Michael tried to move, but only got screams of pain as a result. As the darkness greeted him in his last state of consciousness, a furry claw scratched a long, methodical line down the window, cracking it.
“Oh lord.”
Michael Sends His Regards »


Yeah I wrote a thing cause I saw the Halloween contest hub and had decided to take 20 minutes to write something. Big thanks to Hippo for helping me clean this up a bit.
Almost forgot, image is from here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Applebee%27s_Restaurant.jpg

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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Dr. Cimmerian stopped as he reached the Applebee's bar.
His mind raced. The restaurant door was eight and a half meters away. It would take him maybe three — four? — seconds to cross the distance at a dead sprint if the floor was clear.
The floor was not clear.
A mass of people stood between him and the nearest exit. Some clad in costumes, some like Cimmerian; straight from work in their lab-coats. After last year's mixup, the rule came down: No SCP cosplay. But there, right across the room, was a sexy plague doctor. Well — he hoped it was a sexy plague doctor. Dr. Foster had asked him to come, then fucked off as soon as they arrived.
A pretty researcher from the 20th floor dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz sat alone at the bar. He glanced over to her nervously. She smiled back.
Yeah. This was going to be just like last Halloween: a disaster. He could feel it. The pulsing sound of music began to hammer into his head. A headache was all this basically amounted to. But if he was gonna have a headache tomorrow, he might as well have it for a good reason.
"Hey." He got the bartender's attention. "Can I get a seven and seven?"
She nodded and started pouring his drink. He turned back around and caught Dorothy eyeing him from the side.
"What's in that?" Dorothy'd said with a slight squint.
"Seven-up and whiskey."
She blinked, smirked, and nodded. "Nice."
"It does the job." The bartender set the drink down in front of him and he took a long drag from the straw. Trying his best to look cool while doing so and, given the straw, failing.
"So you're the ethics guy?"
"I am. You work on the 20th, right?"
She put her right hand out. "Yes. I'm Megan."
He shook her hand and finally sat down at the bar. "Jeremiah. My friends and you can call me Jerry."
"We're not friends?" she pouted a little.
"We'll see." He immediately undercut the line by drinking from a straw again.
He got to know her a little bit better as the night progressed. She was a biologist with an expertise in pinnipeds. She hadn't said but he figured that put her on the 3213 team. Which was nice. He'd dated people at the site before who had… issues due to the seriousness of their jobs. It was nice to have a conversation with someone who didn't have that much baggage. She just needed to make sure the seals didn't kill Carl and she could go home with a clean conscience.
He told a joke. She laughed. She fired back. He laughed. It was fun, different — almost relaxing. The pulsing music and the dancing people seemed to fall away for an hour or two. The two of them didn't notice as most of the partiers left and the party wound down. She was still nursing her first drink. When he ordered his fifth, the bartender gave him that "get the fuck out" look. Cimmerian stood up.
He was a little wobbly, too drunk to drive, but not much worse. "I'll call an Uber. Are you alright or do you need one too?"
Megan looked disappointed, but shook her head. "I barely touched mine. I can actually get you home if you want. You're offsite right?"
He told her where his apartment was as they walked out into the dimly lit parking lot. It was about 1 AM; there were still monsters milling about. As they got to her car, she pulled out her keys and unlocked the door.
A man in a zombie mask walked far too close and pulled something from the back of his pants.
Cimmerian pulled a Colt 1911 out of his shoulder holster and Megan pulled a Walther PPK out of a thigh holster under her blue dress.
All three stood in silence. The zombie's pistol was still aimed at the ground; he hadn't even lifted it before theirs were pointed at his face.
He dropped it and ran.
The two of them stood there for another few seconds before putting their own weapons away. They laughed and got into the car, leaving the zombie's gun on the pavement. They both already had one, after all.
Megan cocked her head to the side. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine is fine."
She put the car into drive.

« Electronic Data | Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer | The Wisdom To Know The Difference »


by qntm

Foundation Agent George Barsin is monolithic: nearly two metres tall and rectangular-shouldered, like a Bruce Timm cartoon. He is bald, bearded, and immaculately presented. His suit is tailored; there are few which will fit him off the rack.
He arrives at the Green place first thing after dawn, six o'clock. The address is isolated, an acre or two of ill-maintained scrubland off a spur of a spur of the main highway north out of Ojai.
Barsin is part of the Foundation's Anomalous Religious Expressions Division. They do cults.
"Green" is not the name of the cult which Barsin is here to confront, but a codename. Barsin doesn't know the real name. At the briefing last night, it was explained that there are legitimate security reasons to use codenames instead of true names here, but those reasons were not explained. Barsin, no fool, took this to mean that there is some form of cognitohazard surrounding the true names. Or a memory-clouding phenomenon which makes them impossible to record. Or — and he's dealt with Foundation research staff for far too many years to not consider this — somebody just straight-up forgot to record the real names, and is trying to cover for themselves.
If there's an SCP number, he hasn't been told it.

