Charles Hull was walking along the street one day when he experienced a very peculiar feeling. First, he was dizzy. Then, with his mind's eye, he got a very good look at himself from across the street.
Charles wasn't a spiritual person, and had to double-take. He looked to his right, confirming the name he was simultaneously reading as "Dan's Bakery, San Jose Local!". When he saw himself turning in real time, and caught the back of his own head, he felt an overwhelming and visceral sense of paranoia. He was being watched.
He turned to look himself in the eye, and caught nothing. Charles was flustered by an unpopulated ATM and some dead-end stairs.
He slapped himself.
His mind wandered.
His vision drew closer.
He had complete control.
He laughed.
Charles Hull took only a second to strain his mind, and move his third eye. Suddenly, he felt like he was realizing a second nature. Charle saught a vision, and he was inside his apartment a mile away, while standing on the street. Charles looked into his mind, and flew through the walls of his apartment, into the sky. His sight blasted through city streets, and before he realized he was catching his head from smacking pavement.
Charles grinned and laughed. Everything he saw was so absolutely real, and as his mind was exhilerated his imagination began to take flight. The city flashed before his eyes, and details blurred into a stream of absolute information. He tried to look up and out, and was rebuffed. As he absorbed what he saw of the city, he strained for a sight of L.A., or Paris, or the Moon. Charles felt the limits of his power, and began to lose himself in the city
Charles Hull started to cradle himself against brick wall. His sight beyond sight was beginning to become too much for him. He could have been leading a dozen pairs of eyes on a hundred different sightseeing tours. Charle's lines of sight soared through every open road and door and window and mirror and pipe and hole and closed door and blank wall. More sights opened up to more directions, through more homes and businesses, opening him to more input. He felt his gut react violently, and tried to hold himself.
"I've not lost myself." He told himself. "I'm right here!"
Chales opened his eyes. He wiped gravel from his hand to his face. He caught himself, and swept his hands off. Charles Hull saw himself again, as he always had. In a moment, he'd pushed all distraction from his mind, and he understood himself again. What is happening? Against the visions, he pressed his will, and his only eyes were his. He breathed. Should it even be possible to do this?
"I'm right here!"
Charles Hull's ears stretched back. It would have sounded like the echo from a cave, if the words weren't so piercing. Charles knew his voice, but it had never been so plain and infernal in his mind as he'd just heard it. Itwas like the words had burned themselves in his mind. He looked around himself from every angle, and had to pull himself back. He was going to make himself seriously sick. He forced himself to take a breath, and turned his sight inward.
Charles's mind was racing. He couldn't rationalize any reason for the events occuring on top of him, and he didn't try. He could see his next boundary in front of him, and rushed to focus his understanding. He pictured the words he'd heard, and focused on them. With his focus, a force began to press against his third eye. He closed his real eyes. To himself, Charles's vison coelessed, blurred and hazy, on an image of himself, laying where he was.
Charles was up in a flash, and his self he saw actually took a moment to do anything at all. Charles knew he wasn't looking at himself, but that he was looking somewhere else. When the Charles he watched raised its head, his eyes caught his extra-sight precisely. The men felt one another's presence, and soon they both stood, looking east at one-another.
Charles felt an understanding with his other self. They'd both been through the same experience, and fallen in the same place. He raised his arm, and soon saw his doppelganger do the same. The sight of the motion he took triggered a connection in Charle's brain. He felt warm air twice on his arm., and realized that he could feel him other's breaths in his lungs. They coukd mirror one-another in every way, standing in the same exact location, and they were starting to feel the only border that separated them.
Charles started to feel a suffocating sensation around his chest and spread over his limbs. He was completely free to move, but he knew that he was surrounded. It took him a moment, but he realized that the feeling around him had always been there, holding him wrapped up. Only now was his perception so opened that he could feel it. Charles began to understand that feeling suffocating him. He began to understand the matter of alternate realities, and how he could move between them.
Charles stretched out his arm as far as he could, and focused his mind on whatever could be in front of him. There was a power inside him, a connection that he just had to make. With his mind trembling, he started to see visions, but differently this time. Charles saw himself in infinite diversity. He was not the first of his kind, and that eased his worst fears. There were other Hulls, living across worlds. Traveling. Together.
Charles focused on himself; his singular other self, standing with him. He felt his other self doing the same. Both men could feel the hold of their realities straining. Their united brotherhood, connected their thoughts and worlds. The connective tissue of one universe began to lose hold, and the men could see a rapturous future in front of them. They were not limited any longer. The walls between them were crumbling, and the shackles they never knew were finally coming free. From the tip of his finger, it felt as though that suffocating feeling was simply stripping away. Charles closed his eyes and let the sensation pass over him.
Charles Hull was adrift in his visions of his infinite eyes. Every point around him was so distant, but all he had to do was think of a single one, and it would appear to him up close. In an instant he could scan all around him, and see where a person was. In an instant he could scan for every single Charles Hull, and find them all. They were distant, like every other point but they were there.
He saw a planet, an earth, ruled by billions of Charles Hull.
Charles Hull considered if he had just become a god.
After only a moment's contemplation though, he returned to himself, and his body. He saw the one other Charles, in the same place he was, reaching out just like he was. The world was at their fingertips. Every world. They felt the boarder between them, like wet paper. All Charles had to do was poke a hole, and so he did.
It was a day in June that Charles Hull disappeared from the street in an instant, in full view of eight people. He saved them much trouble.

Charles Hull materialized at the exact point were his own parallel self was standing.
Although no particles appeared inside of any any other, practically every cell in either man's body was suddenly filled with twice it's natural mass, and most of their cell membranes were broken by the appearance of another at intersecting points. The devastation this wreaked on their bodies was absolute and instantaneous. If you were standing beside them, you would have heard a large pop before you were covered in blood.
Charles, both of him, were instantly dead. The immense pressure on their brains split and snuffed every synapse and signal. Molecules broke and collided, but mostly spread out. Any cells that weren't immediately soup were thrown at a hundred miles an hour.
It was a day in June that Charles Hull appeared inside himself, in full view of eight people. Very quickly, he was on everything.
Other Charles saw this, and laughed.

« | A Man Beyond Himself | 2525 North Waterworks St. »


Though many who worked with Iris may have assumed she'd have an ‘I'll sleep when I'm dead' mentality, she actually had fairly decent sleep hygiene, much preferring the productivity of restfulness to wasteful hours of weariness.
Her bedroom had acoustic panelling with thick curtains, and she slept upon one of the most advanced smart beds available. It continuously adjusted its firmness, position and temperature to maximize her time in deep sleep, and would only wake her in the morning during a light sleep cycle. Her purple sheets were spun from bamboo with anti-microbial silver threads, as were her MC&D branded nightshirt and socks, which made her look more adorkable than she would care to be seen as in public.
After a routine of reading and cocoa, she turned on her ambient music and crawled into bed. The only thing that made tonight different from any other night was the incantation she recited in her mind, over and over again, until she fell asleep.

