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It's been a while, hasn't it?
Well then let me start out by saying you are one stupid son of a bitch.
Don't respond. We're going back to the old days, just me talking and you listening.
You know, with the other speeches I'd give you, I never wanted you to talk because I had everything I'd say prepared. Written down and practiced over and over. I didn't have the answers to your questions ready, so I just had you not talk.
But now? I'm just pissed of at you. So don't respond. There's no script this time. I'm just going to tell you everything I know and you're going to listen because you owe me that much.
I went out on a limb for you. I really, honestly thought you would be the one. The upstanding doctor. Mr. Right. Your record showed as much. How could I have been so wrong?
Sure you've acted the part. On the surface, you've been affable, efficient and studious. But I know what you've been doing, and so does the council. That's right. They've investigated and shared with me the whole story.
So let me see if I can get the story straight.
You were good at your job and didn't make any big errors. At least, nothing to get you fired or amnesticized. Everything was going good as it could considering the Foundation.
And then you found the file.
We don't know who left it out. Maybe a forgetful junior researcher. Doesn't matter. It was just a file about a noose made of human flesh or something, right? But you took it, didn't you? You kept it.
I'll be honest, I don't know why you did it. Maybe you were curious and just didn't think of all the hell that could rain down on you for taking it. Maybe it was some type of bid for power, but I'd be surprised if you could find any use for a screaming flesh noose. I just don't get it.
And that wasn't enough for you, was it? You liked having a file you shouldn't have had, right? Your little secret? Because we know you kept going. You kept taking more and more. Dozens of files, copied and left in your hands.
As far as we know, you haven't actually done anything with these files, and that's the only reason you're still alive. But you've still crossed the line. This kind of stuff doesn't just resolve peacefully.
You got some big names too, didn't you? The staircase, the red disc, the teddy bears, even the statue, huh? You've been busy. I know most people here have heard of these things, but actually getting their file is another story.
And here's the kicker: you even found one of the 001 files. As mad as I may be, I have to give you credit for that. That's a big deal. Mustn't have been easy. I'm sure you've gotten quite a few scars from trying that one, however the hell you accomplished it.
But that was the tipping point. That was when the council couldn't help but intervene. That's why I'm here.
So why'd you have to do it? Curiosity? Power? You got power now, whether you know it or not. There's quite a few files that the Foundation would like to remain…in the dark.
Regardless of your intent, you have stolen Foundation property and amassed a very dangerous amount of knowledge about Foundation operations. You are now an enemy of the council. If they knew the extent of what you've uncovered, they'd kill you immediately. But they don't, because we don't know what you could do.
Fortunately, the council is familiar with this threat. Reality-benders, anomalous individuals, people with close connections to important GoIs, we've got them all. And we're still standing. And you know why?
Because we keep our friends close, but we keep our enemies closer.
Welcome to senior staff.
Watch your back.


Home sweet home.

The flight back to the United States was quiet and uneventful- really, Ecro was just happy to have gotten it over with.
But, of course, as all new department heads must, he had to do math- even when he was seven hours into a return flight over the Atlantic.
And compared to the rush of the sales pitch and the gambles he made just a few hours earlier, the routine of accounting seemed to be much less appealing.
“Okay,” Fern said across from him. A calculator was held in her hand, and a large pile of papers was already gathering on top of their private plane's table. “So how many tons?”
Ecro had a calculator in his hand too, and his own growing pile of papers- full of various statistics and numbers. He answered. “Fifty tons for seven hundred million each.”
Fern let out another billow of awe. “Still can't freaking believe that you actually pulled that off.” She coughed. “Alright. So that equals to…”
Ecro pushed a few buttons on his calculator as well. The same went for Fern.
“Thirty-five billion.” They both said in unison.
Ecro's eyes widened. Fern's eyes did too.
“Jesus Christ.”
Ecro sat back, his mouth agape. “That's seventy-seven percent of the fucking yearly budget.”
“On one shipment.” Fern said, a smile on her face. “It's not enough to rebuild Nineteen- we're gonna need a bunch of shipments to do that, but… it could be doable. We have lots of surplus saved up over the years.”
“This Department of Surplus is a great fucking idea.” Ecro said. His expression was still frozen on awe. “No more deficits, no more budget cuts…” Then his lips drew up into a smile. “We might just about save the damn Foundation!”
“No question about that.” Fern said, putting down the calculator.
“Mister Secretary,” A security staff member said, entering their part of the seats. She had an apologetic look on her face, with just the slightest hint of irritation. “Sorry to say this, but keep it down. My team's trying to fuckin' sleep.”
Ecro guiltily withdrew his lips in an expression of apology, looking down and away from the staff member. “I'm sorry, but I-“
“We apologize,” Fern said, looking at the staff member. Her tone was stern and commanding. “But please do remember that you're talking to a head of a Foundation department.”
The staff member narrowed her eyes, then sighed, gritting her teeth. “Fine. I'm sorry for speaking to you that way, Mister Secretary.”
“Good.” Fern said, crossing her arms. “Now you can return to-“
Ecro interrupted and moved to block her face with his arm. “I'm very sorry about her behavior. You may now continue on.”
The staff member crinkled her eyebrows and crossed her arms. She shook her head slightly. “Yeah.” She turned to leave. “Alright.”
Her retreating footsteps were loud as she moved down the corridor.
A moment passed.
“What the heck was that?” Fern said, looking at Ecro. “I was trying to assume your position for you.”
Ecro went back to his seat, sighing. “She had a point, Ciara. You should have just apologized.”
Fern scoffed, grinning in incredulity to herself. “Have some more self-freaking-respect, Nu. Did you forget your position?”
Ecro shook his head, looking at her all the while. “I'm not sworn in yet. I don't have any position. Who am I, fucking Ass-Hat or… or Banner the fucking Terror?”
Banner was the assistant to the Site Director back in 02, and was a terrifying figure that whipped all the departments in the Site into shape. He was also a legendary dick. Ecro felt a chill go up his spine just as he said the name.
“No!” She said. “But you need to grow a damn spine. Your deal just saved the Foundation. If you got it, use it.”
“I'm not one to flaunt, damn it.” Ecro responded, gritting his teeth. “I got a silver tongue and a mind for numbers, doesn't mean that-“
“And you saved the damn Foundation.” Fern interrupted. “Did I have to repeat that?”
Ecro shook his head again. “I don't wanna abuse my power, Ciara. Other people might, back in Site-02, but-”
Fern sighed with a disbelieving grin. She raised her hands in a show of concession. “Fine, Nu. You win. Game over.” Her voice lowered to a mutter. “People are bound to step over you in the future with that kind of freaking attitude.”
Ecro knotted his eyebrows, but didn't respond.
“Attention, all passengers.” The pilot said from the intercom. “This is your pilot speaking. We're about to land on the Site-02 airstrip in ETA two minutes. Please begin packing your belongings.”
“Showtime.” Fern said mutedly, putting all of the papers on the table in neat and orderly piles in a briefcase. “Time to show them what you're made of, Mister Secretary. It's time to order the new department.”
Ecro sighed. “Ciara-“
Fern looked back at him. “Don't worry about it, alright? Pack up your stuff. They're probably in reorganization hell right about now, and we gotta step in.”
Ecro began placing his papers into his briefcase as well, along with his pen and calculator.
He sighed again. “You think I can cut it?”
Fern looked up at him, her light brown eyes staring into his. She showed him a half-smile. “We just went to Spain and cut out a gigantic deal. I think you already know my answer to that question.”
“Yes?” Ecro said, doubtful.
“Have some freaking respect for yourself.” Fern answered. “Yes.”