*

The house is an ugly white sprawl. One storey, wood construction, no two windows alike in design… decaying. There are piles of junk, lumber, rusted vehicle components, drums of filthy green water. Willow and sycamore trees are encroaching from two-and-a-half sides, drizzling leaves and seeds and miscellaneous biological gunk all over the roof, clogging the gutters. Through the windows, only closed curtains and blinds are visible. The front door is standing ajar.
Barsin proceeds inside, cautiously. The entrance opens almost directly onto a large lounge/diner/kitchen area. The room is darkened, light mostly spilling from the entrance door — Barsin leaves it open — and feeling its way around the edges of the window coverings. The place is dirty, and smells of mould. The still air is like an oven, and it's extremely quiet except for the faint, animated sound of someone talking, away down the hall, words not entirely clear.
"—wasps and, yeah, it's going to be sharp inside. When you're made to move, that's tloi kwrlu dlth you'll bleed from—"
Barsin goes down the hall, passing a wall decoration which was once a mirror but has been completely painted over in black.
After a brief search, during which he ascertains that the rest of the house is empty, he comes to the final room. This door is closed, but the focused rambling is coming from inside:
"—at home, it's super easy. I'm going to give you something. An easy two-part project for you to take away, and don't forget alth amnth below. Part one: find someone weaker than you—"
Barsin knocks, loudly, twice.
The patter stops. Nothing else is heard. Barsin opens the door.
The room is dark, its window blocked with a thick curtain. There's a computer desk in the corner opposite the door, about as cluttered as a desk can realistically get, strewn with partially disassembled hardware, USB keys, chocolate wrappers, scraps of paper, ballpoint pens. There's a gaming mouse, unable to move for junk. There's a good-quality video camera setup, a monitor, video feeds on the monitor, dust.
There's a cheap, skeletal swivel chair in front of the monitor and a young man of about twenty slouched uncomfortably in the chair. He is skinny, with discoloured, pale skin which Barsin thinks could be caused by malnutrition. He has what was at one point a stylish, fashionable haircut but is now in some disrepair, and when he turns around Barsin sees that he has dark rings around his eyes. It looks as if he hasn't slept in a year. He reeks. The room is filled with that odour, almost thick enough to see.
In the same way that the anomalous viral/religious phenomenon — the cult, gathering around and above this young man like an anvil cloud — is named "Green", he himself is named "Red".
"Good morning," Barsin says. "We saw your streams."
The youth pulls his headphones down. "The fuck are you?"
"My name's George Barsin. I'm part of an organisation which— ah—"
Red launches out of his chair like a rabid greyhound from a cage. He comes fist-first, losing the headphones. Barsin shifts his weight slightly to his left, leaning away from the punch. He catches Red's arm and pulls it forward, violently, deflecting the attack's momentum and bringing the youth teeth-first into the door frame. Red stumbles back, crouching. He finds his footing swiftly. Froth is developing at the corners of his mouth, mixing with blood. Scrabbling around the junk on the floor, he puts his hand on a soldering iron.
As Red comes forward again, Barsin wastes a critical split second trying to trace the iron's cable, to figure out whether it's plugged in and hot or not. It's not, but that's enough distraction that Red gets right up there, driving the iron up into Barsin's gut with both hands. There's an electronic screech and a spark of orange light; the iron holes Barsin's shirt but skitters off his abdomen, opening a long tear. There's bare skin underneath. His shield is invisible, partly mythical, and protects his seemingly exposed head just as well as the rest of him.
Barsin takes Red in a headlock. Some haphazard kicking ensues, less well-choreographed. Red has a demon's energy behind him but Barsin has, to be blunt, arrived prepared. In a few more moves, Red is disarmed, stunned, flat on his back and good for nothing.
Barsin takes stock. The number of genuine, fight-for-your-life fights he's been in is still in single digits. This one ranks about in the middle. Fifteen seconds of activity; both of them made mistakes. A learning experience.
"Then I'll dispense with the introductions," he says to Red. "The live streaming vector was novel. We hadn't seen that before. Very effective compared to the generic self-help-book-and-walled-compound model. You get one point for originality, out of ten. But we predicted it decades back and we had the containment procedures ready to go. We have people at the streaming services. As I speak, we're locking you out of your account. We're using your own channels to distribute inoculation codes."
Barsin tries to tidy his shirt up. It's not going to work. Never mind.
"But you're the source," he says. "A simple inoculation code would glance off. Physical intervention is required." He reaches inside his jacket — where he has a perfectly serviceable gun, which he elected to leave where it is for this confrontation — and produces a device not unlike an ophthalmologist's scope. He kneels, lifts Red's right eyelid and aims the scope at it, projecting a brilliant white spot of light which bathes the entire eye and causes it to lock open. Almost all of Red's musculature locks up as well, effectively pinning him to the floor. His teeth clench.
Barsin says to Red, "This man is innocent. Nobody can deserve what you've done to him. Release him and leave this reality forever."
Through gritted teeth, Red says, "Who. The fuck. Are you?"
"Alright." Barsin pushes another button, changing the projected light pattern from a pure white disc into a complex spiral star design in red and blue. There's a crack like ribs being forced apart. And the youth screams. It doesn't sound like Red. It's a full-body scream, anguished and hopeless and as loud as he's physically able to make it. It comes up from his belly and goes on, flat out, until he runs out of breath and gasps and does it again, arching his back and clawing at the floor. After the second full breath he cools down to a sobbing wail.
"Jesus Christ, don't send me back. Please."
"I won't. It's okay."
"Don't send me back. I can't see. Who's there?"
"It's okay. You'll get your sight back. My name's George. What's yours?"
"There's a pit," the youth says, choking, "and it always gets worse. It doesn't stop. There's no bottom." He babbles incoherently for a moment, and then trails off. His eyes dance, blindly.
"You're in a really bad place right now," Barsin says.
The youth vehemently agrees.
"Something has gone wrong," Barsin explains. "And that thing, that horrific thing which went wrong, has found you and abducted you and replaced you. It's out here now, using your skin as a finger puppet, walking you around, making you talk. Replicating. That nightmare you're having is being had by a hundred thousand people right now. That's the bad news. The good news is that we caught you. And I can still see you in there. And there's good chance that we can get you out."
"A 'good chance'?" The youth breathes twice. "If you can't—" he begins urgently.
"Focus on the red and blue spiral," Barsin says. He still has the scope pointed into the youth's eye.
"What? I can't see anything."
"That's because you're not directly connected to this optic nerve anymore. But your mind is locked inside something which is. You can't see the spiral, but somehow you know what it looks like. You can sense its shape, like a pattern of heat on the back of your hand." Barsin's voice is becoming slower, taking on a hypnotic rhythm. "The spiral idea is going in. It's spreading and flourishing. Occupying more space. The more you think about the spiral, the more you realise you can't think about anything but the spiral."
The youth seems to have nothing to say to this. His breathing stabilises.
"Your thoughts are slowed," Barsin continues. "The spirals fill you up, recursively, like ice crystals, until you can't move. Your brain knows it's being poisoned. Even though you're blind, you feel a reflexive need to look away or block out what you're seeing. A long enough exposure is fatal."
There is a long, heavy pause, during which Barsin does nothing but shine poisonous light into the young man's eye, while studying that brightly illuminated eye himself, tracking the progress of the ocular response, waiting for a particular tell. It's not a clear-cut thing; there's a small amount of guesswork. He waits until he's sure. Finally, he releases the button on the scope, shutting it off.
The youth is now completely inert.

