June 21, 2003
Summer solstice today. That means, if I've been counting right, that today is my five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-seventh birthday.
Happy birthday to me.
I can barely believe it's been almost two months since I recorded one of these journals. They've been running us ragged. We just got back to Nineteen maybe two hours ago. It was the Church of the Broken God again. We keep trying to stamp them out and they always end up hitting back harder. Four agents died today.
I didn't know their names. I don't bother anymore. Numbers work, because they're going to get slaughtered anyway. sigh… It's gotten to me. I can write off someone as a number to be shot down and turned into clockwork and not care. I don't feel anything about it anymore. I want to be disgusted with myself, but I can't.
I'm too tired. We all are. We're still moving, but I don't think we're alive anymore. Able tries to keep everything going, never complains, carries the whole group on his shoulders, but its grinding him down and we can all see it. He isn't who he used to be. Iris never talks anymore, and they can barely get her out of bed without pumping her full of drugs. She barely eats, barely sleeps, barely ever leaves her quarters. A few days ago I managed to catch her out in the hall, and when I asked if everything was okay, she just started crying. She's making mistakes in the field: two weeks ago she forgot to refill her supply photographs, leaving us without any medical supplies or extra ammunition. I don't know what to do. She won't let anyone close enough to help.
Clef's had it worst, though. They have him under lock and key now. He's become too unstable to let him wander around freely, they say. I still try to talk with him when I can, but…half the time he doesn't seem like he's there. When he is aware enough to talk… he scares me. The voices are getting worse, happening more and more often, and sometimes he can't fight them back. He'll lose control and start spewing all sort of foul things, or he'll curl up in a ball and beg to be put out of his pain.
It hurts me to see him like this. I can still feel that much.
…
I spoke with Director Dodridge on the way back here. He said that he'll try talking to the Overseers again, try to get them to listen to sense and disband us, but I doubt it'll do any good. They never listen.
What was the point of all this? This task force has the highest casualty rate in the Foundation. Was what we did against the Insurgency that impressive? Enough to throw us at every little thing that pokes its head above the ground?
Why am I even asking this? It's not like I'm going to get an answer. They've never answered it before, why would they do it now.
…
I'm going to sleep. Hopefully someone will wake me up when all of this is over.
June 22, 2003
Iris killed herself last night. Slit her wrists. Snuck in a razor blade, did it right there under the covers, right under surveillance's nose.
I feel hollow. Not sad, not angry, just empty and numb.
Wherever she is, it's probably better than here.
June 23, 2003
He did it. Jason did it. The Overseers saw reason, finally.
Pandora's Box is closed, six to one in favor. "Unacceptable losses", they said.
It's still hard to feel happy, but I think I might. Just a little bit.
Iris' funeral is today. It won't be much, just a chance to say goodbye. Probably just going to be myself and Able and the chaplain. Clef won't be joining us. He's having an episode.
July 6, 2003
Apparently they're using what's left of Mother to birth test subjects. Apparently they've been doing this for years and it was just now decided that I should find out about it.
I say let them. If they want to have sex with a chunk of flesh from a dead goddess, by all means, go ahead. I don't really care.
August 15, 2003
I had the displeasure of coming across Dr. Jack Bright today. I've managed to avoid him for some time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later.
It's been so long since I've been truly angry… it feels good.
The man is completely mad, and why he's still around baffles me. He does nothing productive anything at all, has the maturity of a boy who has just figured out what sex is, causes headaches on a near-daily basis, and the Overseers outright refuse to get rid of him. They outright refuse to decrease his clearance, even. They just let him go on his way, completely untouched.
Just wipe his memory, encase him in concrete and bury him somewhere and be done with him. I'd love to kick in his head myself, but he'd be back. He always comes back.
No, death is too good for him. He wants that. Oh, I'm so sorry you're immortal boo-fucking-hoo, let me sing you a sad song fuck off and suck a nice fat horse cock. You don't see Able or me doing this insipid attention whoring and blatant harassment routine. Take a fucking hint that I'm not interested or I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll piss out your ass.
sigh…
I've filed a complaint with human resources. They said they'd take care of it.
August 17, 2003
Another entry on that damned list is not “taking care of it”.
September 1, 2003
I was able to talk with Clef today, and he was all there. No voices, no shouting, nothing like that, we just talked. It was like it used to be.
I can't believe how bitter I've become. Listening to some of my old recordings and all, I know I had a reason to be like that, but…I don't know. It's this place. It gets to you, drags you down into the muck, and it's nasty and bitter and toxic and you just slog through the same trenches. If fills you until that's all you know, just hate and anger and empty bitterness and you don't even realize it, until you step back and think about it a bit.
It's not just me. It's everyone. All the agents, all the researchers, everyone. We're all completely mad.


The world ended yesterday, and none of us noticed until this morning. No supplies were meant to arrive. No one was due to go to see the psychologists. This morning, I went to check for the supplies, and I opened the door. Only fragments of the Earth remain.
Nothing can pass through it now. We can see the floating ruins of our planet, but we can't pass through it. Nothing left to pass through to, in any case.
We don't know what destroyed the Earth. The cameras just show a flash of light, and then the floating ruins in space.
Half of us have already committed suicide. I expect another ten to twenty before the day is through. Only a handful of us are planning to stay until the end of the week.
That's when the generators run out of fuel, and the ones who live wish this world had ended too.

CNN was camped outside Site 19. Fox News was calling present and former members for interviews. The Serpent's Hand was holding a press conference in New York, while the head of the GOC would only say, "No comment."
"Are we done, do you think?" asked Agent Lessenger.
"The Foundation is done, maybe," said Doctor Clef. "I suspect we're going to be busy a while longer."
"But people aren't going to trust us once they find out. They're not going to understand."
"Then screw 'em. The job still has to be done, whether they like it or not. Now, are you going to sit there and get arrested, or are you going to help me with Plan B?"
After a moment, Lessenger stood up, and followed. The world would have to wait, or there wouldn't be a world.

A vast desert stretched out where a world once was, swept clean by the hell of its own star's dying breath. A light in the sky appears, dim against the night at first, then growing stronger.
As it approaches the surface, it resolves into a ship of metal and light. It brakes against the gravity of the dead planet, and finally slows almost to a stop, before alighting gently on the dry dust.
A figure descends, fully encased in plastic. It undulates as it moves, and a long tail stretches out behind it. It sifts through the sand, and finds several artifacts of a bygone age, when this planet held life. It quickly brings them on board, for the ship must leave before the dawn comes and sears the surface once again.
Back aboard, it removes its heavy suit, and a limb covered with horn-like protrusions hovers over its findings, and finally reaches for a medallion that caught its eye. It freezes as it does so. And then, words come out of a throat never designed to speak them. "Not this shit again!"

I'm laying on a table. I can't move. Why can't I move? There's a man in a coat. He looks like someone's granddad with that mustache. What's he doing with that knife? Gotta make a change. Just reach out and—
I'm laying on a table. I can't move. Ow! My head. What's happening? Gotta make a change. Just reach out and—
I'm laying on a table. There's something wrong with my head. Why can't I move? My arm just moved, but I didn't move it. There's someone standing behind me. Oh god. Oh god, they've got me. Gotta make a change. Just reach out and—
Something wrong. Can't move. Head's… wrong. Can't think. Gotta change. Reach out and—
"Isn't this dangerous, Doctor Mann?" asked the assistant nervously. "What if he wakes up and tries to erase us from existence or something?"
"He already has," the surgeon replied. "Happily, our blocks keep him from doing more than wiping out his own memory."

Agent Lament officially died fifteen years ago. A jetski accident on a lake in Texas.
His funeral was a week after that. An open casket had the wrong body in it, but no one noticed.
Brain death was three months ago, after blunt trauma by a loyal member of the Church of the Broken God.
His heart stopped beating six weeks ago. They'd kept it beating to make sure he wouldn't do anything interesting. Exposure to skips can change things. Even death.
Five weeks ago, they cremated him, and buried the ashes in a little jar. It was sealed with concrete, and marked with a number.
His files were retired four weeks ago. His pay was stopped. His pension was paid, anonymously, to his mother. She thought she'd won a contest.
His friends swore three weeks ago that they'd never forget him. They haven't thought about him since. They won't ever again. They'll never even notice the change.
Two days ago, his last active case was resolved. His name no longer appears in any active files.
Today, the clock he'd set went off for the last time, as the new occupant threw it out in favor of a new one. And now he's truly dead.

Kondraki swore as he worked.
How had they found him? He'd been hiding for over a year. No idiot neighbors, no cameras, nothing to give him away. How had the Foundation figured out where he'd gone?
But no one else used that frequency. His codes were out of date, so he couldn't tell what was being said, but they were close. They'd come for him, at long last.
No. No, they wouldn't bring him back. They wouldn't execute him. Not him. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Was it Clef, he wondered. Yes, it had to be Clef. They wouldn't dare send anyone else. No one else could be trusted to bring him in. Well, this was one mission the Ukelele Man wouldn't complete.
He'd retreated to his shelter, and rigged the entire place to go. Not only would it kill Clef, it would also kill him, and thus deny them the opportunity. Not even his brain would remain intact. The only way it could be better would be if he'd had time to rig the resulting blast pattern the shape of a middle finger.
He heard a noise. "Smile, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, as he pushed the button.
Several miles away, Agent Melendez heard a boom. He wondered what it could possibly be, then dismissed it. He had an anomalous deer to investigate.