“No.” Ecro said, shaking his head. “Oh dear God, no.”
“We spent nearly two days away.” Ciara said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Of course everything's nice and ordered.”
In front of them, maintenance workers were still walking to and fro with furniture and boxes of things, chattering to each other as they ordered this desk and that, setting up computers on them as they finished laying down furniture. Most of the cubicles were already being erected, but with a hundred employees being planned to become part of the Department of Surplus, it was at that moment that Ecro became aware of the true scale of what he was now leading.
A scale that he would have to address.
Add that to my list of problems.
Ecro sighed. “…the only thing that's ordered here are the damn cubicles and the computers.”
Fern chuckled. “At least Site Direction already had the location organized. Total number right now is a hundred and ten employees. Twenty from the Amnestics Production Committee, forty-five from my Statistics Subdivision, and forty-two from the Department of Marketing.”
She looked up in thought, then continued. “Also three from Accounting's IT.”
Ecro looked at her with his mouth agape. “That… many?” Only astonishment showed itself on his face. “Holy fucking shit.”
“We're on the small side as well, too.” Fern said. “But I'm certain we'll grow with time, considering our importance.” She looked at him. "You feel like a secretary yet?" She said, grudgingly.
Ecro looked at her. "Fern…"
Fern held a thick stack of papers in her left hand, along with the large briefcase held by her right. She shoved the papers towards Ecro's chest. “That's the personnel files of every prospective employee. Select your people at your pleasure. The Terror up at Site Direction sends his compliments.”
Ecro was simply overwhelmed. He rifled through the papers. “We have this many?”
“We'll go over them later.” Fern said, moving down the main aisle of cubicles.
Ecro followed. He kept reading through the papers as he did. “Ciara, I don't think that I-“
“You'll get a handle on it eventually, Nu.” Fern said as she continued down the aisle. “The managerial adviser should be coming down from Site Direction any time now.” She said the words with dread, though Ecro didn't notice. “He'll get you up to speed with your management skills, give you a crash course.”
Ecro sighed. “This feels a bit fast, isn't it? I'm not exactly a managerial guy.“
“The Foundation chose us, and it's not as if you did a bad job so far.” Fern answered. The cubicles that they were passing through went on and on. She looked to her right, then continued in that direction.
Ecro's eyes were directed down at the papers in his hands, and the papers alone. “Yeah, but this is leadership, Ciara! I'm not cut out for that.“
Fern put out a hand, stopping Ecro in his tracks. “Nu. Look up.”
Ecro didn't bother, busy as he was with reviewing his options. “It's just-“
“Nu!” Ciara urged. “Look the crap up.”
Ecro gave out a sigh of frustration. “Why should I-“ Then he immediately stopped. “Oh.”
In front of them was a large rectangular office, nearly the size of a full conference room. A desk with a desktop computer dominated the front, flanked by a few paintings on the walls surrounding it. Behind the desk was a large and comfortable seat- a far-cry from the office chair that Ecro was used to as an Undersecretary. In front of the desk were wooden chairs as well, tailor-made to receive visitors.
“What…” Ecro was astonished. “What the hell is this?”
“Your new office, Nu.” Fern answered, a wide smile on her face. “Your new, beautiful office. Secretary of Surplus seems to be so much better now, isn't it?”
Ecro nodded, his mouth agape. “Oh.” He nodded faster. “Oh, yeah.”
“Go in, come on.” Fern said, ushering him with her arm. “It won't crumble the moment you walk into it.”
“Fuck you.” Ecro joked. His eyes were wide with awe as he took a step forward. “Is this… is this where I'm going to be now?”
“Heck yeah, silly.” Fern answered, watching him. “This is your new home. You deserve it.”
Ecro didn't hear her. He took a step forward. Then another step. Then another.
After the third step, he was inside.
The room was large, nearly cavernous by his previous standards. Windows with blinds let the morning light into the room, casting everything in a beautiful glow.
“Yes.” Ecro said, finally smiling.
Like a child in a candy store, the thirty-five year old rushed to the desk in a sprint, sitting on the comfortable chair as he savored the first taste of his new lodgings. Setting down the papers and briefcase in his hands, he touched the desk with a hallowed reverence, holding his breath with astonishment as he felt the smoothly polished wood.
“For Pete's sake.” Fern said, setting her briefcase down as well and crossing her arms. “Do you really like it that much?”
Ecro gave her a wide smile, nodding multiple times in quick succession. “Fuck. Yes.”
Fern chuckled. “Perks of the job.” She took a step closer, placing her hands on the desk as she looked down on him. “Do you feel like you're a proper department head now? Ready to think like one?”
Ecro kept smiling, not giving an answer for a few moments. Then he looked up at her. “It's nice.” He said, simply.
“It isn't.” A voice said outside. They heard heavy footsteps outside, and as they looked in that direction, a large man in a suit walked in, his blonde and greasy hair combed off to the side. He walked in, coming to a stop just a few meters away from Ecro's desk. He clapped his hands once. “Because it's about time we get to business.”
“Oh. Shit.” Ecro muttered. He knew exactly who he was- the terror of Site-02. “Are you the-“
“I haven't properly introduced you yet.” Fern said, understanding the gravity of the current situation as she cleared her throat and stepped back, gesturing to the heavy man with a hand. “This is Arnold Banner, the secretary to the Site Director. He's the managerial adviser I talked to you about.” She looked at Banner, then gestured to Ecro. “Mr. Banner, this is Secretary Ecro, of the new Department of Surplus.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Banner said listlessly, walking past Fern and stretching out a hand. His reputation preceded him- he was a big man, and intimidating.
Ecro, terrified out of his mind, gave a small bow, standing up to shake Banner's hand. He was trembling again. He didn't like the feeling. “Pleased to meet you,” He said politely. “I look forward to learning from you.”
Banner gave a heavy roar of a laugh. “So the new secretary pup wants to learn the ropes, eh?”
Behind him, Fern turned her head. “Please don't-“
“Eh.” Banner said, interrupting her. He looked back at Ecro, separating his hand from his and bringing it down on the stack of personnel papers. “Have you looked through these yet?” His voice was loud and bellowing.
Ecro feigned a smile, knees continuing to shake. He looked at Fern, who looked as if she might stare a hole into the back of Banner's head. Then he looked back at Banner. “I have, some, but not to-“
“Well, get to it, Pipsqueak.” Banner said, sliding it to him. “O5s want the new department to be up and running by the end of the week, and we got a lot to cover.”
He put a hand on his chin, looking down on him. He seemed to think of Ecro as a plaything. “Honestly, you should have known all this before you got here, right?”
“I only just came here after the flight to Spain,” Ecro said incredulously. “But-“
“No buts, pipsqueak. This ain't sales and this ain't the Dep of Accounting.” Banner said, smiling at him with a hint of irritation and a healthy dose of condescension. “Let's get to business.”
The hell? Ecro thought. “But wait, aren't we-“
Banner laughed in his face, disregarding him with a gesture. It looked like his short patience was wearing thin. “Let's get to fucking business, a'ight? Get your training wheels on.”
Fern tried to speak up. “Alright, but please if you would-“
Then Banner turned with a fury, he said through gritted teeth. “For fuck's sake, woman, stop fucking interrupting me.” He stared daggers at her. “I'm doing this as a favor to Director DeVere, so let me do my fucking job!“
“Hey,” Ecro said, putting out both his hands in a gesture of reconciliation. “We don't need to-“
Fern continued. She didn't seem to hear him. “He's still a Secretary though, Sir, so if you will-“
“Agh!” Banner said, disregarding her again. “I won't tolerate this fucking shit!”
“Please-“ Fern said.
Should I intervene? He thought. But-
“I will address him as I damn please.” Banner said again, turning on her and squaring his shoulders. “Now let me do my damn job!”
Fern shrunk at once.
Fern-
At that moment, Ecro remembered what Fern told him on the plane.
People are bound to step over you in the future with that kind of freaking attitude.
Seeing it now, she was right.
He needed to stand up for himself.
“KINDLY SHUT IT, BANNER!” He shouted.
That didn't count as an abuse of power, right?
Banner stopped in his tracks. He turned to Ecro.
“You…” Banner was nearly frothing at the mouth. He was on the edge of a rampage. “Did you just…”
“I did.” Ecro said, gritting his teeth. “And I will not tolerate this gross disrespect in my department.”
Banner looked at him, staring daggers into his eyes.
Ecro looked up at him all the same, holding his ground. “If you shout at my staff again, you can show yourself out.”
Then, Banner crossed his arms, then smiled.
“So he does know how to bark. Fine, Mister Secretary.” He said with a grudging respect. “I'll act properly.”
“Thank you.” Ecro said, sitting down. He gestured to the seats. “Please, sit down.”
Banner followed his instruction, crossing his legs. “Alright then, where do you wanna start?” He spoke slowly and menacingly.
Ecro looked at him. “From the beginning, please.”

