A dried twig snapped in half under the weight of Tim Wilson's boot, filling the otherwise silent backwater woods of Clackamas County with sound. The nature enthusiast paused for a moment, removing his Stratton hat from his head allowing it to hang from his neck as he brushed the sweat from his brow. Though the head honcho of the Wilson Center was not usually the one in charge of tracking down critters, three of his employees had failed to bring this particular one in, so it was up to him to step up and boost morale! But this was exhausting work, and he could use a rest. A mossy boulder lay just ahead, perfect for sitting on for a short break. Wilson tugged on his backpack's straps, slinging it off his body and setting down before laying on the boulder. He sighed in relief; the cold, damp moss feeling divine against his hot and sweaty back.
"Aahhh…" He grinned, rocking to and fro to cool his back. Once cooled, he leaned up and reached for his bag while scooting closer to the shade provided by a nearby tree. Wilson produced a notebook, pen, and energy bar. He scratched at his beard before tearing open the wrapper and getting to writing.

Wilson's Log, The Hunt for King Louie, Day 2

I didn't expect to have such trouble keeping up with a critter! From what Roger told me, I knew King Louie was clever, but this takes the cake! So far he's managed to collect the fruits from the traps I've laid out without triggering them. He somehow even got the net undone and grabbed all the papaya! I might just have to contact the Supervisors for help with this big boy, but I want to give it the old college try before throwing in the towel.

But what really gets me about King Louie is; how did he get here? It's not every day one finds a great ape in this corner of the world, especially one that stands upright most of the time! Plus he's so big! I certainly hope our humble little wildlife center can house such a large and intelligent critter. I don't think the folks would be happy to see the big dogs take another one of our furry friends like they did with Ringo, even if it was for the best. At least King Louie is easy to follow, given how big his tracks are. I hope to catch him and bring him home soon!

I should shave when I get back. My beard is so itchy!

Wilson decided he had rested long enough. He crumpled up the wrapper of his energy bar and stashed it in a container within his bag, stowed his stationery, and put on his backpack once again. Before setting out once more, he grabbed his canteen and took several hearty gulps. Water escaped from his lips and trickled down to his beard before hitting the ground below. Content, Wilson secured his canteen to his waist once more and began his trek anew, scratching his beard as he did.

Many hours later, the sun was finally setting behind the rolling hills and Wilson had come no closer to capturing King Louie. Though it was frustrating, it was nowhere near enough to put Tim Wilson down!
Despite his endless enthusiasm, he did not quite have the energy he had so many years ago, so no matter his excitement to meet King Louie, Wilson would have to stop for the night. He sized up the trees, looking for one he may easily climb and possessing a branch just high enough so most critters wouldn't reach him and just low enough so having to suddenly jump wouldn't hurt too bad. Following a brief examination, he found a satisfactory oak and began his ascent. Once he sat upon his intended brach, he tested its durability before getting to work.
A very neatly folded piece of blue plastic with lengths of rope tied around it was procured from his bag. He unfolded it, revealing the plastic to be a hammock as he began securing it to the branch. Once done, Wilson slowly and gently slid into his makeshift bed and repurposed his backpack as a pillow. He watched the sunset and the moon rise with a satisfied grin.
Wilson laid back and got comfortable as he watched the moon continue its ascent, enjoying the serenade of crickets, hooting owls, and the gentle flow of the nearby creek. Though many could enjoy the sounds of nature on their own, this was music to his ears. What he found most beautiful of all was that it was never the same, no matter how many times he heard it. Sometimes a chorus of coyotes would join in, or a fish leaping from the water would create an outstanding crescendo. Wilson shut his eyes and eventually fell asleep, a wide smile on his face. This was what he lived for.

The moon was high in the sky when Wilson was stirred from his sleep. He blinked thrice, slowly leaning up in his hammock. Though the world around him was still spinning, he was able to spot a pair of yellow eyes staring at him nearby. This snapped him out of his slumber, as the man looked around him to see many more pairs of eyes in the distance; all of them almost as tall as the branch he was resting on.
Just as he was assessing his situation, one of the pairs seem to suddenly become taller; easily being at eye level with where Wilson rest. Much to the critter caretaker's chagrin, that same pair of eyes which seemed to magically enlarge began moving towards him. Feeling the branch shaking with the might of its steps, Wilson quickly reached into his bookbag in a panic and produced a flashlight, which he then shined at the approaching critter.
He nearly gasped at what he saw; a giant, almost human being covered head to toe in brown fur. Its feet were massive, almost as long as a dog, and it had long lumbering arms. But what struck Wilson most of all was its face. Despite its gorilla-like features, the critter had an almost human-like facial structure, yet at the same time, it was still distinctly not human. Had Wilson known more about aesthetics, he would have described it as 'belonging in the uncanny valley'; but alas, he was not so learned. Instead, the conservationist would go on to describe it as 'spooky!'
The critter stopped in front of Wilson, who looked on like a deer in the headlights. It narrowed its eyes, appearing to observe the odd, comparatively hairless creature which laid before it. Following a moment of contemplation, it spoke.
"You smell of the jailers and murderers, but you are not like them."
Its voice was heavily guttural and accented with an unknown language, and carried a cadence the likes of which only a wise and ancient being would possess. Wilson swallowed nervously, unsure of how to process what was happening. Boring was a weird place, but never had he heard a critter speak to him; at least nothing beyond the typical parrot's squawking. Taking a moment to collect himself, he swallowed nervously before responding.
"H-hey there, friend! My name is Tim Wilson… and I, uh, I'm from Wilson's Wildlife Solutions." He staggered his way through his introduction; doing his best (and failing) not to panic.
"Tim Wilson… why do you follow my kind? Why do you lay traps for us?"
"Well… it's a long story, friend. But to summarize, we at Wilson's Wildlife Solutions are trying to wrangle all the weird and wild critters that live here in Clackamas County… The Supervisors say its a 'nexus' or something like that, so we get a bunch of irregular critters. But we care for them all the same." He found his confidence in talking about his dear organization, proudly sharing its goals with his newfound companion, but he quickly realized that they were nowhere as enthusiastic as he.
"Was it not enough to cull us all those years ago? Now you seek to put us on display for your kind's amusement?" The being's tone grew irate, and Wilson shrunk away in fear of retaliation. Were he not surrounded and in a vulnerable position, he would have attempted to throw out an emergency flare by now, but it seemed as if diplomacy would be the only way out. Wilson wasn't exactly the best at communicating with people, he was always more at home with animals. This thing was sort of like a critter, he thought, so he maybe he'd make it out okay.
"No no no no! You've got it all wrong! I love critters of all shapes and sizes! N-not that I'm saying you're a critter since you know, you can talk and seem pretty smart! But uh, I don't know if you're familiar with apes, but you kind of look like really big ones to us, so we figured one of you were critters in need…" He stopped for a moment. The thing he was talking to was awfully big, much bigger than King Louie. Had he only been chasing a juvenile this whole time?
"I know what apes are. We are their children, you and me. You do not have the scent of a killer, Tim Wilson. You smell of mercy. But you smell of the jailers and the murderers. We will let you go, but you must carry a message for us." It turned around, signaling for another of its kind to approach. A much smaller specimen, about the size of one and a half Wilsons, approached. The human pointed the flashlight down and quickly identified the critter as King Louie.
Wilson's attention was immediately brought back to the much larger being he was speaking to earlier, as it ripped a long piece of the trunk from a nearby tree, then handed it to the smaller one, who in turn accepted it used a sharp rock to scrawl a message onto the wood. Once done, the trunk was returned to its originator, who then handed it to Wilson. Before he could look it over, the being spoke again.
"Go when day breaks. Do not return unless the jailers are in agreement."
With that, it turned around, as did all the other pairs of eyes and King Louie. Wilson was alone once more. He would not sleep again for the remainder of the night and watched the moon set, then the sunrise. Birds began chirping as the forest came to life with a different set of characters. Exhausted, Wilson packed up his belongings and held onto his wooden carving and took a moment to read it. Though it was roughly etched and barely legible, he was able to understand what it read.

we forgive you;
given choice for now, not forever;
let us back in

He set out for the nearest clearing, where he set off an emergency flare and awaited extraction from the center. Some few hours later, Wilson presented the object to the Supervisors, who in turn introduced him to some rather funny looking aerosol cans. Sometime later, the entire Wilson Center had met the funny aerosol cans and no one seemed to remember King Louie, not even the computers, journals, or critter profiles.
It was business as usual at the Center, with the only nagging problem being Wilson's own beard; it was so darn itchy! Perhaps he would consider a shave?