Tom Sawyer rafts down the river. I wave to him from the shore, as I've always done.
The goblins ride to meet our hasty lines. The elves and the humans are forming up with us, the gold forgotten. We're all in this together. I tighten my grip on my hammer in expectation.
I stop in the Journal. "Hello?" I ask. There's no answer. I move on.
Fezziwig is dancing with his wife. Everyone is merry, but there are two guests no one sees but me. I resist the urge to wave. That's not how the story goes.
"Off with her head!" the Queen yells, and everyone scampers to avoid her wrath. I've never liked this book, but I'm getting desperate now.
"Is anyone there?" It's been a year, though not even I know how I can tell. Why isn't anyone answering? Are they gone? Have they forgotten me?
I watch Toad motoring by, reckless. He's certain he'll live forever. Only I know he's right.
Gully Foyle appears, the lines and whorls on his face flashing plain. "Make 'em tell you about PyrE, is all!" he shouts before disappearing again.
"I wish someone was there," I write. "Only I've run out of things to read. Hello? Hello?"
"I will not eat them here in bed, I will not eat them here with Fred! I do not like them, Sam I am…"


I miss the children.
I miss them so much.
I miss Janey and Jake and David and Roxanne.
These people are alright, I suppose. They're not the kids, but I like them anyways. I guess I should be grateful, really. They gave me a new home after the Doctor threw me away.
I love them.
I want to make them happy. Mommy always told me to be a happy girl, didn't she? I want to show them how much I really appreciate how much they're done for me. It's so, so incredibly nice what they do.
I just wish I could talk to them.
Of course, I can't. I'd need vocal cords to do that. Lungs, too. Heh, I don't even have a mouth most days. Even when I do, I can't use it. Not even to introduce myself. "Hi, my name is Leo, thank you so much for saving me, blah, blah, blah…" I'm thankful anyways, though. It's nice to feel…normal, even if it's just for a short period of time. I miss being…being…
Cripes. I keep trying to remember that silly name. It doesn't matter, what's past is past and I can't change who I am. Yep yep, my name is unimportant anywa— Oh wait. Silly me, it's Jake! Anyways, I really can't complain. I'm a guest now! A guest to these wonderful people! It's not like much is different from the Warehouse and the Amaze-O-Sphere. All that's really changed is I'm not allowed to be all there sometimes (which I don't mind), and I get taken out a little less. But that's okay! This place is my home now! These people will never throw me away!
Not like Wondertainment did.
…
…
I thought I was part of the family…I never thought they would…I never thought they would treat me like Redd…
They told me I was the Beta product…I was ready for shipment…
…I guess I didn't change right one day.
But that's okay. Because now I have this family! It's a lot less comfy than the bedroom with my brothers, but hey, it's better than the dump! Hahaha.
Yessiree, I gotta remember that happiness is the selling point! Always be positive! Mr. Shapey's still on the clock!


A Study of Anomalous Art, from the Paleolithic to the Present
By Doctor Hannah Morel, head of the Artistic Anomalies Unit
(The following excerpt is from pages 6-9 of Doctor Morel's paper. The full document may be accessed from the Foundation Central Archives)
According to William Tartore, founder of the Artistic Anomalies Unit, anart is "a piece of artistic media with an anomalous effect that was intended by the artist as part of the expression of the piece. There are instances where media will exhibit anomalous properties unintended by the creator, and in such instances the anomalous properties are unconnected with what is being expressed."1 This definition has served for almost forty years, and in my experience and the experience of many others, is the one certainty in the study of anomalous art.
Of course, this definition is certain because it is broad and universal. Moving beyond this surface description, anart becomes much more difficult to define. Anart will often use experimental, illegal, or impossible mediums of expression, and the expressions made by anart are often incredibly esoteric, completely nonsensical, or impossible for human beings to understand. Many times, scholars attempting to define anart will fall into the old debate of “what is art”, an act which rarely aids them.
This document is meant as a study of the history of anomalous art, or anart, and aims to provide an overview of its major schools, philosophies, styles, and practitioners. Literary anomalies will not be covered in this paper.2
The chaotic and bizarre nature of anart makes classification of styles incredibly difficult. While in certain periods we may see an overarching and clearly-defined theme, where the majority of anartists follow the same philosophy with predictable results, this is the exception, rather than the rule. It is rare for more than small cells of anartists to follow a single philosophy, and often cells and individuals will mix schools and styles as according to their whims.
However, study of anart in the long term reveals patterns and internal consistencies. Throughout history, there have been four major schools of anomalous artists: Those who want to repair reality through art, those that wish to remake reality, those who wish to destroy reality, those that wish to create new realities. It should be noted, however, that these schools are arbitrary labels created by the Foundation in order to define something that is very difficult to define: the practitioners of these schools will never claim themselves as such, and no anartist or piece of anart will ever fit entirely neatly into these categories.
These schools and their primary sub-schools are as follows:
Reconstructionists - Those anartists who wish to fix social, economic, and ethical problems through the implementation of anart. Reconstructionist anart is meant for the sole purpose of achieving an end, and is therefore temporary, becoming unnecessary when the goal has been reached.

Petty Reconstructionists – Supporters of movements that did not originate with an anartist or group of anartists. This sub-school has become increasingly prevalent since the middle of the twentieth century up through the present.
True Reconstructionists – The founders of movements. The goals of these movements may be similar to non-anomalous groups, but they maintain no association with them beyond shared goals.
Dadaist / Radical Reconstructionists - This school exhibits no sense or coherency in their causes or methods, outside of the pursuing of a goal, albeit a nonsensical one. Dadaist Reconstructionist movements rarely last long, and very rarely span more than a single person, both the result of the seemingly necessary lack of sanity required.

Recreationists - Those anartists who shape pre-existing reality according to their will. Unlike Reconstructionist art, Recreationism does not necessarily work toward a greater end, and is meant to be a permanent fixture; however, there is still a great deal of overlap.

Minor Recreationists - The most common Recreationist sub-school, wherein anart is used transform on a small scale: a person, an object, or a single place. It is common in the present day for many anartists, even those of highly opposed schools, to experiment with Minor Recreationist art, most commonly in body modification.
Major Recreationists - This sub-school is based solely on the scope of the anart used, as it is aimed at transforming countries, societies, the entire world, or things of similar large scale. These projects usually involve large cells of anartists, often of different schools, led by a specific individual or group. These projects very rarely come to fruition, as they are usually either interrupted by outside forces or collapse due to infighting or mismanagement.
Reformed Recreationists - Art is for the transformation of the self in all aspects. This sub-school has traits similar to that of religions, and as such is rife with conflicting themes and ideas. This sub-school is notable in the general lack of external artistic media: the Reformed Recreationist considers the soul to be the perfect canvas, and as such it is the only one worth using.

Deconstructionists -Those anartists who act to destroy facets of pre-existing reality, without providing replacement.

Pseudo-Deconstructionists - This sub-school focuses on toppling what they view to be oppressive or corrupt structures of society. This sub-school often mixes with the Reconstructionist schools, most commonly Petty Reconstructionism.
True Deconstructionists - The target is not only to be destroyed, but erased utterly from reality, so that it never existed in the first place. This is a very rare sub-school, a testament to the difficulty of creating such a work. Of course, it should be noted that their rarity might be a result of their past success.
Absolutist Deconstructionists - A school based on the belief that existence itself is both corrupt and meaningless and must be destroyed completely. Members of this sub-school are highly dangerous and openly hostile, and should be dealt with using extreme caution.

Creationists - The broadest school of anart, focusing solely on the creation of art and expression through it. Some scholars claim that all anart is by nature Creationist, and so the label is redundant. To an extent this is true: there is extensive overlap between Creationist art and other schools. However, the general opinion is that Creationism is specific enough to exist on its own.

True Creationists - The vast majority of anartists fall into this category, and it serves as an effective catch-all for those who do not easily fall into other categories. This definition extends to all anartists who create anart for its own sake, and whose view of art does not place them among the High Creationists or Artistic Deists.
High Creationists - Through the act of creation the anartist does not only express reality, but defines it. This is a property shared amongst all anartists, and so all anartists are considered valid in the eyes of this school. Recent scholarship has argued that this is not a true school of anart, and the position has been gaining momentum in recent years.3
Artistic Deists - The Artist is God. Unlike High Creationists, where the ability to define truth and reality is shared by all artists, the Artistic Deist believes that the right is theirs alone, and that no other individual may define truth. Artistic Deists are often highly dangerous, often exhibiting traits of megalomania. Sufficiently skilled Artistic Deists may be considered in the same category as reality-manipulators.

Each of these schools and their respective sub-schools will be explained in greater detail in later chapters.

Footnotes
1. William Tartore, Ars Gratia Anomalia, (Foundation Internal Press, 1978), 4.
2. Please see A History of Woken Words (Smith), Five Days with the Author (Malakhov), and The Universal Library (Quattrochi)
3. Please see American Creationism in the 21st Century, by Dr. Levi Copp for an in-depth explanation of this theory.


