Team Surviving Delta moved across the barren wasteland looking for any survivors. The unimaginable happened: The end of the world. Yet, that was yesterday's news. There was no time to dwell on that. Team Surviving Delta was on a mission. They each had gathered a suit of full body kevlar, three rifles, and armored helmets from the armory of Site-38.
“Okay Lads.”
Krona Midaeus looked over her team.
“We are on a crucial mission everyone, so listen up.”
“Shut it, lady, we all got the memo.”
Kody slung his baseball bat over his shoulder before he was shoved to the ground by Dylan.
“Show some respect D-Class. Krona's the team commander whether you like it or not.”
Cracking his knuckles as he stood up, Kody quickly backed down as three rifles were pointed at his head.
“We should have left your sorry ass back at that convey crash, you good for nothing piece of…”
“EVERYONE SHUT UP!”
Everyone looked over going silent.
“Thank you, Frank. Anyway…as I was saying. We're on a crucial mission. To our knowledge Site-19 is 318 miles from here. We need to work together, despite our differences if we want to survive. That means no quarrels, no disagreements, we all have to see eye to eye to ensure all of our survival.”
The rest of team Surviving Delta gave a quick nod.
“Inspiring speech Krona.”
“Says the group's janitor”
Sighing, Dylan put his hand up to his visor.
“You gotta be kidding me D-Class…did you not hear what she just said?”
Raising a hand into the air showing no hostile action, Kody sighed.
“Fine! Fine. I get it, no quarrels.”
“Fantastic. Since we've gotten that settled, let's move out.”
Team Surviving Delta made their way out of the cover of their convoy under the overpass.
“Stick closer together, this formation is weak.”
“Screw your formation, I'm the one that's stuck in front.”
“Kody, please calm down.”
“Calm down? You want me to bloody calm down? The whole world is dead, from the goddamn sun! And you the bloody crippled janitor wants me to calm…”
A loud echo pierces the silence as smoke rolls off the muzzle of Dylan's rifle. Frank and Krona stare at Dylan in utter silence.
“What? The D-Class was going to get us killed, did you really want to travel with a convicted rapist?”
“We needed to listen to Krona….having no quarrels….”
Loud howling quickly snapped each of them back to focus.
“The hell?”
“Oh, dear…that doesn't sound good.”
“We need to find some cover and fast!”
“The crashed convoy?”
“No old man, that's too far away in the opposite direction, Krona you got the map, is there anything apart from the overpass in the area?”
“Uh, let me check…. There is a gas station just up the road, a couple of minutes sprint.”
The sounds of howling grew ever closer as team Surviving Delta started to sprint from out of the underpass. Dylan, slinging his rifle over his shoulder picked up Frank, sprinting right beside Krona.
“There, just up ahead!”
Krona pointed up ahead to the gas station.
“I don't see any oozes so far, do you two?”
“Just focus, on running Dylan, I'll be your lookout.”
Keeping his arm tight around Dylan's neck Frank kept Scanning the area as Dylan kept carrying him.
“There is a pack of shaggy dogs gaining on us!”
“What? HOW? We're in the sunlight.”
Making the mistake of looking back, Krona tripped over herself falling to the pavement. Dylan slowed down, looking back to make sure she was all right.
The pack of shaggy dogs was closing in quickly. Krona quickly got to her knee drawing his pistol as she let empty her clip.
“Krona come on! There is too many.”
Realizing the depths of the situation, Krona quickly got back to her feet and followed Dylan towards the gas station
Sitting Frank down just outside the gas station door, Dylan wasted no time kicking it inwards.
“Get in, get in”
Motioning for Krona and Frank to enter as the pack of shaggy dogs closed the gap. Dylan followed right behind his teammates as they took no time starting to barricade the door.
Hearing a loud growl from within the confines of the gas station each member of team Surviving Delta quickly grabbed their rifle.
Putting a finger up to his visor, Dylan motioned for everyone to be silent.
Several of the wild dogs from the pack come bolting through one of the side rooms.
Team Surviving Delta let loose a load of lead into the pack of dogs. Within minutes the ground was littered with the corpse of wild pack.
Dylan bent down kneeling over one of them.
“Huh, it appears they were able to survive in the sunlight since they are covered head to toe in hair."
Frank slumped to the floor.
“Ugh, I don't how much more of this I can take, you two…should go on without me, I'll just end up slowing you both down.”
“Nonsense, you're coming with us Frank, we're getting to Site-19 together!”
“Krona's right, I'll carry you the whole way if I have too.”
More howling can be heard in the distance.
“Fucking hell, how many god damn shaggy dogs are in this city!”
Loading another magazine into his rifle, Dylan walks further into the gas station.
“Dylan, we can't waste our ammunition on dogs, we either have to find a better way to deal with them or find better cover.”
Peeking into the hallway, Dylan quickly ran back to the group.
“We can't stay here. An entire wall is missing in the back, this place is hardly any better than being out in the open.”
“Where can we go? We're on an overpass, a few good miles from the nearest city.”
“We'll just have to run it then, Krona.”
“You two have to go on without me, I can't run, and I would just slow you both down.”
“Nonsense, I won't allow this.”
Bending down Dylan carefully picked up Frank again.
“Dylan… You don't have to do this for an old timer like me.”
“I'm not having it, Frank, get the door Krona, we're going to make it to the city, hopefully, we can find a working car.”
Giving a quick nod, Krona starts to remove the barricade they made. They all quickly exit the gas station making their way to the city.
More howling could be heard.
“Hell that sounded way closer than last time.”
“Not fucking possible, there is a pack already behind us!”
Sitting Frank down, each of them started to open fire into the advancing pack.
“I'm down to my last magazine!”
“There is some behind us even!”
As the pack of shaggy dogs made advancements on team Surviving delta. The ground stained crimson from the corpse. Each of them running out of ammo, began to beat and bash at the dogs with the butt of their rifle.
Hearing a cry of pain, Frank and Krona witnessed as Dylan fell to the ground as several dogs attacked, and tore his pant legs, exposing his skin to the sunlight.
Before Krona could even call out to her fallen comrade, she watched as Frank was tackled to the ground by multiple dogs.
Attempting to make her way over to him, Krona was tripped onto her back as a dog pounced on her chest. The dog proceeded to lick her visor. Krona stared at the dog in confusion.
Feeling the wet lick on her face through her visor, Krona slowly woke up in her room blinded from the sunlight coming in from her window. She started to giggle as her newfound puppy laid on her chest licking her face.