More From This Author

More From This Author

Uncle Nicolini's Works

SCPs

SCP-3803 •

SCP-7727 •

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SCP-5231 •

SCP-3923 •

SCP-6057 •

SCP-6512 •

SCP-654 •

SCP-7112 •

SCP-6467 •

SCP-5057 •

SCP-7724 •

SCP-6938 •

SCP-4726 •

SCP-7149 •

Tales/GoI Formats

Marw (The Reincarnated One) •

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions Orientation •

Adoption Poster: Bandit! •

Reality TV, Designer Pets, and Fine Dining •

Nobody Likes Having Enemies •

#StormSite19 •

The Case of the Bathroom Cheese Labels •

Dark was the night, cold was the ground. •

Project Koza, 1942 •

GRANT REQUEST FOR THE RE-CREATION OF AN ADVANCED POSTMORTEM NEURAL PRESERVATION SYSTEM •

Moon Champion's Cinco de Mayo Extravaganza •

'Phoenix à La Mode' (KEN46/FRI98/PNX72) •

Aces Deuces •

(Too) Late Registration •

Gentle Wings Flutter Quietly In The Dark •

Other

Ode To The Unknown Author •

uncle nicolini author page •

Sciptember 2022 Art Highlights •


"And that's how I single-handedly defeated and destroyed the large, lengthy, luminescent Moon Lizard using the sacred Moon Saber!" proclaimed Moon Champion, who had just finished an awfully long story about his triumphs over the Moon Monsters.
"Sadly, the Moon Saber was lost in the beast's leathery skin, and one of our vigilant Moon Warriors was subject to a brutal stabbing by the lizard, but at the end of the day the Moon Kingdom came out on top." Moon Champion finally stopped to rest after his 14-day long exposition.
"You know, Slug Companion, you are an excellent listener, and an exquisite bed, albeit a bit slippery," said Moon Champion, and indeed his newfound friend had not interrupted him once the entire time he delivered his story, along with serving as a comfortable surface to lay on. Moon Champion raised his hand to the bottom of his visor, pondering deeply something that had been troubling him for a long time.
"I hope you don't mind another tangent, but I really need to get something off of my chest," said Moon Champion. His soft friend had no objections. "It concerns a dream I had a long time ago, perhaps 3 months in the past, before I met you, before I met even C-C-C-P. I am of the firm belief that it means something of substance."
Moon Champion used a rather quiet voice, quieter than his usual tone that is. He sat down and began his account.
"In my dream, I woke up in complete and utter blackness. The Earth had disappeared, the stars had flickered out, it was the darkest dark I have ever witnessed, as if my eyes had disappeared. I looked below me, and there it lay, the great Moon, bright as ever, despite the complete absence of stars. As I stared at this beacon, the only source of light in my universe, I began to fall. I fell down and down, plummeting ever closer to the Moon's surface." Moon Champion laid down, staring at the infinite cosmos.
"In that moment, I must admit, I was scared, scared for my safety, scared for the universe's fate, scared of the great darkness. Yet, at the same time, I had hope. In the end, while all else was gone, the Moon remained, an unconquered dominion, the last defender of light in a blank void. And as I came closer and closer, I no longer felt fear. I felt immense, unchallenged, joyful happiness. I hit the surface, and I woke up."
Moon Champion sat back up, slowly and calmly, while the peaceful giant that he sat upon continued listening with open ears.
"I hope I do not bore you, indeed I have a long-term memory and I can often lengthen details that may seem minute to other, more simple organisms." Just that moment, Moon Champion picked up a signal on his radio, and heard what sounded to be the soft, drawn-out wail of a magnificent creature.
"What a brilliant song," Moon Champion exclaimed aloud, "perhaps the cry of a mighty Soda Can! What an occurrence! What is your opinion, Slug Companion?"
Although Slug Companion couldn't speak, the way his mouth curved appeared to Moon Champion as a smile. Moon Champion was content.
As the soothing wails continued, Moon Champion laid upon his blubbery partner and he quietly fell asleep. Upon waking up, Moon Champion found himself under the soft covers of a white bed, contained within the confines of a sleek, ghostly room. Despite his heightened awareness upon his awakening, Moon Champion could not move, instead remaining fixed upon his fabric, non-blubber pad. Busy people in white coats rushed about in his room, entering one side and exiting the other. Moon Champion noticed a label on top of one of the doors, reading "Lunar Area-32/Room-23". For hours, Moon Champion stared out paralyzed, watching people rush by, clipboards in hand, yet they made no sound. A room only still in sound, not in content. The hours went by excruciatingly slow.
Then, without warning, figures appeared in front of him. They appeared to come from nowhere, one moment they weren't there and the next moment they were. A group of people, standing in a huddle, stared at Moon Champion. All of those visible to Moon Champion wore a suit similar in design to his own. Some wore white, some wore orange, others wore canvas suits with brass helmets.
"Who are you people, what do you seek of me?" asked Moon Champion with a newfound ability to speak.
A man in a blue suit and cracked visor spoke aloud. "We are the Old Guard. We have served our purpose. You are the last line of defense."
"Was I the only Moon Champion?" questioned Moon Champion.
"You are now. The Moon is vulnerable without you," said the figure in blue, speaking in a youthful, proud voice.
Then, one by one, each member of the Old Guard walked up next to Moon Champion, holding his hand in their grasp, before setting it down and disappearing. One man in a brass helmet stared at Moon Champion for a few seconds, before telling him "You did your best," then subsequently disappearing. Eventually, one man was left, yet he had no suit nor helmet. He was simply an old, robed man, walking wearily with nightcap and a cane. The old man sat on Moon Champion's bed.
"A threat faces the Moon. One faces the Earth as well. The Earth has their defender, you've met him. Now you must do the same," said the old man.
"I have a number of questions," remarked Moon Champion, although in a quiet, respectful tone.
"My time here is limited. You can find me where you fell," remarked the old man, before he collapsed on the same bed Moon Champion rested on.
Moon Champion stared on for a few seconds before suddenly waking up on Slug Companion. Moon Champion panted for a couple of seconds before gathering his senses. He realized what he must do.
"Slug Companion, you have been an excellent listener of stories and cushion of explorers, but I must go. I cannot explain at the current moment, but if you don't hear from me again, be aware that the Moon will be in good hands." As Moon Champion activated his jet-pack, he stared at the Moon, thinking about his dream.
"Old man, here I come. Moon Champion, away!" cheered Moon Champion, as he charged forward to where his destiny lied, where he had neglected for so long, the Moon.

« Two Lost Souls | I Dreamed a Dream | Waiting In The Sky »


I am a coward and all I can really do is apologize for it. For what it's worth, I do feel bad and I know I should have handled it differently, but I was scared.
Short background: I'm middle-aged, married, and have an ass-rape of a commute to work. I'm in security for a very, very large multinational corporation that you'd know the name of. Check doors, put out fires (sometimes literally) and generally keep the place working. The pay is nice, people generally don't suck, and I like it. The stumbling block of this is my commute, nearly two hours of driving one way, through the worst kind of bumblefuck nowhere for most of it. The place I work is a massive facility, and most of the surrounding area is purposefully undeveloped, aside from a tiny town about a half hour away. What's worse, this is in northern Michigan.
If you've never been in the woods of northern Michigan, they are the forest primeval, to say nothing about the dreamtime that is the Upper Peninsula. It is not at all strange to see massive bear, herds of deer, some truckload of drunk lunatics, or some heavily armed folks working their way quietly to a still. The roads are dark, narrow, and poorly traveled, and with me working second shift, it's not uncommon for me to go the entire drive home, starting out around 11:30 at night, and not see one single car. It's lonely, sometimes spooky, and when the weather gets bad it's almost impassable. The trees are so thick they screen off curves like a brick wall, and you can barely see twenty feet into the wood on either side.
What I'm saying is it's not strange to see weird shit. You mark it and just drive on. It's probably not what you thought it was anyway.
Anyway.
So I was driving home some time in the middle of summer. Just warm enough to be uncomfortable, which the trees trap and turn into a greenhouse. I typically keep the windows up and just run the AC, but I wanted some air after fielding several meetings about various policy crap. It wasn't so bad if you kept the speed up, I had some old rock song on the radio I was half listening to and mumbling along with, brain already halfway home…just a normal night. There's a couple of long, straight sections that end in these tight little whipsnap curves, and you need to be careful because there's about a eight-ish foot deep ditch on the inside, and a wall of old pines on the outside. Seen a few cars get stuck or smashed up there. It's not a deathtrap, but you need to be aware. I typically don't have an issue with it, and just breezed through it, rolling a little left of center. I mean there's never anyone out here. It wasn't a big deal. It was when I got around the curve that I saw it.
I honestly didn't know what I was looking at, at first. I thought for a second either a deer had been hit and was just crippled right on the edge of the road, or for some insane reason someone had decided to just sit and watch the trees, on the edge of the road, in the middle of the night. I thought it'd been hit because of the…skin? Or lack of it, honestly I still don't know. It was hunched up, like someone squatting down to look at something, like a person, but it wasn't. It was either caked in blood, or it didn't have any skin, and it was naked, or at least I didn't see any clothing. Its back was covered with spines, like a porcupine. it might have been matted hair, or both, but they looked like two or three foot quills. I didn't see the face right then. Its arms and legs were wrong, like jointed funny. Like how dogs' legs are. It smelled like rusty coins and rotten skunk.
I stared at it for a heartbeat, then realized I'd been drifting nearly to the other side of the left lane, and had to yank the wheel back. I must have made a noise, or maybe it was just the car whipping back around, but that…thing, it suddenly looked up and I saw that face in the rearview.
It wasn't even really a face, except for the eyes.
Just teeth. Masses of teeth, like someone took a dog's face, skinned it, and just shoved teeth in to it every which-way until you couldn't see muscle anymore. There was a mouth there, at least it split open like one, and it gave off this godawful hissing squeal, it sounded like a rabbit or a fox dying, instead of something as big as a person. The eyes though, god. More then the teeth or that scream, or what was hanging off its hand-hooks, those eyes looked like a person. I swear on anything you want to put in front of me, that thing had a pair of bright blue eyes in the middle of that mashed up tooth-face. Hands were long and hooked, holding something torn to bits. It rattled too, I think, like a snake, maybe it was the quills. Ribs folding and unfolding like one of those Chinese fans. Those fucking eyes though. I looked right into them, through the mirror, and I knew whatever the fuck else that thing was, it was angry, and angry at me. I could tell, because of the eyes, and it pointed with that finger-hook at me when it screamed.
I screamed, it screamed, I hit the gas and blew out of the woods doing 88 in a 45. It's a miracle I didn't get stopped, I almost wanted to. Honestly, though, I didn't know what I would have said, but it would have been nice to have someone else around, especially one with a gun. I couldn't process everything, and by the time I got home I'd convinced myself it was all a dream, road hypnosis, all that stuff. I've nodded once or twice at the wheel before, exhaustion does weird things to people. I was pretty shook up either way, and took a couple days off. I'd been meaning to anyway, so it was fine. I just…stayed home. That's why I didn't see the crack until Monday.
Just a little thing, like what you get when a good-sized stone comes off a gravel truck in front of you, a little bigger then a silver dollar. It was smashed into the rear window, though, not the front, and was cracked so deep it nearly made a hole in that thick safety glass. I was trying to figure out when and how it happened, and trying not to remember, when I looked at that little ridge at the base of the window and it all came slamming back like remembering a missed school assignment.
There was some kind of ten inch quill just laying in the gap at the base of the window frame. The tip looked like it'd broken off.