The next thing Iris knew, she was in a long stone hallway. A hellish orange light poured in from a row of windows on the left-hand side, illuminating a collection of portraits, statues and furniture on the right. The windows were stained glass, and she couldn't see what was on the other side. She could, however, hear a distant clamour, along with a rumbling like thunder.
She reached out to touch the window, only for her hand to phase through it, like a glitchy video game. This startled her for just a moment, but it reminded her of what she had been doing before she fell asleep. She looked at her outstretched hands and saw that they were distorted, and when she tried to poke her left palm with her right index finger, it passed through without sensation.
These simple reality checks were enough to confirm that she was dreaming. She looked down to see that her dream form wasn't in her sleepwear, but her preferred outfit of a turtleneck and dress slacks. This was fortunate, since if she ever went on a business call without pants, even an imaginary one, she never would have heard the end of it from Ruprecht.
She set off down the corridor, the sound of her footsteps absorbed by the crimson carpet beneath her feet. She resisted the urge to inspect the castle's décor, but she nonetheless took note of it as she passed. The pillars were richly carved with frail, naked human bodies contorting and screaming in agony. The golden runes embroidered upon the (now scarlet) carpet were of the Chaos Tongue, the mosaics of the stained glass windows broke into incomprehensible fractals, and the statues were of impossibly nightmarish creatures that could only exist in the darkest dreams.
The portraits mainly depicted the individual she was here to see, almost invariably in scenarios that demonstrated the brilliance and terror of his reign and the futility of opposing it. There was a portrait though that gave her the slightest of pauses: a younger, more vibrant version of the Dream Tyrant along with four other men, seemingly at ease with each other and discussing business. The men looked so much alike they could have been brothers, and one of them was especially familiar to Iris.
She walked past door after door, not bothering to check any of them. She knew they were all inaccessible, and none held what she was after anyway. After what felt like a long walk along a route she could not precisely recall, she finally reached a pair of slightly ajar doors at the end of the corridor. The right-hand door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, illuminating an opulent but unkempt throne room. Upon the throne sat The Nightmare King of the Dream Palace; an aged, skeletal man dressed in scarlet robes with a golden crown nailed upon his head, his white hair and beard growing to the floor after ages of neglect. He was covered in dust and cobwebs, and if Iris didn't know better she would have thought he was a corpse.
The King gave no sign he noticed her, or was even alive at all for that matter.
And Iris certainly hadn't walked all this way just to be ignored.
“Your Majesty,” she said loudly, her voice echoing throughout the chamber, vibrating the walls and shaking loose dust and debris.
The King was finally roused, slowly lifting his head to look at the intruder with his unnaturally deep-set eyes.
“Who dares. Who dares. Who dares,” he repeated in his raspy voice, each iteration growing softer until he fell silent once more.
Iris gave him a moment to finish his sentence, but became worried he had fallen asleep again.
“Ah, I dare?” she replied at last. The King shook his head, resenting his own apathy to deal with this insolent interloper.
“Name yourself, dream walker,” he said, still unable to raise his voice to anything louder than a mumble.
“Dark,” she said proudly. This got the King's attention. He rose from his chair, squinting at her, trying to divine whatever other information he could.
“Brother?” he asked uncertainly. “No. Not entirely, anyway. He'd be less human now, not more. You share his Name though. His latest proxy then? What happened to Benjamin?”
“World War II, I think. Don't quote me on that though,” she replied. “My given name is Iris, by the way. A pleasure to meet a being of your standing.”
“Former standing,” he said bitterly, reclining back in his throne. “Leave me to rot, woman.”
“I gave you my name, please use it, and I was actually sent here to see how you're doing. You've not taken any fresh victims for almost a decade now. My Grandsire, your brother, is concerned about you.”
The Nightmare King coughed out a horse laugh.
“Is he now? That's the only reason he sent you? Brotherly concern? There's nothing he wants of me?”
Iris paused for a moment, considering her response.
“We did have a recent incident with the Oneiroi,” she admitted. “We were able to resolve it diplomatically, but it would be preferable if we had a contingency in case there's another incident.”
The King just chuckled at the blatant agenda.
“And Darke – or Percy, is what he's been calling himself? He wants to make a deal with me?”
“We have the largest store of anomalous objects and services in the world. Surely there's something we can offer you.”
“I don't doubt it, and yet I have nothing to offer in exchange,” the King shook his head. “Look at my Palace. It's falling to ruin! My fields all lie fallow, my serfs idle in starvation, my Knights have long since abandoned me! My Kingdom is but a shadow of its former grandeur, and I am a mockery of my prior majesty. After all these long centuries, I have been rendered impotent, neutered, declawed! I can not muster an army to fight the Oneiroi. Darke had best to look elsewhere. There's nothing left here but bones and mildew.”
Iris stepped right up to the Nightmare King, taking his pulse on his wrist. He made no effort to resist her.
“You're weak, starving, but you still have your craft, do you not?” she asked. “You can make and sustain oneiroid thoughtforms with fear harvested from human minds. Why did you go so long without feeding? Why did you let yourself become too weak to work?”
The Nightmare King looked up at her, his eyes wet and wide like a frightened child's.
“I was scared,” he said softly, hanging his head in shame.
“Of what?”
“I, I crossed borders, from here to the waking world, for the first time in far too long. I was seeking Knights, living creatures who could inspire unparalleled terror in the minds of men for me to harvest. But I was arrogant. I thought that because I could terrify lone mortals whilst they slept helplessly, I was a great, grievous ghoul whom none could defy. But as I walked the waking world, I found my corporeal form dishearteningly frail, and that my powers over the minds of others did not stretch as far as I had thought. I attacked a village, slaughtered over a dozen hapless idiots, but was slain by a common hunter with a rifle, like a glass-eyed doe in the woods."
The King covered his face shamefully, shuddering at the memory.
“When last I walked the Earth, firearms were weak, inaccurate, and could only fire a single round at a time. They troubled me not. But the weapons of this era are ungodly things, equal parts terrifying and empowering depending which end of the barrel you're on. When the hunter came, I tried to make him flee, but his faith in his weapon was enough to overcome any fear I was able to instil in him. I was beaten by a gun; physically and, more importantly, emotionally. The King of Nightmares was defeated with an off-the-shelf hunting rifle."
"I understand that your powers are limited in the real world, but why would a single bad excursion stop you from harvesting people's fear?" Iris asked.
“Because after that single excursion, my Knights left me," the King replied. "They saw me for the fragile old fool I was, realized I was of no real use to them. I was shaken myself, so shaken I couldn't even make Night Terrors anymore, even in my own Kingdom. So instead I secluded myself here, let myself and my kin starve, and now I couldn't feed even if I wanted too. I'll never die, not really, but eventually I'll fade enough that I'll be practically nothing. Please, my niece, just leave me here to rot.”
Iris did not heed the old man's request. Instead, she picked up his sceptre that lay askew by his throne. After wiping the dust and blowing off the cobwebs, she handed it to him.
“Show me your Kingdom, uncle,” she commanded. The King's lip snarled at her insolence, and yet there was too much of his elder brother in her tone for him to dare refuse. Using the sceptre as a staff to support his decrepit body, he rose from his throne and hobbled into the hall, dragging the spider webs behind him like a gothic wedding train.
When they came to a heavy set of doors, the King gestured for Iris to open them. She complied, revealing a balcony overlooking The Nightmare Kingdom. It retained remnants of horror; a rusty orange sky with a black sun and blood red clouds. The ponds and streams and river all flowed with blood as well, and the land surrounding them was blackened muck. The was a forest of dead black trees, a village of crumbling stone buildings, and a range of dark jagged mountains in the distance. But in every location - blood or land, forest or field, village or mountain - there were the decaying skeletons of all sorts of unnatural creatures. A few lethargic monsters still lumbered about, their nightmare forms no doubt greatly diminished from what they had been a mere decade earlier.
“What a sorry sight,” Iris muttered.
“I hope that means you've seen enough. Leave, return from whence you came and tell my brother I no longer have an army.”
“You still have some subjects left. With enough fear, they could be made strong again, made legion again. There's nothing wrong here that can't be fixed.”
“Have you not been listening? I have no Knights to spread fear for me anymore, to cultivate terror in the waking world for me to harvest. I do not have the strength anymore to invade dreams of random mortals in hopes of stumbling upon unconscious horrors.”
“I'm not suggesting that you do. I have something better than Knights for providing you with workable victims; I have data. Every day, in the modern waking world, billions of people divulge innumerable volumes of personal information on social media, free for anyone to find. I'm already set up for data mining. There are millions upon millions of people suffering from post-traumatic stress, crippling anxiety, sleep paralysis and any number of other horror-inducing conditions discussing their maladies online right now. All I have to do is punch in a few parameters, and in a fraction of a second, I will have uncovered more perfect potential victims for you than every single one of your Knights ever brought you in a thousand years.
“I can provide you with the names and location of victims. I'll start you off easy, give you time to build up your strength and, more importantly, your confidence. Think of what you could do with an inexhaustible supply of ideal victims, without wasting time hunting or working on duds. You and your Kingdom could grow even greater than you were in your hay-day, perhaps even so powerful that one day you could walk the waking world again without fear that any gun could put you down. Doesn't that sound better than cowering in your throne room for the rest of time?”
The King walked to the edge of the balcony, gazing out mournfully upon his ruined kingdom, dreaming of everything it once was and could be again, if only he could find a bit of his old courage.
“I'm not sure I believe you. It sounds too good to be true. But if you were to provide me with suitable victims, I suppose I have nothing to lose.”
Iris reached into her ear and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper from her memory.
“I had a feeling you'd say yes. I've got thirteen people already to go, listed in order from weakest to strongest. Just send a ravenwave to your brother when you're ready for more, and he'll let me know. Do not come into my dreams uninvited.”
The King took the list cautiously, as though he feared it was booby-trapped in some way.
“And in return?”
“Your newly invigorated army of Nightmares will be at the service of Marshall, Carter & Dark Limited,” Iris replied. “Within reason, of course.”
“Of course,” The King nodded sceptically. He unfolded the list and began looking over the names she had brought him. “If these mortals prove as promising as you say they are, I'll have to Knight you.”
She mulled this over for a moment.
“Does that mean I'd have to swear fealty to you?” she asked.
“It would indeed.”
“I'll pass then. My loyalty is to myself first, those who are of use to me second.”
The King laughed dryly at her open self-interest.
“Worthy of my brother's Name then. He chose you well. Regardless of the honorific we settle on, you'll be a valued ally of my Kingdom, as will my Kingdom be a valuable ally of yours.”
Iris looked out upon the desolate landscape, taking in the latent potential of those fallow fields, festering forests and forsaken fiends. Even the mere threat of such an army would negate the need for them to ever placate the Oneiroi again, and the power of Marshall, Carter & Dark, her power, would extend to both the material and immaterial planes.
And she would be able to sleep even easier, knowing that the King of Nightmares worked for her.