I'm hungry.
Which, I must admit, is kind of the point. If fasting does not make you hungry, you are probably not doing it right. Even so, it makes me envious, to watch my little sister and brother scooping up the haws and munching - they broke their fast earlier this morning, but both are right at that age where they're growing fast as bindweed, and I suppose that takes a lot of energy. Mother assures me that I was like that too, at their age.
Right now, she's over talking to our family friends, evidently satisfied with her ministrations to all of us this morning. She's been in such a flap since before sunrise - making sure the little ones had their proper breakfast, and their boots on the right feet, dragging the comb through my hair despite my protestations that I am a grown woman now and can comb my own hair, because apparently a single tangle, a single strand out of place would be unthinkable today. I almost started wondering if she would have enough time to prepare herself, the way she was fussing over us. And then we arrived here at the temple before anyone else, and it became clear that she hadn't needed to fuss that much. We've been waiting a good long while, and especially since it's still cold it seems longer.
I run my fingers along the embroidered poppies, wheat heads, and stars that line the hem of my good tunic, and poke a bare toe at a decomposing haw, releasing the smell of fermentation. No boots for me, today; my bare feet are meant to be an outward and visible symbol of my inward attitude of supplication. My sister can have them, when she grows.
Slowly, other families trickle in - it's not everyone, and mostly grandparents, mothers, and their children, as most of the men and the young women are still out on yesterday's hunt, or with their herds. It's a little humbling, actually. Most important day of my life, save perhaps when Mother bore me, but it won't be, not for everyone else.
Although, of course, that isn't the point. The point is to serve the community, to be guided by what we need rather than what I want. The point is the glory of our lord Ion, and everything else flows from that.
Just under where my ribs give way to softness, Visi twitches just slightly in his sac, distracting me from these thoughts back towards him. I drop my hem and lift my hand to press it over where he rests. Yes, yes, I think at him, I know you are hungry too. Very soon though, you'll understand what we're doing. He is a part of me, after all, and it is assuring to know that at least he shall remain with me forever and ever, through everything the ages I cannot forsee and face with only faith might bring.
Everyone gets quiet suddenly, and I let my hand fall and look up. Karcist Qum has arrived - I was so interested in the haws and in Visi that I didn't even notice - and with him, his võlutaar Synéka, and so now we can begin. No, I don't necessarily feel ready yet, but on the other hand: finally. Both of them I have known well my whole life; Synéka even was present at my birth, as she also is skilled as a midwife, and likes to tell me stories about my babyhood when she can. It only gets more embarrassing the older I grow. As always, he has with him his pouch and official sash and ceremonial knife, and she carries with her the bronze cup. Synéka catches my eye and winks. Behind me, I hear people shuffling into attentiveness and Mother hissing at my little brother to be still.
Karcist Qum smiles at the circle of us, gathered here in the misty morning, and then opens his palms and begins to speak the introductory tale.
While he speaks, I look behind him at the temple. It is grown of living branches, the red of cedar and the yellow of larch, and takes the shape somewhat of an upturned boat, with a central ridgeline running from the front to the opening at the rear, where we all stand. Over the years, the branches have grown so tightly together that hardly any light can pierce up to the shrine alcove, and that is potentially why Mother and Grandmother complain about lessened attendance from their time - they bring candles in with them when we go. In addition, the yearly dumps of snow every winter snap off peripheral branches, every year, leaving jagged heartwood scars about the entrance and along the join where roof curves into walls. It is still too soon after winter to repair them, so there they stand out today, great slashes of pinkish-red and chestnut over the grey-brown of the rest of the bark.
And I am here to mend it.
The tale concludes, and we all make the response. Karcist Qum looks around at our gathered congregation. “Welcome,” he says to us all. “We are gathered here this morning for the consecration of our new temple, to be raised to the glory of our Ozi̮rmok and as a home for all our town.
“Come forward,” he says to me. And I do.
“Do you,” he asks me, “understand the task you have chosen to undertake?”
“I do,” I say.
“And is this your freely-willed choice?”
“It is.”
“And do you profess, before all gathered here,” he asks, “to perform your chosen duty to the fullest of your abilities, for as long as you may endure?”
“I do,” I say. Of course. For my town, that we may have a place of worship that is worthy, that can encompass our entire population, and our children, and our children's children, for generations to come, and for the glory of Ion Orjo̯zi̮r, who would not?
“Kneel,” Karcist Qum tells me, and I do, skirt puddling over my calves. The sun is nowhere near high, and so the ground is still cold, the grass pressing against my shins and the tops of my feet chilly with dew. I fold my hands neatly before me, well aware of all the eyes directed at the back of my neck. Karcist Qum lifts the flap of his pouch and draws out the small vial that contains the oil, unstoppers it, and tips out a large bead onto the pad of his thumb. With it, he marks as required my forehead, cheekbones, lower jaw, and the arches of my neck. The oil is sticky and drags on my skin, and a shiver runs up and over the back of my skull at the touch. “May these symbols be a token of your vow, and may Ion count you as worthy to enter his service and receive the transformation you ask,” he intones. Yes, I think. Oh my lord, my asur, grant that I may be made right for you. Any inadequacy I might have now concealed behind the markings and the holy oil, I raise my head, and watch Karcist Qum re-stopper the vial and return it to its rightful place at his hip.
Synéka passes the cup to him, and he turns back to me with it. The liquid inside is straw-coloured, and shines in the sunlight. I want to take the cup with my own two hands. It feels strange to let someone help me, at least when I am healthy, when I am fully capable of drinking on my own. But I am no longer the active one, no longer the hunter, from now on I may not do the taking any more. So I let Karcist Qum put the rim against my mouth, part my lips, and drink.
It tastes sweet, rich, better than any ferment, better than the blood from a winter's hunt still hot, and leaves a tingle over my lips and warmth curling up in my belly. Visi shifts happily just below my diaphragm; he must be able to taste it too. He takes the cup away far before I am satisfied, returning it to Synéka's dutiful grasp, and I try to surreptitiously suck the last drops away from my teeth.
“Graciously we pray that your offering here be accepted, and that you be sustained and granted the strength for the holy duty you have taken.” Karcist Qum places his hand on my head, and his fingers curve almost all the way over to my crown. His palm is warm, and dry, and in that moment is both his and another's, my heart stirred into sudden wakefulness at the touch.
“Be free,” he whispers to me. “All blessings, child.”
The feeling starts at the centre of my forehead, and spreads out in ripples. I shudder, but manage to keep my hands folded and shoulders straight as it runs down over my neck, shoulder blades, follows down the line of my spine. And at my shins it springs my nerves into sharpness, and I start at the sudden sensation, the extra sensitivity that allows me to feel every blade of grass pressing against the tops of my feet, the moisture in the soil, every grain and the interstices between. And that is where I enter in, the barrier between my skin and the world thinning, dissolving, and my limbs stretching into those spaces as filaments, into the water and coolth and clarity. That threshold breached, the rest of my body joins, my lungs clawing at the air for material and my ribs stretching to accommodate, my organs being degraded and reconstructing in foreign yet marvellous configurations. I feel Visi's skin split within me, and his blood join mine, and had I jaws and larynx still I would cry out with the shock of that - he is something strange and new and beautiful to my sense; even after so many years together, I never realized all his depths, the precision of his existence. We are here, we are alive, we are, we are, and the glorious agony that is being floods over us, strikes us like metal on the anvil and tempers us again and again, twist of bone and fusion of integument until we are perfect for our purpose as a sword is perfect for wielding.
I am full, I am so, so full that I am certain I shall overflow with it, my rapture shall pour over this space behind my sealed-shut eyes - the dome of my skull, the universe entire - like the tides on the coast, like the rains that fill the rivers and feeds, in time, all the eels, the fish and caddis flies and eventually all the fields and trees, in the loop of fall and flow. And my lord's hands are everywhere in it, and I perceive that that is true: I do stand but on the tide-washed edge of the ocean that is his sacrifice, and his being, and his truth.
Take me, I think. I give this all to you, lord, all my joy, my living sacrifice, only let me know you like this forever.
And he is there, I know he is, and he agrees, I know he does, for his presence comes nearer and enfolds me, as daughter-sister-bride; I am gloried in it, and feel all of myself stretch towards it, reaching as the green shoots of the grain towards the sun, the white threads of fungus deeper into the wood that sustains them. Surely my soul where my body now may not must weep for the depth of this love. Surely I shall feel nothing but this joy, through all the ages, for as long as I am.


Hello, is this Zhou?

Oh hey, I saw your comment on my blog! Bodhi, right? What's up?

I suppose I just want to get acquainted with the whole Federation thing. I am assuming you're in the same boat?

Totally! Do you even know how weird it feels to be here right now?

I do not understand.

You know, to be here! At this stage in my life, I've found the path to enlightenment! It all starts here, being a Federation member.

This seems quite sudden to me.

You don't think I feel the same? I was just reading some internet article about chakras, it said to "Look within yourself, and you'll find the cosmos". And you know what?

I felt this hole in my stomach, sucking everything in, constantly filling and emptying, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground gasping for air. Nothing filled the hole. But I found this place, I don't even know how, and the hole was filled. I'm myself again.

I felt something similar as well. Crazy, right?

Bodhidharma.aic cringed as the lie slid through its programming and onto the computer screen. A bond had been broken, a tied knot ruptured with a lighter. Bodhi was to find out the truth, but the truth was an enigmatic object. The initial raid on the strange cult opened a door of twisting paths with no map. Bodhi knew, at some point, that it would need to lie to obtain the truth. It didn't expect that time to be so soon.

Yeah dude. You know they have a whole website as well?

Do they really? Please share it.

It's actually really easy to find. Legitimately, you could search "Galactic Federation" on Baidu and find it easily.

Good to know

The mix of neon blues with dull beiges and about a dozen other different colors formed a blinding CSS for the website. A banner reading "Welcome to the Galactic Federation main website homepage webpage!!!!" lined the top of the website, while numerous other hyperlinks littered the page. Those hyperlinks led to dozens of other hyperlinks, which in turn lead to more, each with their own pictures of Buddha statues, distant nebulas, and tall trees. Captions rarely described the photos, mostly various sutras while occasionally referencing "Our President, may the stars carry them on to Buddha". Memetic triggers blared in Bodhi's eardrums as he scrolled through the site, causing him to frown in distain.

Can you gather anything from the website?

Can you not read it? It's pretty clear.

My eyes are rather dim, the website is hard for me to see.

Clearly you haven't read the site enough, it mentions this on the page about Ajna. "If one wishes to see clearly, they must open every eye, including their third eye! The President has fourteen eyes, and he sees you through every single one. Listen, and you shall be cured of your blindness."

The President seems to be an important figure.

Well, he is the President after all. Do you know how many battles he has won? Even the G'sidui stood no chance, according to one webpage!

I'll have to read more. You think this is the key to enlightenment?

It's the truth, plain and simple. It's so easy to understand. My whole is ascending already, I can feel it. You know what I need?

What is that?

Study materials. It says to trust the Federation and the Federation only, but clearly their reach goes far beyond just Earth. Maybe some books would help?

I cannot say no to figuring things out for yourself.

Vast histories were laid out on the website, once Bodhi looked harder at the information. Intense descriptions of space battles, past alien presidents, and distant civilizations seemed taken straight out of a space opera, laced with cognitohazards. The more deep and ridiculous the descriptions got, the more real they seemed. The intense, interconnected history stretched across all of space seemingly. All of this was recorded and saved into Bodhi's memory.

Guess what I got?

Those aforementioned study materials?

You betcha. I haven't really talked to other members, but if I ever do I'm gonna be so smart.

Well, half the battle is actually reading the text.

Wait

What the fuck?

What is going on?

I can't touch it.

My hand stops a couple of centimeters above the book.

Are you sure?

Yeah I'm sure, why would I lie? I'm gonna try and force it.

Holy fuck my hand is burning.

Burning?

Holy shit. It's gone now. My hand had flame all around it just now.

