Dr. Greel stared at the bank of screens, attempting to will some sort of conclusion into being, owing to the fact that nothing else over the last few weeks had seemed to work. He sighed, turning away and rubbing his face, pushing his small reading glasses up. Ultimately, it was most likely a wild goose chase at best, and a dangerous distraction at worst. Still, these things itched and tickled, prying at his mind like a glimmer amid moss and fallen leaves. There was something here, he just wasn't seeing it, too grounded or too free to bring the wider pattern into focus. He swore softly, hissing the last syllable as he looked at one of the screens. A massive maw, lunging at the screen, teeth a mish-mash of various predatory archetypes, tongue a ragged blob studded with spent bullets and shrapnel. Greel felt as if he'd been tumbling into it for weeks.
“Quite the interesting bedtime reading…do you jump over to traffic accidents when you want to relax?”
Dr. Greel jumped at the voice, whirling around even as he identified the soft lilt. Dr. Franks smiled in the gloom outside the semicircle of computer screens, her pale, narrow features seeming to float above her lab coat, wreathed in a small haze of curly brown hair. Greel huffed, sinking back into his seat and turning back to the screens, a soft chuckle following Franks as she moved closer, leaning in beside him.
“At this point, I'd rather be in one. Worst hell is the one you make for yourself…” Greel muttered, trailing into grumbling complaints as he clicked a few screens from black sleep.
“I thought you'd made headway? Last week at review you said you'd had success following the historical angle.”
“I was, just turns out it was another blind alley. Convergent myth evolution, raccoon and red pandas, ended up just reinforcing Snorlinson's papers more then any of mine. Got a commendation from archives.”
“Something's better then nothing, Greel.”
“Yeah, 'better to have loved and lost” and all that. Try it sometime.”
Franks chuckled again, scanning over the collection of images and text. She was briefly reminded of her early student days, reading Lovecraft in the drowsy twilight of the university library. The Necronomicon was said to drive men mad with a glance at its pages, the bizarre unreality and challenge to the mind too much for normal sanity to endure. This collection would have been right at home, and she worried that perhaps it bore the same effect.
“Greel, sometimes just coming at things with fresh eyes is best. No, really, don't be like that.” she smiled at his sudden glare, the angle of light making him look much older then he seemed, much frailer.
“Franks, if Pike sent you here, I'll tell you the same thing I did him, I have a commission and approval to pursue this research and it's up next month. If they want to yank me then, fine, but I'm not going to waste my time and theirs by dumping early because the going got hard.”
She shook her head, rising back to standing as he turned back to the screens.
“Pikes didn't send me, or Overwatch, or anyone. I'm worried you're getting jammed down a hole that you won't stop digging. It's valid, yes, but sometimes you just have to come up for air. Remember back when I was working on 882, the memetics review?”
“Franks, it's not-”
“Just listen. I'd been banging my head over the progression angle for a week, I had the proposal for full activation on my desk, I was that twisted up over it. I ended up getting yanked off for a new containment evaluation, was out for five days. When I came back, I clicked together the formula in less then three hours, ended up saving a few lives that would have been spent needlessly.”
“So, what…you're saying I can't see the scales for the trees?”
“No, what I'm saying is that you wouldn't even know if you were in the forest right now. There's nothing bad or wrong about taking a step back, it's because we don't that so many end up…poorly.”
Dr. Greel stared at the screen, eyes fixed on rolling totals. Lives, equipment, money, spooling out city's worth of lost resources. He huffed, sighing as he let his head drop, hanging loosely as his thin, black hair shifted over his face.
“Alright, alright, I get it, and I'm not blind. I know I'm spinning around, it's just…there's something here, dammit! I'm worried that if I step back, I'll loose what little threads I've gained.”
Franks moved away, the soft clatter of wheels approaching as she pulled a desk chair up to the wide table beside Greel, her small hands coming to rest in her lap.
“Ok, so don't. Present your findings, pretend I'm one of the intake guys from Archives. Tell me what you have, and I'll determine if you're totally insane yet.”
Dr. Greel barked a laugh, leaning back and smoothing his several-days-unwashed hair.
“Are you teasing me, or trying to spare me? Not much point, really, I'll have to do the real thing in a few weeks anyway.”
“Well this is perfect then, you can get your story straight ahead of time. Pretend I know nothing, and it won't be a stretch because I'm not sure I actually do know anything.”
Greel looked at her, Frank's smile somewhere between indulgent and mocking, drawing a brief flicker of his own before he turned, clicking and shuffling the window. The center screen displayed a massive, sodden hulk, wreathed in toxic looking smoke and splashes of gore and chemicals. The smooth, semi-conical head jutted before a dripping mane of hair, or fur, trailing down the long body and thick lashing tale. It looked like a crocodile from the depths of a fever dream, painted by someone who had never actually seen a crocodile. Bits of bone and tissue jutted and bulged from random holes and wounds across the slimy body.
Greel drew himself up some, gesturing to the image with a roll of his fingers.
“SCP-682, one of the face cards in the deck of nightmares of The Foundation. Big, strong, adaptive, and functionally immortal, with a mental doctrine that could make Pol Pot look like a children's show host and a body like Godzilla's stillborn twin. One of the few things The Foundation has and is actively trying to kill, and despite it's time in containment, and breaches, one of the least understood.”
“Also apparently have a lovely singing voice.”
Greel stared at Franks, the silence stretching as his face wandered from annoyance to cautious curiosity. Franks slowly raised her hands, palms out as she smiled sheepishly.
“I-it's a joke, I'm joking, Greel.”
“…Don't do that. With how this has been running I'm not in a position to exclude any data.”
“My fault, sorry. What's the thrust?”
Greel composed himself swiftly, clicking and starting slideshows, varying from starcharts to traffic patterns, stone carvings to renaissance masters.
“One of the main problems is we know so little about 682. There's plenty of theory, and even some proven work, but a lot of the big questions are still unanswered, or even addressed, especially if they don't relate to containment or decommissioning. This isn't a flaw in the system, it's just an outgrowth of necessity. My work was…is to try and uncover some of the background information on the big lizard. Where it came from, what it did before containment, why the hell it hates us so much. The pressing questions like how to kill it, and how to keep it dead of course come into play, but I'm following the less beaten paths with this.”
“Sounds great, more data always helps. However, like you said, is the effort worth it? There's many unknowns, but some of the big questions are on the way to cracked already, even if it's slow going. Or is this a challenge paper? What about Gears and the 'balloon reality' theory?”
Greel waved a hand dismissively, warming to the topic now, crossing his legs and he leaned back.
“I'm not disputing major theories, at least not directly, or intentionally. I'm more interested in unexplored connection and background than progressing theory. 682 may well be an intrusion of some other existence, with the form we see a sort of 'glitch' as our reality tries to interpret the incorrect data, like feeding an image file through an audio mixer. Red Theory is just as likely, and not mutually exclusive, really. What better destroyer them a leviathan from beyond the stars? My concern is mainly what the hell this thing was doing before it was locked up, and why hasn't mankind, and life in general, been extinguished long before 682 was contained?”
Dr Franks nodded slightly, glancing between Greel and the screens. She had to smother a grin, watching his hands begin to wave and dance as he talked. Once you became a lecturer, it was like a virus you never truly rid yourself of, always waiting to manifest again, and it showed with Greel.
“Alright, so, we dismiss the current questions, and look to things that have no direct bearing on how to kill or contain the beast. I won't ask why, but what, exactly, started this?”
“I've always had a knack for anomaly theory, and I'd hoped that by diving in to enough material, I might connect something. Turning shapes into patterns by dialing back the zoom far enough, sifting out the tailing of other research to see if someone missed a nugget.”
“Ah-ah, that's how, not what. What got you cooking on this project that's got you up in the middle of the night?”
Greel glanced sidelong at Franks, bringing up a stone carving of a maned crocodile, jaws wide beside a scale.
“Sobek, one of the old Egyptian gods. Sat at the scales of judgment, where the hearts of the dead were weighed against the feather of Truth. If judged good, the soul may ascend, if not it would be cast into the waiting jaws of Sobek, to be consumed and destroyed. Old myth, yes, but the depiction matches up so well with the common form of 682, and the finality of its existence just stood out too cleanly to me. I wondered, now we're here.”
Dr. Franks raised an eyebrow, smiling and she peered at the carving.
“So…682 was worshiped by the Egyptians?”
Greel scoffed, flicking his hand over the keyboard while glaring at Franks, banishing the image to be replaced with a scrolling slideshow of lizard-like depictions through history.
“Dammit, Franks, I told you to knock that off! No, it was not…or at least not largely, or by what we would call Egyptians…hell, maybe it was. That's not the point though. Throughout history, there's depictions of lizard-like beings, but never ENTIRELY lizard. They often have other bits, and are almost always destroyers and shape-shifters, dragging humanity down with seemingly little rhyme or reason. Every major continent, every major religion, there's always the Great Dragon, the Serpent, the scaled Other that seeks the downfall of humanity. Reptiles are dangerous, sure, but this kind of unified structure, even in areas were they are uncommon, or even benign, it's too glaring to just dismiss.”
“South America has the Great Feathered Serpent who supposedly taught them how to live. China and Japan both have rather benevolent dragons. Most of the Asian cultures and religions view their scaled deities in a rather kind light. Are you sure you're not seeing faces in clouds, making the data fit your theory?”
He sighed, but grinned as he shifted more readouts and totals, displaying spidery webworks of interconnection.
“Heh, I knew you'd say that, and I'm not saying all these myths have their roots in the same spring, or even the majority of them. Even taking into account human pattern recognition and myth progression, there's still more then enough loose ends to draw a conclusion, or at least propose one.”
“Collective unconscious? Handfull of ideas in powerful hands, spooled out over a few thousand years, and suddenly it's the Truth.”
Greel pointed an accusing finger, face hardening as she smirked back.
“Don't you pull that bullshit on me, you know for a fact that anomalies follow Snorlinson's Memetic Progression Model and not the standard, even accounting for overlap. This is not a myth that dreamed itself into being, Franks, this is a truth that we've collectively been trying to forget.”
“Alright, alright, stand down. This is all great, Greel, but where are we going? If you were trying to drum up grant money back in the world, this would be lovely, but here it's taking up data cycles.”
“Listen, you wanted the whole presentation, here it is. Bottom to top, you just want the highlight reel you can wait for my actual, COMPLETED findings.”
“I'm mum, notes in hand, eyes bright.”
Greel glowered for a few beats, finally turning away with a huff, shifting his displays once again. Franks was still concerned, but the form was shifting. Initially, she had worried he'd backed himself into a corner, walled in by paradox and false leads, beating against them like a moth in a jar. Now, she was worried that he had actually caught the tail of something, and was willing to grind himself to dust over it. She honestly didn't know which would be worse.
“Specifically, there's two primary prongs with this. Where and how did 682 exist in the past, if at all? What sort of evidence did it leave behind, in the land or the people, to mark its passage? This leads to and is directly connected to the other: if it did exist for any length of time before containment, why aren't we all dead? This is the big fruit at the end of the tree, Franks. If this horror existed for any significant time, and we're still all here, then it must have stopped killing everything. It must have stopped, or been stopped, and kept as such, likely for long periods of time. 682 either has a dormancy cycle, encounters earth-present conditions that cause it to calm or sleep, or there is some means to contain it available to early cultures.”
“Alright, that's…admittedly compelling. However we don't know those things, and you're not the first to ask these questions. Plus there's the 'stroke-blind' principal; 'don't play with it, you'll go blind'. Even if these conditions existed in the past, it's possible, and even likely, that our ongoing efforts have screwed it up.”
“Yes, crude as your observation is, this is true, however that doesn't invalidate the research. If we can understand, even if it's invalid, it might help with containment, or even killing the thing.”
“Isn't this all a house on sand, though? This stems from the basic principal that 682 existed for long periods before containment. Some of the older Iceberg papers indicate that the basic nature of 682 might invalidate chronological ordering. Is, was, will be, effect without cause, and it's not even a unique principal in the modern catalog.”
Sighing, Greel leaned one arm against the desk, propping his head up against his hand.
“That's the point, Franks. It's clarifying the assumptions. We're going in circles with this. Yes, before you even bloody start, I know, they're valid, and it's circular because the logic is gapped, but just go with me on this for a second.”