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North's Author Page: Intelligence Agency Data Archive-Subject: North

Startling sounds.
Ridged scratches.
Running. Singular. A group.
All panicked.
It matters not anymore.
A lone doctor.
Empty hallways.
A loud piercing screech.
Gasp of breath.
Now silence looms.
Cold metal.
Painted red.
Friends. It was a painting done by friends.
Gone. All of them.
A lone doctor.
Steps.
Sounds of thunder.
Devoid of lightning.
Trembles.
Steps.
Them no longer.
No matter anymore.
Scars on cold metal.
Painted Red.
A distant screech.
A quick chase.
Scars. It left behind scars.
His chances were the same
A lone doctor.
Trembles no longer.
Instead he assist his friends.
With their painting.
Red. Now adding crimson.
To the cold metal.
Other enter.
Unique Foxes.
A total of Nine.
Witnesses to the twisted scars.
Abandoned for all to see.
On cold metal.
The Foxes move.
Steps.
Yet silence still looms.
A faster pace.
Steps.
A distant screech.
It smells the Foxes.
Steps.
Leaving behind it's scars.
It makes the cold metal warped.
Steps.
The Foxes halt.
Witnesses to a painting.
A once harsh red.
Now a still crimson.
It boils the Foxes veins.
Smelling Foxes.
It moves.
Steps.
A sweltry meal to be had.
Thunderous booms echo.
Steps.
More scars to be left.
On the cold metal.
The Foxes growl.
They bare their teeth.
There was never a calm.
Not for this storm.
Foxes strike.
No mercy shown.
Thunderous echos.
Down the empty hallways.
It leaves no more scars.
Instead it lays painting.
Red.
All that is left is red.
Been dragged away.
Left to lay.
Placed within cold Metal.
It leaves scars no more
Instead it just creates red.

Was found written on the back of Mobile Task Force Cadet Samuel East's Incident report card.

Incident report

Location: Site-17
Figures involved: SCP-███, Mobile Task Force Epsilon-11 ("Nine-Tailed Fox"). General Staff.
Incident Type: Containment Breach : On 5/17/2018 SCP-███ breached it containment cells for ██ minutes. Which resulted in 28 staff casualties and 9 fatality.
Notes: After arriving to the scene, Mobile Task Force Epsilon-11 was able to recontain SCP-███ without suffering any additional staff casualties.


May 2025
It aired on C-Span.
Which political party stood for which side of the issue on the congress floor is ultimately irrelevant. It passed senate with a slim majority vote, then tumbled around capitol hill for a month before the hearing date was set. It was a nervous time. There were many unanswered questions of the very legal type that do not matter to those this bill affects, questions like is the Foundation a privatized organization? and how will this affect the no anomalous prison system? and do anomalous persons have rights? And because the people were scared and the men in suits are even more so, many of the specifics become glossed over in the way they are in politics. There was a word change here, a specifically worded statement there. There were many people who saw things they then pretend not to have seen. There were meetings with Foundation officials, and most importantly there was money passed around through the discreet budgetary veins of a large and incomprehensible machine, and then it was on the congress floor, and it aired on C-Span.
The bill was exactly 1,652 pages long. It was that long because it was the first of its kind. The money to pay came from the U.S. Military budget, and there was some huffing about this as well as long term fiscal outlooks and staff for the new Sites, but the fine print had been scavenged more than anything on capitol hill had been in decades into text that bound like barbed wire, stung like task force tasers, pounded like chamber doors slamming in bright fluorescent lights. The marble floor of congress gleamed mercilessly. A couple representatives stood at the podium and give strange, wandering speeches of the same breed given by the willfully ignorant. Yes, no. Maybe.
The Foundation sent one, too.
She stood outside the hearing room in her dark tailored suit, plugging one ear with a finger to better hear her cell phone. Unlike many of those expressing their opinions on the stand inside, Andrea Adams had spent many sleepless nights going over the 1,652 pages of this document, and was one of the fewer still who understood the full ramifications.
“They've made changes,” she said, distancing the phone a few inches from her left ear as the squabbling started. The person on the other end wasn't technically supposed to have access to these documents, but even in retirement, he couldn't help but stay close and express his opinions. Four decades of working with Type Greens will make one attentive to anything major pertaining to that line of work passing in congress.
“What kind of fucking changes?!” Alto Clef guffawed down the line from somewhere north of Phoenix, Arizona. His leaked version of the document was from two months before, and was only around 1,000 pages. The extra 652 really make a difference, Andrea thought. God, what didn't they change.
“Okay,” she said, slowly, “Don't freak out, but they added 500 pages.”
There was an exasperated sigh from the other end.
“God, what a fucking shitshow!” Clef roared. “This is what I fucking said, didn't I? If it ever went to congress…fucking…Jesus! God! For fuck's sake!”
“It gets worse,” she said, “They want to contain them from birth.”
“They want screenings probably, too, right? Pre-natal detection and shit?” She could practically hear the years coming of his life. With any mercy from god he might have a heart attack before this passes, Adams thought. Put him out of his misery.
“They do,” Andrea confirmed. That was buried somewhere in the extra 652, where all the messy details were. The tech itself had existed for the better part of a decade. With the new Kant counters, an anomalous infant could be confirmed at as young as the second trimester. The wonders of science and all that.
“God…” He said, breathless. She half-expected to hear the wheeze of a respirator, some kind of indication that Alto Fucking Clef might be on his way out of this world at last, but all she heard was the sound of him collapsing melodramatically into an armchair.
“Enjoying retirement yet?” she teased.
Clef laughed bitterly. “Enjoying that I don't have to be the one talking to senators.”
“I'm sure they're enjoying not having to talk to you, either, if it's any consolation," she smiled wearily. “They know you, by the way. Or they know of you, at least. Your signature is on a lot of papers.”
“Damn right it is!” With a chill, Adams realized she could hear the C-Span hearing coming through a TV on his end of the line. “They should know what I think by now, then.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. Alto's opinion on Type Green control went undiscussed between them. He wasn't a man that had ever been subtle about his thoughts in that regard.
“…Do you want to hear my prediction?”
Andrea heard the current speaker taking questions in the room behind her, and shuffled the papers in her hands nervously, pressing the phone between her ear and her shoulder. Opening remarks, the body of what she wanted to say; running through her notes about a new era, now. “I'm up next. I can't talk for much longer-”
“If this passes, they'll tear you all apart.”
He hung up.
Andrea would think over that line a lot in the coming decades. The sudden coldness in his voice implied what she already suspected: he knew she, his own former apprentice, had helped write this bill. He knew that she had especially had a hand in the final 600 pages, the damning final third. And more than anything, Alto Clef had suspected it damn near all along that she wouldn't adhere to the mantra he'd lived by all 50 years of his career: kill them all.
So he wouldn't have been surprised then, Adams thought, when he watched her take the stand in congress to give what had become the Foundation's final word on the matter. Prenatal screenings at public health clinics, and entry of results into a database. A Foundation ‘Retainment Agent' assigned to each child to preform social worker roles. Close monitoring. Rights to contain regularly through childhood if needed. Rights to separate them from others, rights to be careful, rights to be oh, oh so careful. More funding to build the humanoid sites and containment centers they needed to hold a generation of anomalous children, not just Type Greens anymore, hopefully growing up in a better, safer world.
Alto Clef did not call back afterwards. Adams suspected he had said all he felt he had to say.

