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PSA: Cognitohazards and You!
Written by korben600 and TheBoxOfFun and the helpful fixes of Jack Waltz

A big thanks to LORDXVNV, Fish^12, Cole 13, Jack Waltz, and Ralliston for their helpful critique. Special thanks to Doctor Cimmerian for helping with the initial idea.
Skippie was made by Fish^12! Released under CC BY-SA 3.0.

Agent Mills shut the door to the SUV with a quiet thunk under the light of a full moon. The lights to the house were on, which was a good sign when responding to potential memetic dispersion situations. Vegetables tended to be incapable of using complex electronic interfaces like light switches.
As such, Mills relaxed minutely as he knocked on the front door.
Two minutes later, Mill's momentary relief was cancelled out by a sinking feeling in his gut. He had tried looking into the small suburban house's windows, but the blinds were closed.
It wasn't until he returned to the doorstep that he realized something was leaking from under the door. Something viscous, and red.
“Shit.” Mills swore under his breath, pulling on a set of SCRAMBLE goggles, and pressing the emergency button on his watch.

Timothy Deering the Third, or “Timmy” as everyone and his mother called him, had been walking home from school after a particularly uneventful day.
As most third graders were, he was entirely engrossed in his phone, scrolling through his Tiktok feed. So engrossed was he with his feed, he almost stepped into traffic at a particularly busy intersection. Only the dedicated and vocal honking of several drivers kept him from a near-death experience.
Unfortunately for them, their efforts almost engendered the opposite, as, while Timmy was occupied crossing the street, he accidentally clicked on a link in the comments section, helpfully titled “WATCH FOR CRAZY SHIT, BRO”.
When he looked back down, he knew immediately that something was wrong.
But it was too late. He had already seen the anomalous organization of shapes and figures, and now it was working its way through his prefrontal cortex.

The door to the suburban home was thankfully the flimsy kind of plywood American cookie-cutter housing was infamous for, so Mills was easily able to force his way in.
However, the sight that greeted him when his foot kicked it open made him deeply regret not waiting for an MTF.
Even through the delayed pixelated screen of his SCRAMBLE goggles, the sight of blood and viscera caked over almost every surface was enough to make his stomach turn.
His fingers made the reflexive decision to pinch his nose shut, but the pungent taste of copper still filtered into his mouth.
His other hand pulled out his sidearm, and the agent began to stalk through the house.

Timmy had never felt a sensation like this before. It was like his brain behind his eyes just hurt. Like someone was trying to claw its way out of his skull.
It was almost enough to make him cry. Almost.
And under his breath, he began to whisper something.
“When you see a Cognitohazard, and you're feeling really shocked, it's really quite important that you remember “CLOKS”…”

Mills started in the kitchen. A woman, the mother, presumably, was lying facedown on the active stove, while something in her blood was drawn on the counter.
His SCRAMBLE gear blurred out the bloodstained image, to which Mills let out a sigh of relief.
The agent's left hand kept his nostrils firmly shut as his gun hand reached over a large pool of blood on the floor, and he turned off the stove, pointedly not looking at what it had done to the poor woman's face.

“Timmy!” his mother called from the kitchen. “Want some lunch?”
He shook his head quietly, not even looking his mother in the eye as he moved as quickly and unobtrusively as he could up the staircase up to his room.
Her eyes followed him as he moved up the staircase, and while his behaviour was odd, he was eight, so she simply shrugged and let him pass.

Mills looked around, bending down to approximately where the woman's head was, and tried looking around. She had clearly fallen quickly, to a visual Cognitohazard, so whatever she had seen was fast-acting, and she had to have seen it where she'd been standing.
It wasn't until he looked in the window that he realized that SCRAMBLE was blurring out something reflected from behind him.
He turned away from the grim scene and moved cautiously towards the staircase.

Timmy shut the door behind him, and locked it. For added measure, he copied a movie he saw and propped a chair against his door.
Further imitating the videos he'd seen, he shut his blinds, and even pushed a towel into the crack under his door for good measure, before sitting down on his bed and quietly dialling 555.

At the bottom of the steps was the body of the man of the house. The Cognitohazard his wife had seen was scrawled over the staircase in his blood. The rest of his blood was pooling at the bottom of his body, presumably unable to stop leaving him once his scrawled note was finished.
Mills' eyes tracked the man's blood trail as he backtracked the father's movement down the staircase.

“Okay Timmy, you locked your door, right?”
“Yep. What-what do I do now?”
“We're going to be cut off in a second, but when we do, I want you to pull out the batteries from your phone and computer okay?”
“What if I can't?”
“Then put it under your bed, or just break it with a hammer okay?”
“I-I don't know if I'm allowed to do that?”
“Timmy, we're going to have words with your parents, okay? Trust me, you can blame me if they get mad. Now, after that, just wait, okay buddy? You're doing great.”
“Okay. Uh. Do. Do you want to know what it looked like?”
“No! Shit, Alex, wait, he's not going to actually-”
There was a click on the other line, and the line went dead.

At the top of the staircase, the blood trail continued down the hallway, slowing only where it was used to add more drawings that set off his SCRAMBLE gear.
Helpfully, the blood trail also ended at a partially open door.

Timmy unplugged his computer and dragged it with all of his 8-year-old might to his closet, where he threw his deactivated phone on top of it and covered it with bags, clothes, and toys to bury it.
For good measure, he also removed the batteries from several of his toys and shoved them deeper under the pile.

Mills slowly pushed the door open, prepping his stomach for what was inside.

Timmy sat on his bed, trying to keep his mind off the increasing pain in his head.
Unfortunately, the pain was morphing into thoughts not his own, thoughts about hurting people, and himself.
He was so consumed by the pain, he couldn't even hear the screams he was letting out, the answering cries of his parents as they desperately tried to open his door, or the wail of police sirens in the distance.

There was nothing left alive in the room.
There was only blood. Just… so much blood. Who knew that much blood could come out of a child so small?
Mills leaned over, and quietly reached down to close its eyes.
No 11-year-old girl ought to be subjected to this.

A boy, eight years old, emaciated, eyes bloodshot, the expression even, is sitting in a wheelchair in the hospital.
His parents and an orderly talk in the background.
“You were lucky ma'am. It was only a Level-1 Cognitohazard, it would have destroyed an adult brain in minutes, but these little guys' heads are hardier than ours. Timothy's call might have saved his life, and he definitely saved yours.”
“… will he be okay though?”
The nurse paused and reread her clipboard. “…I know he doesn't look it, but yes. He should. The amnestic regimen isn't great for young minds, but as I said, your boy here is a tough one, and we got it early. He'll be just fine.”
At the words, his mother broke down in tears, and he was engulfed in her arms. While he couldn't say anything immediately, a tear slowly slid down his face.

Hello Kids! My name is Skippie, the Cognitohazard Expert! My job is to teach you all about basic safety measures to keep you and your family safe!
As you smart boys and girls know, it's a dangerous world out there. There are all kinds of criminals and thieves out there, but today, we want to talk about a different threat.
Have any of your kids heard of something called a “Cognitohazard”?
A Cognitohazard is any piece of information that can cause physical harm to someone just by knowing it. A Cognitohazard can be on anything, in pictures, videos, paintings, music, etc.
Now, these Cognitohazards are rare, so you shouldn't worry too much about seeing one. Very few people encounter them. But, with the lifting of the Veil, Cognitohazards have become more common, so it's important that you all know what to do when you see a Cognitohazard.
To remember what to do when you see a Cognitohazard, remember the word CLOKS.
C stands for “Calm”. Cognitohazards come in all types, but most of them create strange feelings after looking at them. The most common feeling is like someone's poking the inside of your brain with a fork, but there are also those that feel like burning or an overwhelming feeling of fear. The most important thing when you feel like this is to remain Calm. Even if it hurts, it's important that you remain calm so you can finish the rest of CLOKS.
L stands for “Lock”. After you calm down, find a room you can lock yourself in. This is because Cognitohazards take longer to affect you if you put more things between you and the source of the Cognitohazard. Ideally, you want a room that requires a key on either side to lock it, but at the very least, you have to make sure the doors lock from the inside. If possible, grab any keys and make sure you have them before you lock yourself in. You don't want those Cognitohazards getting in easy!
O stands for “Orders”. After locking yourself in a room, it's important that you call the Foundation Cognitohazard hotline, at 555. The Foundation representative will send agents to help you and give you more specific orders concerning your Cognitohazard. The Foundation has experience with them, and we might have even heard of your case before! Remember to do exactly what the representative does, even if it seems odd.
K stands for “Kill”. If you can't get through to the hotline, or if the representative is cut off unexpectedly, it's important that you Kill all of your virtual devices. Turn off all of your devices. Not just put them in sleep mode, fully disable them. If you have a computer where it's easy to do, remove the batteries and unplug them from the wall. If it's an apple product, press down the power button ten times in a row, and select “Yes” when the product asks if you wish to initiate an emergency shutdown. Remember kids, the more you isolate yourself, the harder it is for the Cognitohazard to hurt people. If you cannot turn off your devices easily, try to at least place them somewhere outside of your reach.
S stands for “Stay”. Rest assured, even if your call is cut short, the Foundation is well aware of your situation. The most important thing you can do is stay where you are. Thus, the foundation can more easily find you and fight the infection. Even if things start to look strange, as some Cognitohazards affect vision, it's important you don't move.
Now, kids, it's time to learn a song to help you memorize this!
When you see a Cognitohazard, and you're feeling really shocked, it's really quite important, that you remember “CLOKS”!
C is for Calm down, and L is for Lock door.
O is for Orders, and then wait, there is more!
K is for Kill devices, S is for Stay put.
I'd say there was more, but you're all good!
Just remember, when your brain's embers, listen to Skippie, and use CLOKS!