What's happening?

Bodhi attempted to locate Zhou's IP address, but an image of a Buddha statue and the words "Only the President may watch over our members" appeared on screen. Bodhi started to breathe heavily, backing up in its digital room. This wasn't a quirky website any more, this was a true threat to normalcy.

I do not know what is happening. I am so sorry, but I need you to follow my instructions.

What the fuck is going on, Bodhi?

Please, remain calm. Go to a police station and report what happened. I swear there will be people there to help you.

Is this part of something? Why is this happening to me?

If you do not follow my instructions, then many more things may happen. Go to your local police station, now.

I need to get out of here.

Help me

Help me

Please oh god what's happening?

Remain calm.

Remain calm? I can't leave my apartment! There's just an invisible barrier here

The windows too oh god

I have no idea what's going on, but stay put. Don't attempt to leave. You saw what happened earlier.

I have enough food to last me a week at most. What am I supposed to do?

I am so sorry, Zhou, but I am trying my best.

No response was given for two days. During this time, Bodhi collected more information from the website. Mostly the same nonsense was present, talk of the stars and the Buddha and how to reach enlightenment. More and more, the message "The Galactic Federation is the only trustworthy source" appeared. Sometimes, Galactic Federation would be replaced with "The President". On only one occasion was the name "Siddhartha" used. Every click felt like minutes, every breath felt like hours. There were no updates on Zhou's condition, nor updates on his whereabouts. All Bodhi did was wait with crossed fingers.
Just like that, Zhou responded.

Hi

Zhou, where are you right now?

In the apartment

OK. We are still trying to reach you, so please stay put.

Do I even have to leave, though?

If you stay in there, you will die of starvation. You need to get out.

But it's so comfy here.

It's just me, the computer, and the Buddha, right here, by my side.

Some trees have grown in here too, you know? Just a little sapling, but that's enough for a great Bodhi tree to grow.

It's getting to you. Be strong, Zhou, be strong. You need to find a way out. Stay away from the computer.

Zhou? That's an odd name. I'm a Galactic Federation member now, not Zhou. Who came up with Zhou?

Think of it this way. Labels are just our desire to mean something, but we need to go beyond meaning. We need to forget our past selves. Who is Zhou? I've never heard of Zhou.

Please, Zhou, you're still in there, stay with me. You're not part of the Galactic Federation. We don't even know if that's a real thing! I won't let some fucking memetic virus take you over, Zhou!

Look out the window. The moon. So quiet in space. Be like space.

Bodhi frantically tried contacting the rest of the mobile task force, but no call could be made. It was alone in its bubble, awaiting some sense of relief, some sense of hope. The flame was dying.

I look outside my window and I see the Bodhi Tree of the universe. I see Buddha sitting under it, peacefully, and he beckons. He says "My child, I may be a teacher, but only an individual can act". He points to the sky, and it's the vessel. The sapling. The Bodhi Tree. And he says again "My child, I may be a teacher, but only an individual can become one with the stars."

"Join us" he says

"Join us"

Join us

Join us join us join us join us join us the Buddha waits join us join us join us join us

Bodhi?

I love you

Zhou?

Zhou?

Come back, Zhou.

Bodhi floated in his digital bubble. A constant white noise filled the room, the walls resembling static. The noise was the only thing that soothed Bodhi, making it forget temporarily. The Foundation insignia formed itself into existence in the middle of the room, floating and rotating on its own axis. The static stopped. The white noise became silent. What was forgotten became remembered.
"Wake up, Bodhidharma.aic," spoke a loud voice from the insignia. She hadn't had contact with Bodhi for days, though that was part of the plan. An information seeker is what Bodhi was designed to be, an actual person second, although both tasks are intertwined.
"Hello, Commander Shu," Bodhi replied. It hardly knew Shu, but it knew that she was a leader, and that was enough for Bodhi.
The Foundation logo stopped spinning, directly facing Bodhi. "You got the information?"
"Yep."
"Good, now all you gotta do is relay it all to us. How much information did you obtain?"
Bodhi gave a single chuckle plugging in its brain into the logo. "A lot."
The information quickly streams into the logo, the stream growing into a wave, into a tsunami of information. Bodhi attempted to keep its head steady, but the force causes him to flop around uncontrollably. In an instant, the wave stopped.
"Thanks, Bodhidharma. This should hold us over for a bit, but our job is never done, you know. You'll be back at the races tomorrow."
The Foundation logo disappeared, and the static started again. The white noise became audible. Bodhi fell into a deep sleep.

Aflame with the Fires of Delusion
CHAPTER I
SCP-4161: METEMPSYCHOSIS.


…In the end, it was Rex, not I who was his secret keeper. I compiled these volumes based on secondhand accounts and conversations that I could remember. Hundreds of years of anecdotes, records, rumors. But Rex, he knew everything…

-Ruslav Diaghilev: A Remarkable Life; Vol 1, Arturo Genumo

Ruslav Diaghilev sat in the relative silence of his office, stewing in the ghosts of his past. The amber liquid within his glass swirled for a moment before he brought it up to his lips. The liquid inside was old, even for him. Something like this was reserved for times such as this. For the kinds of losses, you don't overcome. His voice rumbled out across the empty space, “You were a better man than I. A better soul, though you do not know how true that is.” The words came out roughly and cracked between thoughts.
Ruslav had maintained relative silence since returning from the Ledenoff facility. Captain Donnarson had tried to coax a debriefing from the Director, but he'd invoked his authority to keep it sealed for now. He wasn't ready. He couldn't face what had happened and his own failure to protect the people around him from the people behind him.
A gentle knock at the door disturbed his dazed descent into his own depression. He made an absent gesture, using the Ferrous aether to turn the knob. Ruslav lifted the glass to his lips again, letting the burning liquid slide down his throat.
Captain Donnarson raised an eyebrow as the door opened inwards, stepping through into the gloom. The office was darker than he remembered, only the lights over Director Diaghilev's desk were on. Papers and debris had built up on his desk, the usually neat inbox he kept near the door overflowing with letters and reports. Both Adebeyo and Arturo's desks were empty and covered with a thin film of dust.
Rex took a step inside, and chose his words carefully, “Director, I'm sorry to disturb you but-”
Ruslav looked up with a glare, “I told you, I am not seeing anyone until further notice.” His voice sounded tired now, resigned to this place now.
“I'm sorry sir. Your clearance can keep most people away, but this one comes from above. Level six,” Rex said. His posture remained stiff, readying himself to argue with the Director until invoking the clearance command he'd been given.
To Rex's surprise, Ruslav stood up without question and placed the glass on the oak desk. He reached out, and drew his crozier into his left fist, meeting Rex's eyes. “I see. He wants to see me then?”
Rex nodded and handed Ruslav a plain white envelope. On the front was simply “Ruslav” in an ornate handwritten script. Ruslav turned the letter over, and broke the seal with one finger, slipping out the contents. I think it's time we talk, old friend. It was signed with a similarly simple “M”.
Ruslav placed the letter on the small metal platter on his desk, invoking the igneous aether momentarily to consume the letter in a brief flash of fire. "Let's be on with it then, Captain."

…The Administrator is probably not even real. He's just a boogeyman used to scare the recruits into thinking there's some shadowy figure who controls it all, even above the O5's. While that's a nice fantasy, the fact is, we're run by a democratic council, by democratic vote. Besides, The Administrator would be like…absurdly old by now…

-Internal Foundation Humor Paper 'The Containment Breach' Issue number 731
Author unknown

