The Ice-Burg was easily the best dairy bar in all of Douglas County— the milkshakes were creamy, the burgers were hot, and the cheese fries didn't taste like they were half-prepared from a freezer bag. People would come all the way down to Sloth's Pit from Superior in order to have a so-called 'pizza burger', which was what Dr. Christopher Hastings was attempting to enjoy at that moment.
One hand was on the burger, the other on his phone, scrolling through a Foundation bulletin about wildfires on the other side of the country. His reflection in the phone's screen as he turned it off showed a man in his mid-thirties, with blonde hair sticking up at odd angles as to look almost horn-like. He picked at his burger half-heartedly.
"You okay, hon?" Ruby Williams stole one of his fries as she asked this, dipping it into some cheese sauce.
"It's official. Polystichum xenosa is extinct in the wild."
"Oh." Ruby frowned. She'd taken some interest in para-botany since she and Chris had started dating, so she knew what it meant. "Greatsword Fern? Really?"
"Their entire habitat was ravaged by the fires caused by some fucking idiot holding a gender reveal party." He laughed, bitterly. "Congratulations, your stupid parasite of a child is responsible for wiping out an entire species of very rare, very anomalous fern that had the potential to cure cancer. The only remaining specimens of it are here at 87, 29 and 53." He shook his head. "The fact that we're eating at a Dairy Bar in October is proof the world is on fire, and nobody wants to do a damn thing about it." He tore into his burger with an angry growl. "Hell, I'm not helping. The cow that was killed to make this produced enough methane to kill a man, and the amount of rainforest cleared to make it will probably accelerate our climate apocalypse by about five years, all because stupid, fat Americans want to eat their fucking beef."
Ruby sighed, thankful that they were the only customers here— it was the middle of the day on a weekday, so the worst they could get was judging looks from the staff themselves. She sipped at her Pepsi. "Ever hear of the ''fuck it' adjustment'?"
"You've told me before," he sighed. "If you can't control it, say 'fuck it' and forget that it's a problem. But I can't, because I'm part of the one damn organization on the planet that can do something about it, but because half of the fucking Council makes their money off of fossil fuels—"
Ruby put her hand up. "You're going into conspiracy mode, hon."
"Sorry," he sighed. "But. Fuck, I study plants for a living, and we're killing them off en masse for our own greed and gluttony. I feel like…" He looked past the red building the Ice-Burg occupied, a genuine drive-in from the 1950's at the edge of town, past which there were only woods. "I feel like whatever's coming to us, we deserve it."
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, except for Ruby pulling out a flask and mixing its contents with Chris's milkshake.

Two hours later, Christopher Hastings was in Greenhouse 3, talking to one of the last Greatsword Ferns in the world.
The thing was so called because each of the fronts on the fern resembled a sword, and were large and sharp enough to match— the north-west corner of Greenhouse 3 was entirely occupied by the plant, which stood a good six feet above Chris's head at its lowest point. He stroked its leaves and sighed.
"Maybe you'll bear seeds, soon," he hoped. "And we can try to repopulate you in your native environment. Hell, maybe the Foundation missed a few— I know you can survive in caves, and there have to be a few out there, right?" He shook his head. "Right."
He turned to face the rest of the greenhouse. It was a balmy 70 degrees in the so-called hothouse, colder than the outside, a fact which Hastings did not appreciate. Greenhouse 3 was meant for the containment of specimens native to temperate rainforests, and was easily his favorite, between the Jengawood Bonsais, the Strutting Shrubs, and the Carnivorous Plant section. Talking of, it was feeding time.
Chris took out a burger he had gotten from Ice-Burg, and made his way over to one of the carnivorous plants. They looked like they were straight out of Little Shop of Horrors, which was because they were— when the high school had put on the musical, someone in the science club had tried their hands at genetic modification and had created a Venus flytrap the size of a car that could sing, dance, and nearly kill the actress who played Audrey.
He threw the burger into the thing's maw— an entire pit had been dug out in the center of the greenhouse, lined with concrete past the dirt, as to stop its growth. But it would still need pruning soon.
The sprinklers started going off, and Chris found himself becoming soaked. He was about to spit out a curse, when he realized that it wasn't the sprinklers meant for watering the plants— it was the fire suppression system. And the alarm hadn't gone off.
He made his way to the door to the hothouse, pushing on it. It stuck there, fast. He wiggled the handle, pulled, slammed his whole weight against it, but it wouldn't budge. He picked up a hammer that was used for repairs and tried smashing through the glass— nothing. And the sprinklers kept running.
But it wasn't water coming from the sprinklers— stagnant as it would be, it didn't smell like this. It almost smelled like… "Gasoline." His eyes widened. "Shit."
He immediately dove into the concrete pit, yelling out an apology to the plant at the bottom.

Rudy's Cafe was a simple storefront in downtown Sloth's Pit— it was down the street from the library, at the corner, with seating both in front and in back. The front of it was a glass window with a large sign that read "PLEASE WEAR MASKS WHEN ENTERING" hanging in it, and a photograph of the deceased Rudolph Dyer sat beneath it, smiling at the customers with a guarantee that, despite it being in different hands, the food was still as good.
Alison Carol and Robert Tofflemire both sat behind the cafe at an extra-long table. Robert was enjoying his meal, while Alison was scrolling through something on her phone, making damn sure that Robert couldn't read it.

An update for you guys (flagging @rabbitholydiver here especially) about the whole deal with the phobic migration. New reports came in from Chicago about a family being terrorized by visions of their dog being torn to bits by something that looked like their neighbor (a known animal abuser). The dog was fine, but all of this led to said neighbor being shot.
A week before that, a child in Carol Stream was cornered in a public bathroom stall by what he described as a 'man with pointy hands' and mutilated, though is thankfully alive and stable. Authorities aren't releasing much beyond that.
There have been a dozen incidents in the Chicago area, and it seems to be following its northward track to… somewhere. If the timetable I have is correct, then it arrived in Milwaukee on September 15th, the same date that a congregation at Grace Evangelical Lutheran Church reported seeing an image of Christ descending from his crucifix and proclaiming that none of them were saved…

"Isn't Pryce from Carol Stream?"
"Hmm?" Robert looked up from his Pain au Chocolate. "Yeah, I think so. What's up?"
"Just something I read." She wrinkled her nose, wincing slightly and rubbing at it. "Ow."
"Still sore from your COVID test?" Robert asked, looking over his spectacles. "That's why I've got mine scheduled for the evenings. Doesn't ruin your whole day after."
"Mmm." Alison sipped at her iced tea from behind her mask, the straw inserted beneath it. She looked more carefully at her partner. "Since when do you wear glasses?"
"I've worn contacts since you've known me, but they've stopped manufacturing them in light of…" He waved his hand around. "Yeah."
"Eesh. Sorry."
"Shouldn't affect me on ops." He dug into his pocket, bringing out a set of goggles. "Prescription tactical gear. Can you believe what we think of sometimes?"
Alison's reply was muffled by the sound of fire engines rolling out of the station, horns blaring for the second time in the past week. From the sound of it, they were heading east, and—
And on the east end of town, where Site-87 should be, there was a column of black smoke rising.

The plants around Christopher burned.
Being in the wet maw of the thing at the bottom of the pit helped shield him from the fire, whose source he could not pinpoint. But as he climbed out from the concrete pit, a shirt covering his face on top of his mask to minimize smoke inhalation, he knew what he saw could not be possible.
His life's work, his friends, were burning around him. And beyond that— the Site? The town? The door to the hothouse seemed to be open, now, and he was sure he saw Site-87 in flames, tinted green by whatever toxins were burning from within the site.
"Not possible." He tugged at his hair. "Not possible. You were in the pit for only three minutes. No fire spreads that quickly unless it's nuclear, and if it was nuclear, you'd be a shadow on the ground. This is some kind of bizarre space that's trying to make you crazy. This isn't real. This i—"
He leaned on the rail that surrounded the concrete pit, letting out a screech of pain as his hand burned. Despite not looking it, the rail was hot enough to cause blisters on his hand. And it wasn't just his screech he was hearing.
"Help us!"
"You failed us!"
"Why didn't you help us!"
"You did this to us! Why did you do this to us?!"
He braced himself against the heat, and made his way out of the hothouse, into the burning landscape beyond. Townsfolk had surrounded the burning ruins of the site, and were trying to climb through the windows— not that they could access the site proper that way.
Those who weren't on fire looked like they had been exposed to some bizarre mutagens— legs that were too long, arms with too many hands, necks without heads. A woman carried a long, limp thing in her arms that Chris thought was a bundle of cloth at first, but then he realized that it was a child, gasping and screaming for breath in the choking miasma of the air.
And all the while, Site-87, and the town, burned, and screamed. And Christopher knew, somehow, that it was his fault, that he should have been better, that he should have taken responsibility and somehow gotten the Foundation to fix this before this all happened.
"Not real," he said, clutching his burnt hand and walking away from the greenhouse. "Not real. This isn't real."