I told you I'm a coward and I meant it. I got a stick and brushed that quill off, kicked it off into the brush beside my driveway, and worked on convincing myself it'd been a stick or something. I saw a injured animal at best, or just some splintered bit of tree, and my half-asleep mind made up the rest. No monster with a face made of tooth-cancer threw a quill dead center at the back of my head. Just a stupid dream, and nothing else. And for the last six or so months, that's what I believed. I buckled once, and looked up “Michigan monsters”, saw some stuff about mutants and dog people, but nothing like this. So I decided to forget about it. It happened, now it was over. Then a couple days ago, Lee went missing.
Lee's a working stiff like me, but lives in town and has a much shorter drive. Apparently he was on his way home, taking the same road I do, and something happened. At first they thought he'd just lost control, turned over the car and gotten thrown out or wandered off in a daze. Now, they're more worried. They found fabric that matches his clothes, all shredded, high up in the trees. Blood, too, lots of it, but no Lee. They don't think it's an accident now either. The side of his truck was peppered with holes. Like someone had opened up on it with a machine gun, but the holes are a little too big to be bullets. More the size of a silver dollar.
I'm a coward, and the defining trait of that is being scared, and I am. I don't know what to do. I'm scared to think about what might have happened to Lee. About what a whole salvo of quills like the one I found could do to a car. Or a person. I'm scared to think about the noises I've been hearing around my trash cans for the last few days. I'm scared to let myself remember where I've heard that rattling before. I'm just scared, and a coward.
Because I'm a coward, I'm calling off work tomorrow. Because I'm a coward, I'm not going to try and find out what's been making that scratching noise near my shed lately.
Because I'm a coward, I might just try and find a work-from-home job.


by Captain Kirby

"Why yes, of course the stuffed animals give hugs!"
"Not all chocolate compliments you as you eat it!"
"They'll call it the best Christmas ever!"
"That's a Wondertainment guarantee."

"Cut!"
Lights dimmed on the set. The crew packed up cameras and props and things before heading to the parking lot. A man in a bright purple suit with a rainbow tie waited another thirty minutes to make sure everyone had left the headquarters before he dropped that too-wide smile. He took the elevator sixteen stories up to an empty office.
The man closed the door and changed into the t-shirt and jeans he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. There was probably no one around. The sun had set just after the cameramen left, but it's always good to be cautious. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair and just stared out the window.
Knock, knock, knock
Oh, goddamn it.
"Mark, you in there?"
Wait, it's just Diane.
"Yeah, I'm in here."
"You have your pants on?"
"You can come in."
Diane opened the door, and tossed Mark one of those one dollar cans of beer.
"This is why I pay you the big bucks."
"Filming go well?" Diane asked as she opened her can.
"I guess so. Still draining. Still kicking myself for naming us ‘Wondertainment'."
"It's good branding."
"It makes me out to be goddamn Willy Wonka. You know, I think that suit is sucking my soul out."
"That's how you know it's working."
Mark laughed, "Yeah, that's one way to put it."
The two sat and drank quietly for a few minutes. Mark stared at a poster from about fifteen years ago. It was the first big marketing push from back when it was just him and Diane. He wore the same suit, same smug smile. Every few minutes the man on the poster would wink, but only children could see it. The trick scared more kids than Mark expected, but it amazed the rest.
"I really should stop wearing the suit to work."
"You know that'd break part of your image."
"I know. But just… I don't know."
"We've had this conversation before."
"Yeah, yeah. Just convince me again."
"Well, if you stop wearing the suit to work, the people will get suspicious. Then the rumors will start circulating about what happened to Dr. Wondertainment." Diane crumpled her beer can and tossed it in the recycling, "Stock will fall because the mystery of the creator lends intrigue to the products, and we'll lose a significant piece of our market share."
"But I'll get to be me again."
"What's more important, you or what you've built?"
"God, I hate that question."
"No one likes tough questions."
"Can we get a new person? Someone to take over as the face?"
"Unless you have a twin you've been hiding, no. Stunt doubles work in movies, but they're less effective in real life."
"Then just to take over the PR work."
"Mark, you're doing fine."
"But I'm not doing fine. I'm… not Dr. Wondertainment."
Diane walked over to the man staring past the poster on the wall. She put her hand on his shoulder, partly for comfort, and partly to just get his attention.
"But you are wonderful."
Mark looked back out the window and finished off his beer.
"Yeah, I guess some people think that."
Mark and Diane left the building soon after. The night was warm enough to merit driving with the windows down. Mark enjoyed a breath of fresh air. He'd needed one for a while.
The next day, Mark walked into work wearing a beige button-down and slacks. He didn't force his smile, and he didn't shout or gesture much. He felt calm.

"Are you ok?"
"Where is your suit?"
"Did something happen?"
"I think you need to see a doctor."

Diane drove Mark back to his house to calm the worried employees. Something must have been wrong. Dr. Wondertainment always smiles to brighten everyone's day. Always greets his workers with gusto. Always wears an eccentric suit and tie.
And from that day on, he always did.


Previous: Time (Reprise)