*

Barsin stands up, knees creaking. He relaxes, sighs. His shoulders untense a little. He puts the scope away.
"You can think of this as memetic chemotherapy," he says. He says it to himself, mostly, to fill dead air. The young man can only hear pink fuzz now. "The spiral symbol is an elementary cognitopoison. A long exposure is fatal. But a just barely non-fatal exposure is recoverable. You will recover from this poison, and Red cannot. You will survive and Red will die. Because you, my man, are an intelligent, creative human being, and Red is…"
He reflects on his briefing, and what he knows of the Green phenomenon, and the hundred thousand people suffering and raving inside it right now. They are in all parts of the globe. He has seen some photographs of what takes place in homes occupied by Red's appalling messages. He's heard a strictly limited amount of highly redacted audio.
Dispassionate people make better field decisions, that's the rule he was always taught. But remaining dispassionate is harder on some days than others.
"…a piece of shit."
Barsin potters around the room for a little while, taking a closer look at some of the computer hardware. Nothing notable there, although he finds a stand for the soldering iron. There's also a narrow camp bed in the room, with a bedraggled sleeping bag. He clears the sleeping bag away and loads the youth onto the camp bed, in a recovery position. He pulls the curtain open. It's an obnoxiously sunny day, and the Sun is aimed right in through that window.
Finally, Barsin picks up the swivel chair and settles into it, on the far side of the room, where he can keep an eye on his patient. He pulls a Foundation-issued phone from his pocket, along with a horrendously tangled pair of cheap earbuds, which he begins to untangle.
He relaxes into his monologue. It's not as if anybody is listening.
"Fact is, I didn't need to come here. There's more than one way to physically intervene when something like Green comes around. You know what the original plan was when we found out about you? Orbital laser cannon to the top of the head. We can do that, my man. From time to time. Your house would be a circle of scorched timber with you a burnt marshmallow at the middle of it. That's our latest methodology for dealing with virulent, single-culpability memetic anomalies. We do it at arm's length, at the longest possible distance, unblinkingly and unfeelingly, and to hell with the details. It's brutal. Impersonal. Very expensive in orbital laser maintenance. We say to ourselves that it's effective. Maybe it is. I'm not at that level. I don't get to see the statistics.
"But what I do know is that we can always do better. And I looked at the file and I looked at you, and… I took a long shot. Honestly, I'm a very small guy in the grand scheme, but I stood up in a pretty intense meeting with people who I don't really have the authority to say anything to and I said to them — this is a paraphrase — 'There's a completely innocent kid at the centre of this. He doesn't deserve this. At minimum, we've got to make the gesture.'"
A shadow passes across the room. Barsin looks around briefly, but whatever it is has gone. He thinks nothing of it.
"And then I also said, 'If it works, it'll save us a boatload of money.' I think that part was the part which got their attention. But I got the thumbs-up. So here I am. Trying to save your life the hard way instead of just atomizing it. It'll probably take all day. Six, ten hours. Don't worry. I have podcasts."
He finishes untangling the earbuds and screws the first of them into his left ear.
"Your people must really hate you," Red says.
Shit.
Barsin draws. Late. Obviously nobody should be able to talk right now, but the real reason he draws late is that the comment lands. It should just pass him by but there is a sharp, spiteful element of truth to it. Truthfully, nobody was a fan of the idea. Barsin has been saying for a long time, with gradually increasing volume, to gradually increasingly senior Foundation overseers, that a chat beats a fight. He's been ignored over and over. Yesterday, when they finally said that he could try it, it was grudgingly. And so a momentary flicker of foul suspicion appears— did they know? Did they really just— kill him?
They didn't. He knows, of course they didn't. But it's too late. As he fumbles the gun out, Red has already sat up, grinning like a ventriloquist's puppet, and turned his head to look right at Barsin. They make eye contact, and this time Red's eyes are open all the way, allowing Barsin to see straight through to what's on the other side. Green comprehension leaps out of the pit at Barsin and grounds itself in the back of his skull.
He recoils instinctively, breaking the connection and covering his eyes. He stumbles, falling backwards out of the chair and into the corner of the room. His orange, crystalline shield fluctuates, panicking in its own way because of what just passed through it. Intermittently, it turns impermeable, cutting off Barsin's frantic breathing. Then it snaps off and dies.
Barsin doesn't have the training to fully comprehend the idea complex he was just exposed to. He has a basic level of practical memetics training; he can administer the spiral treatment and a few others, and protect himself from certain attacks which would knock a generic human over like a domino. But he's an entry-level practitioner, not a specialist, not a scientist. The sheer scope of Green is beyond his ability to comprehend. He feels like one of the men Louis Slotin irradiated, a Demon Core criticality witness. He knows he's dead. The only question is how long it's going to take.
Red swings his legs off the bed and stands, keeping his grin fixed on Barsin. "A spinning red and blue light. How backward are you?" He seems to grow larger, and to sink backwards into space, a hole where a human should be. Barsin finds he can't make himself move out of the corner. It's like he's pinned. There's a creeping, staticky numbness in his hands.
He understands his error now. He might as well have tried to poison the ocean. He sees the whole thing, Red's grotesque vision for the world, his/its immense, vicious promise. The rot is everywhere. Those hundred thousand infected are a foretaste. The spores are flourishing secretly in every aspect of reality: in people's lungs, in their minds, their words, in the soil, in the sky. Maggots and cancers and star signals. How can anyone think like that? How can anyone want that?
"You—" Barsin means it in the singular. There's no distinction between Red and whoever that original human was. There's no one to rescue. It was a damn ruse.
It was voluntary.
"You made this happen?" he manages. "It didn't abduct you. You invited it. Hacked your own soul in half and offered the pieces up, for no reason at all? You've latched yourself onto the front of something unimaginable. You can't comprehend how badly this is going to end. You've murdered yourself."
Red advances on him.
Gun. Barsin's mind is disintegrating. But it gets that one word out. Gun.
It's on the floor between them, gleaming in the shaft of orange light pouring out of the window. Barsin fights himself and wins and lunges for it, only then finding that the creeping numbness in his extremities isn't just affecting his hands, it's affecting his own ability to perceive them. He doesn't know that it's a minor antimemetic clouding effect; all he knows is that there's a stump at the end of his arm. Both arms. The gun is inoperable. All he can do is push it around the floor. He shouts, miserably and helplessly. Red laughs, and doesn't even bother to kick it away.
"The Foundation will stop you," Barsin manages, like a mantra.
Red cocks his head, as if he knows the word "Foundation" from somewhere. "Are all of them as weak as you?" He concentrates.
Comprehension goes both ways. Barsin dimly understands what Red represents, which means Red, in turn, dimly understands what Barsin represents. Red perceives the power structures which dispatched Barsin into this hated burrow. Red perceives the shadows of the "people at the streaming services", and the Mobile Task Force Barsin doesn't know about, skulking out at the property's perimeter waiting for a go order which will never come. Red perceives the four or five "brutal", "impersonal" suits seated at the top of the operation, webbing it together. One of them is toying absently with their laser strike keystick, twirling it around the back of their thumb over and over, dropping it.
That's as far through headspace as Red can search, because that's the limit of the people who know about him, it, Red. That's the hit list.
A shadow blots the Sun out again, the same one as before, for longer this time. Red looks out through the window, giving it a curt nod, and it departs.
Barsin slumps to one side, dead up to the shoulders now. Conscious that any of these words could be his last, he says, "You think you're in control. But it's going to kill you too. We can get you out. You can help us contain it."
Red crouches, still grinning. "Look at me. Look." Barsin looks. He doesn't have a choice. It hurts. Red makes sure he is being heard loudly and clearly: "No."
"Z…zayin. Three four six. Samekh shin," Barsin whispers.
Red blinks. "What?"
Something bleeps.
"Ae star," Barsin says. "Ae star."
"Shit." Red looks around, suddenly genuinely alarmed. The phone. He lost track of Barsin's phone. He finds it, beneath the bed. He snatches it up. There's a voice authentication interface, and authentication is nearly complete. "Stop. Cancel. Undo." Nothing happens. Wrong voice. He drops the phone, scrabbles for the gun.
"Zaelochi anaeora. Fire," Barsin says.
Red puts a bullet through the phone. And a second through Barsin's skull.
He looks up at the ceiling, waiting, still alarmed. And he waits.
But nothing else happens.

Next: Immemorial


Content warnings:

+ Show content warnings:

- Close content warnings:

References to attempted suicide
Suicidal ideation
Self-loathing

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

▓▓▓▓▓

Me

uhhh
hello?
who are you?

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ of ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

hello!
I'm here to inspect trilobites!
wait can you read this

Me

why can't i read any of your messages
how did you add me??
I'm so confused!! 😣😣

Re▓koning of Trilobite▓

i can fix

▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓
Reckoning of Trilobites

HELLO THIS IS EXPERT TRILOBITE EXTERMINATOR GUNHEAD ANOMALOCARIS I AM HERE TO MAKE A CHECKUP

Me

wait yourew
you're that anomalocaris I saw in site-201? 😮😮
also I don't know what you're doing with your text size but could you please make it smalliwr
smaller i mean 😆😆😆
it takes up so much of my screeeb
screen
whoops typos 😅😅😅

Reckoning of Trilobites
oh sorry technology rectangle lady
yes I am the anomalocaris of tribulation for tri-lobers
proof:

Me

😅 haha well okay
for real how did you add me?
don't think the scfo
whoops scp guys would aporv😅😅😅
approve

Reckoning of Trilobites

it is very simple
I got put into a story because I got of the containy box when you were around and I then left that story into another story where there some noisy thing and a dude that nearly beat me to death with a chunk of metal debris then I left that and accidentally fell into here

Me

😮

Reckoning of Trilobites

and now I'm talking to you!

Me

that's rlly weird 😲😲

Reckoning of Trilobites

and now I do a checkup!

Me

wait
what's the chexjuo
whoops
checkup?

Reckoning of Trilobites

it is Super High Clearance Secret
for removing trilobites
by order of the Anomalocaris Trilofart-Shooter Army President
(I'm the President)

Me

do you need to spam message me for it?

Reckoning of Trilobites

HOW DID YOU KNOWwhoops
it does

Me

😄 well uh
that's cool but i've already done an inspection
by the anomalous teens against trilobite schemes!

Reckoning of Trilobites

but you could have a SECOND inspection
maybe a sneaky trilobite is still here and needs killing

Me

thanks but i'm not up to talk right now

Reckoning of Trilobites

sound scares the cephalonshitheads
there is no sounds but they are dumb and messages confuse them
like a human elder spawn that downloads danger onto technology cubes while making younger spawn annoyed when they try to help

Me

again, i'm not up for it

Reckoning of Trilobites

o
but
would you
be up to
listen to old stories of the First Trilobite War
the war
that was the first
with the trilobastards!!!

Me

i'm sorry but I don't want to listen
not in the mood

Reckoning of Trilobites
don't you want to hear about how I vanquished this beast??

look at the hatred for all life it has!
Me

look it's just
I've been dealing with personal issues
i don't want to talk right now

Reckoning of Trilobites

oh no!
what did the trilobites do to you???
did you do the thing that one man warned about
about gazing long into the trilobites
and the trilobites gazing back into you????

Me

it isn't fucking trilobites okay?

Reckoning of Trilobites

that's what the trilobites would say

Me

i've been dealing with personal stuff today
i don't want to deal with your checkup crap

Reckoning of Trilobites

were you forced to talk with yourself-but-outside-of-technology-rectangle and had an argument and felt unsure of your identity and felt glum?

Me

I
how did you know?

Reckoning of Trilobites

secret maneuver

Me

well
yes
that happened
get why I don't want to talk?
i can't keep pretending like i'm fine
like she's fine

Reckoning of Trilobites

but you'll both be fine when I finish the checkup! :D

Me

could you take this shit seriously?
what she did
it
it makes me feel sick and I don't know how I can feel that way when I'm in a phone

Reckoning of Trilobites

control+h found no menaces
the sneaky monsters are elsewhere!

Me

i'm trying to cope and you aren't helping things

Reckoning of Trilobites

I can fix!