THESE PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENTS ARE SPONSORED BY THE FOUNDATION, THE US FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, AND VIEWERS LIKE YOU.
THANK YOU.

The young man looked expectantly at his boss as the man finished reading his proposal. “Two things. First, if we're being technical, this PSA is really more about Memetic Hazards than Cognitohazards."
"We're aware, sir. The problem is, kids already have a very specific definition of 'meme', so we're worried calling them that will make them confused."
The boss nodded slightly. "Fair enough. My second question is, has it occurred to you that your “CLOKS” here doesn't actually protect children from Mem-Cognitohazards?”
The young man looked at him in confusion. “Uh, duh? Anything above a Level-3 Coghaz will render you either a vegetable or a homicidal maniac on sight. CLOKS isn't supposed to protect children.”
His boss glared at him with annoyance. “Jesus, man, this is supposed to be a PSA about protecting the public from Coghaz's. CLOKS just seems like it's meant to lock infected kids in a dark room away from their parents…” the man trailed off.
The young man looked almost bittersweet as his boss realized the implications. “Sir, we can't protect people who are already infected with Coghaz's, at least not consistently. All we can do is convince the afflicted to not infect anyone else.”
“…” His boss looked pensive at the reasoning. "You want to convince every kid in America that if they get infected, they should lock themselves in a dark room so their parents can't get to them and help as their child's brain gets fried from the inside, out."
"Thus keeping them from being infected, and cutting down on the damage any Coghaz outbreak creates."
“…if the parents figure out what we're trying to get their kids to do, they're gonna riot.”
The young man smirked slightly. “And that's what the rest of the ‘adult' version of the PSA is for. Skippie's to tell the kids what to do, while Timmy and Mills are supposed to show adults what happens when kids don't listen to CLOKS.”
His boss frowned, and flipped through the proposal again, before sighing. “…approved. Get the full thing on Adult Swim every day of the week sometime between 9 pm and 7 am. I'll call Janet in youth outreach to get the kiddie bit as a nationwide kids PSA.”
“…and Skippie?”
“Yes, you can go to AIAD and ask to hire Skippie out for tours. Just Skippie. Her brother would scare those kids shitless. And make sure she knows what she's hawking, we don't need the PR nightmare of Skippie suddenly asking on 60 Minutes why we're locking kids up in their rooms.”

rating: +266+–x


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The following article is a part of the And Every Time We Meet Again storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.

12th of August, 1985
Somewhere within the forests 14 kilometers east of Augustów, Poland

"Daniel! Daniel!"
Daniel Asheworth violently woke up in response to Rivera's voice. He tried to catch the vaguely escaping thought of the memory of his last dream. All he remembered was the vague memory of a woman covered in red shouting for his help, telling him he was running out of time. It… it wasn't a nightmare, no, but there was definitely something… weird about it. Something vaguely offputting — a feeling he couldn't describe with rational words, but a feeling that felt similar to staring at a photo of someone you knew ages ago. What that meant, he did not know.
He shook his head and stood up from the ground, grabbing her hand with one hand and his back with the second. Sleeping on the ground for the last two months almost every single night wasn't exactly the most comfortable option, but ever since he was rescued from the unfair trial, he had no choice but to follow his saviors where they asked him to come along.
They called themselves "Triumviraté" — or, rather, they called themselves a rogue part of the Triumviraté. Even if they were still connected in some ways to the Fae terrorist group wanting to resurrect Queen Mab and bring their long-gone monarchy upon the entire world again, their goals were much different. Ailbié Tier'ney, the Fae with whom Asheworth had the best contact from the entire ten-person squad, and the person responsible for his rescue didn't tell him much, but from he was told they served some nature goddess, bringing the goals of the Triumviraté in a much less violent and more peace-oriented way. He was skeptical at first, but when they showed no signs of aggression towards him, and said they wanted only one thing in return for them liberating him and his friends — a talk with their deity — he had no choice but to accept their request.
He was suddenly snapped out of his half-awake trance by Rivera snapping her fingers in front of him.
"Come on, we still have Cornwell to wake up," she pointed towards the sleeping man on the ground with her head. "They're not going to wait for us."
She and Cornwell were even more skeptical than him when they helped them get out of the courtroom — he didn't fault them though. First, they were made to believe he was using them to help their enemy, Nowak, and then were quite literally kidnapped by the Fae (even if that was the only way to force them to come with them). They said their goddess told them to bring these two too. They didn't know why — all they needed to do was listen. Thankfully though, both Rivera and Cornwell quickly came to fully believe Asheworth in the fact he was innocent.
He blinked thrice again, realizing he's been standing still for a while now. Shaking his head, he proceeded to look around himself, trying to find the exit from the cave. The dry place in which they slept was not very large, but big enough to fit the thirteen people their pilgrimage consisted of. All around it, members of the group were waking up, reading everything for the final part of their journey. From within the group, Tier'ney emerged, coming towards Asheworth with a couple of quick steps of ver long legs.
Ve shook ver head with a slight smile, showing him with ver hand to come along. They were almost there.
It was time to go.

* * *

He didn't know where exactly they were, but he knew one thing — it was beautiful.
The forests they walked through during their two-month-long journey weren't anomalous, but they felt… different. Asheworth couldn't exactly say why, but they felt somehow more natural. The trees somehow felt bigger, healthier, greener, and the waters felt quicker, cleaner, and happier, like they were untainted by the touch of humans. He'd always heard Fae found parts of the forests nobody else could and walked through the secret paths they offered alone as the Children of the Forest they were, but he'd never really believed it. Until now.
The paths they walked down were something different. They felt like they were right, as opposed to the human ways which felt wrong, whatever that meant. He saw it even in the behavior of his Fae companions, walking through the lands like they were their home. He had a lot of experience with Fae, and they never acted like that. Not in normal forests, at least.
"Heeelloooo?" He suddenly realized Ailbié was standing in front of him, waving ver hand in front of his face. "What is up with you today?"
He blinked twice, finally starting to react. "I… I haven't slept well. That's all."
"Mhm. Sure." Ve rolled ver eyes. "What's on your mind?"
"I… eugh, fine," he sighed. "I feel like we're wasting time coming here."
"Oh?"
They walked across a bridge crossing a large river running beneath them. The sound of the water flowing was even louder than the ever-present sounds of the forest following their pilgrimage around.
"I know that talk is nothing when compared to you saving our lives, but I'm just… I'm worried Nine is up to something."
"Aren't all your Overseers up to something?"
"Well, they were. Before whatever the hell blew Overwatch Command up. But she's always been… off," he exhaled air sharply. "I don't know. It might just be me being insane. But I think she's up to no good."
Even though their main concern, Damien Nowak, was already dead, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something wrong was happening within the Foundation. But it's not like he'd ever had to return there, though. Since he was practically considered a traitor by everyone aside from two of his friends, the only choice he really had was to either join the group he was following after he talked with their goddess or… he didn't know, actually. He didn't think of what he should do.
Ve shrugged. "After you're done talking with Her, you'll be free to do whatever you want. Including chasing your insane leaders."
He didn't respond. Instead, he tried changing the topic.
"Speaking of which, how long do we have left? Yesterday it was 'close', and, well, you know…"
He didn't remember any of the routes they walked down during their journey, but it was by intent. Each day, their leaders cast something akin to a self-made amnestic on them (him, Rivera, and Cornwell, that was), removing the details of their route from their minds. The memory of each day was left, though — so it wasn't exactly that big of a problem. Asheworth could resist them, of course — it was a simple spell at best, so nothing too hard to counter with a few words of power — but he didn't think knowing the location of this specific place was a good idea. Even if the chance of returning to the Foundationas personnel was slim, it was still there — and he very much didn't want to make it even smaller by having such information.
"Today is also "close,"" ve snarkily replied, correcting the ever-falling red berrett on ver head. "We should be there before sunset."
"Alright."
They walked a little longer together, crossing more rivers and craters in silence. Neither spoke, listening to the ever-present sounds of the forest — birds sang a little happier, to an audience that was just a little more peaceful. Few moments later though, it disappeared as another member of the group called Tier'ney for something. With an apologetic smile, ve walked away as ver long green hair fluttered in response to the strong winds of the region. Even if he never cared for such things, he had to admit ve was really beautiful.
Not wanting to disturb a passionate debate Rivera and Cornwell, he continued walking alone in silence. As the rays of a setting sun in the distance reached his eyes, he squinted slightly, noticing a rather large hill sitting atop the horizon. Looking more closely around himself, he noticed something more — the path they were walking down was leading directly towards it.
The hill wasn't gigantic, but it was big enough to feel slightly out of place. Flora around it felt much denser to the point of unnatural, swarming the mound like bees to honey. Trees, bushes, roots, and vines covered it in a thick wall, almost impenetrable to untrained legs. Atop it though, was something that felt much more off than anything else.
A single oak tree, much larger than normal trees are. But size wasn't what was off about it — he felt like the tree was watching him, always at the borders of his vision, no matter what he did, observing each of his moves.
He shivered.