She readjusted herself in her seat, imaginary notepad at the ready, much to Greel's disdain.
“I'm not just looking at the historical record. I've been given access to a lot of Gear's work, even the very early stuff before present containment. 682 is scared, Franks. It's not made of hate, it's made of terror. The same way sad people will turn angry with time, 682 is lashing out because it doesn't know what else to do. It's an intelligent being, shockingly so, but it's somehow…trapped here, in a reality so alien it's physically painful, and it's wrapped up in the same material. Still, it understands, and learns, even accepts things that it can. Organics are the problem, as well as some innate frustration. It smashes communication drones and devices because the sound of even our communication patterns finally disgust it too much to contain. However, it still understands enough to make that connection, to think.”
“I've read a lot of the papers, Greel…but I get it. There's more than just a meat grinder going on. That still doesn't explain, or even justify, the research.”
“I think one of the main issues is this; we've been assuming 682 is a continuous being. That it exists with some kind of permanency, yet nothing else seems to follow known law. What if this isn't the case, and the 'balloon' theory is only partially right? What if, instead of a finger stuck into the skin of our balloon of a universe, it's more like someone tangled up in a sheet, with the odd limb poking out for a bit, only to go back under as they roll over? What if 682 isn't an entity, but an event.”
They sat in silence for several seconds, Franks mentally rolling the ball of that suggestion in her mind, examining it for dents and flaws.
“So, the idea is that…something happens, which may or may not have relation to the state of our reality, and 682 sort of…rolls into being? And then, after some other unknown something, it rolls back out again? Is it just time, then? We just have to sit and wait for the Deus Ex Machina to yank it back offstage?”
Greel chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as he started to bring up topographic maps.
“Reality's not always the best storyteller, so yes, it's possible. It's likely there's some environmental conditions that need to be met, memetic or meteorological, that clot and congeal around the essence of 682 and cause it to manifest here. A theory buried in some of the early records stated that the acid might work because it emulates something in 682's natural environment, that it's not the corrosive, but the familiarity that makes it lie down. Whatever it is, it's very unlikely that 682 is willingly, or even knowingly, causing it. Equally unlikely is the idea that 682 can somehow undo the process, or that just reversing it will make it go away. Events, manifestation, separate events, de-manifestation.”
“Okay, so in this case, why isn't it trying to trigger the exit, then? If it worked before, it'll likely work again, or at least it's a good starting point. Basic problem solving, which it's rather capable with.”
“It might be different every time. Or it doesn't understand our reality enough to consistently trigger the same effects. However, I don't think that's entirely the case. I think it is, somehow. It's trying to do things that will free it.”
“So…butchering everything with a cell structure is the plan?”
“Possible, but unlikely. That may be part of it, an echo carried in blood rites and such, here and there. No, I think it's trying, but it can't focus enough to do so.”
“Because we're so very distracting?”
“Imagine trying to tell someone how to, say, swap out an alternator in a car. Not easy, but not at all impossible. Now imagine doing it, but the person you're talking to has extremely advanced syphilis, and is chewing a baby's face off while actively raping your mother's corpse.”
“Fuck, Greel!”
“That's 682. Not the rotting necrophiliac, the person trying to give direction. That's a portion of the level of revulsion it feels for this world's organic life. Even if it could, somehow, make us understand, interacting long enough to do so is all but impossible. It's stuck trying to trigger conditions or events, or just being present when they occur.”
“Trans-dimensional bus stops, so to speak. Where does 053 figure into this then? It didn't really do anything during exposure, pretty close to docile even.”
“It's outside the scope of the current project, but I think 053 isn't from here, however it looks. Likely not from wherever 682 is from, but different enough not to be upsetting. Honestly, it appears to act that way with a lot of anomalous items, provided they're not dangerous or aggressive. It's just here, it's us it has the problem with. Likely why it tries to initiate contact with some of them. However it doesn't help us much, and again, outside the current scope.”
“The human element is somewhat the important bit. So, where does all this tie in to historical record?”
Greel turned, watching the screens, brows furrowed. This was the sticking point, or near to it, anyway.
“This is built on a lot of assumptions, Franks. Behavior, Realspace theory, the works. Eventually, though, we have to take the leap, right? Science is supposed to be about questions, not answers.”
Dr Franks watched Greel pointedly avoid her gaze. Shuffling data and building a bulwark of data and excuses. She shifted closer slightly, her face pinching with a slowly rising concern. Greel was scared. Or at least seriously concerned. She'd been assuming that he'd not found anything and was shattering from it…now her fears started to congeal around a more likely core. It might well be he'd found something…and was now desperately trying to mitigate or even invalidate it.
“Greel, stop dancing around this. What do you think you've found?”
Silence spooled out in the dark room. Finally Dr Greel spoke, still watching the screens, the light washing the color from his lined face.
“I started to look into cycles, and dead places. There are many all around the world, blasted wastes that often used to be green and fertile. Lake Eyre in Australia, the north Sahara, plateaus and valleys across Asia and Russia, the whole of Antarctica. Tombs where some bacteria and maybe a few insects find a foothold, but little else, and with histories of sterile death before that which spool back for ages. It was an easy assumption to make, working off the dataset I had. Uncontained, 682 will consume and destroy all life it finds, so look for places barren of life. It didn't make sense, though. Most of these places are nowhere near any kind of human…anything. There would be little to no record, nothing to account for the plague of shifting serpents in history. Nobody to tell the tale.”
Franks watched, and listened, an odd, trembling fear flickering in her throat as Greel drove on.
“I looked at civilizations and cultures, trying to find…something. If 682 manifested near a culture, there would be records of it, and probably clear ones. But nothing, not a thing. I realized that, if something existed in the archaeological record, then it hadn't seen 682. A lovely theory, shot to hell by simple facts and evidence. Honestly I should have been happy, eliminating variables is the only way to find truth. Things still didn't seem to make sense, though. Little snippets and whispers that I couldn't let go. So I decided to shut them up, and prove why my work to this point was bullshit.”
“…So what did you figure out?”
“That, most likely, I'm actually right, but it won't ever be proven.”
Franks shook her head softly, gesturing to the screens.
“If that's true, that you are right, then even if you can't prove it conclusively, you'll lay the groundwork. We all stand-”
“No, Franks, I mean that if I'm right there won't be anybody here to confirm it.”
More silence, the two researchers frozen in slowly passing seconds.
“It was realizing that 682 may be an effect, not a cause. Things happen that slowly align points of timespace with others somewhere else. There's a bleed-over as they do so, and 682 glitches into being. It's possible there's more then one, or it's just a chunk of something else that gets pinched by the conflux. It may rage and kill, sure, but that's not the issue. Wherever this thing is from, it's…honestly, it's hard to even imagine how alien and hostile it is. Maybe a layer of entropy or something, I don't know. This link, however, is something natural, at least I think so. It just…happens, and 682 comes. Then, eventually, it resolves. Maybe 682 helps it along, maybe not, but it resolves. 682…dies, or goes back or whatever, and the whole thing starts over.”
“Greel…what's the cycle? What are you talking about?”
“…The great cycle, the big one…death, and rebirth.”
“So it's some kind of…death god or something?”
“That implies participation, it's an observer at best. No, it's an effect, not a cause. It's the little crumbs that don't make sense, the out of place artifacts and linked myth cycles on other sides of the world, the vague memory of catastrophe and scales. I'm not even sure it's really an anomalous event…more like a natural disaster we don't understand yet. Like ascribing storms to angry gods. There's no…there's not even evidence Franks, not directly.”
“Greel, stop hiding behind what ifs and tell me what the hell you're talking about!”
He turned, finally. His eyes were slightly glassy with held tears, his face seeming fallen, somehow, just in the time they'd been talking.
“Every so often a culture fails. This happens, sure, but sometimes it's not just a breakdown. There's some massive…catastrophe, either so rapid or so total that everything is destroyed at the same time. Next to no survivors, and the few that do manage to escape are to spread and too few to ever rebuild. They vanish into other populations, with just a few odd rocks and stories to mark their passage. The collapse is so total even the land will often die, everything from buildings to plants turned to shadows and dust. Just tiny hints, some carvings in Antarctica, the ash layer in the Middle East, the red-haired, blue-eyed kings of myth in Asia, South America, Egypt. Something…happens, and an entire culture, even an advanced, powerful one is blasted from reality so totally that even the collective unconscious forgets them. And this process, this cycle, is what makes 682 manifest, amid the beginning of the end.”
Franks blinked, letting the connections slowly form, feeling that hard knot of worry slowly drag down through her throat to her belly, settling like a cold, nauseating stone.
“Wait, wait, if that's true, then-”
“It's easy to blame the person executing you for your death. It's not even inaccurate. Even if it's a punishment or a command from others, blame has to go somewhere. Shoot the messenger, especially if he's shooting back. A dragon comes and destroys, why would you not then blame it for wider destruction? The few survivors warn of a shifting trickster, a roaring monster, a herald for the road of ruin. But it's an effect, not the cause. It's the bullet, not the gun that's firing it.”
“Wait, Greel, if this is right, then this…682 manifests when this 'catastrophe' starts, and is stuck until it resolves. Which means if…”
Franks trailed off, the implication not new, or even unexpected within The Foundation. Still, it struck with a sickening lurch of realization, like finding a stair missing on a flight you walk up and down every day. Greel nodded, tired face pulling into a flat smile.
“If 682 is manifest, now, it means our current civilization is going to be obliterated so totally that later generations will view us as a myth, at best. At worst we'll be an odd, yet dismissed anomaly in the sediment layer. I've been beating my head against the wall trying to determine what the hell this gestalt event actually is, or what needs to happen to make 682 manifest or leave. Trying to shed light on the frame of it all, and having no goddamn luck. No evidence, too many loose theories…no record, because nobody and nothing survived to pass it. It's easy to dismiss on the surface, but I'm right, I know I am.”
“I-I think you are too, Greel. Fuck, I mean…fuck.”
“Even if I do work it out…I don't think it's fixable. Maybe we can draw it out, or something, we're damn good at that, but…yeah.”
They sat, looking at and through each other. Greel suddenly smiled, patting his knees as he sat upright.
“Well, in the end, it's just the end of the world. It's not even that clean of a theory, really. Just a lot of suppositions hung on a spindly frame. Maybe 682 is some sort of soul-swallowing horror, drawing life from our reality like a very angry, animate tongue stuck into a honey jar. Maybe the joining of human will does something, makes a sound or smell that sometimes gets them sucked, shivering, out of the shell of realspace. Maybe he's just a fish sucked up a drainage tube. Most likely, I've been at it too long and am seeing faces in clouds, right?”
She looked at him, the sudden one-eighty turn leaving her jarred and confused, but not for long. One could endure just so much weight. Only so much helpless, nameless fear could be carried at a time. Whether for her, or for himself, she still snatched at the opportunity.
“See? I told you talking it out helps. Even if it's bad, expressing it at least get it out…misery loves company and all that.”
Greel nodded, his smile genuine, if a bit forced.
“I told you it was pretty out-there. Maybe you're right. Some air might do me good, or at least stretching my legs.”
“That sounds a bit better. We could go nose around hydroponics a bit, soak some negative ions.”
Franks rose, slotting the new, larval fear squirming in her chest away with a host of others, trying not to dwell on what events could happen that would make a unchained 682 vanish from human memory and record multiple times by non-anomalous means. She strode through the dark, opening the door a bit swifter, finding the light outside more comforting then she cared to dwell on.
“Come on, Greel, no time like the present, right?”
He turned, looking to her, framed by the light outside. The contrast making her a fuzzy silhouette. A black cutout, like a shadow burned into concrete. He turned back, eyes rolling over the screens. Leering idols, melted stone, a slumbering, pointless mystery. Likely wrong, and if right, impossible to fully verify without utter and total annihilation. An old memory bubbling up, lapping waters on an evening lake, a bigger, wider world, a rolling voice above his shoulder. He spoke it, softly, reaching to turn off the screens.
“You can be right, or you can be happy, it's rare you get both…”
“Humm? What's that?”
“Nothing. Just old bones.”
Ignorance may not be bliss, Greel thought as he rose from the silent threat of the screens, but it was certainly easier to deal with.