When Robert and Alison pulled up to the site, the former didn't even wait for the car to come to a stop before exiting, scrabbling through the dirt as he ran to the back of the site.
"—can't be a coincidence!" He heard Ruby Williams shout to her brother. "One second he goes off on a polemic about climate change, the next he's stuck in a burning building?"
"It's suspicious, I'll grant that," Blake Williams said, "But we need to let the fire department do their jobs, sis. We can't go rushing in there."
"What's burning?" Robert came out from the passenger's side of the car and ran up to the Williams twins. "What's going on?"
"G-greenhouse 3," Ruby swallowed. "Chris was in there, had been since we got back from lunch. Jesus Christ…"
Robert heard at least three different hoses going, trying to extinguish the blaze. Sloth's Pit only had a handful of fire engines, and from the look of it, at least half of them were here. "Anyone go in yet?"
Ruby shook her head. "They're saying that… something's weird. There's heat and smoke and things are burning, but they can't see any fire."
"That settles it then." Robert rolled his neck. "I'm going in."
"What?" Alison rounded the corner as he spoke. "What do you mean, 'I'm going in'?"
"Used to be a firefighter for the National Guard. I know the procedure."
Ruby, Blake and Alison all watched as Robert flashed his badge at a firefighter— scratch that, the fire chief— and commandeered his gear.
Alison stepped up beside him, flashing her own badge. "Gonna need another set."
"Alice, no—" Robert held up a trembling hand.
"You honestly want to go into a burning building, let alone an anomalous one, alone?" She frowned as she noticed the tremor. "You good?"
"Bad memories. First found out about the anomalous because I had to fight a living forest fire." He took the jacket as the chief started to strip down. "If you're coming in, I can't promise I can get you and Hastings out."
Alison chewed on that thought, and nodded. "Comms on at all times. Things get too hairy, you evac."
"You almost sound like you're worried about me," Robert shook his head. "I'll be fine, Alice. Really."
After a few more minutes, Robert, suited up and carrying a spare oxygen tank in one hand, entered the burning greenhouse.

Christopher's thoughts alternated between "Not real" and "My fault". This couldn't be happening, but it had, but the town can't be burning, but it was. Mutated, burning things that may have once been people lunged at him occasionally, screaming, growling. He could see the hatred in their eyes, the blame they placed on him solely.
"My fault," he gasped. "This is my fault. All of it. All of it…" He had walked away from Site-87 at this point, and found himself in the woods. Trees were engulfed in flame, the entire historic forest surrounding the town burning, all his fault, all the Foundation's fault. They should have acted before they got to this point, anyone could have. But they didn't.
He found one of the few patches of grass that hadn't been scorched by the inferno, and sat upon it. He couldn't think. He was having trouble breathing, his heart was racing, he had sweat that had absolutely nothing to do with the heat, and— when had he started crying? What was happening here? He took a breath, and it turned into a gasping sob which made his chest ache.
He shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears, blocking out the light and roar of the fire. The last thing he wanted to do was die having a panic attack.

Robert Tofflemire stepped through the other side of the greenhouse, finding himself in something that looked like Sloth's Pit set ablaze. But… it wasn't. The fire looked like it was being broadcasted onto the buildings by a reel-to-reel projector. The burning masses of people were nothing but flaming, misshapen scarecrows. The pungent smoke? That much was real, at least. Smelled like a tire fire, even through the respirator.
The grass beneath him crunched unnaturally, and he realized it was some kind of artificial sod. The whole thing had the feel of a 'haunted experience' he had encountered in an amusement park around Halloween at one point— an outdoor haunted house, basically. But Tofflemire couldn't help but feel as if this whole thing looked very different to Dr. Hastings.
"Okay, you weird, cheap, extra-dimensional haunted experience, meet modern technology. Hey, Helen?" A tone sounded from his earpiece. "What is my position relative to Dr. Christopher Hastings?"
«Dr. Hastings is approximately five-hundred meters west of your location. GPS data is unavailable.»
Tofflemire started hustling through the landscape, into the woods. They were similarly cheap-looking, with the same projected flames, and what appeared to be artificial snowflakes mimicking ash. Every single tree was exactly the same as well. Cheap, manufactured.
In the distance, he saw a figure in a labcoat, curled up on itself, rocking back and forth and whimpering. Tofflemire moved faster.

Hastings heard something coming towards him through the inferno, and looked upright to see a figure approaching him, ablaze, screaming. He stood up and backed away. "Back the fuck off!"
"Haaasshhtiiiiings!" It called, reaching out to grab him with a gloved hand. "Haaaaashtiiiiings!"
Hastings found a knife in his hand— where had it come from— and swung it at the thing coming towards him. "I-I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean to!"
The thing paused— its face, though melting was visibly confused.
"I-I should have d-done more! I could have st-stopped this! The w-world is burning and it's my fault and I'm sorry and—"
The creature raised its hand, and Hastings swung at it. "I-I'm sorry, please! I— I—"
The thing recoiled, and produced something from what Hastings thought was a pocket— a photograph of Ruby, somehow untouched by the fire.
Hastings stared at it, and knelt to collect it; the thing didn't stop him. It didn't do anything except stand there as he picked it up. "Where'd you get this?" He asked, brandishing it at the creature. "Well? Say something!"

March, 2020
"…are you going to say something?"
Researcher Christopher Hastings looked down at the table before him, and then up at Ruby. "What's there to say? I fucked up, big time. Stuttered my way through my whole defense."
"Hey, most people don't even get a thesis to defend for their doctorate." Ruby opened another bottle of beer and started drinking it. "And it's… kind of a formality, isn't it? Like, your thesis has been evaluated and all that."
"Still!" Chris tugged at his hair, making it messier still. "Jesus Christ, the amount of typos I found after I submitted it."
"One or two extra periods isn't going to break a thesis hon.." Ruby looked over the bound volume on the table by him, and opened it. "Though this is the first time I've seen one in book form. 'A Botanical Necropsy of SCP-097'."
"Dry as sand." Hastings shook his head.
"Hon— Chris. Look, you're stressing out over nothing. What's done is done. The past is dead now, it can no longer hurt you."
"…you did not just quote Night Vale at me." Chris hid his smirk behind his hand. "Did you read it?"
"Of course. I didn't understand a lot of it, but what I did… the work that Hubble did to make 097-1 grow that massive and contain something that malicious. I wish I could've talked to him more."
Chris's phone buzzed— a text was on the screen. He sighed. "Partridge wants me to see him. Probably going to give me the bad news in person."
"Ever hear of the 'fuck it' adjustment?" Ruby took another swig of her beer. "If you can't control what's happening, if it's completely out of your control, don't stress over it. Just say 'fuck it', out loud if you need to, and move on."
"So… if I don't get my doctorate? Just say 'fuck it'?"
Ruby nodded.
"Right. Well. Fuck it, I guess."
Dr. Christopher Hastings exited the break room to receive the best news of his life.

"Yeah." Hastings rubbed his nose. "Fuck it. Just… fuck it. Nothing I can do, so fuck it all."
Reality made a bwoop sound, and he found himself back in the conspicuously unburned Greenhouse 3, with a fireman by his side. It took him a moment to look through the respirator, but he eventually realized wo it was. "Tofflemire?"
"What the hell was that?" Tofflemire asked, helping him to his feet, "And why the hell did you saying 'fuck it' fix it?"
"I don't know." He looked at the photograph in his hand. "Where'd you get this?"
"Magic pockets." Tofflemire reached into a pocket on the firefighter's jacket and produced three different types of candy, a bottle of aspirin, and a roll of bandages. "Side effect of the whole Pit Sloth fiasco. Neat, huh?"
"Useful." Hastings looked down at the photograph and sighed. "I owe her an apology. Long story. Oh!" He rushed to the other side of the greenhouse, and sighed with relief as he saw the Greatsword Fern was intact.
Then, thoroughly exhausted, Christopher Hastings fainted.

The Next Morning…
"That was Ruby at the hospital." Tofflemire placed his phone back in his pocket. "They're keeping Hastings there for observation. Something about 'heightened adrenaline levels'."
Alison spat toothpaste into the sink and looked at Tofflemire, rolling her neck. "You did good, even if you didn't need the gear. What the hell happened, anyway?"
"If I had to guess?" Tofflemire scrolled through his phone, before throwing it to Alison. "Read this."
The phone had an article on it. "'On the Occurrence of Phobic Manifestations in Modern America' by… Randall Owings? Who's that?"
"Phobologist, works at a site down in Arkansas. His work is mundo classified, don't know why. But that article describes… events where your worst fear becomes reality."
"And you think that's what happened?" She frowned. "From what you said, it was like a bad haunted house."
"I don't think it was meant for me. It feels like it was built for Hastings, and I ruined the illusion by entering it." He frowned. "They're thinking of bringing February out of his coma in a couple of days."
"You think a… 'phobic manifestation' got him, too?" Alison wrinkled her nose. "He… has been antsy about cops for a while. It's worth looking into."
There was a knock on the wall outside the bathroom. The two of them turned to find Agent Seren Pryce, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail, looking at them. "Drew the short straw in your absence, Carol. One of the washers at the Laundr-O-Matic tried to eat someone, we're to handle it. Toff, you're with Grey— spectral disturbance at the Wal-Mart."
"Wonderful." Alison placed her toothbrush in a baggie and gave Robert a nod, before departing.
"Try not to die of excitement!" He called after them.
"Fuck you too!" Alison laughed.
Then, silence.