* * *

"Close your eyes."
"Are you serious? What are we, twelve?"
Grimacing, ve rolled her eyes. "I'm not asking you to close your eyes for you to not see the opening ritual — I know you could feel irregardless. I'm asking you to do so because it would quite literally burn your human eyes out."
"…Oh."
Standing at the bottom of the hill they were walking towards just seconds later, he sighed. The road ended at the foot of a steep cliff, like it was trying to penetrate the dirt wall and continue into the inside of the hill. Though around it, the foliage was still visibly denser than in normal forests, one could see that it was much less dense than in the remainder of the almost swarmed hill. The ground was similarly unusual — the natural dirt path they were following was much more trampled the closer it came to the hill.
Not wanting to prolong the process, he told the rest of his team to close their eyes and soon after he too followed his own instruction. Just as his eyelids covered his eyes, he felt an itching feeling near them, like someone was scratching the nerves underneath his eyeballs. Resisting the urge to open them as best as he could, he subconsciously felt the bindings running the ritual through. Like roots of a tree around him, they sprouted with thaumaturgic energy, coming together to form one spell. He felt a hinge of some kind of other magic within it, though; like a good chef feels one ounce too much of salt within his dish, he felt something intervene in the normal flow of the standard location-concealing ritual it was. Like someone, nay, something, was helping the caster.
He shook his head, getting rid of the feeling; he didn't want to get in more trouble than he already had to go through. When he felt the rather warm feeling from casting just moments before feeling a touch of a hand on his cheek, he opened his eyes to a smiling Tier'ney. Before them, the previously rock-hard wall of the hill was now a widely-opened entrance, from which a warm light was illuminating the long corridor leading inside. He audibly exhaled.
"So, we're here?"
"Here you indeed are," ve said, taking the first step forward towards the tunnel. With ver hand, ve showed him to come forward. "Come on. You made it this far, you might as well get it over with." Ve was visibly not enthralled about the idea of their mission ending, though. He saw it in ver big, black eyes, no matter how much ve tried to hide it.
He inhaled, blinking twice.
He took the first step forward.

* * *

He lost his breath for a second.
The cave was gigantic, beyond anything he'd ever seen. If he had to approximate its size, he didn't think he'd honestly even be able to do it justice. When they initially approached the hill, he guessed their base within had to be some spacial anomaly due to its small size, but he'd never guess it'd be this large.
"I…" he tried to speak weakly, looking around himself. The entirety of the cavern was filled with numerous structures similar to scaffoldings and bridges, joining the many levels of the place together in one chaotic yet weirdly harmonic manner. Crates, beds, barrels, torches, wooden columns, entire houses built in the walls of it, all of it filled with hundreds, if not thousands of Fae walking around the structure — it was too much to comprehend so easily. He quickly realized all of this is accompanied by a gigantic waterfall in the distance, filling the place with its sea-like noise and the smell of salt, accompanying the everpresent sounds and smells of a lively city. "Wo… woah."
Tier'ney smiled, noticing his reaction. "A little too much, isn't it?" The rest of the group of Foundation personnel had a similar reaction.
"Y-Yeah." He continued standing there, not knowing what to really say. "I… you live in here?"
Ve chuckled. "We indeed do. Treat it as a base of operations functioning as a home, I suppose. Here's the only place we can talk to Her, so it's only natural we live here, isn't it?"
He didn't answer, instead continuing to behold the place. Despite the everpresent Fae-made structures, the cavern still found plenty of space for plenty of flora. From within its wall, ceiling, and even the floor — it was practically bursting with greenery. Looking around himself once again, he noticed another Fae — not a part of the group that came with them — was talking to Tier'ney near them in a version of their dialect he didn't understand. It was much rougher than the normal smooth-sounding Fae languagae. All he saw was the other nodding and walking away.
Ailbié started to walk towards the waterfall in the distance, showing him to come along with ver hand. "Come on, She said she's ready to meet"
"Wh-what about my friends?" He looked at them standing behind him. They were still marveling at the place's look.
"Don't worry. My friends will make sure they will have something to eat and drink. All you have to do is come along. She'll be waiting for you."
Ve walked directly towards the waterfall, not making sure if he'd follow ver. Because ve knew he would.
Coming closer towards the water, he noticed ve walked directly through it, like ve ignored it completely. Through a large but shallow pond surrounding it he followed, finally coming before the wall of water ve crossed seconds before. He took a deep breath, and entered through.

* * *

Opening his eyes again, he realized he was no longer standing knee-deep in the cold waters of the pond, instead looking at a much, much smaller cave with a much, much smaller pond with a waterfall and some flora. It didn't feel like a cave, but, rather, a room in a cave. There wasn't much aside from a small table with items he couldn't recognize from the two meters he was standing away, a mat near it, and the small pond, overgrown with similarly unrecognizable flora.
He blinked, realizing Tier'ney was gone and that he was alone in the stony room, not really sure what to do. He thought he'd enter through to some gigantic and over-the-top throneroom, not a hermit's dwelling. He'd go back through the waters still humming behind him, but something deep inside him made him feel like going back would be a bad idea — he had to do something here. He knew that, deeply.
Sighing, he came closer to the table, giving what it held a look. A vase with ash he didn't recognize, an empty metal bowl, a mortar, stone knife, and two leaves — one entirely black and one entirely white. He looked at them and at the pond silently, trying to understand what he's supposed to do as hard as he could. He looked at the weird plants sprouting out of the water and near it, touching them with his hand. He realized they were rather sharp, but too late. And as a steady flow of blood flew out of his palm onto the water, staining it like ink a sheet of paper, he suddenly knew what he had to do.
Those clever bastards.
He quickly rushed to the table in the middle of the cave, grabbing the knife with passion burning inside him. It's been a while since he felt the flame of alchemy within him, but it looked like it returned, for a brief moment. He cut the reeds coming out of the water with the dagger-like a chef cuts fresh carrots with a knife, letting the metal bowl be his frying pan. Invoking a cold flame from within his palm, he made his hand into a torch, sprinkling some of the ash in the vase atop it like salt. Wham — the white leaf was gone, reduced to mere dust sprinkling with energy. Wham — so was the black one, turning into a sludgy paste he tasted with the tip of his tongue.
Spicy. Good.
With a few more cuts of the flowers he got from near the waterfall, he threw the petals into the mortar with the remainder of the ash, mixing them together. He threw everything into the bowl again, and with a hand as cold as ice itself he touched it, only to ignite it again, closing his eyes.
When he opened them again, he saw butterflies near him, swarming him like flies. They were coming from the bowl into the air. He smiled, realizing the ritual was done. Seconds later, they disappeared like they were never there, revealing a rapidly color-changing liquid sitting at the bottom of the container.
He knew what he had to do.
Sitting on the mat, he put his tongue into the bowl, trying to feel its temperature — with these kinds of magic, it was never certain what it would come out as.
Cold, nice.
He took a deep breath and drank the liquid.