March 2028
Placing Foundation sites was a nightmare before Korea, but this brave new world did not care where the designated 24 new humanoid sites were to be placed, and for that matter neither did most of the Americans watching this unfold. They rose across the country steady and fast. People- regular people, people who knew little and assumed plenty- watched them go up in the distant periphery of their daily lives with the detachment of someone believing it's for the best. Life changed very little. Foundation patrol cars still sped along back freeways, kicking up dust in smoky trails. Notes on the third page of the local newspaper. Hey Susan, have you seen that thing they're putting up where the Winston's farm used to be?
In Montana, it rose along Interstate 200 in the Grave Creek Mountain Range, far enough from Petty Peak to be out of the way of whatever sparse tourists might wander north in the Rockies. The equipment vans rumbled off the interstate onto gravel backroads that snaked through damp pines and Douglas firs, splashed in puddles and rocked side to side on the precarious terrain. The Foundation Jeeps wore their back tires uneven where the guns rested in the trunk with tire chains and emergency flares. This is where Site-54 rose: 1,200 feet above sea level, a half hour from the nearest town, and deep enough in the wilderness that very few outsiders had the opportunity to gawk at the newest local attraction as the rest of America had done with their own.
54 was a ribcage. The main wings thrust partially into the mountainside with steel rebar and drilling machines, and what wasn't encased in stone sprawled outwards in a sprawl against the rock: several outbuildings, a large recreation yard lined with chain link, part of a medical wing, an armory, a dormitory building, a small office building, and a parking lot with a loading bay. The 500 horsepower Scranton reality anchor- a menacing black mechanical giant tucked in among the spacious subterranean containment wards- was the first piece of large equipment to be plugged in once the site was added to municipal power.
All of this was rather overwhelming to Walter Wilde, Foundation Retainment Agent.
He parked his car- a tan Saturn with the Foundation logo plastered along the sides- and leaned forward in his seat. The site had been open a couple months now, and he still couldn't help but look up at the dark rock and faux wood siding when he pulled in. Huge. Absolutely fucking huge.
He wasn't the only one fixated.
Wilde turned around and looked back at the booster seat. The two-year-old boy with the metal alert bracelet had paused chewing on his red toy truck to stare wide-eyed through the windshield. Walt laughed.
“Yeah? What do you think?” he said, not expecting a response. He'd been told why Type Oranges weren't typically contained on Foundation sites, and there was a slight nervous fluttering in his chest at the thought that something might go wrong, god forbid. Wilde pushed it down. If he was nervous, the kid would be nervous, and that would defeat the point of bringing him here in the first place. You'll get used to it, he wanted to say. You have to. You're going to see a hell of a lot of it for the rest of your life.
The boy continued staring when Walt lifted him out of the car seat. He'd spent enough time with him that he knew that stare relatively well; that was the ‘new thing' stare, more specifically the ‘new technological thing' stare that made his mother nervous. Wilde wondered what exactly he was sensing. Foundation sites were packed with tech, most of which the kid had probably never seen before. Hopefully it wasn't overwhelming. He'd been around Walt, so at least the tech the agents were carrying would be familiar. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad. “What do you think?” he asked again once the boy was standing on the pavement, toy car still in mouth. No response. “Take my hand,” Walt said.
With permission, Walt and the boy's family had taken him to the airport slightly out of town to get him used to the security entrance. This was done with the hope of making the entrance checkpoint at the Site less intimidating, but walking up to the enclosed gates Wilde couldn't help but worry. That was a lot of technology in a very small space. When you got down to it Foundation checkpoints weren't terribly different from airport security, but everything in the Foundation checkpoint had a very bolted-down militaristic look that on a surface level came off as- dare he say- a little frightening. He tried to imagine being two years old seeing the brushed steel, the yellow warning paint and flashing lights, and nervously looked down at his assignment for the next 20 years. He was still chewing on his toy truck. Wilde reminded himself, for the hundredth time, not to be nervous.
One of the guards at the front gate saw them, a man Walt's age with sandy blond hair and a silver cross necklace. He grinned and stepped out of the security booth. “Wilde!” he called. This, too, was scripted; Walt was one of only a few Foundation agents the kid had ever seen in his life. He needed to know that they were friendly, that people like him were here to help. He smiled. “Morning, Palmer!”
The agent put his hands on his hips, and nervousness fluttered in his stomach as he noticed the Scranton anchor dangling from his belt. That in and of itself was a hefty piece of machinery. They were at the checkpoint now.
“Who's this?” Palmer asked. Wilde and Palmer were friends, which meant that, by conjunction, he already knew damn well who he was escorting.
“This is Kilroy,” said Walt cheerfully. “Kilroy, say hi!”
Kilroy didn't respond, but he also didn't try to hide when Palmer knelt down to his level. Walt took this as a good sign. A solid start. Good job, you funky little technopath, he thought. Look at you, just chewing on your toy. That's the way to do it.
“Hey, buddy! Is this your first time?” Palmer asked. Kilroy chewed, eyes wandering. “Not much of a talker I take it?”
Walt shook his head. “He's a little late to talk, but most kids like him are.”
Palmer's radio chirped, and a voice started droning over the feed. In a split-second Walt watched as the two-year old's eyes wandered to the walkie talkie and settled there, and the voice cut out to static and the site FM before settling on a nearby radio station playing Britney Spears' Toxic. His eyes widened in surprise. Kilroy giggled.
“He can do that, though,” Walt continued, smiling. “He likes radios. It's all fun and games until he does it the whole way here.”
Palmer laughed. “He seems like a handful.”
“He can be,” Walt said. “He learned how to turn the microwave on last week, but doesn't know how to turn it off yet. His mom's a saint.” He said it with a strange sense of pride. It was hard to meet with a kid once a week every week and not feel a bit connected to them. The way Kilroy went about playing with the tech around him was currently at the ‘endearing' stage, where small electronics were fair game in a sort of funny, exploratory way, and big dangerous things were too complicated to be controlled. The danger with young Oranges, though, was not to be ignored; Kilroy didn't yet know not to play with pacemakers or hearing aids, for instance. It hadn't happened yet, but Walt couldn't help but worry that it would soon enough. The terrible twos and all that. They'd cross that uncomfortable bridge when they came to it.
“I forgot to tell you, by the way. I got my retainment assignment.”
“Really?!” Wilde exclaimed. Kilroy flipped through channels on Palmer's radio idly, still chewing on his truck. Palmer nodded.
“We've got two more months before he's born,” Palmer said. “Or at least they think it's a boy. I met with the parents today.”
“How did they take it?”
“They're a bit overwhelmed. He's a Type Green of some sort, we don't know the specific classification yet.”
“A Green?” Wilde said. Kilroy left Palmer's radio on a Spanish station and turned his attention to Wilde's. “Why they'd give you a Green?”
“I worked in a boy's reformatory before Korea. I guess they thought I'd be a good fit with…you know. Any problem behaviors that might arise. And I've been working in the Green ward here, anyway.” Palmer shrugged. “I'm kind of excited, you know? I mean.”
Walt smiled. He remembered how excited he'd been- and how nervous he'd been- being assigned Kilroy. Having to wait three months, the prepwork and paperwork and meetings with the parents, his own internal questioning of if he was cut out for this kind of commitment; it was a long and arduous process, but looking at the kid now he didn't regret it.
“It's rewarding,” Wilde said, and he meant it. Being a retainment agent was one of the most rewarding things he'd ever done in the Foundation. “We'll talk more later. I want to hear all about it.”
Kilroy had Walt's own radio set to Toxic now. He turned it back off, and Palmer looked back at the toddler with a smile. “You ready, buddy? I gotta check you in.”
A few more steps and they were in the middle of a metal security point underlined with scuffed white linoleum. Palmer scanned the barcode engraved on the back of Kilroy's alert bracelet, kneeling down to reach it. Kilroy watched the handheld intently. For a second, Walt was afraid he might turn it off in the other agent's hands; then the toddler looked up at Wilde, wide eyed.
“That's a scanner,” he said. “We saw that at the airport with mom, remember?”
The machine beeped a confirmation. Kilroy giggled again. Wilde decided that he'd done an alright job of making the Foundation seem as not-scary as possible, at least so far. He scanned in his own ID badge, then took the young technopath in hand again and walked through the entrance into the yawning depths of Site-54.
They all start like Kilroy, he thought. Good or bad, all the kids start as blank slates.
At least they had that going for them.