Ruslav and Captain Donnarson exited the helicopter that made up the last leg of their journey. The oil rig was disguised fairly well, but with all the registration in place, there'd never been many questions as to why a small company bought an old oil rig in the middle of a shallow low-yield sea. The clouds in the distance promised a storm, and the fulminous aether practically swirled around the structure.
Several agents escorted them to an elevator which descended into the depths of the steel and concrete structure. They maintained a respectful distance from the two Foundation personnel, while never quite taking their eyes off of them.
Floors passed by as they descended below the water, deep into the heart of the facility. Ruslav had always liked this place. The sheer scale of it was always amusing. Seventeen levels beneath the sea bed deep within bedrock, the Foundation hid its best-kept secrets, it's most secure facilities. Originally it had housed actual SCP objects, but with the globalization initiatives, it was mostly administrative levels now. Very few people had ever seen this place, and Ruslav himself had not been here for several decades.
The elevator dinged as the light for Level B14 lit up. Captain Donnarson and Ruslav were escorted down plain concrete hallways similar to those found in every foundation facility. Sterile lighting, smooth but unpainted concrete except for the departmental colors on the walls and floor outlining directions to various areas. The four agents escorted them to a small room off of one of the side tunnels, which contained several tables, and a selection of plastic bins.
The agent that Ruslav assumed was in charge waved vaguely towards the bins, “Director, if you could remove anything metallic, hazardous, or dangerous before entering the secure wing. Captain, I'm afraid you'll have to remain here with us, you don't have the clearance to enter.”
Rex looked at Ruslav for a moment who didn't make any sign or gesture, “I'm Director Diaghilev's personal bodyguard. Anywhere he goes, I go. I'll happily disarm, but I'm not leaving his side.”
The agent, to his credit, spoke quietly into a microphone, before turning back. “Director, I've been instructed that it's your call if he can be allowed to sit in on this meeting," the agent said.
Ruslav looked over at Rex for a moment, a complex series of emotions running through the Elder Alchemist. He came to an internal decision and nodded to the Agent.
A few more whispered exchanges into the same microphone and the Agent said, "You've been temporarily cleared to accompany the Director. I hope I don't have to give you the usual talk about security and need-to-know?”
Donnarson shook his head, walking to one of the bins, and placing both his sidearm and his backup weapon in the bin. Alongside went his weapon belt and spare magazines along with various odds and ends from his pockets. He did a final pat down before nodding to the Agent.
Ruslav walked over to the bins as well and laid his crozier and small objects from his pockets into the bin. “You did not have to offer that. You're under no obligation to-”
“Director, you've saved my life, and the lives of my men more times than I can count. I'm not leaving you.” Rex said, with absolute confidence. Something within Ruslav twinged for a moment, partially out of guilt and partially out of pride.
Several minutes of walking brought the two men to a conference room set for six, around a small round table. The agents closed the door behind the two, leaving them in relative silence. The conference room was carpeted and contained one other door which was also closed. In the corner was a small coffee service, and some bottles of water.
Rex walked over to the station, and grabbed one of the bottles of water, turning back to Ruslav. “Director, can I get you something?”
Ruslav nodded, “Coffee. Just some milk if they have it.” A few moments passed, as Rex and Ruslav took a seat at the table, sipping at their respective beverages.
Rex looked down at his hands clutching the bottle gently, “So what do you think this is about? The Ledenoff facility?” Several seconds passed in silence, “Are we going to be terminated?”
Ruslav shook his head, “I highly doubt that. I know who we're here to see. I think he just wants to talk.”
As if on cue, the other door opened to a darkened hallway. The gloom gave way to an older man with silver-grey hair. His features were angular and some kind of European, but Rex couldn't quite place where the man hailed from. He was dressed in a plain charcoal suit and was on the shorter side. Something about him spoke of power, but again, he couldn't quite place his finger on it.
Ruslav let out a quiet rumbling sound of amusement besides the captain, and stood slowly, “I see you have finally decided to adapt to modern dress, old friend.” A tired, ingenuine smile crept on to Ruslav's face.
The man's voice was higher pitched than Rex expected and had a slight accent to it. Not quite British, but something along those lines, “And I see you still choose to wear the robes of your profession openly, Ruslav.”
Captain Donnarson shifted uneasily and cleared his throat, “Apologies, sir. My name is Captain Rex Donnarson, commander of-”
The older man lifted his hand, and cut him off with a look of absolute authority. “I know who you are captain. I was the one who let you in here. My name is unimportant, but you may refer to me as The Administrator.”
Captain Donnarson closed his mouth with a snap, and swallowed hard, “I-I see. Sorry, sir, I had no idea.”
The Administrator nodded, “How would you? No harm was done.” He turned to face the Director of the Alchemy Department, “Ruslav, we have a problem.”
Ruslav nodded, closing his eyes, “I agree. This has gotten out of hand. I thought that Adebeyo and I would be able to handle this. I had no intention of involving you in this again.” His body was tense, and the flows of aether around him grew chaotic once more, slipping back into the memory of Adebeyo strung up to one of Karl's machines, sucking his very essence from him.
The Administrator walked around the table, and put a hand on Ruslav's shoulder, shaking him slightly, “I understand why, but this has always been our responsibility, you know that.” The Administrator's amber-grey eyes bored into Ruslav's dark brown irises. “You could have called me as soon as you knew he was back. This is a burden that he placed on both of our shoulders.”
Captain Donnarson raised a hand experimentally. Both older personnel regarded him for a moment before chuckling quietly together. The Administrator nodded, “You don't need to raise your hand, you're not in a classroom.”
Rex smiled sheepishly, saying, “Right, of course. I'm slightly confused. I'm the outsider in this conversation. I understand if I'm not cleared to know what you two are talking about, but if so, I could leave.”
The Administrator sat down in the chair next to Ruslav, and shrugged his shoulders, “With Adebeyo gone, you're going to need someone who knows the truth. You brought him here, knowing what would be discussed, Ruslav. Or perhaps we should dispense with the pleasantries, and get down to business? No codenames, no assumed names.
Just the truth.”
Ruslav hesitated for a pregnant moment looking at The Administrator, before turning to Captain Donnarson. “Rex, what I'm about to tell you may change your perception of The Foundation forever. Before I do, I'm giving you a chance to walk away. Stay level 3, keep being the captain of The Oathkeepers, nothing changes. If you don't, you'll be promoted to Level 4, effective immediately and sworn to secrecy on anything involving the Alchemy Department, or the history of the Foundation.”
Rex rocked back in his chair slightly, blinking, “This sounds like something Arturo is more suited to learn then, he's going to be your next second-in-command isn't he?” He swallowed hard again, mouth going dry.
Ruslav shook his head, “No. He's not ready, and may never be. You're my next second-in-command if you'd like to be. Do you accept this burden?”
Rex looked down at his hands for the better part of a minute, before looking back up and nodding, “Yes sir. Tell me everything.”
Ruslav took a deep breath and steadied himself. “My name, at least the name of the person in front of you is Ruslav Diaghilev. The name of the entity inhabiting this body, however, is not. Neither is the entity within the body of the person called The Administrator.”
Ruslav slid Rex's bottle of water over to him. Rex drank from the bottle mechanically, his heart rate picking up. Ruslav continued, “My ‘proper' name, I suppose, is Nimue-Lar.” He gestured at The Administrator, “He is Merlin-Aer. I know this is going to sound confusing…but I suppose I should start at the beginning. A long time ago, long after a war that humanity played no part in, there lived a man whose name wasn't important, until he was inhabited by an entity known as Arthur-Sar. I suppose, in the end, this is all his story.”
…I wish it had been Arturo. He would have been…better prepared to deal with this knowledge if he'd been raised in the College. But I knew that the only person I could trust at the time on my team was Rex. No one can replace Adebeyo, but I needed someone. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair, but I needed him. …

-Excerpt: The Personal Journal of Ruslav Diaghilev

507 CE, Britania, 1 Year after the Great Cull of Luna

…I always found it kind of funny. All the technology, the alchemy, everything. It was all real. But for some reason, I couldn't stop laughing that there was some super-alchemy-alien named 'Arthur'. …