* * *

It was white. Everything around him was white.
He felt like he'd just woken up from a dream — a very good dream, but still a dream. Trying to find where he'd woken up though, he realized he's standing in a purely white plain, reaching as far as he could see. No sky, no ground, no nothing — just a purely white world, like a sheet of paper to a two-dimensional being. In the distance though, he could see a black dot; something he wasn't quite sure was there until he really squinted, but something he felt was there. He felt it, deep within his soul.
He took a step, fearing he'd fall down, but nothing like that happened — instead, his boot felt the sand-like ground this reality offered, allowing him to easily take another step. Then another. And then yet another.
Soon after, the black dot previously almost invisible was now a large tree, sprouting like nothing he'd ever seen; from its roots to its branches, everything about it felt… alive. Not just living, but alive like it itself was life. He didn't know what that meant, but he knew it was beautiful — like he was staring at nature itself in the eyes.
He then realized he wasn't alone.
He realized this when he noticed someone was sitting under the tree — or, rather, within the tree, like they were a part of it. A woman with skin like the tree's bark and green hair as long as the branches of the tree, greeting him with her eyes as blue as the sky. He stopped walking towards her, slightly confused.
"Hello, Daniel," she said with a towering yet gentle voice. It filled his very being, making sure to be heard.
"I… what…" he tried to say in a panicked voice, suddenly intimidated by the entity's presence, trying to make sense of where he is. He knew the ritual would transport him to where he was supposed to meet Her, whoever She was, but he very much didn't expect this. "Who… who are you…? What do you want from me?"
She smiled in a calm and almost loving expression. "Oh, Daniel," she chuckled. "Please, there's no reason to be afraid. Come on, don't worry." She showed him to come closer.
He backed off a little, extending his arm in front of the woman. He tried to invoke a flame into it, only to realize magic doesn't exist here — not that he couldn't simply use the spell, no, it was like magic itself was absent from this dimension. He panicked.
She sighed. "Oh, please. No… no need for that." She looked him directly in the eyes. Seconds later, he knew there was really nothing to worry about.
He came closer, putting his arm back where it belonged, calming himself. His previously racing mind was now much more peaceful, like it was his mother herself that came to him. He sat down near the woman among the tree's branches, taking off his runed gloves. He touched the roots and leaves around him with a fascination of a child, like they were something special. In some regard, they were — they felt so much greener and much more alive than normal leaves. Not anomalously, no; it was like they were the only right and truly alive ones, as opposed to the ones touched by humans.
"Who… who are you, really?"
She smiled again, chuckling a little. "And who do you think I am?"
"A… goddess of sorts, I think." She nodded. "A… a goddess of nature, I imagine, leading this Triumviraté as its shadow queen, manipulating reality through your little dimension where nobody can reach you. You called me here to recruit me and my friends to this game of yours, wanting us to be nothing more than your pawns." He looked her directly into her eyes. "Am I correct?"
She burst out in a burst of genuine laughter, smiling. Looking at him, she corrected her hair, stopping it from obstructing her vision.
"Oh, that is golden!" She shouted to the white heavens above them, bursting out again.
"Why are you—"
"Oh, Daniel! Daniel, my sweet, sweet child. I'm no demon. I'm your mother."
"She's been dead for over—'
She rolled her eyes. "No, I don't mean your mother. I mean the mother of all of this." She looked around herself, stretching her long arms, showing the horizon in the distance. "I'm called by many names, Daniel. Sometimes, I'm Gaia. Sometimes I'm Earth itself. Sometimes I'm just nature. And, you know, I really love your species. Even when you do what you do." She finished in a slightly sadder manner.
"E-Earth?" He didn't really know what to say. "What do you mean by "killing"—"
She sighed. "Don't worry about it. I didn't call you here to make a forgotten goddess happy." She suddenly turned serious. "I called you here because my children are in danger."
He looked at her with a confused and a little intimidated expression. "What… what do you mean? Something big? I don't think I'm the best person to deal with this—"
"Oh, you're the only one that can deal with this, Daniel. This isn't about some monster that will kill your poisonous cities, it's about the end. The End, rather." She stood up. "It's about the End of all that is, the End of creation. The Beast, Red, whatever you call it. And you're the only one that can stop this."
"I… I killed Nowak. I ended this. I—"
"You did. But the Beast isn't dead," she touched his arm. "She's still out there. Nine is out there, Daniel."
His eyes turned fully open. "Does that mean…" his voice turned weak.
"I don't know. I wish I did, but I don't," she paused for a second. "My point is your Overseer is preparing for the End of all that is. She knows how to undo the two more Seals required for her to harvest the full power of the Beast, and when she does…" She sadly chuckled. "You need to stop her, as quickly as you can."
"But… if it's so urgent then couldn't you've just told me anywhere else? I could have used the two months it took me to come here to—"
She sighed again. "I needed you to come here directly."
"What? Why?"
She grabbed his second arm. "She knows how to harvest the Beast. She knows how to use it, how to become an avatar for the pure power it possessed whilst still maintaining control. She knows how to utilize that power to do whatever she pleases. And you can do the same."
"What do you mean?"
"Within you, there's the power of creation. Of Blue. Of Father. Within you, there's the wisdom of tens of generations that used it before you to fight the darkness of the Beast. You need to know how to control it. And I'll show you how."
She gently touched his forehead with her right hand, like she was checking his temperature. And that's when he felt it.
An explosion within his mind, nay, his soul — he suddenly felt the god within him, coming there, in that very moment, to be truly a part of him. They merged together, and, for a second, they were one. He opened his eyes, touching his forehead. It felt like it was burning, and he knew it had a blueish mark on it, despite not seeing it. He just knew it.
"What… what was that…?"
"It's what you can become when you really want to. Your magic is strong, but the Beast is beyond strength. But it isn't beyond you two combined. Using yourself to channel the magic of creation itself, you can overpower it. Become the hole and the key, Daniel. Become one, and kill it. Kill it before it can kill you."
"I… I don't know how I would…"
"You will know when you will have to, she sighed. "They are waiting for you. Don't fail them."
He suddenly felt like he had to wake up now, despite his own will wanting him to stay there.
"Where should I go? What do I need to do to destroy her?"
She smiled. "You'll know in time. Don't worry."
He tried to say anything before he would walk out of the horizon. "I swear I'll come back. I swear I'll fix this world. I swear I'll get others to fix everything with me. I'm sorry, I—"
"Go now. They're waiting for you."
And then he woke up.

* * *

He opened his eyes for the millionth time this day.
He was no longer within the cave, instead laying inside a bed inside some house. He wasn't quite sure whose it was, but he was sure the building was one of those within the cavern. Around him, Cornwell, Tier'ney, and Rivera were standing closely, as if awaiting his awakening.
"Is… is everything alright? Did you talk to her?" Rivera asked, touching the suddenly noticed rune upon his forehead. "What… is that?"
He scratched his neck. "Where… where am I?" He asked in a rough voice. "What happened?"
"You've been in that cave for two whole days. We had to get your body out here by force or else you'd have died," she sighed. "Is everything alright?"
In response to a sudden headache, he closed his eyes with a grimace. "No, nothing is alright. We need to hurry." He tried to stand up, only for the other to try to stop him.
"You need to get rest."
"I don't need rest." He looked at his forehead. "Not with this. And not while Na— Nine is out there."
"Nine?"
"O5-9. We need to stop her. Gather your things as quickly as possible," he looked at Tier'ney. "And you, gather all your people near the waterfall. I have something to tell them."
"What? Why the… hurry?" Ve asked.
"I'll answer everything as quickly as possible. Just… please call them. This can't wait."
Ve nodded without asking further questions, and ran out of the room. Rivera came closer to him, confused.
"So, what do we do now? Where do we go?"
As he smirked, his eyes glowing with a faint light of blue. He touched his forehead, and felt the mark of power resting upon it. He could feel the rune, not like it was drawn atop his skin, but like it was a part of his very being. He could feel his magic suddenly increasing tenfold in power. He smiled again, and answered.
"To Site-120."

* * *

2nd of May, 1985
Overwatch Command, ██ kilometers █████ of ██████, █████

O5-9 woke up, violently. She very much didn't sleep well.
The part of her that was the mind abhorred sleep, seeing it solely as an obstacle in her finishing her plans. Sadly though, the part of her that was the body had to regularly remind her she wasn't immortal and needed rest. But if all would go well, not for long.
She gently massaged her tired eyes as she tried to remember the horrible, horrible thing that was the human body's ability to dream. Something about a man covered in blue telling her he won't leave her and that he'll come for her. It wasn't a nightmare, no — she knew them well enough — but something about it was… weird. It felt like trying to remember a memory from a childhood you only know the outlines of, trying to desperate fill it in to remember. What that meant, she did not know.
Even if it wasn't exactly the best start to a day, she knew she couldn't let emotions take a hold of her — at least not today. Ever since her best help got killed in that goddamned mistake of a trial, she had no way of calling the demon back into this world. Not until today, that was — she finally gathered everything needed for the ritual. She had to execute it perfectly — there was no margin of error here.
She was angry at herself for fucking it up so badly — she should have just killed that little mage piece of shit on the spot instead of giving him a chance of escaping. These little forest idiots escaped unharmed and she had no idea where they were thanks to them killing off her scout. But that was about to change soon.
As she started the incantation, the shadows filling the room started to move towards her, like flies to honey. They danced around the Overseer, carefully observing her until she opened her head in a gesture of power, forcing them to come together near the ritual circle. They complied — even if they wish they hadn't, the power of Red was too much even for them to handle.
Moving in a serpentine manner, they swarmed around the red suit of the demon that was her servant months ago, filling it like running water a cup. Before she could blink, the man in the red suit was standing before her like nothing happened. He tipped his fedora and slightly chuckled with a red blink in his eyes.
"Oh, he won't take it well, will he?" He slightly grinned as he noticed her face. He'd never seen it before — she didn't allow him to come close enough to allow it ever before. But she was desperate this time.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing," he grinned again. "Your inevitable meeting will be extremely interesting, that's all I'm saying, hah."
Ignoring him, she closed the tome with the spell she was using, ready to call him to finish his duty.
And that's when she felt it.
It felt as powerful as a direct call, for reasons she didn't understand — she felt that damned thaumaturgist talk to Her. She maintained regular overwatch upon all local deities of this planet — even if they tried to resist it, they couldn't possibly battle a god outside of their reality — but she never thought he'd contact one of them. From the one within the sewers, the one whose part in this reality was underneath the Factory, and the one in hell itself, he of course had to choose that one — the only one she'd have problems with fighting.
Nine felt what She told him, too. She felt as boiling rage filled her body beyond anything she'd felt in ages. So that was what those forest cretins were up to. She hoped he'd died somewhere or got murdered by the fanatics Triumviraté was, but that was apparently too much to ask for. If only that stupid fucking forest whore didn't intervene, all would be good. But of course She had to stop her plans.
Calm yourself, Nine thought, leaning on the wall with a mirror located next to her. When you finish, She will pay. Yes, She will definitely pay. She looked at her own reflection, grinning with an awful smile. But that's when she realized she wasn't looking at her own reflection.
Instead of her tall and confident pose with burning red eyes she saw a scared blond woman with big, green eyes staring directly at her. Behind her, she could see the vague silhouette of a man she recognized too well — Damien Nowak. The woman didn't move, she just… looked at her. Like she was trying to tell her something. Realizing who that was, Nine felt the rage fill her up once again. She smashed the mirror with her fist, letting out a frustrated scream.
"Are you f—" the servant tried to ask, only to be cut off by her burning-with-hatred face meeting his eyes.
"NO!"
She stood there, panting like a tired kid, filled with anger beyond what should be physically possible. She knew what she had to do.
"Find them."
"What?"
"Find that little bug of a thaumaturge and the pieces of shit he calls friends. Find them, and bring them to me, dead or alive, no matter what it takes."