Me

what?

▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓
Me

hello?
are you still here?
what are you doing?

hello?

Stacey Lee lays in the well-worn dents of her bed and pillow, facing the containment chamber wall and staring through it into nothing. The wall is spotless. The rest of the chamber is from it. Behind her is a kitchen, a "living room" with a television and a dull blue couch, a false window that renders whatever serene outside environments she wanted to see. Pithy motivational posters hang from the walls. Fake sunlight, shifting from morning to midday hues, drifts in.
She doesn't look to or think of any of it. The wall is gray and featureless, letting her wholly defocus and think equally featureless thoughts. Tiredness minus sleepiness weighs down on her. She quickly glances at the calendar above the patch of wall. November 3rd, 2018. Two months since Snapchat led to her indefinite confinement, one month since she started to doubt her identity, one week since her wrist was stitched back together and her cell had to be safety proofed to prevent her from using a razor blade like that again.
Unknown months until she can be finally allowed to leave.
Wind suddenly sweeps into her back and something behind her thuds against the ground, metal clinking against the floor. She jumps, rolls over, and sees— oh. It's that thing.
"Hi! Gunhead Anomalocaris, Expert Trilobite—"
"Yeah, I know."
"You knew?" It cocks its artillery amalgam head. Above it a portal — leading to a white void with snapchat messages looming within — shrinks to a speck and fades out.
"Heard about what happened in Site-201. From researchers."
"Did they talk about how cool it was that I blew up all those trilofucks? They were in the walls but I could tell they were there and they went boom and—"
"You nearly killed someone."
"…What?"
"Benny. They've been hospitalized because of you."
It's blindingly obvious that the anomalocaris is breaching the Foundation's "containment." This doesn't matter to Stacey. From what she can tell, events like this always end the same way: the anomaly is found again, locked up again, and everything returns to normal. She stays in her bed, looking at the creature and knowing her life won't change today.
"I didn't hurt anybody! Well, trilobites got hurt but they eat pain for breakfast like how they eat poop for brunch so all they cared about was not being able to be villains."
"Fine. Whatever."
She rolls back over to face the wall.
"I'm going to perform a checkup for trilobites! I can smell them here."
Stacey doesn't respond. The anomalocaris seems to wait for an answer before she hears the sounds of it flopping along the ground. The couch is moved, grinding against the ground, and a cacophony of metal impacts kicks in. She can barely drift off at first, but the clanging and the BANG of miniature cannons become a white noise to her ears that she tunes out. She thinks blank thoughts.
Then it stops.
"I should tell you a thing," it says.
"I don't want to talk right now."
"I was talking with you but not you who's in the technology rectangle!"
It takes a moment to digest what "technology rectangle" means. Then it hits her. "…Don't bring that up."
"I now have done the brainstorm and have ideas about both of you."
"Don't fucking bring her up."
"And I know what's happening!"
"I've been trying to not think about that for all of yesterday and today and you're screwing that up." She pulls the pillow out from under her head and presses it into her face, like it would miraculously block out all sound.
"A few months ago you were being normal when… Wait what's your name?"
No reply. Cold steel nudges against her back.
"Hellooooo?"
"Sta—" She pauses. "…SCP-3009-C." A sinkhole opens in her stomach.
"That name is weird," Gunhead Anomalocaris says. "Anyways, you were being normal and going to that place where people put their faces into books of lore when something crawled into your technology rectangle. It thought the technology rectangle was shiny and thought your images of you in the rectangle were shiny — which isn't actually wrong — and then wanted to steal those from you! But it had brunch so its brain was poo so it only made a copy."
Was that supposed to mean anything to her?
"That something was a trilobite!"
"…No."
"No?"
"Could you take this shit seriously?"
"I am being serious!"
She sighs. "Don't you get it? This just happened. That's it. Nobody did it. One day the real me got put into her snapchat account and I just existed. That's all." Her voice trails off. Too tired for conversation.
"You are the real you!"
"No. I'm SCP-3009-C. She's Stacey Lee. She acts more like me than I do."
"Ahah, that's what the trilobites want you to think!"
"There's no fucking trilobites, okay?" she shouts. "There's none."
"W—what?
"None of those fucking creatures have been around this entire time and every time you try to hunt them you only screw things up."
"I've killed triloghosts! Narrative trilobites! Disguised trilobites!"
"The only stuff you've nearly killed is innocent people."
"That's not true!"
"They've been extinct for thousands of years."
"That's what trilobites w-want you—"
"Is that all you can think about? Does nothing else matter to you? At all?"
"I—"
"Is that how delusional you are?"
"…"
She takes a deep, shaky breath in. "Please… Just leave…"
For the first time since Gunhead entered, there is silence. Then she hears a quiet noise. Quiet, repeating. It's weeping.
"I… I watched…" It can barely keep talking between sobs. "My friends die. Everyone I knew died. I don't want… that to happen again. It breaks down."
"Please, just…" Her voice trails off before she can finish talking. It doesn't come back.
She drops the pillow, staring at the wall while the sinkhole in her stomach grows and, eventually, becomes large enough that it doesn't matter anymore. Some part of her tells her, shouts at her, that she should be crying right now, apologizing now, consoling, but she doesn't because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Stacey Lee would've never done that.

Me

i'm guessing you aren't here anymore

Me

i know I didn't want to talk with you but
there's nobody here for me to talk to
benny is still recovering
xiulan is working on something else
everyone else is busy
it feels alone
if you could be here it would be nice

Me

still gone?

Me

i'm only now noticing how weird it feels to not be taking to anyone

i don't feel anything
i don't even know what it is I am seeing
like the phone screen is all there is and outside of that is
uhh
what's the word
oh, right
like beyond my phone screen is my peripheral vision
and it's a blur

i think that's why i keep using bitmoji and emoji so much
i can't think of when the last time i saw my own face was
I can take selfies but i don't really know what happens there
they just start existing
it's the only way i can take myself away from this place

fuck
how long have I been acting all positive?
am I that good at lying to myself and everyone?

i think i know how 3009-C feels now

Me

gunhead
if you are still here
tell 3009-C i'm sorry
i'm sorry for making her question her identity
i'm sorry for saying she's been acting this whole time
i'm sorry for thinking either of us were actually the original
i don't know if sorry is enough after hearing what she did a week ago
god, it's all my fault isn't it
sorry can't change anything
i'm an awful person

i hope she's okay

Gunhead has been silent for the past few minutes. Stacey Lee SCP-3009-C Stacy Lee SCP-3009-C clutches the pillow to her chest, motionless save for her breathing. The wall no longer offers anything to her, so her eyes drift between the mattress, the calendar, and any mote of dust she could use to tune the world out. Her eyes don't defocus; everything else does.
She was never Stacey Lee. She only exists because something just had to be there for the real Stacey Lee to have her life changed forever. Maybe she doesn't even exist because of that.
Maybe she has no reason to "be" at all.
She'd be meaningless, then.
She is.
"Hey Gunhead?"
"…"
"Are you still here?"
"…Yes." Snivels.
She isn't doing the talking. It's like her body is doing it for her while she is floating out into a gray thoughts. "I was… Lying. About the trilobites." She isn't bothered by it. It's fine.
"…"
"I'm a trilobite puppet," she states in monotone.
"…" More snivels.
"Could you… Could you…" Her body tries to hold back what it's about to say, then relaxes. "…Could you kill me?"
It's fine.
Heavy moments slip past. The air is vacuous and heatless. Metallic gears, far out of her body's vision, whirr while a ghostly machine constructs itself behind her. The pillow falls from her grip, her whole body relaxing. The world is gray.
"Hey, Stacey?" Gunhead says in a whisper.
The world is gray, soon to be colorless.
"One of my trilobite hunting pals told me a thing once, when we were patrolling at night through clouds of glowing bacteria."
The world is gray, soon to be colorless; that is just fine.
"It was that good people make bad liars."
That is just fine.
"They are right."
The world around SCP-3009-C shatters.

Reckoning of Trilobites

▓▓▓▓▓

Me

oh, you're back?

Reckoning of Trilobites

💥 boom 💥

The world around Stacey Lee shatters.

