"I just can't believe it. These people have no business shoving each other. We're all getting on the bus…Damn thing's empty, after all."
The old woman who'd lamented her fellow passengers' lack of courtesy sighed. Her silently judging gaze locked onto a younger woman in a grey housekeeper's uniform waiting patiently to board. Her gaze blank and serene, she was not muttering curses upon Metro officials' firstborn children or pleading with their phones for pardon of their tardiness. She looked like a young girl, at most in her early twenties, but she carried herself with the sort of slow deliberation that came with age. The old woman pulled herself up straight as the housekeeper exited the bus. Patience, the old woman thought as she watched the younger woman walk into the lush vegetation of Beverly Hills. Something the young lack.
The younger woman, however didn't lack patience. Perhaps it was because she wasn't really all that young at all. Perhaps it was because she was a little bit off. But really, it was because forces of nature are not to be rushed. They are deliberate. They plan. They bide their time, carefully waiting until the right moment. So was she, Dr. Molly Jayawadena, goddess-in-training.
Dr. Jayawadena's brilliant but fractured mind had slowly narrowed in on Los Angeles as a choice of sanctuary. While she saw the chaos of the city as a sick aberration, some masochistic crevice of her mind was drawn to it like flies to rotten flesh. The endless mayhem of the City of Angels was perfect for someone who wanted to hide among people wrapped up in the endless minutiae of their uninspired lives.
Molly stumbled on the shimmering, impermanent ground. Where most only saw perfectly manicured gardens and obscenely extravagant houses, she saw rippling quantum chaos, particles that were not particles blinking in and out of solidity, chained together like jewelry made of energy and not-empty space. Atomic cogs meshing together like tiny keys turning the clockwork of cellular life. Blocks of protoplasm forming leafy greenness or warm red flesh. The framework of the world seethed and bubbled under her gaze, maddeningly, eternally. It was like those optical illusions that overloaded your senses and pierced your brain with confusion and pain. It was a disgustingly cluttered veil on the reality that had to be done away with as soon as possible.
Dr. Jayawadena had already entered the gaudy faux-Baroque monstrosity of a house through the unassuming servant's door. Molly was prone to losing large gaps of time like this. She now found herself conducting a bizarre and pointless ritual on a pane of glass with a spray bottle of Windex and some newsprint. If Molly concentrated on exactly how odd and pointless it was, she could avoid feeling aggressive atoms dig themselves into the microscopic feelers of her nose, remain blind to the iridescent bands on the window and the quantum electrodynamical equations that described them…Molly closed her eyes.
The woman of the house entered the room. She was a visually pleasing pile of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and potassium; she was wealthy, famous, and utterly inconsequential. The woman shifted her center of gravity, causing a temporary imbalance before catching herself with her other leg. She repeated this motion, this controlled imbalance, the rhythmic almost-falling, until she reached Molly. "I want this house spotless for our meeting tonight. It has to be perfect. Some real important people are coming." She sighed in irritation before stooping over to Molly. "Big meeting. Important. Clean hard. Comprende?"
Molly nodded vigorously. The owners of the house seemed to be under the impression that Molly spoke no English and was in the country under less than legal circumstances. It wasn't a hard sell thanks to Molly's dark complexion, dramatic features, and the banal racism of the wealthy in Southern California. Plus, the current arrangement allowed Molly to disregard this world's odd song and dance about the exchange of goods and services.
The woman shifted into the media room as a flash of something caught Molly's eye.
Her employer was wearing a large, polished stone on her wrist. Molly halted even the pretense of work to consider this. The stone reflected a very distinctive wavelength of light, somewhere in the neighborhood of 510 nanometers. Nothing too unusual by itself, but the frequency of light reflected off that stone was disharmonious with the frequency of light reflected by the woman's clothing, and that was utterly outside the bounds of the woman's normal behavior. Molly remembered that the woman had been telling her equally pretty and vapid friends that it was a gift from some very important people she was entertaining.
Molly decided that she wanted to observe these "very important people". And since she was Dr. Molly Jayawadena, Bringer of the Perfect Universe, she had every right to know whatever she wanted to know. She frowned before fiddling with the newsprint in her hand. The world as it was did not recognize Dr. Jayawadena's natural entitlement to all imaginable knowledge. She would have to listen in secret, hidden in the shadows.
Night fell as Molly's weary gray coworkers leave the mansion. Molly herself was standing, unobserved, in a corner of the wine cellar. Shaking her head, she pressed a finger to the carefully balanced panel (poorly) concealing the secret passageway. She knew that others were blissfully unaware of the nonstop whispers of the universe, but she would have thought someone would have noticed the odd draft down there. The panel swung open silently into total darkness as Molly stepped in. Shutting the panel behind her, she began to feel her way into the tunnel.
Molly could have brought a flashlight but the possibility of others patrolling this hallway stopped her. Besides, she wasn't so disoriented in the darkness. She didn't have to feel photons and their always shifting nature bouncing wildly off her surroundings and into her eyes. Molly continued to navigate by touch, strangely at peace.
The calm faded as a thin line of bluish light appeared ahead of Molly. Now, she stuck to the walls, silently inching towards the light until she could see the outline of a door. Gingerly, Molly pulled the door open just enough for her to peek inside.
The light was blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway, but as her eyes adjusted Molly realized that the silvery light was actually rather dim. Human figures in dark green robes sat in a circle around a copper stem topped with a large translucent pale green glass globe. Molly's eyes raised to the ceiling. Bright points of light were suspended in an ink blue field. With a start, Molly recognized Orion. It was a perfect map of the night sky over LA, sans light pollution. Molly decided that because she was the Bringer of Order, the Purifier of Nature, she was well within her rights to enter this room. She glided past the door and around the dark corners of the chamber. The people in the circle were completely focused on the center and did not notice their visitor. Molly recognized the man and woman of the house, looking unusually humble and abashed. A man next to them wearing a five-pointed diadem on his head offered them a large incense coil on a copper platter. "The honor is yours tonight," he intoned in a strange voice that seemed to come, not from his mouth, but the walls of the entire room.
The woman produced a small candle and lit the incense, hands trembling. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," she chanted.
"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," the circle chanted back.
Molly leaned back into the dark, heart racing as a horrible realization descended upon her. The incense, the chanting in a strange language, the odd clothes. Her employers had done it. They'd gone and become Catholics. Well, no matter. She'd fought her way out once, she could do it again if she had to.
Her panicked train of thought was suddenly arrested by a voice. "Thl brn, brothers and sisters. All good Fifthists are welcome. The heretics have not prevailed. Yvne, we will rise again."
"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," chanted the circle. Confused, Molly tried to figure out who had spoken.
"The Foundation heretics grow nearer. But their arrogance cripples them. Remember, brethren, they almost failed. Matter will not save them. The Fifth World will rise."
"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo."
Molly observed that each word spoken by the mysterious voice seemed to correspond with puffs of smoke sent out by the incense coil. She hypothesized that this pattern would continue. Continued observation was in order.
"The Fifth World is not. Neither has it ever been. But soon it will be. Minds and stars align anon. The Fifth world is Freedom."
"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo."
Molly's hypothesis was solid so far. Now, the woman leaned over the incense and took a deep breath in. She shut her eyes tight and held the smoke in her chest as the circle looked on silently. She exhaled thick green smoke as two voices intoned, "All worlds die in fives." Molly started. One of the voices that came from the woman's mouth was her normal, nasal speaking voice. The other was the mysterious voice that had been speaking before. The woman passed the incense to her paramour, who inhaled as she did, and spoke the same words as he exhaled. And again, the mysterious voice came from him along with his own.
"All worlds die in fives," he breathed as he passed the coil on.
Well, Molly thought to herself, unless they'd severely restructured the Communion service, this was not a meeting of Catholics. She watched with growing confusion as every member of the circle repeated the ritual. The room was beginning to fill with green smoke, but it was not dispersing as smoke does. It pooled at the celebrants' feet, sending out tendrils like some undiscovered sea animal. Green tentacles snaked across the bodies of the assembly, as every celebrant tilted their heads up and spewed a thicker, black smoke from their mouths. This smoke mingled with the green as every celebrant hummed a deep, barely audible tone felt deep within the ribs and spine.
"Now…now hold on one goddamned minute!" shouted Molly.
The celebrants leapt to their feet, screeching. The green smoke suddenly gathered itself like a frightened squid and swept back to the incense coil, enveloping it. Molly marched into the circle as the celebrants screamed in unison a harsh, dissonant tone.
"Everybody…you all…just-just be quiet! All of you!" Molly thrust her finger into the man with the diadem's face. "I don't, I mean, if you, that is…That smoke is not acting the way smoke should act! It's acting more, you know, it's just that, it's alive, but of course not really…" Molly rubbed at her eyes in frustration as she tried to collect her thoughts.
The man of the house gaped at her. "What the he-you spoke English this entire time?"
Molly answered, not facing him, "I was born just outside Chicago. Now tell me…you explain…that thing over there," she pointed at the hovering incense cloud.
The man with the diadem had maintained a neutral expression throughout Molly's interrogation. Molly wondered briefly if his face hadn't been paralyzed when he spoke from seemingly closed lips. "Your curiosity is your downfall. You will long for death."
"Hold your wrath, Your Grace." Everyone turned with wonder to the green cloud shrouding the incense coil. "The ptlwi did not sound. It should have announced her. It allowed her to enter. It is worth asking why."
The woman piped up. "Maybe it's, like, broken or…" Every other celebrant except her darling whipped their head around and hissed, cowing her into silence. The large green cloud left the incense coil and floated over to Molly.
"Breathe me in, rash woman," it commanded. Molly, figuring that she'd gotten this far on bad decisions, shrugged and inhaled deeply. The smoke slipped into her lungs like the slimy predestination of a half-remembered nightmare. It left a bitter, evil taste in her mouth. It wanted the quantum anarchy that tormented her vision stripped of even those lax laws that governed it, expanded, reconfigured. If her New Nature was heaven, the Fifth World was hell. Struggling to remain calm against the invasive presence, Molly slowly exhaled.
Mercifully, the smoke shot out of her nostrils and wrapped itself around the large glass globe above them. It began to glow with a pulsing green light until the smoke drifted down to its coil. A small slip of paper popped out of a slot in the copper support. The man in the diadem picked it up and read it. Though his face did not change, Molly could feel a jolt of wonder surge through him.
"Fives alive, she's a 998," he breathed. Silence reverberated through the room before everyone began to whisper. The woman's nasal voice sliced through the charged air.
"So, what does that mean?" she asked irritatedly.
"She sees the world's wrongness. Nature's sins call to her. She can undo it all. She can birth Fifth World." To Molly he said, "You have failed once before. Machines will always fail. The observer changes the observed. We have succeeded thus before. The mind shall bring salvation."
The hot, acidic taste of failure returned to Molly as sharp as it had been that day in her university apartment. He was right, the machine had failed. And he was right again in that every enthusiastic undergrad knew that an observer could collapse the wavefunction. What implications did that have for The Project? Could she really use human consciousness to rewrite the laws of nature?
It was definitely worth investigation, and these people seemed to know something. Even if their Fifth World was the antithesis of her vision, even if their robes were strange and their chants blood-chilling, science was science. Discoveries made by the Nazis, draped in mindless cruelty and stupid occultism, are still discoveries.
"I will…I mean, of course I would like…If you would…" Molly stopped and collected herself before smiling darkly. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo."
The green smoke snaked over to the man in the diadem. A tendril wafted up to his face and situated itself under his nose. As Molly watched with some concern, the thin trail of smoke curved up to form the illusion of a ghostly green smile on the man's static face.
To be continued…