May 2028
Foundation Retainment Agent Albert Palmer at never been so relieved in his life then he was holding the baby.
He was scared, first off, that the anchor would be set wrong; that it would hurt the poor kid, as anchors that are too tight sometimes do. He spent a lot of the time in the delivery room double checking that the numbers matched up correctly, and then he spent time afraid that the paperwork wasn't done right, or maybe that they'd made a mistake and the baby wasn't a Type Green at all. That fear had been dispelled around hour three of Mrs. Cuin's labor, when the Kant counter had shot up three notches and Palmer had almost thrown up from panic. The shift was accounted for and the anchor had adjusted automatically, and he'd double checked it again regardless. He'd almost thrown up again when he heard the kid cry for the first time and realized that the anchor was beeping at him wildly; for a moment he'd pictured that they'd completely misinterpreted how much power the child had, that the hospital was about to be demolished in the crush of a reality shift too powerful for the three-horsepower anchor he'd brought with him, but the tiny screen simply asked for his permission to switch to another preset. This one had a slightly larger control range, but the same base hume level. He'd let it.
And then the kid was there.
He couldn't believe it. Palmer wasn't sure what he had expected the boy to look like, but he certainly hadn't predicted he'd look as ordinary as he did. He was healthy and normal and already in the Foundation database, already factored into the sprawl of Site-54 only half an hour away. Palmer had asked the couple if they wanted some privacy now that the anchor seemed to have settled, and instead they'd invited him over, and they'd let him hold the baby.
The name was Miles. Miles Neil Cuin, 6 pounds, 8 ounces, Foundation reference code 78839. Agent Palmer had held him. Miles had looked at him. Palmer's Foundation ID badge hung where it clipped on his breast pocket, and Miles had looked at that, too.

« | Cleaver | Chapter 1 Coming Soon »


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"And you say it has been over one year since you experienced uncontrollable effects?"
"Correct."
"You do not experience specifically reality-altering uncontrollable effects at all, even when outside the boundaries of this room or away from a Scranton Reality Anchor or related equipment?"
"I do not, and I don't experience the panic symptoms that usually signified the onset, either."
"What about controllable effects? Any of those?"
Jasper Ramirez thinks for a moment, fingers clasped under the table. "Very limited localized reality manipulation, like within a meter of my body."
"Okay, noted. We may need to gather further information at some point, but given that your internal Hume levels have dropped to a range of 110 to 120, the claims appear reasonable. Thank you for your time, SCP-4427." The woman in the gray suit stands up and leaves, heeled boots ringing against the concrete. She doesn't close the door behind her. No one has in several days, but Jasper hasn't seen any of the other anomalies around.
They stand up and amble into their small kitchen. There's not much left other than cans of soup and frozen meals; they wonder when or if anyone is going to ask them for their shopping list. The site has been getting emptier and emptier over the past several months. They turn around and exit the room and the chamber, walking down several meters to the employee break room. They flip the light on and pick up the landline phone, breathing steadily as they dial a number from memory.
"Um, yes, hello? This is M-Mary," the other end coughs. "Oh, pardon me…"
"It's me, Mom. Jasper."
"Oh my goodness, honey. Are you alright?"
"Yep. They told me a few days ago that they want to move me off Earth. Some lady just interviewed me, probably for that. As soon as they feel certain that I won't destroy something, I guess."
"Off Earth? Gracious me. What's the matter with Earth?"
"Uh, have you looked outside?" Jasper hasn't in several days, but she doesn't need to know that.
"Well, no. There is not much to look at out there, honey…"
"Because everyone left or went nuts because they can't remember anything. Pretty soon all the automated infrastructure is going to fail too because there's no one to debug the McDonald's robots or perform oil changes on the self-driving cars."
"Well goodness, I- I suppose…"
They grit their teeth. "Look, do you have anywhere to go? I don't think society is going to improve from here. It may not be too long before the food crisis affects you too. Would you be willing to come with us if I can somehow talk them into it?"
She ignores the question or doesn't process it. "But… But do you want to leave?"
"It doesn't matter. Do you have anyone with a lot of land and food? Any of those crazy conspiracy friends of yours have a bunker or some shit? I really want you to have a plan for the next few weeks. Get to somewhere that you'll be safe for a few years at least, really plan for the worst."
"Oh, Ricky and the boys offered for me to drive up to the farm, but I'd rather wait until-"
"Don't wait! Don't wait, get there now."
"Calm down! Nothing is going on outside."
"Well, it's a great time to leave, then. And come to think of it, you'd hate it in space, I'm sure. Ricky's land is the safest place for you."
She lets out a long sigh, buzzing through the speaker. "If I pack up for Ricky's and leave this afternoon, will you stop worrying about me?"
"Yes. Within reason."
"Oh, honey. I'll never stop asking God why this happened to you…"
They never know what to say to that. "We'll have the answers one day."
"That we will, honey. Listen, now, when are you leaving?"
"I'll see. There's barely anyone here. I keep getting worried that they forgot me and I'm just going to die alone down here." They feel their pulse jump in their throat and sway a little, the colors of their vision distorting into shorter wavelengths. They shake their head, hair flying. "But I know that's not true. You know how much I hate being alone." The purple tones turn back into their normal colors. They relax their shoulders. "Anyway. I'll get over it. Don't worry about me."
"Well, maybe things will be different up there. Maybe you can meet someone."
"Mom. I'm old. And I bet I'll still be subject to the exact same fucking regulations up there anyway."
"Watch your mouth! And if I can meet your stepfather in my seventies, you should do just fine in your fifties! Maybe you'll meet some sort of interesting… alien… person. Imagine that!"
They stifle a laugh. "Maybe, Mom. Maybe."
There's a knock on the door. They jump, losing their grip on the phone. "Oh, uh, I guess someone is down here. I'll talk to you as soon as I can, okay? Don't change your number. I know the phones work up there, but I think the cell towers are gonna go out soon down here so I'm gonna be fast, alright? Once I give you a new number for me once I get up there you should call me from Ricky's-"
"Okay, honey. Okay. We'll be alright, and you never forget that I'm with you and God is with you, okay?"
They sigh and look at the ceiling. "Yep. I, uh, respect your feelings and I love you."
"I love you too, Jasper."
They hang up and open the door. Two North Carolina State Troopers are waiting outside of it. Jasper widens their eyes, startled. "Um, hi?"
"Jose Ramirez?" the tall one asks. The strip on his vest reads A. Brown.
Their gut twists. "Jose is my legal name but I only use Jasper."
"I see. Well, Mr. Ramirez-"
"And I'm not a man. Look at me." They zip their jumpsuit up to their neck and cross their arms over their breasts. "Look, I don't mean any disrespect, but who the hell let you guys down here?"
Brown cocks his head. "We did. Reports indicate you have not experienced anomalous effects in over 12 months."
Ah, so the pantsuit-ed lady was a government bureaucrat. Jasper makes a note to only disclose things to people with the Foundation logo visible somewhere on their clothing in the future, though they now suspect they may not have the chance again. "Yes."
"Well, your time is here, then. No more containment." Brown and his nameless partner look at them expectantly, smiling.
"You- what?"
"You're out. You can be a civilian again. We've got your Social Security card, all that stuff. Come down to the station."
"Ahah, what? Where am I supposed to live?"
The two men look at each other. "Well, there are the shelters if you don't have plans or family who can help you."
They dig their fingers against the door, swinging on it slightly. "I thought the Foundation was taking me to Lunar Area-32."
"The Foundation does not have the resources anymore to look after non-anomalous people. We'll make sure you get set up again, don't worry. America is still going strong, I promise. You ready to go pack up?"
"But I am anomalous."
"Are your effects controllable within the regulations required by NC law?"
"I… guess?"
"Right, that's what our report said."
"But- Where are- Who's letting you-"
"We are," Brown explains, hands spread wide with palms out like he's explaining something to a child. "We are letting us, okay? North Carolina is letting you. I know you've been in here a long, long time. You're a little out of it. But we are legally moving you out of Foundation custody for good, and you don't have to worry about this stuff from this point forward, alright?"
They stare, mouth agape. "But I don't want that. Earth is fucked. And I'll argue with you there: especially America."
"Buddy, there's war and drama out there in space too, I can promise you that," the shorter cop chuckles. "If not more out there than here. Now come on, let's get going. This isn't something the state will debate, and it's for your own good."
Those last four words are always a stab in the chest regardless of what uniform the speaker is wearing. "No it isn't," they retort. "Every time someone says that fucking phrase to me I know there's trouble. And I'm not taking orders from anyone other than Foundation personnel, period."
The cops look at each other for a long second. "Well, alrighty then… Wait here and we'll get someone."
"Fine."
They close the door and wait, pacing as a minute ticks by, and then another, and then ten. They're reaching for the handle to leave when hurried footsteps sound in the hall; a man not too much older than Jasper is standing at a respectful distance on the other side of the door, clad in a dirty white t-shirt tucked into the gray uniform pants that Site-42 had switched to in the 2030s. Jasper never liked those as much as the old black ones.
"Hi," they start. "You know what's going on with the cops?"
"Hi Jasper." He doesn't introduce himself. "Yes, sorry. So no, you don't have to go with the state. Your name shouldn't have been on that list." His sparse gray hair is curling with sweat, arm muscles swollen under his shirt despite his age. Jasper finds their eyes wandering as he continues, oblivious.
"Gotcha," they drone.
"Right, uh, as you know they're not letting all the skips tag along up there, which is why I and a few others are going to stay behind provided nothing changes in the next few months, but you're actually one that is. Getting out of here, that is. Former Site-42 Director Eric Radford cited your history of cooperative behavior and requested that we offer you a position in either data entry, networking, or records management as Level 1 E-class personnel at Orbital Area-11, should you desire it."
They snap their eyes back to meet his. "What?"
"I'm confused too, trust me. But we've got the paperwork, so it's up to you."
"W-what about my SCP designation?"
He laughs. "I mean, you can use the same number as your personnel ID if you want. I doubt anybody will judge."
"Not that, I mean- is this because I can control my effects now? Does 'space Foundation' employ anomalies, is that it?"
"It would appear so, in a limited manner. Then again, I heard stories of anomalous employees long before the notion was so obviously counterintuitive to the majority, and I know there're plenty of nonhuman personnel the further you get from Earth. I expect an anomalous human is no different provided no safety threat is posed."
They have questions, but all of them can wait when there are only two options on the table. They can already feel their pulse thumping faster. "I'll go. Yep. Yep, let's do it, let's go. Get me the fuck off this planet."
The nameless agent chuckles and steps aside, gesturing for them to head down the hall in front of him.