Six subjects float in darkness, suspended in water; their unblinking eyes and intubated mouths are obscured beneath featureless black hoods.
They are arranged in a tightly clustered circle with their heads pointed inward. A dense imbroglio of wires and tubing connect them to a small floating island that houses a rudimentary life-support system. This system forces a mixture of oxygen, nitrogen, and nitrous oxide into their lungs; a steady trickle of synthetic mescaline and propofol is injected directly under their tongues.
The interior of the hoods control the subjects' senses. They are bombarded with a stream of visual, aural, olfactoral, and tactile cognitohazards known to induce disassociation. A low-resolution electroencephalogram reads their neural activity, then adjusts the flow of air, anesthesia, and sensory data as necessary to maintain a fugue state and suppress any capacity for individual thought.
The temperature, composition, and motion of the water is tightly controlled. Bright lights, sounds, and digital devices are prohibited. All but one of the chamber's six entrances have been barricaded behind several feet of concrete reinforced with steel. The only remaining entrance requires a key card, pin number, and retina scan to pass. It's guarded by three armed men and a remotely-operated .50 caliber sentry turret. Shaped charges can be detonated to collapse the entire structure instantly — killing or otherwise trapping everyone inside.
Dr. Hamid Rostami steps through the security checkpoint, rubs the bridge of his nose, then sighs. This used to be an indoor swimming pool.
The small town of Darrington, North Carolina was abandoned at some point in 1961. Its obscurity, remote location, and relatively intact modern infrastructure makes it perfect for the Osworth Institute's purposes. Ostensibly demolished, the town was a 'gift' from Myrmidon International's 'mysterious benefactor'. Its many buildings have been retrofitted for the Institute's use.
Dr. Rostami approaches his desk besides the pool where his laptop awaits. There is data to be examined and tests to be run. He does not make it more than three steps before he hears the sibilant tsss of an oxygen tank nearby.
Shit.
Mercer.
In contrast to Dr. Rostami's healthy russet complexion, Mendel Mercer looks like a man who has just clawed his way out of his own coffin. His skin is a pallid shade of orange-white. A few errant wisps of gray are all that remain of his once full, thick head of hair. He requires constant oxygen, which he receives via a small stainless steel tank he keeps clipped to his belt. Two plastic tubes are connected to it, looped over his ears and under his nose.
Still, there's a fierce strength in the old monster. He wears sharp, handsome suits and keeps himself well-groomed. He refuses to use a cane. That oxygen tank on his hip? He designed it himself. Dr. Rostami cannot help but respect the man's many admirable qualities. None of that changes the fact that Mercer terrifies the shit out of him.
"Doctor." Tsss. "Any progress working out the 'glitches' with Delta-6?"
Dr. Rostami closes his eyes and counts back from five. When he opens them, Mendel Mercer is still there. "Not much. We're fighting just to keep this new cluster from degenerating. I doubt we'll have the same success we did with Gamma-7."
Tsss. "Why?"
Dr. Rostami turns to his desk and rotates the laptop for Mercer to see. The spreadsheet extends well beyond the bottom of the screen. "I've been re-examining our numbers for all the times Gamma-7 achieved psychogenic symbiosis. I think — I think the key is that they actually got along."
Mercer raises an eyebrow. The psychogenic data clearly means very little to him; he is an engineer, not a parapsychologist. Dr. Rostami sighs. "You know how complicated one person's mind can be, right?"
"Mmn."
"Now imagine how complicated it gets when we build one mind out of several. Linked together, they become one brain, one psyche, one will. Multiple sets of memories — multiple unique experiences — multiple lifetimes. All mapped to the same consciousness, at the same time. This is why clusters that include older adults often fail — too much information, too little neuroplasticity. It's also why the largest cluster we've ever managed is Gamma-7. The fact that we got Delta-6 online at all is nothing short of a miracle."
Mercer looks unimpressed. His eyes drift toward the pool where Delta-6 remains floating. "I thought we were trying to suppress their consciousness." Tsss.
"We are. But we can't completely suppress it without breaking the connection. There needs to be just enough for them to maintain the link. For whatever reason, whether it was similar experiences or just a similar psychogenic makeup, Gamma-7's members were able to reconcile with each other. They were able to integrate into a single, cohesive unit. Think of it like… think of them like puzzle pieces. They have to fit together. If you try to force the wrong pieces together — "
" — instead of a Thomas Kincade painting, you end up with a mutilated hellscape," Mercer finishes. Of course. Engineering metaphor. Dr. Rostami should have thought of that earlier. "Akin to what happened when we first tried to bring Delta-6 online to recapture Gamma-7."
"Precisely." Dr. Rostami shudders. He's seen the footage; it's not something he'd like to revisit.
Tsss. "Fortunately, we have a lead on where Gamma-7's remaining members are. I've already sent out a task force. We ought to have them back in custody by tomorrow. You can figure out how to replicate their success using what members remain." Mercer turns to go.
Dr. Rostami hesitates. "There is, uh, one other thing, sir."
Mercer pauses mid-step, turning. "Yes, Dr. Rostami?"
He takes a long breath. "When you first brought me here from the Foundation, I was grateful. An opportunity to use what I know about psychotronics — ontokinetics — for something positive. Something other than just locking miracles away and hiding them from the world. A chance to use that knowledge to make the world a better place. And we've done that — we've used this technology to do miraculous things."
"And?"
"Sir, we're — these are children." As much as he doesn't want to, he forces himself to look Mendel Mercer in the eye. "Delta-6 are prisoners — volunteers, commuting their sentence. Most of our subjects are. But Gamma-7 — they're kids. We're hunting kids. We're hunting kids so we can sedate them, wire their brains together, and turn them into a living weapon."
The heat and force behind his words surprises him. His heart is pounding harder than he even thought possible. For quite some time, Mendel Mercer says nothing.
Then, the old man turns to face him completely: "Dr. Rostami, are you familiar with Alexandra Sanchez?"
He is. "Gamma-7-B, I think. Electrokineticist."
Tsss. "Correct. Anomaly-6307. Escaped with the others. Before she arrived here, she had been in and out of juvenile detention centers her whole life. Do you know how she ended up in our custody?"
"I don't."
"When her ontokinesis manifested, she escaped a detention center. Killed a prison guard and one of her cellmates. And just in case you think that might have been an accident, she's also murdered one of our staff. Do you know why?"
Dr. Rostami lowers his head. He does. He's seen that footage, too. It's now part of Osworth Institute's mandatory safety training. "Because he suggested increasing her dosage."
"Correct." Tsss. "Make no mistake. These are not helpless, innocent little children. They are not heroic martyrs on the run. They are not victims, Dr. Rostami. Each and every one of them is a violent criminal who will kill anyone they perceive as a threat — and each and every one of them possesses the power of a God."

They've found a cabin in the woods.
"Cabin," Alex whispers. She then turns and signs back to Seph: CABIN.
Seph rolls his moon-yellow eyes. The blue-skinned teenager is wearing Sunny like a backpack; the unconscious boy's brown arms are draped over Seph's shoulders, with several tentacles wrapped around him to keep him steady and secure. Sunny's brightly colored lungi drapes behind Seph's legs like a multi-colored skirt. The tourniquet around Sunny's left arm is stained with blood.
Seph signs back with his head-tentacles: CAN SEE LIPS. He waits a moment, then adds: ALSO CAN SEE CABIN.
"Right," Alex says, turning to look toward the cabin. It's a small one-story home tucked away in a grotto out in the middle of the Virginian woods. It has a quaint, rustic look to it. There's a big pond out back — Alex thinks she even sees a couple of ducks. Like something off the front of a frigging Hallmark card.
Machine-Head hovers near Alex. The six quarter-sized metal 'plugs' that poke out of their dark-sienna scalp glimmer in the fading sunlight. "Sunny needs shelter. Temperature dropping. Also, food." Machine-Head pauses, thinks, then: "Also, wolves."
"Alright. Let's go." Alex rises and moves toward the house's entrance. If it's locked, well — locks never stopped them before.
They're ten yards away when the door suddenly opens. An old man with a shotgun steps out.
They freeze in place.
He's an immense, shaggy brute with a big poofy gray beard and a camo baseball cap. His sleeveless white shirt is stained with sweat, beer, and several other fluids Alex won't speculate on. The denim overalls he's got on are one size too large. They hang past his hips like a flag flapping in the breeze. He holds the shotgun in one hand, keeping the barrel aimed at the ground. It probably won't take much for him to point it elsewhere, though.
"You with the government?" His voice is a low, growling snarl. It sounds like an avalanche crashing down on all their heads. He also sounds slurred — like he's been drinking.
Alex feels herself tensing up. Her fist clenches. "Do we look like we're with the government?"
"That ain't an answer." The shotgun shifts, but does not rise. Little sparks weave their way between Alex's knuckles.
Alex forces herself to stay calm. "No. We aren't with the government."
The old man considers this. His eyes drift between the four of them, then settle on Seph. "The hell you supposed to be?"
Seph makes a sign. Alex only catches it from the corner of her eye. "He's a cephalopod."
"You sure you ain't with the government?" The shotgun lifts a little. Alex's heart pounds; her teeth clench. She feels the lightning stirring beneath her skin.
Machine-Head grabs her by the wrist and steps forward:
"We are four teenage anomalies on the run from a research company that abducted us as part of a military contract to weaponize our abilities. One of us is injured as a consequence of a recent car-crash that involved a Virginia State Trooper. We are outlaws in need of shelter and food." Machine-Head pauses, then adds: "Also, wolves. We need protection from wolves."
There is a long, tense stretch of silence.
The old man slings the shotgun over his shoulder. "Alright, then. Y'all like pork and beans?"