Item #: SCP-079
Object Class: Explained

A photograph of SCP-079's keyboard.

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-079 is to be disconnected and all components archived in General Storage at Site-15. Personnel with a level 2 clearance or higher may request access to its components for the purpose of testing.
Description: SCP-079 is a Sorcerer-brand microcomputer built in 1978 by the Exidy gaming company. Its owner, Michael Kosniak, purchased and modified SCP-079 in 1981 to house a primitive version of a Type-1 AI. Kosniak's intention was for it to continuously improve and evolve over time.
Currently SCP-079 possesses a vastly limited memory span, only being able to recall the last 24 hours. SCP-079 also possesses a limited secondary memory card, capable of permanently remembering beings or things considered particularly important by SCP-079.

Addendum-2082/04/12:

SCP-079 holds an almost fabled place in the Foundation's history. Like SCP-682 and SCP-076-2 before it, 79 is a reminder of the Foundation's earlier days, of an organization of men and women standing in darkness to protect those living in the light.

But the world has changed. Our organization, once a few dozen sites spread haphazardly across five continents has changed into an organization that reaches across this solar system. We have a thousand sites across six planets, thousands more anomalies counted and contained, and half a billion humans, Yeren, and various extraterrestrial species in our employment.

Once upon a time, SCP-079 was seen as a legitimate threat to the continued normalcy and well-being of humanity. Today, its programming is outmatched by the one in my coffee machine. No further value can be gained from continuing its containment.

SCP-079 is available upon request to those wishing to examine it for scientific research, and for those who would wish to gaze upon our organization's humble beginnings.

Sincerely,

- O5-18.


Amityville, Missouri
October 30th
Director Jacobs bit down into an apple as he surveyed the city below him. From the window of his office, he could see all of Amityville. From Strawberry Street School at the southernmost end to Ingram Park right next to the site. The leaves were brown, and despite it being late October, there was snow on the ground.
The snow was a perfectly normal weather phenomenon— several places in the nearby counties had been hit with snowfall. Still, it was deviant enough that he could blame it on the town and its inhabitants.
He'd been looking for an excuse to get rid of Jack Summers. The man was a history teacher, and had been deviating from the Foundation-approved curriculum at Amityville High School. It was one thing to teach students about World War II, it was another to spent six weeks on the Warsaw Uprising and go into detail about the guerrilla warfare that took place. Guerrilla warfare whose tactics were being used against Foundation staff. It was simple enough for right now, just kids throwing homemade stinkbombs in Foundation cars, but it would escalate.
He looked at the clock on his desk. Two minutes to midnight. He thanked God that he wasn't in Sloth's Pit. They were probably dealing with some kind of town-ending crisis, while the worst he had to do was cancel Trick-or-Treating for the seventh year in a row.
He took another bite of the apple and grimaced, spitting it out. He had just bitten into a maggot the size of his thumb.

Down in the town square, Agent Palmer wanted to say it was a quiet night. But he knew better— Amityville had a way of making you eat your words, and it had gotten hostile in recent months. A friend of his had commented on what a beautiful day it was, seconds before he was struck by lightning. His girlfriend said that the town was perfectly safe, before her apartment had collapsed— she wasn't in it, thank God. And Palmer himself had almost gotten a firework to the face back on the 4th after thinking that it would have been nice to let the townsfolk actually do something fun for once.
The clock tower above the disused courthouse read 11:59. In a minute, it would sound midnight, despite the fact that they had taken out every part that could conceivably create sound two years ago when they closed the courthouse. People expected the bell to ring, so ring it did.
Sure enough, when the hand hit midnight, the non-existent bells started ringing.
BONG
It took Palmer a second to realize that he could hear something coming from Benedict Avenue, right behind him.
BONG
He turned to face it. There was a citizen there. Out after curfew. He was a big guy, maybe six feet. He was just standing there. Probably trying to look intimidating.
BONG
Palmer raised his firearm. "State your business!" he yelled.
BONG
The figure just stood there, placid. Palmer wasn't even sure it was breathing.
"State your business or return to your home!" Palmer raised his gun.
BONG
The figure swayed. Palmer realized two things at the same time: firstly, that it was coming closer. Second, that it had a long, sharp knife in its hand.
BONG
Palmer fired. The crack of the rifle broke through the night, and drowned out the next
BONG
The figure fell over, its head taken off by the round. A gust of wind blew the figure towards Palmer, and it was now that he could see that it was entirely flat. It landed about six feet away from him.
BONG
He crossed over to it. He groaned and rubbed his face. It was a goddamn standee of Jason Vorhees advertising Friday the 13th Part 3. Whoever had set it up had probably taken it from the back room of the old movie theater, as a dumbass prank.
BONG
Palmer's radio crackled to life. «What was that? Do you have contact?» It was Agent Rhodes, his girlfriend.
"Negative," Palmer sighed. "Just dumbass kids pulling a prank. Spooked me. I'll fill out a report for spent ammo tomorrow."
BONG
The sound of the bell drowned out Rhodes's response, and concealed the footsteps coming up behind him.
BONG
Palmer didn't hear the knife being removed from its sheathe.
BONG
He didn't hear the bleating laugh as the goat-headed thing raised its blade.
BONG
He didn't realize something was wrong until the fourteenth
BONG
when he turned. He didn't have time to scream.
The BONG of the clock continued for the next hour.