Extrasolar Activities Division Operations Security Overseer Eric Radford thinks his new title is about four words too long to have a nice ring to it like Site Director did. Orbital Area-11 also feels too much like a space station to consider a home; he keeps reminding himself that it is a space station, in addition to being his home, and there's nothing he can do to change that. He walks deliberately down the hallway toward the R&D wing, still trying to get used to artificial gravity. After he's flashed his left palm at the access scanner, he strides in and makes a beeline for Dr. Mallory Wickerford's lab.
"Where's Wickerford?" he asks her team of six young researchers from 42, all of whom are wearing expressions like they've just seen a ghost. "Jeez, are y'all alright?" he mutters.
"Yes sir," one of them answers with a nervous laugh. "I can't speak for everyone but, uh, I think I'm just a little on-edge because I'm still getting used to everything…" She swivels her chair from the computer station toward the floor-to-ceiling window and focuses on a pulsing star in the distance. "…Uh, up here," she finishes.
"I feel much the same."
"I got used to it pretty quick, not gonna lie," the young woman welding a robotic limb in the corner says. "Being in 42 was boring. No offense, Director."
"None taken." He takes a beat and turns back to his right. "Uh, Sarah?"
"Oh, sorry, yes. Dr. Wickerford is in her office."
"Thank you." He doesn't know which room it is, but he doesn't want to make a fool of himself so he just hopes it's down the only hallway in the room. He brushes past a table of nothing but spare android parts, grimacing at a realistic human head with its eyes removed and wires hanging out. He should probably be reprimanding them for having such a mess out in the open, but he dislikes interfering with other departments' spaces more and more the older he gets.
"Hello Mallory," he says dryly, knocking on her open door.
She smirks and looks up from her pile of printouts. "I thought you'd never visit me, Eric." Radford sees lines of code on the transparent glass monitors before she pushes them back toward the wall and the computer goes to sleep. She stands up.
"You don't look a day younger."
"I can't say the same about you, Eric." She leans on her desk. "Do sit down."
He smiles. "Stop saying my name so much, Mallory."
"No, Eric."
He steps inside and closes the door. "You always were so cold."
"Not cruel." She winks. "But seriously, let me know if you would like some new skin. It can be grown from your cells quickly, won't even see the difference! And don't be so dramatic. It's only been a few months since last we saw each other."
"I'm really not into that space-age shit. You know how it is."
"Suit yourself." She sits back down and puts a heeled foot up on the desk, flexing her ankle at him. "I know you're not in here just to say hi to me. What do you want?"
"We've got a problem with Trauss." His gut sinks when he says it.
"It's a shame what happened to him."
"What can you mean by that?" He forces a laugh, deep lines forming on his face. Neptune's vibrant blue body creeps into view in the window behind her as the station rotates.
"You know I don't sugarcoat, Eric. 51174.edk is not Trauss. An ED-K file is a file. Just a file. A file that acts like a person, written in a language that acts like thought." She flicks the monitor array back over by the handle and grabs the mouse. "In this case a dead person. Beyond that, there were a handful of things about him that High Command didn't like in our first ED-K++ edit subject. Little useless personality traits that were preventing him from being a more effective agent, but still, I couldn't imagine an easier template for the breed of personnel High Command is after in this age than him."
"Okay."
She takes an oddly timed pause to chug from the water bottle on her desk. Radford thinks its contents smell a little stronger than water. "All thanks to my efforts when he was younger, of course. So, anyway, I deleted the traits in question," she continues with a cough, "traits which are specified in 'Directive C-42' provided to you directly from High Command, last I knew. But I'm losing myself; you say there's a problem? Do you need a new iteration?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose until it's uncomfortable. "Can you hear the words you choose when you talk about this stuff, Mallory?"
"Oh, roll that chair on over here and look at this, Eric," she barks. "Stop getting hung up on fabricated ethics and look at the facts, why don't you. Look, this is the file." She clicks a folder on the rightmost desktop.
"You and I have done a few shitty things in our time, but…" He loses the other half of the thought.
"Which version of it do you want?"
He looks at the list. There are 27 of them, all timestamped to the minute in the file name and sorted by date. "How are there this many? He didn't transfer bodies that many times."
"Oh, these are mostly versions I messed around with before High Command decided on one. Each file is composed of about 400,000 Unicode characters. Typically around 900 kilobytes each."
"That's- tiny? Right?"
"Yes."
"How is that possible?"
"Well, it's nothing but text. Like I said, ED-K++ and all earlier versions of ED-K use Unicode. The file size checks out to me." She keys ctrl + f and leaves the cursor flashing. "And I'm not just saying that because I was one of the original developers of the language. Here, see for yourself. I'll run one of these instances in the text window-"
"No, no. Christ. I don't want to instant-message with a disembodied copy of someone. Just let me tell you what's going on, please."
"Alright, alright." She reclines in her chair.
"Whatever version of his file you sent off as the final… didn't work out all that great. The handler had to do a remote override pretty quick right in the middle of a would-be-interrogation. As an OpSec guy I need to worry about that now, as you know. As you also know, we had him trying to grab some MC&D tech-"
"I am aware."
He runs a hand through his hair. "Well, he just wasn't compliant with the override, and it almost blew our cover. This is after our systems grossly miscalculated the transfer point inside of the bar, but that's- you don't need to worry about those details. But yes, he was not compliant with orders — not by any intention, it seemed — but I would have expected better from him, knowing him how I do. Can you do anything about that subconscious reaction that prevented him from having an adaptive response to that partial remote override?"
Mallory sucks her teeth. "Well, I can do my best in prowling through those sections for what to edit, but an ED-K file cannot perfectly emulate a human consciousness, as I was just discussing. I'm guessing the handlers preferred to keep the offending iteration out of the body until further notice?"
"Yep."
She swivels around again, eyes rolled back. "…And the file disappeared, didn't it? Is that your problem?"
"Yep."
"Knew it."
"But you have a backup of it, right?"
"Of course I have a backup. You should have told me sooner. His PII will have automatically saved a backup to the engineering desktop in the lab immediately prior to remote override. I'll start editing it now. Has the handler returned the body here?"
"Yes. You know, sometimes I wonder why we can't just use the handler."
She purses her lips. "Not safe. The handler is a different behavioral structure entirely and is not suited for field work. Edited in vastly different ways."
Radford nods. "I trust your judgement."
"Then there's nothing to worry about. I'll begin a new iteration right away."
He pauses, studying the different colors of light shining through her glasses and creating gleaming dots on her glossy nails. "I don't know as much as I probably should on this, but what could come of that file being missing?"
"Oh, absolutely nothing. There are too many iterations of the individual in existence at this point for any sort of sapience to be tied to it."
He raises his eyebrows. "Really? Is… that an exact science?"
"Certainly you haven't forgotten who you're working for, Eric."
He stares at Neptune, trying to enjoy the last few seconds of rotation. "Of all the hundreds who have died with PIIs in them, how many of them have you edited the ED-K scripts- of? You know what I mean."
"I have not edited anyone other than Trauss. The Ethics Committee — powerless as they may seem at this point in history — will only approve such a thing on a case-by-case basis, do you recall? If you don't agree with that limitation on my artificial intelligence research, perhaps you should-"
"Okay, okay. I know what I need to know. I'll think about it." He huffs and looks at his watch. "Alright. So you're gonna start editing, I'm not gonna worry about the missing file, no worries, blah blah. Got it, got it," he finishes under his breath. "Damn am I old. Listen, I've got a meeting with an important somebody who just got out of 42 in the nick of time. I'll see you soon."
"Take care, Eric."
"You as well." He ducks out, giving a polite nod to the ladies in the lab as he swings back into the hallway and makes his way to his office. He chews his lip, mentally preparing himself for an awkward first-time meeting with someone he lived within 200 meters of for two decades; the personnel class limitations are going to put the on-hire handshake out of the question, too.