The next few days were close to hell on Earth.
Initiatives. Tactical plans. Analyses. Personnel selection. Strategic plans. Words, not much numbers.
Having set down in Site-02 on a Wednesday, the deadline for all the things they needed to cover was on Saturday, which left them with three short days to write up what they needed.
To his credit, Arnold Banner was a fantastic adviser- Even Ecro could admit that, looking past their first meeting. Thanks to him, they covered every nook and cranny of every pertinent concept they needed to learn. Together, they appointed more undersecretaries, created subdivisions, selected personnel (with Fern's input being extremely valuable with Statistics), wrote down proposals, and did everything imaginable to get the department running- at the expense of sleep.
When Saturday came and their plans were approved by the Site Director, they brought in nearly all the new employees from all the other departments, having coordinated with their department heads beforehand in order to facilitate a smooth transition.
Which leads up to this moment.
“You ready, Mister Secretary?” Fern said, her hands in her pockets. “They're all waiting for you.”
Ecro gave a confident smile, though his knees were shaking again. “Ready as I'll ever damn be.”
“Good.” Fern said, placing her hand on the door. “Let's get ready. Chin up.”
With a silent whoosh, she pushed the door open, and Ecro stepped through and out into the corridor, looking out at all the various employees of his new department. Each of them looked weary and stressed, and in their own way, they were- Site-19 had burdened all of the departments equally.
Looking at all of them like this, the sheer number of a hundred people was almost enough to get Ecro's knees to buckle.
But he knew that that wouldn't give a good first impression.
Dear God. He thought. They're endless.
He cleared his throat.
“Department of Surplus!” he shouted with the same volume that he did with Banner.
At once, all the employees turned their eyes to him.
“This is new.” Fern said, crossing her arms. “I think they heard about Banner.”
Oh shit. He thought. His teeth were chattering. Oh shit.
He put both his hands out. “It's an honor to see you all here, but let's keep it short.”
He heightened his voice, causing it to echo across the room. “The Foundation needs us, so let's not keep it waiting! From all of you up to me, let's get to work!”
A silence followed.
A moment passed.
Then the employees'- His employees' eyes perked up. “Yes, Mister Secretary!” They barked back.
He smiled.
“Our first initiative…” He paused.
”Get this department off the ground.”

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« The Foundation is Broke | The New Secretary in Town | ??? »