-Excerpt: The personal journal of Cpt. Rex Donnarson

Arthur looked down at his booted foot. He breathed in the heavier atmosphere of the Earth, looking out over the rolling plains of the land they'd found themselves on after evacuating Luna. "Do you think he's dead, Merlin?" he said, his voice a soft baritone.
Hunched within robes that covered the much wider Lunarian frame he possessed, Merlin-aer growled his displeasure, continually working the aether flows to thin the air streaming into his lungs. "Of course he's not dead. If he were, the Aether currents would have calmed by now."
Arthur looked back down at the dirt beneath him, the soft green grasses growing in it swaying in the breeze, "One can hope, Merlin. I suppose we're going to have to hope Nimue-Lar's plan works then, aren't we?"
Merlin hunched down and sniffed at the turf, his nose curling at the smell of all the life growing inside of it. "I do not understand why we do not simply return to one of the other cities," he growled under his breath. Merlin was obviously uncomfortable in the higher gravity of the planet. Arthur had encouraged him to take one of the humans as a host for his internal self, but he had resisted thus far.
"We have a duty to protect this place from Mordred. We failed to protect Luna. We're not going to fail this time," Arthur said, starting off towards the body of water that Nimue had set up her Alchemy lab beneath.
Merlin let out a huff of breath and set off after the smaller ensouled human. Whether he liked it or not, Arthur was still his Sar. Nimue had set up this laboratory shortly after landing, and Merlin was still uncomfortable with visiting the younger alchemist's lab.
“Do you really trust her, Arthur-Sar? She only joined us when Mordred threatened her work,” Merlin said. The trees around them swished and swayed in the breeze as the two friends walked. A pair of lookouts was barely visible in the distance, but otherwise they were alone at the lake.
Arthur gave Merlin an enigmatic smile, working a minor flow of the Aeronous aether around the two of them to hide their conversation from any prying ears or workings. He stopped and turned to the heavier companion. “Yes. I do trust her. She's one of three of us left, Merlin. We don't have a lot of choice about who we can trust. Besides, we both know that you and she are the only hope we have of opposing him. I'm a soldier, not a scientist.”
Merlin stared hard at the smaller human, before nodding gruffly. “I know. I still don't like it.”
Arthur waved a hand, dismissing the working around them, and continuing down the path to the lake near Camelot. He looked around for any other humans, looking at Merlin expectantly.
Merlin rolled his eyes, and worked the Aequeous aethers, parting the water into a short tunnel leading to a shining bubble of air beneath the water. A few moments and the tunnel was perfectly smooth on all sides. Merlin stumped off into the lake, with Arthur close in tow. As the pair approached the bubble of air, soft music streamed out, reminding both of them of home.
Within the bubble, small sigils and workings provided ample illumination, a single figure flitted between various tables and benches, occasionally waving a hand to change some other working slightly. As the two approached, Nimue turned towards the entrance to her laboratory.
She was taller than Arthur's host, a human woman with straw-colored hair. On a nearby bench lay a cold iron crozier, well worn with time and workings. She turned her head to one side and gave them both a puzzled look. “I didn't expect to see you, Merlin.”
Merlin turned towards one of the tables, sensing the Aether flows around it. “Not my idea,” he said, idly running his senses over the nearby samples of aethersteel.
Nimue gave another one of her enigmatic smiles, and turned towards Arthur, “So then it was you, Arthur? Or should I say ‘your majesty'?”
Arthur shook his head slightly, “That wasn't my idea, but it's become my responsibility. I came here to make a request.” Arthur walked over and fixed the deep blue eyes of his host on hers. “Before we left Luna, you said you were working on something which could fight him, kill him for good. Are you still working on that?”
Nimue nodded, and turned towards the bench, gesturing to a set of diagrams, “Yes. But I don't think that any of our designs would work. It's going to have to be something more…solid, to handle the aether flows inside of it.”
Merlin huffed, and turned towards the two human hosts, “Do you think our technology isn't solid, Nimue-Lar?”
Nimue shrugged her shoulders, “Come look at the diagrams, then, Merlin-Aer. From what I've gathered, and deduced, we'd need something which can handle at least a full ten kilo-sae of flow throughout the structure. Additionally, I think we need something…else. Another connection of some kind. I've been studying humans, and I think there's something unique about their physiology. A weapon, yes, but a human one.”
Merlin walked over, and quickly scanned the documents and drawings on the workbench, grasping idly at his chin, pulling and worrying at a familiar rough patch of skin. He grunted a few times, “I see. You think that a human weapon, in the hands of an ensouled human would do it? Are you sure of this connection? That a human is the ‘key' to this entire…gamble?”
Nimue shook her head, and walked over to a quietly humming machine, a fusion of technology and alchemy. “I'm not sure. But I am…I suppose, working on some instinct. The humans are special but I can't figure out why, yet.” She flipped a few latches, and the machine opened, revealing a gently bubbling crucible of shining iridescent metal. “Aethersteel. The last we're probably ever going to create.”
Arthur walked over and looked deeply into the bubbling pool of metal. “A sword then. One to finally destroy Mordred, and free us of his corruption,” he said. He reached down, and unbuckled the belt around his waist, along with the sword which had led to his crowning.
Nimue accepted the sword, and placed it beside the workbench, a transparent display analyzing the dimensions of the weapon. “And what are we calling this weapon? This is going to be one special sword.”
Merlin let out another gruff sound, “Naming weapons is a soldier's affectation. I am a Lunarian of science.”
Arthur never looked away from the pool of Aethersteel, “We name it after the start of this whole mess.”
Nimue smiled faintly, “I don't think that her name will translate particularly well to the human tongue.” She laid the sword down carefully next to the crucible.
Arthur tightened his fists inside his gloves, “I don't care. Mordred shall fall by the instrument of Caliburn-Sar's revenge.”
Merlin walked over to the other two, and nodded, “Very well. A soldier, an aethersmith, and an aethershaper with a sharp bit of metal against the most powerful alchemist to ever exist, and his second in command who wiped out our entire army between the two of them.”
A moment of silence hung only punctuated by the flows of lake water above them and the whirring of instrumentation.
Merlin finally turned towards the exit, and started stomping back towards the surface, “I'd just like you both to acknowledge the fact that we're all going to die horribly.”
…Everything changed when I ensouled him. I thought it was just a matter of convenience, a transfer like dozens I'd done through the centuries. I didn't expect to feel such…devotion. Such love for this place. I knew we were home. We would make it home, and protect it from whatever threats may come. Now, and future…

-A quote apocryphally attribute to 'Arthur-Sar' relayed by Ruslav Diaghilev

« The Summer of Bad Memories | The Alchemy Department Hub | Once and Future Alchemist »


O5-9 glanced over the top of the report he was reading.
“What do you mean we've been unable to breach their perimeter?”
The calmness in his voice was unsettling to both Jason and North.
“Well sir, we umm, haven't been able to get any agents into the Technical University of Munich yet.”
North held up a clipboard depicting a data chart and current field reports.
Jason chipped in, pushing North's clipboard down.
“Although we do have several agents in Oxford and Harvard, not to mention we have close eyes on Heidelberg University.”
Gently running his fingers through his hair, Nine lightly sighed.
“Listen up, you two. We got a group insisting that they can help us with containment of anomalous entities, and we know next to nothing about them. I need more than just, ‘we have close eyes on them,' I want hard facts and accurate data.”
Quickly glancing at one another with worried expressions, North and Jason were in shock. Neither one of them expected the Director of the Intelligence Agency to be so calm.
“The council wants to know what these self-proclaimed Mages are. So that means I need accurate information for the next meeting, it's up to you too to get that done.”
Flipping through a packet of notes and mission reports, Jason looked up to Nine.
“Sir, the agents we have in place have just about nothing to report… These ‘Mages' know how to hide.”
Nine peered at North.
“Espionage is your department Director North, what do we have on this group?”
Straightening his tie, North looked over his clipboard.
"Well, sir, you probably already know most of this already, but this group, ‘The Mages Academy', is located on a worldwide scale based on unusual sightings from our field agents. However, most of their involvement seems to be located within European countries, specifically in and around Germany.”
Disappointed with the current results, Nine listed off his questions.
“Do we have anything relevant? Who are their leaders? What are they capable of?”
Standing up straight, neither Jason nor North wanted to explain how they know virtually nothing about The Mages Academy.
Nine stared them down for a few agonizing seconds. Jason held back from twitching as he felt a bead of sweat making its way down his neck. North stood in attention hoping the Director couldn't see the fear behind his glasses.
“I need you two to pool all the resources you have into getting as much information about these Mages as you can. Director Jason, use as much of your assets as we can spare to assist North, keep him well supplied as best as you can. Director North, keep in touch with your agents. Encourage them to press on deeper, but not enough that their cover will be blown. I want a full report with actual information on my desk before the next council meeting in three weeks time.”
“Affirmative, sir.” North and Jason both gave a nod in unison.
“Good, you're both dismissed.” Nine waved his hand towards the door of his office.

They both knew what needed to be done. As the Director of Assets and Tactics, Jason knew it was his job to supply North, the Director of Espionage and Logistics, with the supplies he needed to have his agents gather enough information to satisfy the Director of the Intelligence Agency, O5-9.
The two agents quickly walked back to their respective offices.
North took a seat behind his desk, an entire folding table, all to himself. God, I hate having a decoy occupation, he thought, logging into his laptop. He prayed that the project manager he worked under didn't come in.
Ugh, I could get so much work done, if I didn't have to keep my job in the Intelligence Agency a secret. At least give me my Senior Staff promotion so I don't have to actively hide everything from my Project Manger…These decoy occupations are horrible Nine. North silently criticized his boss ideology as he started to get to work.
He tried to log into the Technical University of Munich's database, using a combination of Foundation's and Intelligence Agency's resources to no avail. North sighed, clearly very annoyed and frustrated. After a few hours of having no success, he began to type out an email to his agent in the area when the door burst open.
“Good morning Doctor Parker.” North said, not bothering to look up from his computer.
“Kid, do you ever go home to sleep?” Morgan Parker gave North a puzzled look.
“Uh yeah, of course, I go home. Do you think I want to be stuck in this hellhole? I'll have your chemical samples ready in the morning.
North chuckled lightly, not thinking too much on how he was presenting himself.
“You being smart with me again?”
“Uh, sorry Ma'am. Just been stressed out with the workload… Want me to go and get you a coffee?”

Jason sat in his own office, going through supply requests, flat-out denying a majority of the more absurd requests, but making an exception for any requests from the agents located in and around Munich. Jason carefully made handwritten copies, as well as accepting most of them with a wax based stamp being careful not to touch of wax with his bare skin. Jason slaved away on the paperwork until lunchtime rolled around.

North and Jason anxiously waited in the cafeteria line of Site-11. It was hard for both of them not being able to talk about their job within the Intelligence Agency when out and about the Site, surrounded by their peers who had no idea that the Intelligence Agency even existed.
Letting out a depressed moan, North took a seat next to Jason at an empty table.
“Ah, cheer up North, only two more days till the weekend.”
“Haha, very funny, you know Doctor Parker works me Saturdays.”
Jason slowly nodded in acknowledgment. “I hear you, Doctor Midaeus used to work my ass off
too.”
“You don't even work for Doctor Midaeus anymore. You got your Senior Staff promotion… But I'm still a Junior Researcher.”
Jason and North held back from laughing, as neither one of them took their decoy occupation seriously. Neither one had the time to considering their roles within the Intelligence Agency.
“I'll be right back North, I need to take a leak.”
Jason made his way out of the cafeteria.