The man in the suit wiped the sweat from his brow. Christ, he hoped that they would wrap it up soon. The chanting grew more intense. "Father Iron, King of War!" the crowd sang in Haitian creole, "Lord of Fire! Hear us! Ride your horse!" The chwal was shaking in time with the music, the fabric of her long red dress flowing a split second behind her limbs.
He had always loathed these expeditions. The heat, the ignorant jabbering of the yokels, the way it reminded him of the old toothless man who sold charms and "elixirs" back in Libreville. The fact that so far the entire expedition had been a wild goose chase did nothing to improve his attitude. Five ceremonies so far and nothing to show for it other than one of his suits ruined by a stray spurt of chicken blood. The thought had occurred that O'Conner might just be using this an excuse to get rid of him. But then again, if O'Conner wanted someone gone, there was no ambiguity about it.
The chwal screamed and began to spasm. The chanting was growing to a fever pitch now. The man rubbed the ring with his thumb, reassuring himself that it was still there. All of a sudden, the woman fell to her knees, her head bowed. The chanting stopped instantly. There was no noise now besides the soft crackling of the torches. Even the ever-present crickets seemed to have grown silent in respect for the spirit. The man in the suit rolled his eyes.
"My balls! My balls are cold. Fetch me rum!" the priestess cried in a voice deep and gravelly. A member of the congregation silently offered her a clay jug. She snatched it from his hands and put it to her lips. She sucked down the mixture of rum, chili, iron filings, and gunpowder, draining the vessel in a single go. She gave a satisfied sigh as she smashed the jug against the earthen floor. "Ahhhh, it's been a while since I've been called this deep into the backwoods. Usually you yokels cry for help to some Rada bitch! What brings Papa Ogun to you tonight?"
The supplicants began shouting in Creole to the priestess, asking for help with the law, with a rival, with killing rats. The man in the suit stepped forward into the circle.
"Father Ogun!" the man cried in French, "I request a favor!"
The priestess whipped around to face the man. He caught her eyes and knew that this was a real one. He wasn't talking to some backass Vodou wannabe high on crowd hysteria. He was talking to a loa. He was talking to Ogun. "You speak proper to me, gason pòmdetè!" Ogun answered in an exaggerated French accent, "I remember little ones like you during the Revolution! Little shits, who had a little cash and thought they could pass as French! Forgot all about Papa Ogun as soon as you had a piece of land and a slave to fuck!"
The man considered several retorts before biting his tongue. It did not seem like a wise choice to insult a god, especially one from whom one is requesting a boon. He forced a smile instead. "Your godhood, I request a favor. You are King of War, yes? You saved the slaves from the French, you fight for right against might, no? Myself and my brothers, we seek your favor in a struggle against those who w-"
"I know who you are, Maurice Soglo. I know all about your fight against your masters. I know all the sneaky tricks little fucks like you tried to pull. Hiding, like little rats in mountains and caves and cities. Using your toys instead of fighting like men! Too scared to fight a better warrior head-on. I know how your idiotic revolt got started! Who do you think put the idea in their heads? But you failed, because you were weak" Ogun spat. His face twisted into a mirthless smile, filled with teeth. Maurice noticed that the chwal's teeth seemed much sharper than they had been at the beginning of the ceremony. "Give me one reason why you should have my help!"
Maurice took his hand from his pocket, displaying the ring to the god. "Because of this. One of the seals of King Solomon. If you don't help us, I can seal you inside an empty beer bottle for the next ten thousand years." He spoke slowly and deliberately to keep his voice from quaking.
A murmur ran through the crowd and steadily grew into a chorus of angry shouts. How dare he threaten their god! That little French chi-manjè! A few of the supplicants stepped forward to grab the man, but Ogun waved them back. He walked steadily towards Maurice, his eyes burning with rage.
"You think you, you, some puny ant-fucker, can threaten me?" Ogun bellowed. Maurice could feel the god's glare burning through him. "I am war! Metal melts at my command! Fire devours at my whim! Empires rise and fall as it pleases me! And you dare to dream of threatening me, you little pédé?!" He was very close now, close enough for the man to smell the breath of the god as it looked down upon him. In some distant corner of his mind, he thought that the priestess had been at least a half meter shorter than he.
"You may be a god, but even gods may die. Especially if they're helped along their way," Maurice replied as evenly as he could manage, "You are immortal now, but you can be trapped, where you can't answer prayers. How long, then, do you think your followers will wait? A decade, maybe two, before they move on to a different god. Then you will be mortal. Just a sad sack of rum and shit, alone and forgotten. Except by us. We make sure that everyone gets his due. Do you really want that?" The man's mouth went dry as he spoke.
Ogun's nostrils flared as he considered the threat. He burst out laughing.
"Ahahahaha! You threaten a god and you don't back down! That takes guts! I like you, pòmdetè, you've got a dick!" Ogun slapped the man on the back causing him to stumble forward slightly. "If only the other fighters had as much balls as you!"
"All of you," Ogun said, making a sweeping motion to the assembled crowd, "should take note of this man! He fears nothing! Alright, pòmdetè, you shall have my blessing! Henceforth, your enemies will never be able to destroy you! They may hurt you, but you shall always recover. And in exchange…" The god paused for a moment, "I want some of your toys. Next time I see you, you had best have some prepared!"
"But I-" Maurice started.
"Pòmdetè," Ogun said coolly, "you have already argued with a god once today. Do not attempt it again."
"R-right" Maurice stammered. He made his way to the edge of the circle, which parted to let him pass. As he slipped away into the dark night, he heard the sound of the yokels pleading for Ogun's favor in rat-killing or law-evading, or whatever it was that they needed. After a minute of walking, he knew that he was alone. Suddenly, the enormity of what he had done hit him. He had bluffed a god. A god. And what was more, he had come out ahead. The stress and fear that he had pushed to the recesses of his mind came flooding back. His knees began to shake. Before he reached the car, he had vomited twice. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he started the car and began the four hour drive back to civilization.

By the time he reached his hotel in Port-au-Prince, the sun was already rising, its light just creeping above the shanties of the outer city. He parked the car by the curb of the hotel and headed inside. Soon, he was in his room, dialing a number that he knew but did not know. The after the third ring, someone on the other line picked up. "Yes?" asked a soft voice.
"He went for it. But there's a catch," Maurice said as he laid on the bed.
"What catch?" the voice on the other end hissed.
"Can't talk about it here. Nothing too big. We might have to rearrange some holdings is all. It was worth it," he said calmly. The only response he received was a click and a dialtone as the line went dead. He hung up the phone and went to run a bath. Fuck them, he thought. Let them try to bargain with the embodiment of war if they want to keep their "anomalous objects" so bad. Besides, it's not as though they could complain; the Chaos Insurgency now had its first patron.


On 9/18/2011, SCP-703 manifested an instance of SCP-703-1. Analysis revealed it to be a list of items produced by SCP-703, dating back to its initial containment. Referencing with updated documentation has reinforced the classification of SCP-703 as a sapient non-organic. Analysis of this document's content is ongoing.

Item: Aluminum can.
Note: Weighed 21.32 grams.
Status: Retrieved 14.78 seconds after appearance.

Item: Red paper.
Note: Contained drawing of a circle.
Status: Retrieved 11.12 seconds after appearance.

Item: Green pen.
Note: Contained red ink.
Status: Retrieved 10.09 seconds after appearance.

Item: Stuffed tiger.
Note: Name was "Paulie."
Status: Taken after 9.00 seconds.

Item: Picture of me.
Note: Aesthetically pleasing.
Status: Taken after 10.01 seconds.

Item: White paint.
Note: Usable for restoration purposes.
Status: Stolen after 9.89 seconds. Was not used for restoration purposes.

Item: Three (3) bullets, .45 caliber, hollow point.
Note: Acceleration was below expectation.
Status: Stolen post-impact.

Item: Gaseous matter.
Note: Unsafe to breathe.
Status: Stolen via inhalation after 20.6 seconds.

Item: An apology
Note: Made with care.
Status: Taken after 45.78 seconds, without remark.

Item: Sweet things.
Note: Is this better
Status: It wasn't.

Item: Your briefcase.
Note: Left it in your office.
Status: Sorry about the stain.

Item: Sheaf of papers.
Note: Helpful.
Status: Helped.

Item: A better lock.
Note: You seemed worried about it.
Status: I'm sorry.

Item: One of the black boxes.
Note: I'm sorry I cheated, wanted to help you move.
Status: Went through them. Broken up.


The screaming man doused himself in spoiled milk, backed by a chorus of dog barks and digeridoos. Sarah sighed as she picked up her coat and sidled her way down the aisle. Taking a last glance at the stage, she saw the man being wrapped in gauze by a half dozen Buddy Holly lookalikes. As she headed out into the crisp November night, she lit a cigarette. She checked her watch and saw that it wasn't even ten. She might be able to reach Daniel.
She headed to the nearest pay phone. One of Daniel's latest quirks was to block every number that wasn't a pay phone. It had something to do with his new obsession about "the depersonification of communication by way of the removal of the spatial context in conversation." Sarah understood the sentiment, but it made him a pain to get a hold of. Still, it was better than last March, when he had only allowed callers to communicate in Esperanto. Even with all of his bizarre affectations, Daniel was someone worth knowing. He seemed to be aware about anything happening before anyone else. A night with him was guaranteed to be interesting if nothing else.
She dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently as the phone rang. After twenty seconds, she heard a click.
"Hey Daniel. What's up?"
"Miss Moutree. How are you this fine evening?" Sarah cringed. She hated when he called her that; it made her feel like a hillbilly.
"I just got out of Eric's show." She took a drag from the cigarette.
"And?"
"You were right. Christ, what a fucking mess. I could barely keep my eyes open."
"I keep telling you darling, the traditional media have become so predictable and trite. So why do you even bother?"
"I know, I know. Anyway, it's only ten o'clock. Is there anything else going on tonight?"
"Well, I was planning on getting shitfaced by myself, but since you're out and about, there's something I think you might be interested in…. Tell me, have you ever heard of Francis Lepage?"
She hesitated. This was another one of his little catty traps to show her how superior he was. She had to show her knowledge, but keep it vague. "I think so? The French guy, right?" she ventured as she eyed the glowing ring around the tip of the cigarette.
"Your powers of deduction are stunning, darling." Bitch, Sarah thought as she rolled her eyes. "But yes, he's French. He doesn't so much make art as art experience. It's like nothing else. You have to see it to believe it."
There was a hint of excitement in his voice. Something had managed to worm its way through the carefully practiced layers of cynicism and hipness. Whatever it was, it must be good.
"Anyway, it's the old movie theater on 8th and Vine. See you there in twenty! Ta-ta!" Before she could respond, the line went dead.
"Sure, I'd love to go. Asshole," Sarah muttered at the dial tone.