« Off the Road, Off the Rails | Black Autumn IV Hub | A Face Too Young To Be Mine »


CW: Police violence
October 1st
Bray Road, Just outside of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
<…and with that, ladies and germs, it is officially October!> The late-night radio announcer on KDAL-FM out of Duluth sounded far more excited than he should have been. <I know this year has been tough, but small comfort to you folks in Wisconsin: nobody in Douglas County has cancelled Trick-or-Treating yet, so Halloween may still be a go! I've got a listener request here to take you to into the hour, after that we'll get back into our normal programming…>
Agent Seren Pryce reached into the cab of the wrecked truck and turned off the radio, careful not to disturb the body within. She'd seen a lot of gore in her day, so this barely registered on her radar— or it would have, if not for the lack of head.
"Looks like it may have been removed post-mortem." Malcolm Guillard, head of investigations at Site-87, frowned. "Small mercies, I guess."
The entire semi— a truck from a distribution center bound for the Wal-Mart in Sloth's Pit— had flipped over at least three times before coming to a stop about fifty meters away from the road. Evidence markers were planted all along the trail of wreckage, everything from boxes of Halloween costumes to pieces of tires to unidentified animal tracks. It now laid upside-down, with the arms of the body eerily clutching the steering wheel— rigor mortis had set in quickly.
"Not many things around here could have done this." Seren observed. She was briefly blinded by the headlamp of another operative, combing through the forest around them. "And literally on October 1st… fuck me, it's happening again."
"Looks that way." Guillard offered Seren some of his thermos of coffee. "But I've got reports that there's nothing keeping us in town this year, so we can evacuate if need be."
"'If'." Seren snorted, pulling down her mask to accept a glug of coffee, before quickly pulling it up— one of the only good things about having to wear it was that it covered up her scar. "Right. I remember when we used to evacuate the town for a zombie attack. Now we've got a contingent of dumb motherfuckers who would say that it's another 'fake virus' and shoot at us if we tried to remove them."
"Which is why we screen citizens," Guillard nodded. "So that we don't run into situations like that."
The joint where the trailer had once been creaked ominously, as a fire engine pulled up— as well-equipped as the Foundation was, fire engines were outside of their normal expenditure costs, and with the amount of spilled gasoline on the road, the possibility that they were needed grew with every second that was spent out here.
"This isn't the Bray Road, is it?" Seren asked. "Like, Beast of?"
"That one's down in southern Wisconsin." He pronounced it 'Wiscansin', with as much sarcasm as he could muster— one had to stay humorous during grim times, or else risk losing their mind. "But it is a full moon, isn't it?"
"Got another one due on Halloween," Pryce confirmed. She turned her gaze back to Bray Road itself, frowning. "Hold on. Isn't there supposed to be some kind of building out here? WisDOT office or something?"
"…you're right." Guillard frowned, talking into his radio. "All units, move to the west side of the road. We may have a Code… oh fuck codes, we may have a missing building."
"Can't believe I noticed it," Pryce crossed the road, scanning along it with her thermal scope, detached from the rifle. "Thing's been closed since March. I just remembered because I saw a patrol officer parked outside of it this morning— might have been doing a checkup?"
"Worth looking into," Guillard nodded, pulling up a map on his phone. "Okay. All units, the building was located approximately 700 meters into the Nexus zone, on the western side of the road."
"That puts it about where the truck started wrecking." Seren put the scope back on her rifle, keeping it aimed at the ground, finger off the trigger. "What do you think?"
"Can't be a coincidence."
The sight of an asphalt parking lot without any building to accompany it was unsettling. There were white lines where cars should be, and the lawn that surrounded it still looked well-maintained. But the two-storey brown building that had once been a WisDOT office was now gone.
"Creepy." Seren stopped to inspect the asphalt, putting her hand against it. The ground beneath her heaved and sank in a rhythmic fashion— too slow to be a pulse, so… "The ground's breathing."
"Fantastic." Guillard sighed, talking into his radio. "Can we get a containment unit to our locat—"
"Cancel that!" Seren hissed, looking at Guillard. "Think about it: a WisDOT office vanishes at the exact location a truck gets run off the road. You really want vehicles driving here?"
Guillard frowned, looking at the stretch of road before them. "WisDOT also has jurisdiction over littering by highways, yeah?"
"Yeah?"
Guillard reached into his pocket and took out an energy bar. He took a bite out of it, swallowed, and motioned for all agents to get to a safe distance. Then, when they had all retreated, he threw the bar at the road and ran for it.
His leg was broken by the impact as the ground erupted upwards from where he stood, throwing him in a spiraling motion to the ground. Emerging from it was a cthonian presence, all stone and brick and glass, slamming down onto the snack bar and throwing dirt and asphalt and god knows what else along with it. It didn't have limbs so much as tendrils, made of utility lines— the right side shot sparks from disconnected power cables, while the left spewed water and sewage.
"Contact, contact, contact! Retreat!" Seren picked up Guillard under one arm and started taking him away. He had a nasty gash above one eye, and his leg was bent at a bizarre angle; she had managed to pick him up so that there wasn't any weight on it, before hobbling away with him, yelling into her radio. "Site-87, this is Agent Pryce. We need an air strike at my location. Throwing a flare now."
Agents retreated in a disarray, in a dozen directions. Seren lit the flare and threw it up at the being, hoping it would find purchase somewhere as it lumbered, looking over the road— at least, that's what Seren thought it was doing. In place of eyes, it had the doors of the WisDOT office that it had once been.

Half a mile away, Robert Tofflemire and Alison Carol watched the carnage through binoculars.
"Jesus fucking Christ." Alice's eyes widened. "The town did that? That's a— what's it called, those monsters from the Godzilla movies?"
"Kaiju, yeah." Robert put down his binoculars. "C'mon, we should get further away. I don't think they're going to carpet-bomb this place, but you never know."
"There's a safe-house about another quarter of a mile into the woods. Can withstand a few megatons." Alison fumbled at her lapel-mounted flashlight, only to find it non-functional. "The hell? I just put new batteries in this."
"Maybe the town's trying to freak you out." Robert pulled out his phone, and played a song, singing along to it. "Boys and girls of ev'ry age, wouldn't you like to see something strange?"
Robert was given pause as his action— which was highly juvenile and likely to get a rise out of his partner— didn't cause Alison to react. "Sorry."
"Not you. Just… nervous about a lot of stuff." She climbed down a ridge, careful of one leg. Robert just jumped down it, landing in a pile of wet leaves.
"Gah!" Robert groaned. "I think I got a slug on me."
"Save if it you can. Dr. Grant's collecting samples, and he's got a bounty out for them."
The sound of a plane came from overhead, likely a Foundation jet, trying to get a fix on the entity. Behind them, gunshots rang out, as well as the odd scream. The sound of the plane was loud enough that Alison had to lean on a tree to steady herself, finding her hand coming away damp. "When did it last rain?"
"Uh. Like, a week ago?"
Alison sniffed at the fluid on her hand. By the moonlight, she could see an indentation in the tree that was covered with a black fluid, and at the base of the tree, a smooth, white stone, half-buried in the ground.
"Might have something. Cover me." She crouched in front of it, starting to dig out the stone with her bare hands.
Robert, from his pocket, produced a trowel and threw it to her. "Don't want you to ruin your manicure."
"Bite me," she shot back with a smirk.
After a few minutes, the stone was out of the ground. The shape was familiar, but she couldn't place it between the moonlight, the sounds, and the uneasiness of being in a dark forest at night. Then, a whooshing, whistling sound came— the airstrike.
Alison froze as the light of the explosion around her illuminated the stone in her hand, and she saw it for what it truly was. Her hand fumbled for her radio several times, and she stuttered, "M-Mal, Tofflemire and I-I-I found the head. O-over."
<Guillard's down.> Seren Pryce's voice came over comms. <So's the entity. We're closing in on your location. Any distinguishing features? Can you give a description?>
"I don't know." Alison swallowed. "I-it—"
<Is the head exhibiting anomalous properties? Is it antimemetic? Is—>
"IT DOESN'T HAVE A FUCKING FACE!"