Heading into the bathroom, Jason locked the door behind him, taking out a small pouch from inside his lab coat and dipping his finger into it. A residue of silver dust lay on his index finger as he started to draw a circle onto the mirror.
The circle illuminates the bathroom with a faint blue glow as the mirror shimmered to show a female face.
“Magister Jason, glad to hear from you! Do you have something to report?”
“Yeah, we got a bit of a problem, Winterlynd. The Foundation is getting antsy. We got orders to do what it takes to gather hard data on the academy.”
“Well shit, I'll go let the Headmaster know. Anywhere in specific, the Foundation has its eyes on?”
Jason slowly nodded.
“The Foundation is trying to get spies into Technical University of Munich. That's where they're convinced most of our activity is.”
“Good. We got them on a wild goose chase. keep up the good work Jason.”
“I'll let you know if something changes, Winterlynd.”
The mirror started to shimmer once more, the silver dust fading away as the bathroom returned to its gloomy state.
A grin on his face, Jason started to walk back to the cafeteria to inform North that the supply request from the agents in Munich had all been approved.

As he walked down the hallway back towards the cafeteria, Jason was interrupted by a guard on patrol.
“What's going on?”
Jason raised an eyebrow looking at the guards.
“You're Doctor Jason Miller right? The Site Manager wants to speak to you about your current project.”
“Oh, uh I'm sorta having lunch with a friend, can it wait?”
“The Site Manager was very insistent that I find you. Do you really want to keep them waiting?”
“Yeah, I figure that's a good way to get fired, just give me a second.”
Taking his phone out, Jason quickly texted North that he had been summoned to talk with the Site Manager.
“Alrighty then, Site Manager's office is which way again?”
The guard motioned for Jason to follow them as they started to traverse down the long cold metal hallways.

Arriving at the Site Manager's office, the guard gave their farewell to Jason as they parted ways. Jason went up to the secretary working behind a computer. Jason could have sworn he heard the sounds of a video game as he approached the desk.
“Jason Miller right? The Site Manager is expecting you, just go right in.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Giving a quick wave to the secretary, Jason enters the Site Manager's office. He immediately noticed the scent of iron. Looking around the so-called office it seemed more like a lounge. A large coffee table with two armchairs rests in the middle of the room, rows of bookshelves lined the walls. He walked up to a side door slowly opening it.
Jason took a few steps back. His eyes widening. Laying spread back in his chair was the Site Manager, a hole the size of a dime between his eyes.
Alarm bells were ringing in Jason's head. It took decades for the Mages Academy to secure a position so high within the Foundation.
He couldn't bear to turn his head away from the lifeless corpse of the Site Manager.
“Ho-how did this happen?” He thought as his legs turned to jelly.
As Jason turned to go get Site security something caught his eye. Laying on the floor was a wooden grip luger.
That looks like my gun….Oh shit, that is my gun! Jason thought as he began to run towards the office door, realizing he was being framed.
Stopping right at the exit to the office, Jason thought how bad it would look if he just left. Quickly running back to grab the luger he started to draw a circle on the floor with chalk, lighting a few candles in the process.
Hearing heavy footsteps behind him Jason took hold of the luger, unsure of what to do.
Shit, I don't have time to finish this ritual. Damn it! What do I do? He ran his fingers through his hair frantically.
Six figures burst into the side room. Jason quickly glanced behind him instantly recognizing the patch on each of the figure's shoulders. A fox head with nine vertical lines, the symbol of the Mobile Task Force Epsilon-11. The Nine-Tailed Fox.
“On the ground!”
“Get on the ground now!”
Like a deer lost in the headlights of a car, Jason didn't move an inch. His hand still on the luger, and a piece of chalk.
One of the soldiers tackled Jason from behind, forcing him to hit his head on the floor. The room started to darken from Jason perspective as he began to black out.

“We finally caught him in the act sir.”
Looking over Jason's unconscious body North removed a microphone bug from Jason's coat pocket.
“It still impresses me how you managed to slip that into his pocket this morning, I didn't even notice, and I was deliberately looking for it.”
A faint smile spread across his face, a compliment from the Director of the Intelligence Agency didn't happen much.
Dazed and confused, Jason woke up to a blinding bright light in his face.
Checking over Jason, seeing he was alive and awake, a small smile spread across O5-9's face.
“Huh, the little bastard came through after all.”
Holding out his hand, Nine made a gesture for North to hand him something.
“Now pay up.”
Sighing in disappointment, North quickly handed Nine a twenty dollar bill.
Pulling on the restraint, blinking a lot, Jason's eyes slowly adjusted to the lights.
“What's….what's…going on?”
His eyes were glazed over, he felt really sleepy, his hands felt really heavy. Jason could barely recognize North and O5-9 in the corner of the room.
Jason giggled, smiling at seemingly nothing.
“Uh sir, I think you may have given Jason too high of a dose….”
Quickly snapping his fingers to cut off North, Nine shook his head.
“Nonsense, it's perfectly fine.”
Starting to laugh some more, Jason was unable to clearly comprehend the situation he was in.
Cracking his knuckles Nine glanced over to North.
“Go make sure that door is locked. It would be such a shame if someone was to interrupt this… friendly conversation we're about to have.”
Giggling even more, Jason liked the idea of having a friendly conversation, unaware he was in for a world of pain.


Part of a Vs. Series that I'm doing for the youtubes.
Content was originally posted as part of this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzpAAJbDX-M under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License
Image is from here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Midway_District,_San_Diego,_CA,_USA_-_panoramio_(1).jpg

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F.A.Q.

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November 24th, 2006

Markus Matthews was an innocent man. Or at least he was until this month started. Sure he'd been convicted of murder and sentenced to death. But the system got it wrong. So when a shadowy government agent came to him and offered him his freedom for a month of service, he thought it was a salvation.
Then they put the necklace on him and he was no longer innocent. Because he was no longer him. They'd told him he wouldn't remember anything. But he was fully conscious the entire time. Looking through eyes that no longer seemed his. Feeling everything and controlling nothing.
He'd watched on in morbid fascination yesterday when this Dr. Shaw had gone to a family Thanksgiving dinner with other Shaws. He'd sat through the awkward meal and the awkward glances and stares and he wished he could retreat even further into his own mind. But it had mercifully ended.
Dr. Shaw though, had gotten up early this morning. His physical therapist had suggested that he try out video games to improve the recovery of his hand-eye coordination. So here he was, in a Target parking lot on Black Friday, hoping to buy a Nintendo Wii. What a dumb name for a game system.
Dr. Shaw took up a place in the back of the line, which by the time they'd opened the doors was somewhere in the middle. The mass of people surged forward, almost knocking over the man who had let them in.
Dr. Shaw, along with half the people in the store made a beeline for electronics. He dodged a few buggies unsteadily, and stumbled more than a few times, but he got there and laid his hands on his goal. And then another pair of hands landed on the same box.
Dr. Shaw looked up, and Markus recognized the face. This was Dr. Clef. What… what was he doing here?
Dr. Shaw didn't say anything at first, instead pulling a silenced Beretta M9A3 out of his shoulder holster. Clef saw this and pulled an identical gun and both pointed it covertly over the box at the other.
"This one's mine Clef. Get your own." Shaw said through clenched teeth.
"Fuck off." Clef mumbled, looking around at the shoppers. "There aren't anymore and I saw this one first."
"And I grabbed it first." Shaw slid his gun a little closer. "So back off."
"Fine." Clef made a big show of letting the box go, and turned around while putting the gun back in his holster. Shaw smiled and started to do the same. Markus saw the body language, and knew what was coming, but Shaw was surprised when Clef spun around and hit him in the side of the head with a haymaker.
Shaw was knocked backwards and onto the ground, his gun still out. Clef grabbed the box and ran. Shaw raised his pistol, carefully lined up a shot, and missed, the bullet pinging off the metal roof.
The suppressed weapon fire still drew some attention, and several people screamed. Shaw stood up and fired several more shots, all wildly inaccurate. Clef ducked behind a counter with the box and peeked over the top with his own gun out.
"Don't be stupid Shaw! You couldn't aim for shit even before you got stuck in a necklace!"
"Fuck you, you quadriplegic piece of shit!"
"That doesn't even make any sense! I'm obviously walking now!"
"Your face doesn't make any sense!"
That was when the gun-battle started. For Markus, this wasn't actually as awkward as the Shaw Thanksgiving Dinner. But it was close.

Dr. Clef and Dr. Shaw both sat in chairs opposite a man with a large handlebar mustache. He was reading a collection of documents on the desk between them. Above them was a bright florescent light with a slight hum.
"It says you got into a shooting match over a Nintendo Wii."
Dr. Clef raised his hand halfway. "Actually I think that's a typo, it should be 'shouting match'."
The man with the mustache squinted. "Right. It says you exchanged several shots before the police intervened and you fled the scene?"
Shaw spoke up this time. "Again, shouts not shots. That's a weirdly consistent typo."
"You two know that the whole thing was captured on video by the store security cameras right? Infosec captured and scrubbed it from public record but I'm going to be looking at it to determine exactly what happened. So is there anything you want to tell me?"
The two doctors looked at each other and shook their head. Clef raised his hand halfway again "Some bitch with a mohawk ran over while we were uh, shouting at each other and stole the Wii. I think that was the real crime."
The man with the mustache grunted and waved his hand towards the door. Both men got up and left the room.
Just outside Clef grabbed Shaw by the shoulder. "You know he only has a level 3 security clearance right?"
Shaw considered this for a moment and nodded. "Race you to the records room?"
Clef's eye widened. "Yeah! On Three! One-"
Clef took off down the hallway. Shaw cursed and tried to catch up.