“I don't see why you even like her,” said Lila. She took another drag and passed the joint to Minh. “She's a bitch.”
Minh sighed and began smoking. “She is not. I don't know why you hate her so much.”
“She's so fucking smug. Like she's the queen of the entire campus. Like, just 'cause she's rich we're all beneath her or something.” Behind them, the party rumbled on. The two had separated themselves from it 30 minutes ago. Easier to have an actual conversation.
“How much time have you spent talking to her? She is nice. Just because she's rich doesn't mean she is not nice.”
“It means she's never had to work a day in her life. Not like we've had to work. She just fucking coasts.” She plucked the joint from Minh's fingerprints and took another puff, leaning back to stare at the stars.
“That's not true.”
Lila stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “You're such sheep.”
“Me?”
“All of you guys. Men, man. You see something you want to fuck, and it doesn't matter how horrible they are, you start rutting.” She giggled.
“I'm not rutting,” said Minh.
“You're totally rutting. Like a sheep. Baaaaaaah.” She doubled over laughing.
“You're terrible,” said Minh, scowling. “This is why I need to be high to talk to you about this kind of thing.”
Lila wiped tears from her eyes. “Nah, that's because you've got the emotional maturity of a wastebasket. Opening up is good for you.” She pushed herself to her feet. “And if you've gotta be wasted for that, I'm gonna try to snag some beer. Don't killed without me, loser.”
She walked into the house, leaving Minh to finish off the remains of the joint. He stared at the lawn as he smoked. It was a nice lawn. Manicured to perfection, green as any advertisement, with a solitary tree rising up from the center. The tree was perfect too, with strong branches and full leaves. It was a kind of lawn he'd never had. He'd always had to be content with dead grass and dirt.
Should they just leave? There wasn't much point in staying. He'd only come because he'd thought Isabel would be here, but hadn't seen her so far. He sighed. It would have been better to stay at home, or go to the docks with Lila, and not have to deal with all this freaking noise. Well, this way there was free weed and beer, so it wasn't a total waste.
He frowned. Did something in the yard just move? It looked like something was crawling around the base of the tree. Did the Weston's have a dog? He hadn't seen anything in the house or porch that made it seem like they did. Maybe it was a squirrel. Whatever it was, it was avoiding the light. It slunk through the shadows, just outside of the porch bulb's glare. It seemed a bit bigger than a cat, and moved like it was pulling itself through a thick sludge. Sometimes it would stop and shudder, like it was trying to shake something off its back.
«Hey there,» said Minh. He knelt and crept forward. Whatever it was paused. «Hey, I'm not going to hurt you. You wanna come here?»
It shook, and a shriek tore through the air. Something flashed towards him, and the world went black.

Samuel lifted the cup to his lips and grimaced. Shitty beer. They always had shitty beer at parties like this. But he was strapped for cash, and if tolerating shitty beer at shitty parties with shitty people was what it took to get drunk these days, so be it. He wouldn't care about flavor after a few more. So he drunk it in one gulp, trying not to taste it, and went for a refill.
As he was about to drink, something bumped into his shoulder. The plastic cup fell from his hand and clattered to the ground, splattering his pants and shoes with warm beer. He spun around and saw a short woman looking embarrassed.
“Fuck, I'm sorry man,” she said. “I'll try to find some towels.”
Samuel shook his head. “Don't bother, it's fine.” He slid off his shoes and socks. “I was planning to do the laundry tonight, anyway.”
She stared at the legs of his booze-soaked jeans. “You sure? I mean, that can't be comfortable.”
He shrugged. “I've had worse. It doesn't bother me.”
“Um, alright,” she said, reaching for a cup on the counter. “Well, can I at least get you a refill?”
“That'd be fine,” he said, smiling. She filled the cup and passed it to him.
“You a student or what? You look a little old for it, if you don't mind me saying.” She didn't look older than 20, with dark skin, short, curly brown hair, and bloodshot eyes that darted around the room as she spoke.
“I'm a freshman. I just started a little late.” He stuck out his hand. “The name's Samuel.”
She shook it and laughed, then grabbed two cups from the counter. “Lila. Short for Lilac, but nobody calls me that except douchebags. Nice to meet you, man.” As she spoke, she began filling the cups. “Listen, if you don't have anything else going on, and friend and I are hanging out back. Wanna join us?”
Samuel thought for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.” He drained his cup and refilled it. “Lead the way.”
They threaded through the house. Pushing past the drunk students was like crawling through mud, but finally they made it to the door. At one point, someone in a black hoodie slammed into him and tried to grab his arm, mumbling something. Samuel wrenched away and darted past him.
He got to the porch and found Lila already there, looking around.
“Where's your friend?” he asked.
“He was here when I left. Fuck, I hope he didn't wander off too far.” She stepped out onto the lawn. “Minh! Minh, where the hell are you?”
No response. She walked towards the tree in the center of the lawn. Samuel followed, scanning the grass. He looked up when he heard Lila scream.
“What the fuck!” she said as he rushed over. She was kneeling, staring at the base of the tree. It was smeared with blood. Mixed in chunks of trembling black goo. As Samuel watched, they slid through the blood, towards the center of the stain.
Lila looked pale. “Minh!” she called, standing and spinning to look at the yard. “Minh, can you hear me?”
A scream came from inside the house.