When it got into the town proper, Bray Road ran into Main Street at a right angle. It was at the corner of these two where Agent Raymond February was having car trouble.
He'd been out of town on an errand when the call came in about the truck, and was on the way back to the site to get his gear, when his engine decided to quit. And, much like fire engines, towing services were not part of the Foundation's regular expenditures.
February tapped on his steering wheel, considering calling them again. A car from the SPPD drove by, slowly, on the other side of the road. February's heart jumped; seeing a police car by itself was enough to give him anxiety anymore, but then he saw that, above the rear left wheel, there was a bumper sticker of a heavily stylized skull. "Don't pull over, don't pull over…" He muttered.
The car came to the other side of the street and pulled behind him, its red and blue lights turning on. His self-imposed moratorium on swearing strained itself, and he reached into his glovebox, taking out his registration and proof of insurance. From his wallet, he withdrew his civilian license. "Don't have time for this," he grumbled. "Putting up with some hick cop who has a Punisher bumper sticker and a chip on his shoulder…"
The cop came to the window, his light blinding February. "You do know there's a curfew, right, son?" Said the cop in the same accent all cops in small American towns had.
"I'm on my way back home, officer." He handed the cop his license. "Just had to get out of town for some things."
"Hmm." The cop said. "This license isn't yours."
"What?" February blinked. "Yes it is."
"Raymond Isaac February?"
"Yes?"
"Born July 31st, 1983?"
"Yeah?"
"There ain't no July 31st. Out of the car."
"Yes there is!" February groaned and emerged from the car. "Look, officer, there's some misunderstanding here, I—"
There was a click of a safety as the cop drew his gun. The light still blinded February, who put his hands up. "What's—"
"You got a weapon on ya."
February blanched. He was wearing his service pistol in an underarm holster. It should have been concealed beneath his jacket, but it was open, and when he got out of the car, he must have brushed it aside.
"I'm registered to carry." February swallowed. "My concealed carry license is in my wallet. I am going to reach for it now to show it to you." He spoke clearly, calmly, trying not to shake.
"Son, relax, I ain't gonna kill ya." The cop chuckled, his tone reassuring. "I mean, with nobody recordin', who's gonna tell people about this?"
"What?"
It took February several seconds to register that he had been shot. Every time he'd been hit before, it had been on bulletproof armor. There was so much pain that he couldn't register the snapping of his collarbone. He bit his tongue, hissing. He had to restrain his hand from going to the service pistol, instead using it to stop the blood flow.
"Hell, even after you get shot, you don't cuss?" The cop laughed. "Let's see if breaking a few fingers does it."
February looked up at the cop's face, and saw that it was… wrong on his skull. It had once belonged to a much thinner man, but was stretched to accommodate the face of whatever was underneath it— and February was certain that that thing wasn't human.
"What are you?" February hissed.
"Whatever you don't want me to be," the cop responded, raising his foot.

Alison Carol and Robert Tofflemire stood outside the ICU bed where their friend was being kept. Site-87 had expanded their infirmary over the course of the last six months to fit dozens of new beds, just in case.
February was in a rough state. He would live, but as for recovery… if Dr. Pike could recover from a shattered femur and walk with only a slight limp, anything was possible. But his fingers had been dislocated individually, his nose had been crushed, and they still couldn't get the swelling to go down enough to get to his eye.
"It almost doesn't look like him in that bed." Tofflemire swallowed. "Like… I'm expecting him to walk in at any moment, sit by that bed, and maybe read the Bible and pray for h-his recovery." He laughed, though it was darker and more bitter than the strongest cup of coffee. "What the fuck, Alice? It doesn't look like him! I-it looks like some kind of cheap mask!"
Alison locked her fingers together tight, squeezing hard enough that it hurt. "Is it true a cop did it?"
Tofflemire shook his head. "I don't buy it. Every cop in Douglas County has our names, faces and license plates flagged as 'do not arrest'. I don't think a cop would be dumb enough to pull one of us over."
"Can't be a town thing, either. The Nexus is tetchy, but… it's never been this actively malicious."
Robert put his head in his hands. "Until it is. I…" Robert swallowed. "Weiss is going to be having a briefing, soon. I'm… not gonna show up, I don't think."
Alison put a hand on his shoulder. "I can stay here, if you want. Get the Cliffs Notes from Sera later."
"Why would someone do this?" Robert gasped, choking on his words. "Why would someone do this?"
The two agents stood there, watching their friend breathe through a tube, unable to answer their own question.

« A Tale in Which A Recap...| Black Autumn IV Hub | I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire... »


The following fragments of the journal that SCP-2599 used to own were retrieved on February 17, 2019. If further objects that may be of interest were to be found on the razed remains of the building where SCP-2599 used to reside, please report to Dr. Wensley. Any form of reference of the file or the events it displays to SCP-2599 is strictly forbidden.1

May 25th, 2011

Today I got this year's report card. I managed to get first place again. Mom and dad congratulated me, although mom was kinda disappointed when she saw the A- in Social Studies.

June 15th, 2011

Mom arranged another tutor for me. This time it's for Social Studies. This makes four tutors now. I mean, I only received an A- this one time. I'm not that terrible at the subject, am I? I don't think mom cares either way, but still.

October 13th, 2011

Today a new kid moved to our school. I think his name was Alex or something.

November 14th, 2011

Today I went to the honors class after school. Alex was there, I think it was his first time going. Surprisingly he solved all the problems on the papers in like, 30 minutes or less. Sure, it was impressive, but I could do better if I tried.

May 23th, 2012

Today I received this year's report card. It's a complete disaster. Alex took first place in basically everything. I'm in second place. Mom completely lost it. She yelled at me for being lazy and not working hard enough. But I did work hard like I always did. But he got an almost perfect score. How could I beat that?

September 31th, 2012

Today I fell asleep during Science class. Ms.McKay was so mad at me. I suspect it's because I studied until 3 A.M. again yesterday. To be honest, I can't really concantrconcentrate that late, but would mom listen? She told me that the one best student in the school can get a pass to the Ivy Leagues. Alex probably transferred here because of that. She told me that I need to study really hard to get the pass.

November 2nd, 2012

Today I fainted in the hallway during school. God, it was so fucking embarrassing. The nurse said it was a slight case of anemia. My health doesn't seem to be that great these days.

January 14th, 2013
 I feel a little weird lately. On top of the fact I consistently feel tired and sick, lately, it feels like a scared bird is living inside me. When mom tells me what to do, the bird panics and flaps around. I move and do what it says, but I'm not the one moving. As I do whatever, the bird gets bigger, gets more violent. It hurts me.

What the hell am I writing? I must be going crazy.

May 22th, 2013

Today I got this year's report card. Alex got first place again. I'm 2nd. I can't beat him. Mom was so mad. What does she expect from me? The guy is a genius. How am I supposed to compete with a genius?? She says my schedule will be more efficient so I'd study even more. I don't think my body can sustain with all that.

August 29th, 2013

Today I got back from the hospital. Dad gave me the fuckton of homework my tutors dropped by while I was knocked out for three days. I thought the whole fucking reason I got hospitalized is because of overwork. I guess common sense isn't left on this damn planet anymore.

September 12th, 2013

Today in P.E. class the weirdest thing happened. Coach Perri made me do a split, and I did an almost perfect one. My body used to be so stiff I couldn't even cross my legs easily! Later I tried to show it to Linda, but I couldn't do it.

December 1st, 2013

The bird is trying to take over my mind. It's becoming scary. If someone gives me an order, I have to follow it. The bird loses its shit and makes me to what they told me. I tried resisting, but it's no use at all.

Fuck, this is the 9th time I wrote about that stupid bird. I'd better not talk to anyone about this, or else they might send me to an asylum or somewhere just as horrible.

April 28th, 2014

Okay, here's what I figured out. If someone gives me an order, my body moves on its own to do the order. Even things that I can't possibly accomplish before. I never seem to do it perfectly for some reason, but that's not that important. I think if a friend tells me to be in first place this year, I might just make it true. Maybe then mom will finally be satisfied. I don't care how weird all of this is. I just want mom to lay off my fucking back
forget it. I'm really going to carry out the plan though.

May 10th, 2014

Today I took the final exam for the year. As soon as I started taking the exam, my body got rigid and solved the problems on its own. It was me who did the thinking, but I had no control. God, it was confusing. Just as well, because I made Lisa order me to get 1st place on the exams. And as I suspected, I did it. Well, I think there are one or two mistakes, but it doesn't really matter. She thought I was mad when I made the request, but whatever.

May 21st, 2014

Oh no. Oh god. It isn't possible. I…I think I killed Alex. As I was on the school bus, thinking about the report card I would have received after, the bus went to the pavement and slammed into Alex. I saw the bus driver pleading innocent to the police. But I know it's my fault. When the teachers made us go inside the classrooms, I saw my report card. It was marked 2nd. Alex was probably first again. But somehow Lisa telling me to be 1st made the bus killed him. This sounds crazy, and I think I AM going crazy, but I'm sure I'm the cause. Why would a bus just go straight to the pavement? I don't know what to do now.

May 22nd, 2014

I'm writing this on the street. My home is destroyed. Don't know where mom and dad are. Those guys in suits seem to be searching for me. Okay, from the start. Yesterday, as I walked down on the street, a woman I didn't recognize whispered something in my ear. I don't think it was English. But immediately after, I ran straight home, and I don't remember after. I woke up just before watching my house in ruins. The kitchen room seemed to be undamaged, for some reason. A squad of women in suits was writing in notebooks near me. One looked up in my direction, and I ran away. I don't see the point though. I killed a person, and my home is gone.
And it's all my fault.

Footnotes
1. Subject was administered Class B amnestics after containment.