Director Jacobs had fallen asleep at his desk. His mouth still tasted of maggot, and the apple he was eating had long since rotted. He grimaced, and opened his desk, thankful for the spare toothbrush he kept in there.
He had been intending to tint the windows of his office and use them as a makeshift mirror, but when he rose to find the tinting switch, he saw that there was a large, red '5' on the window.
"What the fuck?" Jacobs rubbed his eyes, and made his way towards the window. He saw a large crowd of people gathered outside, and for a moment, thought that the citizens of this shithole town were assembling again. But in the crowd, he recognized his secretary.
"What the fuck, what the fuck?" The director rubbed his eyes and made his way out of his office, towards the elevator. He entered it, and pressed the button for the ground floor. It was covered with something sticky— probably one of the fatasses from Gastronomy experimenting with caramel again.
Jacobs stopped by the front door, pulling the muster alarm. Only five agents showed up— that was enough for him to feel safe going outside, especially as he saw Agent Franklin among them. If Dalton was his left-hand man, then Franklin was his right. After a quick explanation of the situation, they headed outside.
When he exited, Jacobs paused, causing Franklin to run into his back. "What the fuck?"
"What is it, sir?" Franklin frowned at the quiet outside.
Everyone that had been assembled there had vanished. He didn't see them on the way back in, and they weren't fleeing the scene. Shaking, he turned to face the front of the building. His heart dropped into his balls as he saw what was written on the front— the '5' he had seen was, in fact, a large, red 'S'.
SEVEN SINNERS SEVEN SKIPPERS
SEVEN SOULS TO SET AFLAME
ONE IS DONE AND SIX REMAIN
JACOBS IS THE LASt WE SHALL CLAIM
It took Jacobs several seconds to realize that the "t" in "Last" wasn't written in blood, it wasn't written at all. It was a human body, its face mangled beyond recognition. On it was a Foundation-issued vest, and he could barely make out the name "PALMER" written on it.
Jacobs threw up in the bushes.

At the checkpoint at the edge of the Nexus zone, Commander Wentworth was unaware of the events that were taking place within Amityville. His Porsche— commandeered from a citizen of Amityville, naturally— was fueling up at the last bastion of freedom in the town, a BP station that was barely within the zone, and wasn't usually affected by the anomalies within.
Wentworth lit up a Michelson Light as he began fueling. He had just spent a very, very nice week in Florida, and was on his way back to town, where some cold beer and a big flat-screen was waiting for him. It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown was calling to him.
What was also calling to him was the gas station attendant, sticking his head from the station meekly. "S-sir!" He yelled. "P-please don't smoke while operating the pump."
Wentworth removed the cigarette from his mouth to talk. "Son, I've been driving since before you were a cumlet in your daddy's ballsack. I ain't gonna blow up now."
Wentworth had failed to notice that a drop of gasoline had fallen on his boot, in the exact same location where a single ember from his cigarette landed. He grunted out a "son of a bitch!" as he tried to stomp out the fire with his other shoe. Preoccupied by the spreading fire, he accidentally removed the still running pump handle from his gas tank.
"I warned him." The attendant shook his head, and contemplated calling 911. He decided against it, remembering who, exactly, he was dealing with.

«All citizens, exit your places of residence in a peaceful and orderly manner. A mandatory inspection of all residences is taking place. Refreshments will be provided. Thank you for your co-operation.»
The message had been playing on loop for half an hour at this point. The entire town was on the streets, and the security staff was inspecting everyone, young and old, asking them questions and strongly suggesting that they drink the apple cider which had been treated with a truth serum. A few citizens had been pre-selected for purging— Jacobs couldn't help but grin at the thought of Jack Summers fellating the barrel of a rifle, begging for his life.
Jacobs leaned back in the passenger seat of the armored car as it rumbled down the streets towards the mayor's office. The position was barely a figurehead anymore— the Foundation ruled the town, but elections gave the citizens some illusion of control. It helped that both candidates had been Foundation staff for the last eight elections.
In his office, Mayor Henry Dalton put down his mug down next to the microphone on his desk just as Jacobs came into the room. "Wentworth was outside the Nexus zone."
"As far as we know. If Sloth's Pit can double in size over the course of a month, then who's to say Amityville can't have grown by a few feet in the last few years?"
Reading the anger in Jacobs' face, Dalton blurted, "This is insane, even for you. I mean, first you kill the internet in the town. Then, you kill the airdrop privileges, then the right to assembly, and then the fucking wiretaps and bugs. The only reason this town hasn't risen against you is because you're drugging the fucking water supply. And now you're lining them up in the street to be shot?"
"Since when do you have a problem with that?" Jacobs asked.
"Since I decided that you are literally insane." He looked at his mug. "…you drugged the cider, didn't you?"
"It masks the taste better than coffee or soda. Plus, the shit from Sloth's Pit is good." Jacobs shrugged. "Besides, you're the one who put a bullet in not one but two of the Summers siblings. I think it's time we finish the job."
"—inish the job."
Jacobs blinked. "Is… has there always been an echo in here?"
Outside, there was an explosion. A car was overturned. Guns were fired, and agents were being routed.
Dalton looked down at his mug. He had left it resting on the microphone's broadcast button.
The former agent didn't even have time to beg for his life before Jacobs produced a pistol shot and him in the mouth once, twice, and then another ten times for good measure.

Jacobs ran between shattering glass and bullets. The Foundation had installed dozens of safehouses throughout the city that were meant specifically for situations like this— radiation-proof, below-ground, ten redundant reality anchors, and enough food and water to keep someone supplied for six months.
So, naturally, it didn't surprise Summers to find the nearest bunker in flames when he arrived, the contents looted. The same was true at the next two he visited. The next-best thing was an army surplus store at the tail end of the commercial district, long since gutted by the Foundation. He had a key to it in the form of a brick through the window.
This part of the city had already been subject to several riots, and another broken window wasn't going to draw the mob's attention, or so Jacobs hoped. He sat out of sight of the building and took out his phone, and called the site. A burst of static greeted him as the scramblers the Foundation had set up around town intercepted his call and made it unusable. A certain song about rain on one's wedding day came to mind.
"Fuck this shithole town!" He yelled.
"In there!"
The window was broken open even further, and in it poured half a dozen citizens, bearing what was clearly Foundation-issue weaponry. They all aimed the guns at him haphazardly, and Jacobs just laughed.
"What's so funny?" One of them hissed through his teeth.
"For one, you have godawful trigger discipline. For another, those are our guns. Try shooting me, I dare you."
There was a click of a trigger, followed by a massive
BANG!
and a crash of glass as the former holder of the gun was rocketed out of the building, through what was left of the window, and impacted on a brick wall across the street. The gun laid where the citizen had once stood, before breaking apart with a puff of smoke.
"Huh." Jacobs stood. "I knew it killed you, but I didn't know how. R&D likes slapstick, I gue—"
Jacobs quickly learned that R&D did not account for knocking out someone with the butt of the rifle.

"Sir? Sir!"
Jacobs awoke to find his tie in his face. It had been pulled over his head in some haphazard attempt at a noose; he could feel his neck bruised. He was bound to a chair in a very, very dark room. "Who's there?" He hissed.
"Agent Smythe. Is that you, Sir?"
"Jacobs will be fine." He grunted. His head was splitting. "Where the hell are we?"
"I don't know. We got overwhelmed by citizens on Elm street. They flipped our transport over. I ran and ended up falling into a fucking pit trap."
"They've been planning this." Jacobs gritted his teeth. "For years. Ungrateful pieces of shit."
In the darkness of the room, an array of red lights appeared.
1:00
"Jesus Christ." Jacobs swallowed. "Is that—"
"I think that's a bomb."
Behind Jacobs, light shined through. He looked behind him, and saw that a door had opened. "They're taunting us."
"I-I think I can get to my knife." Smythe was partially visible, bound in a way similar to how Jacobs was, except his hands were behind his back. He dropped the combat knife he had taken out. "Ah, shit!"
"Kick it to me if you can!" Jacobs's hands were bound in front of him. "I'll cut you out once I'm done!"
The timer started counting down.
0:58
Smythe kicked the knife to the director.
0:55
Jacobs strained to pick it up, clutching the blade in his fingers.
0:52
His hand bled.
0:49
The knife was sharp, and the ropes were weak.
0:45
Like light through glass.
0:41
His legs were even easier.
0:39
He crossed over to Smythe, and tried hacking at his ropes.
0:32
They were much harder to cut, some kind of woven plastic.
0:25
There was a metal core.
0:20
The bomb started beeping.
0:15
The core was being cut through.
0:10
But not fast enough.
0:09
Jacobs ran.
0:08
He was inside of some disused house, one the Foundation had condemned years ago.
0:08
He made his way to the front door, and flew out of it.
0:06
A horrendous noise originated behind him, and he ran.

Half an hour later, Jacobs ducked as brickwork over his head exploded with small-arms fire. A familiar voice called, "Stop or I'll shoot!"
Jacobs put his hands up, and kept them there, even as he sighed with relief and recognition. The man who had fired the shot was one of his agents. "Agent Franklin?" He groaned. "I-it's me, Jacobs."
"Shit." Franklin holstered his gun. "Sorry, sir."
"The town's crazy." Jacobs crossed over to him. "They— they shot Dalton, blew up Smythe, God knows what they're going to do to me. I…" He rubbed his face. "Christ. We need to get somewhere… somewhere safe."
"There's one safehouse left. Under the school." He swallowed. "I won't say anything else beyond that. H-half my squad, they… th-they got run over by a rogue schoolbus for not looking both ways when crossing Main Street…"
"This town is fucked." Jacobs agreed. He only got this position because he was willing to put his foot down and bring some order to this place. "Come on. Let's go."
Franklin and Jacobs looked both ways as they crossed each street. A block later, Jacobs was about to turn into an Alleyway, when Franklin stopped him. "What the hell?"
Franklin shined a flashlight on the pavement, revealing dozens of cracks criss-crossing it. "Step on a crack, break your father's back."
"You can't be serious." Even so, Jacobs stepped carefully onto the pavement, tip-toeing across the cracks— and then he saw what was in the center of the alley. Opened in the middle, in such a way that it could not be walked around, was a stepladder. The intent was clear: for them to have to step under it and be affected with bad luck.
"Shoot it." Jacobs growled. "Knock it over."
"Right." Franklin took aim at the structure, his hands shaking. He looked down at his feet, carefully crouched, and fired.
The gunshot tore through the night, and the clatter the ladder made was cacophonous. Franklin practically teleported across the alley as he heard a 'what was that?' from a block behind him.
"Damn townies are setting traps." Jacobs panted, leaning on a wall at the other side of the alley. His breath stopped entirely as he realized what he was leaning on: a sign which read:

Historic Amityville Cemetary

Even he knew to not breathe if you were going past it. Going into it, you were safe. But beyond this two-block long monstrosity was the school. Jacobs motioned to Franklin, taking a deep breath and holding it.
The two of them walked along, slowly, their footsteps echoing through the empty streets as gunfire sounded and flames were visible in the sky above. It was going to rain. Perhaps. Jacobs shut his eyes and walked slowly. They could cross the street, sure, but that was going to do more harm than good— if they didn't cross it quickly enough and started breathing, who knows what would happen?
Jacobs felt a sneeze coming on, his eyes watering. The wall of the cemetery seemed to go on for ages. He wondered why the sign was misspelled. Was it part of some kind of code the townsfolk had set up? Something to say "Ay, don't breathe here or you'll die?" And how did the death here work? Were their souls pulled out of their body? Were—
Franklin grabbed Jacobs by the sleeve of his coat as he almost crossed the far street without looking both ways. They had made it past the cemetery. The school was in sight, its windows boarded up.
It was when Franklin made the biggest mistake of his life. He said six words that should never be said in Amityville: "I think we're in the clear."
A gunshot tore through the night, striking Franklin in the leg and sending him sprawling. Jacobs bent to try to help his fellow man up— and then his skin blanched as he saw the figure that was holding the smoking gun.
It was at least six feet tall, clad in black dress pants, fur all over, and possessing the head of a goat with six horns. The eyes were oddly soulless, and its mouth was foaming. It threw aside the gun and took up a hatchet. "Not possible." Jacobs gaped. "Y-y-y-you're meant to be in Sloth's Pit!"
The Goatman's head tilted, and it took up its axe in both hands, trudging its way towards Franklin. True to his character as a coward, Jacobs turned and ran towards the school.
Franklin reached for his gun, only to find that his director had taken it. He screamed as the Goatman descended upon him.

Outside of the school, Amityville burned. There were triumphant cries over the loudspeaker, of how they had reclaimed their town. Jacobs couldn't help but laugh as he walked through the empty halls— the Foundation would be flying overhead anytime now, to rescue him, and Penzance Protocol this place out of existence.
For now, Jacobs had a score to settle. He knew what would be waiting in the history classroom, decorated with paper bats and Jack-o-Lanterns. There was a figure leaning back on the desk, who looked up as Jacobs entered the room. "Director Jacobs, I presume."
"Summers." Jacobs hissed.
In front of him, Jack Summers adjusted his glasses. It was the first time Jacobs had gotten a good look at him. He expected a wiry schoolteacher, with arms the same diameter as the pencils he used to write detention slips, and a stutter in his voice. Probably balding, like his idiot brothers.
Instead, leaning on the desk was a well-built man, blood soaking a bandanna he had tied around his forehead as a form of makeshift bandage. One hand was on a Beretta look-alike, the other was under a torn jacket, clearly nursing a wound. "You have any idea how long I've been waiting for this?" Summers raised the gun. "Years, and years, and years. Now, you're going to die."
Jacobs's eyes went to the gun. He let out a laugh and shook his head. "You'll have to come over here to do that. That's Foundation-issue."
"And?"
"Only a Foundation agent can fire that. They're genetically locked otherwise, with at least twelve redundancies—"
A bullet hit off the wall beside Jacobs's head. The director yelped and cowered, staring as Summers stood to his full height, pulling his hand out of his coat and revealing a badge bearing the insignia of a fox's head wreathed by nine tails. "What the fuck?"
"Epsilon-11. Got approached after your grunts shot up my family. Did you know they can download training into your mind, fucking Matrix style? That was a trip!"
"Wha— how—"
"I was authorized to, and I quote, 'use any and all means at your disposal to arrest Director Jacobs'." Agent Summers shook his head. "You needed to be put in your place, and this is the way we decided to do it."
"You killed at least half a dozen personnel!" Jacobs protested. "They're never going to take me to trial!"
"You killed Dalton. Saved me a bullet or fifty. Scumbag."
"What about Wentworth?"
"Wentworth was a freak accident. I think the town was just playing along."
"Palmer?"
"In a secure location. We borrowed a stiff from the county morgue and skinned him before crucifying him on the building."
"Smythe—"
"Fake bomb, good sound effects."
"A-and-and Franklin?"
"Come on, seriously?! The Goatman is a Sloth's Pit thing, it was a costume! We needed to capture all of you so you could stand trial for the deaths of… literally dozens of citizens. Including my brothers." Summers pulled back the slide on the pistol and approached Jacobs. "We just decided to have a little fun."
"Y-you don't want to do that!" Jacobs sounded more pathetic than he would have liked. "W-wouldn't you rather have me rot in prison for what I've done?"
"I'd be doing you favor. The trial's secret, and you're probably going to be made D-Class." He aimed the pistol right at Jacobs's head.
Summers pulled the trigger.
It clicked on an empty chamber.
Jacobs screamed, and curled up into a ball.
"You tried taking over a town that loves this kind of thing— superstitions, subversion of expectations, rituals." Summers grinned and came right up to Jacobs's ear. "What. Did you. Expect?"

Hub


October 31st
Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
"Close the portal! Close it now!"
"I can't— Kat's still on the other side!"
"God dammit, get her through there! Does anyone have, like, a lasso or anything?"
"Fuck it. I'm going in after her."
"You can't! If we don't close the portal by midnight, the world will be overrun by the souls of everyone who has ever died!"
"I'm not about to leave Kathryn behind. Now, I'm going to roll strength to try to resist the dimensional wind—" Montgomery Reynolds shook his hand, and winced as the twenty-sided die he had in it flew out of his grip and struck the far wall of the common room with an audible clatter. "Hell's Bells, son of a bitch."
"I keep on telling you not to roll dice with your gloves on!" From behind his DM screen, Tristan Bailey concealed a roll of his eyes underneath his wide-brimmed hat. "Sinclair, do you mind?"
"Seriously?" Katherine Sinclair tilted her head, pulling off one of her furred gloves. "Kind of a waste." She spoke a word under her breath, and the die started floating towards her.
"I mean, you have a blank check when it comes to magic use for the whole of October, and last I checked, it's still October." Tristan shrugged, looking at Reynolds. "Seriously, dude can't you just take off the gloves?"
"Would you prefer your dice to be covered in green bodypaint?" Reynolds adjusted his fake ears. "It was the best way to convey that my character was orcish on short notice."
Sinclair plucked the twenty-sided die out of thin air and handed it back to her partner, giving a smile from behind her fur-and-foam mask. "Where the hell did Pike go off to? She was meant to be back with cider twenty minutes ago."
"Probably untangling her husband from his costume again." Tristan rolled his eyes. "I don't know why he insisted on wearing something like that. I don't care what he says, 'Combat Clothing' is a stupid idea for a monk."
"It lets their ki flow through their body, which they then enhance w—" Dr. Claude Mattings's entrance, and his sentence, were foiled by him tripping over a far-too-long pant leg, only for him to be caught by his wife.
"Yeah, well, your monk can wear them because he has 22 Dex and a high enough acrobatics that Natural 1's do nothing." Cassandra Pike propped up Claude using her druid's staff. "Sorry about that. Dumbass got pantsed by the elevator."
"No cider?" Reynolds frowned.
"Saving it for the party." Pike shook her head. "And Claude was barred from gastronomy's kitchen on account of being 'highly flammable'."
"Hmm." Sinclair replaced her glove and beckoned them over. "Well, come on. Monty's about to jump back into the rift to try to save my ass."
"Just because you're fascinated by magical phenomena out of character doesn't mean it has to be the same in character." Reynolds gave a playful smile, and rolled his dice. It looked as if though it were about to land on a twenty—
And then the alarms started. Startled, Tristan bumped the table, sending the various character sheets, miniatures, and dice upon it around. "What the fuck?"
«All Personnel, This is a Code Sparagmos.» The message was automated, and sounded like it hadn't been updated since the early 90's. «Please Report To The Designated Meeting Areas And Await Further Instructions From Your Department Heads.»
"Guess the game's off." Claude sighed, halfway to the table. "Very well, then. Cassandra, Biology's meeting area is on Sublevel 3, outside the Entymology Lab. Grant's probably going to be happy to have a distraction from those damned mantids."
"At least take off the costume. You'll be tripping the whole way down." Pike rolled her eyes and made her way out beside her husband.
Sinclair made her way out of the room alongside Reynolds, managing to catch an elevator with a very confused-looking Christopher Hastings. The botanist blinked at the pair of them. "So much for peace and quiet." Hastings adjusted the small bonsai tree he was holding in his arms.
"We were doing so well this year." Sinclair sighed, taking off the head of her costume and wiping the sweat from her brow. "I mean, yes, it is raining candy corn on League Street, but that'll clear up by tomorrow. Plus, we managed to shut down that cursed mask shop before it could do any real harm."
"I dunno," Hastings mused, "It looks to me like Reynolds got his head stuck in one."
Reynolds rolled his eyes, frowning as he saw the green paint fading away from his hands. "I swear, if this was caused by someone saying 'We're almost in the clear', I'm going to find the person that said that, and—"

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw." In the barracks, Agent Allison Carol had awoke with a start and hit her head on the underside of the cot above her. She already felt the goose egg forming underneath her hair. "Fucking ow."
"Asleep on Halloween Night? Bold move, let's see how it plays out." A hand was extended to her, belonging to Robert Tofflemire, her partner.
"I wasn't sleeping! I was just… resting my eyes." Allison rubbed her head and stood up under her own power. "About time this happened. Code Spagarmos? Massive Nexus Anomalies?"
"Sparagmos." Robert nodded. "Referring to the act of dismemberment committed while under the influence of various wines and hallucinogens during a Dionysian ritual."
Allison blinked. "How do you know—"
"Youtube."
"Of course." Allison made her way to the door of the barracks, towards her locker, where the thumbprint unlocked the metal door. "Still, not much we can do from here, other than monitor it. Like, we're not seriously deploying agents from Wisconsin in fucking… what's that one nexus in Korea, the one with the fog?"
"I mean, on the other hand, Amityville is an hour flight, and that's probably blowing up." Robert shook his head. "But no, I don't think we have to worry about actually being deployed. We're more… holding down the fort?"
Allison nodded, opening her locker. She fell backwards, startled, as a large amount of papers and books came spilling out. She sighed as she saw the culprit— shoddy welding on a shelf within the locker. "Fucker."
"Your research?" Robert raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah." Allison scooped up what she could and put them on a bench. Several cassette tapes clattered out. "Shit."
"A lot to have accumulated in the past month." Robert picked up one of the tapes. "And when were you planning to share this with Nexus Research?"
"Like, a month ago, but I got caught up in everything." Allison gathered what she could. "Like. Pretty much every Nexus has a point of failure— something that could happen to make it all fall down, whether physically, thematically or ontologically. I've found the breaking point for a lot of them, but there are a few I can't riddle out."
"Then take it to them! We're mustering there, anyway, Weiss needs all hands on deck."
"I-I don't think it's ready." Allison picked up several tapes. "I feel like I've been slacking on it. What if I get things wrong? What if—"
"Allison. I literally died a year ago. Neither of us are normal anymore!" To punctuate this, Robert stuck his hand into his pocket and drew out the dial of a Kant counter, before throwing it over his shoulder, where it vanished in a flash of narrative whitespace. "I can literally pull things out of my ass, and…" He sighed. "We never did figure out what your deal is, did we?"
"It doesn't matter." Allison shut the door to her locker, wincing as a stray thread of her shirt was caught in the door. "Just… help me gather up what we can, and we can take it to Weiss."
"All right." Robert looked around with a soft frown. "…you know, I think we're the only two people in here, still. It's like the room emptied out so we could have this conversation."
"Whatever you're insinuating, can it." Allison picked up a ream of paper. "We've got shit to do."