Stacey Lee and Stacy Lee open their eyes to a bedroom. On one wall is an endless sea of posters for Korean dramas and soap operas, interspersed with childhood crayon scribbles; on the opposite is a shelf of knick knacks collected from around the globe. Behind them is a bed with hot pink sheets and a rotund bear plush that smiles invitingly, the window above it letting in the oranges of warm, afternoon light through the slits of the blinds. A poster for the Central Park Zoo sways above the pillows.
Stacey Lee takes baby steps forward, staring at everything there is to see. The other Stacey Lee runs her hands along herself and the bed's edge, taking in the physicality they have not felt in months.
They're back home.
On the floor is a gunmetal gray box with a radar display and handle attached. A paper note with barely legible handwriting is taped to the side.

Here's a thingy that has a thing in it. I don't know how the things do things but the screen will show any trilobites that are near you, each red dot being a menace. The blue dots are Supreme Cephalon-headed-tri-lober Punisher Foundation people, who actually aren't Supreme Cephalon-headed-tri-lober Punishers and just say that to make me not leave their containy box and will probably try to put both of you in a containy box too.
Feel better soon. :)
— Gunhead Anomalocaris

The one from reality falls onto the bed, curling into a ball, crying harder than she ever had before. The one from the phone sits next to her. When their parents find them they are still laying there, embracing.

This was written as part of the SCP Original Character Tournament, Round Two, between my own Gunhead Anomalocaris and keyii's "Stacey Lee".
Be sure to read keyii's entry, Anomalous Teens Against Trilobite Schemes, which is superb!

Derailment By Prehistoric Artillery Strike

DESTROY ALL TRILOBITES

To Be Continued...


"I am the cure, yes," The Fellow said.
"And I am going to throw you into traffic if you don't stop saying that."
"Ah, but, you see, I am-"
"The cure. We know. We all are."
The Doctor let out a sigh and let his head fall a brief distance before being immediately startled alert at the resultant honk from the van. He took a hand off the wheel and brought it up to mask to lightly rub its tip, finding it in tact, and resumed his black-knuckle 10-2 grip.
"Fie! What raucus roar! Have thou no eyes?"
"You'll find I have exactly as many eyes as I need." He patted his bag. "However, I would appreciate less back-seat driving from you, Bartholomew. Especially because I don't think you even know how to drive."
"Ah! But I think you will find I, with precision surgical, drove the Plague Itself to its knees!"
"Not… not that kind of drive."

Silence filled the cabin.
All there was was only the steady hum of engine,
and bumps from potholes,
and a lunatic filling the air.
"I am a doctor."

At last, the vehicle turned left into a gas station, the squeal of brake-pads against wheels announcing the slowing to stop.
"I am going to enter the store and purchase gasoline and snacks. Are there any requests?" The Doctor unlocked the doors, turned to face his passengers, and found one missing seat with the side door wide open.
"I am going to enter the store, purchase gasoline and snacks, and retrieve our Fellow. Are there any requests?"
"Jerky and whiskey, if you would," said The Healer.
"Bread, cheese, and wine; more does a man ill!" said Bartholomew.
"Alright. How about you, D?"
Silence.
"Alright. I'll be back in a moment." He shut the door, paid and pumped gas, and headed inside of the gas station.
The Fellow jumped on a shelf, cracking it in half and riding the cascade of goods down to the floor before getting back up and doing a jaunty jig, his pointy stick straight in the air as he danced upon cans and loaves of bread. The clerk sat in the corner, already dead from The Fellow's ministrations consisting of running a stake up his nose.
"Good Lord, Fellow! I take my eyes off you for a second and you cure the poor gentleman behind the counter and wreck the place!"
The Fellow had, by this time, begun a tapdance routine, sending cans flying at The Doctor, who promptly dodged the onslaught, batting away those which were too close for comfort. He slipped behind a nearby shelf for cover, picking up a package of beef jerky while he was there.
"I've done it! I am the cure! Yes, yes!"
"Hell."
"[Incoherent shrieking]."
The Doctor dove towards the next aisle, being hit on the way by a bread loaf, which he proceeded to pick up once he was in cover again. He waddled over to the refrigerated section and took a package of Kraft singles. He also picked out a full ham, heaving it with both hands into the proximity of The Fellow. "Ah! I can't believe I let this patient escape! He's not properly cured!"
"Ah! I am a doctor most indubitably yes hmm I can smell the plague on this man! I am the cure!"
The Fellow crouched over the deli meat and The Doctor wiped nonexistent sweat from his maskbrow. He headed over to the alcohol section, picking the worst wine and best whiskey he could find, and placed everything into his bag before walking back over to the clerk's body. He looked to make sure The Fellow was still busy, which he was, poking many holes into the meat and stuffing them with salt.
And he set to work.
Meanwhile, outside…

"Give me your money."
The Healer held up her hands, bag next to her, two Glocks in her face.
"Woah, there. Take it easy. I don't have any cash on me"
"Bull fucking shit. You got a purse with you, huh?" one said. "Hand it over. Hand over the fucking purse," the other said.
"You… Ah. Yes. My bag."
She bent down and picked it up, holding it out with two hands.
The first took the bag, hastily looking into it.
"What the fuck? It's fucking empty?"
He opened the bag further, and his partner took a glance at the bag.
"What do you mean it's empty? Who the fuck would carry around an empty purse?"
The partner looked up just in time to see her prescription for him.
Bang.
One CC Lead at 1200 foot pounds passed through his eye socket, cracked his skull, and jellied his brain.
The remaining would-be-robber got an eyeful of blood and grey matter, startled back and sent a bullet flying wayward, punching through the vanside clean through. He fired again into the sky as he tried to get out his partner's vitals off his face right before
Bang.
Right through the chest. He sent one more shot into the night sky before he fell backwards, cracking his head against the cement and going limp.
She blew off the smoke from the tip of her Model 3 and wiped off the grey matter from her mask before collecting her bag and stepping back into the van.

Back to the lecture at hand…
He finished his work, and the clerk rose once more, going back to standing at the counter. Another patient successfully cured. He walked over to The Fellow and pointed to the van.
"Of course I can perform in the van. What do you take me for, an amateur doctor? No, I am a doctor doctor, yes."
The Fellow picked up the ham, exited the doors, and re-entered the van without incident. The Doctor followed suit, replacing himself in the driver's seat.
"Hear, hear! The Good Doctor has returned! Did thou procure our refreshments?"
"Ah, I almost forgot. Yes, I did." He opened his bag and doled out the respective snacks and beverages to his comrades before returning to attention once more, adjusting his rear-view mirror, and putting the car into drive.

"Aha! I've cured it!" said The Fellow.
"Verily, Good Fellow. I do say you've cured it much over." The ham sat in the middle back seat, next to Bartholomew, completely immersed in salt at this point.
"We almost there yet, Doc?" asked The Healer.
"Yes, yes. Please, have some patience."
"Patients?" D replied.
"Yes. Please have some patience."
"You do not need to rub this in to me. I know I am much out of practice."
"Out of practice? You wait until now to tell me you haven't even practiced recently?"
"Rub it in? Ah, yes! Yes, indubitably a proper curative measure!" the Fellow replied.
He began rubbing the ham and D once more fell silent, looking out the window.

And the silence enveloped the van.

The Healer fidgeted a bit before she reached to the central console and turned on the radio. "Like a Surgeon" by Weird Al was on. She quickly turned the channel. "Bad Case of Loving You" by Robert Palmer. Turn. "Your Love is My Drug" by Kesha. She gave an annoyed sigh and turned once more, finding a performance of "Messiah" by Handel, and sat back in her seat.
"Ah! We've tuned just in time for the Hallelujah Chorus!" Bartholomew exclaimed.
Classical filled the air, and the time passed.

Finally, they pulled into their destination.
Each left the van with their bag and headed into the building, guards letting them in. The Doctor breathed a deep breath and stepped into the theatre of their operation.
They each stepped into position, taking their instruments out of their bags, wielding them surgical. Each gave a nervous look to one another; they had never done anything on this scale. The fact that it needed all five of them itself was daunting, but they would have to execute everything perfectly for the operation to be a success.
"Are we all ready for this?" The Doctor asked.
"Ready as we'll ever be," The Healer replied, twirling her sticks between her fingers in anticipation.
"Verily," Bartholomew stated.
D simply nodded.
The Fellow simply stood holding an axe.
"Very well. Let's begin."
The curtains raised to an audience of hundreds. The Doctor leveled his microphone in front of him.
"Hello, and thank you for coming, everyone. How is everybody doing tonight?"
Uproarious applause met him.
"I can't hear you!"
Again applause.
"Thank you, thank you. Now, without further ado: we are The Cure!"