With all its past hosts out of the picture, Nobody has started to widen his search for a new body to inhabit. Inside an IHOP off 1-65…

Nobody: Okay, "Captain Nobody". Let's see what you've got. I do love some superheroes.
Captain Nobody: Oh, you misread that there parchment, matey. Says Cap'n Nobooty.
Nobody: Oh, you're- okay. Do I want to know what happened to the booty?
Captain Nobody: 'Tis a sad tale, sailor. Lost it all in a game of cards with a man in a white coat. Here, let me sing a quick shanty about-
Nobody: NEXT!

Nobody: Okay… next up, "Snowbody". Anyone there?
There is a puddle of cold water on the floor. A lit cigarette is haphazardly sticking out.
Nobody: A for effort, champ.

Nobody: "Cowbody", come on up. Wonder if they like long poetic titles too… So, cowboy Nobody or cow nobody?
Cowbody: Both. Darn mooo-tin, pardner.
Nobody: What the fuck.

Nobody: Okay, "Captain N-" — wait, I already went through you.
Captain Nobody: Negative soldier, you're thinking of Captain Nobooty. I'm Captain Nobody.
Nobody: Huh. Okay, what kind of captain are you?
Captain Nobody: The rank kind - I fought in Normandy-
Nobody: Christ, not this shit again. NEXT!

Nobody: So, do you have any experience with being forgotten?
Notag: I was a character in a canon from 2015.
Nobody: Oh, so you're a pro, got it.

Nobody: I can't even read what this says. Did a chicken write this? Am I about to be livestock?
Drunkbody: Nah- nah, that's, that one was me.
Drunkbody downs half a bottle of liquor he is carrying in a paper bag.
Nobody: Uh…. okay. Who're you?
Drunkbody: It doeshn't matter. Heh, hey. You want some?
Drunkbody offers nobody a swig from the bottle. Nobody shakes his head. Drunkbody shrugs and chugs the rest of the bottle.
Drunkbody: Y'know… I ush't to be shomebody.
Nobody: Yeah, tell me about it.
Drunkbody: Now look't me… I'm so wasted I can't remember m'name!
Nobody: … Sure. Let's say its the alcohol.

Kaiju Nobody: It's just fucking frustrating, you know?
Nobody: Oh, I totally get it.
Kaiju Nobody: They're all everyone ever talks about! Godzilla this, Crocosquid that - the Foundation just ignore the little guys like us.
Nobody: Well, sometimes they try to kill you.
Kaiju Nobody: Just because I'm a monster, which is also bullshit. I pay my taxes, goddammit.

Catgirl Nobody: I was actually a member of the Black Rabbit Company, but everyone forgot about me after we stole the Solidarity.
Nobody: Don't worry, everyone forgets about them after reading it.

Brian: Hello, my name is Brian…
Nobody: Wait, you have a name?
Brian: … and I'm an alcoholic.
Nobody: Oh. Wrong kind of anonymous meeting, pal. Alcoholics Anonymous is next door.
Brian: Fuck, not again.

Nobody: I specifically said no more Foundation-bodies.
Dr. █████: Oh come on. It's not like anyone knows my name anyway.

Nobody: I have the strangest feeling we've met before.
The Critic: Yeah, you and me both….

Nobody: So, you're just going to come in here, with no introduction, just sit in that chair and stare at me? Those eyes may work on most people but you'll get no such attention from me. This interview has been pathetic. What do you have to say for yourself?
The dog barks.
Nobody: Get the fuck out of here.

The Man Who Wasn't There

The Man In The White Suit

Hub
Hello, My Name Isn't
Chiaroscuro
Nobody, Nobody, Nobody, and Nobody's Encounters with The Man in the White Suit
SCP-5353 -- Does Anyone Remember Fritz Obermeyer?
Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday
SCP-5877 -- Nobodies
Ghosts in the Machine
Files intercepted from Anderson Systems personnel
SCP-5375 -- Nobody and the Name Machine
Epilogue
Nobody in their Right Mind
Bonus
→ Nobody's Observations on Rejected Nobody Applications ←


close

Info

X

How utterly repulsive, insulting, and heartbreaking to God for his chosen people to credit idols with bringing blessings he had showered upon the chosen people. Their own rebellion had birthed the seed of anti-Semitism that would arise and bring destruction to them for centuries to come.
- John Hagee, head of Christians United For Israel, in his book Jerusalem Countdown

⚠ Content warning: This article contains whorephobia, antisemitism, and nonconsensual kissing.

⚠ content warning

Matthew 16:4

11550 Not A Street, Diane

Father Daniel Robinson was not at 11550 Not A Street, Diane.
11550 Not A Street, in the nexus of Diane, Florida, was a meeting spot appropriate for the Rector of the First United Temple of the Dixieland and a representative of… of something powerful enough to meet with a Rector, Daniel supposed. Presumably, it was refined. Quiet. Sedate.
The place that was not 11550 Not A Street was located on a street named Not A Street, emblazoned with the number 11550, and almost certainly present in the town of Diane. It was not, however, appropriate for such a meeting, and it was therefore impossible for it to be 11550 Not A Street, Diane, Florida.
Daniel stood in front of "Ambrose Stunners", a… a restaurant? Low-brow food. Given the storefront decorations, depicting comely young women debasing themselves with uniforms of half-buttoned shirts, plaid miniskirts, and all manner of infernal costuming that may or may not have been genuine, food probably wasn't the draw. Well, not the main one; there were a few men eating at the outdoor tables. Some of the… "servers", too.
Staring at Father Robinson.

Daniel checked his pager. The Horizon Initiative's correspondence regarding the meeting had been sparse; translated to messaging, it amounted to automated copies of the time and location. That was more thorough than the party who set the meeting up had been. Said less than it implied: something could afford (or worse, necessitate) to be sloppy about this. Synthesized, "no meeting" was the end of the world for Father Robinson and a drop in the bucket for the other party.
In layman's terms: the fact that Daniel Robinson was at 11550 Not A Street, Diane, which could not have been 11550 Not A Street, Diane, stank to high heaven.
Daniel licked his lips. The other party didn't leave a number, and the Initiative didn't provide one. If someone was trying to set him up for failure, their plan had been a success. But why? Daniel's policies weren't controversial or radical, and neither were those of his "rivals". So unless-

"Father Robinson, I presume."

Daniel blinked, turning to face what should have been the source of that voice. In its place was a blond man whose appearance stood at odds: where the tone had been sedate, the man had the frame and hair of a career sailor, a mountain of bulk and fat; where the inflection had been flat, the man gave the impression of a pop-St. Nicholas forced to attend a board meeting in business casual; and where the words had been dry and clinical, the man smiled with teeth in need of a leather-coated stick and eyes like…
No. The pale green, almost deadened eyes made sense.
Daniel swallowed. "That… that would be I. Is this-"
He laughed, a hearty guffaw that didn't reach his eyes. Too long. Like Daniel just told him something funny. Then he straightened up, and his smile faded. "You're early, Father Robinson. I'm impressed: your coworkers are so… insistent, shall we say, on wasting my time."
"Then… I apologize." His right hand ghosted over his jacket's concealed holster. "I'm afraid I must be lost, Mr…"
"Green."
Had the sun always been this hot? Daniel swallowed, and nodded. "Mr. Green. I couldn't find the meeting place, only-"
Mr. Green laughed again, and once more it didn't reach his eyes. Then he collected himself, and grinned; it reminded Daniel of a chimp baring its teeth. "So soon, Father Robinson? Do you feel comfortable, lying to me?"
Daniel blinked, opening his mouth only to step back in silence. "I… I didn't lie to-"
"Another lie." Mr. Green took a step forward. "Rather disappointing, to meet with someone of your… caliber, to hear them lie no less than a minute after introductions. Over something so trivial, no less." Another smile that didn't meet his eyes. "There's much more important things to be lying about. It's 1997, Father Robinson. One would think society has regressed past the point of judgement. There's no shame in the comfort of young women, not when you've far more to be ashamed about."
Another step back. Daniel palmed the pistol through his coat; he hadn't noticed how intensely Mr. Green had been keeping his eye contact until his eyes shot for Daniel's hand.
Daniel cleared his throat. "I don't… I apologize, Mr. Green, I must have been confused. Such an… ill-reputed establishment can't be our meeting place."
Mr. Green simply smiled, stepping into Daniel's personal space with an unnerving fluidity. "Be a little more open-minded, Father. This is absolutely the place."
With one hand on his back and another hand over Daniel's right, "Mr. Green" lead him into the building.