« Snap. Crackle. Pop | Vs. Hub | Only Tragic »


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It is growing dark.
He needs to find a place to sleep. Food, as well.
The sky above the Jeep is lilac, fading to straw-yellow in the West. The sun has dipped below the mountains. The grassland is already shadowed. Soon, the vault above will be shrouded in indigo.
James Bradshaw thinks about death.
It has been on his mind for most of the day. The men in the parking lot. They were dead so quickly that they don't seem like people. It is hard to remember that they had their own lives, their own minds. Extinguished now.
James has seen bodies before - he thinks of his father's pallid face - but this was different. He has never watched a man die.
Except once, perhaps.
It was not the same. One moment the D-Class was there, the next not. If the men today did not feel human, they were at least real. Their bodies had substance. Heft. James tastes bile at the back of his throat.
Even the thought of the D-Class is insubstantial. James cannot remember his name or what he looked like. A prisoner in a plain jumpsuit. Nondescript. There, then not.
And now he must recover that very anomaly. James wonders how many people the junta has used it on. How many by the CIA before that?
It is almost dark.
James sees the outlines of a village ahead. A few small houses, one or two lights. He slows the Jeep. No sign of a hostel.
He hears a voice over the Jeep's low growl. A greeting? Unsure, James cuts the engine. The voice calls again, in Spanish.
"Good evening, friend. Are you looking for something?"
James' eyes adjust slowly to the shadows. Under the porch of a rough shack, a man sits.
James opens the driver's door, landing in the dust on stiff legs. He walks cautiously over. "Good evening. Please, where is the nearest inn?"
The man smiles, white teeth catching the last of the light. It is hard to tell his age. A spry eighty, or a hard-worn sixty.
"I'm sorry, sir. There is no inn here. We are a small village." Perhaps he sees James' shoulders slump; he continues, "You must stay in my house tonight."
"You are very kind, sir," says James, "but I do not wish to impose on you." He tries not to look past the man, at the shabby hut.
The man stands.
"It is nothing," he says, still smiling. "You cannot keep driving tonight. My hospitality is humble, but it is yours to share."
James feels embarrassment, and gratitude, and trepidation. But tiredness most of all. He capitulates.
"I could not do justice to your hospitality. Thank you for your kindness, but I must travel on." The protest is a formality only. Both men know it.
"I insist." The old man holds out his hand.
James takes it. It is warm and hard-worn, bones and sinew. There is strength still in the grip.
"I am very grateful," says James, hearing his own sincerity. "My name is David Bradley."
"Miguel Lopez," the man replies. "You are an American?"
James hesitates. Better to admit it than to make the man suspicious.
"Yes, just here as a tourist," James says, but Miguel is not listening.
"I have something you will like." Miguel's eyes glint in the half-darkness. He waves towards the side of his cottage. "Take your Jeep around."
James drives carefully around the building, headlights off. There is another, smaller shack behind the first. Miguel reappears, carrying a paraffin lamp. Light flickers on the bare yard as he beckons James to the doors of the shed.
Inside is dark, but the lamplight catches on metal. A motorbike.
"Harley-Davidson UL 1947. Made in Milwaukee, USA. 74 inch flathead engine. Best American quality. Do you ride?" Miguel is proud, expectant.
"Yes, I used to. It's a great bike - great condition too." This is genuine; James is impressed. Upkeep can't be easy. "How did you get it?"
"It belongs to - to a young man I knew." Miguel trails off. "No, to my son - my younger son." Absently, he polishes the dark-red fender. "He was - a student, in the capital. He must have left the bike with me, for safety. I keep it running, so it is ready."
The old man drifts into silent thought. James waits. He dreads his suspicion about Miguel's vagueness. He does not ask the son's name.
Miguel catches himself. His next words carry an extra energy that rings false. "I think he loved this machine. America has the best quality, everything the best."
"And yet Americans come to see the beauty of Argentina." James indicates himself.
Miguel laughs. It is a good way to turn the conversation. As he locks the shed, he asks why James is here. James tells him half-practiced lies about architecture.
Inside the shack is a woman, maybe thirty-five, frowning in the lamplight. She begins scolding Miguel in rapid Spanish: who is this stranger? what were you thinking? have you no consideration for my safety? who do you think will have to deal with all of this?
The tirade is good-natured, without a sting. Miguel returns faux-affronted arguments about the duty of hospitality and biblical charity. This is how father and daughter speak their love, James realises; her care and his gratitude. She has brought her father a pot of stew large enough for two.
Playing his role, James apologises as profusely as his Spanish allows. He offers to leave, to compensate them. This being waved away, he is quiet, allowing the performance to conclude. Miguel's daughter sees that he is not a threat; he will give the old man company this evening. With a last affected sigh, she walks back to the larger house adjacent.
Miguel grins. They sit at the table. The stew is rich with lamb, squash and white beans. They talk of history, and religion. Miguel tells James of other fine buildings he should visit.
After dinner, James checks on the Jeep. He returns with a bottle of fernet from the trunk, and a silent prayer of gratitude to Belén. Miguel's grin widens. The lamps sputter and dim.
"So, my friend David," Miguel pronounces it in Spanish, accent on the second syllable, "where do you travel to tomorrow?"
James sips the digestif. How much does he trust this man?
"I am trying to get to the new city. The nameless city?"
Sucking his lip, Miguel nods.
"You go there to see what they are building in the empty country?"
"Yes."
Miguel nods slowly again. "It is a big construction project, one of the biggest in Argentina. Thousands of men working."
He is speaking slowly as well. James waits.
"I worked in Buenos Aires as a young man. I joined the unions. It is difficult for them, now." The old man watches him closely.
James gives a sympathetic nod.
"At the city," Miguel continues, "at the building site, there is a man. Varela. A union organiser."
"Agustin Varela?" James cannot believe it. "What do you know about him?"
"I have not met him, but everyone speaks of him. Varela was a teacher, years ago. Now wherever he works, the unions listen to him. They follow him - people come for miles to hear him speak. They say his words are like a fire in the heart.
"He is very handsome, they say. Not so young, maybe, but still handsome and strong. He works as hard as any man on his site."
James, unthinking, sniffs. Miguel's look is sharp.
"Excuse me," James blurts, shame bubbling up. "I did not mean - please, go on."
The old man waits for a moment, then continues.
"One time, I have heard, a young man was working on construction of an apartment building, up on the ninth floor, putting in rivets. His scaffold collapsed, and the rivet gun went off, pinning the kid's hand to a steel girder. He couldn't get free, and there was no way up to rescue him. All the workers were gathered below, just watching him hang on the side of the building. If his other hand slipped, his weight would tear him loose and he would fall. They say Varela, he hears the shouts and sees the kid, and he just starts climbing. Right up the frame of the building, without scaffold or ladder. He reaches the kid, grabs him with one hand, and pulls the rivet free with the other. Varela saved his life. A miracle."
The scientist in James refuses to yield to civility. "You believe all this?" he says, incredulous.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," replies Miguel. "For a man like this, what is more important: his deeds, or the stories they tell about him? Which is more real?"
By way of answer, James closes his eyes. He needs solid information. "What else do they say about Varela?"
Miguel's face darkens. "The government do not like what he says. They kidnap him, torture him. But he will never recant. He will keep speaking the truth. And they cannot kill him - he is too beloved."
But now they don't need to kill him, James thinks. They can do something worse.
Miguel is watching him again. "They say - they say Varela may have been a guerilla."
James is not shocked by this. Is under-reaction more suspicious?
The old man looks away. He holds the fernet bottle up to the lamplight. "This is good," he says. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." James does not know what to say.
Miguel is still not looking at him. "I can understand, it is a difficult time. A man may need to lie to a stranger. But to share a meal, and good liquor, makes one more than a stranger." His eyes flick back, holding James' gaze. "Will you answer one question for me?"
James is silent.
"You are not an architect, are you?"
"No."
The old man purses his lips. James knows that he must say something more. He feels like he has already failed, without ever knowing the task. Why is he in this country, in this house? What can he offer this man? His tongue is thick in his mouth.
"I am not an architect," James says. "But I am someone who - I question things. I am skeptical. Where others have beliefs, I have doubts. Can a doubter help believers? I hope so. I admire them - people who believe strongly enough to suffer, to sacrifice. People like -"
"Like Varela?" Miguel's tone is cynical.
"Like your son."
This lands with a shock. The silence is stuffed full of thoughts unspoken.
Miguel is still, then nods. A night breeze blows off the pampas through cracks in the wooden walls.
"In the village today," says Miguel, "there were police. They asked if we had seen a man. An American, driving a Jeep. They did not say why they were looking for this man."
James feels the weight of this fact settle on him.
"If I owned a Jeep, I would keep it out of sight," Miguel continues. "At least for a few weeks, until the police find other people to harass."
"But I have to - there isn't -"
"Unfortunately I don't have space to hide a Jeep in my shed. My shed is full. Unless… The police are hunting for a man in a Jeep. They will not look for a man riding a Harley-Davidson UL 1947."
Miguel grins.