Isabel figured she must have been the only person in the school who didn't drink. It seemed like the entire campus had come out for the party, and they were all hammered. She'd wanted to just go see a movie, but Rachel and James insisted that they come here. “The party of the year,” they'd described it as.
She sighed. This whole thing was stupid. They'd only just arrived, and already Rachel and James had been sucked into the crowd while she stood on the outskirts, sipping a Coke. A man in a red t-shirt and cargo shorts approached her, sporting what was supposed to be a grin. “Hey,” he said. “Wanna dance?”
“No,” she said, and started to walk away. He followed her.
“Come on, this is the best song. Just one dance.”
“I'm not interested,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
“It'll be fun!”
“Fuck off,” she said, and poured her coke on his head.
Gaping at her, he snarled “fine, fuck you,” and stormed off.
It was the first of what she knew would be many such encounters. She didn't know what Rachel thought was so great about this kind of thing. There were a lot of things she thought were fun, but getting drunk, vomiting, and hit on by creeps wasn't on the list.
She wandered towards the fridge, hoping they might have something to drink besides beer. As she approached she saw something odd. Someone in the kitchen was kneeling on the floor. It looked like he was vomiting, but nothing was coming out, and there was nothing around him. The veins in his neck were bulging. As she got closer, he began to convulse. Thick, black liquid dripped from his mouth. He tried to catch it and shove it back in, but more kept pouring out, covering the floor, making a puddle that oozed out. A friend grabbed his shoulder and said something, but he didn't respond.
The liquid covering the ground twitched and tremble, and Isabel fought back the urge to vomit. What the hell was going on? A bad drug reaction? A bigger crowd was beginning to form around the man. More people tried to talk to him, but he didn't react, just kept miming coughs and trying to grab the liquid. He fell forward, planting his hands in the puddle and beginning to smear it across the floor. Isabel wanted to look away, but she couldn't.
People were beginning to yell now. The man's skin was becoming a mottled grey. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he looked up, gurgling as the liquid poured out of his mouth. It looked like he was trying to speak, but the emesis blocked the words. Someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him, turning his head to the side. The fluid kept dribbling out.
Someone yelled. The puddle on the floor was moving. It was beating in time, like a heart. Isabel gasped and covered her mouth. The liquid pulsed higher and higher with each beat. People were backing away, scrambling to get as far from it as possible. The one holding up the vomiting man tried to drag him back, but couldn't.
From behind her came a scream, accompanied by a wet smacking noise. She turned to look and immediately regretted it. In the center of the living room a large, person-shaped blob was pulling itself across the ground. It left a trail of gray slime behind it that squirmed outwards. More people were screaming now. They scrambled to try to get away. As one man ran by, the creature reached up and wrapped an arm around his leg. He fell, and the creature enveloped him. For a few seconds, you could still see his silhouette struggling to escape, before it stilled. The creature continued forward.
Finally the vomit came. Isabel doubled over and wretched. This couldn't be real. She was asleep, and this was a nightmare. She'd been drugged somehow. The creep from before had slipped something into her drink and she hadn't realized it. It would be over in a second. She would close her eyes, and when she opened them everything would be normal.
Someone slammed into her from behind. She sprawled to the floor, and was kicked in the leg. More people rushed by her. There was barely time to duck out the way before a foot landed where her head had just been. The party had devolved into chaos. The man in the kitchen was lying on the floor in a pool of black liquid, not moving except for his mouth and tongue, which lapped at the puddle. The creature in the living room had snared three more people, and was drawing them into its bulk. More people lay on the floor, black liquid pouring from their mouths.
She pushed herself to her feet. This wasn't right. It was a hallucination, a dream. It couldn't exist. She felt the urge to vomit pushing itself back up, but forced it down. Escape. That's what she had to do. She had to find a way out of here.
The creature swung its head towards her. She froze. Could it see her? No, that was impossible. It didn't have eyes, it didn't have ears, it didn't have any way to tell where she was. But it was still moving towards her. Somehow, it knew she was there. She turned to run, but slid in the puddle of goo and fell to the floor. Before she could stand back up, something wrapped around her leg and began to pull.

Growing up in a rough neighborhood, Lila seen her fair share of gunshot wounds and dead bodies. She liked to think that she was used to that sort of thing, that it didn't bother her the way it did other people. But looking at the thing in the living room, all that went away. She felt like a little girl again, staring at her brother's brains leaking out of his skull.
“What the fuck,” she said. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that thing?”
The living room was empty except for about 15 people. They lay on the floor, black goo dripping from their mouths. In the kitchen, a massive glob of the same goo was squirming across the floor. An unconscious woman was stuck in it, slowly being sucked in. In the back of Lila's mind, she realized it was Isabel, but the thought didn't register in the rest of her brain. Nothing did, except he urge to scream. She swallowed it.
Samuel was already moving. He sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed Isabel's arm, and began to pull. She didn't budge. “Come here!” he yelled at Lila. When she didn't move, he yelled again, “I need your help!”
What the hell are you doing? The thought came from deep within her mind. Just standing here like an idiot? Yes. She couldn't just stand around. She had to do something. Stepping past the bodies on the floor, she raced to the kitchen and grabbed one of Isabel's arms. They heaved back, and for a second nothing happened. Lila gritted her teeth, braced her feet, and pulled with everything she had. There was a slow sucking noise, and Isabel began to slide out of the beast. Her body thudded to the floor. Samuel scooped her up and ran to the back door. Lila followed.
“Do you have any what the fuck that thing is?” she managed to say.
Samuel shook his head. “No idea.” He looked through the door and cursed.
“What?”
“It's coming this way,” he said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No. Hell, that thing's fast.” He squatted down and slung Isabel over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. “Let's go.”
They rushed to the gate by the side of the house. Lila tried to open it, but it was stuck shut.
“Stand back,” said Samuel. He lashed out with his foot, kicking the gate twice, but it still didn't budge. A groan came from behind them. The monster had rounded the corner.
“Climb over the fence,” said Samuel. “I'll pass her up to you, and climb over myself.”
Lila nodded and scrambled up the gate. Samuel hoisted Isabel upwards. “You have a good grip?” he asked. She nodded. Samuel let go, she fell back. She crashed into the ground, Isabel landing next to her, and popped back up to her feet. Samuel was already almost over the fence. Before he could swing his foot over, he was yanked back.
“Fuck!” yelled Lila. She rushed to the fence and thrust a hand out. “Grab on!” When he had a grip, she began to pull back. Nothing happened. She braced a foot against the fence and pulled harder. Still nothing. She jumped, grabbed his color, and yanked downwards. There was a popping noise, and the two of them tumbled down.
“You alright?” she asked.
He nodded. “I think so. Come on, let's run.” There was a cracking noise. The gate began to shake. Samuel threw Isabel over his shoulder and ran. Lila followed.
The front lawn was empty except for a few people standing by the sidewalk, ogling the house. “Get the hell out of here, you idiots!” yelled Lila. “It's coming!”
“My car's just down the block,” said Samuel. “Come on.”
They sprinted towards a red Honda. Samuel unlocked the door, placed Isabel in the back seat, and hopped. Lila jumped in the passenger's side. The car roared to life. Slamming down on the accelerator, Samuel shifted into drive, and they tore down the block.
Ahead of them, the creature had crawled into the road. Samuel swerved, but the creature lashed out. It grabbed one wheel, and the car twisted. There was a ripping noise. The Honda spun across the lawn, smashing into a tree, taking a chunk of the creature with it. Samuel reversed the car and tried to rush in the other direction, but the creature hurled itself forward, blocking their path. Samuel didn't have time to turn before they collided.
The car smashed into the beast and ripped through it. They were racing at the house, and Samuel swerved and braked before they hit it. When they had slammed into the creature, they had ripped it in half. One part lay on the lawn, still. The other was in the road, thrashing and beating the concrete. The lower half of a body was sticking out. The creature screamed, turned to face the car, and rushed forward. Before it could get halfway it stopped. It quivered for a moment, then began to melt. The goo dripped away from its body, pooling around it. In two minutes, it had completely dissolved, leaving only the body of a person. Even from the car, Lila could recognize it.
It was Minh.

Accessing Network
Obtaining Address
Collecting Data
Identity confirmed.
J-17: Are you alright?
ND-01: I'm fine, but we might have other problems.
J-17: Such as?
ND-01: There's more than one of them.
J-17: How many?
ND-01: I'm not sure. One activated on the west side of town, crashed a college party. Civilian Affairs is working on a cover up now. It's going to be difficult, a lot of people fled before we could get our hands on them.
J-17: Damn, alright.
ND-01: We've done sweeps and figured out four areas where they might be others. We've already sent in teams to deal with them, but there could be dozens we haven't picked up. We need more resources.
J-17: I'm not sure how much they'll be willing to put into this. They think it's a waste of time already.
ND-01: Fuck that. Show them the pictures, show them the files, let them see how much of a waste this is. Convince them. Doctor the numbers if you have to.
J-17: They're pretty dead-set on moving forward with this Israel thing.
ND-01: Israel's a dead end. We both know that. This right here is what's important. Do what you have to, get us what we need. Don't fuck us on this one.
J-17: Alright. I'll see what I can do.