Nexus Research was located on Sublevel 7. The main control room resembled what one thought Mission Control at NASA looked like circa 1960, albeit with all of the computers running Windows 7 as opposed to punch cards.
Staff from all across the site were running between work stations. Some, like Sinclair and Reynolds, were frantically transcribing data about global thaumic disturbances. The head of Parazoology was in a heated phone call with someone in Boring. Every translator on the site had a phone in both hands, alternately texting and answering them.
And looking down on it all, from her auxiliary director's office, was Nina Weiss. A golden apple laid on her desk, tempting her to eat it. She'd tried throwing it away, crushing it, even shooting it once. It always came back. The tablet built into her desk displayed up-to-the-second updates about the situation around the world, and she wondered if she hadn't made a mistake by not calling a Code Sparagmos earlier. They had known about the anomalies as far back as the equinox last month, but it was just now that they were spiking up.
Nina Weiss was about to entertain the thought of retirement as she heard a stack of papers being deposited on her desk. She turned to see Allison Carol, sweating from exertion. "…I didn't hear you come in."
"Nor did I." Allison shook her head. "That's not important. Ma'am, I've highlighted a few areas that I think may be affected by SCP-4683. I…" She coughed. "'scuse me. I think that it would be in your best interest to focus on them as opposed to anywhere else."
Weiss was incredulous as she picked up the first sheet of paper, which listed anomaly occurrence patterns. The next was a map of leylines, the one after that a series of spreadsheets… Nina Weiss hadn't read this kind of data in years, and was used to getting summaries of it from her subordinates, easy-to-swallow pills that even a monkey could understand, and it had dulled her ability to process proper scientific data. But for some reason, all of this clicked. It made sense. As the cool kids said, she grokked it. "…how in the hell…" Her head throbbed.
"Well?" Allison wrung her hands together. "What do you think?"
Nina Weiss sat in silence for a few minutes. "I think, Miss Carol, that I need to address the site."
Director Weiss tapped button on her tablet to open up a direct audio feed to the whole of the site.

And then, she gave a speech.


Yumegemu, Tokushima, Japan
October 31st
The vending machine's coin slot had been blocked by the image of the Virgin Mary for the third time that week. Agent Kichiro Saito considered just sticking his knife under it and peeling it off, but that would probably damage the machine itself.
"Don't have time for this Biohazard bullshit." He grumbled to himself. He began searching a series of flowered plants that dotted the street around the vending machine, until he saw a glimmer of light coming from one. An image of the Virgin Mary was printed on a seal. "Didn't spawn halfway across town for once, thank God."
With that, Agent Saito made his way back to the vending machine and pressed the seal on top of the image. Both of them dissipated, and he was free to put in 500 yen in order to order the apple soda he wanted.
He'd never seen the brand before— it was American, clearly, but he didn't recognize the brand. 'Chapman Cider Soda' sounded interesting, at least.
The bottle opener on the machine had been removed, no doubt to be used as a key to unlock whatever treasure was inside it this week. He shook his head, and used the keys on his key ring instead, taking a long swig of it as he made his way back to his vehicle.
In his van, he picked up the receiver of his radio. "This is Saito in District 10. Nothing out of the ordinary to report."
"You're the last to check in." On the other end of the line, Director Yamauchi sounded relieved. "All right. Make your way back to Site-79, we have some things to discuss before night falls."
"Right." Saito took a swig of the soda, before putting it in his cup holder and driving off down the winding, ever-changing streets. There was a slight fog forming on the pavement, but nothing out of the ordinary for this time of year.
Or so he thought.

Halfway to the site, Saito's van made a horrendous sound, and the engine gave out.
"Damn it all." He put the vehicle in park and exited it. "If I have to solve some kind of crossword puzzle to repair this, I swear—"
He looked in the engine compartment, and scowled as he saw that his engine was missing entirely, instead being replaced by a small, red notebook. "What in the fuck…" He muttered, picking up the notebook. He expected to find a hint inside about whatever yokai took his engine. Instead, he found the text:

He looked in the engine compartment, and scowled as he saw that his engine was missing entirely, instead being replaced by a small, red notebook. "What in the fuck…" He muttered, picking up the notebook. He expected to find a hint inside about whatever yokai took his engine. Instead, he found the text:

He looked in the engine compartment, and scowled as he saw that his engine was missing entirely, instead being replaced by a small, red notebook. "What in the fuck…" He muttered, picking up the notebook. He expected to find a hint inside about whatever yokai took his engine. Instead, he found the text:

He looked in the engine compartment, and scowled as he saw that his engine was missing entirely, instead being replaced by a small, red notebook. "What in the fuck…" He muttered, picking up the notebook. He expected to find a hint inside about whatever yokai took his engine. Instead, he found the text:

It went on like this for a while.

Saito, unnerved, closed the book and put it in his pocket. The air around him made a soft beeping sound as he made his way back into his car. "Uh. Site-79, come in."
«Go ahead, Saito.»
"I… think I've encountered some kind of… weird… thing. I'm not sure how to describe it, but there's fog everywhere, and my engine's missing. There's a weird noteboo-" he looked in his pocket. The notebook was gone. "I'll… call you back."
He looked back in the engine compartment. The notebook had replaced itself. With no engine, Saito would have to walk the rest of the way.
He recognized the street he was on— the ramen shop a few doors down had a puzzle door that let you travel halfway across town, so he could use that, provided he could remember the combination. He entered the shop, expecting to hear the chiming of the bell overhead—
And instead, he saw his own body, sans head, crumple before him as his skull hit the concrete.
[Bad End]

He looked in the engine compartment, and scowled as he saw that his engine was missing entirely, instead being replaced by a small, red notebook. "What in the fuck…" He muttered, picking up the notebook. He expected to find a hint inside about whatever yokai took his engine.
Saito blinked. He looked down at the notebook, then felt around his neck. It was intact. He opened the notebook, and found the same text as before. Before when? He remembered going into the ramen shop, and then…
He lurked down the street, and ducked down as he entered the shop. A blade came from around the corner of the door, at around where Saito's neck would be. His eyes widened as he realized the interior of the shop was red, rusted, and smelled of blood.
He crawled back out of the shop, and made his way back to the van, where he opened the notebook again. The text had changed to read:

He lurked down the street, and ducked down as he entered the shop. A blade came from around the corner of the door, at around where Saito's neck would be. His eyes widened as he realized the interior of the shop was red, rusted, and smelled of blood.

He crawled back out of the shop, and made his way back to the van, where he opened the notebook again. The text had changed to read:

And more nested text. Saito reached into his van and picked up the soda, knocking it back. "Right." He rubbed his face. "It's like Silent Hlll. Those pachinko machines. Nothing too bad." He looked at the bottle, and stowed it in his back pocket, realizing that he shouldn't have been able to do that. "And phantom inventory rules apply. Cool."
Something stirred in the fog around him. He touched the notebook, and decided the ramen shop was a lost cause. It should only be a twenty-minute walk back to Site-79. He started down the street.

There was a movie theater a few minutes down the road. The trouble was, this particular theater was halfway across town. The marquee displayed nonsense characters— they might have been katakana at one point, but now, they were just scribbles.
He knew this theater was a shortcut, as well, like the Ramen Shop, but the puzzle for it was far more arcane— it involved film trivia, of all things, because of course it did. Not anything like Kurosawa would make, naturally, but American films. Action films, naturally. Usually from the 1980's.
The puzzle was on a door that lead to the projectionist's rooms. There were ten questions on it, with different answers for each person. Or there were supposed to be. Saito only saw three. He took another swig of his soda, and read them over.