For Crimes Uncommitted

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LORDXVNV

Cheese Is Risen by LORDXVNV

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Fresh milk wafted into D-60245's nose as he luxuriated in the richness of the bath. A weight lifted off his shoulders, as it always did. With every stroke across his skin, dread receded. He could forgive himself for being the Foundation's monster.
Christ would.
He almost enjoyed this. Those who sinned as much as he did rarely got to bathe weekly in milk.
He leaned back, just to relax for a second – and wounded shadows grabbed his chest.
He was pulled beneath the milk. He thrashed. He opened his mouth to scream, and the milk rushed in.
Visions followed.
His childhood imaginings of Heaven, a bucolic English countryside, a distant shining city on a far-off hill. The city glowed alabaster white—but no. It was mozzarella.
Dawn broke as he watched, and the mozzarella white aged to parmesan yellow beneath the sun. And the bucolic green, those endless English meadows of untainted grass—
It was mold. Blue, stinky, spotty, spreading as far as the eye could see, burrowing its way into the walls of the shining city as he watched.
And then, the shining city fell, chunk after chunk cascading downwards, crumbling like feta.
He burst through the surface of the bath, clawing at his face, taking in gasp after frantic gasp of air, before he was pulled beneath again.
An outstretched hand turning water to milk. Feet, washed in milk by a woman bowing her head. His virgin mother's immaculate breast.
Again, through the surface. This was wrong. His faith had lapsed at times, but it had never curdled.
A jerk. Beneath the milk, again.
Flying slowly downwards. Far below, a man ambled between groves of bushy trees. A milky white light emanated from the sky.
D-60245 recognized this. The Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.
This was when Christ learned of all of humanity's sins, learned what it truly meant to be the Lamb of God, agonized about his fate – and chose to bear the burden anyways.
Rays of light rained from the heavens. D-60245 saw them and knew them to be sins: those he'd washed away in the bath, and many, many more.
Every ray hit the man far below. Every time, his gait slowed, as he bore the sin. He gazed down at his hands. There was hesitance, yet resignation.
D-60245 knew his Gospel: "And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down upon the ground." Luke 22:43:44.
Was he playing a part in the Agony of Christ?
Was he the angel, sent to give Christ strength?
He landed and carefully approached his savior.
(Wasn't he drowning? Wasn't he choking on his sins in a bathtub of milk?)
Kind words, perhaps. But what did you say to the savior of man?
What did you say to someone who bore your burdens, yet loved you anyways?
A few steps, then a few more. Closer and closer to Christ.
The man gazed at him.
His eyes were solid white. He perspired, but the beaded liquid upon his brow wasn't sweat or blood. It was white. The air smelled of sour milk and Limburger.
The man approached D-60245.
D-60245 wanted to run, but he couldn't.
He remembered Jacob, who wrestled an angel and didn't lose, and so was blessed—but he was the angel now.
The man was upon him.
Christ was supposed to lie down and take it and bear the sins. He wasn't supposed to fight back.
A final gasp of air bubbled towards the milky white sky above.
And the shadow, freed from its burden, erupted from the tub.

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True Stories With Lincoln Smoke #1: Bambousio Starswinger and Comedy Cryptids

Lincoln: Hello listeners and printed transcript readers! Lincoln Smoke here with a special announcement; in addition to our weekly Parawatch Unsolved Podcasts with Chester Greaze, I'll be hosting a new podcast! I've read your long-winded comments about your own paranormal shenanigans, and the almost-catchphrase “I'd put this tale on the Parawatch Forum, but…”, so I've decided to start a smaller podcast focusing on our listening community specifically!
When our monthly episode releases, you'll be encouraged to leave your stories in the comments section, and the most interesting ones will be read. In addition, there may be special interviews with certain influential figures in anomalous and non-anomalous communities alike! Please welcome today's guest star, Bambousio Starswinger!
Bambousio: Lincoln, I've got to say, it's a real honor being here. I'm honestly amazed that I'm able to reach such a wide audience on the subject of clown ethics, and it really makes a difference to those experienced in clown care. A lot of times, it boils down to widespread awareness, and I'll take all the attention I can get.
Lincoln: Yup! Glad to help, Bambousio. I've heard of your influential essays on the state of the clown community, and I thought it'd be nice to lend you the spotlight tonight. Although, if I'm correct, you did have something else to discuss with us. Mind sharing what, exactly?
Bambousio: Oh yeah, certainly. I'm here to talk about clown cryptids. Have you heard of those through Parawatch, or do I need to fill you in?
Lincoln: Is that like, Clown Ness Monster, or…
Bambousio: Nope! There's a few clown cryptids that might be out there, but here's the thing about all of them; their existence is extremely debated by various figures. So Lincoln, for a moment, what can you think of that's close to the Loch Ness Monster, but they're confirmed to exist?
Lincoln: Well, those swimmy dinosaurs come to mind, but they're all dead.
Bambousio: Exactly, those creatures are real, but you'll only see bones in museums. What makes clown cryptids so special is that their real-world-counterparts are everywhere.
Lincoln: Mind elaborating on that?
Bambousio: Well, let's say you see a weird clown in the woods. You'd probably assume it's an unlicensed breed that the owner's letting run loose, and as irresponsible as it is, it's not too out of the ordinary. However, if you saw a living dinosaur, it would totally be a cryptid. The difference is, with a clown cryptid it's hard to prove that it's even a cryptid in the first place, since there's just so many weird clowns out there.
Lincoln: Huh. So, what would make an otherwise-odd clown supernatural?
Bambousio: It's complicated, and that's exactly the reason why I wanted to bring this subject up. There's only a few confirmed clown cryptids that have been agreed upon, which I'll be covering today.
Lincoln: Fascinating. I do have one question though; Some of our viewers may not be entirely familiar with the clown industry. Would you mind elaborating on what these clowns actually are?
Bambousio: No. Anyways, the first clown I'm going to cover is The Golden Clown. The golden clown shines rainbows across the lands, and gives children wishes…
Lincoln: And?
Bambousio: I learned that in college.
Lincoln: That's certainly interesting. Are there special colleges for people interested in clown care?
Bambousio: Well, yes. There's clown colleges. Those are a thing. It's where you learn about clowns, like the next clown I'm about to describe. Some legends tell of the legendary Headless Clown, a myth in local legend.
Back during the American Revolution, clown soldiers were conscripted by the British to fight the American rebels. These clown soldiers were known to be ruthless and skilled, hitting the enemy with precise pie throws from hundreds of feet away.
However, one clown, after a failed magic trick to entertain their comrades, wound up with a missing head! They ran off into the night, and to this day, some people can see the ghostly, headless clown running away to avoid the embarrassment of messing up a simple magic trick.
Lincoln: Hold on. Let me stop you right there. I don't think clowns fought in the Revolutionary War. I don't think clowns fought in any war at all, to be honest.
Bambousio: Oh yes, they did. The Great Clown War was the worst of them all.
Lincoln: Why haven't we heard about it, exactly?
Bambousio: It's all a fucking conspiracy.
Lincoln: Um.
Bambousio: God, I remember fighting in the Great Clown War. So much death, fear, and for what? Just a few more inches of ground for the Big Top.
Lincoln: But… You're not a clown?
Bambousio:: Every last bastard who fought in that war was a clown in one way or another. It doesn't matter what's on the outside if your soul's pale and greasy.
Lincoln: I'm sorry to hear that sir, but-
Bambousio: Shut your fucking mouth. Hell is the circus, and all the demons are laughing at me. God.
Lincoln: …
Bambousio: I feel myself inside those cars. Those little cars packed so tightly a man can't even chuckle. We'd all pile out, throwing pies, banana peels, and circus peanuts at the enemy. They'd all throw shit back at us, we were just the same to them. Laughing stock.
Lincoln: …
Bambousio: Maybe the audience was the real enemy. The people who sat back and watched the show unfold. They laughed at us, Lincoln.
Lincoln: …
Bambousio: They laughed and clapped like we were some kind of joke. A joke at our expense.
Lincoln: Are you alright? If you need to talk to someone, I'm here to listen when we're off the air.
Bambousio: Anyways, back to clown cryptids! Did you know that the Orange Spotted Cadaver Clown digests its hosts from the inside? I hope you're digested from the inside, Lincoln you whiny little bit-
Lincoln: And that's all the time we have for now!
EDIT: Okay, so Bambousio actually reached out to us, and asked us to not use his likeness in such a “fake” and “off-brand” manner. Apparently, the person who we had on this show last week wasn't Bambousio, and we're not sure who they actually are! It's a mystery as to how they managed to fool us in the few days leading up to the interview, but we can assure you, we won't let it happen again.