Forty minutes later, she was still waiting outside the abandoned Park Theater. She had tried both of the doors, but found that they were locked. She paced impatiently. She didn't like waiting outside of a sketchy movie theater for her drug-addled friend to show her some conceptual art whatnot in an area that looked like the run down part of a war zone. Five minutes later and she finally saw Daniel, coming at a leisurely pace.
"Dan, you fucking asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? I waited here for almost a half hour," she spat as he came near.
"Love you too, darling," he replied as he embraced her, "Now, let's get inside, shall we? The show's just about to start!"
"This had better be fucking amazing," she grumbled as she followed him down the alley that led to the back. When they reached the rear door Daniel knocked four times. A sliver of light illuminated the alleyway and the sounds of conversation bled through the crack.
"What would you like on this glorious night?" a voice asked from behind the door.
"David, you know it's me. Now open the damn door! I'm freezing my dick off," Daniel answered without looking.
A rail-thin man with an unkempt beard sighed and opened the door. "You're supposed to say 'The good stuff. The best stuff.' It's part of the experience," he complained as they pushed past him.
"Yes, yes. I know. But really, the show's starting any minute now…."
Among the crowd, Sarah recognized several classmates as well as a smattering of professors. Noticing Dr. Willis, her art theory instructor, she shrank back slightly. Willis was never in a good mood, and Sarah didn't feel like ruining a nice night by dealing with her. Everyone seemed to be focused on a tarp-covered object in the center of the room. Soon, the lights dimmed. A spotlight flickered on and focused on the covered object. A sharply dressed man in a bird mask stepped into the spotlight.
"Ladies, gentlemen, others. It is our pleasure tonight at Last Minerva to have the honor of being the latest of Francis Lepage interactive art installations," the emcee began. Several masked figures made their way through the crowd, passing out markers.
"The work only works, so to speak, if the audience participates. To that end, we ask that you draw your most fearsome creatures all over it. The deadliest warriors, the strongest samurai, the most awful of animals. Now, without further ado, we present 'Les Dents Du Dragon #8.'"
With that, the lights came on and the tarp was snatched from the object. Sarah was taken aback to see that the "work" was just a large porcelain cube. There must be something else, she thought, something deeper. This was just more of the same twaddle she had seen before. The audience crowded around the statue, each drawing their own separate beast.
"Tell me you didn't drag me to the middle of the ghetto just so we can draw stick figures," Sarah whispered to Daniel.
"Just wait. All good things," he said.
Sarah bit her tongue and took a marker from a woman wearing a giraffe mask. She worked her way through the throng and uncapped her marker. Crouching, she began to draw a Greek hoplite like the ones she remembered from art history. The shield came first, covered in a snake design. Then the body, muscular and armored only with a long, flowing helmet. The spear was held above his head, menacing all who would oppose him. Sarah took a moment to glance at the other drawings. A tiger with a machine gun menaced a robotic squid with laser eyes. A scaly beast with a dozen eyes and razor-sharp teeth. A drawing of Gamera with hammers for hands. A limbed penis with the words "WAR GOD" scrawled across the shaft and a sword in one hand. Sarah scoffed.
The crush around the cube began to thin as the audience stood back to take in the work. After a few minutes, Sarah was the only one still working. After putting the finishing touches on the hoplite's crest, she turned away and looked for Daniel. The murmur of the crowd fell silent.
She turned to see the drawings begin to move. It seemed that the simpler drawings were coming to life first. A crude bison lowered its head and snorted. A stick figure waved its sword around. Soon, the more complex forms came to life. The gun-toting tiger stretched and yawned, while a large snake idly breathed a great puff of flame. The hoplite was one of the last to animate. Then, all at once, the drawings began to attack one another.
The hoplite sprung into action, spearing the Gamera clone through the eye. Within seconds, it was engaged in an intense duel with the multi-armed Kali. Sarah glanced around the cube. Everywhere, the drawings fought a silent orgy of battle. She found Daniel in the crowd and leaned towards him.
“This is incredible,” she whispered.
“What did I tell you? His work is like nothing else,” he replied without looking away from the piece.
Meanwhile, the hoplite was bashing the scaly beast with its shield. In the corner, the limbed penis seemed to be doing rather well for itself, having just decapitated an armored knight. Sarah found herself caught up the action. She silently rooted for her hoplite, barely supressing a whoop of triumph as it decapitated a winged samurai. After several minutes, only her creation and a giant spider remained. With a running leap, the hoplite plunged its spear through the spider's eye, killing it instantly.
"Yes!" Sarah shouted as the spider slumped. Out of all of the works, hers was the best, the most fit, the most dangerous.
"Did you see that, Daniel? Fucking right in the eyes!"
"Yes, I noticed. Congratulations on winning at art, dear," Daniel replied, keeping his eyes on the victorious hoplite. As always, it was difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic. Whatever. Sarah's drawing had won, and that was what mattered.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen and others," began the emcee, moving next to the cube, "it is time for the second of three acts to commence. Know that this is done without malice, but with hope. Like Cadmus, you are responsible for creation. Art may seize the responsibility and wring from it possibility, or it may shy away and refuse to be made. It may scream in fury against it." He looked around the room "But it must never deny it. You did this. Enjoy."
As he stepped away from the center of the room, the cube began to shift, bulging in some areas, shrinking in others. A buzzing emerged from the crowd. Sarah gave Daniel a puzzled look.
"Dan, what's going on?"
"Ummm…. I don't…. I don't know…." he murmured as he stared at the shifting porcelain in front of them. They both took several steps back. Soon, the cube had morphed into something vaguely humanoid. As its features became more clearly defined, Sarah recognized it as her own hoplite. The almond-shaped eyes, which looked so wonderfully stylized in the drawing, appeared bizarre on the thing's equally misshapen head. The short, stubby forearms, the pointed penis, everything about it looked strange. The hoplite stood for a moment, surveying the room around it. She smiled as she got it. That art couldn't withstand being transplanted to reality. The hoplite would probably crumble or something shortly. She was still smiling as the hoplite speared Daniel through the stomach.
There was silence, broken only by Daniel making a gurgling sound through his clenched teeth. He staggered forward slightly onto the spear, grasping at it as if unsure that it was real. As he uselessly flapped his mouth, a small film of blood and spit stretched between his lips. It popped, and the spell was broken. The room was suddenly awash with chaos. A jungle of flailing limbs seemed to sprout as people fled for the door, for the corner, for away from that thing. A dull, insistent pounding rang out as attempts to breach the now-locked door were enacted. The hoplite braced a foot against Daniel's chest and pulled the spear out. Daniel crumpled to the floor as the statue sliced Dr. Willis through the neck. Sarah noticed one of Willis' turquoise earrings go sailing through the air still attached to a bit of earlobe.
The hoplite moved methodically through the room, slashing at the trapped artists. Sarah stared at her creation, unsure of what to do. The hoplite caught her gaze for a split second. She saw herself reflected in the clean white porcelain and the dark red blood sprayed across its face. She ran. She pushed herself against the cinderblock wall and pounded at it, hoping that it would somehow open. To her surprise, it did. She tumbled into the cold night and landed on her ass in the alleyway.
The wall closed behind her, muffling the screams and crashing. She got up and started to run. She didn't stop running until she reached her apartment. Falling onto the bed, she stuffed her face into her pillow and screamed. The muffled screams continued even as she became hoarse and her throat ached, continued on until she passed out from exhaustion two hours later.

It was two weeks before she could bring herself to go back. But she had to be sure. Daniel's parents had called at least a half dozen times with increasing distress, but that didn't mean anything. He had disappeared before, only to reappear several days or weeks later with a new boyfriend. Her missing classmates were harder to explain, but most of them were trustafarians who only wanted to major in art to shock mommy and daddy. They could have easily switched majors once the going got tough. As for the professors, well, budgets were tight, and conceptual art wasn't a high priority.
She had barely eaten or slept since the night, and had only answered her phone to stop its ringing. Her mother had called once, asking if anything was new. "No," she replied flatly. After all, she couldn't really be sure. After that, she had just unplugged her phone altogether.
She came around three A.M., not wanting to be caught breaking and entering midday. The door to the back of the theater was locked, but she had come prepared. After several minutes of fumbling with the hairpin and torque wrench, the lock clicked open. Sarah sucked in her breath and braced herself as she opened the door. Darkness, interrupted only by the light from the door. She clicked on her flashlight and exhaled. There was nothing. No statue, no bodies, no emcee, no markers, no goddamn Daniel, no nothing. Just a poured concrete floor and interrupted by a few steel pillars. She moved towards the light switch and flipped it on. Not a single stain on the concrete.
"Damn it," Sarah muttered to herself as she hunched down to inspect the floor. This couldn't be just a dream or a bad trip. It had to be real. But there was nothing there. Not so much as a drop of blood.
After several minutes of searching, she turned off the lights and prepared to leave. As she stood at the treshhold, she turned towards the empty room. "What the fuck?" she yelled at the top of her lungs, waving the flashlight for emphasis. Just then, a glimmer of light caught her attention. She moved her flashlight back towards the glimmer. There it was again. She moved closer, keeping her flashlight trained on the object. When she was finally able to make it out, she felt her knees go weak. The earring. Willis' turquoise fucking earring. She snatched it from the corner of the room and held it up. Had they forgotten to take it too? Left it there as a Rosetta stone? Had some kindly worker left it there for the dead woman to reclaim?
It didn't matter. This proved it. She slid down the wall until she was sitting, knees to chest. Daniel was really gone. Everyone was really gone. And that… thing… was… was… The tears poured from her. It was her fault. She had done this. But why had this thing been shown at all? To cull artists? She gave a bitter internal laugh. Suddenly, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor where she had seen the earring. She wiped her eyes and leaned over to pick it up. In neat handwriting, it said "Vous, l'artiste."
A puzzled look came over her face and she wiped her nose on her jacket sleeve. "You, the artist." What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Her "art" had done this. She had made something to kill and it killed. She had made it, she was responsible for it. Recalling the pride she had felt as the hoplite slew its competition, she felt nauseous once more. She had seen at least ten people die that night at the hands of her creation. The rest were probably murdered as she fled. Whatever the gallery had done to the block had just given her the tools. The deaths had been her responsibility. Gears began to turn in her head. Responsibility. What had the emcee said about responsibility? Something about possibility? She thought a moment.
Something clicked, or maybe snapped, in her head. "Vous." Not her. She started to chuckle. Artists. Responsibility. Fuck. Art that defied reality could define it, giving new contours. Her giggling grew louder. All of the theory she had learned, but she had never realized it. This had destroyed for catharsis, so she would know. The laughter echoed in the concrete room as she doubled over. To redefine reality for art, with art, she had to accept her responsibility as the artist, maker and unmaker of worlds. Now that she realized it, she could embrace it. And wring from it possibility. She couldn't stop laughing.