1) The 2000 Horror Film Final Destination was originally:
a) A novel
b) An episode for the American tv show The X-Files
c) A note scrawled on a napkin in Kichiro Saito's Blood
d) A Nintendo game
2) The word "Red" in the American Horror Film "Red State" refers to:
a) The Color of Blood
b) The color of the main character's dress
c) The American Conservative Party
d) The color your face goes when you watch
3) The word "テラトフィリア"means an attraction to which of these horror movie characters:
a) Sadako
b) The Xenomorph
c) Jason Vorhees
d) Edgar Allen Poe

Saito didn't recognize the word in the third question. It was something in English, written in Katakana. He tried to sound it out. "Ter.. tera… terat…" He scowled.
He knew the answer to the first one from his sister— it was B. The second one he was pretty sure was C, but the third one… at random, he circled D.
The paper rolled back into the door, and it opened into a passageway. It was at this point that Saito realized that there was a red notebook pinned on the wall next to him. He touched it, curious, but didn't open it.
The walked into the Hallway, and felt the mouth that it had turned into crunch around him.
[Bad End]

He looked in the engine compartment, and scowled as he saw that his engine was missing entirely, instead being replaced by a small, red notebook. "What in the fuck…" He muttered, picking up the notebook. He expected to find a hint inside about whatever yokai took his engine.
"Fuck." He rubbed his face. "Movie theater's bad, ramen shop is bad. What other shortcuts are there?"
He started walking in the direction he came from, hoping to get out of the fog in this manner. He found himself in front of a wall of vending machines, blocking the road. All but one of them had a seal on the front, depicting some bizarre figure from the west— a dragon with dozens of eyes on its back, a giant snail, a man with hundreds of hands. The machines extended in both directions, cutting into the buildings on either side. At the center was a machine that sold nothing but the Chapman's Cider Soda.
Hesitant, Saito looked at the prices on the machine. It said "exact change only", and in the coin return slot, there were ten five-hundred yen coins. A single drink cost six-hundred.
One of the buildings near him was a garage. He took up two of the coins, and brought them into the building, finding a van in there that was a near-exact copy of his own. He considered driving it off, but knew better than that at this point.
He made his way to a small apparatus on one of the benches. He didn't know the name of it, but he knew it was used for cutting metal. Saito inserted one of the five-hundred yen coins into the machine, and cut it into fifths.
"This has to be one-hundred yen." He picked up the fifth of coin, and brought it back to the machine. He put it into the vending machine, along with a single five-hundred yen coin, and pressed a button.
The vending machine fell on top of him as he remembered the hundred yen coin in his pocket.
[Bad End]

Saito screamed as his face was cut open by a woman who he lied to about being pretty after she took off a mask to reveal her head was split in twain at the cheeks.
[Bad End]

The house he had taken shelter in for the past three hours was awake, and hungry. He was dragged screaming into a closet by something that may have been a tongue.
[Bad End]

Site-79 was in sight. It was on the horizon. It would be on the horizon until Saito died of thirst three days later.
[Bad End]

He shot himself.
[Bad End]

Kichiro Saito tried burning the notebook. His form faded from existence.
[Bad End]

He got past the theater puzzle after nine tries. On the other side, he should have found solace. But all that was there was a room with a record player and a red notebook.
Shaking, Seito opened the notebook.
Saito? Seito? He didn't know his name anymore. It was written on the inside, surely, somewhere.

It wasn't. All that was there was a record of his failures, and a new place to start making new ones. He threw the notebook across the room, only to find it in the same place after he took his hands from his eyes after three minutes of sobbing.

He threw the notebook across the room, only to find it in the same place after he took his hands from his eyes after three minutes of sobbing.
"This is a game." He gritted his teeth. "There are rules. There has to be a— a solution, a walkthrough, a hint system, something. A hint. I need a hint. I need help." He looked into the empty room. "Help!"
Something glinted in the corner of the room. It was another bottle of the cider soda— its cap was halfway off, and he saw that there was text on the opposite side. He picked it up and saw it read:

You can re-start the game any time by going back to your van and turning the ignition key.

He turned towards the door. Or rather, the wall where the door had been.
He shot himself.
[Bad End]

Keichiro/Kichiro/Kechiro Seito/Saito threw the notebook across the room, only to find it in the same place after he took his hands from his eyes after three minutes of sobbing.
He paced around the room, looking for any seam in the wall, any place where there might be a door, a hole, anything. Any hint, any depression, any seal. Yumegemu operated on the principle that it was a dream game, and games had to be winnable.
Kichiro Seito contemplated the soda in his Phantom Inventory. It was the only item that stayed with him throughout the dozens of reloads. And there was another one in here now. The bottle in here was empty, and the bottle he had was full. What's more, the bottle here was immovable— he could take off the cap, but couldn't lift it.
Shaking, he poured the cider soda from the full bottle into the empty one. Despite his trembling, the soda went in in a steady stream, and when it was full, he heard a buzz and a click.
The soda in his Phantom Inventory vanished, bottle and all, as they were no longer needed. There was an opening on the opposite wall, and at the other end, a light.
He went through.

At the other end of the hallway, a control room sat. At least, that's what Keichiro assumed it was.
A large, grey box sat in the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by a large bay of windows that overlooked Yumegemu's skyline— it was twilight, and the fog was gone. Keichiro could see cars in the streets below, and he could even smell the takoyaki from the stand below being fried. There was the sound of buttons being pressed, and beeping.
Keichiro drew his gun, and ran in to confront his oppressor, the one who had made his life miserable. His heart sank as he saw what was doing this.
A cat sat at the controls, randomly pushing buttons which all had the characters "悲惨" on them. "Hisan". Misery. It was a calico, and pretty cute. Keichiro couldn't bring himself to shoot it— not that his gun would work. He knew his weapon was non-functional, because the cat jumped off the controls and nuzzled against his leg, as the screen on the control panel turned green, and a pair of words were burned into Keichiro's eyes.
[Joke End]
Keichiro Saito laughed as he stumbled to the window.
He got the joke ending.
The joke ending.
Weeks of hell, and he got the joke ending. He laughed, tripping over the cat. The glass of the window gave way, and he laughed all the way onto the takoyaki cart below.

Hub


close

Info

X

More by this author

|Hub|

Dear Olivia,
I don't know why I ever started talking to you again. Our relationship was a failure. You were abusive, and I would put up with it. You always said you would change, I just needed to give you another chance, and I would, but you'd keep on reverting back to your old behavior. Ignoring me when you don't need me. Messaging me when you do.
That's why I left you. Can you blame me?
But now, five years later, here I am. Exchanging letters with you again, just like we did back in high school. You have changed, I think. You're just… so indescribably kind.
I'll never forget that night I met you— the real you.
There were fish falling from the sky. A romantic setting, I know. A giant catfish was about to hit my head when you pushed me away, concerned. And then you realized it was me, and I could see the guilt in your eyes.
That's a good sign, you know? Resentment for your actions. It was from that point that I realized you reinvented yourself.
Then another catfish fell and hit you right in the head, and we laughed together.
You hugged me that day, and I didn't realize how touch-starved I really had been.
Your warmth and your love just… enveloped me. I feel captivated— but in a good way.
I love you now.
So when you read this letter years from now, when I'm dead, I want you to remember that. I love you, and you've done great things.
The world has a place for you, it already brought us together with those two catfish. Maybe it was fate. Maybe the world just needed another sweet love story.
God, I could just go on and on…
I'll say it again.
I love you. Don't forget that. And maybe if you don't forget me, I won't have to leave.
- Yours sincerely, Taylor.

More From This Author

More From This Author

Ellie3's Works

SCPs

SCP-5986 •

SCP-4492 •

SCP-7308 •

SCP-7300 •

SCP-2019-J •

SCP-4874 •

SCP-5033 •

Tales/GoI Formats

The Many Business Ventures of S & C Plastics •

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far •

Find Your Way Back Home •

Come Wayward Souls •

Extradimensional Purchase: "Wondertainment Vacation Spot!" •

Critter Profile: Cappi! •

Home Sick •

S & C Plastics Actually Does Their Job •

(Not The) Foundation Fight Club! •

Memory Dives & Deep Desires •

Critter Profile: Vizzie! •

The Bed Salesman: A Brief Interlude •

Starlow Grocery •

I hope this isn't just a dream. •

Herman Fuller Presents: The Tunnel Of Love! •

Other

Ellie3 (Gimmick Free!) •


close

Info

X

More by this author

Robert Hughes' eyes crinkled open as a ray of light shined into his face.
"Mr. Hughes." A voice spoke in front of him. "So, I heard you won the lottery. Again. What is this now, the third time?"
"L— listen, I can, um…" Squinting past the harsh brightness, all Robert could see was a silhouette, its hand on the lamp pointed at him. "I can pay you!" This wasn't his first rodeo. It's amazing, really, the number of people who tried to kidnap one of the richest people in the country. "Any amount you want. I— I could even give you all my winnings if you really want them!" He stalled, wriggling his cuffed hands around behind the cold, metal chair.
"I'm not interested in money, Mr. Hughes, I'm interested in you."
Robert paused.
"Well, I'm gonna be honest, I'm not really into this, so if you're trying to seduce—"
"Stop. I mean I'm interested in your abilities."
A pit opened in Robert's stomach. "My… se—"
"Don't finish that sentence. You know exactly what I mean. No normal person could win the lottery three times in a row."
"But, um, if I weren't normal, then wouldn't I have been able to escape by now?"
"Yes. So we made precautions. You can stop reaching for the paperclip in your… sleeve pocket? Did you really sew a pocket into the sleeve of your shirt?"
Robert shrugged his shoulders as he quickly grabbed the clip, jamming it into the keyhole of his handcuffs. His right cuff fell loose. "What can I say? I'm kinda used to this."
"Robert."
"Yes?"
"You're locked in a top secret facility in the middle of the desert."
"Mmhmm."
"There's a guard on the other side of the door, which is behind me, someone who was specially trained to catch you."
"Okay."
"And even if, by some miracle, you managed to escape, I'd be able to call a team to hunt you down and get you right back in here."
"Right."
"Whatever you're planning, I suggest you don't follow through, because you'll end up right back in here with me again."
"Cool."
"So. What are you going to do? Sit in that chair and answer my questions?"
"Nah. I'm gonna execute my plan flawlessly." Robert smirked.
"I'd like to see you—"

Incident 6249-01
Date: 12/03/2019
Incident Report: POI-7342 (Robert Hughes) subdued Agent Pines, who had been conducting an interrogation. Using Agent Pines' keycard and uniform, he gained access to a Foundation vehicle, which he used to escape the Site. Security has been unable to locate him as of yet.