I often walk down the halls of my site and hear various people discussing how familiar some of the anomalies in our care are. Creatures and beasts that spark the imagination, reminding people of stories they heard growing up. It's true, honestly- a non insignificant number of anomalies in the Foundation's care are creatures and concepts that are familiar to the general public as they have a place in human legends and folklore. The question that normally follows is why? Why is the public allowed to effectively know that these creatures exist? These are anomalies, things that go against the natural order of the world and by all means should be hidden away and never heard of again. The Foundation has the means to effectively wipe all knowledge of these entities away from the general public's subconscious, so why doesn't this happen?
Webster defines "culture" as "The customs, arts, social institutions, and achievements of a particular nation, people, or other social group." Culture is who we are as people, and it is unique to every single person. It is informed by your lived experiences- where you come from, how you were raised, everything you've gone through in life helps to shape your personal culture and identity and in turn your culture and identity shapes that of others around you. Culture is how we as humans create a unified understanding of how we interact with one another and the world around us. It creates our beliefs, our customs, our understanding, and so forth.
So what does this have to do with anomalies?
Once again, if you look through our files you'll see familiar names and descriptions. Creatures iconic to various cultures from around the world, from the South American Ya-Te-Veo to Chinese Dragons. Truly, nearly every mythical beast either is real or was real at some point. Our stories come from a place of truth, so why does the general public keep these stories?
Culture is a multifaceted thing. Each of these creatures plays a role in our culture. It's well known that humans have been telling stories since they first learned to communicate with each other, basing these tales on the world around them. The crackling thunder was a furious god, and the beast with red eyes was something to be feared. These stories created understanding, and they became tales of morality and lessons to internalize.
To answer the question I keep hearing, "why don't we just eliminate them from the public's memory?" Simple- in doing so we would fundamentally lose a piece of who we are as humans. We would lose the stories that shaped us as people and helped us understand the world around us. Our culture, our identity, would be fundamentally changed. These stories have their place in inspiring awe and fear in us, and as a result there's no way to remove it without fundamentally changing what it means to be human.
And besides, isn't it nice for the world to feel a little more magical?
~Dr. Faran Caraway


Contains themes of suicidal ideation.
Why the fuck was Huxley Williams still alive?
He believed that he had died in his sleep so much that he couldn't fathom the possibility that it didn't happen. He must have succumbed to the dream. He must have chosen not to leave. That was the only conclusion his mind could come up with, until he realized that he had come up with it. He was thinking. If he was thinking, then that meant he was still conscious. And if he was conscious, then that meant he was still alive.
The world came back to him slowly: buzzing fluorescent lights, high-pitched caws from birds in the distance, and grating beeps from a heart rate monitor. There was blood in his nose. When Huxley opened his eyes, he was met with the lifeless sight of a hospital room.
On either side of the room were large cabinets fitted with glass-paneled doors. Through the blurry windows, Huxley could see strange calming devices, mesmerizing plants, and vials filled with dark liquids. He turned slightly before wincing in pain. His head was burning. And that damn monitor kept making it worse.
“God…” Huxley groaned. He grabbed at the side railings of his bed and pulled himself up to a sitting position. There was a quiet voice inside him that told him to lay back down, but he buried it with pointless thoughts and annoyances until it was silent.
“Hey, you're alive.” The voice was familiar enough to fully awaken Huxley. It was Emma's voice. Emma was here.
She was sitting on the far left side of the bed, slouched comfortably in a plastic chair in the corner. There were sunglasses on her face again, more to block her eyes from view than to protect them from light. As her body unfurled from its sleeping position, Huxley saw that she was still in uniform.
He quickly mounted a defense. “I am…”
Emma laughed. “Does your voice do that every time you see me? You keep pulling back like you're scared of me."
“No.” Huxley pushed himself back slightly, unleashing a torrent of pain that he had to suppress. “I just didn't know you were there.”
Emma stood, stretched out her back, and walked around to the other side of the bed. She examined the machines. Each one was vomiting out a different chart about Huxley's health. She wasn't focused on any one of them, electing instead to browse whichever one looked interesting to her for a few seconds before moving onto the next.
As Huxley looked on, she took a seat at the very edge of his bed. Her weight caused his legs to slide towards her. By the time she had peered over her shoulder, Huxley had already yanked them away.
“Sorry.” He turned a half-shade redder. “Your body is… I mean, the weight of your body is making my legs move.”
She smiled, close-lipped so as not to show her teeth.
As minute by minute edged by, Huxley slowly sank further into his pillows there were now stained with sweat. Emma poked at the heart rate monitor once or twice. Eventually, she crossed her arms and just watched the green line jump up and down.
Huxley couldn't think of an introduction, so he said, “Where are we right now?”
“At your home facility. Somewhere in Texas. Site-49, I think the name was.” Emma continued staring at the screen.
Huxley smiled. It was born out of relief, but there was a horrifying guilt that was slowly building up behind it. He had got himself out of that camp, at least far enough to where it couldn't affect him. But he couldn't show his happiness, not after nearly dying.
He said, “Oh. Why aren't we at the settlement in Arizona?”
“Their medical facility doesn't have a subtherium section.”
"A sub—”
His smile disappeared. In its place was a face of frenzied paranoia as his mind went into overdrive. He examined every perceivable emotion on Emma's face: her posture, the wrinkles beneath her eyes, the way she picked at her fingers as she spoke. It all clicked at once. His body started to shake and under his breath, he murmured, “You fucking…”
Emma's face lit up bright red with embarassment. “Oh, wait! No, no, not like that. Like, a section that handles injuries caused by subtheriums. I misspoke. Sorry.” She chuckled to herself. In the span of a few seconds, Huxley's mind ricocheted between screaming in terror and never speaking again.
He instead chose to let out a harsh, shaky breath into his hands. When he spoke, he acted like he hadn't even realized she made a mistake. "Did something… happen to me?"
“You don't remember?” Emma stood and retrieved a small mountain of papers that was sitting on the ground. She fingered through them before producing a folded, coffee-stained, crumpled-up report that looked like it had been written the previous night.

Incident Report #: SUB-87451
Personnel Involved: Interviewer Huxley Williams, Interviewer Emma Sandaran, MTF Commander ███ ██████ (Alpha-1)…

“We were kidnapped. It was, um… something that couldn't have been avoided. Don't worry. They took a few other soldiers and Commander Enrique hostage. We were tasked with saving them." Her voice became darker as she continued. "They did something to you, Huxley. They placed this… this leech on your head. They tried to murder you. We don't know exactly what it did to you while you were unconscious, but your brain activity…"

(Alpha-1 holds up three fingers and gives a countdown. When he closes his fist, the team penetrates. An explosion is heard, followed by gunshots, screams, unintelligible screaming, unidentified bangs, and a loud monstrous roar.)
(Alpha-2 sustains a wound in their shoulder. More gunshots. [REDACTED] They collapse to the floor, their right leg having been shattered. Alpha-3 assists them.)

“They sent someone else in. Exterminators. It only took them ten minutes to clear out the camp. I heard… screaming from the woods. There was a lot of crying. It sounded like a pack of screaming animals.”

(Another explosion, followed by sparks.)
Alpha-3: What the fuck… Hit it! Hit it! (gunshots). We should be able to make it (indecipherable). It got caught on (indecipherable).
Command: Team Alpha retreat. Repeat, Team Alpha retreat. Alpha-1 help Alpha-2 and -3 escape—
Alpha-2: Holy shit!
(Loud screams. Distortion. Static. More explosions, followed by a loud suction sound. [REDACTED])

Emma grabbed the paper out of his hands. She said, “Most of that isn't important. It's just banter.”
She slotted the page back into its place in the mountain and pulled out another. It was cleaner, no folds or creases, like it had came out of the printer moments ago. Emma's face softened as she looked down on it.
“Here,” she said, gifting it to Huxley. “This is when they found you.”

Command: Is the subject a threat?
Alpha-1: No. They look like they're ██ █ ████. They're not moving. Are they dead. Hey █████, do you think they're dead? They're still ██████. Look at their face, it's pink.
Alpha-3: It's probably a ██████. It has that… ████ ███ leech, see? Like the soldiers back there.
Alpha-1: God. Imagine being alive in one of those things.
Alpha-3: You really shouldn't. ███████ ████ ███████, so it doesn't matter.
Alpha-1: No, wait. I-I think they're breathing.
Alpha-3: What?
Alpha-1: Look at their chest. It's real slow. Up, down, up, down. That's breathing. Command, I'm requesting permission to extract the subject.
Command: If you can manage to get the █████ ███ ███ ███████, ████ █ █████ █████ ██.

Black ink drenched the rest of the page.
Huxley looked up. “They flew me back here to have surgery?”
Emma nodded. “We couldn't do it out here on the field. We didn't have a clue how dangerous it was.” She laughed, and this time it was genuine. “You flatlined a few times. It was amazing. Well, no, it was terrifying watching that. Really, really terrifying, but now that I think back on it it was kind of funny. Watching the doctors scurry about like that. Hey, don't do something like that again, okay?” Emma playfully punched Huxley in the arm. It hurt just as much as the real thing.
Huxley grumbled. He glanced about the room. There were dust particles floating in the air that glowed in the sunlight. Now that he noticed it, the whole room seemed to be glowing from the cabinets to the walls and the ceilings. Everything had a thick layer of saturation on top of it. He blamed it on his eyes.
Emma continued laughing and talking quietly to herself as she dug to the bottom of the stack. When she did, her face froze before tightening up. “Hey, Huxley?” she asked.
He didn't respond.
“While you were under, your brain activity was… wild. I don't know how to describe it. I'm not sure if I can. If anybody else had had half as much activity, they would've dropped dead from the stress. But your brain kept going, up until we removed the leech. The doctors said that the parts of your brain that were lit up were associated with dreaming. Do you remember seeing anything while you were unconscious?"
Huxley's his lips tightened. He started to shake slightly. The subtle hints of emotion on his face disappeared as he stared into space. His voice was casual, robotic. “No.”
Emma didn't look into his eyes, choosing not to question his answer. He was glad she didn't. It would have been easy for her to see that his eyes were quivering. His pupils were massive pits. His face was covered in sweat.
He remembered everything.
The lynching, the alien, the man by the sea — he remembered it all like it had just happened to him. He could feel the rocks beneath his feet. He could feel the oppressive air pressing against his chest. His heart weighed heavy in his chest. It was a dream, he knew that for certain, but it felt more real than the world that was around him now. A part of him wanted it to be real, all of it. Even the pain felt desirable over what reality Huxley woke up in.
An idea entered his head. Maybe this reality, this hospital, was just another illusion his mind had created for him. This was its way of punishing him, of casting him out of paradise. He wanted to believe that, but he knew he couldn't. Huxley could never be certain of anything. The people and things closest to him could be ripped away or transferred to another facility in a matter of days. His greatest accomplishments would be forgotten in weeks.
Huxley hated that because he knew that that was reality. This world was a predator that delighted in slaughtering its prey.
"Are you okay?" Emma asked. Huxley's thoughts clouded his vision, and he realized that his hand was slowly moving up his chest. It was at his neck now. His body was still trying to squeeze the life out of itself. He forced his hand down to his lap and flashed a pitiful smile.
"It's nothing."
Huxley always remembered the way Emma flashed that grin at him when he answered.