Dr. Margaret Reese was awakened by the sound of Joey Tempest's voice. Rubbing her face and standing up from her desk, she sighed at the loudspeaker outside of her office. Someone had decided to blast "The Final Countdown" by Europe on a loop, and it looked like administration either was having trouble shutting down the system, or just didn't care. "At least it isn't R.E.M.," she sighed. She looked at her clock and sighed; 9:00 on 12/20/12.
She got up and shut her door, before settling back in her chair and looking outside; still no snow, despite being only five days to Christmas. That was weather in a nexus for you. In the spring it would rain Komodo dragon blood, in the summer the little league field would spontaneously combust, and in the fall… you got eggs. But come winter, not a damn snowflake in sight.
There was a knock at her door. "Come in."
Dr. Johnathan West entered the room, carrying a pair of foam coffee cups; the smell of hot chocolate wafted from them. He gave Dr. Reese a soft smile. "I thought you might like something to drink; you've been working non-stop. Everything all right?"
Margaret Reese shrugged, rubbing her face and taking one of the cocoas. "One of the O5's is being paranoid about the 2012 thing. You know which one, I'd assume."
West nodded, rubbing his head. "Anomalous Objects has been working on 120 potential XK-Class scenarios involving E-Class objects for the past three months; the thing back in October was just a nice distraction."
Reese snorted. "Biology and its various subdepartments are tackling at least 400, and that's just at this site… theology's got the biggest workload, though, poor bastards. I heard Father Reynolds joke about joining the Horizon Initiative if he has to look at another false apocalypse thing."
West looked incredulously at Margaret. "I no longer feel bad for Tristan Bailey. He was whining about having to visit fifteen universes to negotiate evacuation plans."
"Meanwhile," Dr. Reese said, "Theology's got to deal with cross-referencing Meso-American calendars with Biblical visions of the apocalypse, as well as the works of Nostradamus, various prophecies of dubious content… oh, and they also have to forget how to speak Hebrew, apparently. Just in case."
West rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, regardless, Happy Solstice… if we live to see it."
"Same to you, John."

"Dawn of Second Day… 48 hours remain…" Researcher Chris Hastings snickered under his breath, and drew odd looks from the rest of the staff in the break room. "What? The world's supposed end tomorrow. It seemed pertinent…" Hastings brushed his black, disorderly hair out of his eyes, while Agent Nicholas Ewell simply shook his head.
"Get real, Hastings. Just because the Foundation's scrambling all of its resources trying to find an XK-Class scenario doesn't mean it's gonna happen." Ewell slathered some cream cheese on his bagel, wondering if he should try some of the fat-free stuff instead; he was starting to get, as Jackie from humanoid studies put it, "love handles".
"I know, Nick. I'm jokin'- the stuff that's supposed to happen is way too far-fetched for this or any universe." Hastings put several packets of sugar in his coffee; he always thought the artificial sweetener was worse for you than the real stuff. "You hear about the one with the raspberry jam covering the western hemisphere?"
"I thought it was boysenberry… whatever the hell that is." Ewell looked at his watch. "Speaking of berries, isn't the botany department starting those tests on E-672?"
Hastings blinked. "That's today?" He slapped his forehead. "Crap, Partridge is gonna have my ass!" Hastings quickly chugged his coffee, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his briefcase, and ran for the door.

"Well, it's official. The world is going to end because of Gangnam Style!"
Akio Naguri blinked at Ryan Melbourne's outburst, looking up from his guide to memetic hazards and a book on the Aztec Calendar. "What are you talking about?" Ryan beckoned Naguri over to his cubicle across the aisle from him; on his computer screen was a rather disturbing image.
"…the hell is this?"
"Nostradamus meets PSY, apparently." Melbourne frowned. "Some people on the internet have been joking that Gangnam Style is a sign of the apocalypse, but this…"
Naguri rubbed his face and sighed. "Is it bad that, compared to the other shit we're seeing today, this almost makes sense?"

S & C Plastics went to sleep.
At least, most of the site did. A few were still up, trying to figure out what, if any, potential XK-Class scenarios would play out tomorrow. Over 6000 had already been ruled out by the Foundation as a whole, most of them religious; all procedures were still in effect, and not a single Keter skip was out of place.
At 23:50, Chris Hastings was observing E-672, a cluster of mistletoe growing on a yew tree within Greenhouse 3, in back of the S & C Plastics building. He yawned broadly, and looked at his watch. "10 minutes to the end of the world…" He touched the bark of the tree, looking up at the mistletoe. "You aren't going to force me to kiss anyone, are you?" E-672 didn't respond because, of course, it was a plant. He looked at the placard on the tree underneath, essentially a tl;dr of its file.

E-672

Specimen of Viscum album
Anomalous behavior first exhibited in 1632
Long-living- single strand has survived for over 350 years
Shows physical activity only on winter solstice
Berries can be consumed safely, despite the toxicity of a normal Viscum album specimen.

Chris had never tried the berries. They were supposed to be very good.
The day's battery of tests had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, other than a resistance to fire. The whole of the site was too focused on potential XK-Class disasters to be worried about a simple bit of mistletoe. "You don't care about the Mayan calendar. About any of this. Tomorrow will just be another day for you." He looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. "Nothing's gonna happen."
Midnight came, and as it turns out, Christopher Hastings was right. E-672 showed no anomalous activity, other than a slight rustling of the leaves and low-level luminescence. Shaking his head, Researcher Hastings took some notes, stepped out of the hothouse…
…and into the first snowfall of the year.

|Hub|


Nota Bene: It would behoove you to read Shepherds and Second Watch before reading this tale.

Mary-Ann Lewitt sat at the little table in the kitchen, reading her book. It was snowing outside, with big white flakes spiraling out of the blackness beyond and dashing themselves against the windowpane. Chatter flowed out from the living room, the occasional laugh interspersed with the conversation and the sound of the TV.
The kitchen itself was cozy, still warmed by the frenzied cooking of that afternoon. The smells of dinner still lingered in the air. Now that had been a meal, the kind where you didn't plan on moving more than a few feet for the next day or so. When Big John Courtemanche, Rabbi Arnheim, and Rigatoni Carbonara IV shared a kitchen, there was no alternative.
Technically, it wasn't a Christmas party. It was the “Completely Secular and Non-Denominational Winter Celebration of Fellowship and Goodwill towards Mankind (Please Check Your Attitude and Weapons at the Door)” party. Someone's tongue had been planted firmly enough in their cheek that Mary-Ann guessed that some sort of surgery would be needed to remove it.
The bizarre thing was that it worked. There was not a single decoration of religious significance on display in the entire house. That would have pained Big John. The man was practically Santa Claus already: gigantic white beard, ruddy complexion, wide around the middle, and a habit of punching heretics.
“You're being anti-social, Mary-Ann.”
She looked up to see Salah at the kitchen entry. He was holding a mug of hot chocolate, and wearing a horrifically tacky sweater: bright red with a goofy-looking snowman on the front.
“And I didn't think you'd actually wear that.”
“I am a Pakistani-born British Muslim who is working alongside a motley array of Christians, Jews, and sundry other faiths to fight the horrific things that lurk in the dark corners of creation.” He took a sip from his mug, clearly using it as an excuse for dramatic timing. “I should think that by now I would have a fine-tuned sense of irony.”
“Or you just refuse to refuse a gift.”
“That too.” He sat down in the opposite chair, left ankle resting on right knee. Another sip. “There's something on your mind. Talk to me.”
Mary-Ann sighed, putting on a smile for it. She placed the napkin she had been using as a bookmark back in its place.
“Yeah. Okay.” She set the book down on the table. “You got me. I guess it's just that time of year is all.”
“Bad memories?”
“Spending time with family doesn't mean much when they never want to see your face again. Except maybe in a police report.”
“Ah. I know the feeling. If my father could see me now, he'd probably burst an artery out of sheer rage. But alas, he is dead.”
“I mean, it's not as bad as it was last year. Last year my Christmas was a TV dinner I shared with my cat. I'm okay out here, Salah. Really, I'm okay.”
Salah nodded, taking another sip of cocoa. There was quiet for a bit. Maybe he was done, maybe he was just pausing. She didn't feel like opening her book back up, because it felt like he was about to say something.
“Remember that spirit we exorcised from that restroom?” he said.
“I don't think I'm going to forget the ghost that lived in a toilet and spent five hours telling me I had a nice butt. And also that it wanted to eat it.”
“And that was when you threatened it with a plunger.”
“That was when I exorcised it with a plunger.” Mary-Ann smiled for a moment. “Though that was just an awful day in general. Way too hot outside, no air conditioning in that building, job took like five hours. I mean, it's funny now, but I know we were both ready to kill each other and quite a few civilians over it.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And, you know, I think it might have had some eyesight problems. Really, on a scale of “plywood” to “dayum”, my butt is maybe an “eh, okay”.”
“I'll take your word for it.”
There were shouts from the living room. Someone had scored a touchdown, apparently.
“You're doing that thing, aren't you?” Mary-Ann said.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you start innocent conversations to make people comfortable. You're trying to lure me into a sense of security so I'll start talking about my feelings.”
Salah shrugged.
“You said it, not me.”
“Well, it's working. It's definitely working…” her voice trailed off.
“I'm listening.”
“It's…I don't know, I'm more comfortable out here. You know me, Salah; I don't really have other friends. I mean, I know them, I talk to them, but I'm not really friends with them. Not really.”
“You know Di and Aaron, and I know you've spoken with Anas and Rasha before. Just come in and talk with them for a while.”
“I'm all right.”
“Mary-Ann…”
“It's…I'm just…I'm scared, Salah.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Mary-Ann twirled a lock of hair around her finger, her eyes focused on the base of the refrigerator, across the kitchen.
“A lot of things.”
“Like what?”
There was a pause. In the living room, Di was energetically arguing literature with someone else.
“Well…you know.”
Salah nodded.
“Hm. Have you seen the progress they've made on the Universal Texts? Almost fifty pages done, I hear," he said.
“Yeah. Pretty good for sticking a post-it note with ‘Abraham was a pretty rad dude' on the wall.”
“So then, gentlemen, what progress have we made this week? Well sir, we have determined that Moses was also a pretty cool dude.”
A limp chuckle rose from that.
“You're doing it again.”
Salah shrugged again.
“If it would make you feel better, I'm willing to speak first.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that'd be better.”
“Very well then. My greatest fear is myself.”
Mary-Ann's face was quizzical.
“Twenty years ago or so, I would have loved nothing less than to burn down this house. Smuggle a bomb in under my sweater, detonate it when everyone was gathered together, one final blaze of glory as I was whisked away into Paradise.”
On the list of things Mary-Ann considered plausible, that statement was very, very low on the list, somewhere between “Beatles reunion tour” and "actually getting around to reading Les Miserables".
“I was a very angry young man. Very angry with no easy outlet. No job, no family of my own, amid many others of the same state.”
“I don't think I've ever even seen you anything more than mildly irritated.”
Salah waved a hand absently.
“That we can attest to development of character. Needless to say, I…” he paused mid-sentence. A skinny man with a colander on his head ran into the kitchen, grabbed a plate of cookies off of the counter, and ran back out. He nodded politely as he exited.
“That is possibly the most awkward man I have ever met.” Salah shook his head. “Anyway, needless to say, I did not end up splattering myself across the pavement and murdering innocents for the glory of God. That story is for another time. What is important here is that I am still afraid of that angry young man. You see, he never left. He's locked up. In here.” He pointed to his head. “And in here.” He pointed to his chest.
“Then hasn't he won, if you still fear him?”
“No. I fear him the way a zookeeper would fear a tiger. It would be idiotic to be without fear, and impossible to do his job with too much.” He drained what was left of his cocoa. “You need to find the proper amount.”
Mary-Ann let out a long breath, leaning forward in her chair. Another chuckle.
“Kinda hard to follow up on that one, Salah.”
“Don't rush yourself.”
“Okay…yeah. I guess…guess I'm afraid of myself too. Afraid I'll just get hurt again. I get close to people, and either I push them away and burn the bridge, or they die. It's easier not to care. Hurts less.”
“But being alone hurts too, doesn't it?”
“Yeah. It does. I feel hollow. Just a shell with a hole that can't be filled up.” She paused, staring out at some indeterminate point on the other side of the kitchen. “I don't want to be alone anymore, but I can't do it. I've tried, but it just hurts more.” A pause again. “It sounds pathetic, but it's the truth.”
Salah pulled a napkin from the dispenser and handed it to Mary Ann. He said nothing. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
“Just take your time. You'll get through it. I know it.”
Mary-Ann balled up the napkin and tossed in in the garbage.
“Could I catch a ride home with you? I think I'm partied out.”
“Of course. I'll grab my jacket.” Salah stood up, washed out his mug, and stepped out of the kitchen. Mary-Ann could feel a weight lift off of her spirit. Not all the way, but enough. Enough for now. She stood up, taking her book with her, and walked into the living room. Maybe she'd talk to them more next time.
Yeah, she could do that.
“Sorry to cut and run, but I've got to get home. Thanks for having me. See you all around later.”
The good-byes strung themselves together, hugs and handshakes and wishing well, and RCIV making everything awkward by exclaiming “Be blessed by the Noodly Appendage!” Mary-Ann had a smile throughout, a small one, but genuine. It was enough for tonight.
Salah was waiting for her in the kitchen. He was holding a small package wrapped in red tissue paper.
“One last thing.” He handed over the package. “A gift from me.”
Mary-Ann tore off the paper, revealing a set of CDs, held together with a rubber band.
"Yes, outdated, I know, but there's a proper feel to them."
"Thanks, Salah." Mary-Ann smiled. "It means a lot."
—
Salah's car floated through the inky night, headlights piercing the black, fat flakes of snow swirling and dashing about. Mary-Ann sat back in her seat, eyes closed, letting the violins and the lilting voice wash over her.
In demon days, it's cold inside
You don't get nobody, people sigh
It's so bad, lasting far, but love yourself
Hiding in a hole in there
They drove on through the night.