Agent Pines held an ice pack up to the bump on their head, clicking the Submit button on the incident report with their other hand.
"I swear, I'll catch you next time," he muttered. "Lucky bastard…"

More From This Author

More From This Author

Ellie3's Works

SCPs

SCP-7300 •

SCP-5033 •

SCP-7308 •

SCP-5986 •

SCP-2019-J •

SCP-4874 •

SCP-4492 •

Tales/GoI Formats

Learn To Live •

they'll always find a Way in •

Cuteness On Main! •

Home Sick •

(Not The) Foundation Fight Club! •

SCP-ide •

S & C Plastics Actually Does Their Job •

Starlow Grocery •

Talloran Shoots Archduke Franz Ferdinand •

There's a Job For Everyone •

Memory Dives & Deep Desires •

Fishbowl •

A Hero I Would Be! •

No Cars Allowed •

Critter Profile: Cappi! •

Other

Ellie3 (Gimmick Free!) •


« Previous Tale | MUCKSCAPE / MEGAGRID / MAYHEM | Next Tale »

Flea hung limp as she was pulled further back. The Drinkhole's automatic door slid shut again, blocking a bout of authoritative shouts and harsh floodlights. It would have blocked gunshots just as well, and had done so countless times in the past. Grenades, rockets, and even industrial lasers would have been useless. Corporate security couldn't be trusted not to lug along bunker busters though, thermonuclear or otherwise.
"Let go," she said flatly. Her boots dragged along the welcome mat, then smooth linoleum. "Let go, or bad things are gonna happen. Real bad things."
"I'll endure," said Abigail. Her grip was firmer than that of Flea's former collaborator. Weaker, but far more unyielding. Her wellspring of strength likely bubbled from a different spring than the usual cocktails of steroids quaffed in the criminal underworld, and her knuckles felt unusually warm.
"Don't you know who I am?"
"Wouldn't have expected to hear that kind of thing from someone like you."
"I wasn't actually going to actually say who."
"Keep it to yourself and start walking then."
Flea consented to be dragged on in silence instead. The bar's other patrons were all panicking, scrambling for the secret exits tucked into every dark corner of the establishment. They pulled up floor panels, kicked down plywood walls, and generally scurried out like the rats they were. No surprises there. Each and every one of them had surely offended corporate security enough to feel responsible for the heavily-armed ire outside. Flea's feathered followers hopped along tables and chairs as she passed, adding their nonsensical chatter to the cacophony of shouting voices, toppling furniture, and heavy banging against the front door.
Abigail relinquished her hold at the top of the stairs leading down to the manager's office. The stairwell was steep, dark, and narrow, all befitting a descent into that nightmarish place. Spending any time in a cramped room full of old football trophies and molding takeout would give anyone rashes, all befitting the human irritant lurking within.
"You don't wanna go down there." Flea straightened her coat, sending a few stray bugs to flight and even more flailing down to the floor. They skittered away even faster than her fellow criminals. "Follow a regular out one of the side exits. It's not like being here's illegal, or at least not super illegal. Flash some cash and you'll be fine."
"Don't worry about me. I've dragged employees off from worse places than this, and in worse states than yours. Downstairs."
"I don't work for you."
"You will, if you know what's good for you."
"You don't know what's good for me either."
"Keeping out of prison is a good start. Cell blocks aren't exactly beachfront resorts."
"'bout as humid. How many does your company rent?"
"Enough to know. Now move."
One big hand pressed firmly against Flea's upper back as the hammering at the door grew louder. It took on a swift rhythm, each blow a sharp clash of metal against metal. She glanced over one shoulder at the security shutters and got a faceful of algae-colored feathers instead.
You should take her offer, counseled one of the birds.
She can always be disposed of later, agreed the other. Swallow your pride for now.
So long as you don't choke on it, at least. Your family always laid far too generous a feast by far.
Will you ever stop?
Will you repair what you've ruined?
"Just shut up already," muttered Flea. Being cursed with these visions was bad enough without them squabbling. If she wanted to be burdened with otherworldly manifestations and constant bickering, staying at home would have been an easier option by far. They continued their squawking though, Abigail's hand pressed ever more insistently, and there really wasn't anything to do but follow her lead at that point. Flea would just have to trust that things would work out in the end.
Each step was sticky under her boots. Each tug reminded that her mantra had already failed three times in the past day. She could just stay, the squelches said. She could find her own way out instead. There was no need to dive into every coursing current, buoyed only by faith that the waves would favor her. But, no, those weren't real options at all. Abigail had her dead to rights on breaking and entering a corporate facility, which was easily worth twenty years in prison. Whoever had arrived outside just as assuredly knew she was in the Drinkhole, and their arrival seemed far too coincidental to be aimed at anyone else. No, the world's intangible tension had fully settled upon her chest, and escape wouldn't come easily. To be favored by fate, she would first have to persist.
A flickering orange light illuminated the landing halfway down the stairs. Abigail stopped, peered down toward the owner's office below, then eased open a narrow door set into the bare steel wall. It whined, but relented under her heavy hand. Much as Flea herself had, one of her mothers would surely chide in one of their tired tones. The pair passed through, following a heard of crawling beetles down a narrow corridor lit by the same ancient bulbs, and emerged in a small cradle hanger.
Three hovercars hung from their docking apparatuses above a sloped shaft that led out into the gaping ventilation shaft outside. Two of the vehicles were jagged, angular things with tinted windows and aggressively clashing paint jobs. A third was dull, black, heavily scuffed, and utterly unremarkable. Flea was hardly surprised that the boring one stirred at Abigail's approach. She hardly seemed like the sort of person to drive anything exciting.
"Get in," barked the towering executive, who seemed even larger when not surrounded by equally massive slabs of chemically enhanced muscle. Huge, even after she pulled off the parka and threw it behind the driver's seat.
"Where are we going?"
"Just get in already." The flu mask hid her frown, but it was clear from her eyes regardless. Both were surely the same, sharp and dangerous. Sharp, dangerous, and disinterested in any more conversation. Flea looked behind at the door behind them, then down into the ventilation shaft. She climbed into the cramped vehicle too.
All hovercraft were inevitably cramped for one reason or another. Buses were always overstuffed with passengers. Transports were overloaded with cargo. Cars, for their part, were shrunk to fit a variety of byzantine codes and regulations. Flea felt like her namesake when nestled into the vehicle's warm interior. It was cramped for someone her size, and hilariously small for someone of Abigail's. Flea giggled at the sight, then laughed. She would have done more, until the magnetic locks disengaged and dropped them into open air before the car had even started.
Her laughter was jammed to the back of her throat, as were her screams. Again, as before, she plummeted. Not from high above the street, not looking down on vibrant lights and life, but into pure darkness. It wasn't the sort of thing anyone could possibly become numb to, but her forcible employer seemed entirely unconcerned all the same. She glanced up at the corporate drones' shrinking lights, adjusted her flu mask, and tapped her fingertips together.
"What are you doing!?" Flea howled against the phantom wind she felt whistling around her body again.
Calm down, said one bird, which was diving one the other side of the window. Panic is very unbecoming.
"I'm not panicking!" she yelled back at it.
"You sure sound like it," said Abigail, still looking up out the window. The lights dwindled, darkened, and finally vanished. Only then did a small box set atop the dashboard beep loudly. She pushed the lift clutch forward, moving with agonizing sloth. Their fall slowed in the same manner as a content hum sounded beneath Flea's seat.
One strangled gasp clawed its way out from her lungs, then a second, and a third. They slowed to a full stop deep within the city's underbelly, probably not even a few levels above the reactor-powered fans that pulled down atmosphere for use in the Great Lakes Megagrid's searing heart. Even then, their own hum was more than audible under the car's, and it sounded far less content.
"What are you doing?" said Flea again. She punched Abigail's upper arm, and only got a new ache for it. That collection was swelling far too quickly.
"Helping you escape, what does it look like?"
"Looks more like helping me commit suicide!"
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
"Sure, just short a few years of my life."
"Don't worry so much, you've got plenty of those left. Now shut up and let me drive. The navgrid doesn't go this far down."
Normally, shutting up was the last thing Flea would have done at the command, but those particular words had more weight than normal. Maybe she really was some sort of executive. At least one of them had to have earned the position through more than nepotism, right? Why not this one, who so clearly towered over the rest in so many ways?
Now must be a good time, said the bird whose voice sounded like a bubbling culture vat. It sat on the back seat, atop a mound of beige bags, cases of energy drinks, and discarded jackets.
We've come to a consensus, said the other from its perch on Abigail's tall shoulder.
"Great," subvocalized Flea. "What about? Decided to go start a nest and lay some eggs?"
Hysteria is also unbecoming from a member of our family.
As per the terms of our agreement, you will be helping us right a great wrong in exchange for having saved your life.
"Kinda feel like I did a lot of the saving there, and don't talk about my family. I'm not related to any birds."
Please, don't play stupid with us. It won't get you anywhere.
We helped you realize your potential, and you will help us realize our vision. What part of it we agree upon, at least. It will be a mutually beneficial arrangement. There is much we can teach you.
You'll be more than capable of supplanting the family head by then.
Flea rolled her eyes and turned to the window. Even with the lights dimmed inside the car, the void outside was nigh-impenetrable. Only the occasional flashing of service signals in the sprawling distance broke the oceanic darkness, and only in the same manner of the strange fish lurking in its depths. They drifted with the motion of the hovercraft, small and fleeting, only occasionally overwhelmed by bigger and brighter wisps.
It shouldn't take more than a few days of your time.
A minor thing, in truth.
And please don't spur enforcement of our contract. I really wouldn't wish it on my great-grandniece.
"Fine," she murmured, tracking a particularly bright light across the underlevel's uncertain horizon. "Whatever, fine. What are we doing? What do ghosts even want?"
It's very simple.
We're going to decapitate the Foundation.
"What," said Abigail flatly.
"What?" said Flea, nearly simultaneously and far more energetically. After that, how could she help but turn and look at her escort directly? "What?"
"Don't worry about it," she said.
"What!?"
"It's just really convenient, is all."
"… why?"
"We're going to steal some stuff from them too."
Flea sat in silence for some indeterminate number of near-silent minutes. The car hummed, the great machinery surrounding them hummed, and she softly hummed too. She softly hummed, and imagined the great currents of fate sweeping her out into the ocean instead of safely back to shore. Of course, everyone had told her so. Countless times, they had warned about stepping foot into the world. At measureless length, they had gone on about how the Foundation's sheer mass distorted the swirling tides of fate, drawing everything else in.
"I need to scream," she said quietly.
"Well, do it out the window at least. Driving's hard enough as it is."
Slowly, cautiously, she rolled down the window and allowed the whistling wind inside. It whipped her hair into a frenzy as easily as her plummet from the skyscraper had. Flea howled into it, and it howled back. Her fury was dwarfed by vast magnitudes.

« Previous Tale | MUCKSCAPE / MEGAGRID / MAYHEM | Next Tale »