Part One: End | In Its Purest Form »


The image came to me as I slept. In my dream, I stood at the center of a tall hill, and though it was day I could see all the stars of the night sky. More, in fact. They were strewn across the atmosphere, clumped together so tightly that in many places you couldn't see anything else. Instead of white, they shone dark red.
A voice came from behind me, and I turned. Standing there was a man. He wore a brown, ratty cloak, that obscured his face and body in shadow, so that all I could see were his hands. They were withered, grey things with fingernails that looked like a predator's teeth. He said something again that I couldn't understand. I asked him to repeat himself. He spoke again, and the voice seemed to come from all around me. you will find yourself, it said. when you do, you will fall. the fall will be the first of many, and when it is finally over, you will lose yourself again, among the dreams of stars.
I asked him what he meant, but he did not reply. The red light around us began to grow brighter. Looking up, I saw the stars were expanding. Their edges crept out slowly, pressing against each other and meshing together, forming one great mass that stretched across the entire sky. I looked back at the man, but he was gone, and I could hear only a slow, humming crescendo.
When I woke, my first instinct was to write. To this day I cannot say why, but I flung myself from the bed and scrambled to my work desk. Three years work of design and planning for the chapel were tossed aside. In their place, I took a stack of paper and pen, and began to write. A week later, I emerged from my home with the first and final draft of what would be published as Seventeen Red Tales.
Though many people have asked me what inspired me to write the work, until now I have not relayed this story to anyone, not even those who helped publish it. There have been two reasons for this: The first, because I barely believed or remembered it myself. The second, because of what happened after the book was released.
It was a little over a month later. I was still astonished by the immediate popularity of the stories, and trying to adjust to my new life in the spotlight. After a particularly grueling interview, I returned home expecting to pour myself a drink and retreat to bed. Instead, I found two women and a man standing in my study. The man had a book. The women had knives.
“You're coming with us,” said the shorter, blonde-haired woman. The knife hung by her side in a most non-threatening manner. I looked from it, to her, to the other woman, to the man, to the knife, and decided it would be best to listen. A bag was thrown over my head, and I was pulled outside by rough hands. From there, I was tossed into a carriage. We bumped along through winding roads for what felt like many hours, before I was pulled back outside. The bag was torn from my head.
We were in a small back alley, in a part of town I couldn't recognize. The three figures stood in front of me.
“Show it to him,” said the taller, brown-haired woman. “Show it to him!”
The man thrust the open book into my arms, and I realized it was Seventeen Red Tales. It was turned to the sixth tale, A Hidden Path, at the moment when Samuel reject's The Liar's third offer, though it took me a moment to realize this. The margins had been almost blacked out by notations and drawings, in a script so cramped I couldn't distinguish the words. Their writing filled every inch of white space. Only by looking closely could I recognize the printed words around it.
“What does it mean?” said the man. He stared at me with wide eyes.
“I… I don't know,” I said. “What are you trying to show me?”
The man snarled and ripped the book from my hands. “You know what it means!” He flipped to another page and thrust it back into my hands. This time, it was the second tale, A Counsel of Strangers. Every line of text had been crossed out, with the word “Hunger” repeated running across the top.
“Who did this?” I asked. Turning the pages, I saw each had been defaced in a unique way. “You bought the book like this?”
“I did it!” said the blonde woman. She stepped forward. “But what does it mean?”
“That's-” I began to say, but her knife at my throat stopped me.
“I can't read,” she said. She jabbed a finger at the page. “Read it to me.”
“You can't… how is that-”
“Read it!” she yelled. “From the beginning.”
My hands shaking, I turned to the beginning of the book. What did she want me to read, the story or the notations? I cleared my throat and began to read from the margins. “Thirty times on thirty lands, thirty dead by thirty hands, dirty truth, dirty man, crawling roots, creeping sand-”
“He's not doing it right. He doesn't know,” said the tall woman.
“How can you tell?” said the man.
“Listen to him. He doesn't understand.” Her voice was calm, but there was menace backing it. She, more than the other two, was dangerous.
The blonde woman drew the knife back. She stared into my eyes, clicking her teeth together. “I don't think so either. I think he's a liar.”
“He's not a liar. He's just an idiot,” said the tall woman. She shook her head. “There's no point in staying. We should leave.”
“We can't leave when he hasn't told us anything,” said the man.
“Shut up,” said the tall woman. “He can't tell us anything, because he doesn't know anything. Now let's go.”
The man scowled, but backed off. The blonde woman made a small tsk-ing noise, and shoved the knife into the folds of her clothing. Together, they exited the alley, leaving me thanking God for my life.

The next three months were uneventful. I pushed the night's incident from my mind, and attempted to focus on writing a second book. In this, I was unsuccessful. Until the dream I had felt little inclination to be a writer. Architecture had always been my calling, but now there was little hope of following it. Constantly I was being questioned by my publisher about when he might see the next book. A deluge of letters flooded my home, from fans, from enemies, from other authors. Everytime I went out, people swarmed like locusts, chewing through me with questions.
It was after escaping some such people that I found the letter. I had fled to my room, hoping to get some peace, when I saw it under the mail slot. This struck me as curious, as I had arranged to have all my mail forwarded to a different address, as the volume had become too much to keep at home. It had no return address, only my name scrawled on the front in jagged letters.
I set it in the trashcan and tried to forget about it. After several hours, my curiosity got the best of me. Inside was a single sheet of paper, written on a script so small I had to squint to read it.
Dear sir, it began,
I have recently purchased a copy of your recent book, Seventeen Red Tales, based on the recommendation of a friend. I'm sure you will be pleased to know that I read it and enjoyed it immensely. That is not what I am writing about. I have sent this letter (and dropped it off personally to ensure you see it) because of several experiences I believe are linked to your book.
Upon reading the fifth story, A Sign of Rain, I began to feel as if I was being watched. Even laying alone in my room, the sensation never left me. I found myself unable to sleep, barely able to work, ignoring my friends and family as the fear of someone observing me grew. Even locked in my room, where it could be certain I was alone, it never left. The only thing that could make it go away was reading the book.
I finished it in less than a day, then started again, eager for the peace that reading offered. I neglected meals, neglected work, neglected my body, all to engross myself in its pages. And the more I did, the more I became aware of another feeling. The feeling of knowledge.
It crept into my brain like a vine, growing larger each time I finished and re-started the tales. Each sentence, each word, gained new form upon each reading. The deeper meanings became apparent. The patterns upon patterns, the layers of truth running underneath the stories, the hidden paths your text laid bare. By the eighth reading, the world around me seemed completely changed. The paths had opened up to me. No longer did I feel like I was being watched. Rather, I was watching the world as it unfurled before my eyes. I could see the secrets that people kept, and lies they spun. I could see the way they tried to control their lives, and the hundred ways they failed each day. I could see the pulses of the world, the rivers of time we all flowed through, the dust of fallen planets, the roots that crawled from the stars, the sand that crept through our minds. And I knew what they were.
Only we understand. The true gods are descending, and only we can see them. Will you join me with them? Will you help me sprout the seeds of the world?
It was not signed. I looked for any indication of who sent it, but there was nothing. The roots that crawled from the stars, it had said. The sand that crept through our minds. Had the book my kidnappers shown me not said something similar? Were they linked? Could one of them have left me the letter? But why not take me again, if they wanted to speak?
I decided to show my publisher the letter. The next time we spoke, I gave it to him, and told the story of my kidnapping. He did not seem surprised upon hearing it. In fact, he seemed relieved.
“I thought I must have been insane,” he said, putting the letter down. “I've been feeling a similar sensation lately. I'm not sure quite when it started, but it must have been around when you first showed me the draft of Seventeen Red Tales.”
I pondered this as I poured another spoon of sugar into my tea. “Have you heard anything else about this?”
He shook his head. “No. It was such a minor thing, I didn't feel the need to mention it to anyone. If anyone else felt it, I'm sure they thought the same.”
We stared at each other for a moment, then I stood and walked to the couple eating at the nearest table. “Excuse me sir, madam, but I have a question. Have either of you happened to have read Seventeen Red Tales?”
They nodded. “We both have,” said the man.
“Have you by any chance, and I know this is odd to ask, felt like you were being watched since reading it?”
The woman blinked several times. The man's jaw fell open. “How could you know?” he said.
“Well,” I said, leaning in and close and bringing my voice to a whisper, “I must confess a similar feeling. My friend over there has felt it as well.”
“That's impossible,” said the woman.
“I would've thought that too,” I said, “but it seems it is not.”
“What could it mean?” said the man.
I shrugged. “God only knows.”