(sub-surface, skin stirred something sharp)

Matthew 18:9

Greasy.
Ambrose Stunners was greasy. The air smelled and felt of grease, a permeating cloud that embodied in miniature the feeling of air-conditioning on sweaty, dirty, greasy skin. Grease stained the plaster walls and linoleum flooring like paper. Soapy water lingered on empty tables as if to imitate those tables that were not empty, stained in culinary and biological greases from the greasy men whose mouths devoured their greasy food and whose eyes devoured the greasy schoolgirl costuming of greasy young women, their greasepaint-colored skins and their grease-caked hands hard at work as canvases in the squirming mural of grease.
Daniel wasn't hungry, though he suspected Mr. Green would be forcing him to eat either way.
Mr. Green coughed; it sounded so very wrong. "A table for two. Oh, and it's my friend's birthday." A pause. "Quite." Another pause. "He'd love that. It's been a dreadful week for him, I think he'd appreciate some excitement." Yet another pause. "Indeed." One last pause. "Thank you.
"Well, come on, Father." Daniel was jerked into alertness as Mr. Green dragged onto the restaurant floor. He had time for but a single glance back at the counter, unmanned save for a fresco of a waitress that hurt to look at.
Mr. Green brought him to a booth table, near the center of the floor. The booth could be entered from either side, no corners to bury oneself in. From here, he could see the entirety of the restaurant; more importantly, the entire of the restaurant could see him, and any resistance to such an arrangement was quashed by the hypervisibility that came with standing.
Daniel swallowed. "Would it be… 'lying', to tell you it isn't my birthday?"
"Quick to the draw, Father." Was it better, now that Mr. Green wasn't pretending to smile? "Now, which do you want to hear first: why I'm here, or what happens if you try working against me?"
"I don't know what that entails, Mr. Green."
"Well, firstly, I do have a camera on me. I trust that the Initiative doesn't want to see a Rector caught flirting with servers half his age in… revealing costumes reminiscent of the Catholic schoolgirl."
Daniel grimaced. "So this was a set-up?"
Mr. Green smiled. "I'm still not sure the Initiative cares that much. But it'd be funny to see you squirm."
"Even so, how does their immaturity reflect on-"
"Hello, and welcome to Stunners~." Daniel nearly jumped out of his seat.
Standing at the table was… a clown. A tall, uncomfortably shapely clown, with kinky (why did his mind pick that word?) rainbow hair, skin like a dark-gray greasepaint, and a bright red nose, sporting garish striped stockings along with her server uniform. Playfully cocking her hip. Smiling.

(since when did smiles become weapons)

Daniel hadn't said anything, but the clown nodded like he had as she passed them their menus. "Name's Pinstripes, but you can call me Penny. Can I start you boys off with anything?"
Mr. Green smiled. "A water for me. The birthday boy, he'll have the milk."
Pinstripes's eyes went wide, though her smile didn't fade. "The milk?"
"The very same."
Her grin widened. "How daring!" Whatever 'the milk' was supposed to mean, Pinestripes's smile was distressingly predatory as she turned back to Daniel and leaned uncomfortably close. "Coming right up, birthday boy. And if you want seconds…" This close, Daniel could see the blackened stains on her otherwise pristine teeth. "…don't hesitate to ask."
Giggling like a broken calliope, Pinstripes turned and sauntered off.
"You know," Mr. Green's smiles still weren't reaching his eyes. "It was exactly as funny as I thought it'd be."
"So you brought me here to torment me?"
Mr. Green shrugged. "Would you believe me if I told you this establishment caters more to your kind than mine? To be served with a smile by scantily-clad young women… Veil or not, it's a common fantasy."
"You mistake me for a lower man. I'm a Rector, Mr. Green."
"See," and Mr. Green leaned over the table. "It's funny you call yourself that. Like the whole of you, everything you were, are, and will be, can be boiled down to a practiced lie. Do you think you can throw away everything that built you into you? You're a man, Father Robinson."
Inhale, exhale. "And you're not, Mr. Green?"
"Smart." Mr. Green… made a sound with his tongue. A bit more than a click; more of a crack, like a whip. "Do you want the long of it, or the summary? Because for the purposes of our… 'negotiations', Father Robinson, you will be getting neither. I enjoy my privacy."
Not the answer Daniel wanted, but exactly the one he expected.
Daniel rubbed at his forehead. Everything stank of grease, grease, grease. His table was being attended by an uncomfortably attractive capital-C Clown, and across from him sat… a demon, more or less. He should have ditched this meeting the moment he came to the restaurant. But he didn't, and he was paying the consequences. Might as well play along.
"In that case… your name isn't Mr. Green, I would presume." Daniel resettled his gaze on the thing before him. "Now, owing to the fact that I know of no other Green, you most probably aren't trying to impersonate. And… everything I've heard from you, Mr. Green, seems couched in some hidden meaning. Then do you service something green?"
Mr. Green smiled, and this time it reached its eyes. Somehow, that was worse. "Good to know you aren't a complete idiot, Father. This will make things… far more enjoyable."
Daniel grimaced. "I don't enjoy being played with, Mr. Green."
"I'm too used to idiots, you must understand." There was an unnerving fluidity to the way Mr. Green rolled its head. Like there weren't any bones in its neck. "Case in point: my useless half-brother should have been conducting this meeting. But he's too busy playing singer-songwriter to utilize his full potential."
"Half-brother. Interesting you call him that."
"It's fairly complicated, Father. I'd tell you more, but I'm… aware of your credentials, one could say."
"As a Rector, or as an archaeologist?" Daniel licked his lips. "Either you've been dishonest with me, Mr. Green, or you've been helpful. In the former case, I can disregard everything you've planned for this meeting, and report you to my superiors for wasting our time. In the latter case… you've given me quite a bit to work with, Mr. Green."
Mr. Green smiled. Didn't say anything.
A horrible, horrible globule of dread settled in Daniel's stomach, which only intensified as he noticed Mr. Green wasn't keeping eye contact.
Something was leaning over him. Tall, with hot and ragged breath that smelled of blood and spoiled wine. Messy hair, cascading down to rest against the back of his neck. Almost completely silent.
Two pale hands, ending in blackened fingers and dirty nails, setting two drinks on either side of Daniel. The one that wasn't water was the color of tar, with a similar viscosity.
Daniel bit his lip to keep from screaming as the hands clutched the side of his head and turned it to the side, as a face obscured in messy black hair leaned in to whisper: "Happy birthday. Have you decided on anything?"
"He'll have the wings appetizer. If you're still doing the RED FLY sauce, he'd love that. Otherwise, the atomic will do. I'm still undecided."
The waitress snickered, a sound like cracking wood. "Coming right up." The waitress wrenched Daniel's head to face her, hard enough to pinch a nerve; all he could see through the messy hair was a single bloodshot eye. "If you need me, ask for Maiya~."
Maiya let go of his head, tousling his hair before slinking off. It felt greasy.
No doubt planning its next avenue of torment, Mr. Green was silent for a short while. It gave Daniel a good opportunity to examine its quirks.
Mr. Green was unfailingly still; not once did it blink, fidget, or even look to breathe between Maiya and now. It'd taken a single sip of its water in the meantime, short and deliberate, before placing its cup off to the side. There was backwash, at least, but it was green, cloudy, and gone entirely too quickly. And though its eyes belied boredom, not once did it take them off of Daniel.
Only when two waitresses (short, blue skin, long black hair and bulbous red eyes, lipless mouths cluttered with needle-like teeth — succubim in their true form) arrived with a small plate of four blood-red wings did Mr. Green speak up again. "Thank you, girls."
The one to Daniel's left giggled. "Thank you, sir,"
"But we're just doing our job~." continued the one to Daniel's right.
"Well," for the second time today, Mr. Green's smile reached its eyes. "May I invite you to watch a man of heaven fed a slice of hell?"
The succubim giggled in tandem; Daniel made the mistake of glancing back to the one on his left, only to see Rebecca from accounting, clad in the same dress as every other server, staring back. "Oh, we'd love to cheer the birthday boy on. Wouldn't you agree, Michael?"
Daniel didn't look back to the one on the right, and tried to ignore the unique twinge in his its affirmation.
Mr. Green eyed Daniel as he looked back.

(he should eat the wings)