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by Captain Kirby

A woman watched her father's chest rise and fall from the chair next to his hospital bed. The heartbeat monitor beeped in time with that one James Blunt song she hummed to herself. She wished she could spend her last visit chatting, but that's difficult to do with the dead. Besides, she had no idea what she would say. There's been so much that's happened since the last time they held a coherent conversation. But, if she had to guess, it'd go something like:
“Dad!”
“Hello, umm… have we met?”
“I— yes I'm your daughter.”
"That can't be right, I have two sons!"
Wait a beat.
“That doesn't matter right now. They're not here. One is alive and the other can't be here right now.”
“Where are they?”
"Why do you care?"
"Because I want to see my kids!"
"But… but I'm right here.”
“I don't even know your name.”
“Joyce. You named me Joyce.”
And then go get the nurse. Although the conversation probably wouldn't go like that. It couldn't go like that. Joyce wouldn't let it.

Emily Young entered the Hen's Roost Assisted Living Complex, glancing around her cautiously to make sure no one suspicious caught her eye. Of course, this made her look suspicious and nervous, but the people that work here deal with much more suspicious activity from the inhabitants, and most of the inhabitants are in no condition to notice Emily in the first place. Their moans for assistance filled the entire building like a low hum. Emily could only think about how this was the last task she had to perform, before she could ensure that she wouldn't end up like them.
Emily approached the front desk, where an attendant sat back in his chair and listened to music through a pair of headphones. They looked similar to the pair that Emily had in her backpack. She waited a moment before she rang the bell to get the kid's attention.
“Oh yeah sorry,” he said as he jerked to attention, “What do you need?”
“I'm here to see a Mr. Michaels? I'm a friend of his daughter, Joyce.”
“One sec,” the attendant typed something into a console in front of him, then he held down a button and spoke into the console, “Hello, Mr. Michaels? You have a visitor for you down here in the main lobby.”
“Thank you,” Emily said. She found herself a nice seat near the front desk and pulled Joyce's headphones out of her backpack. She put them on and plugged in her music. Immediately she understood why Joyce liked them so much.

Ten trained soldiers approached a newly renovated retirement home three miles off of highway I-25. Leaves crinkled under the feet of the members of MTF Iota-10. The team lined up next to the back entrance.
Captain Eric Michaels held up two fingers and a thumb. An instruction. Three.
His thumb retracted, leaving the fingers. Two.
One.
Michaels kicked in the door. The team filed in immediately after. Marquez led a team to sweep the ground floor. Dubois's squad had dibs on the upper two floors, while Michaels and Turner took the 3rd and 4th stories. Current mission objective: capture Emily Young.

As Joyce finished her song, she looked up to see Tony leaning politely against the door frame. Joyce couldn't remember how long he had been standing there. It could've been minutes, it could've been hours.
“You nervous?”
“Not really,” Joyce replied. She glanced down at her dad again. He held one of his pillows close, like a child with a favorite teddy bear.
“You're a terrible liar.”
“And you're a bad reaper.”
“Heh, you're not wrong.”
Tony took a seat next to Joyce and stared at the hospital bed with her. Joyce refused to cry, but that didn't stop her from shaking. She rocked back and forth, just trying to calm herself. She'd done worse in her day job. She'd lost lives before. Hell, she'd lost her own family before. But then again, it'd be inappropriate to compare any of that to passing a soul on yourself. That's probably what got to her the first time. There were more degrees of separation between her and death. She'd never killed with her own hand before. It made her feel uneasy, even if it was supposed to be an act of mercy.
Tony put an arm around his little sister. It was supposed to be comforting but Joyce could tell he was shaking too. So, she asked the question on both of their minds.
"Why does this one have to feel so…" Real? Concrete? Palpable? Genuine?