That night I sat in my room, thinking. I took a copy of Seventeen Red Tales from my shelf and began to flip through it. Since writing the book, I had felt none of the sensations described by my letter or associates. I had felt only one thing. Fear. A slow, creeping fear, that picked at me wherever I went. I could not identify the source or target of it, I only knew that it was there. Constantly. When I ate, when I slept. And when I held the book, it changed from unease to terror.
My hands shook as I opened the first page. What did I expect to see? I do not know, but I only saw the same writing I had composed many months earlier. I turned to the next page. Again, only writing, and a small illustration I had drawn to go with it. I turned to the next page, and saw only text. And yet, my fear did not abide. I flipped through the entire story and found nothing there, nor in the next. I opened the first page of A Sign of Rain and almost dropped the book.
Looking back at me was a terrible eye. It filled the page. It seemed to fill the entire room. It was every color I had ever seen in a single point, but also in an infinite number of points, all around me. It saw through me to the marrow. It saw through to the soul, and even when I hurled the book against the wall and fled the room, I could feel its gaze. Three weeks later, when I gathered the courage to enter the room and take the book, it was just as strong as when I first opened it. And when I burned the book and scattered the ashes on the wind, the gaze remained.

Time is difficult for me to tell nowadays. I do not sleep much as of late, and time seems to blur together. It was three months after I burned the book, I think, that I first heard of Fifthism. It was in the daily newspaper, nestled away in the corner of the seventh page. “A man in the slums of London proclaims himself a prophet, and has gathered together much of the vagrant population,” said the article. It discussed the weekly meetings in the park, which had grown to hold hundreds of people, and the book that they had rallied around. Seventeen Red Tales. The reporter was hesitant to mention specific details about the group. I felt a sense of unease in his writing. There was much he knew that he was not telling. Many questions left unanswered. He mentioned that he had attended one of the meetings, but gave no details about what had taken place, describing it only as “an event”. It did not mention how the group was interested in Seventeen Red Tales, only that they were.
A week (or maybe two) after that, a man appeared at the door, holding a copy of the book. He wanted to speak to the man who had changed his life, he said. My book had showed him what the world could be, he said. To what the world used to be. He tried to force his way inside, but I pushed him back. He claimed that he could feel a presence inside my house. The pupil of the universe was staring at him. I locked the door, and after several hours, he left.
More people came, trying to get a look at me. They wanted to see the prophet. The creator. The iris. A dozen different names. When it became too much, I tried to flee my home, but it was only a few weeks before they found me again. They stopped trying to breach the doors, but that doesn't mean they left. They arrived in droves, sitting outside the house when they were barred from entry. There was no movement, no speaking. Just staring at the house, waiting.
When I ran out of food, I tried to sneak out of the back. I was quickly found, but they didn't try to attack me. Instead, they stood and moved as a group to follow me. When I entered the butcher's shop, they stood outside and waited, then walked with me back home. None tried to approach or speak to me.
After another week outside my house, they began to disperse. Only a few at first, but after three days all but a handful were gone. Soon, they had left as well.

The day after the final watcher left, I had another dream. The feeling of being watched still kept me from sleeping most nights, but this slumber came easily. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was standing under blood-red stars. In front of me was the man from before.
you are beginning to understand, said the voice.
“What have you done to me?” I said.
i have done nothing. you came to me. you found me in the folds of the universe. this is the consequence of your act. The land around us pulsed with the cadence of the voice.
“I didn't come to you! I was doing nothing when you first spoke to me. What could I have done that deserves this?”
The world shifted. The hills disappeared and were replaced by ocean. The waters were jet-black, reflecting hundreds of thousands of red points. We floated several meters above as if on a floor of glass.
you cannot un-see what has been glimpsed. i am a part of you now. I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked, there was nothing. you will spread me across the world. it is unavoidable. what you have seen will smother the fire of humanity. It was there. Right in the corner of my eye, a great beast pushing against the world, filling the sky. I could see its movement, but every time I tried to look directly, it vanished.
“I will not,” I said.
you will, said the voice. you already have. you are the third prophet, no matter what you claim.
The beast in the corner of my eye surged forward, and fear surged through me. It had almost broke through, that time. It couldn't be held for much longer.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words could form, I woke.

I have tried to fight the impulse. I have felt it ever since the dream, the need to write again, the burning urge to craft another story. And I have told myself that I cannot. That I will not give in to this creature, that I will not spread its word, not do its work. I am a human being, not an animal. I will not be manipulated into this.
But I cannot hold out any longer. I am weak, and the need is too strong. Writing this will be my last act. I have tried to prevent the word from slipping through, but I cannot be certain. I hope only that whoever discovers this will have a better understanding than I did. Perhaps they will know how to stop this.
God damn me, for I have damned us all.


First on my list is the Multi-U division. How this kind of breach of protocol has been allowed to continue is beyond me, Ms. Weiss. The entire function of this department appears to be intentional containment breach.

Tristan Bailey bit his thumb to try and relieve stress. It wasn't working, and it wasn't just him that was stressed, the entire department was. In the Foundation, the people in Multi-U were thought of as okay, but the actual department itself was considered a waste of resources, for the large part. Then again, most of them didn't know that if not for this department, the price of silicon (among other natural resources) would be going through the god-damn roof.
Tristan had considered firing up the MUTA-NT and escaping to another universe, for the day. But, in the process, he would no doubt causing a massive protocol breach and getting him sacked, amnestic'd and thrown to the side of the road in Albuquerque. He had also considered trying to take a sample of the common cold from the immunology lab, but knowing them, they had somehow turned the common cold into a very rare and deadly cold.
"He's almost here, Bailey," Claire Hennessy stood over his shoulder. "Think you can handle him?"
"No."
"Remember, whatever you do, don't make fun of his name."
"…what is this guy's name, anyway?"
"It's Ma-"
A man stepped into the offices of the Multi-U department, a tablet computer in one hand, his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses bearing a look of great disinterest. His bald head bounced a dazzling light off of it, right into Tristan's eyes, causing him to blink several times. "…Dr. Hennessy and Dr. Bailey?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I am Matthew Broderick, and I will be your auditor today."
Claire stepped forward. "So, Mr. Broderick… we understand you wanted to talk to us about how our department is run."
"Indeed." Broderick took out his stylus and brought up several files on his tablet. "Expense reports are far above-average. This department uses approximately 80-90% of all power supplied to Site 87. Casualties are thankfully minimal, but there have been reports that the technology here has been used… irresponsibly."
Tristan twitched slightly at the last part. Broderick didn't seem to notice. "Sir, with all due respect… I find it highly unlikely that the MUTA is responsible for 80% of the power drain here."
"I have the statistics right here, Doctor." Broderick handed them the tablet, with a statistic that showed that, indeed, Multi-U accounted for a supermajority of the power being used in the site. "And who do you think I am going to believe: statistics, or someone who works in the department and has a clear conflict of interest?"
"Sir, there has to be a mistake. The MUTA we have here is a MUTA-NT. Multi-Universal Transit Array, Nexus Type. My father built it back in the 1970s specifically to feed off the energy in-"
"Simply because your father was a Foundation celebrity does not give you any exemption, Dr. Bailey. And you are not the head of this department; Dr. Hennessy is." He nodded at Claire. "As I was saying, the power drain…"
"Is something that we will try and take care of; the accelerators used in the MUTA-NT take up a lot of juice, sir." Tristan rolled his eyes slightly; the MUTA-NT was run solely on energy extracted from the Anomalous Particle Field surrounding the Nexus. Everyone knew that (or at least, everyone should), and this bean counter in human clothing was telling him it didn't work that way?
"Dr. Bailey, are you coming?" Tristan blinked; he had spaced out, and Claire was heading out of the room along with the bean counter. Tristan started out of the room after them.