Only when Daniel picked up his first wing, dripping with sauce like blood, did Mr. Green begin speaking. "I haven't told you who I'm representing, and I suppose this… is as good a time as any, Father Robinson." The smell was sharp, like fire given scent, and to look at it made Daniel's eyes water. "I shouldn't be asking too many questions. Just nod for 'yes' and shake for 'no', alright?"
Daniel blinked, nodding. The wing was halfway to his mouth.
"Good. Keep eating."
It couldn't be that bad, could it? This establishment served humans, after all.
Daniel took a tentative bite.
Oh dear.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Daniel Robinson wasn't used to spicy foods; Temple potlucks were the furthest he'd gone in that regard. None of them burned like this; like granular fire whipping around his mouth.
Daniel's eyes watered as Mr. Green began again. "Contrary to what… 'my actions', shall we say, might imply, I don't hate you. I have significant respect for academics, those who earned their station through study and hard work. And as for your… 'institution', both I and the party I represent stand to benefit from its continued existence."
He swallowed, with difficulty, and soon found the burn travelling to his throat.
"Have you heard of the Christian Ministries of America, Father?" Daniel shook his head, and took another bite of the wing with great difficulty. Somehow, the fires in his mouth burned far brighter, as if effects of the sauce had been additive. "Oh don't worry, Father, it's an easier swallow than those wings."
"Awww~", crooned Not Rebecca. "But he's doing so good!"
"A masterclass at swallowing," chimed Not Michael.
Something was wrong. The world was beginning to flake away at the seams, like old parchment exposed to a fireplace, the sunburnt skin of reality peeling away until a darker, uglier simulacrum subsumed it.
"If only my half-brother were here to test that." Daniel hadn't noticed the fiery haze until Mr. Green's words cut through it. "Regardless, I think you'd like it. The CMA is… quite similar to the Initiative, though streamlined. It's a pan-denominational Christian organization with aspirations of… civil service."
'Was that supposed to be a double entendre?', but Daniel's mouth was attacked by a sharp fire as he opened it.
Finishing the wing wasn't any easier; his digestive system — from teeth to esophagus — violently protested the next three.
Mr. Green smiled through the fog. "To answer the question I think you had, yes." Daniel wearily looked at the remaining wings, and took the smallest in his shaking hands. "The CMA is an anomalous organization, albeit with a system aligned neatly with Nicene Christianity. They don't operate any sort of centralized church, but several of its members run a number of churches across North America. And before you ask, no, there's no operational conflict with Initiative doctrine."
Throat burning with hellfire, Daniel reached for the thick, pitch-black drink he'd been ignoring for-
"Clown milk will literally kill you, Father Robinson."
Daniel suppressed a whine with another bite of the horrid wings. He immediately regretted it. The succubim giggled regardless.
Mr. Green continued. "So, I myself am… not a Christian, shall we say. Regardless, my own goals can be served through the CMA's continued existence. No, I will not be telling you what those 'goals' are, Father."
Some of the sauce had gotten onto his lips; Daniel wasn't aware they could feel that much heat. "While the Initiative and the CMA share the same goals, there are logistical concerns that must be addressed. Who is responsible for what artefact? Where does one operate, and under which laws? What's to be done about this thing or that?"
Daniel's pace was slowing, but the wings burned just as brightly, a wicked fire in a sea of darkness.
Mr. Green cocked its head. "So I suppose… this is where you come in, Father." A succubus's hand brushed Daniel's back; he barely kept himself from retching. "As Rector for the Temple, you hold quite a bit of sway in these decisions. Shockingly much, one might say."
Daniel choked down the last of the second wing and powered through the third. Bad move. "You're smart enough to know where this is going, right? Because I'm not asking you to defect. Not to disband the Temple, not to cede its Christian wing to the CMA, and most especially not to wage war."
"Please." Daniel's head spun, dragging the image of Mr. Green across a blurred sightscape like a digital file. "It's too hot."
Mr. Green nodded, pushing its cup of water across the table; almost immediately it was snatched up, drunk by Daniel in greedy gulps until his mouth couldn't take it, sputtering back to waking.
Daniel could have cried. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, Father. It's actually quite counter-intuitive to drink water after ingesting something spicy." Mr. Green cocked its head, and smiled with eyes for the third time today. "Or so I've been told."
Only a few seconds passed before its words were vindicated. Daniel bit back a scream.
Mr. Green continued. "All I ask, Father Robinson, is obedience. Obedience to me. Obedience to the CMA. And most importantly for you, obedience to Elder Joseph Comstock Rockwell, Head Priest of the CMA."
Daniel made a noise that should have been a "Who?" as he reached for his last wing.
"You haven't met Elder Rockwell yet, have you?" Mr. Green cocked its head in the opposite direction. "Trust me when I say he's on your side, Father. Both you and the Initiative stand to benefit from his plans. All he needs, Father," Mr. Green leaned in as the world dissolved in fire. "Is obedience. Unquestioned. Unqualified. Unrelenting. Do. You. Understand?"
The world went red.

(… had to admit the aftertaste was quite good)

Daniel blinked away his haze, only to meet an empty plate, burning hands, and cheers from the succubim servers. Mr. Green was smiling again, its bored eyes almost a relief. "Congratulations, Father Robinson. The sauce on those wings is legally defined as a chemical weapon." Better have been, the way it roared in his stomach.
The burning in his stomach was countered with a withering cold as the succubim kissed either side of his cheek, before standing up and walking away, his plate in the hands of Not Michael.
Daniel groaned, resting his head in his hands. He was tired. Nauseous. Ready to lie down and meet the Lord then and there.
Mr. Green clicked its tongue. "Come now, Father. So soon?"
Daniel looked up. "You're a child."
"I'm a fair bit older than you, Father Robinson."
"Of course you are. The Verdant Mage's cult has been dead for millennia."
Mr. Green blinked.
"The trouble with demons", Daniel said, wiping the grease from his mouth, "is that they're overager to let their nature be known. The smartest among them are not immune; such a compulsion is built into the very fabric of their being, Mr. Green, and a learned man such as myself knows what to look out for."
Mr. Green opened its mouth, but Daniel wasn't finished speaking. "It should come as no surprise, then, that someone so obsessed with burning and poison would associate themselves with the Green-Eyed Wolf of Raasepula. Those were the avenues of torment you felt comfortable with, Mr. Green, and what a coincidence it must be to share the namesake and domain of a demon king."
The thing before Daniel twitched.
"I had assumed, but ten minutes prior, that the extensive obfuscation surrounding our meeting was yet another avenue of torment." Daniel grit his teeth and leaned forward. "But the most interesting thing about your king, Mr. Green, was never the Mage itself. It was its followers. Their zealous drive for conquest and destruction… and their animosity towards the ancestors of Israel."
Daniel sat back in his booth. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Green. But if you're here to represent a threat to the Chosen People, this meeting cannot continue."
A pause.
Mr. Green laughed. Loud. Boisterous. An exquisite mirth, undermined by the laser-focused boredom in its pale green eyes, unchanging as it settled into a toothy grin.
"Is that what you call it, Father? 'Chosen'?" Mr. Green made a motion of cracking its neck. "So much of your kind, Father, the Initiative and the Coalition and the Twin Foundations, defines itself through a paranoid certainty. That their gods save and still need to be saved, from a world misaligned the tiniest bit from 'what it should be'." It opened its mouth, in a sense alien from the act of speaking.
A sudden chill shot through Daniel.
"So what should it be, Father?" Mr. Green's mouth remained wide open as it spoke from somewhere deeper. "A world without magic? Magic without the world? Magical worlds without things like me?" Its jaws suddenly unhinged, and Daniel could spot rows upon rows of serrated teeth. "Because things like me are eternal, Father."
Something began to emerge from its mouth: some twisted muzzle, almost conical, far too wide to have fit into Mr. Green's slowly sagging head, covered in matted hair and droplets of green.
"Who is the aberration, Father? The violent apes who burn the planet's winters into summers, dropping still in tumorous agony after but eight decades? Or the ageless things that cull them, keep them tame and quiet and behaving, Father? It's funny: I think I already know your answer."
Mr. Green shot up from its seat, looming over Daniel like an ax.
"Because both of us know what you had to do to maintain your precious convictions, Daniel."
Mr. Green coughed something heavy and hard-edged onto Daniel's lap, and the world went black.

Matthew 12:24

Daniel awakened to a headache and the sound of papers slammed onto the table, and for the most joyous of seconds he'd sworn he was back in the office.
It quickly became apparent that he was not, in fact, in his office. Father Daniel Robinson's office was not a restaurant of dubious repute, and he would have allowed neither Mr. Green, nor the mannequin server etched with all manner of alphabet, reading
what in Heaven's name was she reading.
The server presently stood beside the table, reading over a packet. To Daniel's right were yet more packets, as well as an open plastic zip-lock covered in something slick and greenish.
Mr. Green made a noise analogous to clearing its throat. "Welcome back to the realm of the living, Father Robinson. I see you have all your bones in order."
"What is this?"
"You are in a restaurant, Father Robinson."
Daniel clutched his forehead and grimaced. "The papers, Mr. Green. What are they?"
It smiled with eyes.
Somehow already finished with her packet, the server set it back onto the table. Something scraped across the back of Daniel's mind as it made eye contact. "They don't pay me enough to envy you, man. Cheers." And finally it walked off, leaving only an awkward silence.
"You know," Mr. Green was still smiling. "It's odd seeing an Archival Assistant outside the Library. Do you think this is part of the job? It worked this time."
"What are in the packets, Green?"
A sharp, fake laugh. "Nothing you don't already know, Father."
"Does your hellish station require such flippancy, Mr. Green, or is this your cardinal virtue?"
"Am I not being clear enough, Father? Well, allow me to apologize." Mr. Green's face immediately drained of all emotion, leaving but the anatomical simulacrum of a human face. "Pick up the packet, flip to any page of its contents, and read it."
Daniel furrowed his brow. This had to be some sort of test. It made sense: the waitresses, the wings, even the intended deal, all of it bore the signs of some impromptu trial or temptation. But then, how did reading a packet figure into this? Where was the righteousness to be exemplified? Then it must have been in the content of the packet, rather than the packet itself. A Rector of the Initiative could not be so easily undone by mere words, no?
He picked up the packet, and flipped to a random page.

MEMO 19901214-13

RECIPIENT: zcahn@Jhinet
SENT BY: drobinson@Chinet
BODY TEXT: Rabbi Cahn,
Research on Asset-1A9F continues. Preliminary research suggests Asset-1A9F constitute the teeth of the beast that martyred Saint Leo of Antioch, transmuted beryl-bronze as the beast gnashed about; we are therefore unable to fulfill your transfer request, as…

Daniel blinked.
He flipped to the next page.