« Second Watch | Hub | The Good of the Other »


Hello, and welcome to the Tech Support orientation. I am senior technical researcher David Rosen, and I will be orienting you. Before we begin, I'd like to ask that all cellphones, smart phones, smart glasses, smart watches and smart ties be disabled. I know it sucks, but I need your full attention if you want to get credit for this.
Okay? Okay.
The Tech Support department of The Foundation is probably one of the most illustrious careers many of you could have hoped for. Instead of sitting in a cubicle belonging to a huge faceless organization, you'll sit in a cubicle belonging to a huge faceless organization that fights evil stuff in the dark, like Bigfoot.
Please sit down, it gets better. I promise.
The technology you will be working with is light years ahead of anything you have ever seen. You will regularly work with computers that you thought were only possible theoretically. You will work with devices that make the Cray look like a Trash-Eighty.
On the flip side of that, you will also have to work with bugs and errors that you never thought were possible. Think installing a server is a tough job? Try installing one in a room that contains living fire. Or a computer needs to have a file that was accidentally deleted retrieved? Try finding the file that contains one of your coworkers.
Yeah, really.
Now the majority of you are going to be working as support, answering phone calls and that sort of thing. Most of the time you will be handling calls relating to normal Foundation computer trouble. Now, many of you may be thinking “Oh that doesn't sound so hard”. Let me put it this way. Normal to the Foundation is like… bad science fiction to the normal world. You will be providing help for the most bizarre problems imaginable, running the gauntlet from E-AIDS to a laptop transforming into a parrot. Your scripts will cover most of the calls though. When you can't solve a problem over the phone, send an engineer.
Okay, engineers. You're gonna be working on the front line of support. You're the ones who have to go in and get your hands dirty when sparks start flying. The senior engineers will be there to help you, but a lot of the time you will be on your own. I know it can be scary to try and repair a router that's actively trying to kill you, but you get used to it.
Now, there are some people who just do not learn. Some people who repeatedly abuse the privilege that is Tech Support. If you have a user who reports problems like “accidentally having a computer fly out the window” or “dropped it in a tank of 447” then you put them on “Rosen's Happy List of People Who're Banned FOREVER.” These are the people who you don't have to help, and you are encouraged to get them to stop calling us by any means necessary. People on the list include Dr. Bright, Professor Crow, Agent Convit, and my ‘assistant' Dr. Taylor. If any of them stop by the department in person… you will find the Nerf guns under your desks. Use them wisely.
Alright! Questions! Hmm… you, with the acne. What are the perks? Well, you don't have to wear a uniform if you work the phones. People in the department are really kind of separate from what the super duper serious science that the rest of the Foundation does, so we pretty much just do our own thing. We have our own break room with soda and snacks, and uh…the pay is pretty good for you guys, I guess.
You, with the mustard stain on the shirt. Do you get to access the technical issue request page? Hell no you don't. That is strictly for me and the Level 3's who post on it. It's basically where the real scientists go when you guys can't help them.
Alright, I think that's all the time I got. You will all be assigned cubes and shit next week, so try not to break anything or die until then. Oh, uh… have fun and stuff.


« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »

Audio Log, 14:25, ██/██/2011, Foundation front "Sunny Coast Productions"
M███ S████, Switchboard Operator: Thank you for calling Sunny Coast Productions, how may I direct your call?
Agent Debra Michaels: Yes, can I speak with Jackson in the casting department?
M███ S████: … One moment, please.
[MS places Agent Michaels on hold while reaching Site Security Director V████]
Director V████: You've reached casting. Who are you and what do you want?
Agent Michaels: Hi, Jackson, this is Deb Michaels, one of the stunt doubles. I was calling to see if you'd started casting for "Does the Black Moon Howl".
Director V████: Not until the midnight sun bleeds. Are you free to talk about the movie?
Agent Michaels: Well, I'm in a clinic with my family at the moment, so there might be some background noise. I wanted to know if you'd finished getting together the extras, because there's some beautiful scenery up here that I think the location scout might be interested in.
Director V████: Understood. Where are you? How many people do you think ought to visit? Are there any special considerations they should be aware of?
Agent Michaels: I'm up-state in Spring, visiting family. And, oh, I think you could get away with no more than 10 or 20. And bring some cameras, you might be able to get some preliminary shooting done. A warning though, if anyone has any allergies, they ought to bring something to help them breathe. I think there's something in the air like a high pollen count and I feel like I've had a mind-bending headache for a few hours. Also, the local wildlife is a little excitable, so try not to run over anything when you're scouting out the woods.
Director V████: Oh, I think we could handle a few wild animals. Would you like us to meet up with you when we come into town or should we scout out the area first?
Agent Michaels: If I can get away from my family I could probably show you a few interesting spots, but you might want to do some scouting on your own.
Director V████: Understood. The location scout will make the decision whether or not to contact you before they arrive. We can reach you on the company phone?
Agent Michaels: Yeah, I'll keep it on vibrate. Don't want to disturb anyone up here, after all. They're just all so nice that I wouldn't want to bother them.
Director V████: Good luck out there, Deb.
Agent Michaels: Thanks, Jackson! You have a good day, too.

One of Debra's selling points as a movie stunt-double was that she could lose herself into a role to the point that it was almost impossible to tell her from the actress she replaced in the shot. This skill had helped her both on-camera and when she was out in the field, but she was getting taxed now. It was difficult to hide the rage and fear when her 14 year-old son cried heaving sobs into her chest, desperately heartbroken that he was "too old to grow up." Her husband was no help; he was too busy arguing with his brother, trying to find some way of getting that… thing to reconsider.
She watched the small clinic from over the top of her son's head, murmuring comforting noises as she kept a sympathetic look on her face. They had come straight here after that meeting in the clearing, ostensibly to treat her "migraine". In reality, Debra wanted to keep an eye on the other children that that creature had interacted with. They were, to a child, grossly overweight and somehow their skins looked tight over their faces. That doctor had escorted three of them and their parents to the clinic, and another two had shown up shortly afterwards.
Doctor Shivaji had forgotten to close the door all the way when she went in to see the last child, so Debra was able to overhear her talking with the parents.
"Mary is looking quite well, based on what the adult has led me to expect. I expect that she'll put on about another 10 pounds before the end of the week and she's further along than any of the other boys and girls. In fact, she might actually be ready in the next day or so. I recommend that you take her over to Marcia Brody's B&B downtown; Mrs. Brody has agreed to let the kids stay there when they're almost ready. I already have some monitoring equipment over there and it'll be easier for the adult to come in and help the kids when it's time."
The unfamiliar voice of a woman, presumably Mary's mother, responded, "Is Mrs. Brody charging anything? We've already been spending a lot to feed Mary's hunger, not that we mind, and money's a little tight until the next paycheck. I do want the best for Mary, especially if the adult is going to come personally to help her, but if it costs too much I just don't know what we're going to do."
"I don't know whether or not Mrs. Brody is charging anything; you'd have to check with her. But if you can't take Mary over there, at least bring her here if she starts to feel strange. It'll take longer for the adult to get here, but at least I should be able to keep Mary stable in the meantime."
Debra kept a concerned look on her face, but made a mental note to recommend a certain bed-and-breakfast to her coworkers, as a nice place to visit.