After five minutes of waiting, Emily got up and walked back to the front desk. The attendant was paying more attention this time, so she didn't have to ring the bell.
“How far away is his apartment?” she asked.
“Umm… not that far,” the attendant replied, “although, maybe he just didn't hear it? You know, I can just take you there if you want. Maybe he'll hear a good knock on the door.”
“I'd appreciate that, yeah.”
The attendant got up from behind his desk and led Emily to an elevator that must've been cleaned not an hour ago. Something about the stainless-steel walls and tile floor shouted “sterile”. The attendant pressed a button to start the elevator.
“So, have you seen Mr. Michaels about?” Emily asked. The attendant started to answer, but then looked down at the floor.
“Umm… not really," he eventually replied, "I mean, there's a good number of people here so there's quite a bit to keep track of but I don't think I've ever seen the man. Although, I'm not wholly convinced he really leaves his room. I know he specifically requested we don't come in to check on him. I think he likes to be alone.”

Captain Michaels and Private Turner stormed up the stairway. Their footsteps echoed down the stairwell like thunderclaps. Only two more stories until they were at the start point.
“Turner, you should take the sixth floor.”
“Where you headed sarge?”
“I can take the fifth. It's not like we need to worry too much about getting killed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Besides, I've known this woman. I used to work with her.”
Turner opened his mouth to speak, but Michaels hushed him first.
“I know, orders are orders, a traitor's a traitor. Just make sure you keep your eyes peeled too.”
“Aye, aye.”
Michaels flashed a smile before he ducked into the exit for the fifth floor.

“So normal?” Tony finished Joyce's sentence for her, “Haven't you done this all before?”
“Kind of. Except last time when I pulled the plug, his heart kept beating,” Joyce replied. She kept rocking back and forth as she answered, and refused to pull her gaze away from her father.
“I guess it's like doing it all for the first time then.”
“Can you just, leave me alone? Please?”
Tony smiled a little and then stood up. “Alright. I've sort of forfeited the right to be here anyways. I'll be around the corner if you need me.”
After he left the room, Joyce cupped her hands over her ears and pretended she had her headphones on. She just wanted the pressure up against her ears to give her that feeling of isolation, the illusion of being alone in a crowded room. Except this time, she actually was alone. It just didn't feel like it. She felt all of the eyes of the other patients in the waiting room from that day. She hated being the center of attention. But then again, no one wants to be watched while committing murder.

Emily stood outside of a room with a little “do not disturb” sign hanging from the doorknob. She knocked once and waited.
“I don't know if he's coming out,” the attendant said after a little while.
“You have a master key right? Can you let me in?”
“I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to do that.”
“You said no one here has ever seen the man. You think he's stuck in his apartment. For all we know he might be dead!”
The attendant looked at Emily with his head cocked to the side. She had become quite animated, and in her irritation hadn't quite realized what she'd said. Emily played in back in her head. When she hit the last line, she couldn't help but let out a little chuckle. The attendant laughed too. He might be dead. She was acting like she wasn't more than a century old.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “It's been a long past few days.”
“I figured.”
“But please, I need to see this man. Can you just let me in? If he wants me gone I'll leave.”
The attendant looked at Emily, and then glanced up and down the hallway before muttering a final “fine.” He took out a key card from his pocket and swiped it on the door's lock. The little light turned green.
“Thank you.” Emily turned the doorknob and opened the door. Immediately the two were hit by a smell that could be described as death, if either of them could remember it. It sent the attendant into a coughing fit. Emily's eyes began to tear up.
“You can stay out here, I'll be right back.” Emily told the attendant, who had now covered his face with his hands to keep the wretched stench out. He nodded as best he could, and then shuffled off down the hallway.
The room was largely empty, except for a single window in the back, a bed near the front, and a chair in the corner. The lights were off, and the natural lighting barely illuminated the room. Emily could make out a pile of a person sitting in a dark corner of the room without any furniture in it. Instinctively, Emily fastened the physical lock on the door.
“Hello? Henry Michaels?”

Eric had kicked down three doors by the time he arrived at room 509. All of them unoccupied except for the last one which contained a single old woman whose hearing aids must've run out of battery.
Eric knocked on the door. “Open up this is the police!”
No response.
“I'm giving you five seconds before I will enter by force. Five!”

Joyce stood up once more and moved to check her father's heartbeat. She put the stethoscope buds in her ears and placed the other end on his chest.
Beat. Beat.

Emily continued to pull on the headphones with all of her might. The band pressed into Henry Michaels' throat, stopping the moaning noise he was making earlier. And his breathing.
“Your kids love you,” she whispered into the old man's ear as she choked him.

“One!”
Eric kicked the door, but it was caught on the physical lock. He shot the lock twice and then kicked again. The door opened.
The stench hit him like a wall, but he regained his composure and stormed inside.
“Put your hands—“ he stopped mid-sentence, and then lowered his gun.
“Dad?”

Beat. Beat.
And then there were no more beats. The old man opened his eyes, and looked at Joyce.
“Hi, dad.”
The old man smiled, “Am I in heaven?”
“I'm— I'm not sure dad. I'm not really sure.”
“Well, either way. I'm glad I get to see you at the end, Joyce.”
Joyce smiled, “You remember me.”
“Of course. How could a father forget his own daughter?”
Joyce tried not to cry. She didn't like crying. But she couldn't help herself this time. She leaned over and hugged her father. After a while like that, Joyce pulled back and wiped her eyes with her sleeves.
“Tony!” Joyce shouted, “He's awake Tony!”
Her brother poked his head around the edge of the door frame. He took a few steps into the room and just looked at his dad awkwardly. He waved.
“Did you uhh… ever go on that hike?” Tony asked
Tony's dad just laughed. “I'm afraid not. But that's ok.”
“I'm sorry about well, everything.”
“Don't be. I don't know what you had to do with it exactly, but I trust you tried your hardest.”
Tony smiled himself, and then gave his dad a hug. Afterwards the three stood around and looked at each other. They all knew what needed to be done, but it felt wrong to do it. Like there needed to be a few more moments before the reunion passed.
“I guess this is where you finally put me to rest,” the old man said at last.
“I guess it is,” Joyce replied.
“It was nice seeing you kids again. Glad to see how you've grown up one last time.”
The three shared another smile. Joyce crossed over to where the heartbeat monitor was plugged into the wall and grabbed onto the power plug.
“Goodbye, dad.”
“Goodbye, Joyce.”
And then she pulled the plug.

"I'm done."
Emily heard the words echo off the porcelain around her. It was nice: that feeling of finishing something long and arduous.
A sense of relief washed over Emily as she let her weight go.

Eric could hear a faint noise come from the bathroom. He put down the limp head of his father so he could investigate. He hadn't entirely grasped what had happened to his father, so his mind was still focused and his senses still sharp.
He poised himself around the corner of the bathroom and counted down to himself. At “one” he turned the corner, but didn't fire. He lowered his gun and dropped to his knees.
A rope was knotted around the shower head. Each end of the rope was tied to each side of Eric's sister's headphones. Emily Young hung from those headphones, the weight of her head and neck entirely supported by the band that pressed into her throat.
Her pulse had stopped.

Joyce felt something strange. Like her stethoscope was pulling her out of her dad's room. She moved herself, even though she could've sworn she was carried, to a room three doors down. Inside, on the bed, lay the body of Emily Young.
Joyce approached the bed slowly, and then put the end of the stethoscope up against her chest.
Beat. Beat. Both in time with the heartbeat monitor. But that was all the beats she got before Emily's heart stopped, and her eyes opened.
“I did it,” she said.
“Yes, you did. Thank you.”
"No, thank you. I'm so tired. I've wanted this for years,” Emily sat up and embraced Joyce, "And you're the angel who will deliver me. My very own Archangel Michael."

Michaels' screaming could still be heard throughout the building. Even with all the tears, he screamed. Even with an emptiness where his father used to be, he screamed. He wanted out. And he kept wanting out. It was clear to him. He was alone.
And when Michaels was carried away by his squad, who simply didn't know what else to do with the man, the moans of the barely-alive elderly echoed around the retirement home. All those with atrophied muscles, weakened bones, dysfunctional lungs, decaying brains. They wanted freedom from the clutches of life.

On that day
The reaper retrieved his scythe
Put on his shroud
Split his loved ones' mortal coils
And quietly expired

Where Death Used To Live

End of Death

/