His skin felt like a salty, reeking, gluey film, one that clung and ground like liquid sandpaper, refusing to be removed, only smeared. He stumbled through and shut the door heavily, avoiding the oven-hot outer surface, and closed his eyes, leaning on the inner frame and breathing in the comparative cool of the darkened house. Even with the sun down, it still felt like a brick oven outside, with a damp, hazy humidity that made the boiling heat prickle and needle into the skin. The windless air hung and smothered like a hair shirt, making even mild activity an ordeal, and shaving tempers down to a brittle razors edge. He shook his hair, running fingers through the stiff outer layers, wincing as he felt the sweat-sodden tips stick and flop against his sunburned neck. It was late, and all he wanted was to flop spreadeagled before a fan, like a sacrificial offering, and dream of rain. However, then he'd just wake up all the more sore, sodden and exhausted. Sighing, he started to plod up the stairs, shedding clothes and gear absently in his wake.
It wasn't that he minded the heat. Hell, it could be welcome at times, even. However this was the fifth day in a row without a drop or rain of puff of wind, and for a man working highway construction, with minimal shade and maximum physical activity, it could get to feeling like you were working on Satan's hot-plate pretty quick. No surface you could touch wasn't hot to the touch, machine cabs and sheds became impromptu saunas, and you would sweat enough that, by day's end, your arms, hair and face would be coated with a gritty dusting of sandy textured salt. Yeah, a couple extra breaks and free water helped, sure, but what good was a break when you were working on hell's back porch? He chuckled, rubbing a dusty, crispy skin of salt from the stubble along his jaw. It was terrible, no doubt, but at least the pay made it worth it. Nearly, anyway.
Stripping, he turned on the bathroom fan, hoping it would cut the humidity at least. Upstairs was even worse, and though he did have fans in the bedroom, he'd rather sleep down in the dim living room, windows open in the vain hope that the night air might be cooler. As he started the water running, he rubbed over his raw skin, frowning as he felt the sticky, dusty layer all but crackle against him. Not too hot of a shower, or too long, just enough to melt off this film, then sleep. He splashed his hand in the water, testing it before pulling the pin to start the showerhead running, running his now wet hand through his stiff hair. Water dripped down, leaving little furrows where the dust and salt had turned him a vague, jaundiced gray-yellow.
He rose, looked…then sighed, going across the small bathroom to push the door shut. Silly, as he lived alone, and the doors were locked, but he'd never been able to shower with the door open. Even in school, he'd found any means he could to shower alone, or even pleading some excuse to scuttle home for it instead. He grumbled to himself, no better than a kid skipping a step up the basement stairs because that was the one the monster looked through. Still, as he peered out the small, high window into the dim, simmering night sky, better safe than sorry, as they say.
Rituals aside, the first wash of water was a spill of ambrosia to his parched skin, and he groaned and mumbled as he let it pour over him, smiling grimly as he saw the flow of black start to pour off him and down the drain. He let it wash over him for a few moments, before dunking his shaggy head into the spray, sputtering into the water as the cool fingers of it probed along that salty scalp. Tossing back, he grabbed soap and started to scrub, wincing as it slid over sunburns and scrapes, blinking as the water flowed over his eyes…then again, wincing more with a snarl, rubbing his suddenly stinging eyes like a fool with the back of his (hopefully) still unsoaped wrist.
Right away he realized his error. The salt from his eyebrows, unnoticed, had been dislodged by the water and flowed directly in to his eyes, to be pushed in more by his rubbing, and augmented by the soap that was, indeed, on his wrist. He squinted, trying to blink, but squeezed his eyes shut again, griping as he turned his face into the spray, hoping to lessen things. He could, and should, lean to grab a towel to wipe his eyes, but it seemed more hassle than it was worth. Just finish soaping, rinse, and by then he'd be fine. More annoying than anything else. It was a little odd though, washing in the sudden, total blackness. An odd paranoia simmered in the back of his head. Likely just a reaction to being about as vulnerable as a human could be: blind, naked, wet, and in an enclosed space. Mentally he set it aside, directing action and laying out plans for the next day, and the next, sorting out some of the issues of the day. An annoying voice seemed to call, mocking, telling him it was just whistling past the graveyard, but he smothered it with off-key song and sharp hisses where he rinsed his sunburn.
Rinsed, and feeling something more like a human then some kind of drudging desert troll, he leaned his head back for one more rinse, and opened his much less stinging eyes.
A small, warped face was looking at him from the corner of the shower, over the top of the curtain rod.
He gasped, tasting soap, blinking as his heart started to gallop, sure it was some smear of illusion, some drowsy vision jutting into his waking mind. No, it stayed, and even moved, a small, pale face, wreathed with masses of long, matted black hair. Human, somewhat, but also not. Eyes too large, wide set and staring, a colorless gray above a pinched mouth and stubby nose, the forehead much too small, crowned by the hanging masses of hair. It moved, shifting even higher, scraping the ceiling as it stared, and he was aware of a much too large and long neck, and furtive movement beyond the curtain.
He yelped, his mind and body nearly paralyzed with too many actions, like a crowd fleeing a fire trapped in a narrow doorway. Something buried in the primal jelly of the brain stem managed to make him pull back, yanking the shower curtain open with a sputtering shout as that face slowly drifted forward on that massive neck with the slow roll of an approaching camera boom. All but spilling out of the shower, he slammed over the short tub wall and onto the floor, tearing some of the plastic sheet free as he did so. Naked, he stared, and managed a hoarse shout, eyes staring helplessly up.
Whatever it was, it was massive. His sputtering, burning mind seized onto the outline of a brontosaurus standing on its back legs. No lizard this, though. The pale, pinkish flesh seemed slack, wobbling and hanging in folds and rolls, like the flesh of the underarm after losing a hundred pounds. The body was massive, at least twice his own, thick and barrel-like, supported on hunched, back-bent and oddly slender legs. The neck was a massive, elongated cone, covered in thick rolls and wrinkles, that seemed to stretch like an accordion to that stub of a passive, still watching face. The arms were massive where they joined the body, thick curtains of flesh hanging from them, folding in a posture like a praying mantis, which quickly stretched and tapered down into bony forearms. The hands were, in a way, the worst. Long and spidery, the fingertips curled all the way down past the knobby elbows, thin as chopsticks as they rose, spreading slightly and reaching with the same slow, dreamy drift as that damp, hair-wreathed face.
For a second he stared, a dull pain in his hip and legs where he'd hit the ground, both figures seemingly frozen. Then the thing moved, fingers spreading and uncoiling toward him as it took a shifting, surprisingly dainty step forward, displaying toes as long and spindly as the hands. He screamed then, a hoarse, ragged sound as he scrambled backward, grabbing and tossing whatever he could as he tried to fumble to the door, eyes still glued to the massive, crouching thing. A box of tissues bounced off that pale, passive face as he all but crawled up the door, trying to rip the door open with slick, trembling hands. As the box connected, the face winced, slightly turning as the lips spread…and spread, and spread. The mouth extended down the length of that massive neck, splitting like a flabby crocodile for a moment, to display ragged, black teeth and some coiling rope of slimy foulness.
As he all but broke the door open, his mind had fully given itself over to the primal directives of strange equals bad, and run before the bad eats you.
Naked, he shot down the hall, bouncing off the wall as he tried to turn down the stairs, the big thing lurching close behind, making the floor creak as it stepped on sharp, spindly toes. There was no plan to his flight, just the drive to get away, to stop seeing whatever the hell it was. Despite his blind panic, he kept watching the thing, the morbid terror of what could happen if he didn't watch it keeping his eyes glued, like a rodent hypnotized by a snake. It was this, coupled with his flailing run and damp skin, that caused him to miss the first few steps, land poorly, then roll forward. For a second he saw it, a hand outstretched, that hellish mouth parting as it stood at the top of the steps, all upside down. Then a sharp, hard pressure filled his head with black and white stars and velvety deep oblivion.

It was the strangest thing any of them had seen, even in a profession that was somewhat numb to the at times staggering oddness of humanity.
The police had been summoned in the pre-dawn hours to what was initially reported as a possible hit and run. Once they saw that the bleeding man at the side of the road was totally naked, they realized it was likely a little more than that. Splattered with blood and dirt, they'd assumed he was dead until they saw his chest move. Paramedics moved quickly, finding the main issue being a serious head injury. Badly hurt, but alive for the moment, they'd bundled him off as the police had started to question and look around.
Their questions seemed to just spawn more, with even the hazy answers just leading back to questions.
Why was the man's front door open? Why had he suddenly bolted out of the shower, leaving it running, only to fall down the stairs? How had he managed to get outside? No marks or trails from a crawling or stumbling, just a few drops of blood and odd, small holes gouged in the floor, and in the concrete walk outside. If it was a robbery, why was nothing taken? If something more serious, why drag him outside where he would be easily found? No drugs had been found in his system, but you could never be sure. Something sexual, or religious maybe? The locals all said he was a quiet, upstanding man, and had no odd behaviors before this. And then, after the doctors had cleaned and stabilized him, even more oddness.
There were great, long strands of hair wrapped around him here and there, nearly six feet long and black. Also wounds that looked like bites. However, whatever had made them, if indeed they were, had a mouth like a crocodile and teeth like a decayed human. All over his neck, chest and arms, they were shallow, and matched nothing anybody had ever seen. Other odd markings, almost like the bruises left from a hard grip, but so long and thin they could only be from a set of very thin cords. The authorities mumbled about cults and fetishes and moved on to the business of more ordinary human suffering.