“Mom, stop fussing with it,” Shawn Wheeler groaned. “My collar is fine.” The doorbell rang.
“I'll stop fussing with it when it's fixed, Shawn,” his mother replied, “and that'll happen faster if you stop squirming.”
“What is it with mothers and shirt collars anyway? What is it about having kids that makes women fiddle with my clothes all the time?” Nevertheless, he stood still while she flipped his shirt collar back to the proper orientation and smoothed it out. “There. How do I look?”
Marion hid her smirk. His freshly pressed dress shirt was tucked neatly into smooth khaki slacks. The new haircut was slicked back with just a bit too much gel, and Shawn was, for once, wearing his contacts. He looked nothing like himself, and utterly, utterly ridiculous. He looked like a nineteen-year-old in love.
“You look like you really fell hard for this girl,” she said. “Does she know about your volumes of Star Wars fanfiction?”
“It hasn't come up.”
“Uh huh.” Marion didn't bother hiding her smirk this time. The doorbell rang again. “Well, your collar is straight and you look perfect. Wouldn't want to keep your lady waiting.” Shawn rolled his eyes and shuffled past his mother, across the hallway and towards the door. Marion hung back as her husband came out of the kitchen behind her. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his angular nose and she couldn't help but smile. While Marion was well on her way towards “little old lady”, Adam was as tall and thin as the day they met.
“What are you smiling at?” A mischievous grin crossed his face as he closed the kitchen door with his foot.
“You.” She had to crane her neck upwards and stand on her toes to kiss him, but it was worth it every time. “Ready for this?”
“No,” he sighed. “But let's do it anyway.” The door swung open behind them, and Marion saw what could only have been her son's girlfriend and her parents. She immediately noticed the young woman's striking eyes—stormcloud grey with flecks of green, unusual but not impossible given the Chinese heritage suggested by her surname—but it was the girl's father who drew Marion's attention.
“Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Lucy Lang-Scranton,” Shawn said confidently.
“You must be the Wheelers,” said her mother. “I'm Anna, and this is my husband, Robert.” But Marion already knew that.
“It's nice to finally meet you,” said Adam. He stuck out a hand to Robert, who shook it vigorously. “I'm Adam, and this is my wife, Marion. You already know Shawn, I take it.”
“My parents met him while I was moving in,” Lucy explained. She began a story about the moving trolley that had lead her to her new boyfriend, but Marion was only half paying attention.
“Well, don't lurk in the doorway all night,” said Adam when Lucy was finished with her story. “Come in. Let me take your coats.” Ms. Lang slid her coat off her shoulders and handed it to Adam Wheeler as the Scranton-Lang family came through the door.
“Do you smoke, Mr. Scranton?” Marion's eyes shrewdly sized him up. She didn't pick up any telltale signs of a smoker, but that didn't prove much.
“I'm trying to quit,” he said, a sheepish expression on his aging face.
“Well, tonight is a special occasion,” Marion said, curling her mouth into a grin. “Would you join me outside for a celebratory cigar?”
“Can it wait?” Marion's husband met her eyes, and communicated more than just concern with his look. “They did just get here.” He hung up their guest's coat on the wall.
“No, it'll give us something to talk about at dinner,” said Dr. Scranton. “Lucy was embarrassed that I'd spend the whole night talking about her Star Wars fanfiction.” Shawn's head snapped to Lucy. Her eyes became dinner plates.
“Dad! You promised!”
“No, it's good to get these things out of the way early on,” Adam said. “My first real moment with Marion involved the X-Files.” That was all that most people knew about his first meeting with his wife, but Marion suspected the two doctors had read her full report at some point.
"Shawn, why don't you show her your toy shelf while Mr. Scranton and I step outside?" Marion motioned towards their stairs and shot Adam a look that said 'I know what I'm doing'.
"Display case, mom," Shawn insisted, his cheeks the color of a firetruck. "It's a display case."
"You have a display case too?" Lucy had lost the teenage apprehension in her voice, and Marion gave Adam a nod as the woman she knew to be Dr. Lang entered the house.
Marion grabbed her own coat and retrieved two stogies from an end table by the main entrance. She handed one to Dr. Scranton, and the two exited the hallway into the crisp spring air.
"Is Lucy an only child?" Marion asked as she handed a cigar to Dr. Scranton. Of course, she already knew the answer.
"She's the only one we have," he answered. Marion flicked open her lighter to light his cigar. "Anna and I talked about having another after she was born, but it wasn't in the cards. How about you?"
"Shawn's older brother Alex is abroad this spring," she said. She closed the lighter and put it in her coat pocket. "He's in the French countryside, studying humanoid anomalies at Site-06-3."
Dr. Scranton stopped, the cigar inches from his lips. All of a sudden, the aging suburban housewife looked different. She looked less like a little old lady and more like a wolf standing at the edge of its den.
"Where is that?"
"We both know where," she began. “You're one of the most recognizable faces in the entire SCP Foundation, Dr. Scranton. The prototype you and your wife built is turning twenty this year. I read your paper on the Pocket SRA a few weeks back. It's a solid proposal, but it's got room for improvement." Meanwhile, Dr. Scranton began surreptitiously checking his pocket.
“You're looking for this.” Marion held up Robert Scranton's Foundation-issued smartphone and placed it on the railing next to her. She lit her cigar and took a puff from it while Dr. Scranton maintained eye contact with her. “At my age, it isn't easy to pickpocket someone. But stealing their phone and then stealing their memory of the theft? That's much easier. Don't beat yourself up about it. I've had decades of practice at this sort of thing.”
“What are you?” Dr. Scranton's voice was level and calm. “GOC? Chaos Insurgency?”
“I'm the mother of your daughter's new boyfriend,” Marion answered. She picked up the phone and extended it towards Dr. Scranton, who took it with no small measure of caution. “Professionally, I'm the head of the SCP Foundation's Antimemetics Division.”
Robert began to connect the dots he hadn't before. Mrs. Wheeler, Marion Wheeler, the most well-known unknowable employee in the company.
"You're that Marion Wheeler? The one who successfully contained SCP-3125?"
Marion nodded. "If you know that, then you know that I couldn't have done it without your research on Adaptive Irreality Spaces, or the Class-C wormhole you found. You were there for what, a week?"
"Five days, eleven hours, and twenty-one minutes," Robert replied. "The longest of my life." Mrs. Wheeler puffed on her cigar.
"Right," she said before continuing. "It seemed like the best place to stick an entity that didn't abide by the laws of reality here. The world would have ended if you'd been stuck in there for much longer."
"Without your notes on trans-dimensional memetic links, I might have been," he replied. "Anna correctly assumed I was thinking of her almost the entire time, and she used those thoughts to pinpoint my location and throw me a life preserver. Without her, I would have starved to death or worse. I don't want to think about what might have happened if I'd been in there for weeks, or God help me, months."
Marion was taken aback. While she was busy finding a way to get rid of 3125, her research had saved a man's life, a man she hadn't even known existed at the time. Dr. Scranton's retrieval from his wormhole was a blip on her radar, something to flesh out her CV. It was one thing to know she'd saved a man's life. It was another thing entirely to see the man in front of her, and have dinner with his family.
“You said you read my proposal for the pocket SRA?” Scranton prodded, and Marion regained herself. “You had some suggestions?”
“We can talk about it over drinks later,” she answered, and Scranton raised an eyebrow. “Adam knows some of what I do, and he's got a measure of protection from people who would try to get their hands on him. Most of what the Foundation does tends to go in one ear and out the other with him, and it'll give our little lovebirds some alone time. Besides, sticking 3125 in a pocket dimension is a temporary solution. Since you're here anyway, we might as well put our heads together and see if we can't find a more permanent solution.” She extended her hand to Dr. Scranton, who shook it vigorously.
“Marion, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”


The doors are grey of my gaol
they my thoughts betwixt my sleep
return to silence wroth and cold.
Your days are spent in deepest thought
mine are drain'd, in useless keep
You call me 'threat', to humans brought.
Of this my guilt is clearly shown,
you, Foundation's blame will sweep.
My diff'rent ways are not my own.
The silence does me harm no more,
you, the hard faced dogs will leap
to hold me here on captive shore.
My secret lay within my soul,
Now and Ever you will Weep.
when Now I show my final goal.
Fire is Mine to make it clear,
Sweet as dearest cassareep.
Behold my fiery Justly Fear.
Containment breach, your dire loss
Burned from life as useless dross.