Gunnar Deathrage lay at the edge of a ridge and looked down at the town with a pair of binoculars, wondering when him and his cell were going to finally see some action. They'd been staking out this podunk little town for over a week on the orders of The Teacher, but with nothing to show for it. There weren't any flying dudes or sexy glow-in-the-dark tree spirits (Were those nymphs or dryads? Eh, what's the difference. It'd be fun to fuck both) or exploding cars or ANYTHING. Just some dumb-ass little shit-hole of a backwoods town that they were supposed to watch because "one of ours is there". Whatever.
"Ralph!" someone whispered behind him, and Gunnar shifted a little to get more comfortable (He didn't startle me at all. I knew Sgt. Dave was behind me the whole time.) and looked over his shoulder. He said back, "I told you, my name is Gunnar Deathrage now. If all the other weird-ass people get to be out in the open, then so do I. And my true name is Deathrage, Gunnar Deathrage. And dude, why're you whispering? There's no-one else around."
Sgt. Dave rolled his eyes (Fucker. I'm gonna zap you when my powers kick in. I just know I can throw lightning. And fire guns with endless ammo. Yeah. That'd be cool.) and pointed back down the ridge. "Fine, 'Gunnar', but I'm whispering because we don't know how good our brother's hearing is and we don't want to scare him off. Plus, it's hunting season and I don't want one of those townsfolk taking a potshot at me because I made a sound like a deer or something.
"Also, we just got a call that the kumiho is coming to visit us. Apparently she's making a tour of the watch-camps near the Liberation Point and we're next. She should be here in a couple of hours max and I need you to go back and help clean up the camp for her. I'll take over your watch here."
Gunnar grunted as he scooted back from the edge and handed the binoculars to Sgt Dave. "Whatever, dude. I haven't seen anything exciting anyway. Hey, is Moonbeam back at camp?" (Fuck, that girl's a damn fine piece of ass, even if she is some kind of trippy flower-power chick. I'll give it another shot and see if I can get in her pants before we clean up.)
Sgt. Dave low-crawled into the spot where Gunnar had been, rustling slightly as he pushed aside fallen leaves, and whispered back, "Nah, she's still on the other side of town, trying to find wherever it was they all went yesterday. She said she could smell the magic on the wind and was going to go track it down."
"Cool." (shit) "I'll straighten up and wait for you then. Things gotta look nice for our visitor. Hey, do you know if this kumiho chick is hot? I heard she was hot."
Sgt. Dave sighed softly and whispered back, "I'm sure I don't know. Just be nice to her when she gets here."
Sgt. Dave Mastromarino listened as Ral-Gunnar started walking back to camp, dry leaves and twigs crunching loudly beneath his feet with every step. He briefly contemplated the difference between that boy and his squad mates back in Iraq and wondered again whether he could get transferred to another cell. One that was more serious about The Cause, that had more discipline. Moonbeam meant well, and was actually able to be useful on occasion with her paranormal intuition, but that boy was just useless trash. At least "Gunnar" didn't know about the guns and grenades in the truck's lockbox. Mastromarino doubted that that boy had ever held an actual gun before and didn't want to have to be constantly pestered by the boy to let him have one. They were only for a last-ditch effort, if the townsfolk interfered or those oppressive Foundation fucks showed up.
Mastromarino watched the town and nearby woods for another 90 minutes, switching to night-vision as the light waned. He didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary, just a deer and a small horde of squirrels. There wasn't even much activity in town, just a few cars driving in and out. Mostly SUVs and pickup trucks like his, but there was a string of four panel vans right at dusk. The light wasn't good, but he thought they had the same logo: some kind of beach scene. A little weird to see that many all in a row, but probably just a coincidence.
As full darkness descended, Mastromarino decided to head back to their little campsite and see just how badly that boy had botched the cleanup job. He wanted to be there before the kumiho showed up, anyway. After all, as the leader, he needed to greet their guest. He scooted down the ridge until he was below the sight-line to the town and slowly stood up, making a minimum of noise. As he turned to walk back, he was startled to see an attractive Asian woman standing only a dozen feet behind him. She was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he almost felt like kneeling at Her feet. He wasn't even sure how She was dressed; the darkness made Her form somewhat indistinct.
“Oh! You startled me, Miss. Are you lost?”
She gently drifted forward like a mist on the breeze as She replied in a soft, sweet voice. “Why no, I'm not. You are the leader of this group of the Teacher's, are you not? I'm here to see what progress you've made in locating that poor unfortunate freed from the Foundation's clutches. I'm quite interested in seeing what it's capable of.”
Mastromarino was captivated by Her eyes until he humbly lowered them so as not to profane Her beauty. “You must be the Lady Kumiho. I am indeed the squad leader. If you'll allow me to escort you, Lady, I can fill you in on what we've found so far.”
She placed a delicate hand pale as fine porcelain on his arm and murmured, “How kind of you. You are so sweet I could just eat you up. Please lead on.” She smiled a secret little smile while she said this, and Mastromarino felt honored that she would indulge in a little joke with him like that.

Dr. Shivaji pulled up to the curb along Marcia Brody's place, parking behind a rather impressive-looking black sedan. Even though she'd supervised the placement of all the medical equipment just yesterday, she wanted to check it again. Although she was doing her best to hide it from everyone, she was really nervous about this whole thing. Even with the adult on hand, she was worried about all the things that could go wrong: one of the children could start changing away from a safe place, one of them could have a bad reaction to the IV supplement during the change, some of the monitoring equipment could malfunction… There were a thousand ways that something could go wrong and as much as she didn't want to disappoint the adult, she was more worried about something bad happening to the kids.
As she walked up to the door, it opened and a couple of large men walked out. Marcia stood behind them, telling them “And again, I'm sorry but we're booked full right now, gentlemen. I think that we might be able to squeeze you in next month if you're still interested then.”
One of the men, a short, muscular black man, replied, “We'll keep that in mind, Ms. Brody. We heard a lot of interesting things about this town and wanted to just get away from it all. Can you recommend anywhere else in town we could stay overnight?”
“Well, there's the Ramada across town. I can give them a call and let them know you're coming, if you like.”
“Thank you, Ms. Brody, we would appreciate that. You have a good night, now!”
Dr. Shivaji watched them climb into the black sedan, then drive off. "Who was that, Marcia?"
"Oh, those were some nice homosexual gentlemen on their honeymoon or antiquing or some such. It's always so nice having the homosexuals stay; they're always so cordial." Marcia laughed gently. "But there's no room at the inn tonight, is there?"
Dr. Shivaji smiled. "I suppose there isn't. How many children have already arrived?"
Marcia waved Dr. Shivaji in, and started to lead her upstairs. "Oh, only three so far. I have room for five more, if they don't mind being two to a room. I was going to call you in a few minutes anyway, so you could make sure that all the medical doo-dads were attached right."
As they entered the first bedroom, Dr. Shivaji's eyes quickly took in the bloated body of the 10 year-old laying on the bed. He had to weigh 250 pounds if he weighed an ounce, and resembled an over-ripe tomato about to burst. "Well, Donnie here looks to be progressing on schedule, and in fine shape, too. Let's just make sure all the leads are placed, then I'll check the others."
Dr. Shivaji snapped on a pair of gloves and went to work, happy in the knowledge that everything would be just perfect when the adult arrived.

« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »


Drip
He was lurking in the shadows of an old oak grove, gazing at the dark, brooding form of the facility on the hill above. She was there. Drop after drop fell on Feldspar's head, as he remembered the day of the betrayal. The day she came for them. The day they died.
Drop
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Feldspar remembered the first time he saw her, all those years ago. Just a frightened young woman, seeking protection from some very dangerous people. She never said how she located them, or what she did to earn the ire of the Double Blade Triad, but she knew his family had a solid reputation of dealing with folks like them, so she turned to them for help. His father, hard man though he was, never even thought about refusing, and they took her in.
Drip
She was the most beautiful thing he ever saw: slender, gracious, fragile, every feature of her glowing with an almost radiant whiteness. She was everything he and his family weren't, but she had nowhere else to go. Hidden beneath the wet leaves, he recalled the first few days they spent together, during that long, lost summer. She seemed so shy at first, seemingly folding into herself every time anyone tried to talk to her. He couldn't blame her, considering what she'd been through; though she tried very hard to hide them, Feldspar could see the cuts left on her arms where the Triad hurt her. He swore he would never let their blades touch her again.
Drop
They grow close during her stay with his family. She quickly opened up to them, and they in turned soften up to her. She became fast friends with his little sister, and they'd spend entire evenings sitting on the balcony, chatting about nothing much and giggling like little girls. His mother was very protective of her, never letting her help in the kitchen in fear she'd hurt herself. Even his father soon learned to respect her. And Feldspar, well, he was smitten from the very first moment he saw her, and getting to know her better only made it easier to love her. They used to go on long trips together, hiking down the winding dirt roads that surrounded his family's grounds. What a pair they must have seen to an outside observer- she fleet-footed and light, he heavy and ponderous. She seemed better now, after a few months in the company of good people, but he saw it was just an act. She was still hurting, still scared to the bottom of her soul from the day the Triad would come for her.
Drip
That day came, and much sooner than any of them expected. They were just coming back from one of their hikes, when, rounding the corner, he saw a flash of garish orange and dull steel, and they were upon him. There must have been at least a dozen of them, and their long blades flashed upon his body a hundred times within moments of their initial attacks. Their attack was fast, brutal and overwhelming, but they forgot one very important thing.
Blades didn't do much against the likes of him.
He broke them, every single one. Each pain they inflicted upon her he returned tenfold, and when he was done, so was the Double Blade Triad. He let a few of them get away, their long blades shattered, to send a message to the rest. They told him he didn't understand, that she wasn't what she appeared to be. He didn't listen.
Drop
Once the Triad was gone, they could finally be together. Those were the happiest days in Feldspar's life. He would return from a day in the field to find her waiting for him, her face covered in ink from one art project or another. He would laugh and wipe it away, and look into those big black eyes of hers, thinking how lucky he was. His family couldn't have been happier for them. Things were looking good. Things were looking great. Until that day.
Drip
Feldspar shivered as he recalled that final walk home. It was a day much like this one, grey and gloomy, and he was anxious to be home. He was covered in mud, tired, wet, and in desperate need of a good wash, and so he returned an hour early. He noticed something wasn't right the moment he entered the house. The usual ambiance noises were replaced with a deathly quiet, and there was no sign of the residents. He couldn't imagine his family going out on a miserable day like this, so he went around the house, calling their names, getting increasingly worried with each empty room. The house was empty. Lost for thought, he went on to check the only place left- the garden shed.
Drop
She was there, standing over the corpses of his family, looking down on her grisly work. His sister, who was her best friend, looked like she was strangled in her sleep. His mother, who cared for her like one of her own, must have been ambushed and strangled from behind, from the expression now forever frozen on her face. His father, who let down his guard to make her feel at home, seemed to have put out a fight- her skin, still white as snow, was carrying the marks of his last desperate struggle. It wasn't enough. Finally noticing him, she gave him a smile like a razor blade. "How was your day, honey?"
"Why?" Was all he could say.
"Why?" she said, slowly advancing on him, "Because you never saw it coming, because it was easy, because you let me. Because I could."
"We saved you! We looked after you! How could you do this to them!? They loved you! I loved you!"
For a moment, something like the a shadow of regret flashed on her face. It was gone just as fast. "Well. Bad call, I guess. Goodbye."
She moved faster than he could have thought possible, and he gasped in horror as her skin began to extend, covering him, suffocating him, drowning him in pure whiteness. He struggled, but his heavy form was ill suited for such a fight. The last thing heard before he collapsed was "Oh, and thank you for dealing with the Double Blades, baby. They were the only ones who could stop me. Now, I can finally move on to the big leagues."
Drip
Feldspar had no idea why she let him live. Perhaps she still loved him, somewhere deep inside. Perhaps she just wanted to see him suffer. Feldspar didn't care. He didn't care that he didn't know where she was, or that she was much smarter and faster and stronger than him. He would find her, and he would kill her, no matter where she went.
Drop
And now he was here. Tracking her down to this facility wasn't easy, but luckily for him, he had several associates in critical positions inside. He wasn't sure what she wanted to do there, or how she made it in, considering how clever the men in charge of the facility were supposed to be. Most likely she used their intelligence against them, made them think she was theirs to control, that they were the one who created her. It seemed like her style, and she had done it before. He wondered what she called herself now.
He heard that they called her SCP-085. Cassy. That papery bitch was so close he could almost touch her, and she had nowhere to run now. There was only one issue left to resolve.
Drip
How the hell was he going to roll up that hill?


When I was a small child, I was terrified of the dark. I still am, but back when I was around six years old I couldn't go a full night without crying out for one of my parents to search beneath my bed or in my closet for whatever monster I thought was waiting to eat me. Even with a night light, I would still see dark shapes moving around the corners of the room, or strange faces looking in on me from my bedroom window. My parents would do their best to console me, telling me that it was just a bad dream or a trick of the light, but in my young mind I was positive that the second I fell asleep, the bad things would get me. Most of the time I would just hide under the blankets until I became tired enough to stop worrying, but every now and then I would become so panicked that I would run screaming into my parents room, waking up my brother and sister in the process. After an ordeal like that, there would be no way anyone would be getting a full nights rest.
Eventually, after one particularly traumatizing night, my parents had had enough. Unfortunately for them, they understood the futility in arguing with a six year old and knew that they would be unable to convince me to rid myself of childish fears through reason and logic. They had to be clever.
It was my mother's idea to stitch together my little bedtime friend.
She collected a large assortment of random pieces of fabric and her sewing machine and created what I would later refer to as Mr. Ickbarr Bigelsteine, or Ick for short. Ick was a sock monster, as my mother called him. He was made to keep me safe while I slept at night by scaring away all the other monsters. He was pretty damn creepy, I had to admit. Honestly, looking back on it all now, I'm still impressed that my mom could think of something so strange and disturbing looking. Ickbarr had the stitched together look of a Frankenstein gremlin, with big white button eyes and floppy cat ears. His little arms and legs were made from a pair of my sister's black and white striped socks, and the half of his face that was green was made from one of my brother's tall football socks. His head could have been described as bulbous, and for his mouth my mom attached a piece of white fabric and sewed in a zigzag pattern to shape a wide grin of sharp teeth. I loved him at once.
From then on, Ick never left my side. So long as it was after dusk, of course. Ick didn't like the sun, and would get upset if I tried to bring him to school with me. But that was okay, I only needed him at night to keep away the boogeymen, which was what he was good at. So every night at bedtime, Ick would tell me where the monsters were hiding, and I would place him near the section of my room closest to the spookiness. If there was something in the closet, Ick would block the door. If there was a dark creature scratching at my window, Ick would be pressed up against the glass. If there was a big hairy beast under my bed, then under the bed he went. Sometimes the monsters weren't even in my room. Sometimes, they would hide in my dreams, and Ickbarr would have to come with me into my nightmares. It was fun bringing Ick into my dream world, as he and I would spend hours fighting off ghouls and demons. The best part was, in my dreams, Ick could talk to me for real. “How much do you love me?” He would ask.
“More than anything.” I would always tell him. One night in a dream, after I had lost my first tooth, Ick asked me for a favor.
“Can I have your tooth?”
I asked him why.
“To help me kill the bad things,” he said.
The next morning at breakfast, my mom asked me where my tooth went. From what she told me, the “tooth fairy” didn't find it under my pillow. When I told her that I gave it to Ickbarr, she just shrugged and went back to feeding my little sister. From then on, every time I lost a tooth, I would give it to Ick. He would always thank me, of course, and tell me that he loved me. Eventually though, I ran out of baby teeth, and I was beginning to get a little too old to still be playing with dolls. So Ick just sat there on my bookshelf collecting dust, slowly fading away from my attention.
Over time the nightmares, however, became worse than ever. So bad that they even began to follow me to the waking world, terrorizing every dark corner or rustle in the bushes. After one particularly bad night biking home from a friend's house where I swore a pack of rabid dogs were chasing me, I got home to find something strange waiting for me in my room. There, on my bed, standing fully upright in the soft glow of the moon light from my window, was Ickbarr. At first I just thought my eyes were playing tricks on me again, they had been all evening, so I tried to flick on the lights. Another flick of the light switch. Then another, and another, with no change to the darkness. It was then that I started to get nervous.
I backed away slowly towards the door behind me, my eyes never leaving the shape of Ick's silhouette, my hand awkwardly outstretched behind reaching for the doorknob. I was just about to get my ass out of there when I heard the door slam itself shut, locking me into blackness. In nothing but shadows and silence, I stood frozen in place, not even breathing. For how long I can't say, but after what felt like a lifetime of cold fear, I heard the shrill, familiar voice.
“You stopped feeding me, so why should I protect you?”
“Protect me from what?”
“Let me show you.”
I blinked once, and everything changed. I wasn't in my bedroom anymore, I was somewhere… else. It wasn't Hell, but the comparison wasn't far off. It was some sort of forest, a horrible, nightmarish place where partial embryonic abortions hung from the canopy, and the ground swarmed with carnivorous insects. A thick fog wafted through the air and with it the stench of rotting meat, while chartreuse lightening flashed across the night sky. In the distance, I could hear the agonizing screams of something not quite human. My head throbbed like it was about to explode, the pain forcing out a river of tears. In my mind, I heard his voice again.
“This is what your reality would become without me.”
I felt earth shaking footsteps approaching fast.
“I'm the only one who can stop it.”
It was behind me now, huge and angry, hot breath across my back.
“Bring me what I need, and I will.”
I woke up before I could turn around.
The following day I raided my parent's closet for my brother's baby teeth, giving them all to Ickbarr. Almost immediately the night terrors ceased, and I was more or less able to go on about my life as normal. From time to time, I would have to sneak into my little sister's room and snatch what was meant for the tooth fairy, or strangle one of the neighborhood cats and pry out its sharp little incisors. Anything to ward off the visions, anything from a shark tooth necklace to a cavity ridden bicuspid. I also began to notice that Ick would move about my room whenever I left for any length of time, rearranging my stuff and hanging additional curtains. He was even beginning to look more lifelike, somehow. In the right light his teeth would glisten, and he was warm to the touch. As much as he creeped me out, I couldn't work up the courage to just destroy him, knowing perfectly well where that would leave me. So I went on collecting teeth for Ick throughout all of high school and college. The older I got, the more things I would learn to fear, the more teeth Ick would need to keep me safe.
I'm 22 years old now, with a decent job, my own apartment, and a set of dentures. It's been almost a month since Ick's last meal, and the horrors are starting to crowd around me once more. I took a detour through a parking garage after work tonight. Found a man fumbling with his car keys. His teeth were stained yellow from a lifetime of cigarettes and coffee. Even still, I had to use a hammer to get out the molars. When I got back to my apartment, he was waiting for me. On the ceiling, in the corner. Two white eyes and mouth of razors.
“How much do you love me?” He asks.
“More than anything,” I reply, taking off my coat.
“More than anything in the world.”