The man's terror of the dark and enclosed spaces was dismissed as some stress reaction, as was his near muteness. More troubling was his screaming, pointing fits, howling “FACE! FACE!” at nearby vents and windows in the dead of night. Most difficult to settle was the small, deep holes that seemed to sprout up along the walls and floor of whatever room he was in for any length of time, and how he managed to somehow bite places like his own neck and back from time to time.
His hysteric, violent refusal to bathe was, perhaps, the most unfortunate effect of his trauma.


« Where There is Desire There is Gonna Be a Flame | Where there is a Flame Someone is Bound to get Burned | But Just Because it Burns Doesn't Mean You're Gonna Die »

Arcane lamps emit a soft red glow, illuminating immaculate decorated book cases and book shelves. Neatly bound books and scrolls made of sea grass paper lend a sense of organized fullness to the lofty rooms. A peaceful silence pervades, broken only by the occasional shuffling of a scroll by the lone occupant of the royal library and the ticking of a large ornate timekeeping device wrapped in golden eddies of crafted metal.
'22:42, 4889 YSSS.'1
The occupant, a young finnwoman, stands in one of the aisles, sorting through several books and scrolls on arcane-mechanical engineering. Golden scales glisten in the lamplight, their luster matched by the equally golden locks of hair that hangs in loose waves around her head. The royal crest, consisting of four Krakens arranged symmetrically around a four eyed woman holding earth forward, decorates her robes. A tome with a metal sigil is held in one arm, a webbed finger perched on her lips.
The crack of metal-shod boots on tile mixed with the splash of disturbed water heralds someone's approach. Her eyes snap towards the commotion, mouth open in a slight "o." Splashes of water from the canals running throughout the library draw nearer. A sigh escapes her lips, bracing for further disruption. Her hand moves through the air with frantic urgency, calling upon those ancient symbols of the elder language handed down by Queen Triemedes known as the Rustic. The symbol for extended sight lights in the air with a greenish tint before dissipating. The metal sigil on the book swims, before focusing on a clear image of two royal guards following…
Uh oh, uh oh! She fumbles the book. Did he detect it? No no, hasn't drawn any counters. He's already here.
She holds the book away and out of sight, turning slightly to have her back to the approaching group. In her free hand she holds a scroll open, watching the sigil out of the corner of her eye as she pretends to scan the shimmering, flowing characters and images.
The sigil shifts perspective, showing more guards entering the library, carrying canisters marked with the Rustic for fire. They begin pouring liquid along the ground, dousing shelves.
Oh. Oh no. Her stomach drops, hands trembling, precipitous fear coating her mind. The footsteps stop, the pungent odor of burning torches and slight crackle of flames audible over the sloshing liquid. They've got torches. What am I going to do, oh Mither I can't br—
"Your Majesty? Princess Hege?" Skreyja Holgota's greasy, charismatic voice slides across Hege's finned ears. Panicky thoughts drown out his voice.
There are eight, no, ten of them. Maybe if I—
"Princess Hege, it is rude to ignore the Steward when he is talking to you." A hand non-too-gently grabs her arm and spins her to face the green-scaled, sneering face of Skreyja. Were she not so revolted by the stench of unfettered ambition and slime on his breath, he might have been considered handsome.
"Oh I'm sorry Skreyja, I didn't hear you come in." She lies, her lips curving up into a forced smile, forgetting to breath. He's not even pretending to be nice. This is very bad.
"Don't play games with me princess, we both know your hearing isn't impaired. Don't apologize, just be better." The sneer doesn't leave his features, and becomes more contemptuous by the second. He releases her wrist having got her attention, and his hand goes to his robe, wiping. "You are to come with me immediately, we have very important matters to discuss."
"Ok, where do you want to go to discuss… the map room?" She steadies her shaking hand, holding it to her chest, keeping the book out of sight. Don't let them see fear. Cooperate, buy yourself time, think of a plan, if you can just get out of this space— wait how am I even going to do that with so many—
"No, I won't have any of that backtalk, don't ma— Sorry what?" He stops mid-sentence and blinks. His scaled brow furrows, and his lips purse.
"If it's so important that you have to find me after the glimmering hour, then it must be urgent. We shouldn't delay." She blinks back, looking between the guards and Skreyja. Their expressions reflect similar levels of confusion. That's how. She almost lets a small smirk of self confidence slip through. I'll distract him, make a break for it when it's just us. Just gotta keep up the cooperation.
Skreyja's eyes narrow, the confusion slipping from his visage. "What are you up to?"
"What?" Oh no, I was too cooperative. She backs up slowly, trying to shield the book. The panic starting to return. Plan B, what's plan B? Oh! I know! Iss vindr. She bites her lower lip, glancing around, trying to avoid Skreyja's gaze. I just have to buy time and find the right angle to—
Skreyja advances, keeping the distance close. "You never come when called, never acquiesce so easily," He hisses.
"No I'm just distracted and busy when you call," she lies. The mental drawing of iss vindr falters and fizzles in her head. Why can't I be better at lying. She grasps at the characters again, attempting to glue the fragmenting concept with the tips of her mental fingers.
"Lies!" He spots the book as her back presses up against a shelf, forced to bring it to her chest. "What is that? Give it to me now." He reaches an arm out, grabbing the book. She resists, holding it tightly as they engage in a small tug of war.
Her eyes dart to the Sigil, the other guards advancing on her from the sides, clubs drawn. Out of time. Vindr returns to her, a maelstrom forming in her mind around the character, and she reaches for the ice sheets.
Time seems to slow as Skreyja yanks the book from her arms, and sees the sigil as the lights begin to dance along Hege's scales. The air fills with the power of the Mither. "Magic! Stop her!" He stumbles back, the sneer broken by surprise and fury.
A shaky breath out, the air frosting as she grasps at Iss. Mither give me strength.
Skreyja leaps backwards, the stench of untempered magistry fuming from his fingertips as a barrier forms before him. The startled guards fumble the torches, dropping them into the canal where they extinguish.
Hege's eyes snap open, frost gathering along her fingertip. The ground sizzles as ice begins to creep from the soles of her boots, pulsing, carried by the maelstrom in her mind. Got it.
A crushing pain to the back of her skull. Warmth flowing down her neck.
"Imbecile! I said alive!" Skreyja's furious face swims behind the barrier.
Stunned, iss is lost. Aldrnari, burns as an inferno, plucked from the side of the containers, taking its place. A drifting mind is the most dangerous adversary to any finnfolk mage.
Her head turns slowly as she falls forward, a guard carrying through on their swing with the club. Her mouth jerks open, the character Aldrnari burning across her chest through her robes, a maelstrom of wind rushing from her throat. A single thought roars above the inferno. Help!
She screams. She screams as an inferno bursts from her lungs, carried forward by the wind. She screams as the guard disintegrates with a bloodcurdling scream. She screams as the typhoon of flaming winds ignites the vitrolic fuels. She screams as Skreyja scrambles from the building, robes aflame, skin burned. She screams in agony as the master character courses across her flesh, attempting to consume her. She screams as she impacts the ground. And when she can scream no more, everything goes black.