“Only the hand that erases can write the true thing.”
Meister Eckhart

Lightning briefly illuminated the night, creating a snapshot of the scene in the doctor's eyes. Hide huts, tepees she had heard them called, stood on the great plain. No fires burned. The cloying stench of dead flesh hung in the air. She recognized it all too well.
Lightning crashed again as she pushed her way into the nearest yurt. Another snapshot. This one of Hell. The boy knelt beside the bodies of his parents. He had turned to look at her as she opened the tent flap. Ten. Eleven, at the oldest. He was contorted with grief and confusion, tears pouring from his eyes. His face was smeared with crude warpaint; a childish recreation of his father's powerful symbols. A red arrowhead pointing upward covered his face, flanked by a pair each of green circles above and black circles below his eyes. The symbolism was lost on her.
For the first time in her miserable life, however, it seemed she was in luck. Their breaths were ragged and labored, but most importantly, they were still being drawn. They could yet be saved. If she worked quickly enough, perhaps this entire tribe might yet —
One thing at a time. The boy clutched a wickedly sharp stone knife. She remained still, studying him. She knew only a few words in a language another tribe had taught her. She spoke them.
"I am a healer. I know this sickness. I can cure it."
She hoped he understood. There was no further time to hesitate. She walked to the dying pair and knelt down, resting her black bag on the ground. The boy dropped the knife, watched unmoving from his knees as she ministered to his dying parents.
It was then that she heard it. The distant retort of a rifle. She felt her heart fall into the acids of her stomach. Never lucky. She stole a glance at the boy, whose trembling froze at her gaze. Quickly, she moved to the far hide wall, sliding a steel scalpel from her surgical bag and using it to slice a thin, vertical slit, through which she peered.
Lightning turned night to day. Smoke. Soldiers. They had come upon the other side of the village. They pulled the sick from their homes, burned the tepees, and shot anyone who tried to resist. Her mind shrieked in rage. If only she had more time!
It made no difference now. Even if she cured them, she knew the soldiers would never let them escape. She shuddered as her gaze fell over the three people in the room with her. The boy displayed no symptoms. She would save at least one life tonight, goddamn it.
She knelt by the heads of his parents, and reached out to touch the boy's face. She felt his eyelids close beneath her gloved hand and turned his head to the side. Then, she turned her attention back to the boy's parents. She would offer them the scant mercy she could.
Crack!
Snap!
Wordlessly, she settled their now-still heads to the ground. Silently, she grabbed the boy's hand, and pulled him out of his home. Away from his parents, with their twisted, broken necks. Away from his burning, dying village. Away to the relative safety of the vast, open plain.
By dawn, she was alone. He had run from her the first chance he got. She couldn't blame him, could only imagine what kind of grim specter he must think she was.

She awoke covered in cold sweat. The same dream. The same memory that found her every night these past few weeks. Specks of dust danced in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the wooden window shutters. Judging by their angle, it was nearly noon. She pulled herself from the warm bed, letting the rough, scratchy blanket fall from her. She stretched, bringing her hand to sooth an itch on the scarred skin of her face.
She stood for a short time, letting the late morning air wash against her bare skin, pondering her situation. The sounds of the town streamed through the second-floor window. The clatter of hooves, the chatter of townsfolk, the distant whistle of an arriving train. She crossed the small room to the wooden end-table, pulling a folded telegram from within her black bag.

ANOTHER OUTBREAK OF ROTTING DISEASE STOP
WHOLE MINING TOWN DEAD WITH BROKEN NECKS STOP
NO SUSPECTS AND TOWN HAS BEEN ABANDONED STOP

Sent from a town called Virginia City, Nevada. This town. She'd been here only a day, and was already sick of the place. Most of the people that lived here were crude and stupid. The few that weren't were too clever for their own good. She pulled her aquiline porcelain face from the end table and put it on, thankful for the smell of lavender as it muted the stench of the frontier town. Her hand pulled her black leather robes from the back of the wooden chair she'd laid it on the night before, pulling it on. Her gaze fell once more over the small room she'd rented. She hoped it would be the last time.
Downstairs, the parlor was in full swing. A pianist played, women danced, and poker was dealt. She had never been in a saloon she liked, but she needed a fresh lead, needed to find this mining town. Looking around the room, she saw something like a scene out of a painting.
A dog sat with four men at a round table, who were drinking whiskey and playing cards. All but one turned to watch as the black-robed stranger sat among them. Her gaze went to the one that didn't turn, who quietly wore a sly smile, his eyes hidden behind jet-black round-rimmed sunglasses. He idly played with the two cards pinned between his finger and the table.
The rest of the dogs, and there was no mistaking it; they were all dogs, even if only one walked on all fours, watched her intently. She saw the men's mustaches twitch, the golden retriever's head tilt inquisitively.
"We don't need no gravediggers fouling up our luck here, miss." An overstuffed man pulled a cigar free from beneath his gray, walrus mustache and wrinkled his nose at her. "Why don't you just get on up out of here, y'hear?"
The man wearing sunglasses leaned forward, cleared his throat. "No gravedigger. A surgeon, by the sound of it." His voice was soft but clear. The dog licked his hand, the other men turning to give him puzzled looks. He gave a wily grin. "Five dollars says the cards agree." They grumbled, and a harrumph or two was formally lodged, but in the end, twenty dollars more were laid out on the table.
The bespectacled man's smile never faltered. He pulled the top card of the deck, tossing it aside, still face-down. The next card was flipped. Ace of diamonds. Another burn. Three of spades. Burn. Ace of clubs.
One by one the men turned up their hands. Jack, queen off suit. Pocket deuces. The third smiled, his teeth rolling his cigar around his mouth, and revealed an Ace, king high. He moved to pull the pile of bills towards himself until the man with sunglasses turned his hand up.
Ace, three. Air hissed through teeth.
"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but a full house beats a pair, doesn't it?"
"Wait just one minute here, just how did you know what was in your hand without us telling you this time, stranger!?" the grey mustache challenged him, a beefy hand slamming down onto the wooden table to punctuate his question.
"Ah, well, why else would you gentlemen have reacted with surprise?" The man pulled his dark sunglasses from his face, breathing on the lenses before taking a white cloth to them. His milky white orbs stared out, unseeing. Among the other three men, a grumbling was brewing. "Besides, you boys don't seem the type to get upset by a little lost pocket change. Especially," he raised his voice, waving a five dollar bill at the bartender, "When it's used to buy three bottles of whiskey for these fine gentlemen!"
Their grumbles turned into a ragged cheer as the men rose to go collect their consolation prize. The cigar smoker's meaty paw clapped the scrawny, black-suited man on his back, nearly knocking the neat bowler hat from his head.
The dealer laughed and adjusted his spectacles and hat back into their proper place, pressing the bank note into the portly older man's calloused hand. He collected the deck back together with a wide sweep of his arm, riffling the cards together to shuffle them. The dog laid its chin on the man's wrist after several long seconds of shuffling, its big brown eyes studying the woman.
"Game of cards?" he offered her finally.
"Thank you, no. I don't leave things to chance." She sat her neat black bag on the table. "You are more capable than you let on. You heard the tools in my bag, and inferred my line of work." He opened his mouth to reply, but her gloved finger rose up to halt him. "You discerned the nature of my tools just by hearing my movement. You must hear all sorts of things."
His eyebrows arched. His dog jumped down from its chair to frantically chew its own asshole. He pretended not to notice. "Might do." He let the deck rest on the table, gathering his winnings and slowly straightening the bills, running his fingers over them. "Might do. What's on your mind, miss?"
"I'm looking for a town. Mining town, not far from here." She pulled a ten dollar bill from her black bag, placing it on the table and sliding it to him. "There's been an epidemic, and I need to make sure it doesn't spread."
"Well, then we have on our hands a rather fortuitous coincidence. I have been waiting on my employers to send an escort, but seeing as we have the same destination, and I," he patted his breast pocket, "have the directions, maybe we can both make better time than expected." His smile spread to his eyes. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Crow. And this shining example of canine dignity is Pathos."
She offered a polite laugh, depositing her money on the middle of the table. He shook his head. "No need for all that, miss. I prefer to let the cards decide, and I'm just sure you're in luck." He dealt one card to each of them in sequence, until each held a hand of five. Setting aside the deck, he flipped his hand over with his forefinger. Two, four, six, eight, and ten of diamonds. He gave her his best approximation of a meek shrug.
She eyed him curiously, turning over the cards she'd been offered. Royal flush, hearts.
"I don't leave anything to chance either, miss."