He tells them to call him Al, although Alex is certain that isn't his real name. She doesn't trust him — but the house is cool, the food is hot, and he has a first-aid kit Seph can use to treat Sunny's wounds.
Alex helps Al cook the pork and beans. It's polite, and — more importantly — it means she gets to watch and make sure he doesn't try slipping anything into their food. They used to do that to her at the Institute. When that stopped working, they'd just hold her down and give her an injection.
By the time dinner is ready, Sunny is awake and talking. He still needs help moving around. Seph supports him with an arm and a tentacle, walking him to his seat at the table. He ends up next to Machine-Head — who promptly hugs him. Sunny grimaces, but proceeds to smile and reciprocate.
Alex brings him out a plate of pork and beans, minus the pork. "I know you, uh, don't eat meat. Right?"
"Oh! Yeah," Sunny responds. He's slurring his words a little. Seph warned her that he might have a concussion. They'll need to keep an eye on him. "Thanks."
"No problem." She realizes she's hovering over him, her hand squeezing down on his shoulder. She retracts her arm and steps back. "So, yeah. There you are." God, she sucks at this.
One by one, she sets out the rest of the plates. They sit down. Al bows his head to say grace. Sunny and Machine-Head follow suit; Seph and Alex do not.
At last, they start to eat.
Outside the gentle clink and scrape of utensils, the room is quiet. They've all got their heads down, eating silently. That's when it hits her: This is the first time they've actually just sat somewhere and eaten something. Somewhere that wasn't the back of a car; something that didn't come wrapped in a package.
Normal people are supposed to talk when they're eating, right? Make conversation. Socialize. Isn't that how it works?
"Uh," she tries. "So, how's… everyone doing?"
God, she really sucks at this.
"Better," Sunny says. He then looks to Seph. "How about you, old… chum?"
Oh no.
Please, no.
Seph pauses mid-bite, his fork hovering in the space between his plate (already half empty) and his mouth (full of razor-sharp teeth). The tentacles atop of his head swirl into signs: WILL NOT FALL FOR IT.
Thank G —
WILL NOT TAKE BAIT.
Goddammit.
"What bait?" Sunny replies. "I'm just asking if you're gonna… finish your plate."
SHELLFISH BASS HOLE. CONCH YOU SEA ME EATING?
FUCKING HELL.
Machine-Head watches the 'contest' with the sort of rapt focus people typically reserved for extremely close chess matches. Al looks on with a raised brow. Alex drops her fork and mops her face with her hands.
"My God," Sunny replies, eyes as wide as saucers. "Are you — are you sure your anomaly isn't fish-based puns? Maybe the whole blue-skin tentacle-thing is just a side-effect."
WAIT WHAT? WHAT BLUE SKIN TENTACLE THING
Oh my G —
"Seph, I am sorry if no one has previously made this clear to you," Machine-Head speaks, their tone intense and somber. "But you deserve to know the truth: You have blue skin and tentacles."
Seph drops his fork. His face twitches; his tentacles frantically start to spasm. His chest is heaving — he looks like he's having a seizure. Alex can't read what he's signing.
A cold shot of dread bolts down into her gut. She reaches for him. Is he choking? Could it be the food? Out of all of them, he's got the weirdest biology. Maybe it's the beans. Are beans poisonous to him? Maybe it's —
— it's —
— oh.
Oh.
He's not choking. He's not having a seizure.
He's laughing.
Silently laughing. Laughing so hard it fucking hurts. She couldn't tell, because she's never seen him do that before.
For the first time that she can remember, Alexandra Sanchez does not feel the hot pressure building up under her skin. For the first time, she does not feel angry or scared. For the first time, she lets herself think: Maybe they can make this crazy thing work.
Maybe everything will be all right.

The next day, three dozen of Myrmidon's best men move into position.
They've found a cabin in the woods.

Next: Us and Them


Dreams are an unusual sort of phenomenon. One usually discounts them as a subconscious effect of the mind, and various psychologists have several valid explanations for where they come from. It's because of this fact that most people never act on the events of a dream, for they are insignificant. Yet sometimes they can be a direct conversation from you to another person. Trust me, if there's anyone that can tell you, it's me.
I woke up after the dream. Usually, I'm a heavy sleeper, but that night I couldn't bring myself to go back to sleep. Something about a spectral entity telling you you have to construct a superstructure nagged at me. So I sat there, staring at the moon. One of my least attractive features is an inability to focus on the mundane. One time when I was younger I drew the moon as no less than a rectangle in the sky. But tonight the moon seemed more than a constant satellite. I vomited upon the carpet. I figured the maids would clean it in the morning. I had to contact architects.
In the morning I couldn't remember why I had effectively spent millions of dollars overnight. Sure, I could cancel the project, but then again, I couldn't. Had I gone mad? It was just a dream. But every time I closed my eyes I saw that orifaceless face and something drew us together, I knew not what. So I carried out the project.
Lumens was repeated so many times I couldn't remember it being a real word. So many lumens. Lights in the floors, in the ceiling, in the walls. Blinding, unescapable light. Light so bright it would burn through the back of your skull to blind your retinas. If the workers weren't making such a paycheck they might've asked why, and I was too. Every brief connection to the ethereal realm I had at night were nothing but another daily correspondence. But maybe there was something else there. Some other thing drawing us together.
I thank the lord it was I plagued with these thoughts. Any other man would have never been able to achieve this, and they would have gone insane. Perhaps that's why they chose me. A technician next to me throws a switch and the gate opens. Dear God they're here. And they're beautiful. The shielding was the most expensive, but the light from within is still blinding. Yet we can see her inside the chamber. I have to see her. The alarms from the open door don't phase me. I close my eyes and I am still blinded behind my mask. There's no need, I take it off. As we touch our forms reject one another, but I can still hear her in my mind. She warns me that it is not safe, and I have no care. I do care that I am being escorted out of the room. I can't see, can't hear over the blinding light, but suddenly it's too dark.
"Do you understand why you're here, Mr. Henderson?"
"You can't hold me here. I'm a high profile individual."
"What did they tell you? Why did you construct the tower?"
"I can only tell you this one thing." In my emphasis of the phrase my arm is just close enough to reach out to the guard and take his weapon. 3 bullets went into the guard, 4 into the man asking the questions. "You are not keeping us apart." And so it continued down the hallway. 2 bullets. 3 bullets. I traded out for a new weapon. Missed 3 shots, connected with a final one. I'd considered myself a pacifist when my father took me to riflery competitions, but one cannot be a pacifist when love is on the line. Was it love? Could I love something I can't comprehend? Whatever it was, there was no Foundation on earth that could divide them.
"Where are they?"
"I don't know what you're talking about! I don't know" I put the weapon closer to his face.
"Where have they put her?"
"It's in the next building over! Please!"
"She's a she."
The card of a nearby office clerk opens the door. Finally we are together again. But we aren't in the facility any longer. She could have left at any time, but she chose to leave with me. The portal was never for our world, it was for me.
And I lived among the immortals in their world.