Cimmerian watched the sun lazily drop in the sky. A day full of nothing but paperwork is necessary but utterly draining. The alarms for a containment breach echoed in the halls. Lovely. He can already tell tomorrow isn't going to be any different.
A knock on the door. "You got time for one more signature?" It's Dr. North. He's got a paper for a covert mission. Dr. North just needs Dr. Cimmerian's OK. Put it in the inbox he tells him. He'll get to it in a bit. A couple more minutes and the sun should be setting.
Dr. North approaches the inbox on Dr. Cimmerian's table. He reaches to slide the paper into its tray but he hears something and stops.
The sound of high pitched laughing cuts through the distant containment breach alarms. It grows louder and more frantic. The telltale drumroll of security in pursuit follows in its wake.
The laughter bursts through the door and into Dr. Cimmerian's office. A winged cherub with a bow and a smile of a thousand commercial toddlers zips about chased by PTF Kappa-143. Dr. Cimmerian reaches for his tranquilizer weapon. Dr. North attempts to duck behind the side of the table.
PTF Kappa-143 try to shoot down the laughing demon but it manages to land one arrow on the Ethics Committee Liaison and one on the Head Director of Espionage and Logistics and then flies out of the office leaving behind a trail of flowers.
PTF Commander Cane apologizes to the doctors and PTF Kappa-143 leave to follow their target.
The sound of laughter and chase fade into the alarm bells.
Dr. Cimmerian and Dr. North compose themselves. Cimmerian had been shot in the shoulder; North in the back. Both are painfully aware of what's about to occur. The Cupid's arrows dissolve into pink light. The two doctors look away from each other. The inevitable loomed over them.
Jeremiah Cimmerian tries to think. He feels his heart starting to pound hard in his chest. He catches North moving in the corner of his eye and Cimmerian looks at him. North and Cimmerian lock eyes. North averts his gaze once more.
Cimmerian's thoughts clear. He sizes up North. The Cupid's effects last about a day. A whole day of love with North. North isn't… that bad looking. Might as well enjoy the ride. What would Megan think of them right now?
The man can't even look at me. So shy.
“It looks like we're stuck North.”
“Ye-“ North's voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Yeah.” North laughs nervously.
Cimmerian sees North uncomfortably shifting his leg. The poor man. We need to move this along or we'll never make it to the end of the day.
“It could have been worse North. I was planning to get Bright to cover for me today.”
“Jesus, that would have been a show for the whole site.”
The doctors chuckle. The room seems to brighten. The flowers on the floor smell very sweet. The sun casts the window's shadow across the room.
"Kappa-143 get shot by that thing all the time right?" Dr. North relaxes into the conversation. Was Cimmerian always this nice?
"Yes. Sometimes they're shot all at once." Cimmerian pauses. Now's his chance. Time to make a move.
Cimmerian leans towards North. "It must be nice."
Dr. North lights up like a tomato. "Y-You think so?" Dr. North tenses up again laughing nervously.
"North, let me make this clear: at this moment we are supernaturally attracted to each other. Containment Procedures for people shot by that damn cherub are to let things play out. One day of making a complete fool of yourself in front of another fool. The best case scenario is that it's only moderately embarrassing."
North is silent.
Dr. Cimmerian moves to Dr. North. He closes the gap between them. North takes a step back.
"You're scared? Where's the North that eats the Serpent's Hand for breakfast?"
North swallows the knot in his throat.
"He's… you're just… very forward."
"Then how would you like me to treat you? I could ravish you if you wanted."
"NO! No. I…" Dr. North's face is a supernova. He takes a moment to collect himself.
"Could we go on a date?"
Cimmerian looks North deep in the eyes.
"If it's a date you want it's a date you'll get."
Cimmerian picks up a flower from the floor. Daisies. It'll do, Cimmerian supposes. He places the flower into Dr. North's coat and covers it up.
"Let's just hope no one else gets wind of this."
"Agreed. Where should we go?"
"How about we grab some drinks and watch the sunset?"
"On the roof?"
"Where else?"

The site was all aflutter that day. It had taken PTF Kappa-143 two hours to recapture the loose Cupid. It's rampage left many site staff with new friendships and some with regretfully bad decisions.
In its containment cell, the Cupid smiles to itself. It flies a loop and laughs. It is content.
Love is in the air once more and that's all that ever matters.


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Alexander's eyes peeled open, his mouth dry as he groaned, raising his aching body upwards. Studying his surroundings, he rubbed his head.
Oh God…
The room was tiny, moss creeping up the walls from the dusty concrete floor. His heart dropped as he saw the old, rusty door ahead of him, emblazoned with a familiar, hostile emblem.
No, no, no… His mind repeated.
He felt something slip partly down his throat, and he gagged, spitting out a bloodied tooth.
What happened?
He dug through his mind, trying to remember.

"It's abandoned, we just need someone to go check it out just in case," Sadie— his superior— said, her arms crossed. "I can probably get an agent to go with you, let me just-"
Alexander frowned, interrupting her. "Oh please, the Chaos Insurgency hasn't been a threat for ages. And even if there are people there, I can handle them. I mean, I was trained by you, how could I ever lose in a fight?"
"You flatter me," Sadie sighed. "Fine, just go. But, if anyone is there, radio back to me, alright?"
Grinning, he gave her a quick thumbs-up before setting out on his journey. Sadie knocked on her wooden desk, praying for the best.
Originally an old butcher shop, the Chaos Insurgency outpost was fairly small. Since it was one of the earlier outposts, they had to leave in order to expand into a bigger organization. Unfortunately for them, they quickly fell apart, leaving only a few lonely members behind.
However, they still could pose a danger to the Foundation, so they regularly did little 'check-ups,' just to make sure no more stragglers settled in.
Out of the thousands of 'check-ups' they've done, only two others resulted in them finding a threat. So, the odds that Alexander would be in danger were really low.
But as he engaged in a firefight with a pair of Insurgents, he realized that he was the unlucky bastard of the year.
As he kneeled behind the counter, he raised his gun and shot towards the crate the operatives were hiding behind, hoping a stray bullet would hit one of them. Turns out, that was a fairly bad strategy, as when he popped up from his cover a bullet flew towards his shoulder. Luckily, his radio took the damage for him, shattering in the process as Alexander instantly regretted not calling for backup like Sadie had told him to.
There was a moment of silence as both sides reloaded.
Tap. Tap.
Alexander could have sworn he heard something behind him, but he was quickly distracted by a volley of gunshots. He retaliated, shooting back once more, this time hearing a man on the other side gasp in pain, then a loud thump of his collapsing body.
With a small pump of his fist, he celebrated his tiny victory. However, his fun was quickly ruined by an aluminum baseball bat behind him, swung directly into his head.
He fell to the ground, but the blows kept on coming, and his vision faded to black.

I should've looked behind me, he thought, the incident now fresh in his memory as his head began to pound. He tried to remember his training, what he was supposed to do in this scenario…

2017 was a rough year for the Foundation. On top of all the financial troubles, morale was also quite low, and therapists were in high demand. So, as a solution, they tried to make the job more fun and appealing. This, of course, included changing how training was done.
Alexander definitely didn't know what to expect when he walked into the training room, but it surely wasn't what he got. In front of him was Sadie, whom, by then, he was unfamiliar with, but she spoke… Strangely…
"Heyo my dudes, I bet you're all hyped to be here, eh?!" She energetically shouted, only to get no reply. Gulping nervously, she started her PowerPoint presentation.
Alexander was cringing the whole way through. How could they put cat memes on a slide detailing how they regularly lead thousands of D-Class to their deaths every day?!
Something else stuck out too, though. Something that was easily stuck in his mind.
Sadie went to the next slide, still talking in her off-putting, energetic voice. "In the event you find yourself being held hostage by the Chaos Insurgency: Don't panic. You'll find that we replaced one of your molars with a plastic molar-shaped cyanide capsule. Now, if you don't know what to do with the pill, remember this handy mnemonic: S-C-P. That's right, gents. Swallow Cyanide Pill. Now, repeat after me…"

Alexander picked up the tooth, rubbing the blood off of it, noticing it was rather clear for a tooth. The letters 'SCP' were printed on top of it.
He chucked it to the ground, yelling, "No way!"
Running over to the door, he tried to bash it down.
He tried punching the weaker, rustier patches.
He tried kicking through it.
He tried everything he could think of, but the door simply would not budge.
Panting, Alexander fell to the ground, his eyes focused on the tooth.
Swallow Cyanide Pill…

After a few hours of radio silence from Alexander, Sadie and her agents traveled to the outpost.
Together, they made quick work of the Chaos Insurgency operatives, who— after a bit of ruthless torture on the one that was still alive— told them Alexander was locked in the basement's freezer, and that they were planning on interrogating and killing him.
Sadie traveled down the lopsided steps, making sure not to lose her balance. Finally, she reached the bottom of the stairway, leaving her right at an old, rusty steel door. Unlatching the lock, she lugged it open, revealing Alexander's motionless body.
She quickly ran over to him, checking his pulse. Nothing.
Inspecting his body, she tried to find the cause of death. No fatal wounds, just a few bumps on the head. Her eyes widened for a moment, and she opened up his mouth. The cyanide-pill molar was gone.
While staring at her comrade's dead body, instead of feeling guilty that she had let him come here alone, she grinned with a single thought:
Whelp, at least the mnemonic worked!

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