"Let go over a cliff, die completely, and then come back to life — after that you cannot be deceived."
Zen Proverb

"Wherever he goes, it's gonna turn to shit. Death and rot, those are his environs, no matter where he might be." The pair rode a single horse, the dog trotting alongside happily. She was telling him about the last time she'd been this far out west, about the boy she'd met those years ago.
"What makes you so sure of that?" Dr. Crow sat behind, his arms crossed over his chest, or braced against the back of the saddle; anything he could do to avoid wrapping them around her. Because he was a gentleman, of course.
"He had blood on his face. A few droplets." She felt him twist behind her, inquisitively. She elaborated. "In the late stages of the disease, bleeding into the lungs is not uncommon. A simple cough can aspirate the disease; a single drop can carry the infection for weeks."
"Then surely this boy would be long dead by now?"
"I had assumed as much as well, until I received that telegram. It is now my suspicion that he was infected the first time I laid eyes on him, but is asymptomatic. A carrier, unaffected by the disease." Her hands tightened on the reins, halting their mount. She spotted squat, wooden buildings in the distance. "Anyways, we're nearly there."
"You really think our killer is your boy, huh?"
"Broken neck prevents the disease from establishing control over the body. He… would be aware of the method." She felt his eyes burning into her and turned in the saddle, but no, they were still hidden behind those black discs. "He was in the room when I—"
"Yeah, yeah," she'd already described the procedure she had used on the boy's parents. "Let's assume you're right. So, he finds a way to get the whole little town here infected. How's that happen, when the infection spreads through bodily secretions?" He felt her weight shift as she shrugged. She started their rented steed again towards the town.
"There appears to be a well in the square," she noted, eyes scanning the town as it came more clearly into view. "If I were a betting woman, I'd wager he tainted it."
"Figure he just strolled up easy as you please and had himself a nice piss in the middle of town?"
"One does not survive long in the wilderness without becoming skilled at moving without being seen. He may well have done just so. Or used his blood." She shifted, the rotting stench of the town thick in the hot late afternoon air, permeating even the herbs in her porcelain countenance. "Or feces."
"Pathos is the lucky one," Crow remarked as he covered his nose and mouth with a perfumed kerchief he had recovered from his pocket. "There isn't a smell on Earth that can make a dog gag." The dog perked up at the mention of his name, throwing his rump into the air like an idiot a few times, before taking off at a run to investigate the sources of the mysterious, potent new odors.
The town wasn't much. Some wooden barracks, a storehouse, and a bar were the town's only attractions. A wagon-worn trail led up a hill to the mine. A fence post made for a serviceable hitching rail. They dismounted as the golden-furred dog ran from building to building, pausing only to pry his snout intently into doors for a mighty sniff.
Pulling her attention from the sprinting dog, she saw her companion pull a cleverly constructed wooden contraption from an inner coat pocket. With a snap of his wrist, it unfolded out into a slender cane. It shot back and forth in front of him as he paced slowly around the town, turning his face this way and that.
The surgeon left him to his own devices, and made her way to the barracks, to investigate the putrefying corpses.

Has a dog the Buddha nature?
This is a matter of life and death.
If you wonder whether a dog has it or not,
You certainly lose your body and life!
Comments on the Mumonkan

The surgeon walked back outside. Stormclouds had blown in, stealing their daylight from them hours early. Her companion and his dog waited near the well, both turning as she approached.
"From the smell of things, you were right about the well. Water's septic," he told her. The blanketing darkness didn't faze Pathos or Crow in the slightest, while she found herself struggling to see them not two paces in front of her. She was briefly relieved when lightning flashed, bringing the man and his dog into sharp relief.
That was until she noticed the collapsed body of their horse, and the silhouette of a man in the doorway of the bar they'd hitched her at. "Fuck!" she informed him. "He's here." she clarified. Her bag fell to the ground and darkness returned.
There was a cacophony of movement. Pathos began emitting a low, vicious growl, which transformed into bloodthirsty snarls. She heard Crow run to his aid. She heard a loud yelp, then a heavy thud as the dog was thrown hard against the billet wall. She heard Dr. Crow's enraged yell. As she listened, her hands searched her surgical bag for the particular cure she needed.
Lightning crashed. Dr. Crow clutched his chest, kneeling, his cane missing. She recognized the face that sprinted at her. Recognized the crude warpaint. Recognized the enraged, confused expression. His eyes caught hers in the flash. He froze; In his mind, he was on his knees, begging his parents to live, witnessing death herself for the first time.
She pulled her prescription from the bag: Two doses of lead, applied with a Smith & Wesson Model 3. The light faded as her gun roared twice. She didn't hear a thud.
"You clipped him, he's hurt! He ran into the barracks!" She heard Dr. Crow pull himself to his feet. She leveled her gun towards the hut's doorway, slowly, blindly walking towards it.
Crow nearly bumped into her from behind before she heard his footsteps. He gave her a light pat on the back. She steeled herself, tensing at the threshold, waiting for the next flash. Long moments passed, her heart pounding as time seemed to stretch on interminably.
A firebolt split the heavens, pouring light through the doorway. She breached the entrance, her pistol pointing around the briefly visible room. Her blood ran cold with horror. She didn't see him.
The light faded. She didn't see the killer drop from the ceiling, landing in front of her with a muted thud. His hand found the side of her head. She briefly wondered what she had expected to happen.
The explosion that sounded next wasn't thunder, but the derringer in Dr. Crow's hand. She felt her attacker lurch, shoving her to the ground. His footfalls lost their grace, stumbling heavily as he fled through the back door of the barracks.
She pushed herself up, trembling, her heart and breath racing. Dr. Crow's hands found her, helped pull her to her feet. "Are you hurt? I didn't hit you, did it?"
"No, the worst I got was some of his blood from the shot." She rubbed it from her eye, her glove squeaking slightly against her ceramic visage.
"On your face?"
"In my eye."
"Oh God, no. I… I—"
"I appreciate your concern, but it is misplaced. He can't infect me with anything I don't already have. I'm asymptomatic. A carrier, like him."
"Only, you spend your days stomping out epidemics, not starting them. That makes you a few thousand times better in my book." The levity slowly returned to Crow's voice. "Even with that winging I gave him, we'd never catch up to him. What's say we gather up Pathos and beat feet out of this ghost town?"
She took a deep breath, but couldn't disagree. "Will he be ok?" she asked, as the man knelt by his dog. A tail started smacking the ground rhythmically.
A few moments passed, she heard the dog get to his feet and take a few steps. "He's favoring his right front paw, but I've seen him take worse spills without complaint. Hell, down in Boulder City, he fell down three flights of stairs, got right up and started chewing his butthole like nothing happened."
The storm eventually gave way to the moonless night sky, the three travelers limping back the six miles to Virginia City, more following the dog's nose than any of their senses.
"We'll get him." Crow broke several hours' silence. "My employers, that is. We make sure guys like that wind up rotting in a cell."
"What did you say your employer's name was?"
"I didn't. If you're looking for work, I've got men needing a skilled pathologist sooner than later."
"I see. Same disease?"
"From the sound of it."
"Where?"
"It's a little slice of heaven. Lovely place called Riddle, Wyoming."