Carter shrieked as he was pushed through the door of the antique elevator, through a Way into the lobby of Darke's sanctum. He threw out his hands to break his fall against the pale marble floor. As he lay there cursing, the hem of a black robe emerged from the shadows. He immediately looked up and there, towering over him in the sepia spectral firelight, was Darke.
“Ah… I'm terribly sorry to intrude. I thought this was the Men's Room. If you could just point me back to reception -”
“Hello Ruprecht,” Darke said with a roll of his eyes.
“Damn, I was hoping you wouldn't recognize me in this body,” Carter said as he climbed to his feet and dusted himself (despite the Sanctum's floors being immaculately clean). “Not that I'm not pleased to see you again. How long's it been since we've met in person? It was just after Marshall's assassination attempt, wasn't it? That was what, four years ago now?”
“Almost exactly. And it wasn't an attempt. Marshall was assassinated because of your negligence.”
“Don't be melodramatic. It was nothing that an experimental new soul-sucker, a transfusion of EVE from an unborn immortal and an Orphean trip to the Tartarean Plane couldn't fix,” Carter said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You know, you glower at me exactly the same way Iris glowers at me. I didn't realize glower was hereditary.”
“Carter, I summoned you here for a reason.”
“Summoned? That's what you call it when that Ogre of yours picks me up by the scruff of the neck like a kitten and hurls me through the Way?”
“This is urgent, and you seldom respond in a prompt manner,” Darke replied.
“What do you need me for? What's wrong with that uptight little proxy of yours?”
“We're going to the Meat Market,” Darke said. Carter's countenance immediately changed to dread at the mention of the horrid bazaar. “That's no place for a young woman, not even one as capable as Iris. Those men, more so than any others, would prize her fertile body over her brilliant mind.”
“Yes, well, fair enough. But what is it that we could possibly need from there?”
“There's a merchant there who sells the remains of gods made flesh. He's led me to believe he even has the preserved flesh of Yaldabaoth Incarnate, cleaved from His Undulating Vastness by Ion himself.”
“This is for that project you've been working on?”
“Yes, and this is the last component I require. I have to go in person to confirm the product is authentic. If it is, it won't come cheap, which is why I need you. You'll talk the seller's price down as much as you can while still making him feel like he's the one who swindled us.”
“Well, that is what I'm best at,” Carter said with a smug smile. “But we have to go right now? It would help if I had a dossier on the seller and the Meat Market so that I know -”
“There's no time. If it's real, it's priceless and I can't risk someone else buying it before we do,” Darke said sternly.
“Very well,” Carter acquiesced. “How are we getting there? Through the Library?”
“Not exactly.”
Darke gestured to the small Ravelwood tree in the center of the lobby, where he had affixed his Ravenwave box. Taking Carter's hand in his and placing them both on the dark tree, he began to recite the incantation.
“Imagine a market here, where butchers and merchants are one in the same. Imagine a pound of flesh, a piece of meat, both just a penny too dear. Imagine broken hearts, both figurative and literal. Imagine stomachs filled not with butterflies, but with insects far more vile. Imagine throats overflowing with spawning frogs like biblical plague. Imagine yourself there, and sell them your sacrifice.
“I, Percival Darke, demand to visit the Meat Market. I carve my own destiny, and will hold the Market and all others responsible for any attempts of harm against my person or property, for they have no power to deny me entry. I have your sacrifice, and I wish for the Flesh of a Dead God.”
The tree, or the world around it, began to spin rapidly, throwing Carter back into a stack of wicker baskets filled with shrunken heads piled like fruit. Dazed and winded, Carter struggled to grasp why he hadn't noticed the baskets of heads when he came in, or the headless head-monger who was now furiously gesticulating in American Sign Language.
“Apologies for my associate's clumsiness,” Darke said as he placed his hand upon the headless man's shoulders. He pulled out a small coin of beryllium bronze, blessed to allow both the living and deceased passage into various afterlife planes. “A Penny for the Ferryman should be more than enough to compensate you for the damages.”
The head-monger took the coin, examining it suspiciously, and finally giving a grudging nod with its stump of a neck.
“On your feet Ruprecht,” Darke said, extending his hand in aid.
“I really should be used to this sort of thing by now,” he mumbled, gazing around at the massive bazaar that had replaced Darke's Sanctum. There was no sun or sky, only an indeterminately high roof without any apparent walls to hold it up. Every merchant he saw looked depraved and heartless, and every buyer he saw looked desperate and broken. “You could have at least given me the chance to change into something a little less conspicuously affluent!”
Carter's pants and jacket were made from Vicuna wool, and his shirt and ascot were Mulberry silk. Made to order by MC&D's in-house tailor, a small percentage of the fibres had been coated in 24-carat gold, giving the suit an ostentatious, metallic sheen that dazzled all the more brightly amidst the damask dreariness of the Meat Market.
“You don't own anything that's not conspicuously affluent,” Darke claimed.
“I have golf clothes!” Carter countered. “Plus my shoes! Look at my shoes! They're ruined! How can they be ruined? I haven't even taken two steps yet!”
“Carter, your whining is somehow drawing more attention than your gilded outfit,” Darke said. “Come, we're expected. Just stay close to me, and no one will dare harm you. Mind your pockets though.”
Despite his stubborn streak, Carter decided it was in his best interest to do as he was told. Sticking to Darke like a small child sticking to its mother, they made their way through the cobblestone paths of the Meat Market. Carter couldn't help but sneer in revulsion at the grotesque wares being hawked. One stand sold the eyes of blind men, another the tongues of heretics. There were baby teeth stolen from under the pillows of sleeping children, smoke black lungs and fog white hair, and most disturbing of all was a collection of penises inside of glass bottles that they couldn't possibly have fit in to, inviting passersby to ponder how they got in there.
Carter suddenly noticed that they were making surprisingly good time considering how crowded the Market was. He peaked ahead and saw that everyone cleared a path for Darke as he approached. As they walked past, Carter caught their panicked whispers to each other.
“It's him!”
“It's her!”
“It's it!”
“It's Dark!”
“… I'm here too, you know,” Carter muttered. Darke led them to the back of a warehouse and knocked on the basement door. The viewport slid open quickly, revealing a pair of sunken eyes set in a pale face.
“Does the Black Moon howl?” the being asked in a panicked tone.
“What?” Carter asked.
“Just makin' sure you're not Foundation,” the being replied, opening the door.
“Oy, who is it Thymus?” a voice shouted from within the basement shop.
“It's Darke!” the first being replied.
“'Course it's dark y'wanker, there's no bleedin' sun in 'ere. I asked ya who it was?”
“And I told you it's Darke, as in Marshall, Carter & Dark!”
“Well 'ow the 'ell am I supposed to know 'at without any bleedin' context?”
“You asked me who it was. That's not context enough?”
“Piss off, y'gobshank, I'll take it from 'ere. You ain't classy enough to entertain the caliber of Darke.”
The man known as Thymus was shoved aside by an obese, balding man who leaned on a thick wooden cane to support his weight. The upper left-hand portion of his face had been turned to stone by some bygone anomalous encounter, and he wore an eyepatch inscribed with a sigil of clairvoyance so that he could still see on his left side.
“Eh there big spenders, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?” he asked rhetorically, puffing on a cigar. “Folk call me Gups. I'm the proprietor of this 'ere establishment: Nietzsche's Larder. ‘God is dead, so put the blighter on ice so he don't go green before we can harvest the good stuff.'.”
“That's a horrible slogan,” Carter opined.
“Well this stuff sells itself, so not much sense in fussin' over the marketin', now is there?” Gups asked. “Well get in, the both of ya. Can't be leavin' this door open too long, else all them vultures out there will swarm the place. Mind y'head Darke.”
Carter and Darke stooped through the short doorway, which Gups locked behind them. The interior of the shop was starkly utilitarian and poorly kept. A multitude of sarcophagi, canopic jars and other similar vessels littered the floor with no real thought given to organization.
“Apologies for the state of things; we've got considerable overhead in acquisition, upkeep, and security. Not much left over for the fancier stuff. Still, don't mean we need to go straight to business. Who's for drinks? Thymus, bring in some fancy booze for our guests!”
“Too late! I'm already sittin' down and watchin' Wolf Blitzer!” Thymus shouted from across the shop.
“Oy, can't you pause live TV these days?”
“You know bloody well we don't have a digital recorder, y'cheapskate!”
“A'ight then, no drinks. Can't get 'em myself, my foot actin' up the way it is. A got a few cigars on me if y'like, though I left the matches in the parlour.”
“Mr. Gups, if it's all the same to you, I would like to proceed directly to verifying the authenticity of your product,” Darke said. Though his tone was cordial, Gups knew there was no room for refusal.
“Fine, fine. Customer's always right and all that. Over 'ere.”
Gups hobbled over to a tall shelf and pulled out a small wooden chest engraved with the Icon of the Devourer. He traced his pinkie finger (it being the only digit he had slim enough for the task) along the Icon in a very specific pattern, causing the chest to unlock.
“Feast y'eyes gents,” he said as he slowly opened the chest, revealing a nine-inch long teratoma. It was irregularly shaped and deep red, with even darker crimson veins running along its surface in jagged patterns. Bits of bone and teeth and bristles jutted out at random spots, and near the right end was a single closed eye.
“It's smaller than I hoped,” Darke grumbled.
“It's cancer. It will grow like mad with the right hocus pocus,” Gups assured him.
“May I examine it?”
“By all means.”
Darke took the chest into his own spindly hands and weighed it carefully.
“It has a strong Sarkic aura to it, there's no doubt there. Nothing disturbs the Aether quite like Flesh-shaping. Its EVE emissions are foul and chaotic, though mainly in the dark red bands. Its Akiva is oddly mild -”
“So it's not divine then?” Carter asked.
“Not necessarily. Remember, Sarkics don't worship Yaldabaoth. They merely leech power from Him as a tick draws blood from its host.”
Darke set the chest down on the table and placed a clawed finger guard on his right index finger. He gently poked the creature until he drew blood.
Its eye shot open, a sickly yellow thing with a vertical pupil. Carter jumped back at the sudden show of liveliness, but Darke remained unfazed. He raised his finger to his face, with a single drop of blood clinging to the Mekhanite metal. He studied it thoughtfully for several seconds before taking a sniff of it. When that proved insufficient, he let the drop fall upon his tongue.
Immediately he shouted out in pain, clutching his stomach and doubling over. Most curiously though, he seemed to become ever so slightly transparent before returning to normal.
“Darke! Percival, are you all right?” Carter asked. Darke chuckled in the affirmative.
“That is the Ichor of His Undulating Vastness, a physical manifestation of the insatiable hunger that drives it in everything it does. This creature here was without a doubt cleaved from an Incarnation of Yaldabaoth.”
Darke closed the lid of the chest and resealed it.
“It's exactly what I promised,” Gups said. “And it's priceless.”
“Well, priceless just means it's worth whatever someone's willing to pay for it,” Carter said. “Other than Darke here, who else is going to want to shell out a fortune for an ugly little tumour like this? Karcists might have the means and the desire, sure, but they could also probably make something like this themselves for next to nothing. Come to think of it, maybe we should go to them? They could make us a pound of Demiurge flesh to order.”
“You may be a fool, but Darke ain't. He knows better than to indebt himself to some Sarkie nutter, or to let a golden opportunity slip through his fingers,” Gups sneered. “You blokes ain't leavin' without this, and that means I set the price.”
“Please, I saw how terrified that little hench toad of yours was when he opened the door. This thing is a magnet for all sorts of Occult fanatics, and you aren't set up to fend them off,” Carter argued. “You're desperate for someone to take it off your hands. For the right price, that could be us, and you'll be able to sleep soundly tonight.”
“Enough prattling. Name your price Gups!” Darke ordered.
Gups hesitated a moment, but soon found his courage.
“A soul, reincarnated many times over, but never reborn,” he said, eying Carter greedily.
“… What?”
“He's yours,” Darke said without a hint of reluctance.
“Now wait just a minute, I'm not -” Carter protested, only to be ensnared by the rug he was standing on. It had closed around him like a Venus fly trap. Its thick, undulating shag blocked out all light and muffled the cruel laughter of Gups.
“Well ain't this poetic irony?” he mused, poking the struggling Carter with his cane. “Spent your whole life makin' sure you was always a few pounds ahead of anyone else, and now you're worth so much it be bad business not to sell ya! Rupee, Rupee, Rupee, do you have any idea how many rupees a soul like yours is worth? Spent the past hundred and some odd years hoppin' between stolen bodies, never under six feet tall or seven inches long from what I've heard. The Tartareans will sell me shares of Hell itself to finally get their cloven hooves on you. I'll finally have a reliable supply of demon flesh, and everything that comes with it, all thanks to you. I almost feel bad for ya."
" 'At's a load of horse manure. Your heart's black as soot and cold as frostbite!” Thymus shouted from the TV room.
"Ah, ya got me there!" Gups agreed as he tossed back his head in sadistic laughter. His jubilation came to an abrupt halt, however, as Darke's incorporeal hand reached through his back and grabbed his heart. He pulled it out in one swift motion, without damaging the body or spilling a drop of blood. Gups fell to the ground, dead in an instant.
“He was being literal? How curious,” Darke remarked as he examined the black heart coated in a layer of frost. “Thymus! It's done!”
Thymus crept out of the back room, his eyes fixated upon the corpse as if it might spring back to life at any moment.
“He's dead?” he asked softly.
“He is, and I'm much obliged to you for telling me his asking price in advance,” Darke replied. “The business is now yours, and in exchange for services rendered I'll be taking Yaldabaoth's Flesh and this little memento here, in addition to a standing agreement to have first pick of any future inventory you acquire at a 20 percent discount.”
“I look forward to our future business dealings,” Thymus nodded, still someone in a daze over the death of his master. He grabbed the body by the ankles and dragged it into the back, for purposes that Darke preferred not to guess at.
He instead turned his attention to Carter's muffled screaming. Grabbing a solitary loose thread from the rug, he unravelled it with a single tug, revealing an indignant looking Ruprecht.
“We're done here,” Darke said nonchalantly.
“You might have told me it was a ruse!” Carter roared.
“… But then it wouldn't have been funny.”