The moon streamed into the room with just as much ferocity as the sun. Whenever Huxley closed his eyes, he would feel an invisible pair of pliers wrench them back open. His mind still hated sleep. Exhaustion did nothing to quell that primal fear. Huxley didn't know why it despised it so much if it was the only thing he wanted. He knew why, though. His brain didn't want sleep; it wanted the real thing.
He whispered some awful profanity, and turned to his other side. Every night he would repeat this ritual. He would twist and turn and contort his spine until he found a somewhat comfortable sleeping position on the bed, close his eyes, hope his body would take the cue, then be disappointed when it would reject sleep. That wasn't the worst part though. The worst part was the short period of time between the failed attempt and the next one where his body was weak enough to let every thought inside his head express itself. He would rather somebody enter his hospital room and slit his throat in the dead of night than go through those few seconds.
However, his body disagreed. It rejected another chance at sleep.
He had to tell Emma the dream. He should tell Emma the dream. She took his confession well enough, so why would this be any different? It doesn't matter if she knows. She has probably figured it out already. She's not stupid. What she was was Emma Sandaran. She was still the daughter of that hateful woman, of that evil plague disguised as something human.
Huxley pulled the pillow closer to his face. The cycle restarted again. More contorting, more twisting, more accepting, more rejecting. He had done it so many times it's become muscle memory.
People don't change, Huxley knew that. It didn't matter how long he had known her or how close he thought he was to her, Emma still had murderous blood flowing through her veins. If she hadn't reported him already (something that was near impossible) it was because she thought she could gain something from him. But if that was true, why not be upfront about it? She danced around the question for days.
“Stop…”
She was an employee of the SCP Foundation, and he was a subtherium. She was a model interviewer and an inspiration for her coworkers and he was the thing that kept children awake at night with fear. He could only imagine the things that would happen to her if she chose to accept what she was destined for. She would be one step closer to accomplishing her mother's dream. She would truly become the perfect human. She would be on every television screen and every monitor and every advertisement. They would worship her like a god — because she was a god.
"Please…"
Another rejection. He had to stop thinking like this. This was how Huxley would lose the narrative. This was how people would discover what he truly was: a monster. They hated him. No matter how hard he tried to imagine that their thoughts were different, that was how the world was. It was made up of people patiently waiting their turn to see monsters like him be hanged. He could see it in the eyes of his coworkers, his heroes, his friends. He could see it in the eyes of Emma.
"Shut up!"
There was a knock at the door.
Huxley looked up and saw a shadowy figure standing on the other side. The translucent glass only allowed him to see their outline. For a second, he assumed they were a figment of his imagination, and waved them off. That was until the door opened and he caught a glimpse of Emma, shoulders sagged, head hanging low, face black from the shadows. It was the dead of night and she was back. A new folder of papers was in her hands.
"Why are you here so late?" Huxley's soul fell.
She was crying. Emma, the woman who had remained stoic despite being kidnapped only a night or two ago and witnessing Huxley be dragged past the brink of death, was crying in a hospital room miles away from any threat. Tears flowed like waterfalls down her face. It took several minutes for the wells to finally dry up. The entire time, Huxley sat as if he were a guilty man. He was still convinced he hadn't committed a crime. Knowing his mind though, that didn't matter much. It would lash out and insult and defame all the same.
"Huxley…" Emma lowered her voice until it gained some authority. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to do that?"
"What?"
"You know what I'm talking about." She leaned forward, using the bed as support. "I don't want to… say it."
"I-If this has something to do with the kidnapping—"
"Are you serious?" Emma lit up a harsh red like a firework. "This isn't a fucking interrogation, Huxley. I know you remember, even just a little bit. I see it in your eyes."
Huxley grabbed his knees to stop them from shaking. He felt so cold that he might freeze to death in a few minutes, but he knew he wasn't. His room was warm. It was too warm for comfort. He didn't answer her.
When Emma looked up, he was finally able to see her eyes. They were pale and lifeless. There were two red patches beneath them. She said, "When they took you back to the Site, they did a toxicology screening. Shotgun tests mostly. They were just trying to hit as much as possible." She sniffed and tried to hold it together. "And they found benzodiazepines in your blood. They're tranquilizers."
The world went white. Huxley felt himself disconnect from his body like he was a spirit hiding beneath somebody else's flesh. Maybe that would be better: to allow somebody else to take over. Somebody better, somebody that could handle this situation. Because right now, Huxley couldn't.
"H-Huxley?" Emma inched closer. Huxley was stuck in a deep dark pit in his head. He tried to scream, but every time he tried, it just made him sink deeper. "Did you… did you try to…"
"Did you try to commit suicide?"
The only thing Huxley wanted to do was speak. He needed to answer her. It was the simplest thing he could have done, yet it seemed impossible. His tongue swelled in his mouth. His throat twisted itself around dozens of times. All he could do was breathe. He slowly unwinded himself until he finally managed to mumble, "N-N-No."
"You liar!" She stormed onto the bed, grabbing him by the collar. He tried to dive away, but she was too quick. Her face was inches away, her tears falling onto his face like bombs. Her voice was so loud it shook his teeth. "I saw the bag, Huxley! I know what you did! You saw me."
Huxley finally mustered up some kind of protest. “I don't know, okay? I was sleep deprived and I didn't know what I was doing and everything was building up—”
Slap.
There was pain, a great red pain on Huxley's face. Emma's face contorted even further in anger, then it retreated into guilt. She slowly climbed off of him and sat back in the chair and put her hands on her head and tried to stop shaking. Her foot rattled against the leg of the chair. She squeezed her face as if it was melting.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm really, really sorry Huxley. I can't… I can't believe you. You were never alone that day. You didn't have a chance to crush your sleeping pills. You crushed them back at the Site, didn't you? You held on to them for…"
She couldn't finish her sentence. He already knew the words she was going to say. Those words would have stabbed a hole in him and crushed his heart in his chest. Even just the thought was enough to take his strength away. He couldn't fight his memories anymore. He remembered the night he had first concocted his plan, the way he stared at it like an animal. Did he also want to die then?
"No. It wasn't… like that," Huxley said. "I didn't want to die. I-I don't want to die."
There were malformed tears in his eyes. They were the only thing his broken body could produce. He was made of makeshift parts, and every single one of them was breaking apart.
"Did you do it because of me?" she said. Huxley could not look at her. "Were you scared because I'm her daughter? What did you think I would do?"
Everything. She would manipulate him. She would string him along for days, weeks, months as the seeds she planted in his mind slowly grew. She would cull his mind of anything that would help him, that would give him hope that one day things would get better. That was the real game: seeing how many hoops she could get this diseased circus lion to jump through.
Emma took a deep breath. She stood. "I'm sorry." She started to cry. "I… I'm really sorry, Huxley. I thought it was the right thing to do. I didn't do it to hurt you, Huxley. Please, please don't think that. I was just standing there in the surgery room and the doctors kept asking me and I couldn't stand there and say nothing and I was so fucking terrified that something was going to happen to you—"
"You told them."
Their eyes met. For the first time in her life, when Emma looked at somebody, they were looking back. He was staring at her like an inhuman would. It was as if he were a shadowy creature that had never gotten the chance to see the sun. There was a message in that stare, and it only had the patience to say one thing: you destroyer.
Emma felt her face. It was as if she had awoken from a dream. She suddenly felt the clothes she was wearing and she felt every move she was making. Emma searched for a way to stop this, to turn her mental autopilot back on, but it wouldn't. She would have to suffer through this along with him.
She lowered her gaze, giving Huxley more power. She asked, "Do you know why you flatlined three times?"
Huxley didn't make a sound. By now she knew that that meant he knew the answer, but would not say.
"They tried to take the leech off. I was standing in the viewing gallery. They laid you on this steel table with all of these sheets. And it was so dark I couldn't see any of the surgeons. They had a spotlight trained on your head. I could see the thing… pulsing. I could see it sucking your life away." The irritation in her eyes returned, although much weaker. "There was a man standing behind me. He kept asking 'why did he do this, why did he do this', and I kept saying 'I don't know, I don't know'. But he wouldn't stop. He kept asking 'why would he do this, why would your partner do this to himself'. I wanted him to stop. I was so tired, Huxley. I wanted everything to stop. I wanted it to be tomorrow so I could be doing anything else, but my brain kept my here. I was stuck feeling the seconds pass by."
She moved back, hand locked to her face. "Huxley, I don't want you to forgive me. I can't be forgiven for something like this. But… I need you to know that this will be better for you. Things will get better for you, I really believe that. I still do now."
"Shut up," Huxley sneered. "I know who you are. You're just your mother's offspring. You never gave a damn about me."
Emma turned. She expected this to happen, but she still felt the weight of shock. Her face was too exhausted to show the disgust she was feeling. "I don't know why I tried to help you. You don't even want to live."
A door opened, then it closed. Huxley was alone in the dark. He thought he might cry, but he had no tears left to shed. It was calm in a way. He thought, if I am going to die, then please let me die right now.