A sharp gasp crackles across the interior of the lightless chamber, accompanied by a brief spark of flame emanating from yellow lips. Princess- no, Queen Hege Aquailian sits bolt upright, scaled flesh covered in a thick sheen of sweat. Webbed hands shakily go to her head, holding it for what seems like an eternity. "Just a nightmare. He can't hurt you anymore. You're free."
Red tired eyes glance at the dimly glowing chronometer embedded into the crystalline nightstand. '08:43, 5017 YSSS.'
A shaky hand rises, drawing into the air the complicated symbol for light, the silver strands dancing in the darkness before the captain's quarters, with their teal tiled bulkheads, are lit by dozens of smaller enchantments.
A few more deep breaths come and go as she steadies herself. Sleep isn't going to return, it never does after the nightmare memories. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed she pauses, staring at the royal robes sitting there in the shimmering light, the Kraken's metal groaning around her. A deep sigh fills the cabin. Pushing off the bed the beleaguered finnwoman proceeds to the restroom, washing away the sweat and fear in a cold shower. A few quick swipes with a Whaletooth comb brings her long hair into an acceptable arrangement.
Stopping once more, her gaze glides back to the royal robes. Biting back a few tears, the rattled Queen closes her eyes.
"Life must move forward. No matter how painful. It must go forward. Dad always said that."
Your father always deserved better than the hand he was dealt. Even I cannot alter fate.
Uncalloused fingers pick up the robes and don them, careful to not disturb the combing of her hair. She looks in the full body mirror, the robes fitting loosely on her frail, emaciated form, blueish bags sitting just beneath her eyes. I do not resemble a queen. I look a long departed, tired spirit.
You are so much more than your title or your appearance my child.
She slides her scale covered feet into short ankle boots which stop just below the frayed fins on her calves. Turning, she looks once more in the mirror, practicing a forced smile before letting the gesture fall away. That will convince no one. A heavy weight rests within her chest. Perhaps no one would notice if I did not emerge from this chamber. If I laid my head back upon the pillow and forsook the world beyond. I have earned rest have I not?
Perhaps more than most of my children. Alas, there is much to do.
Yet another exasperated sigh escapes her lips. Turning, the door looms, a threshold, a barrier between her and the perils of the journey's ahead. "If not now, then it will never come," she says in a soft but solemn tone, stepping forward.
The thick metal door slides open with a heavy groan, unveiling the corridors of the Kraken. Splashes of water and the click of her boots reverberate over the low hum of machinery and enchantments as she steps out of the room. Two guards in gold rimmed ceremonial armor come to attention, the butt of their tridents slamming against the metal beneath the layer of salt water.
"Your majesty!" Their voices boom in the hallway, the dual combination of sounds very nearly sending Hege's heart into her throat as she jumps.
Enthusiastic aren't they? You should give them a raise. Do Royal guards get raises?
Concern flickers in the eyes of the guard on Hege's right, a young Finnwoman named Brynhild, as she glances ever so briefly at the other Finnwoman. In a feat that would make even the most staunch traditionalist Finnfolk proud, the other guard manages to give Brynhild a withering glare without moving at all. The Queen attempts to regain what little composure she had to begin with, and gives a nod to both guards.
Turning, her footfalls set into a brisk pace towards the command center and bridge, the guards following behind her. Winding corridors widen into more intersections as they leave the crew quarters behind. Crewmembers mill about and stop, falling to one knee as Hege passes. They shouldn't kneel before me. I've done nothing to earn that gesture. She flashes a forced smile, burying the ache in her bones and stomach beneath it.
It's not about what you have done, it's about what you will do.
They step through and into the bustling command center, a short black scaled Finnwoman barking orders to underlings as the bleak muddy waters of the North Sea flow over the viewports. Grinwald, the glaring guard, bangs their spear on the floor emphatically. "The Queen has arrived, all hail her ma-"
"Grinwald please." The words leave her lips with exhausted exasperation, the commotion of the command center coming to a halt as those present drop into kneeling. "Please, don't let my presence intrude." A hint of dismay leaking into her word.
Hesitancy and confusion fog the air, uncertainty crowding across the faces of the bridge crew. Many decades had passed since the last time a royal had graced the bridge of a Kraken. Eventually, and with some trepidation, the bustling bridge returns to activity slowly. She stands awkwardly, attempting to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible by stepping back and into a small alcove. The flare of her guards makes this virtually impossible. Stolen glances and inaudible whispers just out of earshot spur the fragile queen to glance down to her feet.
Lift your chin little one. Your spirit is of fire and stars, and your heart the size of a moon.
She exhales through her nose, and straightens, descending the stairs as a sudden inexplicable breeze blows her robes elegantly. She walks towards the black scaled finnwoman, an admiral's broach hanging around their neck. The admiral's lips part and turn up in a toothy smile, thick northern nomadic accent rolling off her tongue. "Oi, Mither's light yer Majesty."
"Mither's light to you as well Admiral Drengjar." A forced smile creases her lips. "How much longer till we arrive in the house of the bandigi?"
"Aye, not more than a blink of the eye yer Majesty. Was jus' about to send for ya." She indicates the viewport as the Kraken breaches the surface of the waves, piercing light of the morning sun shining through as a bustling human facility lies before them, a circle with three inward facing arrows emblazoned upon the structures made of human steel.
Amazing how far the humans have come. Perhaps they will be useful in the end of all things.
Klaxon docking alarms sound. "You'll be waiting when I return?" Fingers clasp anxiously together.
"Course yer Majesty. T'aint like I'd leave my Queen with Mudfolk." One hand is balled into a fist and slaps her chest. "I am wit you ta da end of Valhǫll." A small pause, and the cheery demeanor breaks and in a much softer tone she inquires "But are ya sure you are ready to go forward with dis?"
Yes, are you ready to face your demons my child? There is no hurry.
"There will never be a time when I am truly ready. If not now, then I may meet the gates of Valhǫll and find little joy in the eternal sun and seas. That demon will haunt me till the end of everything."
Beginning to wonder if I've lost my connection. Hmmm, I've never needed a router before, but perhaps I should invest some energy into one.
Must you comment on every. Little. Thing!? Hege screws her eyes shut in annoyance, walking away from the Admiral and towards the exit doors of the bridge.
I'll get back to you after I run the troubleshooter.
Once more with emphasis, Hege stands before the docking port on the bridge. The door opens, beginning at the center and spiraling outwards. The blistering fiery sun fills her vision.