Ten minutes later, they were actually walking around the floor of the portal chamber. The reactors were all shut off, and the only way the MUTA would be reactivated was if there was an incursion from the other side. Broderick was asking all sorts of questions to various members of staff. "What is it that this department actually does, Dr. Hennessy?"
Before Claire could say anything, Tristan spoke up. "The mission of the Department of Multi-Universal Affairs it to explore, catalog and observe alternate universes, as well as make diplomatic deals with major powers in said universes, usually over mineral rights, food, science… we also facilitate travel for the Esoteric Warfare Unit, when necessary."
"…Thank you, Dr. Bailey. However, in the last few years… diplomatic deals have been on the decline." Broderick showed him some statistics on his tablet. "Down 15% from 2010. Coincidentally, that's the same year your brother left… Trevor, was it? He was in diplomacy, was he not?"
"He was, and he did close a lot of deals… but he's much more useful at Site 19, now. And though we may not have more deals, these are generally more useful."
"…in that case, where is the helium?"
Tristan blinked. "Pardon?"
"The helium, Dr. Bailey. There is a shortage of it, and it is global. You were meant to make a deal on it with… one moment." He looked through his tablet. "F-3426-Delta, regarding rare-earth mineral rights, as well as helium rights. But, you were unable to. Why is this?"
"They were bureaucrats, sir. I ran into someone who was a vice-vice-vice-sub-chancellor of Mining and Industry in that universe. It was impossible to get anything done with them. They all said they had no authority to do make decisions of a scale as large as that."
"Really," said the Tax Man, making a note of that on his tablet. Tristan groaned internally; he was probably writing "Multi-U has a problem with bureaucracy" or somesuch.
"Yes, really. It's hard being a diplomat; I don't know how Trevor does it."
"Fair enough," said Broderick, looking at Claire this time. "Now, what are some of the other universes you have cataloged?"
"In the past year, we've discovered almost 7,000 new Multi-universal coordinates at this facility alone, no less than 240 points of divergence between them."
"To be exact," Tristan cut in, "We've cataloged 6,921 new coordinates and 248 points of divergence."
Claire stepped on Tristan's foot, which was the signal for him to shut up, which he did so. "As I was saying," Claire grinned, "In addition to that, we've discovered over 70,000 new universes in the past five years."
"Yes, but… what is it you actually do?"
Both Claire and Tristan blinked. Tristan spoke up after a while. "I beg your pardon?"
"What is the purpose of this department on a research basis? We've proved the existence of other universes, that the theory was right… why must we continue to breach containment to study them?"
"Containment breaches only apply if the breach occurs in the baseline." replied Tristan, a tone of annoyance in his voice. "And I can think of at least five extra-universal anomalies off the top of my head, two of which either myself or one of my brothers have worked on."
"Why manned expeditions? Why not just send in probes?"
"What would be less noticeable in a universe populated by humans: a floating metal ball, or a guy in a tourist outfit with a camera?"
"Bailey! Shut up." Tristan flinched slightly as Hennessy yelled at him, before she turned back to Broderick. "I apologize for my assistant."
"No need," Broderick said, noting down some things on his tablet. He brought up a file and frowned. "Actually… there's a matter I would like to discuss with Dr. Bailey in private."
Tristan could feel the color drain out of his face as the auditor escorted him into another room.

"Dr. Bailey… for the past eight years, you have requested use of the Multi-Universal Transit Array around December 21st. Prior to 2010, your brothers also requested access. Why is this?"
"Some… some universes can only open up when they're in correct alignment with us." It was utter bullshit, Tristan knew it was utter bullshit, Broderick probably knew it was utter bullshit, but damn if he wouldn't try to cover his ass.
"I see," said Broderick, his face hardening slightly. "Tell me, Dr. Bailey, how is your father?"
"He's dead, sir. Has been for the past 17 years." Tristan felt like he was a school child lying to the principal about who killed the class rabbit.
"Ah. Condolences." Broderick shook his head. "Drop the charade, Bailey. I know what you've been doing for the past eight years. You and your brothers." Broderick brought up some pictures on his tablet; one was clearly dated 2005, and showed Tristan, Tom and Trevor hanging out with a very much alive version of their father. "You will be disciplined for this, no matter what the Director says."
"I take full responsibility, sir." Tristan was shaking slightly, and clicked a pen in his pocket to try and calm himself down. "I encouraged them to go with me to see Tyler Bailey."
"It's rather unhealthy," said Broderick in a neutral tone. "Seventeen years your father has been dead, and you're still grieving. It's time to move on, Dr. Bailey." He typed out something on his tablet. "That is all. Dr. Hennessy will deal with me for the remainder of my time in this department." Broderick moved around Tristan, out of the room.
Tristan Bailey just stood there for a good few minutes, looking stunned, before going to his room, opening a bottle of Antarctican wine Tom had sent him, and downing it, feeling numb the whole time he drank.

«Tax Man|Hub|Bugs in the Process»


Item #: [pending] / SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe

Doctor Kiryu sat at his office desk, assorted experiment logs strewn around his workspace as he scribbled on the topmost sheet of paper. He didn't look up when his assistant entered the room, dropped another stack of paperwork on the desk, and stole the unopened bottle of water sitting next to the potted bamboo.
“You're writing up the report documentation already?” Researcher Riven Mercer uncapped the bottle and downed a third of the water.
Kiryu still didn't look up. “Yes. There's only a few more preliminary tests left to run, and in an hour or so we'll have enough data compiled to write something solidly coherent.”

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be stored in a fitted storage case, and kept in a standard containment locker at Site-19.

“Why the custom-fit case?” Mercer picked up three of the testing log sheets, briefly scanning the contents.
“It's an old thing. Liable to break and should be handled carefully. Still sharp, though. Safety precaution. Have you booked and checked on the testing room yet, Mercer?”
No response, save for the door swinging shut.

Access to SCP-XXXX for testing is to require Level-3 authorization. Any interviews conducted with SCP-XXXX are to be logged; the corresponding documentation is to be forwarded to Dr. Kiryu for analysis.

Kiryu crossed out the portion of sentence after the semicolon, but then after some thought, wrote it back in. Besides, once the typed report was submitted, the site director would be the one to decide whether the interviews would need further scrutiny. That sentence could be removed if found unnecessary.

Description: SCP-XXXX is an unornamented longsword believed to have been created during the late medieval period, approximately the mid-13th century.

Riven was back a few minutes later, peering over Kiryu's shoulder. “Is “longsword” really the right word for it? I feel like the medieval terminology would've been more like ‘cut and thrust sword' or ‘hand and a half stabby thing'. Something more specific.”
“I'll consult someone on-site who has more experience with this sort of thing, Riven. Let me finish writing the rough draft already.”

When held at the grip by a human being, SCP-XXXX is capable of speech. Though SCP-XXXX will typically shout generic challenges and similar battle taunts when swung, it has been known to emit distressed vocalizations when making contact with straw-filled practice dummies, and will produce crying-like sounds when used to slice vegetables.

“Are you serious? It cried? Wish I could've been there… why didn't you ask me to aid during the experiment?”
“You were testing out the antique fighting fans with another researcher. Rivers, I think.” Kiryu gathered all the papers into a messy stack, scowled at it, and briskly shuffled them into a more neat arrangement. He picked up the papers and stood up. “Besides, after the first cabbage, I had to suspend the rest of the trials.”

SCP-XXXX is sapient, and able to “communicate” with other swords through an unknown process, allegedly allowing SCP-XXXX to determine characteristics of the weapons it has come in contact with; such information includes relative age and events the weapon has been involved with. Though the reach of the effect is unknown, it is believed that SCP-XXXX is able to interact with any sword within a 1 meter radius of its blade.

“Oh, you're typing now? The room we reserved is open early; just checked.” Riven looked over Kiryu's shoulder and read off the laptop screen. “How did we find out it can mind-link-talk-whatever to other swords?”
Kiryu chuckled. “I'm getting to that. Pass me the recovery log, won't you?”

Addendum XXXX-1: SCP-XXXX was initially recovered by the British Museum, following an archaeological estate refurbishment. While it was held in temporary storage pending future display, museum staff handling the sword reported hearing voices, generally requesting to be placed “closer to that lovely rapier a few shelves over” so it could be “properly introduced to her”.

“…so it was hitting on another sword? Was that other sword anomalous?”
“Not that we could tell. There's actually an interview log somewhere in there that I found interesting. Why don't you read through it while I finish typing up these last two addenda?”

Addendum XXXX-2: Though it is still inconclusive whether SCP-XXXX produces speech itself or is inhabited by an entity that speaks for it, interviews conducted with the object have indicated that it shows a familiarity with various swords of European myth. (See following transcript)

<Begin Log>
Dr. Kiryu is seated at a table in an experimental room. SCP-XXXX lies on the table; Kiryu holds it by the grip.
Dr. Kiryu: Tell me more about the other blades you knew.
SCP-XXXX: I heard there was one particularly choosy blade… Excalibur? Many stories about that one. I can't imagine turning so many potential wielders away. And Durendal, he had so many things in his hilt. And he was proclaimed to be the sharpest in the world. I wouldn't want to live with that pressure.
Dr. Kiryu: Did you ever come in contact with either sword?
SCP-XXXX: [pause] No. I never met the two. But every blade I met knew the stories.
Dr. Kiryu: Were there any others you knew to be famous?
SCP-XXXX: Hmm. Joyeuse. Joyeuse was so pretty, so I hear. But there's no way I could deal with all that attention.
Dr. Kiryu: Do you wish your first owner was more well-known?
SCP-XXXX: I can't say for sure. It's harder to stay true to your path if people want to use you. Clarent was said to be a sword of peace, and look what happened to him.
Dr. Kiryu: Are there any you envied?
SCP-XXXX: I admired two highly. Arondight and Galatine, I think their names were. Sometimes I think about how much I'd like to go on adventures like they did, rescuing damsels and serving their lords righteously.
Dr. Kiryu: What happened with the rapier you wanted to be introduced to?
SCP-XXXX: [silence]
Dr. Kiryu: Is something wrong?
SCP-XXXX: He refused to speak to me.
<End Log>

Riven snickered. “Aww, those are some awkward circumstances. Surprising that it knew about so many different legendary swords, though. Are you including this interview in the documentation?”
“I plan to.”
“What about any other notable behaviors? Anything else that revealed more about the thing's mentality?”
“Pass me the experiment log about the kid's toy sword, please.” Kiryu kept typing.