MEMO 19960111-2

RECIPIENT: aashram@Jhinet
SENT BY: drobinson@Chinet
BODY TEXT: Following intensive research, we have determined Structure-001E to be of relevance to the Trinitarian Aspect of the Divine, and…

Daniel kept flipping through the packets. Every page was similar, a collection of various memos sent by Daniel or an assistant to one of the Jewish members of the Initiative. It didn't appear to be forged: all of them were something Daniel might have written, and a few of them he even recognized.
It was halfway through the second packet that the formatting suddenly shifted.

ON THE NATURE OF ANCIENT LEVANTINE COMPUTATIONAL SYSTEMS
by Dr. Larry Hill

Abstract:
Examining the remains of lion-like bronze automatons found in Bronze Age Levantine tombs, Dr. Hill draws similarities between Homo postdecensus…

A sudden chill shot through Daniel's spine.
Daniel flipped on: the packets were now stuffed to bursting with abstracts, theses, graphs and diagrams and words that Daniel understood enough to worry. It covered history, anthropology, archaeology, engineering, all manner of seemingly unrelated fields converging into a distressingly predictable payload.
The papers gave way to print-outs, diagrams, bits and bobs of texts and photos. Scraps of things Daniel could have said, could have been told, could have dreamed up, could have ignored, obfuscated, denied, horrors upon horrors upon horrors upon the accumulated waste of a quarter-century of good intentions.
No matter how hard it seized in the pit of Daniel's stomach, he couldn't call the last page a surprise.

EVERY NEWSPAPER

THROUGHOUT THE VEIL

EVERYWHERE
TOMORROW?
$NONCOMPLIANCE

FORGED THROUGH FAITH:

TOP INITIATIVE OFFICIALS APPROPRIATE BRONZE-AGE CANAANITE ARTEFACTS AS "CHRISTIAN"

By Mr. Green

"It's so nice, Father Robinson," Mr. Green's voice flowed like sap over a mosquito. "When you have neither the need for rest nor sustenance. I'd say that I couldn't imagine what it's like to be burdened by such needs, Father, but I've gotten rather good at impersonation when it counts."
Inhale. Exhale. This wasn't happening. It was all too absurd to be happening. Daniel shut his eyes, pinched his neck, and didn't wake up.
"To your credit, Father Robinson, you're one of the best liars I've ever met. It took me the better part of two years to compile this dossier, and as far as I can tell, nobody save those who promoted you knew you'd faked… almost everything, really." Something audibly cracked. "Do you want to know how I knew, Father?"
Daniel opened his eyes, and recoiled at the sight of Mr. Green's face, contorted by a distressingly genuine contempt.
"I have been battling an enemy for ten millennia, Father Robinson. I've seen their weapons, their blades and their fires and their monstrous creations. They have taken everything from me: my station, my temples, the glorious empire I stood atop until their wicked agitator manipulated that damn half-breed against us."
Mr. Green leaned over the table. "There is no Christian Christ, Father. You knew that the moment you dug deep enough to hit the fossilized corpse of the Old Levant. When your precious Relics were revealed to be useless junk in the face of their monstrosities. Against them, Rome would have crumbled into nothingness.
"So what do you think is going to happen…" and with an unnatural fluidity, Mr. Green climbed onto the table and towards Daniel. "When those filthy fucking Canaanites figure out the Initiative has been fleecing them out of power? Outnumbered in representatives, even as their literal subhuman clay ancestors' toys make up the vast majority of your assets. They will flock in droves, back into the waiting arms of an army of clay demons.
"Don't think a 15% drop in membership is that bad? What the hell do you think your Muslim members will think of you when they find out? Because close enough to spit, the quote 'Anti-Imperialist' unquote ORIA is ready and willing to snatch them up."
Mr. Green's face loomed large over Daniel, contorted near unrecognizably by a horrid and nameless intensity.
"Your Initiative hangs on the precipice of ruin, subsumption to the monsters of Canaan and their ignorant descendants. The fate of the Horizon Initiative rests firmly upon your answer to my question: Are you subordinate, Father Robinson?"

Matthew 26:67

"How is it, Father?"
Daniel Robinson hadn't touched the porkchop Mr. Green had ordered for him. Only appropriate, when Mr. Green hadn't touched its own dish either1.
Mr. Green snickered. "Come now, Father. Was it so bad? You stand to be the hero of this story, and everything you love stands to benefit. Is that not cause to celebrate?" Mr. Green cocked its head. "I'd think it natural, one of your kind. And with regards to my half-siblings, you're very lucky you had this conversation with me."
"I'm afraid I don't know much of your half-siblings, Mr. Green." Daniel sighed. "But I'll take your words to heart."
Again, Mr. Green snickered, before resettling on its practiced boredom. "… apologies, reminded me of an old joke."
Daniel had experienced too much of its sense of humor to follow up.
…
If he closed his eyes, Daniel could imagine this was over. That he was dead, and wrong, and he was free to suffer in the void beyond death for eternity. Ironic, that a show of faith would prompt such a wish.
But he was too greasy to have been floating through the void. His hands itched with grease, and cringed at every nervous comb-through of his own greasy hair. The smell of grease permeated the air around him, whether from the greasy establishment or his own greasy skin. All of his insides burned, the foul mixture of horrid wings, stomach acid, and screaming grease. If he still bore a soul, that too was stained with grease.
And Daniel couldn't keep his eyes closed forever.
Mr. Green's otherwise perfect impersonation of concern was marred by deadened eyes. "You look like you've had enough fun for one day, Father. Shall I call for the check?"
Daniel muttered what might have been affirmation, and laid his head in his arms.
He'd be meeting this Elder Rockwell in a week. A week after that, he'd have to check in with the CMA, after which he'd need to forge the requisite documents to keep the Initiative from coming down on them. Daniel would then have to trust Rockwell and the CMA had his best interests at heart, and work from there.
And that was just what Mr. Green would have him do.
It was all for a good cause. Everyone would thrive under this new arrangement, save the enemies of the Initiative (even if Mr. Green had assured him they included the enemies of CMA). Nobody would question his… "work". All Daniel had to do was believe all of that and more.
Daniel looked back up.
In front of him were three boxes and a check, paid for in several bills and two gold coins. Mr. Green was gone; surrounding Daniel's table were all manner of horror, each dressed in the garb of a server.
Daniel shot up, rushing to escape the circle of servers, only to be pulled back inside by something sharp and scaly.
Something giggled. "Not so fast, Father Robinson~."
Daniel turned his head, and choked back a retch. The thin talon that held him in place belonged to a tall and deceptively thin server. Its skin was pale, almost chalk-like, crisscrossed by branches of sickly blackened veins, and its off-white eyes held an almost playful malice.
"You need to relax." It smiled, baring a chaotic jumble of yellowed teeth. "Mr. Green paid good money to make your birthday… memorable. Not just anyone gets this level of service, Father Robinson. You wouldn't want to leave without your birthday kiss, would you?"
Happy birthday to you…
Daniel struggled in its iron grip as it braced its free hand on his neck, turning him towards it.
… happy birthday to you…
The server licked its painted lips with a bruised, swollen, and far-too-long tongue.
… happy birthday, dear Daniel…
No matter how much he struggled, Daniel couldn't stop the server from bringing his face towards it.
… happy birthday to you!
Daniel screamed into a mouth that smelled of sickness and mud.

...

The Verdant Mage was not truly a god, and Orvo, therefore, did not truly rule over his father's domain of poison and fire. There was still something satisfying about lighting up a cigarette, taking in the smoke and letting it burn his fake lungs. Perhaps it was relief from the absence of pain that otherwise permeated his existence; perhaps a simple, final "screw you" to the degenerate he'd killed and skinned.
Orvo's gaze settled on the setting sun. There wasn't much more to do in Florida. Robinson was a weak-willed coward who'd do anything not to feel the underside of the bus. None of Orvo's half-siblings were currently stateside (that he knew of), and the people here were comelier than Princess and her rat deserved.
And speaking of the rat.
Orvo exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Like it here, rat?"
A familiar grunt of frustration came from down the patio.
"Funnily enough, rat, I didn't know you were there that time." Orvo tossed his cigarette to the ground, snuffing it with his boot before turning to face the nameless degenerate sitting on a nearby bench. "I'm not sure you were even following me. This is exactly the sort of place Princess would send her pet cuckold."
The rat did not grimace, for it had no face. "Fucking pervert. Here I thought you were the only Covenant without a semen-gunked mind."
"Someone has to make up for Princess." Orvo stepped forward, taking the rat's chin in his hands. "How much did you hear, rat?"
"All of it."
Orvo snorted despite himself. "So honest, rat. You could have so easily lied. Not that I'd believe you." Letting go of the rat's chin, Orvo patted its head. "You know the rules of our game. One passage for every time I see you talking to CMA, one page for every one you kill. Tell Princess to meet me at the motel on Black Sand Blvd."
The rat spat at Orvo; its own impotent variation of "yes".
Orvo turned and walked away.

Footnotes
1. A wicked and desiccated thing named "The Unruly Customer".

The Warbalang

Christ In Scarlet

Through God, All Things Are Possible