"Aha! Another mighty explorer of the boundless cosmos, perhaps even champion of the Earth!" shouted Moon Champion, gazing upon the limp body of a figure much like himself.
Moon Champion couldn't have been more excited in his life. No person on Earth, whether willing or otherwise, had been strong enough to endure the cold, dark vacuum of space. Yet, in the bounds of Earth's orbit, lay a soldier ready for battle, waiting for his chance to shine. It was time to have a true Earth partner.
"For the fate of the Moon and the Moon People!" cheered Moon Champion, as he propelled himself to the resting figure. The man sped around the Earth quickly, but Moon Champion was faster.
"Greetings," Moon Champion announced loudly, "I am the champion of the Moon, conqueror of space evil, defender of the Moon People, and proud general of the Moon King. I see you are a courageous warrior in the utmost troubling conditions of Earth's orbit, and I'd like for you to be my partner in destroying the Moon Monsters that plague the humble Moon Kingdom."
The figure stared back, though Moon Champion couldn't see its eyes through the cracked and foggy visor, so there was no way of telling if he could stare at all. Moon Champion floated there, puzzled for a moment, before resuming his speech.
"I see you are blind in the ears, but that is quite all right! The Moon Doctors have excellent technology that will heal your condition! Come with me, quickly!"
Moon Champion attempted to pull away the orbiting man, yet he wouldn't budge. Moon Champion was mighty strong, yet whatever the man was, or what was pulling him away, was stronger.
Moon Champion signed to the lost figure, "Please, C-C-C-P, if that is your name. The Moon Monsters are monstrous beings, do you not know that? Some are tall, some are small, some are a thick sludge while others stay coated in fur. All of them will devour each and every Moon Person if nothing is done soon. You must travel with me, and battle these formidable foes before the Moon Kingdom is lo-."
Moon Champion paused, and he paused for a very long time, C-C-C-P's hand in his clutch.
"What if the Moon Kingdom is lost?" thought Moon Champion. "I've been away from it for so long, attempting to find a brave soul who could battle alongside me, but what of myself? I have done nothing. NOTHING. NULL AND VOID IS MY ACTIVITY ON THE MOON! For how long have I been exploring the cosmos? For how long have I been living? 1000 years? 100 years? 1? A day!? And what have I found? The same old simpletons, exchanging their dogs, eating their televisions, checking the time on their wrist discs!"
Moon Champion stared into the visor of C-C-C-P, a slow sob sounding from the Champion's speaker. "What am I a champion of?" said Moon Champion, slowly facing toward the Moon, "An old forgotten kingdom, or no kingdom at all?"
The Moon. Cold, giant space rock. For a second, Moon Champion had a hard time distinguishing the two. He looked back at C-C-C-P, the blackness of its visor reflecting the darkness of the stars. Yet, in the middle of the beat-up visor, lay that cold, giant space rock. As Moon Champion stared more and more, the Moon shimmered. The reflection became clear to him.
"What fool am I to even CONCEIVE that the Moon Kingdom and its people are but a figment of my imagination?" Moon Champion yelled as he began propelling himself back to the Moon.
"I am Moon Champion, champion of the Moon, and I will stop at nothing until I can find a suitable partner to eliminate all Moon Monsters!"
As C-C-C-P began flailing about, as if to signify a danger present on Earth, Moon Champion finally let him out of his grasp.
"Go on Earth Champion, fight your Earth dangers, you're serving your planet well!"
Moon Champion saluted C-C-C-P as he drifted away once more, never to see Moon Champion again.
"Take care new friend, take care. Now, I believe I see a giant slug over in the distance. Moon Champion, away!" shouted Moon Champion, as he boosted in the direction of his new sighting.

Two Lost Souls | I Dreamed a Dream »


The water keeps rising.
Days ago, it was just a point of light in the sky. Hours ago, it looked as big as our sun. Now, at midday, we are shrouded in darkness. When we look up, we only see the orb approaching.
A dull white ball, with jagged veins pulsing throughout. The texts described it quite well. Every couple hundred orbits, we would "intersect", and it would approach. It looked different every time, but it always passed as soon as it went; glazing horizontally across our sky, they said. But I think this is going to be different. My family thinks so too. In the back of our heads, everyone here wonders if we will die tonight.
The water keeps rising.
Our community is isolated in a mountain range, stretched out from the mainland and surrounded by sea. Hundreds of us, dispersed in a tropical valley that weaved in between. Quite the place, in comparison to the flat yellow terrain encompassing our entire world. But now, at midday, we gather at the tops of mountains and watch closely. We were once many feet above sea level, but now we are surrounded on all sides. The ocean will come pouring in soon.
But me? I fly far out to our highest peak. My elders call back for me, but I don't listen. Our feet are terrible for gripping snow, and my wings give way as the air does, so I sit a little ways down. I look up now, and cannot see the orb's outline.
The water keeps rising.
First slowly, but then quickly, the ocean fills into our homes, our streets, and our farms. It is violent, explosive, and anything but slow. Our plants are flattened long before they are drowned. Our towers hold up not much longer.
The ground begins to shake. Cracks ripple throughout the surrounding land, and those that aren't filled by water released a thick black smoke. The orb grows bigger and bigger, but never seems closer. The only remaining light source is the spewing lava.
The water keeps rising.
I am the only mountain standing. I call out for my father. I scream for my mother. All that responds is the rushing water. As high as I am, I still have to smell the smoke's vile stench.
My body begins to feel funny. I am… I feel lighter. Seconds later, I am weightless. The wind blows heavily, and I am lifted into the stars. I rise and rise and rise. I feel free. I can finally fly higher than everyone else in class. I can finally see the beauty of the red nebula where we reside. I cannot breathe, but as everything is sucked from within me, I can still see. I am falling away from my planet, and I watch as it sinks into the orb and gives way to dust and light.
Why did this have to end?
The remains of every living thing were now scattered across the orb. When the dust settled, the eye was complete. And then your probe came.
But me? I watch the cosmos, in an endless orbit around the planet that shattered my home.
The water keeps rising.


An idea I had. Evaluation form is adapted from one I found online from the University of Washington.

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Dr. Jameson looked around nervously at the guards to his right and left. They'd begun escorting him from Dr. Kirkland's office as soon as he signed the evaluation form. Former friends averted their eyes as he passed them in the hallway. He'd heard about what happened to fuck ups like him: termination. It'd said it clearly at the bottom of the form.
But it said he had one more chance. Was that a lie? Was he being walked out the door? To get amnesticized? To a dark floor he'd never seen before and that he'd never come back from?
After a few minutes he met Dr. Kirkland at a nondescript door one level down. Kirkland was smiling, the prick.
"Jerome. Believe it or not I still think you've got a lot to contribute to the Foundation. You're just a little lost. You're going to attend a department meeting on the other side of this door. Everything you see and hear in there is classified."
Dr. Jameson shook his head. "I don't understand, I thought you were thinking of pulling my clearance?"
Dr. Kirkland nodded. "We are. Until then you've still got it. I think you should sit in on this department meeting and decide if you'd like to transfer or not."
Dr. Jameson didn't know what to say so he just nodded and reached for the doorknob. He half expected a firing squad on the other side, but as the door opened he realized it was much worse than that.
The meeting was already underway. The smell of stale coffee and donuts filled Dr. Jameson's nose. A man that Jameson recognized stood at the front of the room behind a podium and began to speak.
"My name is Jeremiah Cimmerian. And I'm an alcoholic."