Addendum XXXX-3: When placed near a child's plastic play sword during an experiment, SCP-XXXX expressed excitement after the encounter, stating that the sword belonged to a hero who had slain many dragons and was destined for greatness. The plastic sword, on loan from Doctor ████'s son, was notably considered a favorite plaything. Further testing of SCP-XXXX's ability to appraise weapons of more historical significance is pending.

“That's adorable.”
“I agree. And it firmly establishes the entity as rather benign, I think.” Kiryu closed his laptop. “Let's finish up that last test.”

Addendum XXXX-4: During a series of tests run on ██/██/████, SCP-XXXX was placed next to a medieval sword for several hours. When questioned, SCP-XXXX appeared to have undergone shock and disillusionment, repeatedly stating, “raiding and pillaging at behest of the lord… was this what being a knight really meant?” SCP-XXXX then refused to speak for seven days following the incident.

“When do you think it'll speak again?”
“There's no way to say for sure,” Kiryu sighed. He typed away at his laptop, a folder open in front of him. “It might start talking tomorrow, or three years from now. We don't know enough. We don't even know if it's the sword itself that was talking, or something inhabiting the sword that just up and left.”
“It's been almost two weeks… what are you going to do with the report you've got?” Riven picked up the folder and flipped through the files within. “There's a lot we have here.”
“I'll mark it ‘pending' or ‘unfiled'. I'm not entirely convinced that it would have needed serious containment, anyway. There are more dangerous things in unspecialized containment.” A few clicks of the wireless mouse. “It'll be put with the other ones that didn't make it.”
Riven looked up. “Other ones?”
“Sometimes we break things to learn about them. Sometimes we can't put them back together, no matter how much we learn.”
“How many others?”
“Hundreds, at least. Thousands maybe. Not all of them are or were inanimate.”
“…”
“We've got another incoming cache of items to process. Submit the sword and the existing documentation to Storage and Records. We need to move on.”

Request for Item Storage (Doctor M. Kiryu, Researcher R. Mercer)
Anomalous Item #███ Cache: ██
Recovery Date: ██/██/████
Description of Effects: speech, apparent sentience, inanimate interaction with like objects (see attached documentation)
Reason for Storage Request: item has currently ceased to exhibit effects
Routine Reexamination: monthly


1. You should read Learning the Alphabet before considering reading this, at least to the end of the first act. (The content of this tale is probably the dream that occurs immediately prior to Boron Blisters, but there's no way to be sure.)

2. Then click here to expand the explanation of why this exists.

- I'll assume you've read Act 1 of LtA.

This was written waaaaay back when TwistedGears, the author of Learning the Alphabet, had only written the first tale, Anart Antics. In chat, he had been discussing his plans for the series - at least, how the first act was going to go down. The plan was for Aldon to sculpt herself a new body, with the intention of inhabiting it, but then for that to never occur because of Plot getting in the way.
Considering that the desire for a new body is why Aldon participates in the whole thing, I thought that was a bit of a disappointing way to end Act 1. And so, for the sake of closure, I recommended that, shortly after the terrible ordeal of Act 1 concludes, someone should just… run past and steal her penis, which would clearly solve all problems forever. (n.b. clearly not the case)
This was, of course, a very silly idea. It was worth referencing offhand in Cool War 2, my 2014 April Fools contribution. And then, foolishly, someone told me that it couldn't be written.
So I wrote it. Woops.
With that context, I hope you will understand that this tale is simply an exercise in absurdity, and I apologise sincerely for it even existing.
EDIT FROM 2019: Depending on who you ask, this is either one of the best or the worst things I have ever written, though most agree it is one of the stupidest. It made many people uncomfortable, and I responded to their criticisms flippantly whilst deep in the role of a Zany Boundary Pushing Artiste. This was dumb of me to do, and I'm sorry to those I hurt. On net, I think keeping this story around is preferable: even if only as a reminder to myself about my authorial fallibility, and not to write things like this again going forward.

3. Nobody should read this. It includes a penis swordfight.

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- Click here to hide it if your boss walks past or something

One of the few things that Jakeob Aldon liked about having a penis was that she could urinate while standing up.
It was with a mix of confusion and astonishment, then, that she rose from her groggy, half-awake stupor to find the organ which accommodated said action missing. Aldon walked from the bathroom to the small parcel of chaos she tentatively called a "living room", then tapped her roommate on the shoulder.
"Oi, Finn."
Finnegan responded, not looking away from his computer monitor.
"Wuzzat?"
"Do you still have a penis?"
"Um. Last time I checked, yes."
"Check again."
Finnegan pushed his fingers between his skin and clothes, then raised his eyebrows. He pushed his hand down his boxers, checking where the flesh would normally be. Finnegan scrunched his face into a grimace, finally turning away from his computer screen.
"…I'm not sure what I was expecting."
"When was the last time you… checked?"
"It's not the sort of thing that I really need to investigate actively. Jesus, there's nothing there. It's like I'm a goddamn Barbie doll or something."
Aldon rubbed her palms against her head.
"I have no idea about how to solve this problem. I have no idea how to even begin."
"Have you checked the tapes?"
"Tapes?"
"Like, the security cameras."
"We have security cameras?"
Finnegan blinked twice.
"No. That was stupid. Forget I said that."
The pair of them went silent, entering into deep contemplation for half a minute.
This silence was then broken by a faint giggle from outside their window. The pair of them looked towards the noise, catching a flash of movement. They skittered towards the door, swinging it open to see a green gnome-like creature scuttling around the corner, cackling madly while holding a pair of fleshy lengths above its head. Aldon and Finnegan looked at each other, sharing a moment to relish the utter absurdity of the situation, before chasing after the thing. Finnegan shouted out to it:
"HEY! I WAS USING THAT!"
The pair turned the corner, sprinting down the sidewalk. Finnegan, used to sitting in front of a computer for hours on end, started to lag behind. Aldon, being much more athletic, kept pace with the rapidly moving creature. She put in more energy, slowly closing the gap between the two. The gnome glanced over its shoulder, giggling while its prizes wobbled around in its hands. This did, however, distract it from where it was going; it tripped slightly, losing its grip on one of the two. It turned to pick the organ up, but noticing Aldon closing, simply left it on the ground. Aldon slowed down as she passed the discarded member, deftly plucking it up from the ground.
It wasn't hers.
She blushed as she pushed it into her pocket; the thief was getting away. It ran carelessly through a set of traffic lights; Aldon weaved through speeding traffic to make her way across. It ran through holes in wooden fences; Aldon hurdled over the top of them. They ran to and fro across the town, chasing each other in a seemingly endless game of cat-and-mouse.
Eventually, the gnome made a wrong turn, sprinting down an alley with no exit. Aldon slowly approached the tiny humanoid, menacingly towering over it. The gnome stood defiant, holding its stolen dangalang as a makeshift sword. It shouted squeakily at its assailant:
"Have some honour! Fight me on an equal footing!"
Aldon sighed, taking out the member she had already recovered. She shook it to attention, then closed in, crossing blades with the thief.
Ms Doreen Stedtworth, an 81 year old lady who lived with seven cats, heard some kind of racket coming from outside her window. She decided that she would go take a look at what it was.
whap whap whap whap
"EN GUARDE, COCK GOBLIN!"
"THE PENIS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD!"
Doreen would request a change in medication during her next doctor's appointment.
Aldon disarmed her opponent, holding her own armament menacingly to her opponent's throat. It gulped down a knot in its throat, falling to its knees.
"Fine, I yield, I yield! You have great skill with a blade, even though it is not your ow-"
"God, just shut up."
Aldon pocketed the pair of penises, then picked up the gnome by the scruff of its neck. She turned around, only then noticing Doreen Stedtworth staring at her. Aldon waved cheerily, then started to walk home.

"So… reattaching them?"
"Oh, they should just stick back on. Probably."
The gnome sat tied to a chair as its captors turned around, awkwardly fumbling beneath their pants. There was a collective moment of uncertainty, and then sighs of relief. Aldon whispered to Finnegan.
"So, we've got it. What do we do with it?"
"I dunno. Throw it at the men in black?"
"There's a line between just punishment and abject cruelty."
"It literally emasculated me."
"It's a tiny green dangalang thief, but it's not malicious, just mischievous."
"It literally emasculated me."
"We could probably keep it."
"It literally emasculated me."
Aldon turned around, putting her hand to her chin.
"I wonder how big a cage we'll need?"
"IT LITERALLY EMASCULATED ME."
The gnome sat and grinned at Finnegan, squeaking a response.
"You've gotta admit it was funny."
"No! No, I don't! You can't go stealing other people's body parts! Allie, we know nothing about it! This thing could steal our eyelids in our sleep! We could wake up without fingers! And most importantly, our rent contract says no pets!"
Aldon crouched down, looking at the gnome. It was, to some degree, adorable.
"What's your name, little guy?"
"Johnson. Johnson Theef."
Aldon looked up at Finnegan, struggling to keep a straight face. Finnegan put his palm to his forehead.
"Okay, whatever."
And that was how Jakeob Aldon got her first pet.