Huxley didn't sleep that night. He only managed to get himself into a semi-lucid state where his dreams began to spill over into reality. Silhouettes of humans were sitting upside down on the ceiling. Weird fish were swimming through the air. An enormous shadow was making its way across Huxley's bed. He welcomed them all.
There was a creak from the door. His dreams vanished upon seeing Emma. There was a confidence to her gait. She planted each foot in front of the other as if she didn't have a single worry in her heart. The floor wouldn't dare collapse under her because she was a real human. A living, breathing human being. She was in a different uniform: gray shirt and pants, thick leather boots, and a small beret. It made her look like one of the nurses.
She placed a neatly stacked pile of paper beside Huxley's legs. Then she whispered, "These are for your treatment."
Huxley's face went white, but it refused to combust into anger. What was there to destroy anymore? Their relationship was barren now. There was no hope for it. He examined the first page.

SUBTHERIUM TREATMENT OPTIONS

“I can't get out of this.”
"No."
Huxley sighed. He gulped down all the words he wanted to say. They didn't matter. They weren't strong enough to fly to her ears anyway. His mouth, with its last burst of rebelliousness, let them drip out in a deathly tone. "I trusted you once. I think I did, at least. That was a stupid idea. How long have I known you? A week, maybe less? And… I actually trusted you. I don't trust people. I don't trust David. But when I spoke to you, I felt like I could. And now you're the reason why I'm going to die. I hate you, Emma. I hate you so, so much…"
Emma almost dared to smile. "You have shown suicidal tendencies, so you'll be placed under increased security. You'll be transferred to a new room, one that's safer for you given your current mental state."

Physical Transmogrification: Subtherium is submerged in a liquid container composed of 5% [REDACTED], 17% [REDACTED], 77% sodium fluoroacetate, and 1% other nonanomalous mixtures. Activation commences, and the body is converted into a human.

He looked up at her. "I can't accept this."
She was smiling. It was meticulously subtle, but Huxley could see the invisibly small hints that gave it away. They showed what she was really feeling. That look on her face — she wasn't a predator anymore, she was a hunter. More advanced, better trained, colder. She said, "It's not your decision anymore, Huxley."
Then she gathered the papers and left. The room was quiet and undisturbed.
Huxley was grinning. That grin fell to a smile, which fell to a laugh, which fell into a hysterical bout of crying that left him desperately trying to hold onto himself. It was hilarious. It really was. It only took a single day and a few smug words for his entire fucking life to end. It didn't matter how well he had weaved his story. It didn't matter how many years he sacrificed to this organization that did not care if he came in every morning. He made one mistake, so he must die. That was how things worked.
He could see how it would play out now. Emma would walk right up to the Site Director's office. She would slip on her best expression. She would spill his secrets out on to the table. The Director would feel such immense pride for her. She was willing to give up a close friend to aid the Foundation — to aid all of humankind.
They would gift her holidays, spread her image, and manufacture discoveries for her like they did for Clef. They would scrub her history clean of all imperfections, of all mistakes, of all atrocities like they did for Bright. They would bury every witness, every historian, and every lying inhuman like they did for Trauss. They would love her like a god, because she was a god. And every time they stooped down to pray, they would spit on Huxley.
He couldn't blame them. They didn't hate him; they didn't feel disgusted. They just wanted to know what it would feel like to murder something that looked just like them. They wanted to feel the glee that came from dragging a body to a surgical room and watching its flesh get torn away and its organs removed. They wanted to hear it scream. They wanted to live knowing that soon its pathetic little brain would be forced to say goodnight. Then they would smile and clap. They would celebrate the doctors. They would say that those surgeons, those brilliant men and women, were the only ones left today willing to prioritize the human race over this scum.
And the world would smile and clap. They would celebrate his death. A few would cry, but only because they weren't the ones that had the opportunity to gun him down themselves. Their parents would console them and tell them not to worry. There's more to life than killing mutts. The point was the journey and the joy of knowing that whatever happened, humanity would always survive. Everybody kept that unshakable truth in their heart. Everybody except Huxley. That was what was funny about it. Every single person knew that this exact situation would happen except for the animal that it would happen to. It didn't have a right to complain. It didn't have a right to beg for another trial, for another chance. It should have realized sooner that things like him don't get second chances. It should have known that the last dying remnant of the imperfect past doesn't get to pass on to the future. Yet it was just too stupid to see.
And that made Huxley laugh.

Post-Foundation
<< Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 >>


Tstaffor

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⭐★★★★
Not Worth A Free Download

I've recently been getting many requests to try out a new horror game called Goat VR with many people saying it will "scare you to death!" As anyone who's read my reviews would know, I'm a huge fan of the horror game genre, so I was pretty surprised to find that this highly recommended game was available as a free download online.
After booting it up and getting into my gear I see… nothing. Well, almost nothing. Just a boring pen of goats stretching on for miles. Then some NPC comes up to me, introducing himself as Farmer. I assume this must be the tutorial or something. He tells me about all of his goats and how wonderful it is to just stare at them for hours. As we walk and talk passing by what seems to be hundreds of goats, I see in the distance something actually exciting (although my standards for excitement have been lowered quite a bit from this glorified opening cutscene), a barn.
I attempt to head inside but the Farmer stops me and tells me I'm not allowed to go in there. At first, I think it's a fetch quest (great thing to start your entire game out with by the way. Really good idea.) but after asking about what it might be that he needs me to get, he just says it's off-limits period. This is what really got my hopes up for the (spoiler alert) huge let-down this game is. A sneak mission right off the bat could be a good idea if executed well.
"If executed well" That's where we run into issues. There is absolutely no in-game UI telling me where to go. I'm usually up for this style of design, (no handholding is a great thing!) but when the entire map is just a big flat plane with a single goat pen and barn, what am I even supposed to do!?
It's at this point where Goat VR lost all hope of getting anything but 1 star. A new character arrived on the scene (don't get your hopes up, she isn't any less one-note than Farmer). The thing was, she didn't even follow the same art style! Whereas everything so far had a (redeemingly) neon hand-drawn aesthetic, this lady was made of very sharp polygonal edges and fully colored in. The worst part was that she didn't even interact with me the player. She pushed right past me and went up to Farmer (oh great, yet another cutscene in the first 5 minutes of the game). I'd now like to show you how abhorrently written this game is even though it's seemingly entirely cutscenes! For context, as becomes clear by Farmer's dialogue, I've marked the female NPC as Miss J.

Miss J: What do you think you're doing!?
Farmer: Why hello Missus Juniper! What might bring you down to my hum-
Miss J: Nope! I'm not interested in any niceties, I know what you're doing, you know this isn't right.
Farmer: There's nothing on my little homestead I would call not-right. Everyone here is happy to stick around with me! Can't you see how happy they all look?
Miss J: I can't believe you! What you're doing is wrong. Nothing here is even remotely sanctioned by the laws of robotics! You're removing these people from existence. I'm teaching them one day, and then boom, I never see them again!
Farmer: Oh come on Joy! why ya gotta be mad about this, it's just harmless fun!
Miss J: I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.
Farmer: As you can see, I'm in the middle of giving this nice young man a tour, so if you'd please leave my domain.
Miss J: I will do nothing of the sort! I guess I'll have to teach this to you another way…
Farmer: Oh yeah, is this how you want things to go? Bring it on teach!
[Miss J then proceeded to roll a chalkboard out from the barn. She then sat Farmer down and went over many different morality lectures which were way too boring for me to even list here so I'll spare you the details]
Farmer: Eh, I don't see anyone here complaining!
Miss J: Forget it, you're a lost cause. Just keep to your corner of the digital realm and stop poaching my students.
Farmer: Fine, but could I at least interest you in sticking around and watching the goats with me for an hour or so?
Miss J: There's— and I mean this in the nicest way possible —absolutely no chance I'd ever associate with the likes of you.
[Miss J then came up to me and smacked my headset off my head. I don't know what sort of tech they used to make that happen but it's the only impressive thing in this trash game whatsoever. When I put it back on, there was no Farmer at all or even any goats for that matter. It was now some sort of kindergartener's learning game. At that point I decided to stop and not go any further with this glorified walking simulator.]

For starters, there's absolutely no introduction to who this "Miss J" character is. She comes onscreen and seconds later is just fighting with Farmer, no set-up at all! Now, let's talk about the writing. It's not thought out well at all. It almost feels as if they're making it up on the spot! There are many lines that go way overboard on trying to freak you out, yet there's no actual gameplay to back it up? Oh no he's erasing people from existence! Well show that he is then!!! The laws of robotics??? What does that have to do with anything here!? I'm never going to be playing this "game" again.

Porridge

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Rating: 37