« Mugging The Monster | Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer | A Slice of Life For a Man Completely Uncomfortable »


Good day, kid. Sit down, I won't bite ya'. Could I getcha' anything to drink? Water? Milk? Sorry, I'm not allowed to keep beer in here. The Site Director doesn't want us drunk on duty.
I'll cut to the chase for ya'. I've seen what you've been doing with the vampire girl while you're supposed to be guarding her. That "camera disable" button doesn't really do anything. You're not the first one to try something like that, and the ending's always the same. You don't want to know.
Now, if I was a good Christian man like all those people out there think I am, I would've emailed the six gigabytes of footage I have of you and her straight to the Site Director, and it would be an open-and-shut case. And by "shut", I mean shut right on your fingers, kid. But I didn't. You know why? I've been in your exact position, and I've decided to turn this into a learning opportunity, sport.
I said to sit down. I can still report you to the Site Director, least you can do is actually listen.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I was a lot like you, kid. I was an up-and-coming agent for the Foundation's Infiltration Divison. I was a transfer from the CIA, and I was the best of the best. I did the Overseer's dirty work quickly, effectively, and painlessly. I rose from the coffee-getter-boy to full-time agent to MTF commando. Honestly, I probably could've ended up directin' my own site, if I kept chugging along as well.
Eventually, I was put on Village Idiots and deployed to capture SCP-3845. I wouldn't be surprised if you hadn't heard of it; it's a relatively minor one, not a lot of people need to contain it, so not a lot of people see it. Basically, it was a big ball thing with arms, legs, and a face. It ran around, played with the children, that kind of thing. We eventually snatched it up and locked it up in Site-88.
They gave us one job and one job only: clean up the island, remove any trace of SCP-3845. We had twelve men, so we split up in groups of three. Keith and Clyde swore they saw something, though, so they ran off while I combed the area.
As I was walking around in some gravel, I saw a pile shaking. I thought it was a raccoon, or a snake. Maybe if I just left it be, I would be a lot better off than I am now, kid. If I had just left it be. But, I cleared the gravel off, and there was something under it. It was a little baby SCP-3845.
Its head was about the size of a grape, and it fit pretty easily into the palm of my hand. But other than that, it looked just like the thing we'd locked up in Site-88. It cooed a little too, like an actual baby. If I'd had an iota of common sense, that would've been it. It would've been slapped into a cage, shipped to Site-88, and I'd have never seen it again. But my grizzled heart managed to crawl out of its dusty, gray coffin and convinced me that whatever Site-88 had in store for it would be worse off than me chucking it into the ocean.
Besides, the big one was nice to the kids, and all. Matthew might've liked to have one to play with.
So, despite my common sense, I kept it. Being the mission coordinator meant that I could sneak a lot of things past security. I managed to sneak the baby past the security, and I took it home with me in my work bag. Marie, my wife, couldn't know about it; she wasn't in on the whole "veil" thing, and she still thought I was a very busy businessman. We had a closet in our house where we only kept our brooms; it was easy to hide it in a bucket in there.
Took me a while to figure out what that thing ate. It ate leaves, but I eventually figured out that the little fucker loved to eat lunch meat. I'd eat a sandwich everyday, and when I came home I'd give him a little bit of it. Eventually, I ran into a problem. You know how I said he could fit into the palm of my hand? Well, the little fucker didn't stay little for long.
Eventually, it got as big as a baseball, then a basketball. It wasn't satisfied with just my crumbs anymore. I had to start feeding it entire slabs of lunch meat; otherwise, it would start to cry, and I didn't want Marie to find out about it. After a while, it got too big for the bucket, and I had to lock it in the basement. I'd leave a whole turkey down there every once in a while; by the time I'd come back to put another down, all that was left was the bones.
Between my work as an agent, taking care of the thing and taking care of Matthew, I was exhausted every day. The killing blow came when they cut my salary. I think it was because of Project Gigas. Spending half of the economies' money will probably take its toll on you. The way my supervisors phrased it, it was either take it or go chase UFOs with the UIU. Of course, I took the pay cut, kid. Working with the UIU is essentially a death blow here.
Unfortunately, with my reduced pay, I wasn't able to buy a turkey every couple of days for the thing. I tried leaving leaves for it again, but it wouldn't take 'em. I guess he got too accustomed to meat. I considered letting him out into the wild, but I didn't want somebody to stumble on him and report him to the Foundation, and then I might be in trouble. He was gettin' to be pretty big too; he was about as big as a cow at that point.
One day, I didn't leave any food down there for him. We'd bought Matthew a new crib, and I didn't want to keep sneaking money out of the budget for chicken every two days. He started screaming, down there in the basement. Luckily, it was muffled, so whenever Marie heard it, she thought it was Matthew crying upstairs. I ignored those cries. Between you and me, kid, I was hoping that it'd just starve down there.
It stopped screaming, after a while. I thought it was dead, until I heard thumps coming from the basement. I think it was trying to get out. I padlocked the door. Marie got suspicious. I told her that the pipes were acting up, and I'd padlocked it to prevent the house from flooding. She bought it, but some part of me wished that she'd get down there and see the monster I'd brought into the house.
This went on until, one night, I woke up and heard a crash downstairs. My first thought was "burglars", so I grabbed my duty pistol and creeped downstairs. I saw nothing out of place, but eventually, I saw the fridge turned over. All the shit was scattered across the floor, even the food in drawers. The drawer where I kept all the lunchmeat was empty.
I heard Matthew screaming upstairs.
I ran up there as fast as I could, but I was too late. The fucker— he wasn't little by any stretch anymore— he'd managed to get into the, the nursery, and he was bent over the crib, and— and…
Sorry, sport. It's been five fucking long years since that happened, and I still haven't gotten over it. Give me a moment to catch my breath.
…
…
…there, I think I'm good.
So, the thing was about as tall as I was. It had red shit all over its mouth, and it looked me straight on with those black, flat eyes. We just stood there, locked in place for a few good seconds. And then it started screaming. I can't tell you for sure— I was delirious as hell— but its scream sounded exactly like Matthew's.
At that point, my shock turned to rage. I hated that creature, and what it had caused me to lose. My only thought was to see that thing destroyed. I took out my gun, and unloaded my entire magazine right into that thing's head. It started leaking— not leaking, squirting— some black shit, like it was a balloon full of it. After 10 shots, it slumped to the floor like a floppy piece of rubber, and stopped moving.
I'd woken up Marie— along with half the neighborhood— with that barrage, and once she saw the— the skeleton, she started screaming too.
At that point, I decided to own up to the music. I called up Cleanup Crew, and told them my situation. They got on it ASAP. They gave everybody a cover story, cleaned up the nursery, and gave Marie some amnestics. They told her burglars got into the house and kidnapped Matthew.
The overseers wanted to fire me, but they decided that it was a good idea to keep me around as agent emeritus, to teach the newbies and the such. They stuck me in a position where I couldn't do too much harm— this backwater site— and I haven't been able to move up since.
If I have one thing to be proud of, it's that I can still teach the new agents a thing or two. Like you, kid. I've deleted the footage, and you should be able to get off scot-free. Take this as a warning, if nothing else. Don't let your guard down, like I did mine.

More by notgull

More by notgull

SCPs

notgull's Proposal

SCP-3733

SCP-3095

SCP-4800

SCP-4804

SCP-2785

SCP-4348

SCP-4048

SCP-4688

SCP-3362

SCP-579-J

SCP-4785

SCP-3339

SCP-5800

SCP-4248

SCP-3747

SCP-4948

SCP-3296

SCP-4800-J

SCP-4799

SCP-199

SCP-3485

SCP-5981

SCP-7234

SCP-4808

SCP-3833

SCP-3748

SCP-4148

SCP-5054

SCP-5025

SCP-1037

SCP-093-J

SCP-5680

SCP-1684

SCP-4872

SCP-3248

SCP-6904

SCP-5483

SCP-6785

SCP-4397

Tales

The Little Robot that Could

Join the Flock

The Siege of Site-19

Tales of the Automaton: The Big Birdocalypse

Footage Recovered From a Private Server

Avian Anthology I

My Empire of Birds

Moose on the Loose

Document recovered from a Parallel Universe

Katz and Dogs

Joey Fucknuts Steals The Declaration of Independence

Your Guard

Vacation Opportunity

The Scent of a Toaster

Burn, Baby, Burn

Chasing Suns

Wind in the Sails

Three Feet Under I

The Shape of Water is Humanoid

Dead Reckoning

Three Feet Under II

Three Feet Under III

Into the Beetle Black Yonder

Forgotten Shrine

Down Through

Hyperfine

Don't Knock on Strange Doors

Other

Researcher Calvin's Personnel File

Incident Report ████/████

"Sphere" Incursion Log

Initial Incursion Log

"Cube" Incursion Log #1

"Cube" Incursion Log #2

SCP-093-J Blue Test

SCP-093-J Recovered Documents

SCP-093-J Green Test

SCP-093-J Purple Test

Exploration Log 4480-1

See my Author Page for more information. If you like reading my stuff, consider checking out my YouTube Channel for SCP-inspired animations, among other things.