« I'd Rather Not Think | Hub | Lacerations To The Sternum »


Site 87 is one of those sites the O5s don't generally like to talk about. However, they do still have to monitor us. So, every couple of years, they send out an auditor to make sure the site hasn't fallen apart physically, mentally, and where it counts the most: financially. People get fired, entire departments get axed, anomalies are forcibly liquidated, work hours are cut… it's stressful for the whole site.
Considering some of the things that have happened at 87 in the past two years, I think this year's audit is going to be… interesting, to say the least.
- Agent Nicholas Ewell, Site 87 Chief of Security

The Tax Man rode into the town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin on a cold winter in the back of a black Volvo. It was the most discreet car they could find.
The Tax Man's job was simple: two days in this town, go to Site 87, write some reports about how all the departments were doing. This would be the first one he would be performing at this site… 87, was it? He looked at his watch, then up at the driver. "Is there any half-decent coffee shop in this town?"
"There's Rudy's," said the driver. "I hear that's good. We, uh… have a bit of time before we're supposed to be at Site 87. Would you like to stop there, sir?"
"So long as it isn't Charbucks," said the Tax Man, looking through several files on his tablet. The driver nodded, pulling up to the curb in front of Rudy's Coffee House. The Tax Man stepped out, shivering slightly. "Back in about 10, depending on how long this takes."
The driver nodded as the Tax Man entered the cafe, and was greeted with the warm scents of espresso and burning wood from the fireplace. The walls of the shop were covered with pictures and memorabilia of the town's history; newspaper articles, pictures of the town's founders and famous historic buildings, and even a large map of the area on display behind the counter. The Tax Man came up to the counter. "One espresso, please. Strong as you've got."
"You got it, sir." The man working behind the counter, whose nametag read "Rudolf", started up the espresso maker. The Tax Man looked around the walls of the place, frowning slightly as he noticed an article on the far wall recounting the 'Sasquatch Hunt of 1974', and another one right next to it talking about how Sloth's Pit was a sister city to a town located 'somewhere in the vicinity of Mercury'. Did the personnel at 87 not even try a cover operation?
He turned back to the counter; a photograph of Jackson Sloth, the founder of the town, hung above the latte machine. Sloth was a Caucasian who was about 50 years old, with his hair in muttonchops, leaning on a cane. All he was missing was a tophat and he would have had the Victorian gentleman stereotype complete.
The portrait suddenly developed a smile and winked at the Tax Man. The Tax Man did not like that, but was distracted by the fact that Rudy came back with his espresso. "Here ya are, sir. They don't get stronger than this." The Tax Man nodded, blowing on his coffee before taking a sip. "…I take it you're from outta town?"
"I am," replied the Tax Man. "Here on business. I'm-"
"Workin' with the plastics people, right?" The Tax Man nearly spat out his drink; they let the town know about them? What kind of a shim-sham operation were they running here? "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. They're some of my best patrons; one of the gals from there helped me with a situation involving a gobsnipe eating half of my stock of beans."
The Tax Man's eye twitched. Not only did this town know about the anomalous, but they knew about the gobsnipes. The Tax Man finished his drink and put a 20 on the counter. "Keep the change." With that, he walked out of the shop, the portrait of the founder turning to face him. He didn't look back as he made his way to the car.

"…why are we stopping, driver?"
"We're just low on gas, Sir. I figured that it would be easier if we had a somewhat full tank in this weather." The driver nodded out the window, where a light snowfall had started up.
The Tax Man sighed, waving his hand. "Fine, fine. Just don't let this delay us too much, all right?" The car pulled up to a Speedway, and stopped at a pump. The Tax Man got out to light an electronic cigarette; not as warm as a real thing, but there was less chance of him spontaneously combusting around a gas pump. He looked up from his e-cig, raising an eyebrow as he looked into the windows of the station.
The cashier working the counter appeared to be something rather cervine. In fact, that's exactly what it was; it was a deer. Frowning, the Tax Man stepped into the warmth of the gas station. The deer behind the counter talked to him. "Hey, you can't smoke in here!"
The Tax Man's eyebrows could not possibly go higher than they were right at that moment. "It's… an e-cigarette. Water vapor."
"I don't care if it's the only way you can keep breathing, no smokin' in the shop unless it's a bubble pipe." The deer seemed to point (without using any of its limbs or even its face) to a no-smoking sign. How it did this, The Tax Man didn't want to know, but his attention was drawn towards it.
"Right… I'll just step outside." The Tax Man proceeded to do this.
"Yeah, you'd better. Fuckin' prick."
The Tax Man could not get back in the car fast enough.

Five minutes later, the Volvo pulled up to S & C Plastics. The Tax Man got out of the car, shivering as he swiped his security pass on the RFID scanner, admitting him access to the site. He walked up to the receptionist and shivered, handing her his ID card. "I'm here to see Director Weiss."
"You're her 10:00, then?" The receptionist quirked a brow as she saw his name on the card, but then saw he was the auditor, and decided it might be best not to say anything. She handed the pass back. "Her office is on the fourth floor. The elevators are down for scheduled maintenance, but if you leave now, you should get to her in time for the meeting."
The Tax Man groaned and made his way towards a staircase. It was 9:57- 9:58 now. He would be late, and The Tax Man did not like being late. He ran up the stairs as fast as he could, reaching the fourth floor and throwing the door open, going towards the director's office. He arrived at the receptionist to her office, collecting himself before saying, "I-I'm Director Weiss's 10:00." He tried not to pant; it made him look undignified.
The receptionist here smiled. "You're just in time." Indeed, the display on The Tax Man's watch said 9:59, and turned to 10:00 just as the Director opened the door.
"Director Weiss. I take it you know why I'm here?"
"How could I not know?" Nina Weiss led the Tax Man into her office, taking a seat behind her desk. "O5-7 has been sending me e-mails reminding me about this for the past six months."
"And all members of the site have been notified?" The Tax Man sat before her.
"Notified, and reminded for the past week. They're ready for anything you can throw at them."
"I should hope so," said the Tax Man, "because I've got a lot to throw this time around…"

|Hub|A Multi-Universal Affair»


Hello. Nice to meet you.
I've brought you out of containment and took that tarp off you, for which you're welcome. To be honest, I shouldn't have done the latter; it's against the containment procedures. Normally I'm a stickler for the rules, but frankly, I just needed someone to talk to. You're the kind of thing it'd feel good to talk about this stuff to.
It all started a few days ago when I saw a movie. Horror movie, decently made. An object that influenced people in some pretty nasty ways, with horrific, terrifying results. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
Anyways, it was the kind of movie that really worked off the strength of the audience you're seeing it with. Lots of gasps, verbal expressions. The audience I was with was audibly depressed at the ending, for example. Everyone except me, that is. I was happy. Proud, even.
See, in movies like the one I watched, they tend to end with the Bad Thing surviving. Gotta leave the option for a sequel open, I guess, even if there won't be one. Maybe I'm strange, maybe I'm oversensitive, but that thought sticks with me longer than anything else in a movie. The world of the movie continues spinning, and the Bad Thing is going to keep doing what it does. People will still be scared, hurt, and killed, and there's nothing to stop it.
But here, in reality? We have us, the Foundation. I'll let you in on a little secret: I hate most of what I have to do in this job. I hate reading about otherwise decent people being kept under lock-and-key because they can't help who they are. I hate having to give a widower a pill that'll make him forget he had a wife and kids. I hate when I ask the higher-ups if we can maybe adapt an SCP for the world's benefit, only to be rejected. I hate throwing D-Classers at things just to experiment. Jesus Christ, I even fucking hate what we do to Six Eight Two. I have no proof of it, but I'm pretty goddamned sure I've self-medicated on Class-As just to forget how horrible I feel about this fucking job.
But with things like you? Things like you make this job worthwhile. When we get our hands on you, nobody else dies. We figure you out, we put you in containment, and the story ends. Oh sure, your information is stored in thousands of safe places, but in any practical sense even we forget about you. You act in the shadow, and we keep the sun above you. We'll keep doing it until our sun toasts this world.
Well, that's all I have to say. I get this is kind of gloating, but I'll be honest: I needed this. I needed to let one of you things know that we always win out. In a few moments I'll be leaving this place, and you'll be back in containment. In a few hours, I'll have inevitably forgotten which SCP I pulled out, and you'll be in containment. If I quit this job in one piece, you'll be in containment. When I die, you'll be in containment. When I'm dust, you'll be in containment.
Your story is over.