Scorching heat and the roar of flames wreath Hege's senses, mind forcefully returning to consciousness. The opening of her eyes sends a searing bolt of pain streaking through her skull, vision swimming. Something warm and wet is congealed to the back of her skull. A slight shift as she tries to move forward spreads the agony across her entire body, lips parting to scream only for a dry crackle to escape. Aldrnari had done its job. Oh Mither I can't move. Every part of me burns. She slumps, eyes closing, unable to muster the energy to move and overcome the pain.
I guess Skreyja is going to get what he wanted.
Never expected to go like this. Her breathing slows, darkness creeping forward, a single bright light visible, fast approaching within her mindscape. At least I'll get to see Mother and Father again.
It's not quite your time my child. A cool wet tongue gently laps the scales of Hege's burnt cheeks. A strange but familiar, warm and loving, energy starts to flow from the licks across her seared flesh, slowly disseminating into her body.
Eyes open slowly, a slow pained moan escaping her hoarse throat. Four yellow eyes stare back, belonging to the slightly tilted head of a fisher cat. The frilled gills on its neck tremble slightly as it mrows at her. Its ginger fur is abnormally dry from the heat and it paws her nose with one of its six legs, finned tail swishing.
A small staring contest, the likes of which will be spoken about for ages to come, occurs between the previously mortally wounded finnwoman and the peculiar creature. What- Any internal questions are silenced as a wooden beam crashes to the floor in the inferno, a stream of thick black smoke flowing across the ceiling. The fisher cat bumps its head against Hege's bloodied face, and trots away, following the canal in the direction of the main entrance doors, before pausing and looking back, mrowing once more.
A shelf crumbles far too close for comfort, spurring Hege from stunned contemplation. Movement is painful, but she manages to crawl forward at an abysmally slow pace.
So fragile. I suppose it can't be helped.
In what must be a trick of the light, the fisher cat almost seems to roll its eyes, and returns to the princess trotting behind her and licking her legs several times. The abject pain in her legs lessens as crawling becomes easier. She looks at the fisher cat as it trots back around, plops in front of her and starts to lick one of it's paws.
Eugh, ash and blood. Why did I expect Finjold salmon.
Looking back, one leg starts to move invoking a wince from the princess, more manageable now, webbed toes curling. The princess steals a glance back at the fisher cat. Its golden orbs stare back, meeting her gaze. Biting her lower lip, she reaches out and scratches behind the creature's finned ears. "I don't know who or what you are… but thank you."
You aren't out of the woods yet.
It mrows, and bats at her hand with a paw, before headbutting it and then turning to trot on. Hege makes to follow, the inferno raging around them as timbers, shelves, books, and scrolls are consumed in the maelstrom of smoke and flame. The fishercat manages to find the safest passage each and every time it seems like there is no way forward, darting back to grab Hege's hand in its mouth and pull her along.
Cannot believe I am babysitting another one. You'll only have to do this once I said, you won't have to worry about it ever again I said. I guess this is what family does.
Tears roll down the scaled cheeks of Hege's face. A combination of the pain and the devestating loss of knowledge as she grabs any scroll or tome in reach that she can stuff into her robes, grieving for the hapless destruction.
Such a sentimental creature. I do hope that isn't lost in the trials to come.
The maze of burning material comes to an end as the odd pair reaches the main entrance. Hege crawls quickly for the exit, as the fisher cat rounds the corner into the freedom of open expanse. Relief and joy fade into horror as Skreyja steps into the door frame with two guards.
"She lived!?"
A strangled cry for help and alarm dies in her throat, head spinning from a blow to the head, second of the night. Stars swim across her vision, before consciousness leaves her.
A ginger furred fisher cat sits upon a nearby column watching as they drag the unconscious princess away.
Fate is a cruel thing.

Icey cold waves wash across the rocks of Site-212A's shores, as a brisk autumn breeze buffets Hege Aquailian's robes. The bitter cold of the Scottish air sinks its jaws into her bones. Shivers race untempered through her flesh, as the royal procession crosses the docks away from the Kraken, and towards the large and bustling human complex.
Brynhild steps closer, matching Hege's somewhat lethargic pace, whispering to her with a hint of worry as she offers a thick winter coat. "Majesty, take my seal skin, ya gone catch a sickness."
Hege winces at "Majesty" and gently pushes the seal skin away, turning her head slightly and offering a reassuring but forced smile to the red scaled royal guard. "I'm fine Brynhild, really. I would not be here if I could not handle a little cold." Why in the 13 hells did I not bring the sealskin in my cabin.
I seem to remember something about wallowing in self loathing.
A sigh escapes her yellow pigmented lips, and she shivers as the breeze makes another pass. The royal procession begins making their way across Site-212A, an expansive complex of docks, waterside hangars, several large warehouses, lowrise offices, and a large airstrip. Each building they pass has technicians, engineers, researchers in white coats, and security personnel coming in and out, all of whom stop to watch as the procession passes. A mix of high end digital and analog tech sprinkled around the buildings, ranging from flashing readout screens, weather maps, to static number displays.
"The Mudmen have come a long ways." Brynhild says in their native tongue, looking around. The procession starts to slow, the front guards tensing as a lone figure steps into their path.
"Mudmen built all of this?" Hege asks no-one in particular. Looking around, a quiet curiosity burns in her eyes. She fails to notice as the procession around her slows to a stop, looking off to one side. "I thought they… were murderous, and savage…" The Queen trails off, tridents dinging together in front of her, blocking her path.
"An understandable reaction, given what uh, the texts your people have been so kind to share with us about our shared history say," a scrawny man with brown hair, and large round rim glasses says nervously. He half eyes the tridents, and then the puckered faces of the much taller Finnfolk guards. He pushes the glasses up on his nose, and pulls his coat tighter on his form.
Grinwald peers around the front guards. "You again." She breaks her stoic accompaniment to groan, speaking with a thick mixed accent of Norse and Scottish in English. Her break in character causes the other guards to relax, removing the tridents. "The rest of your babbling shrimp, where are they?" she says, giving the man an evil eye.
"Just over there." He gestures in the direction of the runway, where a mid sized four engine prop plane is being loaded by multiple figures. "They're getting the plane ready."
"And why exactly are you here?" Grinwald squints. "We were not informed of- what is the phrasing you humans use- accompaniment by a gallery of seanuts."
"Uh, I think the phrasing you are looking for is either, traveling with a circus troupe, or input from a peanut gallery." His brow wrinkles, and then he frowns. "Hey wait a seco—"
Grinwald waves a hand. "Besides the point, why are you here."
He straightens and half coughs. "Command specifically requested us to escort you to Libya… given uh, you already know us, after the mission in 4700. There was also concern about a lack of fluency in English, which may cause communication issues. Considerations had to be made about a potential diplomatic incident." He states matter of factly, holding a finger up and closing his eyes as he relays the reasoning, communicating certainty that he is known and should be known by the Queen and her guards. The procession starts moving again, as the man starts walking backwards, the whole group heading for one of the low rise buildings.
"Who are you?" Hege asks, switching from Finnfolk to perfect English. The Queen purses her lips and looks at Brynhild with a scrunched brow.
"You don't remember me?" His jaw rather precipitously drops.
"No… Should I?"
"Majesty," Brynhild leans down and speaks into Hege's finned ear in Finnfolk, provoking a wince from the Queen. "He was one of the Mudmen who rescued you on the day of liberation."
"Oh."
Brynhild stands back up fully. "Her Majesty," another wince, "has no memory of the day of liberation."
"Oh." Hot embarrassment burns on the young man's cheeks. "Well, in that case I suppose I should properly introduce myself. I am Robert Sheffield, linguist, archaeologist, and anthropologist. I'm a member of Recon Team 1, under the employ of the SCP Foundation." Robert pushes his glasses up again as they slide down his nose from the bouncing motion of nodding his head up and down. "I've been tasked with escorting Your Majesty," another wince from Hege, "and her entourage to meet with O5-01-03."
Well he is certainly an odd one.
Hege and the guards stare at him blankly as they arrive in front of a pair of heavy metal doors at the base of an unremarkable squat square low rise building.
"…that would be uh, the boss of everyone here." He steps to the side, and gestures. "She's waiting inside."
One of the guards goes to open the door, and stops as Hege steps up and grabs the knob herself, as if to say 'I am not helpless, I can open my own doors.'
BONK

"Have you seen these logistics? How the hell did they hide any of this, even internally." Director and O5-01-03 Sherry Andrews enters the stairwell at a pace so leisurely a tortoise could have outrun her. Deep maroon curls drape both shoulders, fierce green eyes glued to a particularly thick Manila folder labeled in large bold text 'Operation: HIGH TIDE'. Beneath her right arm, a second Manila folder labeled "Finnfolk." Her head presses into her shoulder, holding a smart phone in place.
"I've scoured every inch of the files, Sherry. Compartmentalization, liberal use of amnestics, lots of redactions, coordination with local governments, and internal disinformation campaigns. It's just the usual tactics." Leep Andrews' urban Alabama accent rings through the phone and into their wifes ear. "Say what you will about that yellow bellied fucker who preceded us, but he knew how to organize all of this."
"Ooooooh, spicy! Leep Andrews, cursing like a sailor? That's not something I hear everyday," She teases, arriving on the second floor landing. "Hold onto that passion until I get back okay?" A shit eating grin spreads across her lips, flipping to another page.
A small embarrassed chuckle comes through the speakers. "How's Scottland?"
"Cold as hell. Edinburgh was really pretty, but the UK is muggy, cloudy, and miserable, and this place is out in the middle of nowhere. That said, the shoreline out here is gorgeous, and this place is huge. Walked into one of the dock hangars, it's the size of a Boeing 747 plant. You should see these anomalous vehicles, it's like a fusion of Atlantis the Lost Empire and Mass Effect."
"Don't get any ideas." A pause. "It makes sense that the Finnfolk would have advanced much farther than us. They didn't have a dark age, and they had an agricultural revolution and large urban settlements by 5000 BC."
"Huh?" Sherry asks, only half paying attention, as she flips another page, arriving on the first floor landing and begins walking down the hallway.
"Don't get any ideas Sherry."
Her lips curl up into a grin. "I simply have no idea what you are talking about dearest."
"Sherry."
"There's absolutely no way," she says, drawing out the no with her Tennessee accent, pretending to be utterly innocent, "that I could ever get ideas about possibly taking one of those hammerheads out for a spin."
"Sherry!"
"Relax babe, I'm just screwing with you. Anyways, the Finnfolk had agriculture before us?" She closes the Operation High Tide folder, and opens the Finnfolk folder.
A slightly exasperated sigh comes through the phone. "Yes, by about 10,000 years. If Humans hadn't driven them completely into the sea, they might already be colonizing Europa and Enceladus."
"Huh. That's wild."
"…Sherry have you read the Finnfolk file?"
"About that…"
"You fell asleep on the plane flight and didn't read it."
"No. No! There was an atmospheric anomaly, it knocked out the rest of the crew, and I had to fly the plane into Edinburgh. I told you that pilot's licence would come in handy." It's a terrible lie.
"Sherry, your license is for Cessna grade aircraft, not C-130s."
"Potato Tomato."
"Sherry this is important, you need to know these things to avoid a diplomatic incident. We might have swooped in and prevented the Finnfolk from being wiped out, but we have a long and violent history of forcing them out of their homes. Please take this seriously."
A sigh escapes the Councilwoman's lips. "I know, I know." She flips through several pages, reading impossibly fast. "Woah. So this Queen, Hedge, all this really happened to her?" She walks down the hallway.
"It's pronounced Hege. They're finicky about folks using her name, so the safer bet is to just call her 'Your Majesty,' or 'Your Highness.'" A pause. "Yes, everything in the file happened to her, that's only the things she can recall, and things that guards witnessed."
"I mean I can't blame her for wanting to do… whatever she is planning to do when we get to Libya. The dickhead deserves what is coming to him." A pause, her eyes widen and she almost lets the phone slip. "She's been hospitalized for eight freaking months!?"
"Yes, It's a miracle she's even able to stand on her feet, you're on page 34 right? Turn the next page." Sherry turns the page to detailed medical charts dated to eight months prior.
"Holy what the fuck, I've never seen malnutrition stacked atop this many injuries. How is she alive?"
"Sheer force of will, or something else. Our physicians, and theirs pitched a royal fit, no pun intended, when she insisted that she needed to travel." Sherry's phone buzzes and she closes the folder, tucking it under her arm, and grabbing the phone in a single smooth motion.
"Hey I'm going to have to let you go. She's here, and already docked and on the way."
"Remember the Na-" The phone beeps as she hangs up, and tucks it into her back pocket with a single motion. She fast walks to the door, boots clicking on the tile, and impacts the push handles far harder than intended, causing the door to woosh outwards.
BONK.
Sherry steps out into the Scottish sunlight, and quickly realizes she's surrounded by half a dozen very stunned looking humanoids covered in scales and drabbed in ornate ceremonial armor.
"Shit! Someone call a doctor."
Sherry's head swivels right towards the voice. On the ground, head bleeding, Queen Hege Aquailian. Two of the guards rush to tend to her. Sherry's eyes widen recognizing Robert Sheffield kneeled over the unconscious Queen.
A bunch of tridents are quite suddenly elevated and pointed at the befuddled O5 councilwoman.
Now that's just poor timing.
"Bugger."

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Footnotes
1. For those of you humans in the audience unfamiliar with this tale, that is 1889 CE.